New Year Resolutions

It’s that time of the year again when there are only two annoying questions on the tips of most people’s tongues.

Pesky Question # 1 – What are you doing for New Year’s Eve?

Pesky Question # 2 – What are your New Year Resolutions?

Since tomorrow will be the last day of the year, it is a blessed relief to know that as soon as the sun’s ray decide to peep out on January 01, the first exasperating question will be flushed down with the previous night’s spirits and finger foods. Burp!

Which brings us to the second issue, which promises, like a leading telephone service provider, to follow you around, like a faithful puppy. Except in this case, the pug in question turns out to be a maddening greyhound, insisting on leaping at your throat at regular intervals, and causing you to choke and splutter, see red, and purse your lips, lest the foam and froth decide to trickle down your mouth – not a pretty sight at all.

So when your brother’s friend’s aunt’s son’s pal poses the same question to you, as did the fifty-fourth person before him, I can’t blame you for wanting to:

a) bang your head on the nearby white wall
b) ask to be taken to a clinic with white walls, so that your frazzled nerves can be healed under constant medical care
c) kill the person asking the offending person
d) all of the above

There are some people who take the annoyance to new level altogether. To your nonchalant answer that you repeat year after year, and which goes to the tune of, “Oh me? My New Year Resolution is to not make any resolutions,” prepare to be subjected to an incredulous look from the enquirer, who has obviously perfected the look one gives upon being told that the other has just returned from the Himalayas, after a brief stay with a Yeti. Some sympathetic clucks may follow. And unless you are one of those who are adept at running away, be prepared to be assaulted by not a bird’s eye view, but an in-depth, blow by blow, twenty-page report of his resolutions.

After what seems to you like hours, you realize that you have a faraway, glazed look in your eyes, your neck has somewhat of a crick, what with the constant nodding, and what were two feet, feel like they have been anesthetized, or worse – amputated. Your pointed looks at your wrist do nothing to desist the eager resolution-taker-and-speaker from sharing his precious resolutions, and he’s not even half-way through.
Your excuses sound contrived even to you, and you beat that hasty retreat, but not without that dull, ringing sensation whirring constantly in your ears, which you realize, with a shudder, is the aftereffect of that annoyance’s droning.

Tired and more than a tad exasperated, you make your way back home. A relaxed shower, and your mood is already lifting. Thoughts of the evening with that special someone fill your mind, and the edges of your mouth are almost creasing into a smile.

And then it happens. One ring. You pick your phone. It is that nauseating friend from college whom you would rather not speak with, for reasons best left unspoken and unnamed. Maybe it won’t be all that bad – boy! are you optimistic. Sighing, you pick the phone. Just as you feel that the conversation is not steering to irksome topics, bang! It comes.

“Hey, made any New Year Resolutions? You know what I’m gonna do…..?”

No wonder that smile curled up into a sneer!

Birthday Bumps - Lars Ulrich

Co-founder of Metallica, and drummer unparalleled, Lars Ulrich, celebrates his birthday today.

Who would have thought that a budding tennis player, would trade-in his tennis racquet for Tama Drums…

Not that we are complaining;-)

Tennis’ loss is heavy metal’s gain.

So I’ll lissen to his amazing pounding in Enter Sandman yet again, and wish that he bangs many more birthdays.

Happy Birthday…

12 Days of Indian Christmas

Though it’s a little early for Christmas, I couldn’t help but include this hilarious video about this guy’s 12 days of Indian Christmas. He looks like a mix between Elvis the Pelvis, and our very own Rajnikanth.

Go on, laff a while. Especially at the 10-minute yoga and the Lotus. LOL

Merry X'Mas in advance...

The (un)common cold

The common cold is pretty common, say around twice or thrice a year, for most people. That is the time for runny noses, watery eyes, congestion, hoarse voices, and an abundant use of tissues and kerchiefs.

It goes somewhat like this – “Atishoo. “Scuse me. Sniff Sniff. Thank you (when you extend a welcome tissue).”

However, this blog post is not about these regular people, who are assaulted by the twice-a-year-common-cold. This post is about that breed of people who suffer from a perpetual cold, and who go about, sniffing their way through, the entire year round.

They give a whole new perspective to runny noses. Sounds of all kinds escape from their noses, many of which often causing the hearers to give looks alternating between horror and disdain. Sniff sniff sniff – they go at regular intervals, almost akin to a hurt child or a puppy left out in the cold by its inconsiderate master. Their snuffles only get louder, when they realize that they have an audience. That the audience is loathing them, is only incidental. Their sneezes happen at such an alarming regularity that you run out of the "God Bless Yous," alternating them with the "Oh God, not another one pleases."

Slime green seems to their favorite color, what with the occasional uhmmm you-know-what making an odd entry into the ever-open tissue. The very sight of that gooooey phlegm is enough to make even the strongest of men nauseous, and ready to swoon.

Then there is the case of the cough. It starts as a slow, hollow, dry one, like a sheep’s almost, increasing in intensity, till it wipes out all other sounds, leaving the hearer with a pained look on his face, an aching desire to erase the offending sound, and a longing for the monkey cap that one stopped wearing years ago. Even those gaily-colored muffins would have come in handy, if only to hold to your ears.

So there you are, sitting around a table with some people, trying to enjoy your meal. Ha! Easier said than done. The guy sitting right across you has a permanent cold, and insists on sniffling sixteen times in every sentence.

Making you look miserably into your hot and sour soup, and wishing you could drain it all down his throat. Might just help the dratted guy.

Atishoooooooooo. There he goes YET again.

Oh hell. Time for another trip to the washroom – the only place of solace for you.

Run! Run! Unless you are up for another display of the greenish liquid.

Blech!

All right people, Say Cheese

At my brother’s wedding last week, I realized the major role that photographers play. The cheerful lad, upon whom rested the onus of making people look good while getting their pics clicked, lay hidden behind the huge lens, for most part of the wedding. The only words he would mouth at regular intervals were, Say cheese,” which he would use to orchestrate the retinue to all count simultaneously, and utter a perfectly-synchronized “Cheese.”

