Open Wide

Although it’s been nearly 5 years since I had my braces removed, an appointment with the dentist still fills me with a sense of dread and makes me queasy. My tryst with orthodontists began way back when my milk teeth stood firmly rooted to my gums and refused to fall. I had to get all of them extracted since my permanent teeth had started growing right behind them by then. Later, owing to the size of my mouth (apparently the smallest mouth my dentist has ever looked into), my newly grown teeth had to be crammed in and when there wasn’t sufficient space for all of them, I was forced to wear braces followed by retainers. My dad had spent more on my teeth than my entire education up until that point.

Having spent most of my childhood in and out of the dentist’s clinic, you’d think that I’d be used to it by now. However, each visit is as refreshingly unpleasant as the one before. The gruelling process starts in the waiting room, with spotless white tiles, white walls, and neat rows of seats lined up against the walls, all splashed with a blinding white light. Every inch of the walls are covered with certificates of achievement and multiple degrees obtained in universities abroad, which are in all good sense meant to assure patients that they are in safe hands. Instead, what it does is make you realize to your horror that this particular dentist has a whole lot more torture techniques up his sleeves than the average Dr. Muthuswamy down the road. As you wait frightfully for your turn, you see fellow patients crawl out, groaning, moaning, and clutching their swollen cheeks in agony. At long last the receptionist with her satanic smile ushers you in. It’s your turn.

The dentist’s chair - It’s designed along the lines of the medieval Chair of Torture. The dental equipments fitted into the movable tray look distastefully nasty and include a miniature drilling machine with a long and dangerously pointed edge. Now the dentist, with an evil glint in his eye, looks gleefully down at you, his latest victim, and prods away happily in your mouth with a sharp probe.

“Does it hurt now?” *jab*

*groan* “Ooowww.. YES”

*prods elsewhere* “Now?”

“YES!”

*prods again in the first prod-area* “Now??”

“YES YOU RETARD, IT ISN’T GOING TO HURT ANY LESS IF YOU’RE GOING TO CONTINUE PRODDING IT WITH THAT TORTURE INSTRUMENT”

It’s a small wonder then that I bit down hard on my dentist’s finger when he was too busy making conversation with my dad to realize that he was prodding my palate incredibly hard. Take that, you sadistic prick! I swore that I’d never go back to see a dentist again once I was through with my braces and retainers, and I would have kept my word too if it wasn’t for the killer toothache that victimized me two days ago. It got so bad that I just had to get it checked today. My my... all the memories that came rushing back the minute I took my place in the chair overwhelmed me - the blinding light, the smell of antiseptics and some sort of plaster combined, the rubber gloves, the horrid dental instruments, the unbearable pain, all of it. To my good fortune though, it turned out that the toothache was a result of a sinus problem I have and I was asked to consult an ENT specialist, which was probably the best thing I’ve heard any dentist say to me. Phew!

Medusa and Hemlock

It’s time for a new self-centred rant. I know you guys missed them, as much as you would hate to admit it! :D So why prolong your wait? Your misery ends here... behold a new rant about... *drum rolls*... MY HAIR!!

Yes, my hair - the object of ardent admiration and envy, the epitome of all awesomeness. If in the future I bequeath my hair to you in the form of a hair transplant (don’t you dare get any ideas about progeny and shiz), I would necessarily have to include an instruction manual. You see, my hair is just that unique and that awesome. However, for all those curious people who wonder how I manage my hair, I hope this answers your questions.

FAQS:

1. How Devathi, HOW do you comb your unruly hair?

Devathi replies – Dearest love, the Britishers learnt it soon enough while they were trying desperately to rule our country, and parents caught on quickly as well when it came to managing their children – Divide and Rule. Heard of the phrase ‘United we stand, divided we fall’? The same applies to my hair. What I do is split it up into many portions, hold them down with numerous rubber bands, catch hold of one portion of hair at a time and force a comb through it.

2. What do you do to your hair after you’re done combing it?

Oh, I take a light and start an African bush fire in the hope that one of those dreamy firemen will come rescue me (although that doesn’t really apply in India). Not. I use a perpetually changing number of rubber bands and tic-toc clips to stop it from defying gravity all the time. The wind can be a bitch though.

