Blog-In-The-Mouth

Blog-In-The-Mouth
14th September 2005
With this post, we go current. Posts will be less frequent, but they will be current. Thank you for bearing with us.
It’s been a few months now since I started blogging FITM.

The blog began because I’ve always had this urge to see FITM published. Out there for others to read. Now, there’s very little chance of any publisher actually agreeing to market an autobiography of some random dude. So, I turned to the worldwide web.

So I set up http://foot-in-the-mouth.blogspot.com, after a lot of trial and error with the template process. Uploaded the first episode ever written, and mailed the links to a few trusted friends – Slappy, Groper, Doc, The Nag, Minty, The Drunken Painting Poet, Guzzler, Legs, my best friend, my sweetheart and Srimati.

It was interesting to re-read and to post the articles. Now that I look back, I can see how much I’ve changed as a person with every article.

Putting up Season Two, the current set, was frightening. A lot of these episodes involve rather deep personal feelings. What with all the hell that’s gone on. The call was whether I should put myself out there to such an extent or not. The answer – yes.

I’d update it every few days, until I decided to get it current. So, for the last two weeks, I’ve been doing an update a day. Now, I’m just a few episodes away from being current.

I set up an email id (footinthemouth@gmail.com) for feedback and fan mail. And, after daily mails telling the aforementioned group to read the day’s post, I’ve received a lot of feedback. And here it is.

Doc: His reaction was like, what shit are you making me read man? I get the feeling he doesn’t like to be invited so deeply into someone’s life. But I hooked him in the end – he’s started a blog of his own.

The Drunken Painting Poet: A long conversation with her was what prompted me to get back to FITM. And she was most thrilled to read the blog. No official feedback yet (hint, hint) but she seems to enjoy it.

Guzzler: The dude owns a publishing company. He liked the first few posts so much that he’s offered to publish FITM. Maybe I’ll take him up on it. And inflict FITM on millions...millions I say!!! (Insert evil cackle, gleeful rubbing of hands here.)

Legs: Liked the blog a lot. Laughed a lot. Posted one rather telling comment – that every blog seemed to feature one woman, and that I seemed to have a lot of women in my life...

Minty: She’s thoroughly enjoying the blog. Called me up to say she loved the post about my sis (Neighbour’s Envy, Brother’s Pride). Also called when one post reminded her of Hrithik, her best friend (more than that, according to me).

My best friend: Two telling comments. One when she learnt how unhappy I was that we were drifting – she didn’t know then what I was going through. The second, when I wrote recently about how I’ve patched things with Doc, about how foolish I was – she said that she never wanted her relationship with Doc to affect mine, and how he was still a trusted friend.

Srimati: Mails in from Detroit to say that she’s been following the blog closely, and enjoying it thoroughly.

Slappy: What can I say? My biggest fan, and the one who’s pushed me the most to post FITM. She’s understood thoroughly what I’ve been through last year. Cried when I wrote about Amma. Laughed when I wrote about Groper’s surgery. And never missed an opportunity to rag me about Boxer. Despite the occasional confusion about characters, she’s hung on grimly...

Groper: Called to say she was catching up on the blog after a while. Mailed to say she was glad I was over the worst. Called to protest that she’s not Groper, that she never groped my ass at the water cooler in college. Liar.

And then there have been those anonymous comments that keep happening. The first line leaves me very happy: "Your blog is very creative. It’s very good. Keep it up."

Then I go on to the next line. Which tries desperately to sell me legal services, gardening equipment, penis enlargers, what-have-you.

So now I’ve set up a filter to block computer-generated comments. Less feedback, but at least it’s written by a human being.

My only criticism is that there’s been no fan mail. I mean, I can’t get much clearer than putting up a note inviting it. So I console myself with the thought that all my fans had their PC’s crashing just before they could click Send...

The fun part is that most of the people recognise themselves and their adventures. I know Minty (most obvious) and Groper have. Slappy knows her pseudonym, but she hasn’t come up yet. By the time you read this, you’ll have met her on the blog.

So the show goes on. With every post, the feedback continues. And I march onwards to my dream of someday publishing FITM, with my war cry:

"Open mouth, insert foot!"

Jokes Apart

Jokes Apart
28th August 2005

Nobody invents jokes like an advertising copywriter.

Especially when said copywriter is sitting bored at Turbhe railway station, attending an ad film shoot where he has nothing to contribute.

Especially when a crowd of about 1500 people gathers, hearing rumours that Abhishek Bachchan and Jaya Bachchan are shooting. Thus blocking access to the public loos, and forcing said filmmakers to use the Railway Police toilet.

Here, then, are some of the Toilet Police jokes said copywriter invented.

Crew members went to the loo under Police Poo-tection.

What’s the motto of the Toilet Police? To serve and to poo-tect.

Human rights activists often complain about Toilet Police b-loo-tality.

How do criminals manage to evade justice at the hands of the Toilet Police? Simple. They find loo-pholes in the law.

There’s no escaping the long arm of the loo.

How can you tell if your kid would make an ideal Toilet Policeman? He’s born toilet trained.

When can one apply to become a Toilet Policeman? Anytime once one has passed poo-berty.

What happens when criminals get interrogated by the Toilet Police? Like any good gang members, they don’t give a shit.

Have you seen the Toilet Police’s new ad campaign? It’s intended to give the Toilet Police a strong poo-sitioning.

Now we know why we refer to the cops as the Poo-lice.

Under what code do the Toilet Police charge offenders? The Indian Pee-nal Code.

At times, the Toilet Police will attempt to strike a deal with gang members. For the criminals, it’s a question of whether to pee, or not to pee.

If reporting a crime to the Toilet Police, you need to meet the on-duty Loo-tenant.

After making an arrest, the Toilet Police must poo-duce the alleged offender in court.

Offenders arrested by the Toilet Police are thrown straight into the loo-ckup.

When the Toilet Police discovered that one of them was passing information to gang members, they moved quickly to plug the leak.

The Toilet Police is building a new training academy. It’ll be based in Poo-na.

Standard interrogation question: "Where have you stashed the loo-t?"

It’s been a few days since said copywriter invented the above jokes. A few may have slipped my
mind, but as and when I remember them, I will update them.

I invite readers to share the fruit of their toiletary wisdoms. Contributions will be duly added with full credit – or lack thereof.

Lots of loo-ve...

FITM.

Workaholic Reflections

Workaholic Reflections
14th May 2005

What’s wrong with the following situation?

Here I am, sitting on a Saturday night, all alone at home. I’m in no mood to party – I just want to relax. Listen to music, catch up with friends over the phone. Spend a weekend of constructive unconstructivicism. Sleep. Watch TV.

So what’s wrong with that?

Everything.

It’s the way I’ve been spending my weekends of late. Ever since Doc started his residency, our partying’s been happening on Thursdays or Fridays. So weekends are reserved for goofing off.

