For the love of - !

Love at first sight? Yes, it exists, and you can never tell when it will hit you. Despite what some people, especially those of the masculine persuasion, may think, it is only far too easy to lose your heart. All the usual symptoms - palpitation, faint dizzyness, dryness in mouth and throat, a feverish gleam in the eyes.

And all because you've just seen The Dress. Sure, so maybe you went to buy a woollen scarf for your sick baby niece, or pick up red material for your graduation day blouse. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters, except that vision of perfection which is currently hanging on the mannequin (or rack, or shelf) in front of you.

And then you find yourself sighing over it, coming back to it, time after time, and you can't keep away. Telling yourself that it's an investment, and no, your bank balance won't mind that you've spent your entire budget on something else than for what it was meant.

And well, why not?

Top 5 reasons it's better to fall in love with a dress than with a man:

1. You'll feel beautiful whenever you put it on.
2. You're always right.
3. It's the one guranteed remedy for a fat day, or a bad hair day, or a I'msouglyIcan'tshowmyface day, and you don't have to make excuses to it.
4. You'll feel a distinct and heavy satisfaction knowing that you own it.
5. It won't forget you during cricket season, or football season, or F1 season.

And no matter what the consequences, nothing can dull your elation when you walk out with that dress safely wrapped up in a shopping bag.

Whether it's a frothy concoction of lace and chiffon, or tailored excellence and fine lines - you know you're a princess when you've got it on. The world is yours, people fall at your feet, and really, what isn't worth that feeling? It's like the wise someone said (and I'll bet my fortune that it was a woman) - "Life is short. Buy the shoes." Or The Dress. It's worth it.

A Man's Guide to Floral Tributes

Roses - for the Eternal Romantic, or, the classy chick with a cliched sense of what's acceptable, depending on your point of view. Once you get past red roses, remember that crimson is a better choice.

Gerber Daisies - for the Sweet Young Thing, the pretty girl with the stars in her eyes and innocence in her heart. Alternatively, these would make a lovely 80th birthday boquet for your childless great-aunt Lila.

Carnations - For the Offbeat Boheme, the edgy beauty with the fiery soul. Someone who doesn't give a damn about what flowers mean, because the damned things just look so pretty.

Lillies - for the Temperamental Diva - a profusion of these flaming, exotically beautiful blooms is sure to ease your way to her heart. Take care not to give her funereal white, though, or they might end up gracing your coffin-side, prima donna that she is.

Orchids - for the Woman of your Dreams - delicate and ethereally exquisite, yet evocative of a lush tropical earthiness. It doesn't matter what colour they are, because orchids never go out of style and they're very easy on the eye. Too bad I can't say the same about your wallet.

Tulips - for the Wholesome Beauty, with a hidden quirky side. Nothing will charm her more than these blushing blossoms. Unless of course, she prefers vintage pendants from the 1920's - I told you, she's quirky.

Happy Endings

Picture, if you will, the film's ending, just before the credits start to roll: the stage is set (God forbid another climactic airport scene), the soundtrack segues to a romantic number, and the hero and heroine are united at last, after 90 minutes of separation by various trials, tribulations, psychotic exes and other plot twists.

Why do women love romantic movies? Unlike other eternal questions (Why do we yawn? What happens to the time in between one second and the next? Why do men like to watch other men chasing, hitting or bouncing a ball?), this one has an answer.

The power of a happy ending.

Not that I have anything against a tear-jerker. Some of the most beautiful stories have also been the weepiest. But in the final weighing, it comes down to how much we love a love story. (What I do slightly resent, however, is the use of the ubiquitous term, "Chick Flick". Which is actually quite derogatory, when you think of it (though not as bad as Lad Lit). You've got to admire how, with just two words, they've managed to reduce a source of considerable delight for roughly one third of the world's population, to a tacky joke. Though it appears to be a necessary evil. Does this make such movies fit for only non-intelligent consumption? No. Watch Sabrina. When Harry Met Sally. Love Actually.Does a predilection for such movies mean that we don't enjoy ones which have things blowing up in them? No. I personally enjoy explosions as well as the next man. Or woman.)

But genre-bashing aside, why would anyone in their right minds not want to watch a pretty woman and a seriously cute hero (think Colin Firth in Bridget Jones's Diary) indulge in some L-O-V-E? No reason, that's why.

You want reality? Murder, insanity, rape, abuse, neglect. The deafening grind of a tedious job. Whose turn it is to wake up and change the baby's diapers. You get that everyday, handed to you on a non-biodegradable plate in all its dreary glory.