3. What sort of combs or brushes do you use?

Devathi says – Hmm. After a lot of experimentation I discovered that brushes were ineffective and therefore settled for big-toothed combs. I use two combs at a time, one in each hand, while wrestling my hair. Glad you asked.

4. How do you wash your hair? Do you even wash it?!

Devathi: Yes, I do wash it, and quite often at that. My mama taught me personal hygiene, but you seem like you could use a few lessons. As for how I wash it, I apply the Divide and Rule method again. It’s hard to get to your scalp when you have a miniature Amazon Jungle for hair, but I found that the D&R method works better than the tear-your-hair-out-of-your-scalp-out-of-frustration method. So I divide it into portions again and wash each area of my scalp tediously. The rest is relatively easy because all that needs to be done is squeeze an entire shampoo bottle onto my head and lather away furiously.

5. On an average, how long does it take to wash your hair?

Devathi is tiring of the questions but will answer nicely anyway: About an hour, if my hair is in a good mood.

6. Do you use a hair dryer?

When they invent a hair dryer that can actually dry my hair, let me know – mail me at devathip@gmail.com. I dry my hair by head banging to music (it works) or I just let it dry on its own.

7. Do birds ever mistake your hair for a nest?

Yes, crows especially. *orders her personal mafia to kill the person who asked her this question*

8. In what ways do you style your hair?

Oh gee... It alternates between the curly look and the fluffy cotton candy look. I can’t be bothered to do anything more with it. The curly look takes minimum effort since all I need to do is wash my hair (the science behind it: all the cysteine residues form intrastrand bonds again, bonds which might have been broken earlier due to combing). I love the curly look but it comes at a price – combing it later is thrice as hard. As for the cotton candy look, that’s just a result of combing it (and hence temporarily breaking the cysteine bonds).

9. Do you ever get bored of your hair?

No. It’s fun to play with.

10. Does stuff get lost in your hair?

Yes, quite often. Once a friend found a dead spider in my hair... the cause of death appeared to have been suffocation. Among the other things I’ve found are bits of paper and rubber bands that I misplaced. Maybe I should start smuggling weed in my hair... I’d be rich.

11. Why don’t you straighten your hair?

I don’t want to look like everyone else. My hair is unique and I love it. It’s an integral part of my personality and I couldn’t care less if straight hair could make me look better or if that boy I’m crushing on likes straight-as-steel-rods hair. If you’re one of the kazillion people who’ve asked me this question, you should know that you’re on the hit list that I’m sending across to my mafia right now. Beware.

12. Is your hair natural?

Uh. Why don’t you tug on it and see for yourself, retard? Of course it’s natural! Before you ask, my mother and sister have curly hair too, except not as awesome as mine!

A few things that require special mention – I dressed up as Medusa for a Halloween Party once where I let my hair loose and had snakes in it. My hair is instrumental to most of my costumes for various theme parties, like even at the Retro Farewell Party in school where I dressed up as Boney M.

So, there are times when my hair is just absolutely unruly and unmanageable. There are times when I just wanna shave it off or grab it with both hands and scream “Die stupid hair die!”, but for what it’s worth, I LOVE it.

To my hair – I love you! *flying kiss*

One Shopping Bag, Two Shopping Bags, Three..

If I had to define shopping, I’d say that it was a recreational sport that most women indulged in. Why do they do what they do? Nobody knows.

Here are a few observations that I’ve made:

