Chowkidar

The things you miss when you're in a foreign land are really quite little. People ask if you miss your city and you agree the holy trinity of family, friends and food is a perpetual void (but really you just miss the food). However, the city itself? God no.

And then little things start to sneak up on you. Last time I spoke about the cool relief that was the reliable power cut. Today I've been reminded of another sensory staple - the chowkidar's seeti.

I don't really know why I miss this one since I barely heard it. It only chirped when I was at my father's house too long like a reminder to start pushing him to take me home so mum could go to bed. Mum's not a night owl like me she's the opposite kind of crazy. Wakes up at 6 am willingly and calls it a sleep-in.

I also heard it at my father's mother's house which was bang in the middle of South Delhi and so needed the reassuring whistle of the security guard to act as some sort of pacifier. No crooks here, guys, you can all sleep peacefully.

Now I don't know how effective the seeti was at keeping the bad guys away, and I've never heard of a chowkidar ever having to DO anything security-y. Who knows, maybe he did when we were all fast asleep and I'm just being unreasonably cynical. I don't know how many of us even know what he looked like. We only know the silhouette on a bicycle, wrapped in a beige shawl in the depth of winter, gliding around keeping us safe. I think that was his purpose. No, really - what do chowkidars do? I've only ever heard them whistle.

Bijli

The lights just went out.

There I was tapping away on my laptop as I always do. I'm a compulsive laptoptapper, the tendency has its roots in the summer hols of 1996 when I was 9 years old and spent a month doing nothing but typing on a keyboard that had been separated from a much loved C64. No screen, just keys. Anyway, it's what I've been doing almost non-stop for the last 15 years - I have the luxury of an LCD screen now - and it's what I was doing when the lights went out.

Ah, powercuts. Such a familiar feeling. In high school and college I'd stay up late studying for exams (as you do) and the lights would go out at some post-midnight hour. I'd push my head back against the cushion that was propping me up. I'd close my eyes - or leave them open, it didn't really matter, you saw black either way. Everything was asleep - people, pets, and the pigeons that nested under the air conditioner. It was so quiet. And so dark. You could swear you were the only one awake, if it weren't for the trucks humming on the highway.

The lights would never be out for long. If they weren't back in ten or fifteen minutes, you'd hear the deep, distant sigh of the generator. When I was younger, I'd watch it puff out black smoke clouds. I used to like that polluted smell. It's clean now. You can see it from my bedroom with its little window with the yellow light - and that light miraculously never goes out. Anyway, then the lights would snap back on, sudden and brighter than before. If too many other owls were awake the generator would sigh again - this time precariously. The voltage would dip, the lights would dim and you'd hold your breath. Sometimes they'd go off again and in your pity for the overworked generator you'd reach over and turn something off - the airconditioning, maybe unplug your laptop, or switch off one of the mega-bright energy saving lamps. Then it was more likely to be successful at carrying the weight of electricity. It didn't really matter though, if in those few uncertain moments the lights stayed on or went off. If they came back to life, you'd stretch, moan softly and patter downstairs to brew a cup of tea in a little cauldron. If they didn't, you used the time to breathe. You forget to breathe when you're working hard. Then the 'real' lights would turn back on and you'd patter downstairs to brew a cup of tea in a little cauldron. If it took you less than fifteen minutes to put together that one cup of tea, you did it wrong.

Further proof that no one really cares how you look

I got a haircut today.

It was a spur of the moment thing. As spur of the moment as something you've been meaning to do for the past three months can be. You know how it is, you sketch out this elaborate PLAN that ties in SO NEATLY with your Very Precise Daily Routine but you never get around to implementing it because, gosh darn it, there is no TIME in your Very Precise Daily Routine to make that phone call to set that appointment.

But things were getting desperate. This was evident as the hair seemed to be developing a rather dangerous mind of its own, proclaiming itself Bodyguard Extraordinaire and going out of its way to make sure no harm came to my person. I'd be rather proud of it, if it wasn't so much the stuff of a Stephen King novel.

You know your hair is too long when people start commenting on how long it is. When it starts developing split ends. When there are more tangles than usual. When it tries to smother, strangle or choke anyone who attempts to show even the slightest hint of affection towards the person directly beneath it.

It's been six months since my last hair cut - a year and a half since my last SIGNIFICANT hair cut. Or what I thought was a significant haircut. You see, after I'd had half the hair on my head sawed off, I thought this was a significant hair cut as well. Having torn my eyes away from the sad mountain of tentacles on the floor, I stepped into the street and went back to my Very Precise Daily Routine and met the people I usually meet in the course of my Very Precise Daily Routine and what were their comments on my New Look?

There weren't any. They didn't bat an eyelid. I lost a kilogram of hair and no one could even tell. 