A random question to my father as to why people say “cheese” while getting snapped, when the alternative “whiskey” would do equally well, and also force the face into a smile, brought about a predictable frown from him.

Hushed temporarily, I couldn’t help but think as to how people, even if they were fighting, would crease their faces into uncharacteristic, bordering-on-fake smiles – and all to get that elusive happy face on that Polaroid.

My mother is an exception to this rule of blinding-smile-while-getting-clicked. She will smile for a picture only if she genuinely feels like. All pleas to her to flash one of them elusive smiles(only during clicking sessions), fall upon deaf ears, and the photographer will be rewarded with a grin, only if he catches her in a good mood. Otherwise, an au naturel look is all that he will get. Besides the polite “Thank you,” that is.

I, on the other hand, am her exact opposite. Every time a camera makes an appearance near me within the vicinity of half a kilometer, my eyes light up and crinkle, and there – all my pearlies are on full display, ready to be immortalized in yet another pic with the exact glazed, happy (but fake) smile, that you can see, in photo upon yet another photo. Shameless I am, when it comes to getting clicked. Some of my goofy smiles have been compared to Garfield's, when he sees a piping-hot plate of lasagna. Burppppp!

Some, like my entire family, believe in a half-smile, showing a few teeth. There are others who consider a full smile, without any display of teeth, their most flattering self. Some like me, believe in going all the way, and flashing brilliant, sunny smiles.

For the rest, there is always the option of the brown paper bag tied tightly around the neck…;-)

Of black cats, cracked mirrors, and Friday the 13...

We call each other perfectly rational beings, pride ourselves on our ability to call a spade a spade, deduce logical conclusions, and banish ignorance as one of the chief evils way into the past, where it rightfully belongs. However, despite all said and done, there are more than a few occasions when many give in to old wives’ tales, folklore, stories about supposed jinxes, hexes, and curses, and then do the unthinkable, sometimes bordering on the plainly absurd.

Like take for instance, the old notion of people going to great lengths to avoid walking / driving, if a black cat chooses to cross their path. Last weekend, I was surprised to see my neighborhood spry ladies huddled together in the park, bringing their evening walk to a standstill. When listening-to-music-me hastened to cross them, I couldn’t help but detect a look of pity on their faces, much to my bewilderment. It was only when a pair of greenish-blue eyes stared out at me from behind a hedge that I understood that I had dared to do what the others had stopped for. I had done the unthinkable – walked, when a feline had chosen to cross the path, and hence the tons of sympathetic looks that came my way. My day – considering that I had spent the most part of the day with my two best friends, I wouldn’t say my day went bad (chuckle).

Back in school, I would scoff each time one of my classmates / friends would burst into recitation, upon seeing magpies / sparrows. Seeing one of these birds was a sure-shot indication of ill-luck, though seeing a pair would often make the schoolgirls breakout into impromptu dances of ecstasy.

While leaving one’s place, if someone calls out to you, it is believed that whatever task you are setting out to do, will remain undone. Pshawwww, I say. However many times my brother would call out my name, I would still have to make my way to the dreaded dentist and his high chair, and return home, teary-eyed, jaws-swollen-with-anesthesia - the only silver lining being the soothing ice-cream that my Mom would lovingly feed me with.

Debt is long considered to be the bane of anyone’s lives. Understandably, there are quite a few superstitions about it. Moving your leg causes you to go into debt, as does rattling keys. Cutting your nails on bed at night is sure to get you robbed, they say. I’ve cut my share of nails, on the bed that too, but fortunately, haven’t ever been robbed. Touch wood. Tee hee.

Ever the sloppy one of the house, I have, on numerous occasions, spilled salt at the dinner table. They tell me now that I ought to have ”undone” the jinx by tossing it over my left shoulder for every time I was slipshod.

It is said that “time heals all wounds.” Some say that it originated from the superstition that breaking a mirror can bring you bad luck for 7 years. A mirror was considered to be the window to the viewer’s soul – if one broke it, it would take those many years for that “cracked” soul to heal.

Walking below a ladder is definitely a “stairway” to damnation. So is stepping on a crack in the sidewalk – something that even Leonardo DiCaprio is reluctant to be “departed” from.

When my Mom was pregnant with yours truly, she was advised not to go outside, lest I would be born with a facial birthmark. Stubborn she however, refused to relent, and did venture out…Some months later, a bonny child made a grand appearance in all her dimpled glory. And no, there was no mark on her face.

It is said that one should refrain from using the same match to light three cigarettes. God knows the reason behind it.

The last one is a classic – eat something green and leafy on New Year’s Day. That will ensure that you never have to worry about paying your bills, and will bring your riches and happiness throughout the year.

Salad, anyone? ;-)

The Magic Trick You'll Never Figure Out

Even skeptical / sticking-out-her-tongue-at magic-me was stunned when I stumbled upon this magic display by American magician, Kevin James.

He performed this trick at June 2007's semi-final episode of America's Got Talent, leaving the judges, notably David Hasselhoff (remember Knight Rider? No? Baywatch? Aha, now you know wink wink), Sharon Osbourne (Ozzy Osbourne's wife), and Piers Morgan.

glumbert - The Magic Trick You'll Never Figure Out

My mouth dropped when I first saw it.

I wish I would also "stumble" upon a video of PC Sarkar, India's foremost magicians, making the Taj Mahal vanish. That was mindboggling too.

And if you know how he did it, drop me a line.

I sure would like to know...

Wedding Singers

The roads have never looked more crowded.

Wherever your eyes may roam, you are bound to see one of these on the roads – a white mare, groups of band men with musical instruments in tow, gaily-dressed, bejeweled women dancing with full glee and abandon with their equally resplendently dressed male counterparts, thick smoke thanks to the brilliant fireworks in the skies, and of course, the ubiquitous string of cars and other vehicles.

The wedding season has begun. And how!