But this weekend, I’m tired, excited, wired, pepped up and dying for Monday to come. Unlike in the past.

Things changed around the time I got my increment letter. I’d started to realise that things weren’t as bad as I’d feared they were. That an award-winning ad wasn’t all that it took to make a career (though it does sort of shorten the time needed).

About that time work started to pick up. Scary took off for a client conference, and then sent me an SMS of praise. For a simple job I’d done, that looks good and should work very hard. Words of praise from a boss? Never before have I gotten something like that for something so small.

The other night our COO, Bossman, took Mister (my art partner), Scary and myself (among others) for dinner. As thanks for designing and writing a research report that’s rocked the corporate world, and has been very well talked about.

What’s going on, I wondered. Seems like I’m handling a lot more than I expected to. Suspicious handed over a trainee to me, who I’ll call Brashmouth. Suddenly a two-year old copywriter is asked to train an intern. Whoa there cowboy!

Suddenly I found that I’m enjoying work more and more. Coming in early to start, leaving late to try and finish. Despite the fact that I haven’t been too well – just got diagnosed with hypoglycaemia, in fact.

I’ve been roped in on a campaign that’s been going on for a while, and suddenly there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Two teams are on leave, and I’m taking up the slack. And going completely bonkers while doing it.

My day is now composed of work, toilet breaks, water breaks, two cups of coffee, lunch break, snack break. Of course, the flirting hasn’t completely stopped...

And, at the same time, there’s a ray of hope for three of my most prized pieces of work. Silent Assassin’s pushing the Father’s Day work; Loin, our senior VP has all but sold another campaign; and I’ve managed to revive a kickass catalogue. If all goes well, these three will do more for my career than anything else I’ve done – my promo film apart.

I’m dead tired. Exhausted. But remotivated, feeling happier and more confident about myself than I have in a long while. I’m sure my bosses have noticed – the way I’ve been working with them has changed. More joking, better judgement (thanks to Brashmouth, I’ve started to figure why stuff works and why it doesn’t) and slightly better ideas.

Life looks much better, all of a sudden.

There is, of course another spin to all of this.

Her pseudonym is Slappy.

She’s a little shorter than me, cute face (even with her glasses on), voluptuous, curvy – and good fun. Seems to be a sweet person. We got to know each other better while working on a film edit – and, before I knew it, we were getting closer. She’s the first girl in a long while who makes my heart beat faster – the last one was Legs; Sweetie was a different sort of chemistry – just thinking of her, or just thinking of calling her.

It’s not like Slappy and I are seeing each other. We went out once, and had a great time watching a crappy movie and then sharing a nice dinner. She comes over every day to say hi...and there’s a certain electricity every time our hands touch.

I don’t dare to push this too fast. I’m scared – of many things. Hurting myself is one of them. Rejection is another. An office relationship is, of course, another consideration. But Slappy’s never had a boyfriend. She’s the sort of person who wants to have just one relationship in her life. She’s never even kissed a guy. And my biggest fear is that somehow I’ll hurt her, destroy her ideals.

She’s out of town right now, and I’m actually missing speaking to her. Normally we talk a bit every night – most of the time it’s a chance for me to pull her leg. I was dying to go out with her again this weekend – but our next date(?) won’t happen for a bit.

I don’t quite know what to do about this – and I’m not too sure who to talk to. Groper, probably. Maybe I’ll call her after writing this piece.

Like I said, life suddenly seems rosy. I don’t know how long it’ll last. One thing I found out last year is that life is full of surprises (yes, the cliché is true). Crests and troughs, troughs and crests.

But as long as the crest lasts, I’m gonna ride it.

Yee-ha!

Incidents With Increments

Incidents With Increments
29th April 2005

This one is a postscript to Upraisals, Upheavals.

We got our increment letters yesterday.

I was sitting with Silent Assassin in his cabin, discussing a pitch we’ve been working on. In the middle of an engrossed discussion, he got up to meet Cobra’s secretary. And came back in with a handful of official-looking documents.

Hearken back to Upraisals, Upheavals. Where I had, to my surprise, received a pretty good appraisal from Suspicious and Scary.

And now hearken forward to the time after my return from Malaysia.

I’d come back charged up, ready to kick some advertising ass. Ready to crack one award-worthy idea a day. With Amma’s blessings and my own hopes and dreams resurgent in my mind.

And I come back and find myself writing product tags. That too, without a brief.

How does one write bad copy? Simple. A product tag with no brief is a great way to get mediocre.

So I slumped again. Shoulders sagged, spirits drooped. I spent most of my time flirting with the multitude of cute women in the office.

Ha ha.

I even told Silent Assassin of what I was feeling. He understood. Told me to relax, that I’d do some great work, that it was only a matter of time before I cracked another good ad.

So I threw myself back into work. Slogged over a recent campaign, got kudos from Scary and client for a heart-warming long-copy ad.

Then there was no more work. And back I went to flirting, fighting with servicing, and writing mediocre product tags.

Had a chat with Seniorita a few days ago. She told me that average increments were in the area of 20 to 30%. So I said, okay, I’m expecting about 30%.

Now fast-forward back to the present. Me sitting in Silent Assassin’s cabin. He’s handing me my letter.

It took me a few moments to comprehend what I was seeing.

A 50% hike.

As I told Silent Assassin, I didn’t expect this much. That I’d expected more from myself in the previous year. He just smiled, said, "Nothing like that." Then he shooed me away so that he could hand out the remaining letters.

Money-wise, my salary was raised by the same amount as last year. Which, as I found out, was far more than what others were getting.

All around me were sad faces. Whether it was SFX, or any of my colleagues. Everyone was disappointed with their increments, and it took a lot of straight-faced talking for me to hide my joy.

The value of my raise, I only found out today.

SFX is a copywriter two years senior to me. He joined Lowe a few months after I did. He told me his raise was around 15-20%. And, surprisingly, that Silent Assassin had fought for our (his and mine) increments last year.

Talking to Seniorita again today, I learned that my new package is only Rs. 40,000 shy of SFX’s new package.

What in bloody blazes!??!?

Just when I’d been thinking of moving, here’s proof that I’m growing at Lowe. If I’m being paid this much, it’s proof that my superiors feel I’m worth it.

Am I being fast-tracked? I don’t know. I hope so.

Maybe I should chat with Scary. What position am I at, where does she see me going in a few years. Life, the universe and everything.

This year’s increment may help get me into gear again. It may be too early to tell, but suddenly I’m feeling a whole lot better about myself. Suddenly I’m feeling like I might be motivated again.

Suddenly I want to work on that pitch at home tomorrow. On a Saturday.

My best friend had advised me to hang in there till September. Now Seniorita, herself quitting, is telling me the same too.

