Over and above

In case if you haven't noticed yet, monsoon is abandoning us. The seasonal love affair is gradually coming to an end. It can't help but move on to wetter pastures leaving us baking under the sun. For some reason, umbrella personifies this connection between the sky and lesser mortals. Of course, sunlight and celestial dust touch us too but rain ki baat hi kuch aur hai. You know exactly when it hits you except when you're busy under Rihanna's umbrella. Moreover, we don't come across a lot of people who use it to avoid sunshine or heavenly powder. The poor thing not only protects us but also teaches a few lessons in life—provided you're paying heed. The beauty about this humble non-living creature is it has learnt to forgive the weather. An umbrella acknowledges the universal truth that there ain't no point in arguing with the clouds. Or the mighty sun. When it's open and wide, it's either keeping you dry or drying itself from the warmth outside. Of course, when the wind is harsh, all its philosophies go for a toss, including itself. Every once in a while, it loses itself too and the blame falls on you. But then, it's not monsoon unless you lost an umbrella or two...before it bids us goodbye!

Frozen news

My amma and papa don't get along very well but they share a lot of similarities. For example, there are seriously demented characters from both ends. As if mental illness runs in the family. But one particular specimen stands out for her sheer bonhomie. Malamma. My mother's eldest sister who had a nervous breakdown at a rather young age after her husband passed away leaving her with a son to fend for. She had a not-so-colorful life but the people who took care of her had it worse. Eventually, she ended up in our house in Bombay and that's when i came in close contact with her. A gentle soul (under heavy medication), i remember her muttering words to herself. Between sleep, food, staring at TV and petty chores (and several pills, of course), there wasn't much to her existence. Oh yes, there was one thing she was very fond of: newspapers. Actually, newspaper. There was this Kannada daily that she got hold of someday when i had just entered secondary school. And she continued reading that particular edition for several months—if not years. I don't remember the exact time period of her fascination with news she can't use. But i do often reminisce how we used to jokingly ask her "Are you done with it? Or is there still some breaking news in there?" with no response whatsoever. Paying attention wasn't her forte so it didn't matter how many times she read that paper nor how many times we tried to be funny.

Hopeful and all

Someday, 
not very far away
from where we are today
A light shall burn our bones
and set us free
in order to guide us home
where we wanted to be.
The voice from within
will touch our ears
and make us hear
what can't possibly be seen.
Little needs to be changed
not now, for a while, never again,
a case of disgust and unease
an unrequited war for eternal peace.
If at all. Maybe.
Yesterday was an attempt at past
as expected, it couldn't last
— long enough to breathe
life into the soulless breeze
or make a dream turn true.
Someday, 
not very far away
from where we are today
A light shall burn our bones
and set us free
in order to guide us home
where we wanted to be.

Being commitment-phobic

There's no such thing as an untimely death. I'm not an expert on death but i know a thing or two about being alive. And trust me, it's tough. Particularly when you're not the person you could have been. More so, when you've become the person you once so famously dreaded. As you turn older, you acknowledge the growing hollowness in you and the sheer amount of fakeness that goes in to it  just to cover it up. It doesn't and can't heal itself on its own. That's sad, undoubtedly. What's sadder is some young Bollywood actress going ahead (climbing upward, to be precise) and killing herself just because she wasn't finding enough work and her relationship status sucked. But are these reasons valid enough to die? Nope. When a farmer from Vidarbha dies, your heart slows down for him because a part of you knows that he couldn't make the clouds rain or farm with his tears. So, you need to come up with stronger excuses. If someone from a privileged background won't deal with failures, then what's the point of luxury? Or maybe we're missing the point here. On a daily basis, 170,000 of our species die on this planet. If five of them committed suicide, one of them is of Indian origin. At least that's what the statistics dictate. Of course, death has nothing to do with one's racial or regional identity but it is a matter of great concern to see youth being so disoriented and callous to jump to such fatal conclusions in the face of dire situations. Furthermore, suicide is something that Indian culture has remained alien to for the major part. Even our mythology is rife with stories where suicide is not an option. Even a brave soul like Bhishma delayed his suicide. Coming back to the present, becoming the person of your choice might be arduous but it requires one to be breathing—not hanging onto a dupatta from the ceiling fan. 