Any shopkeeper worth his Kanjeevarams, chooris, sherwaanis, and motichur laddoos will vouch that the big fat Indian wedding season is right upon us, causing him to grin all the way to the bank, pockets jangling.

The snooty mall owner will also assure you that yes, indeed, the shopping bags have never gone home more overflowing. And nope, he ain’t grumbling, smile perfectly plastered over his smug face. There he goes to light yet another expensive incense-stick in front of the benevolent deity’s figurine.

Decorators are full choc-a-bloc, with many booked for the next two months straight.

Ditto for salons, spas, and the like. Because as they say, what good is a bride if she does not look straight out of the pages of a glossy?

With the spate of customized weddings on the rise, one is spoilt for choice. If you have the means, just lie back in that comfortable couch, and leave all arrangements to be made by companies, who will tailor-make the wedding, as per all your specifications, right down to the last coconut needed for the shaadi ka mandap.

Family, relatives, friends, neighbors, colleagues, acquaintances – it’s one long party.

And everyone’s invited.

To see the love that brings two people together who want to spend the rest of their lives together, for better or for worse.

Cheesy?

Nahhh! Kinda sweet.

Of preening parents and parroting children

I remember how, when I was a kid, it would take a horse-pulled cart to induce me to recite a nursery rhyme in front of an audience. Despite numerous fawning uncles and aunts, who expressed a keen desire to hear me do the parrot routine (read the Twinkle-twinkle, Baa Baa Black Sheep, and Little Miss Muffet rhymes), and who generously showered chocolates, candies, jujubes, and the like on eagerly-lapping-up-me, I would nevertheless refuse to spout the poetry, unless caught in one of my “exhibitionist” avatar days. On such days, I was unstoppable – yes. Otherwise, sunny-tempered me would disdainfully turn up her pretty nose, shake her flying curls obstinately in rapid left to right movements, and walk out of the room haughtily with pursed lips (and a secret smile), but not without first collecting my loot, and depositing it in my safe-box, away from my “usurper” elder bro.

So it was a heightened sense of déjà vu for me two days back, when a couple, accompanied by their three-year something daughter, traveling with me in the train, set about doing what most parents do – urging the tot to rattle off some verse. What started out as one poem, soon extended to more than half a dozen. Co-passengers, the very same ones who had earlier gushed praise for the preening child, soon settled back into their seats, their faces changing from glazed looks, to subsequent exasperated expressions.

The child, reveling in the attention of so many adults, soon realized that something was amiss, when the compliments became infrequent, and far in-between. The parents were not one of those who would give up so easily. An endless chatter ensued about their brilliant child, who was next to none, could put all the singers on various talent shows to shame, and for whom the word "prodigy" was an understatement. The poems soon changed their tempo into Hindi tracks from current Bollywood flicks. The parents kept pace with regular clapping, foot-tapping, and the odd shriek of appreciation. Next were regular impersonations by the child of the neighborhood postman, milkman, next-door uncle, aunt, watchman, and others of the ilk.

It must have taken the elderly lady, sitting with us, all her courage, to silence the parents and their reciting daughter, by a plea that she was suffering from migraine, and really needed to nod off.

Peace prevailed.

But not before many people gave silent looks of thanks to her, before she and most others drifted into happy happy slumberland.

Zzzzzzzz....

Who will don the first pullover?

The nip in the air is unmistakable.

Every morning, I stifle a yawn, and make my way, bleary-eyed, to the balcony, to pick my morning dose of news in the form of a leading national daily.

Today morning, I shivered, wrapping my light shawl tightly around myself, grabbed the newspaper, and ran all the way back to my piping-hot tea. Aaah, thank God for the small joys of life.

The sun soon popped out, dispelling the fog (or was it smog), and the day set in.

At office, I noticed that some people, despite the chill, had still not donned their gaily-colored woolens.

Some questions that I posed to them, didn’t raise too many answers.

And then some sunny rays of enlightenment dawned on me.

It takes folks, especially working in an office, to bring out their own woolens, only after they see somebody else pull ‘em on.

It’s almost as if a stamp of approval is needed for them all to be a sort of public herald that it was now ok to wear that crimson cape, maroon muffler, green gloves, cyan cardigan, purple pullover, jade jacket, and patent leather black boots. And obviously, chattering-teeth be damned, someone else better do the first donning.

Dunno if they believe strongly in herd mentality, or if they think that they might be singled out for ridicule / unwanted attention, but one thing is certain – regardless of no-sun days, the odd winter-rain spell, and blustery evenings / mornings, those woollies will make an appearance, only after someone else has displayed his, thereby setting the green signal on for a woollen mass-appearance in full throttle.

As for me, I’m carrying my shawl to work tomorrow.

Brrrrrrrr!!

The sounds and sights of Diwali

An evening walk in my otherwise pristine neighborhood park revealed the sordid side of the festival of lights. Remnants of burnt firecrackers reminded one of the last few days, wherein children and adults alike chose to add their bit to the Delhi smog – with firecrackers of every imaginable type.

While the skies glowed with the colorful pyrotechnics on display, people vied with each other to out surpass one another’s firecrackers – be it in terms of loudness, duration of their blaze, or the attached price tag. Things were no less different in smaller towns and cities, where loud cheering and whistles led on the herd-minded ones who insisted on perpetuating the have-money-will-burst-the-loudest-of-‘em-all-firecrackers syndrome.

Back in my hometown too, a bunch of kids made an impromptu visit to my place at night, to exchange greetings. Almost sleepy me sat with them for a few minutes, and then noticing that the clock read almost half-past ten, bade them good night, much to their utter amusement. They maintained that they would burst their “share” only after 11 pm, when people would be drifting away to slumberland. That made me sit up and notice their eager faces, and take-in their visible enthusiasm at the “thrill” of waking up the sleeping.

One tot, barely 10 years old, stammered excitedly about how his Daddy dearest had ensured that he had the longest string of crackers which he would burst after everyone else was through with their quota. Gave a whole new meaning to competition in its rawest form. Wonder what today’s parents say. Or probably today’s kids are too used to getting their own way, aided no doubt by some well-rehearsed tantrums, tears, and emotional blackmail – not in that order though.

