You're my facebook friend but you're also annoying.

I just read an article about annoying people on every facebook list.  Though I nodded in agreement, I found that the list didn't include a lot of the different characters that flood my newsfeed every morning.I am a little bit of all of them. And I'm sure I have a few hundred "friends" that cringe at my every facebook move.  

But this isn't about me; this is about all the friends you'll come across on my facebook.

The avid traveller when the fuck do you work person

This person(or persons) is always posting pictures of exotic locations, perfect sunsets, and cute messages on the sand.  The captions below will occasionally make you barf in your mouth a little- "There is no perfect life but we can fill it with perfect sunsets."  As I look away from the phone, I catch a bus driver with a protruding belly staring at me with his mouth curled in a perverted snarl.  Some of us only have the luxury of travelling to work and fro and the only sights we see are traffic jams, stranded cows, and bulging eyeballs (and balls) that study your every move while the red light counts down to green.

The my child is sooo cute I must post everything person

 I don't have kids but I do have a dog that I am pretty much obsessed with. I do post the occasional picture or ten so I know that it's easy to get carried away. Especially when you roll over to find your puppy with her head nestled on your husband's shoulder while your husband holds one tiny paw in his large man hands. You got to share that with the world, man.  But I know where to draw the line. I want you to love my dog, not secretly dream of taking her to China and feasting on her rabbit like ears. So I do have  problem with parents that share every crawling, pooping, drooling moment on facebook.  Yes, you have a cute kid but we don't need to know the colour of his poop and the density of his spit up.   Share a picture or a story twice or thrice a week but don't tell us how your little one dressed as a princess or made a joke about a fat cat sitting on a mat.  Keep some moments between you, your wife, grandpa, or the girl you're desperately trying to f*ck at work.  Photos of you being a loving father works better than a roofie in a Cosmo. 

The big bad ad guy person

I am a copywriter and my clients are thirsty vampires that suck the creativity out of every headline and story, I seek appreciation elsewhere. I write for my friends and family and post stuff on facebook and have tiny orgasms with each like that I get. BUT there are some ad guys on my friends list that go on and on and on and on trying to win us over with their witty campaigns and self art directed layouts, long copy diaries and status updates that are like prologues to a new book they're writing.  Give us a little breather, if we wanted to read we'd go to the nearest bookstore, grab a cup of coffee or green tea and pick out an author that we actually enjoy reading.

The I know all the angles that make me look good but I'm secretly a troll

So we all know those girls that know all the perfect angles and make all the perfect pouty faces that makes them look facebookfuckable.  But in real life, you'll walk past her without looking back unless she lets on rip. These girls (and I used to one of them) know the angles that will hide their double chins and sagging boobs. They know the angles that make look more Gisele like on facebook even though they are more Rakhi Sawantish in real life.  And sometimes it's something as simple as sucking in your cheeks and turning slightly to the left and moving the right shoulder at a slightly contorted angle. We all know them, and we are secretly scared of their ability to transform the second we say "cheese."   

The invisible stalker person

They don't post things on people's walls. They don't comment on pictures.  But they see everything and they stalk the shit out of you and everyone in your network. They know your husband's ex girlfriends pug's name. They constantly refresh their newsfeed so they never miss a beat.  But we'll never know that they've been on our page and it could make you a feel a little violated like someone's been staring into your bedroom, watching your every bad dance move since 2005.

The I am photographer because I filter the shit out my pictures person

I find these people highly annoying. While some of them are truly talented, filter or no filter, there are some people that wouldn't know creativity if it bit them in the ass and made a home inside their large intestine.  The ones that take a top angle shot of a stray shoe, add a black and white filer and call it "abandoned" which is met with responses such as "deep, my friend, deep."  But my friend, a filter and a catchy caption does not a photographer make. You have a phone with a camera and you take cool pictures. That is all.

no drinks OK please.

When I was fifteen, I broke into my father’s booze cabinet and mixed everything I could get my bony hands on, poured it into a glass, and drank it neat. My pupils dilated, my heart raced, my body got all wobbly, and my speech slurred. It was love at first bitter sweet sip.  Alcohol made me funnier. More confident.  It gave me game.  I could have conversations with the opposite sex without dropping everything at arms distance and giggling like a school girl telling her friends that she just got her period.  But the best part about drinking was that it made people more interesting and more attractive.  But alcohol and I had our issues.  The 24 hour long hangover where I’d stare  face down at my toilet bowl with my finger down my throat. The making an “ass of myself” pictures. The thousands of falls my- not- so –cushioned- ass has endured. No, it wasn’t always pretty, because just like most people, alcohol made me invincible in a Courtney love-esque way. I don’t mean the cool, bad ass Court. I mean the more recent wasted- mascara running down her face-crotchless panty wearing- Courtney Love. Ok, I am exaggerating but I did feel pretty ridiculous the morning after.
Alcohol also made me angry and super emo. Of course my boyfriend (now husband ) was the enemy. I’d launch my attack on him and declare war over the sound of blaring speakers at a party. 
me-“I can’t do this anymore.

