Theres a monster in my Fridge!

Its 12 at night and though I am well fed, nay stuffed on some excellent Mediterranean/Italian food from Fresc co's excellent all you can eat buffet, I am feeling hungry! Very very hungry!

Since I am at home (those of you who thought there was an all you can eat mediterranean/italian buffet in Jodhpur, I am sorry for having led you on), kindly, well-meaning but sadly ignorant friends have suggested that I simply raid my fridge, what could be better than home food after all?

Pretty Much everything, including my college mess food, would be an honest answer. My mother has given up cooking. Instead the cooking is left to our maid of 10 years, who seems to have spent the last 10 years un-learning any cooking she might have known when she first came to us. The fresc co dinner was in fact to make up for the singularly unsatissfactory lunch I had consisting of some burned Bhindi, sludge like Sambar and Soggy rice. Even my longing for a simple curd rice could not be satissfied, for when the curd in the fridge was inspected it turned out to be sour chunks of Ice a couple of days old.

The curd however was the least of the horrors that the fridge contained, consider as an example the 10 day old Rassam. Unlike Wine and Cheese, Rassam does not getter better with age (Unless you're some sort of mutant disease carrying bacteria looking for the ideal breeding ground). When Rassam has spent 5 days in a fridge, the Ghee in the Rassam congeals and floats to the top of the bowl, forming a greasy green gloop, below that lies a layer of mud coloured water which is resting on a bed of sludge made up of Dal and lightly rotting tomatoes. Rassam which has wasted in the fridge for 10 days should not be described publicly.

If that isn't enough to put you of food forever, theres the Tori, Lauki, Tinda Ki Sabji made without any Fat, any Masala or anything that makes food taste good. Then, there are the tins of grated coconut and dried Curry leaves and bags of shrivelled up lemons and green chillies. Yum!

My mother is (was?) a good cook, I remember a time when my Tiffin Boxes were famed and would be devoured by hordes of hungry classmates even before the bell for the first period of school rang. It's just that ever since I left for college, she's developed this antipathy towards Kitchens and all things domestic (when I come home, I am met not with pampering, but rather a paper containing a list of chores). Why? I don't know, whenever I ask her she mutters something darkly about freedom, not wanting kids and poison. Some kids can't wait to go home and have a nice meal. Me? I can't wait to get back to college and eat a meal without the fear of being poisoned by my mother or food poisoned by my maids cooking.

Thou shalt not blog publicly ...... (who knows what people might think)

I study in a small desert town, and the first proper rain of the season is always intoxicating. When the grass turns a lush green, and the ground is coloured in a multitude of deep reds and browns. The sky is washed a brilliant blue, and the scent of water on the ground hangs everywhere. I wish I could bottle this scent, wear these colours and feel this way forever, Wet Earth.

My two best friends and I woke up to this earthy yet ethereal feeling last evening, and decided to enjoy every minute of it. We went to a close by dhaba frequented by our College students, sat outside, enjoying the rain, the weather, the glorious feeling, good food, ourselves and the company.

Did we do anything wrong? Apart from smoking in a public place (I’m sorry, I apologise for that, allow me to put out that cigarette) I can’t think of anything, yet popular public opinion seems to be that we did a very stupid thing. We ought to think before we do things like this!

There was the guy at the dhaba who followed us into the city, fell at my friends feet, begged her not to take him wrongly, that he considers her his sister and asked her not to smoke openly. I honestly thought for a second that he meant it for her health, when I remembered that he’d been smoking too. He asked her not to travel publicly and not to eat at hotels or else her reputation will be spoiled and presumably no one will want to marry her. We ought to have thanked him for his concern, promised to be good little girls and quietly moved on. But there’s a reason the two of us are best Friends, and both of us immediately launched into an incoherent argument with him, “you were smoking! What if we were boys? No we won’t!” He got more agitated, we got more incensed. Finally our third friend had the sense to tell him, that we had heard what he had said and would consider it, he let go of my friend’s feet and we drove of fuming.

There were the guys at college who told us we had it coming and that girls should never got to Dhabas on their own. You have no Idea what people might think. There were girls who agreed. There were friends who were surprised that we went to the Dhaba on our own without manly men to protect us. There was my mother, who very thoughtfully pointed out that the new flexible and accepting me, might actually agree with him ten years down the line after reconsidering and re-evaluating what he said.