So while a few brought on the sparklers with a flourish, the rest wheezed, gasped, coughed, and spluttered with tears in their eyes.

And cleaned the remnants the day after…sleepily.

Joined-at-the-hip couples

Have you ever seen one of those couples who stick to each other like conjoined twins?

They give a whole new meaning to the term, “surgically inseparable.”

Now, don’t take me for one of those cynical sorts.

I mean, I DO like couples who stick it out, through thick and thin, who are like mutual support systems, push boundaries to be with each other, yada yada yada.

I mean, who doesn’t, right?

But hell! What I totally fail to understand is when two adults hang out together, at say, a party / gathering / meet, and suffer pangs of separation anxiety when one of them goes to probably re-fill a glass with that very potent rum!!

Duration of "separation" - not more than 3 minutes. OMG!

And it’s usually we women folks who are the ones who do this.

Aw come on folks, it’s only a matter of a couple of minutes (ok, maybe a FEW minutes), before the darling sweetheart will re-appear with a flourish, armed with the bubbly. I really wouldn't be surprised if they were to make each other pee. Jeeeez.

However what transpires in those two minutes, is something like this, give or take a couple of things:

The “waiting” beloved will constantly look longingly at the bar / watch on her wrist, an anxious look plainly plastered over her carefully-made up face.

After what seems like an eternity (Ahem), when the guy in question FINALLY seems to be weaving his way through the crowd to her, she would heave a very very audible sigh of relief, flash all her pearlies, probably give a triumphant high-five on his “successful return,” maybe squeeze in a kiss (or two), hold hands, while all the while maintaining the lovey-dovey look (much to my exasperation), and murmur a (nauseating) I-missed-you-so-much-my-cootchie-coo-fluffy-hunny-tweedledums!!
And cause me to roll my eyes in the exaggerated way I excel at. To add to my annoyance, I sure do see a very very vivid red when I see them going at each others' tonsils.

Oh heavens!!

Sometimes, all I need is a .60 calibre.

Care to oblige me...?

The name is Raj...Raj Patel!

The hugely-popular freckled, red-haired, cheeky Archie has company.

In a first, Archies comics have introduced a character of Indian origin.

Seems like India is a hot favorite, what with the world swooning over Indian spicy curries, beauties wrapped in that nine-yard wonder – saree, outsourcing boom, henna, bindis, yoga, and spiritual odysseys. Obviously not in that order.

So after the Patil sisters made a fleeting appearance in the Harry Potter books, it is time now for another character to make an entry into that bastion of comics – Archies. And who else would do it better than a vivacious Gujarati Patel immigrant, Raj, who moves to that idyllic place, Riverdale, family in tow – a physician Dad (Ravi), a research scientist mother (Tina), and a sharp-as-nails younger sister, Tina, who though a year younger, is in the same class as Raj.

So where you have various characters who have some or the other fascination – Archies is fascinated by Veronica / Betty / anything in a skirt, a fascination he shares with smooth-operator Reggie, while Jughead drools over food, a habit he shares with his mutt, Top Dog – in similar fashion, Raj enjoys sci fi, art, and videotaping any and everything.

So while Raj, he of the flying hair, skateboards at Riverdale High (much to a visibly annoyed Mr. Weatherbee), we, the readers will eagerly lap up his antics...

One thing is for sure – we ain’t complaining.

PS – By the by, FX Labs of Hyderabad, is developing an Archies game.

Slated release - this month.

Yipppeeee!!!

It's Halloween

It’s that time of the year again.

When apples remind you of bobbing for apples (not that the game has caught on in our country; but you never know, some surprises might just leap out soon), and throwing of an apple, peeled in one strip, over one’s shoulder (a practice favored by many maidens to know the initial of their to-be spouse).

When candies are the most-preferred sweets.

When black and orange are the predominant colors for the day.

When shops offering costumes on sale/rent, see sky-high demands, often jostling with each other to offer you that too-good-to-refuse deal. Buy one vampire mask. Get the Frankenstein monster one FREE. Offer open till stocks last.

When pumpkins are carved (a tedious chore, let me tell you; as yours truly found one day, many years ago, and which I should add, was an utterly unsuccessful cum messy attempt, much to my disappointment, and Mom’s understandable relief). $%^&&*@!

It’s Halloween, folks.

Good friend, working at a company known for its creative ambience, made a call, asking if I would like to “grace” her official party, as a witch / vampire / ghoul / goblin / zombie / bat, no less. We shared some happy chuckles over how both of us needn’t even dress in witchy black robes or top-hats, and would yet be able to totally succeed with the impersonation.

However, good times were not to be, and I soon had to return to the dreary land of work and more work! All thoughts of Halloween banished into the background.

Well, almost…..

To be rekindled this time next year.

Now if only I could wield my trusty magic wand and set so many things right....

Abracadabra!

Dreadful dinner / lunch companions....

Many of my friends tell me anecdotes about dinner companions and luncheon dates. Some of which, I must add, leave you holding your aching sides, to keep from dropping off your chair in utter amusement.

I thought it would be good fun to compile some of these “gems” who could be seated across the table from you, causing you to squirm in your oh-so-comfy settee, while at the same time wishing that either you or them could drop dead that very moment. While my sense of humor might not hit yours bang on, I nevertheless, thought it was worth a try...

Let’s start with the slurpers.

So, the soup arrives. These people sure believe in sound being their strongest allies. The reason – sounds of all kinds – of the slurping, sucking, sloshing, and gulping category, make their way to your acutely delicate aural pair. Causing smoke to drift out from them. And making you grit your teeth, and clench your palms. The Hot and Sour Soup definitely makes you Hot and Dour!!

Then you have the sniffers.

Now these people could probably give all those sniffer-dogs a run for their money. As soon as the sous chef arrives with the hors d'œuvres, and gingerly places them on the gleaming ivory table, your companion decides to inspect each entrée, sniffing deftly, and laying down each of them with a triumphant / orgasmic look / smile after its due course of inhaled inspection. Almost makes you want to gag.