I think I have some (more) thinking to do. The old wheels seem to be getting a real workout.
And now that they’re working, I think I’ve figured what got me my raise.

Scary had threatened twice to cut my increment if I didn’t get drunk at a couple of parties.

At that last office I got smashed off my feet, outta my skull. More than obeyed her command.

Moral of the story?

Drink beer.

Doctor, Doctor

Doctor, Doctor
23rd April 2005

A few days ago, I had the chance to assist in my first surgery.

No, I haven’t left the advertising industry. And neither am I masquerading as a surgeon on the side – one cannot learn how by just watching Catch Me If You Can six times.

It seems Groper had corns. In her foot, I mean. Three of them – two big, ripe, infected ones, and one little baby corn. After bearing with the two big ones for 6 months, she’d finally come to her senses and asked Doc to operate.

So we figured out a schedule for surgery. And on the appointed day, Groper arrived, her friend Movie Man in tow.

She’d already ordered me to be there. Not out of any real love or affection, but because Groper has a huge phobia of injections. As we found out.

The surgery was to take place under local anaesthetic. Before starting, Doc decided to take Groper’s blood pressure. Sure enough, she started wailing the moment the pad clenched up around her arm. Low threshold of pain it seems.

The fun was, however, just beginning.

Doc, being Doc, was terrifying the life out of her (literally). Telling her that it was going to hurt like hell. Showing her the large syringes and needles he was going to use to inject the anaesthetic. Frightening the wits out of her by saying that either he was going to burn the corns out, or use a blade. And then, to top it off, he made her buy the blade!

We now have her lying on the operating table, and Doc is treating me like a compounder. Ordering me around to take her BP, get gauze, spirit and whatever else he needed.

In the meanwhile, Groper’s having second (and third, and fourth, and fifth...you get the picture) thoughts about surgery. All this while lying, foot draped in sterile surgical mat, on the cutting table.
So, hard-hearted Doc tells her, okay, don’t have it today. But you will sure as hell have to come back next week.

So she agrees.

But her foot doesn’t.

Doc tells her, loosen it. Keep it tight and it’ll hurt even more. She says, ok. But foot is tighter than Pamela Anderson’s training bra.

Movie Man is holding one hand, not saying much. Me, I’m holding her leg, caressing it. Other hand is on her stomach, telling her to breathe, that she’s no good to anyone if she’s not breathing. Kidding her about my abs being better. Telling her that payment would be to take her top off. Hearing her scream even louder at that prospect.

She started screaming even before Doc put in the injection. At that point she grabbed my hand in pain, eyes wide open, feral, twisted expression on her face. Then began the screaming, the tears.
So, to prevent the cops coming in, we locked both the clinic doors and told her to go ahead and scream.

Then Doc starts checking whether the injection’s worked. Lo and behold, Groper feels no pain.
(Note here that the only alcohol involved in the procedure was the spirit Doc used while cleaning up.)
Then he starts cutting away. All the while explaining to her exactly what is going on. Frightening her even more.

Let me interrupt here. I was really worried about Groper. She was born with a hole in the heart (though the more dangerous one is in the head), and was operated upon as a child. That’s why I asked Doc to go easy on her...and he did. Only, it didn’t seem like it to her.

He popped out the first corn, and she refused to look at it. Then started begging him to cut out the second without repeating the anaesthetic. Doc didn’t listen. He just waited till she said to finish it fast. Then he injected her, and the cutting began again.

At the end she was in tears. Both corns were out, but she was freaked out. Not by the operation – which was painless. But by the sight of the needles and the pain of the injections.

And cruel Doc, he proudly showed her all the needles before injecting.

Then Groper howled even more, when Doc told her he needed to give her a tetanus and a painkiller – two additional, separate injections. Both are especially necessary because of her heart. So I put my foot down.

Then I held her hand again.

Doc gave her the tetanus in the arm. Not much pain.

Then came the interesting part. Where he had to inject the painkiller in her...er...backside.

So, of course, I learnt a little bit more about Groper that day. That she was wearing striped underpants. No sexy, lacy, erotic lingerie – just functional undies.

Obviously that girl knows what she can and cannot pull off.

Then that shot went in, and we were done.

Doc had already dressed her foot. We then got her dressed up. Took her to my place so that she could pee. Then Movie Man dropped her home.

I’m glad I attended the surgery. It made me bless my decision to not even consider the possibility of the probability of the chance of getting into medicine.

Doc – well, he’ll be a good one some day. He was fast, clean, and just cruel enough to get the job done.

What about my future as a compounder? Good. If only I can distinguish between six-inch plaster and gauze, and stop handing the spirit bottle to the surgeon when he wants disinfectant.

Finally, what about Groper? Her left foot is doing well. Improving everyday. She’s on antibiotics, as well as painkillers. So she’s very drowsy. She has just one complaint, though.

Her throat aches from all the screaming.

So do my ears.

Resolutions

Resolutions?
16th April 2005

It’s about four-and-a-half months too late for a New Year’s Resolution (or two or three dozen), but here goes anyway.

Before I get started with this lengthy list, let me explain why I’m in this mood.

Simply, I’ve now been single for a year. And three days.

Sweetie and I parted the day after Sis’ birthday last year. That temporary break has turned into a permanent one.

It hasn’t been a good year after that. Things with Sweetie; at home; at work; Amma’s loss.

What’s getting me even more right now is that I can see no end. No light in the tunnel that’s my love life. Forget a romantic date, I can’t even get a friendly one, like with Boxer. Or anyone else, for that matter. Part of me has just given up on ever finding that special someone.

What about Sweetie? That was a fluke. An aberration. I don’t see a romance happening for a long while now.

I’ve never had any success chasing girls. Legs, my sweetheart…the list is actually endless. Seems the best way to get close to a gal is to be a friend. Unfortunately, that’s the way it stays with me.

Perfect friend material. Marriage material. That’s it. That’s the sort of comment I get from girls. I’m Mr. Nice Guy, no more.

At this point you’re wondering why I’m so obsessed about finding someone special. Simple. I’ve never had – until Sweetie – that sort of relationship with anyone. Sweetie didn’t work out. Back to square one.

Ask a blind man about what sight means to him. You’ll understand what I’m saying.

Last night was the unit party. I got drunk. Piss drunk. I’m still suffering the after-effects. This morning I’ve woken up thinking. Really low. Hence, the resolutions.


Here they are.

