Shakira and her hips. They definitely don't lie.

Belly dancing was something that I’d always associated with frizzy haired Shakira. She was the delectable goddess and I - her devout-est disciple. She could contort her hips into impossibly seductive postures and I – umm…never mind. * Embarrassed grin * So, when I witnessed my FRIEND (why, oh why?) move exactly (oops, did I say exactly? I meant minutely, completely, insanely!) like the hippy (pun intended), lithe and petite singer, I (quite predictably) turned a particularly dark shade of green. Jealousy, my dear Mr and Ms Watsons!
I’ve been jumping, twisting and straining (ouch!) to shake my hips but they seem to be attached quite firmly to my legs and refuse to move of their own accord. (Are you listening God? Future humans need more elastic pelvises!)
Having suitably blamed my genes for my lack of hip shaking abilities, I’m quite content to watch Beyonce struggle to match Shakira’s capers in the Beautiful Liar video. Hang on, maybe she hasn’t heard of genes yet?

***

Uh uh. Ever since all the scruffily clad blue-and-grey midgets (read boys) have started assembling testosterone in their bodies, they seem to be deeply interested in weird words like ‘kiss’ and ‘hug’ and whatever. *blush* Now, boys have always been interested in words like ‘kiss’ and ‘hug’. But they always sniggered suitably and appeared duly amused whenever the words were mentioned. Now, they seem to have grown drastically more serious. Now, dear readers, they actually want to do the damn things!
Blame the testosterone.
Usually, I’m pretty boy-tolerant but this freaks me out. Maybe I’m weird. No, I am definitely straight. Or maybe, you doubting moron, you’ve been watching too many cheesy romantic flicks. Yeah, that must be it!

***

I really don’t understand the bizarre concept of love. You can like someone, kiss (hopefully!) the same someone and hook up with loads of someones. But, puhlease spare poor little someone from the embarrassment of your undying, eternal love. Dude, it doesn’t exist.

There’s a cute little story of how a 70 year old Chinese man lived with his 80 year old wife in the jungles of China. The couple was chucked outta the village because their relationship wasn’t acceptable to society (yeah…sounds like our awful movie melodrama huh?). It is rumored that the man carved more than 6000 steps (yeah right…three whole zeros!), over three decades (that’s thirty years!), from the cave he used to live in, to make it easier for his wife to climb down to the forest. Now, that is true love.
So, if all you six pack endowed wannabes can do that for your fluttering-today-dumped-tomorrow lady loves, I’ll admit, it’s real love (or as close as you can get!).
But since you can’t - dear god, where are the real hunks? * wails loudly *
I’m seriously considering going the lesbian route. Uh uh. Now that’s as true as chocolate mice or a two-headed pig. After all, what will Nadal do without me?

Picnic. A good old fashioned word. And exciting. And 29th September.
OK, so we’re all tenthies headed to Karjat on 29th September. For a picnic.
And (obviously!) I can’t STOP raving about it. All right, so I admit it. The water will bear astonishing resemblance to something gooey sprinkled with a generous helping of dead leaves. And the water slide will suspiciously look like a plastic pipe propped on a bundle of sticks. And the food will probably taste like minuscule specks of paneer have been dumped into a load of oil. But then, frankly my dears, we don’t give a damn!
Picnics have NEVER been about swanky resorts or gourmet dining (uh...until now at least!). They’ve always been about a bunch of people tunelessly shrieking their lungs out and grooving to the latest Bollywood numbers. They’ve always been about a guzzling your umpteenth bottle of Coke and begging a few bucks off someone to buy some more. They’ve always been about dunking people in the aforementioned pool. Picnics are –there’s no other word for it – cool.
The water thingy doesn’t EXACTLY fill my mind with ecstasy though. Because I wear ridiculously thick spectacles, and their removal causes everyone to resemble a bit of
brown fluff floating in space. Not alluring at all. Our teacher very solemnly warned us against dressing in ‘improper clothes’ (well, for a lady of umm…voluptuous proportions who wears old, patchy saris in the 21st century…that took loads of nerve!). And yeah…these improper clothes come in various shapes and forms. They are too short. And too tight. And too transparent. “Why don’t we just wear gunny sacks instead? So eco-friendly!” a snide voice quipped from behind the class. A few measly moments later, Snide Voice was languishing outside the class. Uh uh. The snide voice belonged to me.