Next in line are the dissectors.

Mathematics sure must have been their favorite subject in high school. Their precision in eating all kinds of food in “parts,” definitely deserves a worthy note of mention here. Given a chance, they would doubtless, even divide your regular peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich into sub-atomic particles, gingerly toy with them with their forks, before pushing them into their mouths.

You also have the “savor”-ers.

These are the ones who enjoy their food so much that you would be through with double rounds of the entire seven-course delectable meal, and they would still be on their bruschettas. And bear pleased-as-Punch looks on their face – as they are the ones who really relish their food. Pooh pooh to the quick eaters!

You also have the “hand”-y ones.

Cutlery was probably invented by a fool; nothing gives these people greater joy than attending even a black-tie affair, folding their shirt-sleeves till their elbows, and digging into the food gracing the table, at breakneck speed. Too bad one only has eight fingers and two thrumbs. Tsk tsk. Spectators be damned!

You also have the “saucy” ones (pardon the pun)…

The food arrives. Without even tasting a spoonful, these people will uncork the ketchup / salsa / hot sauce / mustard / Tabasco / cayenne / wasabi bottle. And squish….a semi-liquid river has just been poured generously. It is a marvel how they make their way through it, chomping bravely, smile firmly in place, though their eyes / cheeks could give away some redness, and some tell-tale sniffing is concealed with excuses about a cold.

Ohhh, how can you forget the breed of loud eaters / chewers with their mouths open?

Probably one of the most obnoxious sorts – these folks believe that your seeing the bolus in their mouths constitutes a pretty sight. So you try your best to continuously stir your coffee, knowing that if you were to look up, you wouldn’t help but notice the ricotta-corn-spinach sandwich being vigorously chewed in the mouth of the strapping joker sitting across you. With a pained look, you try to keep your eyes diverted, but sooner or later, you are bound to look their way, when they are garbling with food in their mouth, and then quickly look the other way again, when you see moving particles inside their mouth. Ugggh!

Another type are the shovelers.

They will order dumplings, fried rice, noodles, chopsuey, tofu, and soy egg, mix it all up, and then shovel it in. Leaving you aching to run back home, and reach out for that aspirin.

One of Joey’s (of F*R*I*E*N*D*S fame) pet peeves is people helping themselves to food from his plate.

Which brings us to the next category – the I-don’t-believe-in-asking category.

So you have those people who will not only take bites from your plate, but given a chance, polish it all off. Now, if they would only seek permission, maybe that frown would exit your face for another time…Getting your food stolen off your table, hurts even more, if you happen to be one of those who swear by the rule of “delayed gratification,” leaving the tastiest piece for the last, only to have it grabbed by one rogue of a dinner companion, right under your pretty nose.

You also have the swishers.

Sample scene – attendant arrives with fresh bottled water / wine / whatever you may. Uncorks bottle. Pours the sparkly / bubbly / water into tall glasses. Your companion takes a long sip, sighs contentedly, and swishes the beverage inside his mouth. Gargle. Glug. Swish. Transporting you to memories of your childhood bi-annual visits to the biggest bane of 'em all - the dentist. There the heartless dentist would poke strange tools into your mouth, peer inside, and make you consume poisonous tasting stuff, and make you swirl it in your mouth. When you would freeze him with a pained / furious look, and he knew you couldn’t take it much longer, he would nod his head, and allow you to spit it out, but not without making your ears burn with a homily on how the youth of the day lacked patience and endurance power, and making your palms itch with an inordinate desire to box his ears. You would leave the clinic, with memories of a sadistic dentist deeply entrenched in your mind (though only till the time you were presented with a yummy choco-chip ice-cream for your “courage”). Thoughts of the dreaded dentist would disappear, life would look rosy, but only till the next 6 months, when it would be time again for another visit. Aaaargh.

But I guess I’m deviating from the topic.

So let’s move on to another group – the tappers.

Menus come. Orders are placed. Menus are removed. Food comes. Empty dishes are taken away. One thing is constant – that steady tap tap tap sound. These people believe that nothing makes a meal tastier and (un)forgettable than some steady soul-stirring music. And what could possibly be better than their own masterpieces. So their fingernails develop a life of their own, and constantly keep up the tap-tap-tap routine, causing you to make
a) umpteen visits to the loo
b) phone calls to all and sundry
c) pleadings to the offending owner of the tapping fingernails

But all in vain. The fingernails have suddenly found their calling. It’s a syndrome. It's called Have fingernails. Will tap. Period!

You also have the Questioners.

Hey waiter, what’s a combo? Is the fondue fresh? Are you sure the wine is from France? Can I get a free side-dish? And so on, and so forth. Soon, his questions drone on and on, causing you to switch your mind off completely, try to sleep with your eyes open, or cringe each time he utters a syllable. Since this guy’s middle name is “persistent,” you will be doing a lot of the above…

Then, there are the cheapsters.

Too cheap to order a drink or a beverage, they are the ones who are most likely to ask for chilled water. Take the lemons from the salad. Ask for some more. Wait for a couple of minutes. Ask for sugar, or better still, discreetly take out sugar cubes from pocket. Look furtively around. And Voila. In 5 minutes, they have their very own lemonade. Neat no?!!

Last, but definitely not the least – you have the scroungers.

“Hey, it’s my / my friend’s birthday. “(Grin. Wink. Wink. Fidget.). “Do you guys give any free stuff?” (Hopeful smile). “Like maybe a cake or dessert. A couple of drinks on the house?” “No?” (Shocked smile). “Gosh, what kind of restaurant / watering hole are you? I’m a patron…” (Head shaking).

Too bad, buddy. Happy birthday. And nope, tiramisu aint coming your way gratis. Go on, pay up.

And let the others eat in peace….

(I am sure I must have missed quite a few breeds of patrons at restaurants. Do fill me in / drop in a line. I’ll appreciate the help) :-)

Black Eyed Peas - Black Blue and You World Tour - Bangalore - October 16.