Let’s give the guy at the dhaba a break, he doesn’t know better. I’ll pass on my mother, I think she was trying to be funny or making a point. But I refuse to listen to the Big-Town-Kids-Stuck-in-a-Small -Town, with their bored, utterly condescending attitude, they’re worse than the guy at the Dhaba. They pretend to know better, they ought to know better, yet they don’t. They are the ones who need to be the change they keep saying they want to see. They’re hypocrites who think it’s OK for girls to party with them, get drunk with them, sleep with them but not OK for girls to go to a dhaba on their own.

I’ve been told I need to stop reading books, and learn to be a good human being instead, that girls should leave swearing to boys, I’ve been told by guys that they don’t believe in feminists so I better keep my mouth shut. That if I keep spewing feminism, I’m going to die sad and alone. I intend to die screaming my head off, so what if I’m alone and no one else can hear me, I’m doing it for me.

Dear God, this is Ramu

Most of the times I am a secular agnostic. Let me be, let me think on my own and I veer towards deism, preach to me, take me to a temple and I’ll become an atheist. In the 6th grade I developed a strong antipathy towards religion, it’s a long reason which involves civics, history, certain irritating family values, proselytizing, feminism and Aastha Channel. At around the same time I lost my faith in reincarnation and god, it’s a long story involving, goldfish, Mr. Walt Disney and the Discovery Channel, it’s also more boring that it sounds. I became an insomniac, awake at all odd hours of the night pondering the meaning of life, the universe and everything else. I was scared of death, scared of not being able to think anymore, of not being able to be. I felt like a hypocrite because I couldn’t tell my family, and would still visit temples, still pray when expected to and even worse, ask for favours from a god I didn’t believe in (please..... please...... please, do something about the pimple on my nose)

In 3rd Grade my Parents signed me up for a Hindu Sunday School called Bal Mandir. This is the first time I am publicly admitting that I went to Sunday School, and while I’m admitting things I’ll admit that I enjoyed myself there. Bal Mandir was surprisingly Fun, they had a lot of stuff happening on the side which I got to take part in, unlike school where I was lost amongst the great un-charismatic, very-ordinary masses. There were elocution competitions which I got to win, being a natural at blab even at that young tender age. There were cultural programs with really bad dancing, I was always Krishna, and had to stand in the centre like a statue, in a blue T-shirt, Yellow satin Dhoti holding a bansuri while the other girls got to dance around me in pretty lehangas. There were annual day functions with bad acting, I remember the first time I took part, and I had only one line, “arre! yah nevala toh manushya ki boli mein bol raha hai!” I ended up forgetting my cue and had to be prompted, I consoled myself with the thought that this line was supposed to be said with astonishment (“ashcharya mein” was the exact description), and that the delay merely indicated how very astonished I was- at least that’s how my loving mother consoled me.

I guess what I ended up taking away from Bal Mandir came from the time I refused to be Krishna, and was given a 2 page moral to recite at the end of a play. No I don’t remember the moral, in fact I didn’t even memorize it like I was supposed to, I lost the only sheet it was written on, and forgot about it until D-Day dawned. My mother instead of behaving like the loving parent she normally is, refused to call me in Sick and sent me, a shaking, quavering 9 year old to face and ‘fess up my misdeed to Tara Di. “Chee! Chee! sab gobar kar diya!” That line still rings in my ears as I’m about to do something wrong, let someone down or embarrass myself. As a punishment I was given the lead role in the annual day function. Needless to say this time around, I knew all my cues, all my dialogues and didn’t protest too much at having to play an old Man, a Crazy old man at that, complete with fake beard and very real stick with which I could hit people. My adoring Aunt was appalled when the best actor prize was given to someone else, my loving mother told me that someone else who won it did a better job and deserved it.

My experiments with religion and god still continue, I am no longer scared (there’s no point..... it’s not going to matter), I no longer stay awake all night wondering what will happen to my (fabulous! And Narcissistic......) mind when I die, and I (very surprisingly), no longer hate Religion the way I once did. In fact, from thinking that I could believe in God but not Religion, I now feel that I could appropriate some religious values in my life, but I’m still not sure about God. Remembering Bal Mandir, even though I don’t remember any of the shlokas I was sent there to learn, I do remember snippets of their meanings, and they’re beginning to make more and more sense to me as I grow up, not-so irritating Family Values, studying history again, re-reading and re-evaluating the Ramayana and Mahabharata, all this has led to a very gradual change in my beliefs, I didn’t realize it was happening until it happened and I can’t tell you in which grade I realized that It had happened. Perhaps for these reasons this belief will be a more permanent and flexible one, I’m allowing myself to change naturally, instead of clinging to what I think is right. As of writing this post I am an Agnostic, Secular, Hindu. If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.

