tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29658747784968687312024-03-08T09:26:38.067-08:00I am... a fluid concept.confusedbychoicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03089042092412174488noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965874778496868731.post-28991465696740518632013-04-28T23:11:00.000-07:002013-04-29T10:50:14.283-07:00Not growing old. Just getting older.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The older I get the more I worry.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">About the future. The present. And oh god, the past.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The older I get the more possessive I become.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of friends. Of secrets. Of him. Of her.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The older I get the easier it becomes for me to cry.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Not weep, not howl. But a tiny tear that slips in. To shock you, ground you.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The older I get the less cool hangovers are.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Can't brag. Can only pop pills. (Work night jäger bombs never looked less fun.)</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The older I get the more importance I give to money.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Not to spend. Never to splurge. Only to save. Not sure for whom.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The older I get the wiser I get.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Not about careers, or life. Only about relationships, the ones that matter.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The older I get the more I value touch.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">His touch. Mom's touch. Keeping in touch.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The older I get the mellower I get.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Doors and phones I slam no more. PDA queen I am no more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The older I get the more I'd like to visit a temple.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Not for Mom. Not for Mom-in-law. Only, for me.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The older I get the more I care for my health.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Still silly enough for 'extra cheese', but smart enough to avoid Diet Coke.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The older I get the more adventurous I become.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">'Next time' won't always be an option. Now, is.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The older I get the more scared I become.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have much more to lose now, and yet, still so much to gain.</span></div>
</div>
confusedbychoicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03089042092412174488noreply@blogger.com6Mumbai, Maharashtra, India19.0759837 72.87765590000003618.5957847 72.232208900000032 19.556182699999997 73.52310290000004tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965874778496868731.post-78803608131716055212012-12-24T02:57:00.001-08:002012-12-24T03:10:28.506-08:00Please let us not generalise.I read a post on Twitter today written by a prominent blogger, and/or his wife. Few blogposts affect me this much. So i decided to write how I feel. <br />
<br />
I am a Delhi girl. I’ve lived in Delhi for 22 of my 27 years – Jamshedpur for 2, and have now been living in Mumbai for the last 3. <br />
Firstly, I, am not here to ‘compare’ Delhi and Mumbai in the ‘safe for women’ aspect – I can do a whole series of posts on why ‘I’ like Delhi or Mumbai more – but with safety, Mumbai is the pinnacle of being safe, being open, being forward, being free. So just for five minutes, let us leave Mumbai aside.<br />
<br />
Are you trying to tell me, that I can, wear a skirt, have a few drinks, and return by cab alone post-midnight without worrying one bit in, say, Kanpur? Lucknow? Ahmedabad? (No drinks there, sorry). Chennai? Kolkata? Chandigarh? Indore? Cochin?<br />
<br />
Half the places above I can’t even wear jeans, forget a skirt. Drinks? In a pub? COME HOME ALONE BY CAB? I doubt it. Maybe I can, but it's definitely not the best alternative. How many women actually do this?<br />
<br />
Ok, you could say this is an elitist, extreme example. Fair enough. Let’s talk about roaming in the streets. Are you saying women don’t get stared at, whistled at anywhere else in this country? Are you saying no man ever brushes past women in crowded streets?<br />
<br />
In my 22 years in the glorious capital, I have thankfully, by the grace of god, karma or even perhaps being over-protected, never been molested or manhandled. Sure, I’ve been whistled at, kissing noises made, called ‘baby’. But has that never happened to me elsewhere? Of course it has. It does. Every other day, all the time. I am letched at routinely, wherever I go, wherever in this country I may travel. Our collective mentality, the Indian mentality, is the same everywhere. <br />
<br />
Don’t get me wrong, I am not using the ‘Everyone does it so it’s ok’ argument here. Delhi IS bad, sure. There are more 'reported' rapes in North India than anywhere else. But why generalise, trivialise? The post in question is so horribly generalised, perhaps exaggerated, I don’t know whether to feel angry or sad. If any of the Delhi families I know had 6-7 year old boys saying ‘Main tera rape kardoonga’ the elders would probably kill themselves over their failures at parenting. The post makes Delhi sound like a city of impudent GIJoe-toting boys walk around raping little Barbie girls. Which men say “Zyada bak bak karegi to uska rape kar denge”? This is ridiculous. Raping women to assert their masculinity is not what the uncles I know discuss at dinner time. I feel terrible that the author of the post knew such people. But if you tell me all your fathers and uncles are like this, then perhaps you and I both need to get to know more people.<br />
