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Kadhalikka Thevai Drama – Malar’s Story

August 5th, 2010

Disclaimer: All characters appearing in this work are a stint of fiction in all their entirety. Any resemblance despite this to real persons, living or dead, is purely miraculous and incredibly extraordinaire. And yes, coincidental.

Kindly note that this post is not meant to be offensive or rouse up riotous sentiments and be taken in the same way as it was written.


Location: A rented, leaky, shack-y, nameless house, Chennai

Mood: Bi-polar & Schizophrenic

Word of Caution:De asini vmbra disceptareTo argue about the shadow of an ass.

The bony, hawk-like woman, stops pounding the wet, bunched-up towel on the gargantuan stone in the backyard and screams herself hoarse.

“Adi paaaaaaaaaaavi…!”

The biggest bubble amidst the soap suds quivers, teeters on the edge and bursts, bringing to limelight the power of her sonar radiation; quite a miracle essentially, considering her emaciated frame. One might wonder if her current mental condition could be attributed to the general cantankerous emotional state brought upon by acute food deprivation. She throws the half beaten towel aside and walks forward, every step furnishing positive encouragement to the BG music – a heartrending melody coaxed out of a solitary Nadaswaram in a recording studio.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham stops at a distance where it is possible for Malar to count the blackheads on her mother’s nose. She places her undernourished hands on Malar’s forearms and gives her a powerful shake. And she asks the Omni-usable questions.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Stares severely into Malar’s eyes) How could you do this to me, Malar? Where did you get the courage to even attempt such a thing? Is this how I raised you? Answer me!

Malar: (Softly) Amma, I couldn’t help it. It just happened.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Upset and at a loss to comprehend her eldest daughter’s behaviour) Amma, please talk some sense into her. Why is she doing this?

And the frame zooms in on The Sympathetic Paati – Mrs. Mathrubhootham’s mother.

The Sympathetic Paati: (Worried and secretly proud of her rebellious granddaughter) What should I tell her? She’s old enough to take her own decisions. She’s been taking care of herself for quite some time. Do you think she will even listen to you now, after so many years?

Malar covertly sends a grateful smile to her grandmother. The Sympathetic Paati winks back.

Malar: (With more conviction than before) Amma, I love Aaditya. I cannot live without him.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Eyes flashing with offended anger) Malar!

The pressure cooker in the kitchen chooses that minute to emanate the third whistle. Mrs. Mathrubhootham abruptly leaves the backyard and enters the house.

Malar and The Sympathetic Paati stay back.

Enter, The Jealous Thangai. She mentally crosses off the next checker box in her hate list. Porcelain-white complexion & Beauty, Check. Popular, Check. Job in Mumbai, Check. Amazing Love-life, Check. Eligible to be murdered, Check.

The Jealous Thangai: (Sugar coating her words with diabetes-prone-sweetness) Akka, you know about Amma. Try to think from her point of view. Do you really think, all this love thingy would work in our family?

Enter Mrs. Mathrubhootham. She pounces on Malar with renewed energy, now that she has an ally in The Jealous Thangai.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Addresses Malar) Learn from your sister. She’s younger and she cares about me. How can you belong to this family and yet be so selfish?

Malar: (Soothingly tries to placate her mother) Amma, I really care about you. But I care about Aaditya too. You will like him as well. Trust me.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Angrily) Aaditya Aaditya Aaditya! You have only been chanting his name all this while. What do you know about him?

Malar: (Slightly offended) I know him enough to have fallen in love with him.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Sarcastically) Really? Do you even know his full name?

Malar: (Coldly) His name is Aaditya Mathur.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Quizzically) Mathur-a?

Malar: Yes. Mathur. He, umm..he’s a north Indian.

The Mathrubhootham backyard takes a few moments to digest this piece of spellbinding news. (At this point in screenplay, the editing team must take pains to add scenes of frozen movement of the following:-

a. Birds flying high in the air

b. Waves lashing on the beach

c. Niagara Falls)

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Whispers in horror) He’s a Seth Paiyyan?

Malar: (Aghast at her mother’s conclusion) Amma, Aaditya is a Punjabi. His family moved to Pune some twenty five years back.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Groans in anguish) Punjabi-a? Adi paavi! Where have you kept your brains?