(yet) Another brilliant Idea for bringing peace to the weary soul

Its one in the morning and there a party going on just outside my hostel (its freshers!). I am bored. I don’t dance, don’t drink, don’t dope and don’t date, the only d I am given over to is sadly enough depression. Did I mention I’m bored and depressed?

There was another girl over there, she didn’t date, drink or dope either, but she was having the time of her life dancing. She didn’t have technique, but she had grace, she didn’t know the steps but you could tell she was having a ball. She was the belle of the Ball. Every Guy (sober enough to notice her) would talk to her, twirl her around and wait eagerly for a smile from her. She was 4. How she got onto the dance floor, I don’t know, but I’m glad she did. I love little Kids. I love little kids left alone to do their own thing, When they’re just learning to walk confidently, When they’re discovering music and dance, when they’re inquisitive, when they stumble, when they smile, when they laugh, when they gurgle, when they make the most adorable faces all scrunched up in curiosity intent at enjoying and absorbing everything about this wonderful world they’re in. Not so fond of them when they’ve learnt to talk properly, if they begin to cry, begin to stink, or have to be baby sat for a long time. But watching an 18 month old tot trip over itself while waddling towards....... well nowhere in particular, remains unparalleled as a source of joy and happiness.

OK.... so maybe I didn’t have all that bad a time at freshers, maybe this actually comes second to the party where I sat in the Lobby reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell and eating chocolate Ice-cream. (X: did I see you in the lobby reading a book last night? R: Yes that was me I like boo..... X: oh thank god I thought I’d had too much to drink and was hallucinating)

Which is why I propose (for those of us afflicted with depression and other such DSM VII categorized illnesses)..... drum roll please....... (badam bam boosh!) the Toddler Zoo!

It would be a large room with glass walls and padded flooring in which a whole lot of toddlers will be let loose. The room will contain a bare minimum of toys which will be of a terribly basic nature, so that the spectators don’t feel jealous of all the fun and gee-whizz-bang toys the little kiddies are allowed to have and which are now forever denied to them on account of their age (and also because little kids just seem to do so much more, when they have less). You can stand and watch them amble around, trip and laugh, dance and hop from a safe stink free distance (until you get bored, in which case you are free to leave). Should a toddler begin to cry he/she will be removed from the enclosure and delivered to its mama (or papa) and another happy tot will be brought in as a replacement.

Pure Bliss! It could replace Yoga and meditation or Koi fish and Japanese Rock Gardens (with sand raking) as the latest and the most effective method for calming the mind and bringing peace to the soul, cults could spring up around its therapeutic value and the phony field of psychiatry could finally be annihilated from the face of this earth........... Anyone interested out there?

Anyway much as you can learn from little kids and derive enjoyment at the same time I doubt that it’ll replace books (they’re still my favourite).

To think or not to Think

It was easy to rant about and critique Kambhakt Ishq, even the half a brain cell watching this movie leaves you with was more than enough to figure out and point out what all was wrong with the movie. It’s a little harder to tell you why I liked, nay Loved Dev D. Of the top of my head and without much analysis, I’d say it was the music, the look of the movie and the character arc of Dev which was portrayed brilliantly by Abhay Deol (sigh........)

It’s a lot harder (almost impossible) to tell you what I thought of Kaminey, primarily because two days after watching the movie, I can’t remember much about it, what I liked, what I didn’t like, what I was thinking of during the movie, what I felt about the characters, nothing much, no strong opinion. All I know is that I enjoyed watching the movie, I was buzzed out after I saw it and that I’d like to watch the movie again.