On the other hand, romantic movies offer - what else? - romance. Eye candy. Nice clothes. Love, above all, a love story.

And like that wasn't enough, every romantic movie has a Kiss.

The pucker-up. The osculation. The heart-clenching, stomach-tightening, how-I-wish-that-girl-was-me kiss. Whether it's in a vineyard in France, in between drowning in the freezing Atlantic or on top of the Empire State building (those scriptwriters do get around, don't they?), even though you know that it's just a pair of actors calculatedly pressing their lips together, even if the rational, cynical part of your self is snickering - in spite of all that negativity, you find yourself wishing.

We know life's not perfect. Reality awaits, with all that that entails. But for a couple of blissful hours, escape. To an admittedly improbable but oh-so-desirable fairytale land where gorgeous men fall in love with imperfect women and bring home flowers.

To my way of thinking, we need that little bit of improbable, that small fantasy. Our lives are all the better for it. Give us our Happily Ever After, even if it lasts only for two hours.

Reality can wait.

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My Top 5 Favourite Romantic Movies

5. Ever After. Roman Holiday
4. Bridget Jones's Diary. You've Got Mail. Breakfast at Tiffany's ...
3. French Kiss???
2. Sabrina .
1.

I give up.

Moustache Tales

We were monarchs on any face
That Nature decided we should grace
Hirsute ode to the manly soul
Of a Malayali Man.

They took pains to see thick we grew
And with coconut oil did they brew
A potion that aided moush motion
As good fertilizer can.

The pride and joy of the male were we
The glorious proof of virility
A very fine pelt to stroke, they felt
The entire length of our span.

The masculine ideal if truth be told
A twirl of a moustachio most bold
The Lalettan signature move, amen!
The mark of a Master Plan.

But now alas! we fear the doom
A break only lately we've dared presume
Despite protests, we're depressed
At hints of an unspoken ban.

Today our ends droop in despair
An unfortunate end to facial hair
The X Generation, globalisation
Needs not a whiskery clan.

Farewell, we cry, and contemplate
The Gillette finish of our fate
Here ends our tale, we will not quail
Meeshas of the Malayali Man!

If you're happy and you know it, please leave.

If you are one of those rare and utterly bourgeois creatures who are truly satisfied with what they're doing, seek the written word elsewhere. This is not for you. Yes, this means the lucky and elite few who manage to combine making a living with doing what makes them happy. The whole miserable proletariat lot of us have the cold comfort of security in return for forsaking our true desires.

Don't you just hate it when real life gets in the way of your dreams? If truth be told, most of us would really be doing something else were we were to 'follow our hearts'.

A line I once read in Anne of Green Gables comes to mind - "My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes." There are millions of people out there today, stuck with choices that they didn't want, whose hopes and dreams and wishes have been interred six feet under. Which is very sad, when you think about it. It also makes for one enormous graveyard.

(Here also, is where we see the Hand-Me-Down complex, for want of a better term - parents forcing their children to study at boarding schools/learn Carnatic music/become a doctor, saying, It was my dream but I didn't get to do it, so now I'm giving it to you. If there's anything worse than a dead dream, it's a second-hand dream.)

If I were paid to do what made me happy, then I'd be a host on the Travel and Living channel. Or a writer for the Lifestyle section of a newspaper. Or a personal shopper.

I know a friend who works in marketing, but would really rather be a chef. And he'd be good at it, too. Makes the best goddamn mango smoothies in all of creation (adding a few pureed dates is the secret). Another friend wants to spend his life modifying automobiles. His currently works at analysing patents (you read that right, patents). A girl I know would probably give up everything to become a photographer if someone paid her enough money for it. My brother still thinks there's a niche out there for professional gamers (but he's studying mechanical engineering).

We all have those Dreams. Those half-secret, half-guilty moments where the thought of just "giving this all up" and going after what you want comes so close, only to be pushed away again. Becoming a bartender, wedding dress designer, singer, race car driver, hitchhiker. But for whatever reason, gave up those dreams and settled into staid bank careers or HR positions or, horror of horrors, programming jobs.

So you want to travel the world. But there's family at home you can't leave behind. Or people who're not going to let you leave.

Of course you would take your chances and open a restaurant. It's too bad your education came in between. Now all you know how to do is practice the law.

You could probably start that band in your spare time, but your job requires you to work around the clock. And you just want to sleep the few hours you get off.

Your biggest dream is to work and live by yourself in the big, bad city. Darn it, there's a non-negotiable age clause in your horoscope and it's bye-bye freedom, hello mangal-sutra.

Sure, you'd become an artist and do nothing but paint all day long. If only you could make enough money that way to live.