• I’ve given myself up till June 19th to figure out my future at Lowe. Until that time, I’m gonna slog my ass off. See if I can remotivate myself, relight the fire. I will probably start calling my contacts in the industry. But until things are decided, I’m going nowhere. I’m gonna get my focus back on work.
• I have certain responsibilities at home. With Dad getting back on his feet, I need to shoulder a huge responsibility. Apart from being a good son, I now need to become a good breadwinner.
• I’ve been sort of ignoring my friends of late. Even now I’m not in the frame of mind to call them. But that will change soon. I just want to repay them for what they’ve done for me.
• No chasing after friends. Legs, this colleague Sulkamitra (who Sweetie thought I was having an affair with), Boxer, nobody. I’ve tried to rebuild my friendship with Sulkamitra, but she doesn’t seem interested. Legs doesn’t have the time to meet me currently. Fine. No more chasing.
• No running after girls anymore. The hell with it. In the unlikely event that something develops, we’ll see. Otherwise – no. It’s just screwing me up, because I’m not a player, I’ve always struck out when I’ve asked a girl out. Something’s wrong, but I have other things to fix first.
  

That’s it then. This is actually the beginning of the year for me. After one year of hell, I’m hoping this one’s better.

I could be optimistic, I could say that things couldn’t get worse. But whenever I’ve said that, they’ve gotten worse.

As Gandalf once told Frodo, "It doesn’t matter what times we live in. What does matter, though, is what we do with the time that is given to us."

I’ll accept my fate. I’ll take on anything. The world seems to be conspiring against me. No miracles, no silver linings (actually, just one). But I’m gonna face it.

Round 1 has just begun.

On The Run

On The Run
1st April 2005

A few days ago, I experienced what it feels like to evade the law.

Now, I’ll be the first person to admit I have my fair share of keeda. More than my fair share, in fact. I incessantly pull leg (mostly of women), enjoy playing pranks, and generally make people laugh. But even my worst enemies will stare in astonishment if they hear that I’ve broken the law.

So, before you come to your own scandalous conclusions, read on.

The Drunken Painting Poet threw her (much belated) birthday bash at her house on 1st April. And the gang gathered there for a night of serious drinking.

But this is not the story of the party. (It’s very interesting, ask me later.) This is the story of two men on the run from the long arm of the law.

Doc and I, as usual, planned to leave together. On his bike.

It just so happened that, on 1st April, the helmet rule for bikers was enforced.

And it also just so happened that, a few days before that, a very, very lazy Doc left his helmet at the hospital where he’s doing his residency.

Before even getting on the bike we knew there would be trouble. So, Doc decided that there was no better time to use his (in)famous riding skills.

Just a point to illustrate said skills. I have lost count of the number of times I’ve nearly died riding pillion behind Doc.

So Doc starts putting into practice his evasion tactics.

We really didn’t expect a problem that night. And we hardly got one.

But Doc continued to ride in the shadow of bigger cars. Qualis-es, Jeeps, Boleros, etc. And kept leapfrogging from lane to lane whenever he saw a cop. And thus, we were able to stay out of the line of fire.

The one problem happened around Bandra, when we were following a convoy of batti (VVIP) cars. The last car in the convoy was a police jeep. Noticing our un-helmeted heads, a cop in the back seat started pointing and yelling. Just when he was about to get out pad and pen to write down our licence number, Doc calmly veered into a lane, and took a long, bumpy detour.

On to said party. On to lots of drunkenness. On to the (very) Drunken Painting Poet inviting me to explore under her skirt, and then slipping her hand into my kurta. On to a serious lack of memory the next morning. On to serious teasing, till today.

Now for the ride back. In broad daylight.

Once again, evasion tactics are put into use. The sort of use that would have brought getaway car drivers to Doc’s feet, begging for a lesson.

Hiding behind bigger cars. Hiding behind bikes. Speeding recklessly to cross signals before they turn red. Taking long detours to avoid being caught at said signals. Stopping way back at a long signal to avoid being seen. Pretending not to see the cop (Doc’s theory being, if he sees us seeing him, we have to pull over. If we don’t see him, he can’t stop us).

How we reached home without having to pay a single fine or bribe – not to mention, in one piece – is a miracle. Especially the reaching in one piece part – since the night before, Doc had been struggling to notice speed-breakers. At one point elevating me some three feet above the bike!

Look ma, it’s a bird…it’s a plane…no! It’s me, trying to do a Superman.

But the story is this. I have evaded the law.

Doc is a lawbreaker if I’ve ever seen one. But moi?

I feel so ashamed. I feel like I’ve let down my country. Disgraced my parents, friends, family and teachers. I deserve to be thrown into a deep, dark dungeon.

(April Fool!)

I know now something of what Osama bin Laden goes through. Lesser by a factor of some one million ten thousand seven hundred and sixty-three, of course.

I’m now carefully looking out for the ‘Wanted’ posters all over the city. And wondering if they’ll give me the reward if I turn myself in.

Sojourn In Sepang

Sojourn In Sepang
26th March 2005

A few days ago, I returned from my first international trip in some seven years. I’d gone to watch the Formula One Malaysian Grand Prix at Sepang.

The trip – as I’ve mentioned before – almost didn’t happen. After Amma’s passing, I’d planned to cancel. But after some family friends spoke to my folks, they changed their minds. It’s what Amma would have wanted, they said. So off I went. With a few restrictions – no non-vegetarian food, no booze, no smoking (I don’t anyway) and no sex (I’m not getting any anyway).

Had a long chat with Minty and Groper before I left. Both of them felt that this trip was what I’ve needed for a long while. That it’d help me leave behind the stresses of last year. Especially since I was going alone.

The flights were no problem. Absolutely light. So I boarded AI-444 on 17th March (after another chat at the airport with Minty, who told me not to think too much), and was on my way.

I used to keep diaries of my trips – but on this tour, it was impossible. I just didn’t feel like writing. Wrote two entries – one of which was on the outbound flight. Then I gave up.

My mind was a blur of images. I kept flitting from memory to memory – SIMC, Sweetie, Amma – everything. The good part was that I didn’t focus too much on anything, and thus didn’t upset myself before my vacation had begun.

Landed at Kuala Lumpur International Airport some twenty minutes ahead of schedule, 0515 local time. The airport rocks – an intricate mesh of glass and steel that looks like something out of the future. An impression that was further reinforced by the sophisticated aerotrain that shuttled us to the main building.

At the baggage conveyor, I met two sisters who were on my flight, and part of the tour group. I’ll call them Badi and Chhoti. Typical Gujarati girls, but good fun. They were to form part of my group over the next couple of days. And, small world, they know a few family friends of ours.

We met the tour operator and, after a lengthy delay, were ferried to Hotel Crown Princess. A late check-in time meant that only a few rooms were available. My roomie – a 24-year old Bangalorean – hadn’t yet arrived. So I was joined by an Tatya, a middle-aged Maharashtrian businessman.

After a quick shower, Tatya and I headed out in search of food. Landed up at Pizza Hut – which was to become my major source of calories during the trip. After eating, I was all set to take off shopping. Tatya declined, disappeared somewhere. I set off on my own.