My Celluloid Man

In our village, more than half a century ago, there was this chap named Timmappanna. People, including my grandparents, thought he was crazy. This soft-spoken man was known for working all day on the field without a word of complaint in his shirt and a komana which is a basically a piece of cloth tinier than a loincloth. Well, things were simpler then and skin was respected so no worries there. Anyway, Timmu had an obsession with cinema. He was the only one of his kind in the entire taluka. Nobody, and i mean nobody, came close to his passion for the celluloid. In fact, my grandpa never watched a movie in his entire life. People like my mom never watched one until she was 24. Coming back to our very own Celluloid Man, after toiling the entire day under the sun, he used to have his dinner in advance and set out to walk 18 kilometers to this crappy cinema hall and watch whatever they had on display. The language didn't matter, be it Kannada, Tamil, Hindi or English. It is apparent that he loved the idea of moving pictures. After all, that dark room was the only place he ever knew where life forms metamorphosed into another life forms with a little bit of sound effects and visual treats. Where else could he find such magic? Life is darn boring in a village in any case. And we are talking about the early socialist '50s and '60s here. OK. After watching the reels, the midnights awaited him. Usually what he did was doze off on the grassy earth nearby and then wake up around 4 in the morning and set out home. Literally famished, his thin figure covered with an off-white shirt and a veshti trudging alone on the street would have been a sight. He quite certainly didn't understand film-making but what mattered to him was the few minutes of escape that movies guaranteed. They took him to places he never visited and introduced him to people he'll never meet. He stayed unmarried (funny how none of my heroes do!) and remained a curio in our village. Today when i pretend to be a film journalist, i ask myself whether i'd walk 18 kilometers once with my stomach full and then again with my eyes empty.

How are you?

Her: You seem very happy. How are you?

Him: Remember Brad Pitt in Legend of the Fall?

Her: Huh-uh. 

Him: There's this particular scene in that film where Brad Pitt's character Tristan comes across a cow who is badly trapped in barbed wire. The poor creature is obviously in pain and utterly helpless. So what Tristan does is he tries to get it out of the excruciating chain and save its life. But while doing so, he sees that the cow is suffering and there's very little he can do to keep it alive. Nevertheless, in spite of the cattle's non-cooperation, Tristan makes several attempts. To add pain to his conscience, the cow keeps mooing loudly. In the end, our hero appears in more turmoil than the tormented extra. So he promptly takes his gun out and shoots the cow—relieving both him as well as his hoofed acquaintance of all the emotions that has held them together for a short while. I wonder how that must have felt like!

Her: So you're feeling like Tristan with his gun?

Him: Na, i'm feeling like that cow with his bullet. 

Moments of silence

Isn't it marvelous how some of the most beautiful moments happen without any exchange of words? Of course, conversation has its own ring to it but still, when compared to sound, silence lasts a bit longer. We humans take things for granted and if one of those things is silence, then lesser we say about it the better. I can go on and on about how i've seen beauty manifest itself in a soundless backdrop. But i won't. I've got just two such instances for now. And both have to do with my childhood.

1991: We were new to Bombay. My mother had recently lost my brother's twin to death in our village so my dad decided to move us to his city. There weren't many sentences spoken between the two of them. However, it was alright. Silence works part-time as a balm when actions fail. One particular day, we were traveling in a local train and our station was approaching. I remember my dad guiding the way out for us. He was standing near the footboard and my ma was standing right behind him on his left with my brother in her arms. I was on her right. What i remember vividly is her holding on to my dad's untucked shirt for support. Those subtle moments taught me that everything was indeed alright between them.

1994: A grandmother's love for her grandkids is nothing extraordinary. They are put on earth to bide time and make life cheerful for their ungrateful kids' kids. At least for the major part. My grandma was a person of few words but she absolutely adored me. I only remember her talking to us through stories. But what i distinctly recollect of her personality is that afternoon we went to this old temple in Mangalore. Hindus priests have this custom of handing out prasadam after the devotees are done with darshan. I guess it was my lucky day because i received a laadu from the janeu-wearing gentleman. But i was in for much more. My grandma decided to share her share of spoil and earnestly handed me the sweet she got along with the rest of us. All i remember her doing was pointing her index finger to her lips with a smile trapped behind it. 

