Stop and Smell the Gandapaana

 Published in LMD Living - May 2016

“I can’t remember when I last had the luxury of time to read more than a page of a book, and that too, only on the toilet seat” a colleague recently shuddered. A valid and ponder-worthy insight to life today.  The rising cost of living has also raised blood pressures considerably in what was once a lazy little island that could teach the Mexicans a thing or two on the art of the 24-hour siesta. The urban jungles of Sri Lanka have in recent times turned into something of a mental asylum for bees. We are yet to reach the suicidal stress levels of the Indians or Chinese, but it certainly looks like we’re on our way there.  Conversations between aunties that were previously centred on the price of pumpkins have now evolved into the lack of time to go and buy said pumpkins. Uncles are becoming more and more frequent visitors at the cardiologist’s clinic because the source of their coronaries are no longer only their daughters, but also the stresses of keeping up with the day-to-day pace of life.  Given the booming business of self-help books and stress therapy Youtube videos out there, it seems the whole world is suffering a massive existential crisis and needs all the motivation it can get.  

Where did we go so wrong? The insipid inspirational memes are quite right – we’re all slaving away to earn the ability to afford a life we have no time to lead. If you think about it (providing you actually have the time to think about it)… at some point of our lives, we forgot the point of life. We sit at our monochromatic cubicles, slurping up copious amounts of coffee designed to keep us positive until it’s time to clock off, wishing for the utopian day when we could be living the Pinterest life. We cower to the system that breathes over our shoulders like a disapproving grandmother and before too long, ‘someday’ becomes a mere catchphrase that never sees the light of reality and you’re left wheezing on your deathbed, wondering where the time went.

It may be too much of an ask to completely rehash life just like that and go on that world tour like you’ve always wanted, but perhaps it’s time we considered listening to the Deepak Chopras of the universe, and adopted a few tiny changes to our daily ritual, that could in turn make our day slightly more interesting than the pimple on our management’s backside that we hate to kiss but still do, for the sake of that monthly pay packet.  Maybe if we actively seek to de-stress even for a few minutes as a mandatory chore for the day, it could eventually lead to a semblance of much-needed bliss that doesn’t cost an overworked arm and leg. To make the transition easier, here are three tried and tested tricks you could take up:

1.       Spend an extra five minutes on the loo. Admit it, unless you’ve got serious infections in your underparts, you’ve never felt more serene than when seated on your own private throne. Just increase the time limit, ignore whoever is banging on the door, and sing ‘Let it Go’ while you’re at it.

2.       Stop and smell the Gandapaana. Gardens are a beautiful thing. If you don’t have one, break into your neighbour’s or find a random patch of green and imagine you’re Maria in the Sound of Music. Fresh grass feels amazing, when not riddled with dog poo, and can give you just the peace you need.

3.       Get a pet. Dogs, cats, hamsters, chickens… whatever works for you. Cuddling an animal, providing it’s not a scorpion, has an uncanny knack for making you feel more relaxed than your spouse ever did.

There you go; your DIY starter kit to less stress and hopefully more reasons to smile through the rat race. You’re welcome.

Grammar Nazi

Picture the scenario. The setting – a sweltering tuition class packed to the brim with students, like prawns in Negombo fishing nets. 

Enter lanky, lazy boy whose mother has forced him to be here but forgot to make sure he wears a belt. Five minutes later, enter giggly girl latched onto the arms of other girls who are equally giggly.  

Boy sees girl. 

Girl sees boy.

Boy and girl fall madly and immaturely in deep infatuation. 

A network operation worthy of the KGB is soon put into action, with mutual friends getting in on the scheme to do some background research in order to procure girl’s number for boy. On finding out that he wishes to make contact, her heart thumps in excitement and a grand overture of romantic orchestral music begins playing in her head. Coy looks are sneaked in each other’s directions as the girl’s phone beeps in a text message that she has difficulty opening on account of her shaking hands.

Hi gurl u luk so Qt wil u b my GF? Mt me @ da bus halt l8tr babee.

