Unlicensed but determined

My husband has the nasty habit of selling any car I start to learn driving in. It usually takes me at least two to three years after the purchase of a car to have the guts to attempt driving it. And within a week he will sell it. I do not exaggerate – may I be stricken down with lightning or whatever from the heavens if I lie. See, I’m still typing so you can be assured that this is the God’s own truth.

Why he has the irresistible urge to sell when I am in the process of beginning to get comfortable with driving is a mystery to me. I think in his secret heart, he is afraid I’d destroy his property and hence sells it off at a loss on spying his wife behind the steering wheel. This time it was a month before the vehicle was disposed off. The reason is simple. I got my driver to give me lessons (see the damn thing has a clutch – why would I want to shift gears constantly? – I think I should just move it and the car should reasonably take care of the rest) in absolute secrecy so my husband never knew or saw. But as soon as I shyly confessed to him thinking to make him proud of me because I was driving real smooth, he congratulates me enthusiastically and starts muttering into his phone. Before the week is up – ta- daaa the car’s vanished!!!

Now we have only one car – to me it looks like a truck. I am sure my husband believes I will not attempt to drive a vehicle which (look this is India) can comfortably house two of the average cars on the road. Moreover its diesel. For you neophytes, a diesel engine is a far cry from a petrol engine and behaves very differently. Now today’s technology has created a very smooth diesel engine but its still not petrol. So while I have mastered the clutch (it’s a beauty) on the truck, it still lurches whenever I do anything with it. It lurches when I take my foot off the accelerator. It lurches when I change gears. I make the car look like an old lady hobbling across the street and am heartily ashamed. And tomorrow I take it and go for my driving test. Dear God, what have I done to deserve this? Will I never be licensed?!!

ennui

Nothing deadens me like routine. Actually that’s not correct, it’s not the routine that sucks all life out of me, it’s the meaninglessness of the chores that fill up the routine. I have always thought of myself as a fairly intelligent person and cannot believe I aced academics all my life just to scrub pots. I should have gone around dating instead of actually studying and maybe I would have ended up a more fun person. Instead I have turned out to be a repressed nutcase with severe control freakishness.

How did I get myself in this soup? I had the world before me and I wasted it. A series of bad life choices and now a complete lack of future awaits me. I have tried so hard to be upbeat but I cannot do it. How can I reinvent myself at 34? Where will I find the inspiration to discover a reason for living? I am not cut out to be a great wife or mother – I cannot even fake interest anymore. The kids are not babies and seem to do well enough without my meddling. My husband can lose himself in any activity – what would he need me for? I stayed at home for a family that really doesn’t require me for anything that a maid can’t do. It is beyond comprehension how systematically I have ensured that I become redundant in every sphere of life. I alone am responsible for my present condition but how on earth can I pull myself back from the brink for that’s where I am and it is unbelievably difficult to even want to.

Steaming in Kerala

I just got back from a trip to Kerala. The only way to describe it would be hot. Its not just a plain old heat – it’s a sapping, enervating sort of heat and I wonder how I managed to stay there for ten years but then I used to be a lot more accommodating then. You get up in the morning all in a sweat and it gets worse during the day. Your eyes sting and copious rivulets cause various parts of your body to stick to your clothes.

I don’t know whether it’s only my part of Kerala that is stuffy. Everyone there has a stuffy mindset just like the weather there. Of course I love the lushness of the greenery – the fields are a glorious shade of green that is like nectar to the eyes, the soaring coconut palms are a yet another shade of green and the numerous temple tanks are varying shades of green as well. The part I don’t like is the regressive attitude of the people when it comes to personal freedom especially for women. I don’t drink, smoke, wear revealing clothes or even anything less than full length stuff but I am considered a rebel because I think differently. I don’t see anything wrong in asking my husband to help with the children. I don’t see the point in bending backwards to satisfy the inexplicable demands of society. “What will people think?” is the overriding concern of my in-laws. I understand that both I and my children are a sore disappointment to them. I don’t work or drive (yet!) but when I did work, they were upset that I had to keep more hours than a government school teacher. My children can neither sing nor dance or in any way perform to crowds and I have honestly never sent them to be trained in that fashion. I will if they are interested but I simply don’t like forcing them. So they get no attention through my children and they find it difficult to connect with them which is of course understandable.

Restraint is always taught to the females – all girls should school their features into indifference lest they attract attention and definitely no running about. I find that even during a music show, people have constipated looks and they don’t applaud much or show any expression of enjoyment – of course the youth are different but it still seems forced to me. I’m sure one more generation will take care of that .
My roots will pull me back some day though. I only hope I would have regressed sufficiently to survive there by then!

Why I will not become a best-seller

Alright, here are the several reasons I figure I am not going to be a best-seller.
I am not a stripper. Or a Las Vegas showgirl or a reformed or otherwise call girl/escort: Apparently being any of the above really helps if you have a book to sell. It even helps to get people to read your blog and once enough people have read it, publishing houses approach you with fat advances. Why did I have to be a studious sort growing up? – it would have been much easier to learn to pole dance.

I am not starving and living in a loft: I know this is commonly associated with artists but it couldn’t hurt to be really hard up – it sort of drives you like nothing else I am told. My husband thinks that technically I could be considered as ‘starving’ because of my distaste for food but I don’t think that actually qualifies.

I am not a single parent neither am I divorced or an unwed mother: Again while that alone won’t help, an author who writes under those circumstances has a vastly better chance than a stay-at-home mom who’s an aspiring writer in between housekeeping.

I don’t drink, smoke and have sex every night preferably with different people (on different days of the week I mean): I read this blog recently in which the lady wrote precisely about the three things I have mentioned above. There really isn’t anything much in the blog except how she’s coping from one break up and who is better at sex and why smoking during sex is a real thrill. There I’ve used the word ‘sex’ so many times that hopefully some people will read my blog at least to ask me where they can find the sexy lady’s blog! And to top it all, this lady has a book published by Penguin after one of their talent hunters spotted her very interesting (I honestly didn’t notice that she could write though) and highly popular blog!!

I don’t live in Afghanistan/Pakistan/Iraq and have never met Bin Laden:
Blame me for having a very ordinary life dominated by very ordinary milestones. Who would want to read about characters who were born, grew up, got married, had kids – you can actually see how boring that would be. I did live in the Gulf for 10 years but Bin Laden wasn’t fashionable in those years and I lost a valuable chance to add some color to my history.

I don’t know Bill Clinton or to put it better, Bill Clinton does not know me:
I don’t think I need to explain that one ...