There are some movies which defy analysis by me. It’s not that they’re mindless movies, it’s just that I seem to watch them mindlessly. These movies (almost always) contain the following elements. Humour, it could be black, it could be very clean, but mostly it’s inconsequential humour, there’s no deeper hidden meaning beyond making the viewer laugh (even the Mumbai Bumbai joke in Kaminey is an old one, last noticed by me in Jab We Met! And which has lost all meaning due to repeated use). They always have well fleshed out female characters, it doesn’t mean that they portray my ideal woman, but rather that they portray women as they are, without shying away from their faults and emphasizing their strengths, (Priyanka Chopras role was an absolute delight to watch and her acting was excellent, must have more women with machine guns in movies). They have no right and wrong, either all the characters are kamineys with some redeeming feature, or else all the characters are decent but slightly flawed people, the only reason you’re rooting for someone is because they have star billing (this movie does have some obvious variations in good and bad, but since the movie so staunchly refuses to pass judgment on any of its characters or glorify any other, you’re also left unable to decide whether you agree with the movie.) These movies are generally high concept movies that through the skill of the director/ writer managed to avoid becoming gimmicky (excellent direction, great writing). These movies have a sense of fun, they have panache, they have style (cue the wonderfully choreographed to look unchoreographed Dhan te Nan, the relationship between Mikhail and Charlie). And they always have happy endings, sometimes ambiguous ones, sometimes with a twist, but a happy ending nonetheless.

I can’t find anything to disagree with, or agree with in these movies, they’re about style, they’re about the experience and I leave my brain behind and enjoy them. They’re movies like RocknRolla, Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Kind Hearts and Coronets (an oldie and an absolute goldie), Arsenic and Old lace (these being the black humour ones), Singin’ in the Rain, Music and Lyrics (Clean Humour and yes I enjoyed Music and Lyrics). Think of them as abstract paintings or instrumental music, often there’s a meaning, but sometimes it’s just about the viewing/hearing pleasure. It’s art.

What do I think about movies like these and Kaminey? I think I need to watch....... enjoy them again.

Emofanal Atyachar

I have seen a lot of shitty hindi movies in the theatre. I don’t come across as the sort of person who watches hindi movies, let alone shitty ones and that too in the theatre, but take my word for it I have. If you can’t take my word here’s a sample from the list, Hello Brother, Har Dil Jo Pyaar Karega, Mujhse Dosti Karoge, Kaal and of course, Kambhakt Ishq. I was not a big fan of Hindi movies, never did care very much for them, the melodrama, the lack of finesse, the hammy acting, the stereotyping, the sexism, it made me cringe, it left me depressed, disillusioned angry and mad.

That is, until I saw Bluffmaster. I didn’t expect to, but I ended up adoring Bluffmaster, cute story (‘inspired’, but nevertheless), told well, acted well, no melodrama, actually funny and plausible in its own way. I decided to pay more attention to Hindi Movies. Since then I have fallen in love with Hindi Movies, they’ve developed a certain panache, a certain style, there’s attention and realism in the details, in the characters, in the relationships they portray. The song and dance (and sometimes melodrama) is still there but it’s done with a wink to the audience as if the movie acknowledges the ridiculousness of it all. Hindi Movies have discovered a sense of ‘Fun’ and I’m Loving it.

Since then I have loved Chak De India, Rock On, Luck By Chance, Love Aaj Kal, Lage Raho Munnabhai, and of course Dev D. These movies had their flaws, but each one had some little touch that made me sit up and pay attention. Chak De was understated brilliance, I went in groaning at the thought of another Rah! Rah! We are Indians and invincible (............not!) movie, instead I got a steady and believable story about an underdog team and its disgraced coach, the look of the movie was spot on, shabby Indian fields, dingy government offices populated with paan stained babus and of course Shah Rukh Khan on his scooter (and not big flashy car!) in the last scene. Rock On while not all that great on the whole (for starters, which self respecting Rock Band calls itself Magik?) handled its characters and relationships very well, from Arjun Rampals nagging and neglected spitfire of a wife, to Farhan Akhtars society belle with a heart of gold wife, how years later when Farhan Akhtar bumps into his ex-girlfriend (who he dumped by running away and leaving behind a letter) it does not lead to melodrama as much as a temporary awkwardness. And all the horridness that was Deepika Padukones acting was redeemed in that one scene of Love Aaj Kal when Saif Ali Khan after being mugged in San Fransisco stays beaten down, slightly hysterical and bleeding away, instead of pulling together, running after the baddies and kicking the crap out of them a la any movie made in the 90s (when it was some sort of unwritten rule that Hindi Movie heroes could not be beaten up by goondas without their managing to exact some sort of appropriate revenge, especially if the goondas happened to be Firangs). Lastly, Luck By Chance is brilliant through and through. It’s witty, it’s smart satire, it’s polished and it’s the movie I wanted to make about gender equations. Konkona Sen Sharmas ending dialogue/monologue where she dumps the grovelling Farhan Akhtar by telling him that she would rather lead her own ‘imperfect’ life than be a footnote in his ‘perfect and famous’ life still gives me Goosebumps when I think about it. My movie (I was going to win an Oscar for it) was going to end on a similar note, when the too good to be true hero comes back asking for forgiveness from the slightly frumpy heroine, he tells her that he’s sorry he left her but now he wants to be the last guy in her life..... awwww....... not! The heroine then gently tells him that this wasn’t the correct thing to say, he should have said that he wanted her to be the last girl in his life and goes away leaving behind a very baffled looking hero trying to figure out the difference.