The music screeches to an abrupt halt as her face and fake eyelashes drop. The boy has just revealed himself to be an utter moron, incapable of constructing a proper sentence. Herein endeth all future potential for courtship or his success in life.

At least, that’s how this writer hopes the story goes. There is no excuse for bad spelling and lack of grammatical eloquence when it comes to the art of wooing. The first step to making a good impression- stop murdering the Queen.  

To call the new-fangled language of the youth ‘irksome’ is an understatement.  It is frustrating.... ludicrous... discombobulating (At this point, any persons below 30 reading this article would have turned the page, proving the point) at best and agonizing to read.  When did Sri Lanka’s grandiose status of highest literacy level in Asia reduce to such use of rubbish? What’s even more tragic is that the media celebrates the trend (rather, the speedy descent of intelligence) by adding fuel to the fire. A recent scan through social media resulted in a throbbing headache, thanks to the number of ‘lol’s,  ‘Kewl’s and ‘baybeh’s floating around in web space. Popular memes sporting lines like ‘Y U NO DO DAT’ or ‘I can haz ur nomz?’ just take that headache all the way to the intestinal region. Facebook should be renamed Facepalm. Twitter now showcases more twits than tweets. The only positive result in continuing this way without correction is that when Armageddon comes and the aliens invade, at least we’ll all be speaking the same language. 

The younger the generation, the lesser the inclination seems to be to type a word longer than three characters at most. Today’s children seem to believe that punctuation is the name of a vaccine and syntax the latest clothing material. Grammar would be what you call your mother’s mother.

Methinks official punishment on a national scale is befitting for the misuse of the English language. Flog them all, and if they don’t know what the word flog means, flog them some more. Put them in prisons with wall-to-wall blackboards and make them write elaborate sentences a thousand times over.  Those violating the rules of English on social media should be flagged as ‘textual predators’ and shunned in public.

“Don’t be such an archaic prude”, a teenager chortles when lectured on incorrect spelling.  Apart from points for knowing the word archaic, all he will get is a slap in reply should he continue his case, but he prevails. “Chill, aunty… its SMS lingo. Put that umbrella down.” 

No, it is NOT any sort of lingo.  It is vulgar and disrespectful to the beauty of a 2500 year-old language, to distort it to a bunch of meaningless phonetics just because your immature fingers are in a hurry to go play a game instead of making the effort to craft your correspondence. So this umbrella will STAY poised to attack unless the effort is made. 

Totes. Got dat?

Plates, Pubs and Pigs.

It irks me that Belgian food is not given its due hallelujah in this country. I assume it’s because not enough Belgians want to leave the motherland and bring recipes here, since they’re too busy with their national sport - eating. If there’s one thing the Belgians do right, its cuisine. The land that invented the French fry (did you know?) manages to serve up a ménage à trois of French, German and Italian flavours melded together into a distinctly fabulous taste of its own.  

As always, my interaction with food comes packaged with drama and I have memories attached to every meal I had during my stay in Belgium. Once, I was starving at lunchtime after a very long day, when my hostess announced she would be serving Endives (pronounces ‘ondeev’). ‘Endives!’ I thought excitedly. What a gloriously exotic name for a dish I imagined would be filled with sizzling goodness. She held up a large plate and my tummy groaned in anticipation. She set it down and my mouth groaned instead.

An onion.  

A single, large, penile-shaped, lettuce-y onion. 

I looked up at her in askance; perhaps she had missed something? She beamed back, interpreting my stare for amazement.  Sighing, I ate my onion, which, by the way, tasted better than I’d expected. 

If lunch was a dismal start then dinner was overkill. I showed off my complete incompetency in French by ordering something pronounced ‘Jhombone’ off the menu at a pub.  The waiter did a double take and looked at me suspiciously. “Pour vous, mademoiselle?” Was that a tinge of surprise I noted in his voice? “Oui” I sniffed, for it was the only word I knew. Minutes later he pushed out a slab of wood atop which sat an entire leg of pork larger than my barstool. My heart sank at the fact that I would now have to eat this monstrosity, since in Belgium leaving food on your plate is considered an insult. given that it all happened  quite a few years before my conscience high-kicked me into the struggling vegetarian I am today, I channelled my inner Obelix and set about eating what, frightening dimensions aside, was truly and utterly delicious. Amazingly, I managed to eat every bit, even if it did take me two hours and left me looking like the enormous pig whose leg I’d just consumed.  

