Top ten husband myths.

Here are a few husband / boyfriend / prospective groom myths. I hope any girl reading this would agree with me, and any broad minded guy would admit/laugh/nod/ at it.  Here is to you, guys :)

Myth1: If a woman overtakes him on the road, then it is a potential threat to masculinity.


Myth2: To stay in her house for more than a day would mean that he is henpecked.

(‘Sorry Mom, we will come again for Christmas..this time we really have to go back as my dog is not well and it has to be taken to the Vet’)

Myth3: That making comparison of her cooking to that of his Mom’s would help her love his Mom even more.

“You know… my Mom makes fish curry like….’ AAARGH! ( That dialogue nullifies appettite. Cooking is not in the picture anymore. Sure everyone knows what kind of comments those statements invite)

Myth4: Washed, sun dried crisp clothes will be in the wardrobe whether she is here or not. The biggest myth of all times.

Myth5: Apparel shopping is more boring than being in the science section of the British Library.

‘Please go with your friends. I am not well’

Myth6: Hrithik is not all that sexy. He is just ‘okay’.

‘Oh whats there to admire about..he is tall..and dances well…that’s it’ (Very very typical)

Myth7: We can always get a fresh pair of socks, even if one of it was put to laundry and the other is still inside the shoe.

Myth8: Her dad is not all that smart.

Myth9: My mother never talks like that! Women really cook up stuff.

Myth10: Gossiping? Thats what women do!

( Do yo guys really discuss about Mamta Banerjee and Sonia Gandhi at smoking zones?)

Rewinding to those lovely days again.

Well, one of my friends who called marriage ‘legal prostitution’ recently got married, and I am totally happy that finally she did. Ironically it was a love marriage and I wonder whether it was so huge enough even to inspire Chetan Bhagat (Two States!). She was one crazy non-vegetarian "Brahmin girl", who would go to such extent as to catch fish from my fish tank at home for lunch. Her near and dear don’t have any idea about this, as she carries a factory of mint in her bag and always smells of fresh veggies ( and sometimes of stale ones).


Innumerable school day memories always come rushing to my head, when I am not thinking of something crazy (which doesn’t happen too often). I still remember the teacher who hated me, another, who actually loved me like she would her daughter. If only I could wind back time. At school whatever mischief I got into, however big a hurdle befell me, I knew Papa would be there for me. Sometimes it was to squeeze my ears in front of my teachers, but still he would buy me Frooti on the way back home, as a sign of apology. And back home, Mummy would be there, supporting me even if I was wrong (but never if the grades are low).

Now my Mom bakes cocoa cakes like no other in the country. My friends would come home and attack the cake seconds after it is taken from the oven. In a few minutes, it would look like a mountain of brown rice, and we would be uncivilized barbarians, until not even a tiny morsel is left . Even today, I cant properly make chocolate milk, given milk, sugar and chocolate cream or if I did, the kitchen would look like a war zone. Only God knows how she makes those little brown pieces of heaven.

Days passed and Papa showed signs of diabetes. So it was my turn to play ‘Papa’. I would give the cold ‘how-dare-you’ stare at wedding lunches when the caterers come to serve ice cream. Papa would look at me like a lamb and I would finally yield to a small spoon of ice cream to taste. Mummy is lucky enough not to have diabetes history in her family, but rejects even a spoon of it ( 'Papa's food, is poison for Mummy), as she thinks it would change her voice and  made to sing ‘bass’ with other men in the choir.

I also used to be in that choir.


Which is not funny if any of you are laughing.

Breathing an air of disgust..

At this point of time, I personify annoyance. I remain pissed off. I stay aloof from what you call, LIFE. I can’t say what it is, over here, as some futile concerns have saturated the air around me. I do not hope for a better outcome. I do not wish for it. During subtle breaks from intense displeasure, I still thank God for being born in the perfect family, and having the best people in my innermost circle.


Somehow, I am not able to explain the state of affairs going on. It is unjust and mean. However I do not want to reveal it, as I know that there are people who actually rejoice at my sorrow. I have been nagging,  and touchy with my sis and better half who are well aware of my situation , but the issue continues to depress me in all its glory. It is stealing away good times. It is haunting me day in, day out. I am shaken and insecure. I am apprehensive and have forgotten the good things around. I just ceased to see the blue of the sky. Everything appears in black, white and gray to me.

It is just the tough getting going. It is temporary. It is huge as it passes.
God, I know you are reading this. Please help me stand the pain.

Corporate Blues.

I now know how frustrated a person can be at office and how equally demeaning are its policies. People , people everywhere but not a friend to talk. By the way who needs friends during these trying times? Especially cry baby friends. Some such friend species can break the hell out of you.. And that too in such a place as my office.

Before one talks about my pay package or recognition, the first thing I want out of a workplace is peace of mind. Given a chance I would explode the HR to bits. They kind of decide when we should go to the loo. They tell us what ******* to wear on which day. Ultimately they decide our lives. The day will come when they tell us whom to marry. I wanted to do an MBA in HR, but I dropped the idea. Who would voluntarily want to bear the curse of thousands of employees for the rest of their lives? I certainly do not.

Now they want us to set ‘goals’ for the performance year. Goals! And me? ! Sure typing imaginary stuff in goal settings can be very interesting at times. Especially when my goal is to finish off the moron who wants us to document the goals. Whatever. Now there is a guy, who approves it. He can be miles away or in a totally different planet. And he, decides what I should do during the coming ‘performance’ year. Oh that sounds very interesting and pragmatic. And there is another guy, who analyzes what the alien has approved and passes his own comments in it. The broth is now spoiled to its nucleus by all the supernatural cooks and this would be the documentation of my fate for another 365 days. End of the day, I end up venting my frustration on my blog and the approvers are drawing fat salaries and filling excel sheets in their glass cabins.

Heights of injustice as I call it. There is another category whom I want to bombard and get rid of to the very blood cell. They are called ‘peer groups’. These are disturbingly lucky chaps and definitely not any better. They get promoted every six months and thereby raise the assessment bar so high that other deserving fellows are dragged through the rock bottom and they get to see how it is like to be in a space where there is rock bottom and layers of crap on it.
 I am in such a space now.

 It doesn’t feel good.

 It doesn’t smell good.

 I can still see the undeserving morons smirking devilishly at me.

It is ugly.