First stop was Music By Design, a high-end audio shop located at City Square, adjoining the hotel. Picked up a pair of Grado SR-60 headphones for Dad. Then went off to roam around Bukit Bintang in search of clothes for Mom and Sis. A futile task, as I realised. Clothes are cheaper and better at home. Told my folks, they told me to forget it, and go enjoy myself.

After spending a few hours in that area, I returned to my hotel room. To find a note from my roommate, Tron. Apparently he’d come by when I was out, told me he hoped to catch me in the evening. Ten minutes later, he arrived.

He’s a 24-year old programmer in Bangalore, a few months younger than me. We spent some time in the room, making sure we were both Ferrari fans, a big relief. Got along famously. Then we took off for Chinatown. Only this time, we took public transport – the Metro. Again, a technological marvel.

We picked up some Ferrari caps at Chinatown. Then took the Metro and the Monorail to reach Bukit Bintang, where Tron had not yet been. There, to our delightful surprise, we found a Ferrari roadshow in progress. Snapped photos of Michael Schumacher’s car, and I picked up an authentic Ferrari flag.

As I found out later that night, Malaysians have no concept of vegetarian food, even at a McDonald’s. So dinner for me was fries and a chocolate milkshake.

The next morning, we were up early to head out for the qualifying. Not surprisingly, the bus to Sepang was delayed. Once we reached there, we split. All of us were in separate stands – I hadn’t upgraded my race tickets. So I sat down at the Hill Stand.

What strikes you, what stays with you most at an F1 race is the sound. Each car sounds like a jet plane taking off. Multiply that by 20 and you get…a major headache. Thank God for earplugs.

The first qualifying was a disaster for Ferrari, and the trend continued. They ended up in 12th and 14th place. Schumi finished the race 7th, Barrichello retired. The cars didn’t have the pace. A Ferrari win would have been the icing on the cake.

But the race itself is spectacular. The sight and sound of 20 cars roaring by at speeds in excess of 300 km./hr. is mind-blowing. I could see about half the race from my stand. The binoculars Dad lent me came in really handy.

I didn’t shop much – my memorabilia were the cap and the flag. I did spend a lot on chocolates and gum and mint. Bought two bottles of single malt whisky at KLIA duty-free. Will open them only after 1st April, till when I’m off alcohol (I figured it’s only right to sacrifice that little in Amma’s memory when I was still able to go on the trip).

I had company on the flight back. Tron didn’t get a seat on his Indian Airlines flight, so he transferred to AI-441. He disembarked at Chennai (as planned). Another chap was with me till Bombay.

The trip was exactly what I needed. A chance to leave behind some baggage. Mainly Sweetie. It’s strange that with all the stress at home, it’s Sweetie who bugs me the most. I think it’s because I know what has to be done at home and how to do it – but in the case of a broken relationship, I have no clue which way to go.

There were times I did think about her, but I was able to push it away. Yesterday, I spoke to Groper and Minty. And asked them (for hopefully the last time) whether I did anything wrong. They said no, that I had done everything right. And I was more than willing to adjust further, to correct any errors I may have made. That I’d shown a lot of courage. And that I deserved, and would find, someone better.

So I finally put Sweetie behind me.

I came home just in time for the final ceremonies to mark Amma’s demise. The karam pooja to purify the house, and finally the 12th day bhog. We’re still getting used to doing without her, and we will always miss her.

The trip was a boon. Tron and I became fast friends, bonded like brothers. Spent the trip taking the trip of two kids (Jai Hind-ites). I will make it a point to stay in touch with him – we’re already exchanging the pictures we took. Good guy.

Badi and Chhoti too. They don’t live too far from home. While they’re not girlfriend material, they’re good to hang out with. Maybe we’ll catch a race together.

The biggest thing was the badly-needed dose of independence I got. Travelling alone, to a strange country, with my own money, meeting new people, spending time with myself. It’s given me a boost of confidence I needed desperately.

And it was a welcome break. I haven’t really done anything for myself in the last few years. I changed that. Splurged on myself. Enjoyed myself. Didn’t think of anyone, didn’t miss anyone. Family apart, of course.

No more running after people who don’t have the time for me. Even Boxer – I’m tired of the attitude and the mixed signals. Even Legs, who’s been ditching me like crazy over the last two weeks. Let her call me for a change. I’ve had enough of it. Thanks to this vacation.

I may walk alone, but I’m not really alone. I have a few friends who love me more than I know. I have my family back. And I have Amma watching me from above.

And now I’d like to take this opportunity to re-introduce someone you haven’t met for a few years. Someone I haven’t met since Jai Hind days. Someone I’ve missed tremendously.

Me.

Family Matters

Family Matters
13th March 2005

We lost Amma yesterday.

She’d been ailing for quite some time. A heart patient with angina problems, and a bad stomach. Ever since her stint in hospital last November, things had gotten worse. She’d gone into depression from the constant dieting, medication, doctors’ bills and, most importantly, the pain.

Last Tuesday she had severe pain in the night. So we called down Doc’s dad, our family doctor. Let’s call him Big Doc. He diagnosed it as hyperacidity, gave her some medicines, she was fine.

It started again Friday night. We gave her all the medication we could. Finally, at 3.30 in the morning, Big Doc came down, gave her an injection. The pain didn’t subside.

Amma refused to go to hospital. She told Big Doc that she wanted to die at home – this was on Tuesday – and that he should issue her death certificate. At 5 AM, Dad asked her, let’s go to the hospital. She said, let’s wait till 6. At precisely 6 AM, Dad yelled out for me. She’d collapsed in the bathroom. I found her in Dad’s arms, eyes open, staring at nowhere, struggling to breathe. She breathed her last in his arms, in front of me.

Big Doc said the hyperacidity triggered off a massive heart attack. There was nothing we could have done.

I think she knew her time was up. On Friday evening she’d gone to the club, was really happy and cheerful. However, she made a comment at one point – "Who knows if we’ll even be alive tomorrow." Something she repeated in the course of the night when Big Doc was at home. She even pointed out the time of her death – 6 AM.

We still can’t believe she’s gone. Dad and me expect her to walk in through the door at any time, berating us for our stupidity. She’s been our constant – nursing us kids through childhood, encouraging, blessing us all, and then helping Dad get back on his feet since December.

I can never forget the last words she told my Sis and me. She said (in Sindhi), "Let me go in peace now. My blessing will always be with you kids. Grow, prosper. My blessings are with you."

Those words echoed in my head when I touched her feet at the funeral. That’s when I started to lose it. Every time I think of that statement, I begin to weep.

Of course, Dad’s been hit the hardest. He was in a bad state all morning yesterday, but he’s been handling it better since then.

Before all this I’d planned to go to Kuala Lumpur to watch the F1 Grand Prix. I’d booked, paid up, everything. It seemed my plans were in jeopardy. But Amma was really happy that I was going on my own money, on my own feet, and that’s swayed my parents (as has the convincing by some family friends) to let me go. Our priest tells us that it’s ok, as long as I follow some instructions. It’ll be sad, but it’s what she’d have wanted too.