One occasion had me trapped in a loo for over an hour, a trauma which the highly apologetic hostess tried to placate with a dish of frogs legs and snail that just sent me back to the toilet once I’d found out what it was. Another time I was served a fantastic lobster whose claw, thanks to my limited cutlery skills, ended up on my hostess’s head. A visit to a brewery had me, the ignorant, tasting a rackful of 15 beer varieties and singing bawdy limericks at the top of my voice on the streets of Brussels. Thank heaven the lyrics were in my mother tongue and not theirs, else I'd have been propositioned.

From meats to mussels and cheeses to chips, Belgian food is designed to turn you into a glutton. Try it out.  Just make sure you know French first.

Hello, me.

Dear 16-year old DramaQueen,

Hello, you little bitch. You disillusioned loser. You have no idea how uncool you are. I, unfortunately, do, having suffered 20 years more of your tiresome little life. When you tried to hang yourself from the karapincha tree that other day, why the hell didn't you go through with it? We could have reincarnated as a nice fat housecat or something then and lived a life of utter indulgence surrounded by choice cuts of rat. Instead, you chose to live a little more, didn't you, you pathetic ingrate?

What do you MEAN the boy next door wasn't watching out from his balcony and therefore couldn't come to rescue you from committing suicide and ask you to marry him? He was never worth the vying for attention from in the first place. Leave him alone. You'll find out soon enough that he's not interested and thinks you're a bit of a loon. What... you thought those are REAL excuses he keeps giving you every time you ask him if he wants to come over and see your barbie dolls?

Btw, think it's about time you threw the barbies out. Outside that silly little bubble in your head, 16 year olds don't play with dolls anymore. You sad, sad thing. No wonder I had to write to you... to set your funny head straight and give us a chance at being normal in the eyes of society. But I know you.... no amount of ranting and advising will change a damn thing; we've always been pig-headed that way. It'll get you into a damn load of trouble in the future, but you still won't care. Nevertheless, I might as well try my luck and see.
Lets categorize the lecture, shall we?


Being 16.

Act it, for heaven's sake. Like, in a relatively normal, Sri Lankan girl kind of way, please. It will save you and your mother a lot of embarrassment along the way (trust me on this one).
No dear, life is not a Disney movie, so stop making Disney princess expressions and gestures with everything you say. You don't look pretty and alluring, you look a downright nutter.
No, your hair doesn't look like Ariel from The Little Mermaid. Backcombing it won't help, though you won't realize it until you start balding at 25. The birdy on the tree is not talking to you and neither are your dolls. The cat, perhaps. Cats have been having conversations with us for years. Quite intelligent ones too. Just today, I discussed the merits of sawdust litter trays with Socksy, who you'll meet in 11 years. You'll love her. She's cool.
Back to you, though.

Despite your convictions, the socks in your bra don't make you look like you have boobs. Besides, everyone knows you've got stuffing in there, your technique is horrible enough to make it obvious. I know you hate to admit it, but Mum is right. We're late developers, darling. There will come a time when you'll finally grow a pair (though it might not be the pair you wish several times in your life that you'd been born with) and won't want to stop displaying them. That'll give your mother headaches much worse than the migraines you're causing now. Chillax. If you wait it out, boobs will come. I am sorry, however, to inform you that the good news ends there, because along with the boobs comes a heap shitload of flab and fat that become your gripe subject of choice as you age. Good luck. Ms. Sri Lanka, you ain't. Get that into your head and stop parading up and down in front of your mirror in your mother's kaftan.

Try not to harbour too many dreams of that veterinarian job. We end up in advertising. Different kind of zoo, though for some strange reason it accepts us wholeheartedly and makes us feel good about ourselves. And we know how much we like ego massages.


