IÂ’ve spent the last five days at the cathedral for Greek Orthodox Easter and as anyone who knows anything about the Orthodox Church is aware, this means that I spent close to twenty hours in a haze of frankincense and liturgical chanting. Sometimes, an hour would pass which didnÂ’t require much participation on my part and my thoughts would predictably wander.
Taz seemed to be a hit with our readersÂ— and that meant that the pressure was on. So, who should our next honored guest blogger be? She should obviously be a she, but which witty woman could we borrow, who could hang with the incorrigible XYs in the bunker, beat them at pool and Xbox AND do it all backwards while in high heels?
The chanting continued and I looked up towards the mosaic-adorned dome. My wish listing continued shamelessly, despite the fact that greed is a sin.
My dream girl would adore Almodovar yet choose to further shrink the pathetic amount of space we provide guest bloggers in their cells by unpacking books she canÂ’t live without, by Rand and Rushdie, no less. (I can see that IÂ’m going to get no rest any time soon, not with having to stand outside her door to keep the Vij and Vinod at bay.) When I ask her why on earth sheÂ’d bring thousands of pages to a place where sheÂ’d be expected to write feverishly, sheÂ’d reply that she couldnÂ’t, nay, wouldnÂ’t be forced to choose just one tome to take with her to the barren land where our bunker lies.
SheÂ’d have to be okay with musical snobs who make Pitchfork-ers seem humble; we play a ton of conscious hip-hop, loopy trip hop and even a smattering of pop. If she can stump us by dropping something unfamiliar in the mix, sheÂ’ll be golden. What am I typing…sheÂ’s my dream girlÂ…sheÂ’ll school us mercilessly, probably with something addictive like Spank Rock.
The chanting grew appropriately mournful and so did I. My dream girl was just that, an apparition, an apsara, an absolutely impossible cocktail of coolness. I sighed audibly and the austere yia yia to my left glared at me. Time to focus on gettinÂ’ saved. I had been a bad girl, after all.
Suddenly a light pierced the church, as if heaven itself was opening and I heard what sounded like a celestial chorus of angels in perfect harmony. Eureka. I have found her. There was one mysterious word in my head, an answer, a solution, and a miracle:
The sun shifted its blinding rays a few degrees over and where my cinema-worthy inspiration once burned, there was merely a window. Oddly enough, I still heard angels behind me, but I felt foolish once I turned and saw the CathedralÂ’s choir. No matter. My mother always said that if you go to church when you are feeling lost or confused, you might just find what you need.
I needed an exceptionally well read, M.I.A.-lovinÂ’, lacto-ovo-vegetarian film buff and lo, she not only existed, she was well known and popular in our distinct, mutinous community. See? Lighting candles works. Now I just have to go back to church and ask for super-human strength and the ability to function without sleep for a month, because once the boys meet Neha AND find out sheÂ’s a trekkie? My bullwhip is going to get crackinÂ’Â…and for once, itÂ’s going to be used as it was designed to be. Sigh.
Kindly welcome Neha of Currylingus to the Mutiny. Oh, and you best be kindÂ—I may be tired but my whip is always ready to go.