Last week, I finally had that long talk with my folks about things with Sweetie. They normally hear everything very quickly – but this time I’ve been reluctant to impose my problems on them. Now it’s out, and I’m feeling better about it. They’ve told me a lot of things, boosted my confidence. They didn’t like some things about her, and I think they’re relieved it’s over.

But back to Amma. Her last words to me got me thinking. She wanted – wants, from above somewhere – me to do well, to grow, to prosper, to be famous. She’s blessed me. There is no way I am going to let her down.

I’m going to use this trip as therapy. And I’m gonna come back and live up to her dreams – or at least, try.

The house still feels empty. I haven’t really vented my grief, and it’s hurting all the more. I wish I’d spent more time with her, taken her out more often, been a whole lot nicer and more patient. Now I can’t, and I’m gonna regret it the rest of my life. I now only have one grandmother left – Nani – and I hope I don’t repeat these mistakes.

We lost Amma yesterday. But she will live on in our hearts. For me, her words will be guidance. I hope she’s found the peace she never had here.

Goodbye, Amma. Rest in peace. We miss you already.

Upraisals, Upheavals

Upraisals, Upheavals
18th February 2005

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It’s that time of year again. The time when junior-assistant-deputy-trainee-vice-additional copywriters (read, yours truly) look back at the year that was and pick five pieces of work. The time when they sit down and reflect on how best to impress their bosses, who aren’t impressed easily. The time when more senior people plan a mass exodus which may or may never happen. Yes, people. Appraisal season is here.

Let me rewind a bit here to explain the hierarchy that functions at the ad agency where I work. At the very top of the creative pecking (biting? stinging?) ladder is Cobra. The boss. Who’s intensity and withering comments can make a grown advertising or marketing professional quake in his boots.

Cobra has under him a line of Group Creative Directors. My particular GCD is somebody I’ll call Silent Assassin. Rarely praises (which makes his appreciation all the more valuable), rarely reacts to work. It’s sheer hell for creatives to present work to him, knowing he’ll just sit there staring at you for eternity, until you start doubting your work and start crying because you feel you let him down. Then he’ll pick your work apart, and the reasons will always be bang on. Unless he’s having a rare bad day, of course, when your work will be approved with no changes.

The Silent Assassin has two teams under him. One team is led by Picasso, Silent Assassin’s long-time art partner and close friend. The other team is headed by Scary (art) and Suspicious (copy). Scary and Silent Assassin used to be a team, until the latter got promoted. It was the two of them who hired me, and I’m sure they occasionally wonder whether it was the right thing to do.

Let me explain my relationship with my bosses. I hero-worship Silent Assassin, who approaches work with one eye looking at the brand, the other at an award. Scary is great to work with, she’s taught me a hell of a lot, she’s good fun, lots of keeda, tweaking her work to death. Suspicious I’ve worked with for only about six months, and he’s a nice guy, clearly focused on creating advertising that works. It helps that his wife was one of my mentors during my internship. I’ll call her Fox. She’s now working elsewhere, with my other mentor, Hipshaker, who’s moved on to National Creative Director at that agency.

Last year, my salary was doubled. Like Silent Assassin had told me, he judged me on my potential rather than output. He appreciated the fact that I took on much more responsibility than was due to me. He told me he wanted award-winning work from me this year. I was pumped up, ready to go.
Then, last year, the mess with Sweetie happened. And something happened to me.

I lost my focus.

It’s like Austin Powers losing his mojo. I’ve been driving myself towards a great career for God-knows how long now. Enjoying the thrill of creating my next ad. Smoothly riding over the frustrations of rejections and lack of releases. Then everything took a turn for the worse.

It started to pile up. The work I was so sure would make me famous, the work I wanted to show off to the world, was just sitting there. I wasn’t enjoying myself. There were too many other things bugging me. I was finding it more and more difficult to actually concentrate hard enough to create an ad. I began to call myself jinxed.

Truth is, I’ve done some of my better work over the last year. Three films, one of which was great (in my opinion). A kick-ass print and TV idea on one of our showcase brands, which if all goes well will release this year. A cutting-edge catalogue. A quirky, radical press campaign for an office furniture company. The list goes on.

Then came scam time. The agency decided to do some scam work to send to the awards. None of my work was judged good enough. Even though some absolute crap was being released, paid for by the agency. More frustration. I wasn’t meeting Silent Assassin’s expectations, and that was killing me.

I reached a point where I expected to be pulled up. I thought I deserved it. I still am not satisfied with the year that was.

Then one morning, Scary gives me my appraisal form to fill out. I examined it in great detail. Took it home over the weekend. Filled it out in a rough first draft. It involved picking out my five best pieces of work, marking areas where I thought I needed improvement and describing my career aspirations for the next few years.

A week passes. Then two. Yet no sign of the much-awaited appraisal session. I begin to secretly wonder if the bosses have decided that I’m not worthy of an appraisal.

Then, suddenly, Scary tells me and the rest of the group to hang around. It’s appraisal time.
(I believe they only held the appraisal session when they did because the deadlines were approaching. They’d rather have gone drinking, I think. How typical of creative folks.)

I’m the first one in, the sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. As my bosses summon me in, I look heavenwards for help, and enter the den. Where Scary and Suspicious await me.

And I walk out half an hour later, dazed.

They have no issues with me. They’re happy with my work, I’m progressing well. They’ve given me some advice I intend to take. But they have absolutely no problems with me.

Suddenly I’m feeling a whole lot better about myself. Ready, once again to tackle the career I’ve chosen. Feeling like there’s a chance that I’ll be the great ad guy I want to be. All motivated. All pumped up.

Only one regret.

What a waste of perfectly good worrying.

Opposite Sex

Opposite Sex
5th February 2005

Not for the first time in my life, I’m wondering what makes women tick.

What puts thoughts into their heads? What makes them do those cuckoo things like shaving their legs? What makes them respond positively to men who treat them with detachment, and outright reject those who try to get close?

It’s the last question that’s been running through my head for a while, and it’s spurred off a series of conversations and insights into the female psyche. Of course, if I really want to know what a woman is thinking, I could just ask Doc – but then, I have to grow up some time.

There’s this girl, let’s call her Boxer. Tall, fair, slim, long dark hair, attractive face. The moment we met I could sense a certain chemistry in the air – not too far removed from the chemistry I once shared with Smelly.

At the time, I was struggling to deal with my break-up with Sweetie. And part of that involved subscribing to an email newsletter on dating tips. The advice, in a nutshell, was, "Run away from a woman. Treat her like she doesn’t give a damn. Be cocky and funny. Bang! (no pun intended) She’s yours."

