I'm so pretty ..oops..so silly!

A: Thongs and Things
Q: What is a lingerie store?

A: Chemistry and Bonding.com
Q: What is a matchmaking site for scientists?

A:What the hell am I doing?
Q: What is me trying to pass of some Poor Jokes in the manner of Jeopardy?

A Short (Love) Story

I have verbal diarrhea. I have a need to write, to unburden myself like nothing I have known before. Maybe it is the intense pain that starts somewhere in my heart and spreads its vicious roots through my entire body, gripping my head and my brains in a death-like vice. I can't seem to think anymore-my mind is flooded with images, each one fighting to gain supremacy over the other like a school of gasping fish struggling for air. Memories. Memories of emails exchanged and a walk on a virtual beach, of surreptitious glances over a dinner table, of that first lunch fraught with so much expectation and nervousness, of the long walk by a frozen reservoir as the weak rays of the sun stretched to touch our hearts-our hearts that were stirred and warmed by something more than the sunlight, of the first kiss-shy and fumbling, of the naughtiness as we raced through dark corridors when the world was asleep, of a walk on a real beach..where we bathed in the solitude, ensconced in our world, in the comfort of each other.
The touch of cold water droplets awakens me out of my reverie-for that is what it has been. A game, an amusement for you where you could juggle with my emotions like a clown in a circus. I look at the unblinking computer screen in impotent anger and the email stares back at me. The email written with such passion, such intensity was meant for another but was delivered to me by some quirk of technology..or shall I say fate? I cannot shake off the feeling of betrayal..clinging to me like the dampness of a humid day. The tears pour down my face, a hot, unstoppable torrent. I can see through the water..and I see you, running towards me, arms outstretched, smiling. I run towards you too..screaming, raining down heavy blows on you blindly, my hate and my agony churning together as an unholy mess-loathsome, fearful and all consuming.
Then there is silence. The waters part and I can see clearly for the first time. My mind breaks free from its shackles like an unfettered spirit. You still have the girl you cheated on me with. As for me, I have a migraine and a shattered computer.

My advice to you: Don't fall in love with people who use their words lightly-you will pay for it later with much more than that.

The Man of the Library

She heard him even before he came up. His rhythmic steps reverberated off the wooden patches that peeped through the worn fabric of the decadent carpet. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw him stride by the Greek philosophers and then the American presidents and finally he made his way closer to her, by the books with strange names in scripts she could not decipher. She held her breath, but he just marched to his spot by the large windows, just beyond where she sat at the wooden desk scribbled and carved on by several generations of distracted students. She watched him as the breeze wafted in and stirred the musty air of the library and ruffled the sheaf of papers lying neglected by her side. He stood in silence for a few minutes, turned briskly on his heel and disappeared just as suddenly as he had appeared. She blinked rapidly, startled out of her reverie, unsure if she had imagined it all. But she knew that it was not something her fecund imagination had conjured in the utter boredom of her solitude in the library, for she saw him every day.

The Man of the Library, as she liked to think of him. Not Man IN the Library, mind you, for there were many men in there but none quite like this one. He was unique in the aura of quiet dignity that surrounded him, the utter peacefulness with which he stood by his window in his daily sojourn. His appearance was not impressive; his rough denim clothes clung awkwardly to his lanky frame and the impudence of his inquisitive, bulging eyes was partly softened by the effeminate design of his glasses. And yet he maintained about him a cloak of composure like a man in prayer, performing his ritual with the reverence and focus of an ardent devotee.

But the effect he had on her was quite the opposite. Initially, she hardly noticed him as he walked by her, discounting him as one of the multitude that thronged the library in the busy morning hours. Then she detected a pattern, a regularity that extended from the time of his arrival to the cadence of his steps and culminated with his movements by the window. She loved puzzles of any sort and her curiosity was piqued. She started to pay closer attention to him and casually wondered why he came in when he did. Or why he did what he did. Now something more than idle interest was stoked. She kept a rigorous record of his timings and meticulously noted his dress and his every little gesture. Every day. What had originally started as a puzzle and an amusement now became an obsession. Her work at the library seemed to have lost its importance and her own tangible existence paled in comparison to the obscure life of her quest that was steadily being fattened and nourished by the deepest recesses of her imagination. What had been a shadow had now taken on a larger than life appearance, governing her every thought and consuming every fiber of her very being.

