C'est la vie

Mess she makes with buttery chocolate, as luck would have it (5,3,3,3,6,8)*

Life, 'tis said, goes on- my friend pontificated, adding that it is a bad habit life has, to go on. Wait, I must write this down- I said snidely, it's such a remarkable observation.

Things happen. Things have a way of shaking you up, yes, but they don't stop while you are being all shook up and considering how to deal with it. Things keep happening.

My son once generously took me to see a film; it was a famous film, he saw it before it was released and all that. It was on a second run because it was nominated for some award. A week after his treat that film was broadcast on the cable. He grumbled a lot about the money he could have saved. I pointed out that I'd paid for the popcorn, but that cut no ice.

Pasta, yeah. Spinach cheese and garlic sauce, with sautéed vegetables and maybe roast potatoes. That is what I want to make, and my soul yearns for. Except, the rains have made it impossible, as vendors don't carry spinach during or just after such downpours as we have had, not when entire market garden businesses have got submerged. They don't buy greens that might get sodden and rot, and they don't sell either. Greens spoil easily, cost the earth and nobody in their right senses will buy spinach during a rainy spell. So it is dal and two veg as usual. Bottle gourd anyone, and okra and spuds?

I dither and dither and finally go shopping for myself; and I find I have become the Discontinued Woman. To the perpetual insult which for the moment is merely injury of not having bras in odd numbered sizes, they have added the slight of discontinuing my preferred cut and style. Madam can try these, says the salesgirl, waving a hand at the display of sequined, rainbow coloured and padded monstrosities. No thank you, I suppress a shudder. My idea of a daily wear bra doesn't come in candy stripes or with cute ribbons, lace and embroidery. Ordinary plain and simple bras are next to nonexistent nowadays, and I have to settle for even numbers there too. I was too young when bra burning was a statement, but I'd definitely have torched the dainty matched with a g-string stuff that was on offer, I tell you. Which woman in her right mind would …oh, um… okay…I suppose. But still, ordinary days count too, is all I am saying.

I write a loving tribute to a song and a singer and the post sinks like a stone with concrete boots attached. They arrive at my blog searching for massage parlours in Kolkata/ Calcutta, meaning of Lalitha, Neha, Niharika, khoya hua rangeen nazara, sexy bedroom stories in Telugu and the Zarapkar System of Cutting, but visitors to my blog spend 0:00 seconds on any given page Google has directed them to, and they don't bother to comment either. Oh, they come looking for Valmiki and Gilgamesh and feijoa too, but what is the point?

We have an unexpected but welcome visitor on Wednesday. Much fun had, but there is shortage of spirits on Thursday and it cannot be remedied. Thursdays are dry days, you see. Actually, so are Independence Day and Republic Day; let's not talk about why Second October must be a dry day. Why should sale of liquor on any given day be curtailed in a democratic country? Whose sentiments are being appeased? Why aren't my sentiments that I'd like a tipple in the evening being appeased?

I finally figure out a fiendish anagram, but broadband is dead, so I can't submit my solution for the prize crossword. It is not a big deal, I know, just irksome not being able to do a thing one wants to. Calling BSNL will only mean the aggravation of interactive voice services and keying in my zillion-numbers long contact number for them which is an exercise in pointlessness as they never get back in touch with me anyhow.

There are many ways to express sympathy and commiseration: hard luck, tough cheese, too bad, better luck next time. There is no next time, really. First impressions don't have a second chance and time only moves forward. But thank goodness we learn to live with events; songs heard, jokes repeated, loves lost and grief overcome.

Ahead maybe shoals of angst, storms of rage and reefs of misery. But we keep steering, not in hope of landfall as sailing is all, but because to stop steering is admitting to the doldrums. Being becalmed won't get us anywhere. So let's not avast, but avaunt.

Another day, another post, as my friend said. C'est la vie.

Cheers!

* That's the way the cookie crumbles