These movies leave me High! It’s like a concentrated shot of adrenalin. I think furiously about the story, the acting, the dialogue, the look and cinematography. The Music remains pounding in my ears long after I’ve left the theatre and sometimes I end up not sleeping for days (!) racing up and down my hostel corridor all night (don’t ask!) because I’m that rattled by the movie. It’s a bit extreme, and heaven knows what’s wrong with little ole me (Mom says I’m high strung). I just saw Kaminey and I foresee several long sleepless nights ahead of me, as I try to work it out of my system.

Thank heavens for hostel - Long corridors, heavy sleepers and accommodating friends.

I get By, If we Try

This blog is supposed to help me improve my (once upon a time) non-existent writing skills. My first, biggest supporter in this endeavour and the person, who finally got me started, is Hakuna Matata. Which is why, I am ashamed to admit that once upon a time I did not appreciate Hakunas Poetry writing efforts. I could do much better, I told myself. This air of superiority quickly evaporated when I actually tried to write something and discovered my lack of any (poetry, prose, drama, test-answers, internship application) writing skills. Since then (that was a good three years ago) I have managed to produce this blog and some pathetic and extremely pretentious attempts at poetry, I still haven’t managed to get around to writing test answers and my internship applications are written by my parents.

The chirpy (and slightly daft, is there ever any other sort) best friend on a TV show announced that, “Yes! She was dating and that they were in ‘like’, she and her boyfriend liked each other”. This made me smile and reminded me of one of my poems I had written earlier. It was all about a girl explaining to her (possibly indignant and ego-ruffled) boyfriend that she doesn’t “love” him but yes she does “Like” him and that she doesn’t use either word lightly. This led to another memory of my birthday, it must have been 4 in the morning and the revelries were just winding down, we were lying on my bed exhausted with dancing and high on cola and ice-cream (I do drink....... It’s just that I drink like a hyperactive 5 year old) and the song “Mera Pehla Pehla Pyaar Hai” was bursting through the speakers, someone tried to get me to name one person to whom I could dedicate this song and I drew a blank! I thought and thought, but it came to naught. No one, no love, no crush no nothing. I guess it made me feel alone. This feeling of being alone used to come quite often, it’s getting rarer as I get more and more comfortable in my own skin and even more importantly as I get more and more accepting of others. But when it does come, I crash and Burn. Last night we were high again, (on alcohol, cola and freedom from moots respectively) and the talk turned to boyfriends, flings and the like, the problems, the fun, the dilemmas, the .......... the high with freedom from moots friend sighed and said that she missed her ex. I could feel a shell starting to grow, I miss exes I never had.

This feeling of being ‘alone’ is very psychologically upsetting and hurting and physically discomfiting, I once described it to my mother as, “you can literally feel the hormones and chemicals whooshing around in your body, reacting, bubbling and boiling over”. I also feel guilty, I have never had these many friends, such close, steady and supportive friendships. Perhaps I feel lonely, because I can’t empathise with them when they have these relationship talks, I feel different, because I have no clue and nothing to say to them, no way of helping them, no way of understanding them. No way of understanding me, is it a repressed sexuality manifesting itself as complete asexuality, or maybe I am asexual, maybe I’m a repressed homosexual thus acting asexual. My head could burst, when will I be able to find answers? I don’t know.