It’s official.

The Black Eyed Peas (BEP), who gave their India trip a skip eight months back, are going to be performing in Bangalore on October 16. The venue will be the same place which usually hosts such events – Bangalore Palace Grounds. The show will mark the mid-leg of their ‘Black Blue and You’ World Tour 2007, which commenced on September 13, wherein the band will perform in 13 countries, and also bring in the release of their latest album "E N D."

At a time when the band’s leading lady, Stacy “Fergie” “Dutchess” Ferguson is riding high on winning MTV’s Best Female Artist Award, their timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

Once again, another band gives the capital their version of a royal ignore. Save the thrash / death metal band, Sepultura, that is slated to perform on October 28, and the hip-hop rapper Akon who performed to a luke-warm reception early this month in Delhi (despite his voluble I-am-charmed-with-India-declarations), most bands have preferred to keep their performances for a more “receptive” audience in Bangalore, Mumbai, and Shillong.

Quite a bleak state for us poor people in Delhi, who would also like to shake their booty to foot-tapping numbers, and who keep getting blue in the face by shouting hoarse for bands to perform here. Sigh!

As for the people in Bangalore, I bet they are all chanting, “Let’s Get It Started,” in full gusto!

@#$%^&*!

The Big B's Birthday...

In a country where cricket and Bollywood are the two presiding religions, it comes as no surprise that its denizens would devote themselves utterly to worshipping their reigning deities. And when it happens to be the legendary Amitabh Bachan’s birthday, as is the case today, it becomes one huge jamboree.

While the most-known face of Indian cinema spent a low-key birthday, things were not as quiet in his place of birth, Allahabad, where fans thronged the banks of the Ganges, to offer prayers and to perform rituals for his wellbeing. and continued success at the Box Office.

TOOMA* has been doing a great job the entire day, making me walk down memory lane, doing damn neat renditions of unforgettable dialogues spouted by tinsel town’s most famous icon, the towring one who boasts of his now signature booming baritone, and who ironically, before he embarked on his stupendously-successful silver-screen journey, was turned down by a radio channel for a news announcer. Bet they must be gnashing their teeth in dismay till today!!

Hearing those dialogues delivered by an adept-at-them TOOMA, transported me to many, many years back, when I would wait impatiently for countdown shows, Sunday cartoons, Street Hawk, Knight Rider, The World This Week, Oshin, and oh yes! – the blockbuster Amitabh-not-to-be-missed-for-words-homework-be-damned flick on Saturday nights, when all my Dad would do was pop his head into the room, and ask my bro and me when we would turn the blimey idiot box off, and call it a day, much to our chagrin and / or visible vexation!

The screen idol continues to rule the roost even today. Though a lot many people poke fun at him, calling him undiscerning on account of the spate of his movies that bombed at the BO, and his face peeping out from every hoarding on the highway, every advertisement on the boob tube from mouth fresheners to Marutis, and every magazine / newspaper across the globe, his popularity continues to soar, crowning him as the undisputed “Baadshah” of all there is to conquer, and making those very same scoffing / disdainful people bite their lower lips, duly humbled and chastened. Time has stood still for this ageless luminary (calling him a star would be an insult), who continues to enjoy the same adulation as 25 years ago, when the entire nation to a standstill upon his near-fatal accident while shooting for a movie, and who flocked in hordes to offer their prayers for his speedy convalescence. Hourly bulletins, a first for national channels, were flicked continuously. Hymns were chanted. Temples saw all-time high visits. His unabated fame and glory gives credence to the fact that stars may come and go. But legends go on forever.

Cheers to the not so young and not so angry silver-bearded man, as he smiles genially, gracefully turns 65 today. May he enjoy unabated endorsements, continued success at the Box Office, and an etched impression in the minds of all.

The last I’m dead sure about.

After all,

Don ko bhulaana mushkil hi nahin, naamumkin hai...

*TOOMA - The Object of My Affection

Movie Review: The Bourne Ultimatum

I’m no fan of action movies, choosing slapstick over this genre. But when best friend insisted that I should make an exception against my rule, I decided to relent. After all, what did I have to lose? If nothing else, it was bound to be an adrenaline-pumping, 120-minuute, tightly-paced flick. So I acquiesced.

And boy! Was I glad that I did go!!

Initially I was pretty skeptical about watching the third part of an action trilogy, without having watched the first two. Five minutes into the movie – and my skepticism had all flown out of the theater window. The movie is self-explanatory, and leaves you wishing you could heap buckets of acclamation on the worthy director.

The Bourne Ultimatum is a mind-blowing flick – one that leaves you with an incredible Oh-My-God-this-was-one-amazing-movie experience, when you walk out after the screening. Right from the beginning, you are hooked – from Jason Bourne’s (Matt Damon) death-defying escape from the Moscow police, right to the very end, which for obvious reasons I would refrain from recounting here - after all Ido fear that you might not move your sedentary rears to watch it.

Bourne, on an episode to unravel the hush-hush CIA black op called Blackbriar, does not have many leads to assist him. Save a London journalist Simon Ross (Paddy Considine), who has stumbled upon the classified operation. Ross makes his way through a stringent camera surveillance system, unerringly steered by an ingenious Bourne, until he (Ross) panics, and is shot by a hired gun.

The movie is shot at a gritty pace, amidst different locales worldwide. Never once does the able direction falter.A steely Pam Landy (Joan Allen), excels in her role as the upright CIA Deputy Director. Noah Vosen, as the smug, wily head of Operation Blackbriar is also laudable.

One of the best scenes in the movie is when Bourne, after leading the CIA officials on a blind goose chase, calls Vosen on his phone, querying about his whereabouts. When Vosen chooses a white lie, saying he is in his office, Bourne expresses disbelief, remarking if that had indeed been the case, the conversation between the two would have been in the flesh, rather than a telephonic one. While Vosen had been on the lookout for Bourne, an obvious red-herring, he (Bourne) had broken into his office, made away with the top secret Blackbriar documents, and deposited them with Landy. A visibly chasetened / beaten / frenzied Vosen is shown next upfront...

