some things never change...

I’m so tired of working every day,
Now the weekend’s come I’m gonna throw my troubles away
If you’ve got the cab fare, mister you’ll do all right
I want to see the bright lights tonight

Meet me at the station don’t be late
I need to spend some money and it just won’t wait
Take me to the dance and hold me tight
I want to see the bright lights tonight

There’s crazy people running all over town
There’s a silver band just marching up and down
And the big boys are all spoiling for a fight
I want to see the bright lights tonight
Meet me at the station don’t be late
I need to spend some money and it just won’t wait
Take me to the dance and hold me tight
I want to see the bright lights tonight

A couple of drunken nights rolling on the floor
It’s just the kind of mess I’m looking for
I’m gonna dream till Monday comes in sight
I want to see the bright lights tonight

Meet me at the station don’t be late
I need to spend some money and it just won’t wait
Take me to the dance and hold me tight
I want to see the bright lights tonight
Take me to the dance and hold me tight
I want to see the bright lights tonight

RICHARD & LINDA THOMPSON
I WANT TO SEE THE BRIGHT LIGHTS TONIGHT (1974)

weaning facts

348,000.

At last count, that’s how many hits you got if you googled ‘adopting a child in India’.
But go past Branjelina’s visit to an orphanage in Pune (several pages) and the official sites of adoption centres. You’ll reach a point where you will want to drop the idea of adoption along with your clothes, and start procreating madly.

There is a video of a sting operation about an infant who was taken away from his mother to be given up for adoption. 34 years later, the child (now an angry adult) is back in India, enraged about having been a victim of a lucrative ‘deal’.

I read blogs of women who were turned away because they didn’t make more than Rs. 80,000 a month. (The Indian laws for adoption stipulate a monthly income of Rs. 5000).
There are adoption centers that brazenly ask for donations, and bend the rules of age for people who can afford to donate tens of thousands of dollars.

There are stories about orphanages that turn away Indian parents, because there’s more to gain by giving children to foreigners.

But on one of the back pages, buried under the muck was a faith-restoring news clipping.

It's not you, it's me...

If you think it’s hard to find the right man, you've obviously never looked for parking.

Here’s how a typical parking game goes.

I see a parking spot from a distance. This one is definitely not engaged, I whisper to my car. My car purrs in anticipation, my heart sings, because we’ve found THE ONE.

Then seconds later, wham!

Dumped by a drawing of a miniature cockroach shaped scooter that signals two wheelers only.

What makes parking spaces so choosy? It’s not like we’re looking for a lifetime commitment, we’re totally ok with one day stands.

My car and I have been rejected because we’re not residents of a building.

We’ve been passed over because we weren’t bright enough to become doctors at a hospital or ambitious enough to be CEOs.

We’ve been spurned because we don’t shop at certain stores and because we don’t like raw Japanese food.

We’ve failed to make it to second gear because it’s the wrong time of the month (not being bitter, I’ve seen designated parking spots for even days and others for odd days of the month).

But here’s one that took my breath away. Dejected by so many failures, I didn't have the confidence of the white car to make the first move. But the spot was chivalrous enough to pose for me while I took a picture.

One day, I will be ready to get close to this one... once I dig out out all my old moral science text books and become a better human being.

the god of big things

These days, I dress in brown when I leave home for work. My clothes, shoes, hair, car... It's a deep, dusty shade of brown that has nothing to do with spring-summer fashion shows on FTV or Vogue.

All the credit goes to a 1 k stretch of dug up road that starts outside my apartment and proceeds to drive me crazy.

The moment I step out, I’m engulfed in thick dust clouds. The asphalt on the road (I call it a road only because profanities are not encouraged on blogs) is a distant memory obscured by the grime on my windscreen and the grit in my eyes.

But as they say, every cloud has a silver lining, and this applies even to dust clouds. Mine appeared this week in the form of a road roller, parked on the side of what used to be a street. It wasn't rolling or doing anything productive, but it was painted with the most amazing graphics. A great match for the much publicized riksha art of Bangladesh!

Hats off to the guy who drives/owns this road roller. I love the spirit of this person who has managed to think of art while encountering dusty unroads for a living. I took a couple of pictures and smiled all the way home.

And now, my teeth and cell phone match the rest of my ensemble.