Malar: (Hastily tries to pacify her mother and explains) Amma, Aaditya is from a very good family. He’s well educated and placed with a great company. He is sweet, gentle and takes care of me so well.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Cynically waves away Malar’s explanations with a hand) All these north Indian boys might look good. But they are up to no good.

Malar: (Voice breaks on a sob) Amma, please. That’s really not fair!

Malar walks away from the argument, trying to stem her tears. She moves into the house.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham wrings her hands in frustration and annoyance. Everything caught in the lens frame beyond this phenomenal moment, freezes. The camera slowly pans like a creepy poltergeist, taking in the entire domestic backyard. Having had its fill of the cheap detergent foam, cracked-up well, three glaciated human beings and thanking God for the lack of olfactory devices on its body, the camera then moves into the house through the back door.

A small courtyard allows light into the perennially gloomy interiors (A power cut at 9:00 a.m vouches for siphoning off a whole day’s EB). And here, a few benumbed members of the Mathrubhootham family (other than Malar), are brought into focus.

The Chimerical Thangai– Wears a nightgown. Holds a frayed version of Vogue (a 2003 issue) in hand and dreams of the lead role in Kani Patnam’s next movie, Shakuni.

The Ambitious Thambi– Wonders whether Aaditya Mathur has any younger sisters. Meet one of them and consequently facilitate the perfect passport to settle down in Mumbai.

The Romantic Thangai– Wishes hard for more Aaditya Mathurs in the world. One each for every Mathrubhootham girl.

A waft of wind blows into the house and everyone unfreezes automatically.

Enter, Mrs. Mathrubhootham, followed by The Sympathetic Paati and The Jealous Thangai.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Calls out) Malar! Malar!!

Malar: (Walking out of the common bedroom, asks sulkily) What?

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: How dare you walk away while we were still talking? You have changed a lot, Malar! Especially after staying in Mumbai.

Malar: (In hurt indignation) Amma! I have not changed. I’m still the same.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Lifts up a hand) As long as you were in Chennai, you always wore sarees and used that handbag that I bought you, every morning when you went to work. And now?

Malar: (Bewildered at the change of topic) Amma, that handbag got torn and was moth-bitten around the edges. I had to buy a new one. And as for sarees, I don’t wear them in Mumbai. It’s a more cosmopolitan crowd over there.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Triumphantly) Aha! See, I told you. You have changed. Tell me, what’s your fascination with north Indians? Is it because of their grand makeup and fancy jewellery?

Malar: (Unable to understand her mother’s line of thought) Amma, what are you saying? Yes, they do wear lots of makeup and dress up exquisitely. So?

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: We are a very simple lot, Malar. We wear no makeup, even when we go out. We don’t even wear costume jewellery, because we’re allergic to it. Amongst us people, only villainous women can afford makeup and heavy gold jewellery.

Malar: And that is because, we don’t have the good luck of working with people like Dabhu Mepal. He makes it possible for all the women who work with him, to wear makeup and afford beautiful pieces of temple jewellery. It’s all about the choices that we make, Amma.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Warningly) Malar!

Malar: Amma! I’m not really bothered about Aaditya’s background or his upbringing. All that is important to me is that he loves me and I love him.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Groans in vexation) Malar! Don’t you understand? You will never fit with him or his family. You will always be an outsider. A misfit!

Malar: Aaditya will always make me feel loved and cherished. I know that.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Suddenly struck by a horrifying thought) Malar, did you both…?? Are you by any chance…? Is that why…?

Malar: (Objects in embarrassment) Amma! How can you think like that? What’s wrong with you?

An awkward silence ensues for a moment or two.

The Jealous Thangai: (Half enviously) These north Indians, they eat only rotis and always wear rich Sherwanis and heavy-work sarees. They have different customs and rituals. You will feel left out, Akka.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: What is this all about Malar? A reality programme on National Integration? Forget all this. Things such as “love” don’t work in the real world. You haven’t even known this boy for long.

Malar: (With icy calm) Aaditya and I will work something out. Something pretty realistic. Don’t worry.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Furious at being disrespected) MALAR!!

Malar: That’s the truth!

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (As a last, desperate attempt) You will have babies smelling of mustard oil!

Malar: (With an air of finality) I will have babies smelling of baby oil. Period.

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Irately) Malar!!