Words wouldn’t do justice to this Paul Greengrass movie.

Miss it at your own risk.

Just another game of chess...

Seems like there is more to Russia than Glasnost, Perestroika, a certain leggy blonde tennis player, that drink most often sipped with orange juice – vodka, caviar, space programs, and Faberge eggs. Whoa! Looking back, that was quite a list.

But I’m afraid, I am deviating from the main story.

Three days back, Russian Former World Chess champion, Garry Kasparov, was elected as a Presidential candidate, slated to run for Russian President in March 2008.

Discussion with TOOMA* last night brought up interesting revelations. He likened the game of chess to a long-drawn out political battle, where one opponent goes all out to overwhelm the other. I liked the analogy.

With Kasparov having played chess since the age of 6, this 44-year old sure is one seasoned “player.” Despite not having been in the political arena for long (he joined in 2005), his entry does bring back memories of how, in the 1980s, he was considered to have the “gall” to play opposite the undisputed chess champion, Anatoly Karpov, and more importantly, making him (Karpov) relinquish his much-coveted title. All the while making it seem like a piece of cake.

Now it’s time for us to wait and watch if Kasparov plays a neat round of checkmating Putin, whom he refers to as a “dictator.”

I just hope it doesn’t end in a stalemate.

* TOOMA : The Object of My Affection.

Movie Review: No Reservations

I often go overboard, I have been told.

Which is why, after weeks of no theater-visit, I saw two flicks last weekend.

The first was this riotous Indo-American comedy that left me in splits.

The second was No Reservations, which I must say without any reservations, tugged at my heartstrings. Oh well, quite a few times.

Catherine Zeta Jones is in top form after a two-year sabbatical. She plays Kate Armstrong, a standoffish, work-obsessed chef in Manhattan, whose regimented life is utterly thrown into disarray upon the death of her sister, leaving her in custody of her niece, Zoe (Abigail Breslin), last seen in a splendid performance in Little Miss Sunshine.

Jones is caught in a crisis – what with her 9-year old niece who will touch none of the exotic meals she whips up, a restaurant owner, Paula (Patricia Clarkson) who insists that she go for weekly visits to an octogenarian shrink (Bob Belaban), and a maverick “rival chef” , Nick (Aaron Eckhart) who insists on playing opera in the kitchen. It is small wonder that she (Jones) gives way to the occasional outburst with a customer who complains about her less then perfect foie gras or steak, and she is fit to throw the pretty toque that she has donned on her pretty head throughout the movie.

Aaron Eckhart disappoints though. As the Good Samaritan who is totally smitten by both Jones’ culinary skills, and erm… ______ skills, he paints too good a picture. Seen last year as another Nick – a hard-nosed tobacco lobbyist in Thank You for Smoking, who will stop at nothing to increase smoking amongst the public, Eckhart is unconvincing as the do-gooder, who will continue with his good act, despite Jones barbs.

The movie has its pluses though. For a self-confessed foodie like me, it was a veritable delight. Tantalizing, sumptuous feasts are elaborately arranged on immaculate tables, akin to a Sidney Sheldon description, causing my tummy to rumble, grumble, and growl throughout the movie. Too bad that I had to contend with coffee and corn while arrays of delectable pies, appetizers, aperitifs, and finger foods constantly made their appearance.

All in all, however, the movie was decent.

Not recommended for those who like mush though…

Movie Review: Loins of Punjab Presents

With a title like that, Loins of Punjab Presents sure must have grabbed quite a few eyeballs. Which would however, soon crease into wide smiles and / or impish grins, depending on your affinity.

A perfect weekend watch, Loins of Punjab Presents (I won’t deny that I get a kick each time I say the title aloud) takes you through the quirks, anxieties, ambitions, delusions, and machinations of an Indian diaspora in New Jersey. Thrown together one weekend to win the $25,000 jackpot of a reality show called Desi Idol, seven contestants attempt to sweat it out for the moolah. The show is organized by the boorish Jameel Khan, who takes the word ‘crude” to an altogether new high.

A walk through the contestants almost makes you feel they are intensely familiar. So you have the conniving socialite, Rita Kapoor (a stunning Shabana Azmi), assaying the Machiavelli act to perfection, complete with arched eyebrows, secretive smirks, and glinting eyes. Her only aim is to outdo a certain rival, who happens to be a prominent media person / socialite / theater personality. So when the rival donates a raffle draw prize money in charity, our very own Ms. Azmi sets her heart upon doing the same, albeit on a grander, more ostentatious manner. And the best course of action she decides to take, is entering the talent show, trotting off with the prize money on designer heels, and donating it all in charity. This, while the blinding flashing cameras click away merrily, and eager photojournalists hang-on to, and hastily jot-down her well-rehearsed “noble” speeches. As far as competition is concerned, Pshaww. What do some ignorant buffoons pose to her Royalty herself? Out she comes with her social networks (carefully updated and maintained over the years, no doubt), and like a seasoned Grandmaster, she sets about removing all the barriers that lie between the jackpot and her. Too bad that in the end, her hubby dear decides to have a torrid affair with the rival.

Next is Preeti, one of the huge Patel family’s offspring, all of 17 years old, blessed with a divine voice, which however, she only uses to sing. The talking? Well, she leaves that to her Scrooge Gujju clan, who will go all out to ensure that she wins. Even if that means spouting malapropisms (Cock for Coke; snakes for snacks – you get the drift, right), or taking the very very openly gay judge to, hold your breath, an all-female strip club, leaving him gagging/ frothing at the mouth. Do watch out towards the end, when Preeti finally opens her mouth to take Shabana Azmi by total surprise.