Family

Your dad will be fine. You don't need that coffin, even though the doctors told mum to get it ready. Believe it or not, you'll witness your first miracle long before you're enough of a religious nut to imagine it. In fact, it's your growing aethism that convinces you that it IS indeed, a miracle. The sheer fact that you don't believe in them and it happens to you will turn you into a religious nut for a few years. Good luck when that happens. Anyways, Dad will be back and bouncing in no times, and give you plenty of reasons to wonder why. There will be drama with him for the rest of YOUR life, if not his. Where did you think you got your particular brand of eccentricity from? Yes, you'll want to kill him more than a few times, but hang on... don't do anything rash. He'll leave the country on work and you'll have some peace for a while. Mum, on the other hand, I can't help you with. You think she's a pain NOW? Hahahaha. Honey, don't for a second be fooled into thinking that age is gonna bring you any benefits. It gets worse and worse the older you get. To the point where you'll contemplate suicide once more, this time because you cannot get away from her. Yeah, she'll be cool and all... but she will never know who you are, nor understand you completely. In about 8 years, you'll watch a TV series about a guy named Raymond. Watch closely. His parents? Those are yours. Ten times better than yours, in fact. Might I suggest you start plotting a strategy right now, because otherwise when you're 30, you'll be still under her roof, as neurotic as she is.
Our brother will remain the bane of your life. In fact, this year he's gonna start selling your information to the older guys at school for toffees and hotdogs from the tuck shop, earning you a marvelous reputation that will haunt you for the rest of your life. When you're 30, you'll meet some of these guys and they'll have amused looks on their faces while you struggle not to dig a hole for yourself closeby.

Stop avoiding family gatherings. You're missing out on the food. Stop avoiding visiting your grandparents. There will come a day when you wish you could do it more often and when they'll be the only people on your side. Having said that, do tell your grandmother where to get off when she proposes that you join the Carmalite Convent this year after your O'levels. And once you're done with the 'evil dead nun' anonymous calls to her at midnight, don't you dare start contemplating getting thyself to the nunnery. They won't take you in, anyway.... not after you tell Mother Superior where to put her rosary, when Grandma takes you there for a visit next month.


Friends

That's right. You have none at school. But it has nothing to do with your presumption that you're too mature and cool to hang with silly girls. It's coz they all think you're weird. I think your animal rights motion of climbing on the canteen roof and staging a hartaal has something to do with it. Also because you stick up for the underdogs and occasionally burst into Disney songs in the middle of exams cos you don't know the answers. It might also be because they know you stuff your bra and the primary school students think you're amazing for knowing all the Disney songs. They also hate your guts since you get all the plum roles in the school plays and you manage to over-achieve despite that lose screw in your head and your inability to get good grades. Girls can be cruel like that. But hey... don't worry... we're never gonna relate to any of those chicks anyway. Down the line you're going to meet some people just as weird as you and make some pretty solid friends. Much better than the school variety. In ten years you're also going to be pretty successful and a wee bit better known than your classmates, so you can shove it down their pretentious throats at school reunions. Muahahahaha. High five.
Note to self, though - that girl you hate? Don't punch her in the bathroom next year. You break her nose and get suspended for a week. Sometimes, bitches need to be left to their own devices.

Boys

Oh please. Stop puking all over the place, they're not that bad. The guy next door is a wuss and you know it, and for your information, other boys in general are NOT piles of poo. Some of them are pretty nice and yes, you ARE capable of being turned on by a man, when not trying to turn INTO one at several points of your life (that will give Mummy a few reasons for acute alcoholism too). Just not yet. You're gonna make some pretty heavy mistakes, though. That guy you just met at the inter-school play? Avoid him at all costs. Yeah he's the lead actor and yeah he's cute, but mark my words young lady, he's a cocky, chauvinistic son of a gun and when you start dating him next year, you're going to be sorry. He'll unknowingly make mincemeat of you and make you so ashamed of yourself that it'll take you 8 whole years to figure out he's not right for you, by which time we will have lost a great deal more than our self respect. But hey... par for the course I suppose. You'll be friends with the guy whatever the outcome, and the experiences with him will turn you into the kick-ass sister you are today. I particularly love the way you give him an actual, physical boot the day you wake up and smell the toe jam.