I get by, to quote Richard, Paul, George and John, with a little help from my friends and an abundance of optimism. For you see despite being a brainwashed, brahm - Guilt enveloped, practical, not very girly, man hating, feminism spewing, not a good human being (so, I’ve been told, but that’s another story) oblivious and lost girl, I am a romantic at heart. Things will happen, I will make them happen, I have faith in fate and I have faith in myself and some person out there. I will find my answers and I will overcome the whooshing hormones, whether with a guy, a girl my friends or my family. I don’t have a relationship, but I do have a song.

When I see you on the street, I lose my concentration.
Just the thought that we might meet creates anticipation.

Won't you look my way once before you go
and my eyes will say what you ought to know.
Well I've been thinkin' about you day and night
and I don't know if it'll work out right
but somehow I think that it just might...if we try.

Faces come and faces go in circular rotation.
But something yearns within to grow beyond infatuation.

Won't you look my way once before you go
and my eyes will say what you ought to know.
Well you've got me standin' deaf and blind...
cause I see love as just a state of mind...
and who knows what it is that we might find...if we try.

You're walking a different direction from most people I've met.
You're givin' me signs of affection I don't usually get.
I don't want you to pledge your future the future's not yours to give.
Just stand there a little longer and let me watch while you live.

Well I've been thinking about you day and night...
and I don't know if it will work out right...
but somehow I think that it just might...if we try.
Somehow I think that it just might if we try.
Yes somehow I think that it just might if we try.

Thank You Don Mclean........

The New Inside and the Old Outside

When I was in school, I withdrew into a shell, a shell made up of shyness, books, geeky glasses, a big red pimple (placed prominently in the centre of my nose ..... making me look like a certain famous reindeer) and a brahmanized version of Catholic guilt inculcated in me (unwittingly, she claims) by my mother. As if that wasn’t enough, I was also enveloped by a bubble, a beautiful bubble blown by my family, which distorted all the harsh light entering it from the outside world into a million happy bright and cheerful colours. Like all things made of soap it was a squeaky clean world, where everyone was good, worked hard and spoke English. In other words I was a righteously indignant, morally superior, highly oblivious, slightly lost girl who couldn’t say boo to a goose. Because there was no goose in my bubble and Brahmin guilt would never have let me utter the word Boo.

But somewhere deep down, I knew that it was different out there and that I too was different on the inside. I had to get away from home, and get away from home I did when I went to college (I refused to apply to any college in Delhi). In the last three years, I have emerged from my shell and the bubble has burst. Do I like what I see both inside and outside me? Most of the times I love this new old- world I’m finally getting a chance to explore and after a great deal of therapy, love and support I have come to accept myself, as I am now and as I was then. But sometimes (to put it very shortly) the world sucks and is too much for me to handle, and sometimes (to put it very politely) I become a short-tempered, loud mouthed asshole. In other words I am a righteously indignant, morally superior, not so oblivious, even more lost girl who has learnt to say much more than boo to animals even bigger than the average goose.

Today I lost my temper at an auto driver. He wanted to pick up an extra fare, a lady whose auto had broken down, because her destination and mine were on the same road. I put my foot down and told him that while I was perfectly willing to let the lady share the auto, I would pay him what had already been agreed upon and that the lady need not pay him anything extra. This upset him and he tried to argue with me, only to be cut short when I began to scream my head off at him. Scared by this outburst he quietly drove off leaving behind a relieved lady who preferred to remain stranded in the dark than share an auto with a slightly insane and most probably violent girl. I wanted to scream some more, when I realized that this would make it my 2nd outburst in 1 week. I sat silently trying to collect my thoughts and realized that I had lost my temper for nothing. I had helped no one, neither the lady who was still stranded nor the auto-driver who would have earned perhaps an extra 10 rupees and had managed to mask it all under a cloak of self-righteousness. Maybe I had made my condition not out of any charitable feeling towards the lady but only to spite the auto driver or because I thought of it as an easy painless way of gaining some much needed good karma. Whatever the fault of the auto-driver, I shouldn’t have yelled at him, the way I did, especially since, he a daily wage labourer was trying to earn 10 rupees more, only to be thwarted by a brat who can’t think of a single thing cheap enough to be bought in 10 rupees.Fundamentally I lost my temper because I wanted to and because I am privileged enough to do exactly what I want. The new Inside is not getting along very well with the Old Outside. Perhaps its a matter of experience and practice.