PMS

My horoscope is a horrorscope
Things are getting out of hand, and I can't cope.
No one understands me,
I am not what I seem to be.

I try, try, and then lose,
I hate PMS blues.

I dogle

Wet drops on noses

And whiskers (not on kittens)

Bright eyed daschunds and hungry curs in kitchens

Brown mangy mongrels tied up with string

These are a few of my favourite things

Cream coloured retrievers and half shaven poodles

Angry dogs, sad dogs and pups who leave puddles

Wild dalmations that fly, and don't listen when you call

I love them... yes I love them ...all

Pomeranians and lap dogs always so snappy

Loving labradors lazy and happy

Silver white huskies that I've never seen

These are several of my favourite theeengs....

I belong to a family of 'doglers'. Oglers at dogs. Its crazy ... our unconditional love for canines.

A trip to Baraut

There's something about the villages of western Uttar Pradesh that makes me feel like running on the dusty roads or along the bunds of the fields like the urchin boys... in nothing but grubby shorts that are falling off my bum!

My field trip to a couple of orchards in Baraut, a Tehsil in Bagpat District, U. P. reminded my of my ancestral village near Mathura. How do these places... miles apart seem so similar? The whoosh of dust, cowdung cake-firewood smoke and aroma of freshly cut chari (Sorghum, used as fodder) filled my nostrils and made me so nostalgic. And the bumpy roads..coupled with the rickety Armada we were aboard formed this deadly combination in which my head felt as if it would jerk off from the neck, and my internal organs seemed to have got dislodged from their various points of attachment to beome a homogenised pulpy mush inside. Nevertheless, the overcast sky and cool breeze laden with familiar smells kept me happy.

The orchard men were pleased to oblige with their knowledge of local mango varieties. They were surprised and probably dismayed that I had come all the way from Delhi for leaves of those trees,and not fruits. Shabudin alias Shaheen (pic) was of great help. My guide, Dr. Bhat and the HOD (Collection & Exploration), Dr Malik, were amazingly cooperative - doing all the jumping and plucking... while I simply did the labelling (Womens lib? HUH.. its great being a girl... and a shortie at that).

Forty three varieties later, we decided to stop. We lunched at Malik Sir's nephew's place. The ghee was superb. Ghevar, the sweetmeat of the monsoon was there in its saccharine, perforated glory. We bought lots on the way back.

The onward journey was bad... bumpier as the driver got mixed up ith the roads. I wanted to cry as I felt my medulla separating from my spine. AARGH. Dr. Malik had to be dropped back yo Mayur Vihar, my leaves had to be refrigerated in NBPGR, and I was dropped home last. Reached at 8 30pm... But it was a rewarding trip.

evenings in bus no. 721

The blueline buses have been in the news for all the wrong reasons. Anyway, now that the rogue buses are back on the roads, my onward journey from my lab is the same hellish experience. What with lactic acid soaked armpits all around, the sight of sweat-drippy females in SYNTHETIC fluorescent salwar-kameezes makes me feel all the more nauseous. Add to that the entire architecture of a part of the male anatomy pressed against the side of my thigh...I count to three and take deep breaths...there's no place in the bus, thus the squashing. But when the rascal inches his way closer and he actually begins hints of gyrations and thrustings, my elbow comes crashing into whatever part it can perforate. Darn, I forgot the pins my lab mates thrust into my hand - a better weapon to puncture lumpenous thrusty elements. The good-for-nothing gets the hint and shimmies himself out of the way. My stop is approaching (actually I'm four stops away), but I've got to move ahead otherwise I'll never make it (make it? a couple of INCHES of bus space towards the door)!

Getting off the bus I dread the next day, just because of all this...