B for boat, S for sailing

I haven't ridden a motorbike in more than three years now. I don't know how to drive a car. I don't wish to learn how to drive a car either. I'm really good at cycling though but i've gifted my bike to a friend who told me he'll be needing it to get back in shape. Turns out the bike is out of shape now rusting away in his balcony. Happens. I used to commute on that bicycle as my office was barely two kilometers away from home. Now i require trains to reach my workplace. Natural progression perhaps? Anyway, the other day, as one of these trains was speeding over the Vashi Bridge (the one that connects Bombay to New-Bombay), i was staring at the creek beneath. I noticed two things: the noisy sea gulls are conspicuous by their absence (or maybe it's the season or something which i may not be not aware of) and the small boats scattered everywhere. At that instance, i realized the freedom as well as the bond a humble boat embodies. To be out in the sea with water all around you, can solitude get any better? I'd love to read a book there or just lie down with my feet dangling on the edge. As long as you're not sharing your boat with Richard Parker, things are only great. Several such thoughts crossed my mind that evening. That's it. I don't understand the formalities required but I'll buy a boat someday and sail out from Vashi Creek towards the Arabian Sea and post pictures on Facebook for a change. Besides, owning a car or getting your shoulder dislocated TWICE in a motorcycle accident is too mainstream. 

Saddies, it's not THAT bad!

If you think you're born to be unhappy, you are not alone. That's also why you shouldn't take pride in the fact that you reek of sadness. Sad folks—or saddies if you may—by definition, take delight in being unhappy. As if an invisible compulsion is stopping them from smile and breathe a bit deeper. They are an interesting lot though. Their whole operation is conducted furtively and not everyone notices some of their most subtle nuances. All it takes are some moments to spare and observe. You talk to them and you know why they spent so much time on the non-living creatures and so less time on the living ones. There's a set pattern in behavior too. Unfortunately, like i said earlier, the non-saddies prefer to stay away. Perhaps sadness is a communicable disease and hence it's avoided. Nobody wants to take a chance. Having said that, a part of the blame should fall on the saddies as well. They don't want to look beyond the darkness of grief. Their pain is deliberately amplified everyday so much so that they refuse to heal. The warm tears in their eyes soothe them to such an extent that laughter sounds like noise. Loneliness turns into a thick blanket and memories victimize at will. If only they could see how beautiful the world is despite its flaw and unforgiving nature. Shun society if you like but why not give tomorrow a chance? Life seems worst but it could have been worse. Survival ain't a curse. After all, it allows one the strength to be proud of being alive, unhappy, lonely and yet kicking.

Tell me more

What happens to those kids in a classroom who aren't considered bright? What happens to the teachers who couldn't teach them right? What happens to darkness when there's too much light? What happens to life when you cease breathing? What happens to sharks when whales show off their might? What happens to peace when the planet grows tired? What happens to meteors when they don't fall on Russia? What happens to birds when they cease to fly? What happens to a broken heart when it fails to die? What happens to your smile when tears flood by? What happens to friendship when you don't have time? What happens to God when prayers are procrastinated? What happens to you when you pretend to be somebody else? What happens to us when we are separate? What happens to a great football club like Liverpool when it doesn't have a Bill Shankly in command? What happens to Manchester United when Alex Ferguson bids goodbye? What happens to blood when your body builds a dam against its flow? What happens to poetry when a poet doesn't know? What happens to a language when inferiority complex takes over? What happens to a train when it doesn't want to be lonely? What happens to waves when they kiss your feet? What happens to love when hatred is too thick? What happens to grass when concrete is the way to go? What happens to childhood when you don't want to grow? What happens to lust when puberty not only hits but also slaps you hard? What happens to souls when bodies are mating? What happens to company when three's a crowd? What happens to patience when hospitality is a virtue? What happens to Hobbes when Calvin quits his tripe? What happens to DiCaprio when Scorsese moves on? What happens to Craig when Bond has won? What happens to common sense when idiocy is in vogue? What happens to equality when rich are getting richer, poor are getting poorer and vellas are getting vellaer? What happens to style when fashion ramps? What happens to right when wrong is on Viagra? What happens to shit when something else happens? What happens to an economist when he's made the PM? What happens to Lampard when he's preferred over Torres? What happens to Australia when they are whitewashed by wogs? What happens to media when the standards fall due to gravity? What happens to our voice when it's unheard? What happens to truth when lies are stronger? What happens to the sky when the stars are shy? What happens to how when the question should have been why?