The player you meet after that ain't interested in you and I think you need to remember that when you meet him. Falling for him after an initial hardcore 'I hate him' campaign will be your biggest mistake yet. You turn into such a needy little pig after the wretched man turns his tricks and leave you wailing. Well, at least we find out that we've got emotions. But really... hon... we know better. By all means stay well away from the Romeo coz that face... that's all make-up. Fake as fake can be.

You know what though... if you don't have those last two flings with demons, then you probably won't recognize the angel we meet next. It'll take you some time to see it, of course, because you have your head wrapped up in your god-awful 'perfect man' checklist as tight as a virgin leech's arsehole, but you'll eventually open your eyes. He's a real sweetheart. We gush about him and all that. Did you ever guess we'd gush about a guy? We do. Not bad for us, if I do say so myself. So I suppose the whole 'kiss a few frogs' strategy does work, eh? Daddy, being daddy, will get in the way stop you from having him forever though, and you'll hurt for the rest of our life. But all is not lost...the boy stays firmly lodged in our heart and becomes our best friend, and whilst this does not bode well for any future suitors (you build yourself a nice big wall to keep 'em out), you still have Mr. Amazing to give you and your baggage the companionship you seek. You won't believe me now, but trust me... the single life becomes the best time we have and you'll discover what it is to find your own strength.

Life

If you keep continuing to be you, we'll do ok, in between psychotic depressive episodes, long periods of alcohol abuse followed by abject teetotaller-hood, unending drama with family, work and friends, at least two embarrassing situations per day and some rather exciting successes. I guess we're one of the lucky ones, albeit one of the more-than-slightly off ones. People will laugh, wherever we go. At least we don't make them cry. Except for Mother. Mother cries. Alot.
Stick to the drama, stick to the cats (there will be dogs, rats and elephants too), and for God's sake never stick to the plan. It doesn't work for us that way and you'll find that out soon enough.

Good luck. You're a right royal pain in the arse, but enjoy being one. At least you grow up to be way cooler than you are now. I think.

Big hugs! (Oh shut up, you forget I know you secretly like them).

An older, fatter, sluttier you.

P.S. - My boobs are bigger than yours. Ngyah!

HOO!

My DAHLINGS! How how?

Yes I know. I have been MIA for yonks now and I don't mean that nasty-mouthed rapper girl.Though I can be nasty mouthed too. I can't rap, though.

Admit it, you missed me and my digressing.

Aiyo I have so much to tell you... so much to pontificate on... so much to bitch about. Vhere to start, ja? Shall I just blabber at random? Yes, I think I will. Sorting out thoughts and news into different blogposts will take too much time and you know how often I blog.


1.

So I started a new job and all. Methinks it was high time a change happened (I don't think anyone should be surprised, going by the 'woe-is-me' references to my work in the past), but strangely this new shift was not propogated by me. You see dearies, the COO (Chief Operations Oxbrain) of the last office- a baby-faced snake whom I never really liked to begin with - pulled a fast one and made off with the agency network and the utterly fartly client who made up 80% of our business. There are lots of different versions of the story circulating in the ad industry, but those of us who worked in the place know just exactly how the conniving lowlife and his conniving arse-buddy the client manipulated things to suit their purpose. It was quite a trying time for most of us, but one we all saw coming. Wonderfully enough though, 95% of the staff refused to jump ship with him and basically left him hanging with only three groupies that he'd brought in. The rest of us found work elsewhere and moved on after a few tears and the office we worked in closed down. It wasn't all sad, though. Most of us have come to the realisation that things really worked out for the best, given that we're all pretty happy in our new jobs and we no longer have to service that awful, awful client anymore. I also hear that ex-COO was recently almost beaten up by the husband of a woman he'd been having a fling with. Muahahahaha. Karma at its best.