Her crime movie-fed brain generated complex ideas-perhaps he was a part of a gang attempting to burglarize the library and he was signaling to an accomplice from that window. Maybe her presence was the only reason that prevented him from robbing them blind, she was the reason the library was safe! A sudden movement caused her to look away in embarrassment and cast her eyes down. In the clutches of her thoughts, she had failed to realize that she had been staring at him. For a little too long apparently, as he threw her a quick look and went on his way. Just like every other day.

The next day was no different except that he gripped a book under his arm. Slyly following his march to the window, she almost laughed out loud at her thoughts from the previous day. He looked so pale and childlike. The gilt edged pages of his book glimmered in the sun. She flinched instinctively. What was that? A holy book of some sort? His innocence of a moment ago vaporized as quickly as the peal of the bell on the clock tower died on the still wind. That’s when it occurred to her that he was few minutes late. A deadly fear gripped her heart. Perhaps he was involved in an enormous terror plot. Maybe he was a religious fanatic and she, the heathen, was condemned to be his first victim!

Spurred by what many may consider insanity, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She shoved aside the papers strewn besides her and pushing her chair out of the way, she boldly made her way up to him. Her voice quivered but she was resolute in her purpose and was determined to get to the bottom of it. The words had barely left her lips when he jumped. All the way he went, down eight interminable floors. She stood watching fixedly as the book with its golden edged pages followed the Man of the Library to his destination at the end of that, his final walk. Now, there were no questions and no answers. Only the silence. Just like every other day.

Indian Rain

We Indians are a nostalgic lot. Ask any Indian about the monsoon and they will wax eloquent. The soft patter of the rain on the window as you huddle below thick comforters sipping hot chai and watching old Hindi film songs on TV..the aroma of onion and mirchi pakoras fresh off the pan..the numerous hawkers by the sea battling to keep their fires alive against the fury of the lashing rain as they roast corn on the cob spiced with chilli powder and lemon juice..the multitude of crows perched on the balcony ledge, shaking off the water from their rain drenched feathers and cocking their heads comically..the smell of the freshly washed mud as the relentless rain pauses for a brief moment, allowing the sun to push forth feeble rays amidst the dark thunderclouds..the long months of the stifling, claustrophobic heat of the summer followed by the monsoon- touching like a kiss on expectant lips, soothing but with a passion of its own right. After all, the rain does strike a romantic chord in the most apathetic Indian. There are scores of books and poems dedicated to the delicate sentiments associated with the rain. The movies are flooded with images of scantily clad heroines soaking and dripping evoking bolder emotions.

I was no different. Long walks on Marine Drive with boyfriend number one (BF1), crowding beneath a miniscule umbrella and trying to avoid the eunuchs and beggars that tried to deter lovestruck couples from parking anywhere, longer telephone calls to boyfriend number two everytime they played "Ab ke saawan" on TV and the longest kiss with boyfriend number three (actually it was BF1 but chronologically he was 3) as we took shelter in an empty classroom. But nostalgia is a powerful inducer of amnesia. Like other Indians, I fail to mention the overflowing gutters, the sewage floating through flooded roads as you tried to wade to school in knee deep muddy water, the swarms of flies hovering over everything like a pall of doom, the stench of wet clothes unable to dry in the moisture laden air..even the romance wore the tired look of a veteran.