You don't have the funds. You didn't get the education. You don't have the time. Your family got in the way. You're just not good enough at it. No matter the whys and wherefores, real life is all about compromise.
But it's nice to imagine, once in a while. Vicariously living your Dreams through your dreams. Writing about them, watching movies about them, reading books about them - the escapist theory is key. As long as you don't forget that there are bills to pay, fiance(e)s to wed and society to keep placated.

If there have been any happy people (as defined at the beginning) following this note despite my warning, kudos to you. To the people who had the guts, the will, the opportunity to pursue their dreams. Who do what they REALLY want to do.

You make the rest of us sad sloggers envious. I wish I could say you stand as a shining beacon of light and inspiration, but I can't, not truthfully. All I can say is, here's to all those tombstones and unmarked graves in that cemetery. RIP.

The House of Four Women - Auf Wiedersehen

It is with great regret that I announce that the House of 4 Women is now down to 2. My aunt left to Ooty yesterday with my grandmother, leaving my mother and me to a large, quiet house in an even quieter neighbourhood.

Although I would have loved to finish such chapters as I had going on - The Return of Omanamma (she stayed 5 days this time), Skeletons in the Cupboard (why Achamma sleeps with a knife under her pillow and other stories), The Pursuit of Beauty (sundry and often hilarious beauty tips from the women in my family) and The Case of the Missing Purple Handkerchief (involving a purple hanky and the fat neighbour aunty) - while I would have loved to complete these, it is heart-breaking to admit that my inspiration has said au revoir. The kindly muse has left the building. Half the motivation, literally, has bid farewell.

So unless it is of interest to hear how my mother and I stayed up till one in the morning watching "She's the Man" with Amanda Bynes because we were too scared to fall asleep, I must signal an unexpected, and most likely permanent, end to the series.

I leave with a slight hope, the promise of Spring when winter is deep upon us - Achamma may yet return, as may Geetha aunty, and return the state of things to its familiar state of chaos and cacophony you all became familiar with in The House of Four Women. Amen. A-women.

The Nonsensical Home Journal, Vol.1

Wanted: Crusader (Cape Optional)

(Cue: Hero, by Chad Kroeger)

How is it that in all of our time on earth, we have never had a record of a superhero in actual life? Where is the hero of our time?
What if Mumbai were to have its personal Batman? He is a realistic hero, a man with no super powers or extra body parts. (Which incidentally is why guys seem to have a preference for him. After all, an alien reporter who can fly is hardly plausible. Nothing personal, Superman.)

All that the job demands is an unreasonable and often inhuman amount of strength, skill, intelligence and perception, and above all, a sense of justice so acutely defined that one's life becomes a mere extension of that driving force. It can't be that hard, can it?

Society is bound by its own apathy and the conditioned indifference to the environment as long as the environment doesn't become uncomfortable. We need a hero to save us from ourselves! (Cue: Holding out for a Hero title track, courtesy Bonnie Tyler)

Ponder, if you will, on the greatest heroes, throughout the ages - Hercules! Zorro! Er - Spiderman!

Fantasies involving these god-like creatures are common among women, in which invariably, the female starring role is played by themselves. (I don't really get the whole underpants-over-body-suits wardrobe, but even if the Phantom wore a circus tent on his head, he would still do it for me. Hubba, hubba!)

But what about those of our sorority who believe in being prepared, that fantasies are not enough? Who do not wish to be caught at a loss if in case, such a divine specimen should actually come in close contact with their lives? Do not despair! Read on.

--- (Cue: When a Hero Comes Along. Thank you, Mariah Carey)

A Guide to Becoming a Superhero Girlfriend

Checklist:

1. Be incorruptible
2. Hold job in an office for public good, such as, righteous journalist, public defence lawyer, UN officer etc.
3. Preferably have known superhero in question from childhood or high school.
4. Be extremely beautiful and talented (necessary to hold interest of said superhero, areas of talent negotiable)
5. In most cases, must have spurned hero at least once in light of personal principles

Note: #5 may be overlooked if there is a love triangle between you, hero and anti-hero. And getting abducted by villains always helps, especially if you spit in the bad guy's face, or equivalent.

So if you know of any possible candidates, keep a close eye on them and you too, can find yourself on the way to becoming a superhero girlfriend!
---

Sadly, our age has been notoriously deficient in producing such a defender of justice. The pedestal goes unoccupied decade after decade, but hope does not die! The masses are crying for a saviour, and never has the impassioned plea been louder. Takers, anyone?
The contrasting underpants are waiting.

(Cue: Go the Distance, Michael Bolton. Fade out.)