Wise old father

My dad is crazy. Compared to my ma, that is. Nevertheless, people like him make this world a far better place to live in. They don't have college degrees or high-paying jobs nor have they travelled across time zones but that doesn't stop them from being nice to those who aren't used to it. Maybe that has something to do with the hospitality industry he has been associated with since the age of 13. Maybe not. All his life, he has been meeting strangers who enter, eat and exit. It's like a never-ending drill. He's more than his profession. He's not a saint though. Drinking problems and the consequent health issues don't let you. However, he treats people fairly and doesn't judge anyone. His views are not crystallized nor are they furnished with the whitewashed cloak of modernity.

The other day he was talking about how Mumbai scores over his native place in Manipal. "Bombay gave me food when there wasn't any in my village and you don't know what hunger is..." were his exact words. It's called gratitude. Devoid of political stance and other man-made distinctions. I remember him telling me a few years ago that he doesn't find anything wrong with the frustrating immigration taking place in the city. According to him, it's a cycle: "They are here to work. Their kids will grow and they'll move out the way their parents did. Nothing lasts forever. People who make a row of it are those who aren't able administrators. They don't have it in them to govern. Besides, we are talking about genuine labour here, not criminals. These poor migrants build our buildings, bridges, monorails, metros under worst working conditions..." He can go on and on without trying a wee bit to enforce his opinion on others. 

It's a pity he never got introduced to Internet.

The matrix of appearance

I saw you in my dreams last night. Again, as expected. However, this time around i noticed something. Unlike me, you never age. You remain the same whereas i keep on transforming from bad to worse. You somehow stay the person you were 9 years ago. I'm not complaining though. After all, it's the closest i get to witnessing a miracle in my otherwise stagnant life. People would die to stay young, wouldn't they? Time can be cruel on your body. In the meantime, several theories sprung up in my mind but none came close to explaining this rather unjust equation. I accept that you were always beautiful and innocent so that shouldn't come as a shocker even when my eyes are tight shut. But then I often wondered after waking up why am i so miserable while you are so marvelous. Today, i finally realized the answer. Turns out everything is the way it is because you are not real.

How do I feel?

Somebody asked me how am i feeling today. As is the norm with our species, i didn't offer him the whole truth. "Fine" was the answer he expected and "Fine" was what he got. If it were a different world where people said what they really felt like—or more importantly, what needs to be shared—i would have elaborated on why i'm not "Fine". I might have informed him how i usually feel like an overcrowded fast train that's moving slowly. And not going anywhere in particular. Also, i wake up every morning as if i had undergone rigorous imprisonment during my sleep. My mirror had seen better faces. Of mine. Sometimes i feel like that invisible hand pushing me over the cliff. But i don't fall down because i have better days ahead... to address worse things. At times, i turn cold and blank and don't understand what's going on around me. I try to stay grounded and not get caught talking to myself. The voices in my head are amusing but they never let me interrupt them. Whatever be the reason, they just don't understand me. Sometimes i feel emptier than my bank account. I've spent better days in poetry when my verses made me the richest jerk on the planet. This was before i decided to dive into media. No wait, this was before i decided to dive into engineering. Every once in a while, my past relieves me and allows me moments to cherish. Instead of holding them close to myself, i squander them on creating one-liners i don't believe in. More often than not, I don't agree with a lot of theories floating around but i'm loath to confrontations. That explains why i don't defend myself, online or offline. However, there are instances when I can go on and on about what i could have said instead of just "Fine".

One love, two forearms

Today stands for everything loneliness sits on. In case if you are in Afghanistan, it's Valentine's Day. One of the finest outcomes of human civilization. In fact, second only to material consumerism. However, there are forever-alones lurking on this planet who don't know what to do with themselves on this specific day. Better put, they don't know what role they play—if at all, that is—in the grand schemes of romantic permutations. You can't blame them. They are singles who've got nothing to do with tennis. Their singledom manifests itself in their hands every now and then. Or fingers. Whatever. So apparently, the worst part about being single is you are single. At least it appears that way from the outside. If you're poor too, then God bless you! Being single and broke might teach you invaluable lessons in microfinancing but it doesn't provide the economy with the much-need love-me-love-you boost it annually requires in February, you see? And it is quite bizarre to celebrate Valentine's Day when you pretend to be deeply in love with yourself. You just don't know what to do. You can't blend in. That is passé. So what do you do? You become invisible to the choices that lie ahead of you. For instance, you download movies that got nominated at Oscars. You download movies that got criminally snubbed at Oscars. You somehow go through the day ignoring the colour red that dominates the visuals on your streets and in office. You wonder whether you should start sniffing around as well. Maybe it's just a one-day phase and you won't need someone tomorrow. However, single life is difficult when both your forearms hate you. 