Malar: (Sadly, but firmly) Amma! I came here to share what’s in my heart with my mother and sisters. I thought you would listen to me, understand me and accept me as a woman with hopes and dreams of her own. But I guess, I assumed wrong.

Amongst us, the eldest daughter always has to sacrifice her life for the greater good of an emotionally deranged mother, a set of idiosyncratic sisters and brother and the so-called family honour. Isn’t it?

Mrs. Mathrubhootham: (Ignoring Malar, says staunchly) I will never accept that boy in this family.

Malar: (Shrugs with stoic indifference) Trust me, you don’t need to. I am leaving. There’s no place for me here, either.

Malar pulls her trolley bag out of New No 24, Old No 33, Arangetram Road, Chennai, at 5:30 p.m, with pseudo sadness and bogus fury. She gets into the taxi and closes the door after her. And breaks into a string of triumphant giggles.

Taking the call, when the cell phone rings…

Malar: (Happy and gurgling with laughter) Aaditya! Yeah, I’m done with mine as well. My flight leaves in about a couple of hours. Pick me up from the Mumbai airport at 10.

Glossary of Terms

Paati: Grandmother

Paiyyan: Boy

Thangai: Younger Sister

Thambi: YoungerBrother


Kiss Kiss Ke Love Story – Aaditya’s Story

August 2nd, 2010

Disclaimer: All characters appearing in this work are a stint of fiction in all their entirety. Any resemblance despite this to real persons, living or dead, is purely miraculous and incredibly extraordinaire. And yes, coincidental.

Kindly note that this post is not meant to be offensive or rouse up riotous sentiments and be taken in the same way as it was written.


Location: Mathur Nivas, Pune.

Mood: Tense.

Word of caution: Ubi fumus, ibi ignisWhere there’s smoke, there’s fire

“Nahhhiiiiiiinnnnnnnn…..” screeches the portly woman, eyes round and ready to pop out from their sockets. Even the colossal mass of her saree, gleaming and heavy with rich zardosi work, appears to be in tandem with her incensed scream and adds value to her seemingly strong character.

The resonance of her voice ricochets off the walls of the magnificent hall, hits the resplendent chandeliers hanging above, gets absorbed to a certain extent by the billowing curtains and increases in amplitude finally, as a flash of lightning and the accompanying crash of thunder decide to make themselves seen and heard respectively, adding to the last embers of the original sound wave.

She turns around and sets her blazing sight on him, “How could you do this to me, Aaditya?”

Mrs Mathur walks toward Aaditya. With each step (thud) forward, there is a clash of cymbals, tribal drums and somewhere in the remote jungles of Africa, a lioness fighting with a meerkat to save her little cub quite agrees with the woman’s maternal sentiments.

Mrs Mathur: (Reproachfully stares at him and proceeds to wield the IMEB*) Have you no sense of family honour? Did I feed you with milk, raise and take care of you, only for this?

The movie camera shifts its angle and sets in motion the “Expression of an Individual at the rate of Two Camera Moments per Character.

Mr. Mathur– Mild and unperturbed, he trusts his wife’s better judgement. His script has no dialogue for the next eleven episodes, although his presence is an exclusive prerequisite.

Dadi– Jaw hangs open. Glasses perched at the tip of her nose; she looks about thirty five years old. In all possibility, she might actually be.

Dada– Watches Aaditya intently. He is thinking about dinner and the hot Aloo ke Paranthe.

The Responsible Bhaiyya– Stares concernedly at Aaditya. Unblinkingly.

The Wise/All-Rounder/Cricket Mom/Cheerful/Courageous/Generous/Multi-faceted/Multi-talented/Multi-tasking Bhabhi– Distributes her shocked gaze equally between her husband, Aaditya and her mother-in-law.

The Immature Bhaiyya– Wonders whether the next door neighbour would be willing to play cricket with him on Sunday afternoon, now that Aaditya has more pressing matters on his mind.

The Evil Bhabhi– Mouth twists in an angry pout. Having been previously chosen as the prospective bride for Aaditya by the Mathur family, she was later forced to marry the second brother for reasons completely forgotten by the story/screenplay team.

The Scheming Chachi– Eyes slyly reflect a silent celebration. Her mind runs wild with the aspect of further updates to her secret agenda. One brother down, two more to go. And pretty soon, the entire family property transferred safely to her children.