”him-But why.. we are at a party.

me-You don’t love me. You’re ignoring me.

him-Yes, we are at a party.

me-I’m leaving you. It’s over. Goodbye.

If you’ve paid attention, you’ll notice that I have been referring to my relationship with alcohol in the past tense. I have decided to take a break.  I haven’t decided when I want to drink again because I am discovering a whole new side of me that isn’t drenched in alcohol.But I must admit that the hardest part about not drinking is socializing. Wow. Now that my beer, wine, and vodka goggles aren’t blurring my vision, I find most peeps really boring and it is extremely annoying that they cannot get past the fact that I am not drinking.These are the conversations I have at almost every party I attend.
Party person- What’s up man, long time brah.. braz.. dude.. baba.. babes (*insert any Delhi greeting)

Me- Ya.. how’ve you been?

Party person- The same man.. work and all that jazz.

Me- Ya… me too. You know I’ve started..

Party Person- (Cutting me off, and spitting a little on my mouth ) Let’s get a shot!

Me- (politely ignoring the spit that is sitting on upper lip)

I’m not drinking.. but I’ll come with you.Party Person- What..? are you preg…..

Me- (my turn at cutting party person off ) Nope. Just not drinking.

Party Person- Oh like a detox? (A word we Delhi peeps love  to use.)

Me- Well sort of but mostly want to do other things like cycling, fitness, not wake up hungover.. not puke..

Party Person-  But why?

Me- Never mind. Let’s get you that shot.

So I spend most of my nights explaining why I don’t drink, and trying to prove that I am not boring.  But the truth is I am boring. Very boring.  I can’t do my famous pelvic thrusts with the ease that I used to. I am self conscious (are those women whispering about my panty line? Does my breath reek of lemon butter shrimp?  Did I just hug my husband’s boss inappropriately?) And I really don’t know what to talk to people about, and the worst part is that I can’t even excuse myself to get a drink. “I’m going to go get a Fanta” just doesn’t sound like an authentic enough excuse.  When I’m drunk I can talk to anyone and I can dance like a paraplegic who has just learned to walk again. Uncoordinated but ecstatic.
But I am much happier. And I’ve made peace with being “not as much fun, dude.” After 13 years of drinking away my weekends, I finally have complete weekends where I actually do things like cycle all the way to India gate at 8 am.  Tick ofF my to-do lists. And spend time getting to know my husband without a glass of wine obstructing my view.

Will I drink again? Probably. But I will never let it become my best friend again. It can be like a fun acquaintance that I’m happy to meet on occasion. 

One year.

I am a wife. I love saying it out loud. I can’t get enough of it.

 We get married hoping that our marriage is going to be as perfect as our wedding day. Perfect morning kisses, deep conversations, loving the same television shows and laughing on cue, holding hands while strolling in the garden with a home filled with potted plants, cushions with just the right amount “cush”, sprawling windows that romance sunshine.  My version of marriage wasn’t so skewed. I don’t expect things to be perfect all the time.

Whoever said marriage is hard work wasn't joking.  Suddenly two different people share a life, a bed, and well luckily not in my case, a bathroom. You’re not born family, but you become family. You scream, cry, love, nurse hangovers, laugh, and bitch together. And at each other.

Your problems become his problems and his become yours. You can’t make decisions on your own because now your decisions affect two people. Me, myself and I is now me, my husband and us.

My husband is married to a drama queen. And I am married to a teenage boy. I mother him, he revolts. He says something in jest; I take it personally and banish him from our bedroom. He plays loud music as I try to read. He tries to lie, I play detective.

Yes, it’s really not easy.  But while we are caught up in compromise, constant changes and trivial fights about whether we spend more time with his friends or mine, we start to understand each other better. And I fall in love a little more each day. I love our inside jokes. I love that we can understand each other in between mouthfuls of toothpaste. I love that we sometimes dance for each other at random times of the day. I love that he can feel my moods change. I love that I can burp after eating a kathi kabab stuffed with raw onions. I love that I can lie next to him in my glasses and hair dripping with sarso ka tel and he’ll still kiss me. I love that we talk to each other like bros.  I love that we plan holidays we can’t afford. I love that around him I am me.

