Dropped a new single August 1, 2010

I know I haven’t been here in a while (I don’t know why people say things like that- did they assume that others expect them not to know? Due to what- denial? Non-stop partying? Amnesia? I can account for none of the above), but fact is that after a a couple of years as a struggling artist (struggling for fans, mostly) I really just decided to sell out.
And I have, successfully!

…

Here’s my article, published in today’s DAWN newspaper’s Sunday supplement, Images. Under the Review section. Under the sub-section of Phobias. And this is the unedited version*; although I understand the need to edit stuff for public consumption, for more chance of people actually reading it, etc., you know me (wait, you probably don’t): one word out of place and I’m on the edge of a murderous rampage/ crying jag.

*You may note that this version uses a hefty sample of my old hit of the same name. Should I call this Deja Vu?

…

Like most kids, when I was young I was pretty scared of the dark. I eventually grew out of it, but over the years I have definitely acquired a lot more fears. I’m terrified of marriage, spiral staircases, and saying ‘no’, but more than anything I have a phobia of aunties.

…

I hate aunties. In fact, I think what really scares me is my hatred of aunties. It’s pretty strong. And you know what it stems from? The hates and fears of aunties, the main one being single people.

An aunty, by rights of her own marriage certificate and the physical deformity of a nose that tends to get stuck in other people’s business, feels morally obligated to get every single single person on earth contractually bound to another of their own kind, no matter what. It’s their service to humanity.

…

I can see why they push marriage so much. Marriage has been a good bet for aunties, with submissive husbands who are unable to even touch them in fear of creasing their latest lawn jora- which they paid for in hefty four-digits. An aunty’s summer wardrobe can easily pay for one of those glitzy weddings they work so hard for.

…

Recently an aunty tried to set me up. My mother’s colleague told her that she has found a rishta for me, of an undoubtedly delightful 28-year-old green card-holder. Now, let alone the fact that she has NEVER met me and therefore doesn’t have the slightest clue as to who I am. Let alone the fact that she has only known my mother for about three months now. Let alone the fact that my mother therefore had to point out to her the fact that I am only seventeen years old. An aunty’s gotta pimp.

…

I don’t even get why aunties salivate a flood at the idea of a green card. But at least it quiets them down for a while. An aunty’s greatest weapon is her tongue. Encased behind a pair of bright, smudgy-lipsticked lips (and this lipstick is like a deep, dark sin- it will never wash off once your face has been cursed with it- think Fight Club) this is a muscle they exercise with great vigour. No one is safe from aunty gossip, and no one is safe from a cutting aunty remark. It comes when you least expect it, and, usually, is so despicably racist/sexist/weightist you’d suspect them of having swastikas embroidered on their dupattas.

…

It is surprising how manipulative and conniving and vicious aunties can be if you consider how they’re honestly not that smart. I mean, who could whole-heartedly follow the concept of a kitty party and feel like they’re doing justice to their precious convent education? All you do is collect your money, give it to someone, then get it back a few months later and not even with an interest topping it. Instead you have to spend some of that money on throwing your kitty party group a lavish hi-tea. What for? To celebrate the idea that you now have much less money than what you started out with?

…

Maybe they’ve never heard of a bank. I can forgive them that, though, because it’s not like there’s one around every corner, ofcourse not. Or maybe they hate banks, too. Most of the people working in banks are single, after all. Accountants, what do you expect? …

…

So back from my digressive trip to the topic of my fears: recently, I’ve semi-conquered my phobia of spiral staircases. I climb one at least twice every day. I say no a lot, too. I started by saying no to climbing up a spiral staircase. And while I’m still bothered by the concept of marriage, I’ve realized I’m pretty fond of weddings. Thus, my fear (and loathing) of aunties is the last one left. I hear it only gets worse as you get older, so this really needs to be nipped in the bud. And I’m not sure how to tackle it, but I think a sex change and a green card might do the job.

…

I’m a little short on cash for either, though, so who would like to help me raid some aunties’ closets and hold a lawn exhibition? I’m assuming they’re very profitable.

…

Or we could always have a kitty party.

…

My favourite edit was ‘pimp’ changed to ‘match-make’! Such a sweet alternative. Totally filtering it in everything I hear every time now.

Advertisement