I’m currently thumbing through a much-thumbed copy of the Eldest. Yup. The sequel to Christopher Paolini’s much touted Eragon. No. it cannot hold a flimsy candle to Harry Potter. Yes. You do start yawning after a few seconds. Yes. It does top my list of “you wasted oodles of trees by printing this book, you evil publisher, and should probably be dunked head first into the Artic when global warming begins to ravage our earth.” Phew!

The bit where Murtagh battles it out with Eragon is awesome though…with the dragons spewing fire and blades slashing, it should look incredible onscreen. But remembering the catastrophe which was a layered-with-oodles-of-makeup-and-constantly-changing-eye-color-which-merely-sugested-that-the-director-was-a-moron Daniel Radcliffe playing a wannabe Harry Potter, that’s not very likely to happen!
Ciao till next time!
Waiting damn eagerly for the picnic,
Chocoholic

Grr...Exams!

Today was MISERABLE day - the kind when even your usually cheerful horoscope comes with mumblings of dark happenings. (“You will be betrayed by a friend today” or “your partner will be moody and depressed”) I should have gotten the hint when I woke up with a humongous cold that threatened to flood by nostrils with mucus and other unmentionables. Or when my geyser suddenly abandoned its attempt to spout scalding hot water and emitted a stream of cold liquid that seemed like, a million degrees (no, billion. Heck, make that trillion. That’s not enough. HELP!) below freezing point. Then my red shirt (oh, the agonies of school uniform!) was triumphantly extracted from the debris under my bed, (uhh…my mom stores onions in there) adorned with creases that would have daunted a less haggard iron than mine.
That day I gave the most disastrous social paper ever written by yours truly in my fourteen year history. I crammed every clichéd mistake inside a paltry 20 mark paper. The process went something like this:
“What is federalism? How is federalism practiced?” glared the question from the Xeroxed paper.
“Hang on, I know this answer” said my cerebrum confidently. “I read it today morning.”
“No you don’t” said another (much hated) tiny portion smugly. “You read it yesterday morning.”
Uh. Uh.
How can I remember something stuffed inside my overcrowded brain when I was hogging cereal a day ago? Not fair.
So I peeked into my partner’s blank paper, moaned a little and started scribbling. The wrong answers.
Then I came home and howled at my mom, the creator of social studies, the tribe of history teachers and Napoleon for having lived in 1804 and not existing a century later, as my answer confidently assured my teacher, he did.
So my brain told me fiercely, I deserve compensation. So, I’m banging away on my keyboard now, on the eve of my science exam, having shoved every edible molecule within sight into my stomach’s capacious depths. At the moment, even a moody and depressed partner would be a welcome interruption. Or the arrival of the traitorous friend happily promised by my morning horoscope.
But then, *small sigh* horoscopes always have an alarming tendency to be mistaken.

A froggy tale

Once upon a time there was... ‘A king!’ someone will yell in a bored voice and assume that another grumpy fairy tale is about to begin. No readers, you’re mistaken. Once upon a time, there was a frog. Not the kissable type that affably flopped over to some mysterious princess and pleasantly demanded a kiss. I’m talking the green grotesque being that troubles your nightmares. With mottled skin and a nasty croak. Now you’ll stare at the screen with glazed eyes and particularly moronic thoughts like ‘a nerd in the making’ will float across your eyes. Now for the jolt.

Well, the weird thing is, I found a specimen of this ghastly species haunting my room. Do I hear particularly loud shrieks of ‘euww!’ *approving nod*. Exactly the reaction I wanted.
So what did I do? The brave hearts will ask, smirking at the thought of a wimp like me battling against such a gruesome thing. The simple answer is – nothing!*grin*
I just watched as my very brave mum grabbed a stick and proceeded to brandish it at the astounded animal. It got the message however, and began to obligingly hop towards the window. With a last energetic bound, it launched into the air and then plummeted into the mud below with a spectacular thump. Any circus acrobat would have been proud.
Then, of course, the inevitable happened. The old ‘princess kiss the frog’ routine. My brother actually had the impudence to grin at me and got a battered shoe to his face. Now, I think *content smile* he wont ever be able to grin again.

Well, with a few paltry days separating me (and numerous other tormented souls) from my dreaded second unit tests (oh…where have the days gone? The last of exam free hours?), I finally picked up enough courage to blabber my first unit test marks under my parents disapproving, but thankfully shapely noses, which they haven’t bequeathed to me *sniff!*
I’m currently victim to a raging cold, wheezy cough and awful fever *grin* but that definitely didn’t stop my mum from poking my butt awake at five o’ fucking clock (morning morons!) demanding that I stick my bleary eyes into SOME book INSTANTANEOUSLY! (Big word, I know!)
Sadly, The Prodigal Daughter didn’t strike her as an appropriate book to be perused by a 10th standard kid. So, the book’s languishing somewhere (tattered and bedraggled) in the murky rainwater under my window and my HISTORY book (yuck!) is currently serving the post of a very heroic dustbin as I chuck devoured Ferrero Rocher wrappers into it.