“You are too awesome to be single!” - a girl you like who is not single

PS: Dear penis, happy Valentine's Day.

Cheated by God

If not smiles, then Almighty is in our tears. That's certainly how it looks like...from a distance! I may not be fond of religious activities today (much to my old ma's chagrin) but once upon an innocent time, I was a regular temple-visitor. Often accompanied by her, I used to be at my disciplined best once I entered the holy sanctum. No running around or screaming like an orangutan in a boat. I naturally assumed that it must be a sin to fart too. I used to chant the same pray-for-others-before-you-pray-for-yourself Tulu prayer my grandmother taught me. But neither those words nor those visits allowed me to befriend God. However, that particular miracle happened when I started showing up at the place-that-heals all alone. On my own. Since I didn't have an elder brother to 'protect' me from bullies (though I never thought I was supposed to mean the same to my younger brother) at school, I often confided in the dark Hindu idols. In the long run, my God was to become aware of all my dirty secrets which usually involved stealing money (from dad), stationery (from classmates), chalks (from teachers) and glances (from neighbours). Since I presumed He (yea, it was a colossal gender mistake but in my defense, I was barely eight) should know everything, I told him everything. There were days when I used to sit in front of him and cry inconsolably. He was my official shrink with superpowers. Though he never showed a sign of interest in me, I never gave up on Him. As the months passed by, I was growing tired of being. Finally, I delivered two options: either turn me into a grown-up or help me disappear at will. Stupid me. The Bastard conned me as I neither grew up nor became the invisible human who never was.

Protesting against oneself

Your station is approaching and you're peeking out of the window. You know you've got to get down. But you somehow don't. You stay seated as if you're protesting against yourself. You don't have the will to move your ass and leave the compartment for good. Maybe you're too elated to have finally 'earned' a window seat and you don't want to relinquish it. Moreover, you don't even care that if you fail to act within the allotted 18 seconds, you'll have to get down at the next station. And commute back home. However, the countdown begins. Mumbai's local trains, like time and tide, stops for none. You keep looking out of the window, staring into the nothingness that makes you travel between this point and that. You don't even know anymore what is nice and what's unnice. You don't expect anything interesting to happen to your existence. Your friends from school are yet to stare out of the window. Or maybe they are better off in some other place where humanity is not humiliated in overcrowded public transports. You are one of the zombies now and you've accepted your future. You're probably never going to walk and explore or stand and stare. You've learnt that your life is going to rattle on the railway tracks within the periphery of this godsmitten city. You'll never escape the loud throes that engulfs everybody on this island nor will you ever travel alone again. You'll always be in the company of strangers who smell worse than you. They'll be called your co-passengers and they shall fight for those imaginary fourth seats that lie in front of them. With such fellow-morons around, perspiration will become your act of silent defiance. You must surrender yourself to make it or else you'll be left behind. On the platform. Outside the train. The city is not to be blamed nor are its inhabitants. If you really wanted to break free, you would have. By now.

Gastronomical bereavement

How much we crave the food we like! Don't we? The poor old man of our story did too. Things were better for him before he fell unwell and saw himself sentenced to an unbearably insipid diet. And his caring wife wouldn't let him astray. Even a bit. He was banned from consuming anything that resembled pickles, spices, sweets, oil...The list got longer while his lifelines grew relatively shorter. As the pendulum swung by, she got so caught up in this race against time that her gentle heart couldn't realize how deprived her husband felt. Maybe she knew perfectly well what was going on but then, she wasn't his enemy. The debilitating disease was. She was aware of the fact that he grew up on the food he craved and he had no vice otherwise. He was a man of tasteful tongue, not a glutton. Torture can't come close to describing the vocabulary of his gastronomical bereavement. One day, as his frame became thinnest, he gathered his breath. Her ears greeted his lips as he whispered the anthem of death. He is said to have said, "Cook what your hands are used to. Please." She must have cried a thousand times but in the end, she decided to stick with their doctor's sagacity. A few more days passed them with him suffering his nosh instead of relishing it. Stomach is innocent enough to not know what it's being fed. To his extended ordeal, he wasn't. He summoned his wife's ears again. This time around he only mumbled, "Feed the crows once I'm gone." The voice's desperation superseded the anger within. Silence followed this imperative line before he was transferred to ICU where they drilled a hole in his throat for essential fluids. He didn't make back home. However, even today, birds with 50 shades of black—who loiter around their veranda—are grateful to his last words. 