<br />
I do not, for a minute, doubt the post's accuracy. Horrible things happen. But the manner of the post makes it appear so commonplace, makes a reader wonder if there are any respectable men and strong women in Delhi at all. <br />
<br />
There was a mention of joint families in a palatial house. Take any city, town in India. How much do the women in these palatial houses speak up? How much freedom or activism do they demonstrate? Are all women in say, Haryana, Gujarat or even South India, venturing out alone, speaking their mind, wearing what they want?<br />
<br />
Again, I repeat, the fact that every city is bad doesn’t make it ok for Delhi. In fact, I hope with all the protests being prefixed with a ‘Delhi’ – my city will probably get better soon. There will be closer monitoring, more awareness, more laws, hopefully, much much less tolerance.<br />
<br />
I do agree with parts of the post. My mom would perhaps throw a solid fit if I, dressed in wedding finery, with jewelry, decided to walk for ten minutes to get to a venue. In fact, it would perhaps not even cross my mind to do this. However, the primary fear here is not of me getting raped or molested. It would be of getting robbed. My well-wishers would stop me from doing this whether I was in Delhi or in Bombay. This is not about the city. This is our country. Why make it about Delhi?<br />
<br />
All this dramatic outrage I am doing is not only to defend my city. It is for preventing it from getting worse. In India, known with our 'chalta hai' attitude, how long before people start reacting to rapes like:<br />
<br />
‘Oh, another rape in Delhi? That city has gone to the dogs’<br />
‘What? A rape in Mumbai? How dare they? We need to demand action. This is just not done. Mumbai is safe for women, we have to keep it that way’.<br />
<br />
See the difference? Generalisation slowly results in acceptance. Lets not accept the fact that Delhi women are subjugated, are used to being molested. No amount of ‘eve-teasing’ – how I hate that phrase – or subjugation, or conditioning - makes me adequately prepared to deal with molestation or rape, be it mine, a friend's, or the horrific one of a 23-year-old physiotherapist I’ve never met. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
PS: link to the blogpost that initiated this. http://daddysan.wordpress.com/2012/12/24/the-subjugation-capital/confusedbychoicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03089042092412174488noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965874778496868731.post-41240521801874575752012-09-24T01:36:00.001-07:002012-09-24T01:36:20.559-07:00Of love.Love is the embellishment for your reality. <br />
It glows, radiates. Love sparkles. <br />
<br />
Love is the intoxicant for your boredom. <br />
It heightens, enhances. Love stimulates. <br />
<br />
Love is what your doctor should've ordered. <br />
It heals, rejuvenates. Love helps. <br />
<br />
Love is your excuse for stupidity. <br />
It giggles, preens. Love laughs. <br />
<br />
Love is the joy in your moments. <br />
It dances, sings. Love celebrates. <br />
<br />
Love is a lifetime of memories. <br />
It captivates, remembers. Love sets you free.<br />
<br />
Love is the bonfire in your harsh winter. <br />
It embraces, protects. Love saves. <br />
<br />
Love is everywhere, in everything.<br />
It needs, hopes. All it wants, is you. confusedbychoicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03089042092412174488noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965874778496868731.post-64808648802189437992012-06-26T00:30:00.000-07:002012-06-25T11:56:40.382-07:00If only.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If only night-repair creme could fix broken dreams.<br />
If only a straightening iron could un-crease my brow.<br />
If only concealers would cover up the blemishes on my spirit.<br />
If only mascara could hide away my tears.<br />
If only nailpaint would polish my soul.<br />
If only this scrub could exfoliate the pain.<br />
If only make-up remover would erase those memories.<br />
If only I truly looked like, what I see in the mirror.</div>confusedbychoicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03089042092412174488noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965874778496868731.post-81257517171386587502012-04-13T00:03:00.000-07:002012-06-25T11:50:53.267-07:00Attempts at Poetry/Shayari (2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
(1)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Aaj apni galtiyon ka ehsaas
hai,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Aaj teri khushboo ki pyaas hai. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Kitne din yaad kiya tujhe,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Ab teri
yaad bhi nahi mere paas hai. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
(2)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Thoda tum chalo, thoda hum chalein..<br />
Faasla yun hi mit jayega.<br />
Thoda tum chalo, thoda hum chalein..<br />
Faasla yun hi mit jayega.<br />
Hum chale iss taraf, aur tum doosri ore..<br />
Ab hamare beech faasla nahi, saara jahaan hi aa chuka hai…</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
(3) </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Tum kya samajh paoge, humari kya hai musibat.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Tum kyun samajhna chahoge, hamari hai kya musibat?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Dil tumhe saunp kar, hum hue bedil;</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Ab toh yeh berukhi, ban gayi hai jaise ek aadat.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br />
(4)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Kitne pal humne saath bitaye,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Kitne saal yun hi has kar kate.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Par ab itni raatein humne alag hai guzaari..</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Tumhe yaad karna hai mushkil, aur bhool jana namumkin. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