I was fortunate enough to be retained by the old group and transferred to a sister agency, along with a charismatic LD and a couple of other chums. So far, so good. Although I am no longer working in the creative division, the new stint is good fun and I am loving the energy and good vibes going around. It's quite a pleasant change to have actual HUMANS to work for and with. I've realized I've been decidedly happier with the world since I made the switch, so it must be a good thing. Tralala and all that for now. Wish me luck, sweethearts.


2.

I have, out of a the classic glutton-for-punishment-itch, also taken on two new side jobs. It has nothing to do with money and everything to do with the fact that I am in denial about my ageing energy levels. One afore-mentioned side job is actually a bit of a dream come true - I've been commissioned to host my very own travel show on TV! Cue fanfare and general cheers for life's little ups. It's a budget travel show where I get to traipse aimlessly around Sri Lanka and get my hands dirty off the beaten track. Very very exciting stuff. At the mo it's all in planning and production phase, but by God it's thrilling. To top things off I am presenting the show with a long-time buddy which makes it funner, if there be such a word. So far we've shot the pilot episode which was a bit of a sorry disaster but one for the memories nevertheless. I am hoping the actual episodes to come will be slightly more colourful. Once we are officially public about it I will let you all know which channel to watch and when. :D

Side job no.2 is my dibs on grandmotherhood- I have started... wait for it...(drumroll)...baking cakes. This is my small contribution to the health ministry's efforts in population control. It all started off with my very first cake of all time that I baked for my dad's b'day. On realizing it didn't look half bad (actually cake-like),I went and did that whole boastful, gloaty thing of posting up pictures on FB. That made things skyrocket to a whole new level and people started placing orders. Thinking I was cat's whiskers and quite pleased with the new-found skill, I took on the orders to finance what became a hobby of sorts and have now come to a point where I have to turn most of the orders down because I just can't handle the load. One of these days I promise you I will die of exhaustion, but for now I spend my nights and weekends raping my mother's oven. I even managed to attract a magazine review out of it. Martha Stewart will be proud, before she tastes my cakes and dies of food poisoning.



3.

My animal welfare activities are on a new high. I have taken advocacy to near-extremes and can be often seeing parading the streets or abusing social networks priviledges to save the planet. People have stopped talking to me as a result, like most ignorant and stupid humans are wont to do when they're informed that they are not the most important thing in the world. Happily enough, I don't care. I have even attempted to become vegetarian, much to my carnivore boyfriend's dismay. But he is being a good soul about it and even occasionally supports my lunacy by foregoing meat on dinner dates without my telling him to. Bless him. The new diet is working so far, though I have to admit to the odd slip-up here and there. 'Tis a difficult business, getting certain habits out of one's systems, but a meat-less meal certainly has the benefits of a drama-free conscience and I actually sleep easier now.

I am extremely supposrtive of the organised effort to ban ritual animal slaughter at the Munneswaram Temple in Chilaw. Google it if you're not aware of the stories. It is beyond me how fucked up some people can be when it comes to interpretations of religious dictates. Good on Mervyn Silva, as much of an idiot as he is, for creating enough of a public spectacle by barging in there and confiscating those poor animals lined up for merciless hacking up. Religious tolerance and respect is one thing, but choosing to turn your head and spout nonsense about 'to each his own' when there's a life at stake is another. What's fucked up is fucked up and intervention in such circumstances is ok in my books, as unpopular a view as that may be. I can deal with the PROPERLY carried out sacrifices at religious events, such at the Islamic haj rituals. I say 'proper' because according to the laws of Islam, the slaughter is supposed to be carried out with minimum harm or distress to the animal, whereby no trauma has been inflicted. The problem is that more often than not, these mandates are rarely followed due to sheer incompetency or disegard in the name of human convenience. I wish there were more control methods put in place at these rituals, where proper supervision ensures that, if you MUST please your God by killing something, then at least the animal is kept comfortable and knows/feels little to nothing. Munneswaram is a whole different story and I'm not sorry to say I have absolutly no regard for foolish buffoons who think they can invoke luck and prosperity by violently murdering a life in the most callous way imaginable. I pray for a day when I am empowered enough to mete out the same treatment to said violators. May they rot alive.