Hearing the unsaid

There's always something unsaid. That part of you dies with you. Lest that happens, we try to blurt it out and make those words survive a few more days. Perhaps verbal posterity matters in this ever-decreasing space. Don't believe me? Ask that guy who fell for this girl he saw on a railway platform. It was a bright day with mild wind teasing the otherwise humid climate. And like thousands others in the city, he was waiting for the local train. But before the serpentine stretch of boxes could arrive, somebody else did. This angel lookalike with her hair bouncing on her shoulders was walking towards him but not to greet him. The ladies section was a couple of steps behind the spot our hero was standing and this girl was sashaying at her own sweet pace to reach there. He just knew what to do. More importantly, he knew what to say. All he had to do was wait for the point when she's exactly linear to him. As soon as that happened, he leaned forward and whispered in her ears "You're beautiful!" while she brushed past him. Unfortunately, she didn't even look back or laugh or smile or wink or frown. Sometimes you don't hear the voice of emotions and sometimes you simply overlook. However, that afternoon, something else happened. Despite our hero's brave efforts, words remained unheard. Loud music on earphones often does that to humans.  

Saying as it is!

As a kid, I was surrounded by morons. Well, nothing has changed since. Yet sometimes I miss the morons of that era. Also, I've got to point out that the last millennium was a thing of beauty. And one of the reasons why this was so could be blamed on a friend I had. She was this little girl named Amu who was scarcely five-year-old. She had this rather cute habit of referring to herself in the third person. For instance, she used to blurt out stuff like "Amu school gayi thi" and "Amu acchi bacchi hai". No doubt she was a bundle of ridicule but somehow managed to stay immune to our curiosity. Her carpenter father wasn't very bothered by her manner of speech either. But now, when I look back (something I do a lot given the fact that I'm growing old at a rather fast pace), she comes across as a person who can teach us a thing or two in speaking our mind. For real. After all, Amu didn't disguise her thoughts with words. Although it sounded entertainingly weird, she told the way things are. How many of us do that on an everyday basis? No wonder most of our grudges mushroom from the core reality that we don't tell others what we really want to convey. It could be anyone from our parents to our siblings to our friends to our colleagues to boss. We always say things in installment because we inanely believe in diplomacy even though we don't know shit about its finer nuances. Simply put, we stopped speaking our mind as if we've forgotten the language or something. But then, that was what made Amu unique. Our friendship with her grew eventually and she became a part of our group. It was great. Until she said something like "Amu ko khilao na"—leaving us wondering whether she's hungry or angry at us for not inviting her to play!

That founder of a foundation

I met Sudha Murthy yesterday at a book store. If you aren't aware of her yet, i not only doubt your general awareness but also your general existence. Seriously. I don't know about you but i feel that she is doing something truly meaningful with her life. No, I'm not referring to the almost three dozen enlightening books she has written so far. I'm talking about the kind of philanthropy she's involved in. She travels like anything and goes into the remotest of villages in order to help them in best possible ways—education. On top of that, she redefines that hyphenated word called down-to-earth. Simplicity comes naturally to her charming personality. I spoke to her for about 12 minutes and within that time frame, it became quite obvious that she doesn't invest in having two faces. In her case, what you see is what you get is what you deserve. And she's ridiculously rich though it's hard to believe so in her presence. The reason might be pretty simple: She doesn't portray herself THAT way or maybe she is THIS way. Like most of us, rich folks were poor once but few remember that on finding fortunes. Perhaps Mrs. Murthy is one of those very few. She effortlessly discards the invisible barrier and the mischievous gleam in her eyes conspires with an innocent yet impish smile on her face. She's a polyglot who speaks with alacrity and undeniable honesty. Maybe rich people aren't supposed to be like that. Or maybe it's my indoctrinated middle class mentality blabbering.

PS: I hope she found my questions interesting (or weird) enough to feature me in one of her stories in future.