Miss Tara's Manual of Household Management

1. Vacuum cleaners are useless. You have to use them anyway because they don't make home-type brooms in the god forsaken west (correct me if I'm wrong, PLEASE!! And send me one!) But after you're done, fill a bucket with scalding hot water, pour in some dettol, some floor cleaner (wear gloves; chemical burns are most unattractive. Ask me. I have two.) Get a piece of cloth and swab the goddamned floor. On hands and knees. Every single tile.
It's easier than you think. And it smells great. It fucks with your back.
Get a massage from Man after (or better still: get him to do it. Kick him if he misses large swathes.)

2. You actually have to clean your windows even if the blinds are always down. Otherwise, intoxicated by the success of swabbing exercise, you pull them up triumphantly to let the light in, and there's a dust storm that annihilates everything you've already cleaned. Most annoying. Clean windows first.

3. The person who scrubs the bathroom owns the house. This is non-negotiable. So make sure it's you.

4. If you do not water the plants, they die.
Have compassion. Stick them under the bathroom tap once in a while and say nice things to them as they drink. They flower better that way.

5. Recession chic: Get out the two kites you bought in the bazaar in N. Delhi SO long ago, and decide you will never fly them in the f.ing gales they get here, so bluetac them onto the bathroom wall just under the skylight. Since the bathroom is so small and they are so bright, you don't need anything else. Then throw saris over everything. Raani pink goes with: pista green, midnight blue, cobalt blue, peacock blue, bottle green, gold, silver, white, crimson, saffron... you get the idea. Make sure there are peacocks, elephants, lotus flowers and mango motifs on every iridescent piece of everything. Throw silk cushions over all chairs. (Pick these up, a pound apiece at the Evolution sale. And don't ask me to send; they're sold out, I bought them all.)
Light diyas everywhere.
Then get the Scot to lie back on the divan, thus embellished. Viola! Rajkumar in palace! Decor done!

6. Go have a long shower and tell the man you want dinner and a massage to be ready by the time you're out.

For the record.

Sick of angst. It's boring and porridge-coloured and despite all it's potential, entirely unexceptional in and of itself.
So enough.

Cheers

The English Patient:
When Almasy, half-crazed with despair and longing and desire asks Madox what that place at the base of a woman's throat is called, Madox says: For God's sake, man. Pull yourself together.

Why.
Isn't that passion the goal?
Unseaming is just the natural by-product; desirable, in fact, because it acts as a good proxy to having attained said goal.
No?

**********************************

My interviews.
Coding them (again).
Deleting old transcripts and replacing them with new notes. .doc by .doc. Wild tabla music in the background, and the last edges of a wineglass spilling the sort of carelessness that is required for good concentration.
And I wonder, as I hit Delete-delete-Delete, again and again and again (with the calm certainty that what comes next is better): is this what He will feel like when it comes time to bring about the end of the world? Simple, energizing background music, a tinge of winered madness, and a calmly certain click on some cosmic Delete key. If so, I wouldn't mind being a part of that party. There's good music, wine, and what comes next is better.
No?

Just Be

When did being clever and strong and beautiful turn into a race to become cleverer and stronger and beautifuller till we were all running, running, running, all in the same direction, pushing shoving pulling, running, running,
ourselves
straight
into
the
ground.

whuuuush.

Ladies and Gentlemen. Introducing the aptly named Angel Coat by French Connection.
Wah! Taaliyaan!!

To-Do List. 2009.

Indulge all the old passions. They've been laughed off and only half-loved for too long:
Reading.
Under trees, in cafes, in the kitchen, on the blue cuddly chair, in bed, on the bus, in the park. The old favourites, new ones, poetry, fiction, non fiction, Afghanistan, astronomy, physics, love stories, adventure stories, Rushdie, Micheal Ondaatje.
Red roses.
Wear them. Buy pots of them, place along each window sill in thick stands and stain every drab English skyline with deep crimson. Sniff every morning.
Maharani pink.
Wear with delicate pista green. With gold. With silver. With baby blue. Midnight blue. Deep red. Wear with flair, with panache. Become the antithesis of beige.
Research.
Remember the answer to the challenge: 'A PhD?? But why??' And live the answer, again. After far too long. Work. Breathe it.
Sleep.
Without guilt re. lost study hours, without alarm clocks jerking one out of nightmares or starlit dreams, without struggling to the last inch of tiredness before giving in. Sleep full nights, siesta when having a hard day, catnap whenever the urge strikes.
Run.
What happened to the girl who was never tired?? Get back the 45-minutes-without-getting-breathless-girl. Whip those legs back into shape, rid those lungs of the last vestiges of the damage done by all those ridiculous cigarettes (What on earth was I thinking. Yech.) By my birthday I will be able to do this, 3 times a week.

And this will sound extremely prosaic, but honestly, I have to nail this now:
Bloody drink enough water every day. Stop f.ing around with kidneys. Seriously.
No.more. days of going to bed without having drunk anything but coffee and coke. Shee. Utterly disgusting thing to do to the body. Will stop.

And in the time and space in between these passions, find new ones. Go out and explore. Try new colours in the shops. New coffees in the cafes. Whenever tempted to say 'I know what I want'', rethink and say: 'I wonder... could I try a piece of that??' Wonder. About everything. Rethink. Reknow. Re-create.

And to those who think this is an entirely selfish list, think again.
Half-baked, broken, unkempt or neglected souls cannnot world-changing magic make.

Whoosh