The Furtive Chacha– Lost in thought about the second wife and family that he has stashed away in a town apartment in Nagpur, he is not too fascinated by Aaditya’s exertions.

The Blah Cousin– Pretty impatient at the moment, she wants to get back to her crocheting. There’s a new pattern that she is dying to try out for her tea cosy set.

The Mean Cousin– Smiles at her mother in telepathic reply.

The Wannabe-Model Cousin– Too highly strung to be bored with the proceedings, she twirls a lock of her hair around a finger and dreams about the latest modelling contract glorified by her shady agent.

The Funny Cousin– Watches the scene interestedly, with a mischievous smile on his face.

Aaditya– Yearns to break down the fourth wall and talk to the audience. But instead, chooses to humour his mother.

After pivoting 395 degrees and catching the expressions of even the bunch of nephews, nieces and the family dog Bunty standing around in a circle with the rest of the inmates, staring at Aaditya and his mother, the camera finally pants for breath.

Aaditya: But Ma, I fell in love with her! I did not deliberately attempt to sabotage the family honour.

Mrs. Mathur: (In a pained line of attack) You fell in love with her! That is enough. We allowed you to go to Mumbai, because you wanted to work there, independently. And look what you’ve done!

Aaditya: (Stifles his impatience with difficulty) Ma, listen to me. She is a lovely girl. You will like her. She will fit perfectly with us.

Mrs. Mathur: (Acute indignation at his implication makes her heart skip a beat and her heavily decked bosom heave) How dare you suggest such a thing Aaditya? Are you even my son?

The Scheming Chachi and The Mean Cousin exchange knowing looks. Mr. Mathur looks on with a slightly bored expression. The Responsible Bhaiyya is about to intervene, when The Wise Bhabhi stops him.

Aaditya: Ma, please!

Mrs. Mathur: No, Aaditya. Today, you have hurt me and brought me unbelievable amount of pain. I never expected this from you.

Aaditya: (Sighs inwardly and says aloud) Malar is a beautiful and an intelligent girl. It’s not fair you’re not even giving me a chance to talk to you about her.

Mrs. Mathur: (Places a hand over her heart) Hey Ram! What kind of magic has that girl woven over my youngest son?!? (Narrows her eyes and looks at Aaditya) You want to talk about her? Fine, talk! But let me die in peace after that.

Aaditya: (Winces slightly at his mother’s words) Ma, I don’t have any intentions of hurting you. I really love Malar.

Mrs. Mathur: (Suddenly lunges forward) Malar?! What kind of a name is Malar? Where is she from?

Aaditya: Uhh, Err… She is from Chennai. She’s a Tamilian. And Malar, by the way, means “Flower” in Tamil.

The whole house grows silent at this sudden turn of events. The collosal hall with the bifurcated staircase might actually be uninhabited considering the hushed anticipation of the small crowd.

Mrs. Mathur: (Grips her head dramatically and moans aloud) Hey Ram! She doesn’t even speak Hindi? What is wrong with you Aaditya?

Aaditya: Ma, I never said she doesn’t speak Hindi. She knows Hindi and speaks quite fluently too.

Mrs. Mathur: (Closes her eyes and sways slightly) I think I’m already dying. I cannot believe my son is the person to bring dishonour to this family.

Aaditya is alarmed and gently handles his mother and makes her sit down on the couch. Turning around to Kaka (the family cook), he asks for a glass of water.

The Evil Bhabhi: (Smirks slightly and asks with fake innocence) Aaditya, you said she is a south Indian. She most definitely must be dark skinned. Tsk tsk, poor girl, that’s her fate, what to do? She probably uses all the coconuts along the coast to thoroughly oil her hair and maybe eats only curd rice. Do you really think she will fit in our family?

Mrs. Mathur: (Shocked beyond speech, groans helplessly) Hey Ram! She eats only curd rice? Aaditya! Why are you doing this to your parents in their old age?

Aaditya: (Pacifies his mother anxiously) Ma, she doesn’t eat just curd rice. She loves North Indian food. Really! And she’s an amazing cook as well. (Looks at The Evil Bhabhi and replies coldly) She’s a beautiful girl, dark skinned or not. And she’s got gorgeous hair, quite unlike your salon whipped one.