My computer (old and scruffy) recently had a nasty attack of viruses, so I caught up on loads of movies I wanted to see and ate all the popcorn I wanted, which ultimately culminated in retching voices issuing outta the bathroom- if u get my gist.
So, clutching my rumbling stomach, I bid thee au revoir.
Lovingly yours,
Chocoholic

A soap opera

This column is a particularly sentimental and sloppy post, so any unruffled reader is earnestly requested to refrain from sneering and casting nasty remarks. Eccentricity shall hopefully prevail tomorrow and this particularly vulnerable moment will pass. With a flourish of my hat (adorned with a pink feather), I invite all the brave ones to continue reading.


Well, I had a fight with my mum and dad today. They’re really grumpy now (which, as regulars will know, is pretty normal). The troubling bit is that I’m grumpy too which makes the fight kind of pointless because my spectacular tantrums are generally the residue of a particularly ugly quarrel with my friends(s). So when all the annoyance finally reaches boiling point – I explode – with really magnificent results. Then, regret manifests itself and I’m left mumbling apologies to my glaring mum. Pathetic.
Today’s ritual had its raggedy origins in the universal irritant i.e. my studying or rather, lack of it. After the shouting had subsided (a source of amusement for our highly fascinated neighbors, rivaling any weepy soap on television), I banged my door shut with a deafening thump. My mum responded by turning up the television volume and subsequently torturing me with the miserable dialogues. Ah well, she’s had her revenge.
And so, as I bang away on my keyboard (occasionally swearing when the keys get stuck), the waves of remorse are already washing away my self righteous anger and sense suddenly dawns with dazzling radiance. So poof! All my pretended dignity vanishes in a flash. I’m back to mumbling apologies. My mum gives a long-suffering sigh and returns to stuffing something that looks horribly like brinjals back into the fridge, brandishing them like a sword to wave me away. I take that for forgiveness and trot away. Mission successful.
And yeah, this ceremony (dreadfully familiar to all teens suffering the agonies of tenth) will persist for the months to come. And maybe, a day will dawn when I’m NOT at fault. When my mum comes up to me, hugs me and says ‘I’m so sorry sweetheart’. No shrieks about my tee stinking. Perhaps only a withering look at my flyaway hair. And an enormous smack on the cheek thrown in. Boy, I’d enjoy that.
Castles in the air, some would say. An impossible dream. An unattainable delusion. Well, I respond to all the sniggering skeptics, ‘every geek has her day’. Bill Gates had his when he contemplated Microsoft. Apple had theirs when the iPod revolution was launched. My flabbergasted teacher had hers the day she managed to shout me down in class. Oh well, I’m patient. Are you listening, God?

Woe Petite!

When you think Lord of the Rings, you think of Peter Jackson, the ultimate master of direction. You think of the incredible hi-tech graphic-artists (or whatever they’re called) who created Gollum. You think (inevitably!) of Orlando Bloom, the amazingly brave elf Legolas something-leafy (is there gal out there who’s NOT blushing?).
And of course, you think of Elijah Wood.
The hobbit.
The SHORT hobbit.
Now I’m not some loony who’s gabbing away to glory.
Maybe at this point I should mention that I’m a diminutive person with an ENORMOUS personality.
Midget, I believe, is the appropriate word (though petite is the one which meets favor!)

• AND I’ve spent fourteen miserable years with people telling me “but you’re so short!”
• And missing out on ALL the awesome-est roller coaster rides because I wasn’t tall enough.
• And meeting teachers with politely incredulous expressions on their faces while enquiring ‘oh, are you in my class?’
• And standing forlorn faced in front of all lines (and getting caught because my shoes weren’t polished to perfection while my taller and infinitely more menacing classmates got away) *enormously long-suffering sigh*
• And being ridiculed by the school elite (read rich, spoilt and *unfortunately* TALL kids).
• And having to scamper over to the children’s section every time my mum decided that my jeans was FINALLY worn out enough (after three years of brutal experimentation with scissors, blades and knives) of to be gifted to our maid.
• And hoping, every time, that my highly intimidating PT teacher wouldn’t notice that I was sneaking out of gym class.
  So I coined an acronym. I wasn’t short.
  I was a Spectacularly Hare-brained and Obdurate (don’t run to your dictionaries- it means stubborn) ever-Ravenous Thing (giggles strictly forbidden!), a creation, which as unfortunate acquaintances will hasten to assure you, suits me to perfection.
  Friends, of course, will say that I’m something much worse.
  Point I’m trying to make is, short DEFINITELY doesn’t mean little.
  It means short - that’s it.
  It DOESN’T mean that I’m an geeky nerd with enormous glasses and skinny knees (umm...maybe not PERFECTLY true) *cheeky grin*
• It doesn’t mean that I’m an invisible person who doesn’t command a farthing of interest.
• It doesn’t mean that just because I’m SHORT, the world won’t stand up and take notice.
  