I realize that no matter how much sunshine pours through windows or how cushy your cushions are, there is no such thing as a perfect home. The perfect home is made up of two imperfect people that learn to love each other no matter what. In sickness, in health, or bad hair days.

So I have my moments of insecurity, anger and doubt and I go to bed angry, snarl and mutter under my breath. But then….. someone farts and we explode with laughter. And just like that, we aren’t angry anymore. I am instantly reminded of how lucky I am to be next to the man I love. Sometimes it takes a fart to bring you back to reality. Trust me, it works.

Maqsood

There is something really upsetting about the Delhi Zoo incident.
Besides the obvious of course. I am not a fan of the human species, I choose animals any day. But the Delhi Zoo incident opened my eyes to the desensitized beings our generation has evolved or rather regressed into. Today we can watch a man plead for his life and then die and react by sharing it with a click of an emotionless button. I am guilty of watching it, too. But what I am not guilty of are nasty, inhuman comments. He deserved it. F*cking retard. Drunk fool. Poor tiger is not to blame. The only comment I agree with is the last but then a man did die, a horrific, sad death.
As I watched the nasty remarks flow in, I wondered if we would have reacted the same way if it wasn’t Maqsood but some rich kid from Delhi? Would we have just called him retarded or stoned and simply passed on the video? Don’t we all do stupid things and have friends who have done stupid things? Do we wish death on them?

We have heard many versions of this story. Some state that he was drunk, some state that he jumped in, some claim that he threw stones at the tiger, lost his balance and fell. We probably will never know the truth. But if we can watch how his life came to an end, perhaps we can shed a little light on his life itself.

His name was Maqsood and had a very short attention span. He used his phone to listen to music because he never had any money to top it up. He had a wife and a child on the way. His parents were separated. He lost recently lost his job and was obsessed with tigers and even had photographs of them on his phone. He would visit the zoo frequently since he lost his job and then narrate stories about the tigers to his friends. He was 22 years old.

So as we sit on our cushioned behinds and comment on a death of a silly man and ‘like’ a picture of a couple honeymooning in Italy in the same breath, parents have lost a son. A wife has lost a husband. Her unborn child, a father.

And we watched, made jokes, and called him an asshole.

Here's looking at you, America.

Minutes after the Boston bombings, Facebook exploded with prayers, outrage, profanities and shock. The victims weren’t just random Americans. They were innocent people who had lost their lives on a day just as innocent as them. A day of celebration and joy.  

But then something else happened. Resentment surfaced. Not towards the terrorists but towards the media and hundreds of Indians who had shown their sympathy for good ole USA. “What about Yemen and Afghanistan?” “What about the hundreds of children that have died in Pakistan?”  “3 die in Boston…300 die in Iraq by the hands of the Americans! Why don’t we keep them in our prayers?”  These statements made me realize just how desensitized we have become. We believe that death is a natural part of life in these parts. 

It’s not just the Boston bombings. It’s the school shootings in small towns, a brutal murder by a nanny in New York, a horrific shooting in a movie theatre.  We (urban India) all get sucked in and it hurts us far deeper than a story about a 21 year old Indian solider who will never kiss his unborn child. So what is this bond we feel with a country many of us have probably never even travelled to? Well, this is what I believe. The truth is we have grown up with America. It has weaved itself into our very existence from the time we were fat, toothless infants.

Disney made “happily ever afters” possible.  Spiderman and Batman taught us how to kick butt. MC Hammer told us that we can’t touch this and we still tried. Michael Jackson made every Bunty, Babli and Mithu want to moonwalk while Madonna made little girls ask what a Virgin was. Elvis gave Bollywood stars a makeover that included a gigantic head of puff. Hollywood made us imitate the American twang and dye our hair blonde. Barbie showed us perfect boobs. Playboy gave boys their first orgasm. Archie taught us about high school and to “say not to drugs.” Steve Jobs made geeks cool. The list goes on, and on. No matter how uncultured some of us like to call Americans, we have always been drawn to their culture.

I am not confusing political views with popular culture, but I am just pointing out the (bitter?), truth. If we constantly surround our lives with all things American how can we not help but feel a deeper connection to them? Why are we suddenly called biased when all our lives we have been just that. So whether you shake your head from left to right in agreement or disagreement, it's true y'all, Bharaat Mata has always had an unhealthy obsession with Ms. Liberty.