One monsoon, I remember walking home or rather being carried home one stormy afternoon with BF1 ..and it wasn't he who was doing the carrying. The ruthless winds steered us with the force of an army raining down on its enemy while the rain attacked us with the intensity of a million arrows. Our cozy umbrella had long surrendered any attempt at protecting us from the fury of skies. When we got home, BF1 was shivering and shaken and looked like something that even the cat might decline to bring in. I remember him recoiling from my touch and it was only when my mother, armed with towels began rubbing him vigourosly that he was jolted back into reality. The reality of my ragged boyfriend on that wet afternoon seemed like a far cry from what my memory, fed on the romantic scenes painted in countless movies, had conjured.

Eight years later, I have experienced the myriad of seasons that one is exposed to in Salt Lake City, Utah. Not easily forgettable is the cold rain pouring down in the frosty evenings. I hear it now, slamming against the large windows of my lab, as I pore over a tedious calculation. "Oh, it's raining, that's soooo romantic", I hear someone gush at my side. I look up with annoyance at the new Indian graduate student, fresh from India, hovering around me. That could have been me three years ago, I think to myself regretfully. Alas, my memories are not romantic, and time has made them even less so. Right now, all I could think of was the fact that I had to walk a long way in the chilling rain to the animal facility. And that my lab rats would get drenched and ragged and shake little droplets off their wet bodies. Just like my boyfriend had done several years ago. The comparison brings some mirth to my tired mind and I grin with amusement and get back to work.

My advice: Live each moment when you can. You never know when the seasons will change

The Uprooting of Wisdom

The aggravating pain in my tooth has been replaced by something worse..the fear of having it extracted. I went to the dentist last week to see if she could kill me mercifully and rid me of my toothache. Instead, after a lot of horrified gasps and scandalized expressions she seriously explained that I had to have my wisdom teeth removed. Not tooth mind you, all four teeth. At this point my boyfriend went into some sort of stupor and refused to wake up till Seinfeld came on later that evening.

Still sick to the stomach with the tons of antibiotics that were being pumped into my system, I decided to call on my family to garner some much needed sympathy. My sister was speeding on the 280 interstate when I called her. I ended up talking to her children's nanny instead. She sounded sorry for me but between my pain and her Californian accent I barely fathomed that tooth extractions were terrible in general but I would pull through.

When I finally reached my sister on her cell phone, she was trapped in rush hour traffic and the danger of her recently done hairdo falling apart. This certainly did not help her mood or my cause in any way. She was very brief and very clear. Her first tooth extraction back in India had ended in some kind of muscular spasm. The fiend in dentist's clothes sought to alleviate her pain by cracking her jaw . Now any lesser mortal than her would have passed out. Being my sister (and a formidable one) she was just driven to tears. Her second extraction was in the United States and involved general anesthesia and some form of sawing. At this point, I don't remember any more of the conversation. I blame the cell phone reception for abruptly breaking off.

Not having met with much success on the sympathy front with my sister, I proceeded to call another member who I felt would surely understand my agony. My brother had just consumed a filling dinner and the better part of a ripened bottle of Pinot Noir. He was in a very expansive mood and to my mind, seemed exactly what the doctor had prescribed. An hour later, I was still on the phone. I could not tell if that dull numbing pain throbbing through my head was emanating from my decayed tooth or from having listened to my brother describe in gory detail all his escapades at the dentist's clinic. The sweat drenched dentist, the discovery of another tooth clinging to his wisdom tooth like an unholy siamese twin, the shattered pieces...I shuddered but nothing could shake off those images.

When I awoke the next day, the antibiotic had taken effect and I felt like a new person. Brave and ready to take on the world and rid it of its imperfections like so many rotten wisdom teeth. So it was with great gusto that I called my parents in India to cheerfully apprise them of my tooth situation. My father's compassion was well-received but short lived. Hardly few minutes into the conversation, he launched into the story of his first extraction as a young, penniless graduate student in Europe. The extraction was fine he explained, it was the torrent of blood that came after like a blood bath that wasn't. And it's best I don't repeat his other story of the dentist with a hammer and chisel. He painted a picture so gruesome that it sounded like it came straight out of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Personally, I think he enjoyed telling me that story. As for me, I was just glad that I had no more family members to call.

My advice to you: Don't look for sympathy..you may get something worse.