1. Women take forever to pick something out, be it clothes, cosmetics, shoes, bags, supplies, whatever. They make purgatory seem like a snap of the fingers.
2. They just can’t walk into a store and buy what they have to. They absolutely positively need to go to at least ten different stores that sell the same thing, make comparisons with the products of the previous stores and finally end up going back to the first store.
3. Bargaining – it’s obsessive compulsive disorder. They must bargain and quote unreasonably low prices. Following defeat by harassed shopkeepers, they end up paying the original price anyway and walk out beaming.
4. If asked to walk from one end of the street to other in heels, they will refuse to do so under the pretext of their legs hurting. But if they have to walk up and down the same street in heels multiple times while shopping, it’s perfectly alright because they have strong calf muscles. Right.
5. They throw tricky questions at those who accompany them on their shopping sprees. For example, while buying a pair of shoes they might ask, “Is this nice?” If you say yes, they ask why. If you say no, you still have to answer why. If you really don’t know the answer, give a non-committal reply like a grunt. Also, they tend to ask the same question twice, so at a later time if they show you the same pair of shoes that you said weren’t nice, remember what your answer was because they definitely will. It’s a test... shhh. Another example, “Do I look fat in this?” Now the logical answer to this question if the person is fat is – Yes dear, you are fat and you’re obviously going to look fat in anything you wear. But the right answer to this question is – No, not at all. It complements your curves (or tyres or whatever other geometrical structure).
6. They spend over an hour in a clothes store trying on different things, spend another 30 minutes eliminating stuff from the pile of clothes they tried on, figure out that they don’t like anything after all and ultimately walk out empty-handed.
7. They notice the minutest defects in what they intend to purchase, like for instance the most microscopic tear in the sleeve of a sweater that even an ant wouldn’t fit through.
8. The correlation between happiness and the number of shopping bags is very high.

Pop quiz: Why do women like to window shop?

Meltdown

The good thing about being away from home is always finding something new to whine about. That way you never get tired of whining about the same old leaky tap or the neighbour's cats. As is customary, I woke up this morning and spent three whole minutes wondering what to whine about the whole day.

The weather. Yes, the weather. I shall whine about the weather today.

The weather forecast in Chennai is quite predictable as it can only be one of three options - hot, hotter and hottest. It doesn't get more depressing than that, especially at this point of time where temperatures are well over 30°C and it hasn't even hit the peak yet. Things are about to get a lot worse and if I don't ditch my two week long summer internship and run home to safety, I might really drop dead in the middle of the Lloyd's Road junction.

The temperatures are soaring everyday, true, but what makes it even more unbearable is the humidity. Being a coastal city, Chennai during summer is akin to a ginormous sauna. The humidity makes the air so heavy that it sinks to the ground and refuses to budge. It plays dead better than a well-trained Pedigree dog. The few trees that have escaped being chopped down stand motionless and dry as wind movement and natural breeze become an urban legend. The only time you can feel the sea breeze brush against your skin is when you're standing lesser than two feet away from the seashore.

There seems to be no respite from this sultriness. With the sun beating down on your head, the only way for the body to stay cool is by sweating. Sweating profusely and copiously is anything but pleasant, especially when you can feel it trickling down your back and your clothes are ridden with sweat patches. No amount of water intake seems sufficient when you're sweating two litres of water or more every hour and given the amount I've been sweating of late, it's a small wonder that I don't have a dark rain cloud floating over my head all the time. Sometimes I feel like just peeling my weather-abused skin off like a wetsuit and jumping into a new one. If you've watched that episode of Man vs. Wild where Bear Grylls is lost in the Sahara Desert, you know what he did in an attempt to conserve water and stay cool at the same time. That's right, he took off his shirt, pissed on it and slipped right back into it. Now I don't intend to go to that extreme but I'm beginning to wonder.. what if I had to?

I just found another sub-topic to whine about... yay me! Tans. If I had to go to Africa right now, I would have to risk getting humped by a horny zebra. Why? Because that's how closely I resemble a zebra right now! A whole variety of sunscreen lotions have proved futile in preventing me from getting tanned. I could have still lived with it if the tan was even, but as luck would have it, it isn't. I can positively identify atleast 25 different skin tones out of which atleast 5-6 of them would make nice shades of lipstick (not that I would know).

If I have melted to the ground by tomorrow, I shall find something else to whine about. Until then go read up on global warming.

Invisible Ink

(Certain things you might want to know before reading this post: 1) It's very long 2) I have a Genetics test tomorrow and hence found it more worth my while to write this note rather than study 3) Expect a lot of abstractness)

Write, though your heart is aching
Write, even though it's breaking
When there are clouds in the sky
You'll get by...