</div>confusedbychoicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03089042092412174488noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965874778496868731.post-66955475936799319022012-04-09T09:14:00.000-07:002012-04-09T09:14:38.440-07:00Things we can't ever seem to get right<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I do admit some of these might be a result of my ineptitude at basic life skills, do let me know if you agree with any one!<br />
<br />
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">How many times to call a person back after they hung up on you in anger</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The perfect cozy-under-the-duvet AC temperature</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">That one drink to stop at to avoid the hangover the next day</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">How to deal with those who annoy us, without letting them affect us</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The choice of person to lose your virginity to - a choice that would seem correct at age 30</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The optimal number of shoes to pack on a vacation</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Accurate microwave settings and timings</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">How short to cut your hair before it becomes too short</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Whether to reply to a text message signaling the end of a conversation, or not reply and be labeled a snob.</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The exact volume to set on the TV without having to readjust it every few minutes</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">How many cheese puffs to have before you feel sick</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">How more-or-less frequently must you text the person you're thinking of all the time </li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Knowing exactly how many onions will constitute one kilo - to avoid the vegetable seller seeing right through your n00b-ness</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">How much tip to leave after a meal - without hurting server sentiments, and your wallet.</li>
<li data-mce-style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Whom never to trust too easily, and whom to dare trust with you life.</li>
</ol>
</div>confusedbychoicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03089042092412174488noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965874778496868731.post-87660224620102889222012-02-06T00:30:00.000-08:002012-02-05T11:05:39.411-08:00Why I refuse to be called an alcoholic.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Baileys. Creamy silky liqueur. As it went in me, a burning calm. My tongue lingers for an extra drop. He sees my happiness as I drain the glass, and asks, 'What is it, about alcohol, that you so love?'<br />
<br />
I ponder.<br />
<br />
Is it the taste? From the bitter to the sweet, from the fruity to the dry, from the light to the strong.<br />
Is it the aroma? From the smoky single malts to the coffee-laced crèmes, the spring garden scents of champagne to the wintry strength of rum.<br />
The colour, perhaps? The silently strong vodka to the dramatic show-off merlot? The grand oaky whisky or the golden sunlight of beer?<br />
<br />
Well it's all of those, I feel. But what makes it truly wonderful? A thing to be enjoyed, a craving, a companion? The answer lies in the effect, I feel. What alcohol does to us. What it brings out in us. What it makes us be. Or want to be.<br />
<br />
It uninhibits some people,<br />
some, it calms.<br />
A few, it angers,<br />
Most, it allows expression.<br />
<br />
In him, it brings out the comedian.<br />
In me, the poet.<br />
It saddens a few,<br />
and makes brave many more.<br />
<br />
It makes strangers appear friendlier,<br />
and loneliness feel lyrical.<br />
It makes the drear of reality seem distant,<br />
and really, what more can one want?<br />
<br />
It is a vile poison;<br />
and yet my precious nectar.<br />
It brings me so much pleasure;<br />
I wonder why they could think of just seven deadly sins.<br />
<br /></div>confusedbychoicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03089042092412174488noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965874778496868731.post-19492075544628161162011-11-03T12:13:00.000-07:002011-11-03T12:13:37.160-07:00Teri yaad..<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
(1)<br />
<br />
Thak gaye hum, tujhe yaad karte karte...<br />
Thak gaye hum, tujhe yaad karte karte;<br />
Aisa na ho, tera saath jab phir mile,<br />
Teri yaad hi behtar lagne lage..<br />
<br />
(2)<br />
<br />
Hum toh ban-na chahte the, aapka sirf ek hissa..<br />
Hum toh ban-na chahte the, aapka sirf ek hissa;<br />
Par yeh kya maloom tha humein<br />
Ki aap toh poore hi, kisi aur ke the..</div>confusedbychoicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03089042092412174488noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965874778496868731.post-62726771402940633672011-10-16T11:12:00.000-07:002011-10-15T22:42:20.141-07:00Bittersweet Firsts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There is something special about being 'first'. First in a race, first of its kind, first-born. And then, for newly married women in the northern plains of our country, there is the first Karva Chauth. Yesterday was my first. Luckily, it was a Saturday. Like thousands of other women, I planned, and I decked up, and I fasted. Mehendi and all that. It was my first, you see. Well, I'd be lying if said I didn't love it. It was special. The husband waiting on me hand and foot, lest I get mehendi on our white sofas. Or the very white macbook. Yes, I loved it.<br />
<br />
The moon played hide-and-hide, and finally we were able to seek at 10 30 pm, a blurry brightness behind a cloud. A heavy dinner followed, much happiness and wishes from everyone ensued as well.<br />