Now you know why people avoid me.



4.

I have added yet another child to my already festering brood- a puppy named Smurfette. She is overtly active, destructive and consistently happy, which stresses the cats out no end. Smurfette was left in a box at my doorstep by someone who obviously had a bigger heart than the monsters who usually drown or throw away baby animals. After a few weeks of unsuccessfully trying to re-home her, she ended up as a permanent installation and now drives everyone batty. Neighbours are witness to the number of my bras and panties that she insists on dragging out into the garden for exhibition and I am constantly smelling of puppy drool. This is the life.


5.

The good things in life still mingle with the not-so-great. but I am too happy today to get into all that. Maybe someday you'll find out.


And just like that my boredom threshold has been reached and I am lazy to write anymore. Sorry. I have a few more thoughts up my sleeve which I will share with you shortly, but for now I have a Facebook storm to start.

Watch this space.

Making Babies

Just the other day, an aunt was pestering me for the umpteenth time, in that way that Sri Lankans who have no other business to poke their noses into but yours do, to marry and have children. Not even eventually, mind you. QUICKLY. Because my biological clock is ticking its way to its death, said she. Because she needed to see me rocking a child in my arms or she would DIE.

I’ve reached a point where demands of this nature have ceased to get under my skin. You come to a point where you become immune to people’s silly notions that one must live by ridiculous norms.

But, like every woman is wont to do, this lady wouldn’t shoosh. For the sake of some quiet, I dabbled with my font of excuses that I usually mete out to annoying, uninvited personal advisors. Then I decided not to go down the tried and tested route of laughing at the thought of a piece of paper validating your commitment to someone, or putting on a superficial pageant for the sake of relatives who want to show off their latest sari acquisitions. All in favour of giving up your identity and independence in order to breed and run behind a whining, hairless HUMAN who does nothing but poop and opinionate.

I decided instead to present some hard-core facts to this clearly ignorant female.

“Look, aunty...” said I, trying very hard to mask my annoyance, “I refuse to drop babies on order because –

• Elephants in this country have no space to live anymore. To make room for the planet, we need to drastically reduce the number of humans. I advocate mass sterilization of women, therefore, and not impregnation.

• There are plenty of children who are brought onto this earth and neglected or thrown away. Why not just parent them instead?

• Neither my body nor I are willing to undergo mind-fucking pain to squeeze something the size of a large watermelon out and thereafter suffer the saggy aftermath for the rest of my life. God knows I’m flabulous enough.

• Global temperatures are in an accelerated rise. The best of scientists have reported that in the next 15 years, the ice caps will melt and raise ocean levels by as much as 20 feet. Much of the world as we know it will drown.

• Have you seen the news? Everybody’s fighting with everybody else. The Gadaffis and Rajapakses of this world are here to stay. If the planet doesn’t destroy itself, then these buggers surely will.

• According to reliable sources, we won’t have enough drinking water by 2020. That’s just 9 years from now.

• The money I earn should be used towards justice for suffering animals, not pampers and exorbitant school fees.

• I’d like to see the world and make a difference before I die and I can’t do it dragging a carry cot around.

• Ragging in schools is the fad of the day. Crimes against children are at an all-time high. Perverts, paedophiles and rapists are commonality in today’s society.

• Drugs and alcohol have a thumbs up from the younger generation everywhere. Already Marijuana usage laws are being passed, it’s only a matter of time before Coke has its day. Have you been to a rave party with teens? If you’re not getting high then you’re weird. Can you imagine how kiddie’s parties will be in a couple of years?

• The arts are dead. Lady GAGA is what kids define as a role model these days.

And you want me to have babies? You must be fucking kidding me.”

I was satisfied that I’d finally given her enough reasons to realize her own foolishness.

That was until she opened her mouth again and replied, “But you can have such CUTE babies!”

It's only a matter of time before I kill the next person who approaches this subject with me ever again. You have been warned.