If you write
With your fear and sorrow
Write and maybe tomorrow
You'll find that life is still worthwhile
If you just... write

In case you haven't figured it out yet, I've taken a song called called Smile by Natalie Cole and tweaked it a bit. Why? Because all of a sudden I find the need to patronize people without being pejorative. I started writing long before I can remember but for many years after that writer in me just lay dormant, in a self-induced coma, until a bunch of people (the Muffins and a handful of others) dragged it out by its hair, arms flailing madly and sucker-punched it back to life.

Over the years, I'd been often told to write. Just write. It seems so simple, doesn't it? To just sit down for an uncertain span of time and watch words crawl onto what was once nothing but a blank sheet of paper. For some people, maybe it is. For most others, it's not that simple. For a long time I thought I could write only when I felt strongly about something, when I was extremely upset or unbelievably overjoyed, or just when I hated or loved something enough to write about it. I knew nothing about style and hadn't quite found my own. I thought I needed to have a fixed topic to write about. The latter changed after I started blogging in 2006. I began to write about the most random things that seemed to somehow magically fit together to create one blog post after another.

While topics weren't an issue once I started writing, inspiration still was. Nothing could inspire me to write more than two or three posts a year, and that's when dA (deviantart.com) happened. Ajooni, Aditi, Dipti and Akanksha were hooked on to it and they forced me to go join as well. dA is a wonderful place where creativity thrives. It felt like home the minute I signed up. With that much original art, literature, photography and what not, all around me, it was impossible to resist writing and drawing and expressing myself in any other creative form I could manage. dA was in a way a path to self-discovery. I now realized that I could write very dark pieces, which strayed from the usual slapstick style I followed, and I also discovered that poetry really wasn't my thing. It was creative bliss. However, as all things go with us, we got bored of dA. Too many of our favourite artists/writers/friends/whoever were leaving and we were left with no reason to stay. While I occasionally signed in (with the bleak hope that Elbethius a.k.a. Mark Kozina has returned), I needed another creative outlet. Enter Facebook.

Facebook, Facebook... what can I say? It gave me the perfect platform for harrassing unsuspecting friends who happened to stumble upon my notes (the ability to tag people in them made it that much easier). Before I knew it, I was writing frequently again and with a lot of inspiration drawn from Nazia and others like her who frequently wrote and published notes on Facebook. I was a serial writer who derived sadistic pleasure from subjecting people to the agony of reading my endless rants. As if I needed any more egging on, Ajooni lent me a book - Zen in the Art of Writing by Ray Bradbury - which sealed my fate. I was back!

Honestly, I never tire of talking about myself, but mayhaps this is a good time to move on to what I originally wanted to talk about - writing. Or rather, not writing. Do you know what happens to thoroughly bored students in a Chemistry class (by all means you're free to choose any other class)? They doodle. They stare vacantly into space. They sleep. They feign attention, which does wonders for all those with bright acting careers ahead of them. But more importantly, they ideate. More often than not they don't know that they're ideating. An idea just creeps up on them slowly from the shadows of their numbed minds. These ideas are meaningless at first... they seem like shapeless blobs of goo that the disgruntled canteen lady slaps on to your plate. However, if you look closely, if you pay them a little attention, they begin to take shape. These shapeless blobs metamorph into something beautiful yet indescribable. Let us consider, for the sake of visualization, that one of the blobs has metamorphed into an exotic rainbow coloured bird. Now this breathtaking bird is lying flat on the dusty floor of your mind, motionless. Feed and nurture it with some attention and love. Pamper it. Kiss it. Watch it slowly lift itself off the floor, shake the dust off, spread its wings and fly off into the depths of your subconscious.

Now it's purely upto you to chase after the idea-bird. Run like the wind, jump over obstacles, and put every ounce of your being into the chase. If you find it, which I'm sure you will if you've followed my instructions so far, don't lose sight of it. What you're looking at is your muse, your brainchild, your living imagination, a part of yourself alien to you. Without startling the bird, grab a pen or a pencil and any material that can be written on(tissues count). Here comes the most important part - close your eyes, exhale slowly, open your eyes again and WRITE (or type if you prefer a laptop/computer).