<br />
Why bittersweet, you ask?<br />
<br />
Later that night, the husband left for an overseas stint. For three months. Excellent opportunity for his career. Excellent opportunity for me to enjoy the single life I always crib I never got a chance to live.<br />
Excellent opportunity to catch up with girlfriends, regular salon visits, twitterverse and embarrassing TV I could never admit I watch. My first time living alone, all the space to myself. Sounds good?<br />
<br />
Well it has been 10 hours since he left. Have spent 6 of them sleeping, and the other 4 missing him. So much for my 'space'. As I waved goodbye to the fading taxi last night, overcoming many a throaty lump, I realised what an institution marriage truly is. My life revolves around him, whether I like it or not. From the mundane alarm setting variety, to the management of myriad landlord/carpenter/watchman issues, there is just so much I depend on him for, even if the money is not one of them.<br />
Sunday mornings used to always be a battle; and getting up early, in line with his body clock, was not something I'd do. I'd sleep in till noon, leaving him to fend for himself. Today, I wake up before 9, and neither Twitter nor TV interests me. Making chai for one is just no fun. <br />
<br />
I realise that marriage makes us weaker. Definitely. Suddenly I find myself unable to shop alone, go for a random drive alone, buy vegetables for one. I want to quit my job and tend to him and cook for him and clean after him. My feminist classmates from college will be disappointed, much. My own mother can't believe me when I talk like this. But that's the way it is. Practicality is a different matter, but if I had to, I would.<br />
<br />
Spending all our time together, makes each minute spent apart even harder. As he left last night, he took a piece of my heart with him. I feel incomplete now, an incomplete puzzle. One that even I can't solve. One that he can, by coming back soon.<br />
<br />
He forgot to detach my heartstrings from his, taking me along, yet leaving me here. All I can do, is wait.</div>confusedbychoicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03089042092412174488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2965874778496868731.post-13401118345290237232011-10-08T01:25:00.000-07:002012-02-05T11:04:57.916-08:00Third world problems of the first world kind - Pigeons<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Seven months since I've been married. Living in a rented house for the first time in my life. Managing a house.. well lets say I still can't say its the first time I've managed one, since I haven't managed it. I am managing. Big difference. Anyway. Bais and groceries are one thing. Pigeons are quite another.<br />
<br />
Yes, you heard me. Pigeons. We always had them around in the house I grew up in, in Delhi. They weren't adorable by any stretch of the imagination, but they weren't significant enough to be talked about. And definitely not blogged about! Now here in our chotu little house in Bandra, they're making themselves liable to be shot.<br />
<br />
I kid you not. We pretty much selected THIS house since it has a lovely balcony (BALCONY, MUMBAI vich??! Yes it is true.) Anyway. Now we have a split AC unit in a nook there. And the pigeons, ah, well, they just love that little corner. The crap all over the place. They flutter incessantly. They coo (this I believe is too nice a word for their call) nonstop. And roughly ten of them accumulate there and indulge in fighting and love making and cuddling and whatever else it is that they do. I have been awakened at 6 am on many a morning due to this ruckus. And if you know me, not that you do, you will know how much I value my morning sleep.<br />
<br />
After much whining and taunting and crying, my husband decides to take things into his own hands. Engineers, I tell you. A complex arrangement of cartons and plastic is created to block the space, a marvel of engineering, if I may boast. The man is a genius. True handyman. Love having him around in the house to help fix wires and what not. His cute ass doesn't hurt either. Talking about that.. WAIT A MINUTE. I digress. Back to the problem at hand. These effin' pigeons.<br />
<br />
This marvel of engineering lasts 2 days. If that. These delinquent feathered monsters tear it apart. After that, the carpenter is summoned. I make the pigeons sound like a terrorist threat. He sympathises, and makes an enclosure of jaalis around the AC unit, so that never again can a pigeon enter. I couldn't be happier.<br />
<br />
The kabootars continue to hang around for a few days, trying to balance themselves on edges. I figure they will take a few days to adjust to this new reality, and find alternative places for their orgies. Conditioning and all. I am right. Day-by-day the number of pigeons and the amount of collective crap on the floor diminishes. Peace is on the verge of being restored.<br />
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And then, one peaceful Saturday morning, when eggs are being made with cheese for the husband. I hear the news. 3 bloody useless suicidal pigeons are trapped INSIDE the jaali. With no way out. !@#$%^&*&^%$#@!#$#%^&. I make plans to shoot them with an airgun. I ask the husband how we can dispose of their bodies. Of course, I dont have the heart or the balls to do that. Truth be told, I am more scared of them than they are of me. Sshh. Dont tell them that!<br />
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As we speak, the poor carpenter is examining his work again, and looking for a possible solutions. I can only pray. Can someone please assure me that this being trapped will condition them into not reappaearing here? Common sense says so, but the only pigeon expert I know, yours truly, is extremely doubtful of the adaptive abilities of these darned kabootars. Something tells me I'll have to name them soon. Sigh.</div>confusedbychoicehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03089042092412174488noreply@blogger.com1