The Evil Bhabhi blinks, smarting under the sharp retort.

Mrs. Mathur: (Reels under an impulsive revelation) Wait a minute! Did you both…? Is she…? Is that why…??

Aaditya: (Protests in embarrassment) Ma! No way. How can you even think of such a thing?

The Scheming Chachi: (With pretend concern) Aaditya, our culture is different. Our rituals, habits, everything is different from hers. How can she adjust with us?

Mrs. Mathur: Does she even believe in God? Or is she an atheist? Do they wear Mangalsutra or finger-ring in her family?

Aaditya: Does that all matter? All that is important to me, is I love her and she loves me back.

Mrs. Mathur: You idiot! You’re blinded by the so-called love. All these things are very important. She will never fit in our family! Never!

Aaditya: (Straightens up in anger) Alright, that’s it! I’ve had enough! I came here to make you all understand how much I love Malar and how much I want to be with her. But all I hear about is how shameful an act that would be. I really want to know how marrying Malar is going to bring dishonour to the family. Actually, on second thoughts, no, I don’t want to know!!

Mrs. Mathur: (Stands up in anger) Aaditya!

Aaditya: (Holds up a hand calmly) Ma, please! If fitting in this family means wearing heavy georgette, zari sarees and make-up that would make a man run for his life, burdening necks with pure gold and 18 carat jewellery, visiting the beauty parlour thrice a week to repair broken fingernails and condition eyelashes, then I am glad my Malar is not going to fit here.

The entire Mathur family mutes the volume for the second time in the evening. Even Bunty flops down on the floor, morose and unhappy.

Mrs. Mathur: (Voice trembling with restrained fury) I forbid you to bring that girl to this house, Aaditya.

Aaditya: (Flippantly) Very well, I won’t. Goodbye, Ma. I don’t have a place in this house either.

Aaditya Mathur walks out of his house- 15, Vihar Road, Pune at 4:45 pm in the evening, with feigned disappointment and mock anger. An hour later, when he hits the Pune-Mumbai Expressway, he chuckles mischievously over the phone.

Aaditya: Malar! I’m done with mine. How’s it going with yours?

Glossary of Terms

IMEB: Intravenous Maternal Emotional Blackmail

Dadi: Paternal Grandmother

Dada: Paternal Grandfather

Bhaiyya: Elder Brother

Bhabhi: Sister-in-law

Chacha: Father’s younger brother

Chachi: Father’s younger brother’s wife

Protected: Ursa Ultra Major

July 30th, 2010

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How Google confirmed our worst fears.

July 26th, 2010
tags: , , ,

Gasp! We really are scared of each other. And Google just confirmed it…

Boss, where art thou?

May 22nd, 2010
tags: , ,


April 8th, 2010

There are times when you reflect on some of the smallest things that are somehow woven into the intricacies of your daily routine. The tiny broken ceramic doll on your window-sill, your favourite coffee mug, the missing shoe, the book on your night-table that you have been meaning to read for a million years now, the squeaky fan, the late night movies, the neighbour’s over-friendly doggie, your sister, the miss-you notes from friends, the FB status messages, your sister…

I remember the first time I fell in love with my sister- she was a tiny bundle, an exact replica of me and I know I was kind of proud of it. I remember the first time I really wished I could wring my sister’s neck- she had messed up all my toys and actually had the nerve to sit back, gurgling with baby laughter. The fact that we hold ourselves with more poise and élan now is but a mere curtain to all those Neanderthal-degrees of wrathful fancies that we still harbour for each other; occasionally, I promise.

I don’t remember a single day when we hadn’t fought. If the fights were over toys and Barbie dolls earlier, it was (still is) over the clothes, bags, the phone and other paraphernalia. She hates it when I touch her cupboard. I seethe when she takes a call on my phone. Fist fights, scratches and plucking of each others’ hair merely metamorphosed into the perennial war of words and vociferous cat-fights. Moments of jealousy and possessiveness get transformed into long periods of sulky acceptance. Arguments over who’s better, who’s older, who’s prettier etc add that extra pinch of salt to the already burning wound. The thin line between love and hate is stretched so taut, that the demarcation blends in with the medley of emotions. It is a lot of love sometimes and then it is a lot of hatred. I essentially begin to understand the phrase- “I love her so much that I actually hate her…”

Every day rouses up another side to us as we face each other grimly and genuinely smile at the end of it. It is definitely no wonder that there’re so many sides to sister-hood; after all there are two women involved.