Being in a rather confused state about the women in my life, I decided to give it a shot. Teased her, pulled her leg, was a smartass. Well, she didn’t slap me, and she didn’t stop talking to me either.

I didn’t make any moves. In fact, I recently realised that I didn’t need the newsletter – cocky and funny is who I am, naturally. So I relaxed even more. And Boxer warmed up to me even more. I call her that because she hits me playfully every time I tease her.

So one day I find myself in a conversation with Legs, asking her how the hell to ask Boxer out. Legs tells me to be Mr. Nice Guy. Phooey! Ain’t worked for 24 years, damned if it’s gonna work now. So I keep the leg-pulling going.

And next thing I know, Boxer’s telling me that I don’t drop by at her desk anymore, telling me to try harder, etc., etc. And I’m pushing back, pulling leg. And slowly the talk turns to movies, and we end up making a tentative plan to go out.

Wow!

On the other hand, let’s compare the Mr. Nice Guy approach I’ve been using since, like, FOREVER! Legs, my first love. Couldn’t think of me as anything more than a friend, and stayed that way even after I told her of my feelings for her. Sweetie, well, I didn’t play games with her, even when I was trying to get back with her. Now we’re apart. Look what Mr. Nice Guy got me.

But the moment I do play some games, I – tentatively, God-willing, hearken to my words o Almighty One – score!!!

Then there’s the strange thing with my sweetheart. It seems that, whenever a guy tries to get with her (and she doesn’t really care much about him), she tells him that she likes me! And it so happens that I’ve messaged or called her at precisely the time when she’s talking to that guy. So she tells him all about me – without, mind you, saying that we’re seeing each other – and he promptly surrenders and turns away sadly.

Feels good to be top-of-mind recall. I recently asked her to be my backup plan, and she agreed. Love that girl.

In fact, she’s been asking me today about Legs. As in, is Legs seeing someone. The moment I said no, my sweetheart tells me that I should start seeing her.

Hmmm. Interesting thought. As if it hasn’t crossed my mind at least thrice every goddamn day!!!

There’s a colleague who’s a senior of mine from Jai Hind. Ada’s worked with Legs, and naturally, they got talking. Since then, Ada’s been trying to play Cupid. Insists that the two of us are made for each other.

I deny it to Ada, but actually, I agree. I’ve never felt that any woman could be more perfectly suited to me. We’ve always shared a great mental rapport, been close emotionally, and she’s beautiful too! We complement each other. She’s spontaneous, outgoing, outspoken. I’m reserved, practical and straightforward. An amazing jodi that’ll never come to life.

Actually, I’d rather not get together with either my sweetheart or Legs, or any other close girlfriend. Not unless the friendship suddenly blossoms into something more. I value them too much as friends to lose. I lost Sweetie completely when we broke up. I can’t lose these two.

Ok, back to Boxer.

I’ve been feeling really unsure of myself of late. Wondering if I was good for any woman. Then along comes Boxer and suddenly I’m feeling a whole lot more confident. A beautiful woman has more or less agreed to go for a movie with me. ME!!! Me of the jungle hair, the former geek (as Groper puts it), Mr. Nice Guy.

Amazing. There is a God.

It’s incredible. I bet she’d never have said yes if I’d stuck to her like glue. I’ve teased her, refused to let her intimidate me – and it’s worked. Only thing, I wish I knew why. The newsletter said that it’s because only really confident guys do this to women – and most guys aren’t confident. They play the glue.

Strange. Because I’m not feeling all that confident at this time. I don’t have much to be confident about.

Not so strangely enough, men are just the opposite. We like to be nice to a girl. We expect her to chase us. And we get put off when she plays hard-to-get. But, the only way to get women to chase us is to the anti-glue approach – which most of us aren’t quite willing to do.

Hmm…maybe that explains the number of single men these days.

Of course, none of these games will work on one’s close friends. They know me too well. So even if I did (out of some serious desperation) decide that I wanted to be with either Legs or my sweetheart – I couldn’t.

I’m not concerned about what happens with Boxer. Worst case, we’ll be the casual friends we are right now. Best case…hmmm…who can tell?

But for now I’m gonna stick with what works. Mr. Nice Guy, with some liberal doses of attitude. The Chandler-Ross combination finally meets Joey. And I’m gonna do it, no matter what.

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Beginnings

Beginnings
1st February 2005

If anyone were to bring back that classic way of greeting, "What’s new, dude?" I’d probably look at him (or her) and say, "Everything."

Actually, that isn’t quite true. I’d first look at the person and say, "Dude…where have you been for the last thirty years or so? It’s what’s up or the more colloquial whassup! that you should be using. Get with it man, get with the times!"

But I digress.

I’m not the only person making a new beginning at this time. Even though selfishness and self-pity makes me feel often enough like I’m the most important person making a new beginning, reality soon sinks in to remind me otherwise.

Let’s start with Sweetie. Having ended a relationship with me, she’s on the verge (if not in it already) of a new one. And she’s finishing her first year at work, a rough one. New beginnings for her too.

Groper’s just had her new beginning. Having successfully negotiated her problems with FBW, they’ve made a fresh start. A stronger start. And she’s now finding the happiness she’s been looking for. New beginnings for her too.

The Drunken Painting Poet. Broke off a relationship a few months before she was due to get engaged. She’s now taking the time to rediscover herself too. New beginnings for her too.

(Don’t you just love that emphatic phrase at the end of each paragraph, dear reader? Doesn’t it just make the point oh so well, leaving you panting for more?)

Minty has quit her job (another one, you ask exasperatedly, especially if you’ve known that she’s job-hopped like mad). She’s found a new one in the career she’s always dreamed of. New beginnings for her too. (Damn, I love the repetition.)

My best friend is on the verge of a new beginning. She’s in Dubai at the moment to be with her fiancé, she’s got a job there as well. Soon they’ll be happily married, and I will breathe a sigh of relief as our contract is forever voided. New beginnings for her too.

But all these friends – all girls, please notice, I’m a magnet, I say – are not the focus of this piece, merely the lead up to it.

For I’m writing this piece on my PC – with one difference. It’s the second PC in the house today. Because my Dad is two days away from selling his office and starting afresh.

Things haven’t been going too well for him for a while now. He’s made some bad choices, some bad investments, even refused to accept the obvious (a Capricorn trait, I ask, thinking about my refusal to let Sweetie go). The camera business foundered first, as clients didn’t even return to pick up their repaired cameras. His computer business lost clients, his biggest one was even stolen from him by his ex-engineer. I even feel that he got bored, lost his motivation.

Then he landed up in hospital with an arterial blood clot. And my family took a huge hit – Rs. 3 lakhs spent on treatment, Mom and me having to support the family, having to borrow money from friends to pay hospital bills, constant worry and stress.