Did you hear about that boy, Jimmy, who refused to write? Rumour has it that he never bothered looking for the birds. When he woke up one day, he found that all the birds he had ever created with his imagination had flocked together. They had decided that they shan't be ignored any longer and decided to go to him instead. When these birds came down on him it was not pleasant. They pecked at him furiously and flapped their wings violently and did what angry idea-birds do. Finally, he was left with no choice but to drag himself to his desk and write. He wrote on endlessly for days, they say. In his maniacal condition, he couldn't bring himself to stop. The birds wouldn't have it. So he wrote and wrote, page after page, book after book, hand flying off the page at the end of every line, until one day he was driven to madness.

Even if you hadn't heard about Jimmy, I'm sure you must've heard about that girl whose birds disappeared one night while she lay fast asleep on the couch? She thought she was dreaming when her mind's eye saw them fly out through her ear. Sadly, she wasn't. The birds had had enough. They flew off to go find a place where they could flourish and the heartbroken girl was left wishing she'd just paid them the slightest attention.

Inhibitions are many and they come in layers and stacks - Exams, work, lack of leisure, fear of what others think, they are countless. All I can say is let your imagination run free. Let it do cartwheels and crazy jigs and Joey dances. Embrace it. I do realize that I'm talking with the air of an accomplished writer. I can assure you that that is anything but true. I am a nobody with something to say and I will sure as hell put it out there for hapless victims to see.

P.S. To all the people who inspired me and those who read and appreciate what I write alike, thank you! :)

Weekend Woes

What you're going to read about in this note is a perfect example of why you should always listen to your moms (with many exceptions, of course). They know you better than you think you know yourself. When I first decided to sign up for the second level of French at Alliance Française the only batch available was the 7am-10am weekend one. This basically meant that I had to drag myself out of bed early every weekend, go all the way to College Road and sit through three hours of French. It didn't seem like an impossible task at the time and with a lot of misplaced determination, I signed up for it. As soon as Mom heard, she stated plainly that I wouldn't ever go to class. Turned out that 'ever' wasn't such an overstatement after all. My mother had foreseen it all. What was I thinking?!

Here's what a typical Saturday morning is like for me when I actually bother going to class:

6.00 a.m. *alarm goes off*

"Oh feck" - The morning mantra

*hit the snooze button*

*alarm goes off again*

Groan.. *snooze*

6.45 a.m. I jump out of bed and look at the time!

"Uh-oh"

To shower or not to shower? That is the question.

"No time for that but atleast brush your teeth," says that annoyingly evil voice in my head. It's laughing at me! Grrr.

*mad rush to get out of my night wear and into some remotely presentable clothes*

7.00 a.m. *jump into sneakers and make a dash for the door*

*leave the building and then realize I've forgotten my books*

*run back up two flights of stairs*

*pant heavily and fumble for the keys outside the front door*

*swear profusely and be grateful that Mom can't hear me because she lives in a different state*

7.10 a.m. *grab books after spending seven whole minutes of trying to locate them under a towering pile of clothes*

*run back down and out on to the street*

*hail an auto*

The following conversation takes place in Tamil (or how much ever broken Tamil I can muster)

"College road," I manage to say in between sharp breaths

"100 rupees"

"WHAT?!"

"It's a one way, it's very far"

"No shitting me. 50 bucks." I yell

"80"

I turn on my heels and walk away huffily

7.20 a.m. After much wasted time, I finally manage to get a fair deal

*space out*

I end up going all the way to college, which is also on College Road, before realizing that I'm supposed to have gotten off at Alliance

*pay the guy and jump out of the auto*

*walk and half-run all the way back*

7.35 a.m. I finally get to my blessed destination and bound up yet another flight of stairs to get to my class, looking just as disheveled as I did when I woke up

*barge into class like one of those Tamil actors who barge into wedding halls and yell "Stopppp!!" right before the bride and groom tie the knot*

*get curious looks from everybody and grin sheepishly after excusing myself for coming late to class yet again*

I take a seat and look around, trying to figure out what page we're on

8.29 a.m. Just one more minute till the ten minute break. I'm as desperate as a terminal cancer patient praying for a miraculous cure.