Hers is the hand that I reach out for in the dark bedroom, after having watched a horror movie on a random Friday night. There is a never-ending girl-talk that occurs across the dining table, in the terrace, through the closed bathroom door, on bike rides, car drives, in a shopping mall, at the movie theatre…anywhere. Recounts about crushes (some of them too painful just because they were of the likes of Mirchi Karthik), make-up, love, hopes, dreams, fashion, clothes, aspirations, careers, choices, friends; the list is exhaustive and has a tendency to get updated… She is the first one that I look to for a reality-check. She is the last one that I call up for advice on small talk… She is the impatient one and does not suffer fools gladly.

Whatever different planets we come from, there is a bond that we both secretly recognize; that we’re the first ones to defend or help each other in times of trouble and also the first ones to share those moments of laughter filled fun. The fights and the fierce competitiveness would continue even after this. But I realize that it is these things that truly bring out the passion in the relationship. It also drives home the fact that however much I frustrate her, she’d always be there for me…

As someone said, she would always hold a little part of my childhood with her. Just as I’d always hold hers…

Why scotch tape is extremely mandatory for an afternoon conversation

April 3rd, 2010

So on a fine day, the three of us- my sister Ri, dad and I, decided to spend some quality time together. In other words, we ended up sharing space in our car by chance on a hot Saturday afternoon, after we had dropped mom off at her uncle’s place; (right, this was a pre-IPL phase).

Despite growing up with a handful of sisters and having a pair of jaybirds for daughters, I don’t think my father ever fully acknowledged a woman-to-woman conversation as he did that day. Having been a witness, visually and aurally to a dialogue, that I believe has completely shattered his illusions, he no longer asks for the phone, when either of us is talking to any of our girlfriends. He simply terminates the line connection and supports his action with a quick replay of our unfortunate chat session.

I sat, sprawled across the back seat, as Ri and my father conversed about the share market, stocks and investments (yes, she is the son my dad never had). I peered lazily out of the window as the traffic streamed past in the afternoon heat. Maneuvering the car expertly, my father pulled it to turn right into a road leading away from the main traffic. We had to wait for a few minutes, to allow the flood on the opposite direction to clear.

Suddenly the unique radar most exclusive to women, kicked in and Ri transformed into the girl that she actually is at heart, leaving my father gaping mid-sentence while explaining about some basic shades of market analysis. Honestly, at the risk of sounding catty and bitchy, I would like to explain how the following conversation took place.

“Why is she standing like that?” Ri questioned, pointing at a strange-looking girl on the other side of the road.

“It’s her shoes. It’s like she’s perennially poised in a ballet twirl.” I replied back, wondering how it would be if she actually walked.

It was as if the woman heard me. The next moment, she started walking towards a nearby lamp-post while checking her mobile phone. After a few unenthusiastic steps, she turned around in a half circle and ran her fingers through her hair. Clearly, she was not used to wearing the stilettos.

She seemed to be suffering from the mid-life crisis of a hair-straightening session. The extremely curly hair amazingly turned ramrod-straight past mid-length, reminding me of a slab of reluctant noodles in a saucepan.

“She’s waddling like a duck.” Ri giggled and continued, “Seriously, why do they call it, permanent straightening, when the hair gets back to its original state in a few months? Weird!”

“You know what? I think she should just stick to flats and maybe tuck her hair into a pony-tail or something. But if you ask me, I like her hair better when compared to her dress.”

“Yeah, maybe she could have chosen a different colour for the top.”

“I wonder where she’s studying. She would barely be twenty.”

“Look at the blond streaks in her hair. Such a wannabe! Must be some local college.”

“She’s got a decent figure though. If she can take care of her clothes and hair, she might actually look good.”

“She wouldn’t be such good entertainment then!”

Before I could say anything, my father, who had been so silent till then, chose to interrupt and put an end to our chatter with a simple question.

“Oh my God! Is this how all you girls talk?”

Needless to say, that shut both of us up to quite a good extent.

But he just would not believe us anymore when we complain that we were having a serious, adult conversation over phone, right before he cut the connection.

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