Through history, pages are littered with numerous names of short people who made a difference. Let’s rewind to the Joan of Arc. Yup, the French peasant girl who led France through the Hundred Years war AND the one constantly invoked by politicians and eager-to-grab-attention bureaucrats. How tall (or rather short) did she stand? A tiny 4'11".

But still, all teens suffering the agony of school (like yours truly) have to (with plenty of groans and mutterings) learn a highly comprehensive account of all the great stuff she did.

• So, I may have to always be curtly informed by astonished teachers that no, I definitely cannot sit with miss-long-and-slender on the back bench.
• I may always have to get all my clothes altered because I REFUSE to wear kiddie tees with ‘Pokemon’ emblazoned across them.
  But, I always get to say (casting a malevolent grin at the unfortunate recipient) “excuse me; I’m short can I please stand in the front?” when I visit shows and parades.
  I get away with paying loads less than what my unfortunately tall friends have to shell out when we visit amusement parks.
  A mini doesn’t look all that short on me because I don’t have enough leg.
  Boy, I’m learning to love being short.
  Because that’s the way I am.
  No regrets there.
  
  P.S. So here’s a particularly raggedy boot in the face to the next loony who dares to sneer at the short populace of the world. Cheers!

The Monstrous Troubles Of Tenth

• Phew. Tenth sure takes a lot from you. It’s been an appalling year fummi with my mum dissecting my life like a cockroach intestine (she’s very brave you know!) and throwing fits whenever she catches a whiff of the word ‘boy’. She’s got her hopes pinned on me (obviously!) and all that sob stuff but seriously tenth to me reads like Terribly Excruciatingly Nutty Torture for Humans. When I’m done, of course, I’ll put up my button-shaped nose and snigger at all those poor devils who have to burn the midnight oil because their parents want them too. Bully for parents!
  My mums the dragon (obviously!) with numerous heads all pouring fire and steam. Since I’ve become a teen, I can’t do anything right.
  I can’t dress right. My hair resembles the kitchen when my dad tries (and fails miserably) to whip up something supposedly edible. Me opening my mouth (oozing magnificence with its yellow teeth and pink tongue) is the cue for her to shudder and yell ‘watch your language!’ my shampoo isn’t right (your hair stinks!). My music is garbage (you call that singing? It sounds like you shrieking and wolves howling!). And the films I adore evoke feelings of utmost horror (she’s pregnant and not married? Shut that down!). The elite (read girls with slender figures and fair skin) are completely unworthy of my society. Gawky nerds with enormous glasses are suddenly desirable (‘she’s so nice’ is the phrase used to describe Miss scrawny-knees-and-glinting braces). My room bears a striking similarity to the remnants of a particularly devastating hurricane. Oh well.
  
  I recently managed (after FOURTEEN years of extreme hardship) to finally determine what mums really want from their teenaged daughters and the results are, predictably, highly un-encouraging.
  
• Wear a particularly-tight-and-hideously-coloured hair-band that puts the existence of your hair in severe jeopardy.
• Wear clothes that went out of fashion half-a-century ago so that you’re the ridiculed till your dying day about your baggy pants and mismatched socks.
• Nod vigorously every time the astounded-and-baffled teacher opens her mouth to indicate that even her pink-cardigan adorned hair meets your uncensored approval.
• Refrain (how?) from falling asleep when your history teacher suddenly starts mumbling to herself about Vietnam troops and printing presses.
• Religiously remind all your friends the importance of possessing colossal glasses and a pimply face so that you’re kicked out of their group with instantaneous haste.
• Survive the entire year on allegedly nutritious food that tastes like an amalgamation of your smelliest socks and pig breath.
  
  Cheers to life after tenth standard.
  Leaving you all to ponder on my tedious compilation.
  Loads of love and luck.
  Chocoholic