You're beautiful. On facebook.

  

 It’s funny (peculiar funny) how we women often seek the approval of other women to feel good about ourselves. I mean of course we want the attention of the man but as long as he sees a tight ass and a hint of cleavage chances are he won’t check out our neon pants or comment on how the mascara makes our eyes pop. If he likes what he sees then you’re looking hot. He won’t tear you into shreds, examine the shreds with a magnifying glass and then sew you back together. That’s a woman’s job. But things are different on Facebook Land. Because on Facebook land every girl is beautiful. Every girl looks like a princess, is STUNNING, has lost weight, is soo frikking hot, is a complete doll, never looks her age. Even if she is a three eyed troll. If we’re being bitchy, no one would ever know. We just dip it in all kinds of sweet and sprinkle it with colourful compliments. Why? Is it because we’d like the compliment returned when we post instagramed versions of ourselves? Or is because we find it easier to be nice when it’s not face to face but picture to picture? Or are the repercussions of being bitchy more severe on a public platform as opposed to real life? I haven’t quite figured it out.

Boys on the other hand, get off on being complete D-Bags to each other. The best part is that it’s taken with a pinch of salt. Especially on Facebook Land. So while we girls are busy telling each other how hot we are, boys are busy telling each other that they look like dicks or look like they’ve been sucking on one, their sweaters are gay, are constipated fucks, need to get laid, braz!  That’s the difference between boys and girls or men and women. They’re honest with each other and sometimes brutally so. There are no underlying meanings or not so subtle hints. Boy land on or off Facebook is pretty much a 100% real.

But no matter how hard I try, I don’t think I can adopt the man way even if I am itching to tell a friend that she stinks so bad I can taste her stink. But I just cannot. I will not. So when I see her next, I’ll tell her she smells of roses and leave a “you’re stunning” comment on her latest profile picture.  

the big fat indian tamasha

Like all girls, I have always dreamed about my wedding day. I’ve played my favourite Bollywood track on repeat, imagining my friends and family dancing around me while I become the centre of their universe for just a few hours. It would be my day and of course my hone vaala’s day. But it would belong to me a little more than it would belong to him. But now it seems I have to share my day with a hundred people with hundred different opinions. I will have to do things I don’t really believe in and listen to a pundit that I don’t really agree with. When did weddings become so impersonal?

 Yes, Indian weddings and traditions date back to thousands of years but during those thousand years, someone somewhere decided to turn a wedding into a tamasha. The very reason for a wedding has been diluted by over the top customs, social obligations and eye-watering bling. I know so many people that want to elope to a small island and get married with no one around except seagulls and crashing waves. But unfortunately tradition and obligations bind them to the big fat Indian wedding.

I respect and even like tradition as long as it’s in small doses. But I don’t really want it following me as I take my 7 pheras. I want to dance around the mandap wearing flip-flops and a neon colored lhenga with a hipflask hanging loosely around my waist.  But nope, I will have to be a demure angelic virginal bride as I walk around the fire and smile coyly while eyes judge me. I will be a victim and I can’t fight it because even though it’s my day I have to make everyone else happy. Funny isn’t it?

But what I’d hate even more than painful earrings splitting my earlobes into two is the guest-list syndrome that I have witnessed many, many times in the past. So you had a shot with someone once and indulged in drunken conversation and that person is already picking out sarees and designer ties for your wedding. Even colleagues expect to be invited just because you ate lunch with them one odd day in a crowded cafeteria. And so does so-and so aunty who is so-and-so’s aunty who once smiled at you with pan stained teeth. If they don’t get a card, they think it’s an insult. Seriously? An insult? I know someone who returned someone’s ladoos because they didn’t get a card for the wedding day. Just eat the ladoos, man! It’s not about you! It’s about two people celebrating their undying love for each other. It’s about two families becoming one. It’ s about over-the-top laughter and smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. It’s not about egos, demands, people pleasing. It’s only about love, happiness and positive vibrations. So no, you and your paan stained teeth will not smile for photographs during my wedding.  

I am not a wedding hater nor am I attacking “traditional family values” or the very fabric of society. But as I get ready to venture down the path of the seven pheras, I am educating myself about certain fallacies that blind people during wedding planning. A wedding doesn’t make a marriage. Let two people start their journey the way they want to start it. Not let tradition, customs and what nots become hurdles. Let two people enjoy every second of their celebration, make silly faces and get uncontrollably drunk and do everything under the sun that makes them happy.  So even though this day might become a little less mine, I’m still going to have a few moments that will belong to me. And tradition will never know