Which leads me to the mathematical conclusion that there is an optimum hair length beyond which the human eye is incapable of effectively registering any further follicular extension. I peg it at just below shoulder length. From this point on the Difference Perception accelerates as length of hair becomes progressively shorter. I'm trying to use cool scientific lingo here but it's been 8 years since I last did physics and the only way I can give these words any cred whatsoever is if I allot symbols to everything and then formulate an equation.

OK:

P = -(Δ)

Where Ρ is the viewer's Perception of Difference

and Δ is the variability in hair length from the Optimum Length. If it gets cut, Δ is negative. If it grows, Δ is positive.

It would be cool if I could work a "^2" into there since I said P accelerates, but I see no way of doing that without destroying the point of the minus sign.

This equation explains why I am visibly distressed whenever boys go around getting their hair trimmed, while they barely register my radical transformation from Rapunzel to, er, chick with regular length hair.

Or it could be that whole hair fetish thing I have.

#WorstGirlEver

It's a coincidence, I swear!

I have turned up here after ages and i check up the date of the my last post and LO AND BEHOLD it's been nearly exactly a year since. I should have procrastinated for an extra couple of days eh?

Well it's been due for a revival and the fact that the revival has succeeded with the publishing of this post (and the post WILL be published, mark my words) is something that should fill slacker bloggers across the globe with rays of hope and joy and sunlight and other positive things.

And I really like the black/pink contrast so I'm glad I have a reason to resurrect it. Why yes, there IS a reason. My friend the traveller did tell me she missed this blog but I ignored her, because that's what friends do. It took a conversation on Twitter with the lovely shoe-obsessed lawyer (more like lawyery shoe-obsessive) @Gabfran to make me realise how much I needed it. You know I love Twitter, yeah? I love it even more now than I did a year ago. A meaningful post to have paused the blog with.

So here's the story.

One fine morning I happened upon a hair straightener in my bathroom. It belonged to my new housemate - a real live GIRL (unlike me, a fake girl - we'll get to that). I'd never been so close to one before. I looked at it - took in the glowing red light, felt the white heat radiating from its metallic paws, tentatively prodded it with my index finger to see if it did anything. Then, I asked my housemate:

"Hey, can I try out your hair straightener?"

Lovely girl, she nodded energetically and I ventured a few dozen n00by questions. How do I do it? Does my hair have to be wet? Should I use a detangling serum? How long should I hold it in place?

Got some reasonably helpful answers. Had a shower. Dried out my hair as much as I could. Coated it with some leave in conditioner thing. Dried it out some more. Lost patience and attacked it with the irons.

I'm no girl, I don't have the courage to subject my hair to direct, intense heat for an extended amount of time, it'll get hurt. Despite my keenness to have it poker straight, I like my hair to be as au naturel as possible and that means wavy and slightly frizzy. AND I CAN DEAL WITH THAT. I don't need a straightener, I don't want a straightener, I'm never using one again.

And that is ONE of the reasons why I think I fail at being a girl. I twote about the experience and happily discovered that I was not alone. Nein, one of my own, the aforementioned @Gabfran was similarly un-chicky. We decided to blog about our laissez-faire girl personas. She had hers ready a week ago. Me, I have clearly taken slightly longer, but I shall blame that on pre-travel arrangements ('sup, New Delhi?) and so slide off the blame hook.

I mentioned in our twitter conversation that I had enough shockingly ungirly traits to fill up an entire hashtag and as homage to the medium, I now present to you

Reasons Why I Deserve The #WorstGirlEver hashtag:

- never had a manicure
- never had a pedicure
- never curled, permed, relaxed, primped, coloured, streaked, or straightened (yeah it didn't really work) my hair
- never had any epilatory substances or devices near or on my face (NB: never had to)
- can't remember when I last paid for a haircut
- found the perfect eyeliner from a male goth
- if the shoe hurts, don't wear it
- if the shoe has a heel, don't wear it
- if the shoe is by Converse, wear it
- bonus points for shoes I can put on and take off without having to (un)tie or (un)buckle
- shoe count - 12
- frequently worn shoe count - 6; Sneakers: 4, Mary Janes: 1, Thongs/Flip-Flops: 1 (falling apart ballet flats:1)
- never sewed on a button damn the flimsy haberdashery on that op shop coat.
 

I had a list, it's not on this computer, these are off the top of my head. However, I hope this is enough to sway you into seeing things from my perspective and this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I feel I am worthy of the #WorstGirlEver hashtag. Thank you for your consideration, and if you feel there is anything I have missed please don't hesitate to refresh my memory.

Mushrooms: delicacy to some, fungus to others

I don't like mushrooms. They are smelly. And they are fungus. Like the stuff between your toes. A lot of people do like mushrooms however. They love the smell. And the fungusness. I think they are just icky (the mushrooms, that is). Here is a visual illustration I made, with the help of a picture I nicked off teh internets and using my l33t photoshop skillz, which describes my perception of them.

yech, shrooms.