But I get the feeling that the worst is over. Even though Dad has yet to figure out what to do with himself apart from his current IT business, has yet to even find a new office. I get the feeling that he’s ready to get up again. Backed (as he now knows for sure) by a family that loves him more than he ever thought they could.

I spent about a week dabbling in numerology, practicing on my colleagues. Dad (and strangely enough, or maybe not, Sweetie) are in for a year governed by the number 1, which indicates new beginnings. In case you’re wondering, I’m in for a 7 year, one of deep introspection. And the fact that I’m back here writing FITM should tell you that it works, and that I’m a bloody good numerologist too.

Life’s in transition for all of us, it seems. For the first time in my life I know what responsibility and cares and worries mean. And for the first time in my life I have not a clue where I’m headed. It worries me, but I know I’ll figure it out. I’ll get where I want to go.

I’m sure Dad’s in the same state, if not worse. The breadwinner in the family now knocked down. Again, I’m also sure that he’ll be up on his feet in no time. That’s definitely a Capricorn trait – success against all odds.

Good luck Dad. We’re all here with you. We all love you. We will never leave your side. And we’re sure you’ll make it through this.

And now I can’t resist ending with this. New beginnings for him too.

When It Rains

When It Rains…
30th January 2005

To be honest, I was - and still am - a little afraid of putting up this year's columns, starting January. The lead up to this season has been one of the roughest periods of my life, and the thoughts expressed are intensely private. But then, I took heart in the fact that all you guys who read FITM regularly have known what's been happening in my life. And have stood by me through thick and thin. So here it is. FITM - Season Two. And... thanks, everyone. For everything.

It has been a very long time since I’ve written. Nearly three years, in fact. It’s taken me a hell of a lot of growing up to realise that. It’s taken two years of industry experience – enjoyable, frustrating, rewarding; two years of finding love and then losing it; two years of making new friendships, breaking some friendships and rebuilding old ones – all in all, a hell of a long time.

A lot has happened in my life in the last year or so, and that’s what’s driven me back to this column.

I met a girl in SIMC, a junior of mine. Let’s call her Sweetie. She was cute, tall, slim, dusky. One of the most caring people I’d seen then. We got together as a couple about ten days after our first date, and life was good.

Looking back at some of my old FITM columns, I remember wondering – "Mera number kab aayega?" Well, I thought this was it. I was happier than I’d ever been. We spent a glorious year-and-a-half together, before she dumped me. Then she said she wanted to get back together. Then she said she didn’t. Then she said she loved somebody else, and that’s when all my waiting came to nought.

The story of my relationship with Sweetie is told elsewhere, and I do not want to bore more people with the tale. My friends, especially Doc (DJ) and Groper, have had it up to here with my whiny self-pitying. Ask them!

Last year, my dad’s business failed. Tensions mounted at home between mom and dad. Amma was in hospital twice. Then dad landed up needing an emergency clot removal in December 2004. The strain has been immense. He’s recuperating now, all went well. He’s selling off his old office, and looking for a new one while he tries to decide what to do. Financially things aren’t good.

Damn it! No matter how hard I try, I can’t sink into my old style of writing FITM. I guess it’s a reflection of how I’ve changed as a person in the last 8-9 months. The humour’s gone from my writing – but maybe that’s because I haven’t written.

I owe you an apology, dear PC. It was only when I wrote the story of my relationship with Sweetie a few days ago that I realised how cathartic writing had been for me. How it helped me put my feelings down on paper, and remain more or less stable. How it’s reflected my positive attitude in life.

But that attitude’s gone now. My romantic life came screeching to a halt, things began to get shaky at home – all at the same time. I’ve often wondered why, but I’m no philosopher. All I can think is, when it rains, it pours.

Why the hell am I so sad? Why the hell is it reflecting on my writing? I’m laughing sardonically – and now I realise I’m using words like ‘sardonically’. Aargh!

Ok, let’s do this. Time for round 1. In the left corner, the Brain. In the right corner, the Heart. Referee, ring the bell!

Not all has been negative. Okay, I’ve lost the only person I’ve ever really loved. But maybe there’s something positive about that too. What? Beats me. Okay, things have been strained at home. Some positives – my family’s rebuilding, and I’d sacrifice every lover I will ever have for that.

My friends – well, what do I say about my friends? Amazing, incredible, supportive, loving. Groper, Doc, The Nag, Seniorita (not to be confused with Senorita), Minty, The Drunken Painting Poet, Srimati…not to mention the troika – S, A and K – my best friend, sweetheart and Legs. They’ve held me when I’ve wept (and, believe me, I’ve wept a lot, I’m not ashamed to say it, I’m secure in my masculinity). They’ve cheered me up out of a blue funk on my birthday by surprising the hell out of me. I can’t thank them enough.

Minty and I have become very close over the last year. She’s been a true friend – as predicted by Sweetie, when we were together and I doubted Minty.

Groper and I – well, I’ve helped her through a torrid patch with FBW, her boyfriend. And I’m glad to say they’re happy together and things are rolling along. And she and I have become closer than we ever were. I talk to her three times a day! Man! What would I ever do without her.

And Doc? That man amazes me. I was an idiot after he broke up with my best friend, hurt her. Because I convicted him in my mind. Throughout my problems with Sweetie, he’s stuck by me. Advised me, comforted me, even talked to her and tried to help us get back together. That dude is full of surprises!

My job goes on well, I think. I’m still at Lowe, where I’d joined after doing an internship the previous summer. Bosses like me, I think. But I’m disappointed with myself. Haven’t done anything that’s gone for an award. Tsk, tsk, tsk. I need to focus again – and I will.

What to do about Sweetie? Well, is there anything more I can do? Nope. Time to regain some of my self-respect and self-confidence and shut her out of my life, and let her sort out things on her own. Good luck to her. I’ve got to get the mind back to more important things. Like work. And figuring out what the hell to do with my hair – ‘cause some things just don’t change.

Interesting. This is something I did with Smelly all those years ago. It worked – refer Return of the Prodigal Girlfriend. How dumb could I have been? Why didn’t I just do this months ago and save myself so much heartache!

This time it’s tougher. The relationship was far, far deeper. It’s gonna take all I’ve got to get out of this.

Like I said, when it rains, it pours. It’s been a tough time. I’ve lost sight of who I truly am, or want to be – more like the guy I was when I left Jai Hind. Happier, more confident, mentally and emotionally stronger, more optimistic.

Ok, enough whining. This doesn’t read like an FITM anymore. Reads like some sort of agony aunt column…hmmm…there’s an idea. I’ve always been a pretty good listener. Maybe I can add a new dimension to my writing – advice!

One thing for sure though. I’m not leaving FITM again. Every time there’s something to report in my life, I’m gonna write it down right over here. I’m gonna get back to being the person I used to be.

And this column will read like it once used to.

I’ll be back.