8.30 a.m. *do a little jig*

*go outside and take a ten minute nap on a bench*

8.40 a.m. Break's over and I'm back in class, still trying to figure out what we're doing and why I enrolled myself for this in the first place

8.41 a.m. This time the terminal cancer patient is looking at me and wondering what I'm suffering from. That's how miserable I appear while waiting for the clock to strike ten.

10.00 a.m. *breathe a sigh of relief*

What?! Class isn't over yet?? Ten minutes left? My watch is running fast? NO WAY!!

That cancer patient is feeling my pain now. He wishes me a swift death.

10.10 a.m. Finally! I'm as emotional as someone who runs to the airport to stop the love of his life from boarding the plane that's going to fly her off to a land far far away, and manages to get there just before the flight takes off

*skip out of class in a manner akin to Little Red Riding Hood*

*smell Freedom*

10.30 a.m. I'm back home and getting ready to sleep late into the afternoon


And that, boys and girls, is what a typical Saturday morning is like for me on those rare occasions when I actually bother going to class. Sundays are a whole different issue since Saturday Nights precede them.

I Love Taylor Swift (Not)

[If you don’t get sarcasm, please stop reading right here]

Oh my God… Taylor Swift… aaaaaaaa… *swoons*

Gah.

Why in heaven’s name Fearless won Best Album of the Year at the 52^nd Grammy Awards is just beyond me. It’s almost understandable that a majority of the male race jacks off to her picture and her voice (I really DO know a guy who does that. Hint: He’s been tagged) – she is undeniably beautiful and her voice is nice and all, but to let her walk away with such a prestigious award is crossing the line. It’s blasphemy!

Let’s step back and take a close look at Taylor Swift’s target audience:

- Girls from the age of 8-13 who have just had their first crush. Awww... how cute!

- Girls from the age of 13-18 who just haven’t been able to grow up and still fantasize about unicorns and pretty pink ribbons

- Women – yes, quite a few of them dig her songs. Why? *shrugs*… I don’t know. Maybe it’s one the lesser known effects of sexual frustration

- Boys and men of all ages – it’s not so much the songs they dig as the videos and her pretty face (and maybe the rest of her anatomy as well)

All in all though, there are a greater number of people who absolutely hate her music than there are delusional fans. The high school themes which all her songs seem to revolve around are just pathetic. She quite obviously wrote and sang these songs when she was pms-ing. Why else would somebody go on endlessly about some boy in class who didn’t give them a second glance? Thu.

For those of you who’ve missed out on her ‘sensational’ album, Fearless, here are some of the highlights:

1. Fearless (title track) – This one is supposed to be about the fearlessness of falling in love. However, it’s basically about her dancing around in her best dress with some boy she likes. She would even go to the extent of dancing with him in a storm. Throw in some first kisses and lots of driving around in his car, and there you have it, the gist of the song.

2. Fifteen – A song that her 15 year old fans can totally relate to (I told ya so!), apparently. This song is about first dates, believing someone when they tell you they love you and dating.

3. Love Story – Ugh. Wannabe Romeo and Juliet. Need I say anymore? Please just go listen to it. I cannot bring myself to write about it without gagging. The video is the only saving grace here, considering that she looks stunningly beautiful in the dress she’s wearing.

4. White Horse – This is about an oh-so-painful break up. Bring on the waterworks. Ms. Swift realizes a bit too late that she isn’t a princess and that she isn’t living in a fairytale. Heartbreaking discovery, isn’t it?

5. You Belong With Me – Do you see a pattern here? Again, it’s about boys and dating. She knows his favourite songs, gets his humour, wears t-shirts and sits on the bleachers. Somehow, this is all supposed to translate into how he belongs with her.

6. Tear Drops On My Guitar – This isn’t a part of the album, but I threw in a freebie. Yippee! So this song is just like any other song that she’s ever written or performed. Girl likes boy. Boy likes another girl. Poor dejected Taylor Swift has teardrops on her guitar and I have to blink back tears each time that happens because she ends up writing another asinine song that goes on to become a hit single.

With that said and done, I can’t wait for Taylor Swift’s next album. Woohoo! *jumps up and down eagerly* Maybe she’ll grow a brain by then. Maybe.