Sania Rehman fits the bill of the ABCD (for the uninitiated, American Born Confused Desi) to the T. Conversant with only a smattering of Hindi, which she uses sparingly, she dreams of making it big in Bollywood as an actress. And for whom, the Desi Idol contest seems like Manna from heaven and the perfect launchpad…

Vikram Tejwani (Manish Acharya, who incidentally is also the writer and director of the movie) plays the statistics-mouthing Amitabh Bachan aficionado, who, with his job getting outsourced to India, decides to give a shot at the contest. Love blossoms between him and Sania Rehman…

Then you have the odd man out – Josh Cohen, an American contestant, who loves Indian music and his Indian girlfriend, a wasted Ayesha Dharker here. The earnestness with which he sings the only two Hindi pieces he know – the Indian National anthem, and Yeh Hain Bombay meri Jaan, tugs at your heartstrings…

The funniest are the two Bhangra rappers, who insist on using the effing-word in every sentence they mouth. One of them goes by the name of Turbanotorious B.D.G (Ajay Naidu), and even gets one of the judges, another fusion music artiste, to rap with him. The swear words might be a little harsh on your acoustic sense, but boy! Can he dance!!! I almost whistled aloud – he was that incredible.

The film, is packed into a nifty 90 minutes-something, and keeps you entertained with its rollicking dialogue-delivery, crisp story line, and inane characters. The last includes an elderly citizen, who borders on paranoia that terrorists are lurking in every nook and corner of New Jersey, and who often gives “helpful” tip-offs to the police about probable terrorists.

Loins in Punjab Presents made me wonder, why such a cavorting flick, didn’t come out much earlier.

After all, with the spate of reality / talent shows that have pervaded channels pan-geographically, a movie must have long been in the offing.

A must watch. Go grab your laffs.

Stuck with stuck-ups...

You see them everywhere.

In your social circuit.

At your workplace.

In glitzy malls.

At restaurants.

Heck, even on the road.

They’ll stare at you coldly; smirking is their most preferred occupation. They could be of either gender. Eyebrows arched, they will deign to look at you out of the corner of their eyes, almost as if you are some tadpole that has decided to hop into their sight, straight out of some algae-ridden pool.

Striking up a conversation with them sure is tricky, cos they put the “C” in cynical. Every comment that you utter is scrutinized, analyzed, dissected, and thrown back at you with a vengeance. Almost making you wonder if they moonlight as critics – since they are so adept with their scathing comments, which are not even remotely droll.

They always know that tad bit more than all the knowledge you possess, and you better not forget that in a hurry. The Lord help those who foolishly decide to cross them – that’s absolute Hara-kiri - as what they say is next to Gospel truth, irrefutable, and most importantly always one-up on what you, the twit that you are, could possibly come up with.

Every time an innocuous remark escapes your lips (and there will be a fare share of these definitely), their lips will curl in that half-smile-sneer that they have perfected, and which will probably set you back by an hour of patience, cause you to grit your teeth, clench your fist, and look around for the nearest gas chamber to shove them into.

They have the prerogative of always airing their freely-dispersed opinions, cos obviously, for us mere mortals, those should be the only ones that matter, and the sooner we realize that, the better for our general well-being.

Index-fingers always jamming in your face, they take it as their moral obligation to elucidate points to us, the imprudent earthlings that we are. Hell, we should be kissing the very ground they tread on – that is the least of the ways to show our eternal gratitude.

Proficient at that fine art of clucking their tongues in disapproval, they are also not averse to shaking their heads at all times, except when they are the ones from whom pearls of wisdom are flowing like freshly-opened packs of iodized salt, at which time it is considered most appropriate to nod your heads in:

a) silent approval
b) open admiration
c) both

Heavens help you, if you by some stroke of misfortune, decide to ask them about something. Within seconds, their hands will move animatedly, and chest puffed out, they will set about giving insightful monologues on anything from how the country to how the universe should be run. Intervals are rare, and any interruption will be severely glared upon, and shushed with one authoritative hand. After all, who dares interrupt when Royalty speaks? Pshawww.

Disagreed with them, did you? You gotta be kidding right?

Gosh, you actually did that? Prepare for some fireworks now. Extended periods of silence. Or maybe accusatory / are-you-out-of-your-orbit glares. Perhaps all of these. And some more…

And if you insist on cracking a feeble joke at this juncture, be prepared to receive some perfectly-honed withering looks.

The ones that can cause flowers to wilt. And cracks to appear on the walls.

There is only one way out then.

Pray hard.

Or make a beeline for the nearest exit point.

And your quirk is....?

“My daughter is about to give another of her Presidential speeches,” would be my Dad’s constant refrain, to no one in particular, each time I would clear my throat (a habit, which began during my school years, has continued with me over the years, and which seems in no hurry to depart).

Many many years later I realized that what I had shrugged off for so many years as just another of my quirks, had a name – Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (more commonly known as OCD). And I don’t have just one – I have quite a few – for instance, on a couple of occasions, when I spritzed a popular blue-bottled EDP with notes of aqua and citrus, I chanced to fight with TOOMA (The Object of my Affection), and decided that the offending fume was a jinx, and promptly banished it to the back of my closet. It doesn’t quite end there – I sometimes count the steps when I climb stairs, a quirk which I am glad to know, I share with Jennifer Love Hewitt.

TOOMA sees his arm size pat every morning, something he admitted to me today. He also strokes his stubble when he is immersed in thought (a fact which he revealed over the phone, and which I have yet to confirm myself). Mom, best friend, and quite a few others share an OCD for cleanliness. Everything has to be in symmetry, so much so that if I chance to move a table at my place, Mom will instantly jump to re-arrange / re-align the “visually-offending” table, besides shooting a murderous glare at me. Ditto for best friend, who will wring her hands if I chance to “drop” a tissue on the floor, try her best to assume an unaffected / nonchalant look about her, and the minute I turn, spring to a) fling the tissue into the garbage can and b) give me a homily on my affinity for resembling a certain porcine creature (the latter designed to send me into peals of laughter, much to her ire)...

Even on the sets of “The Apprentice,” Donald Trump would arrive with a family-sized bottle of sanitizer, and desist from shaking hands with anyone. Such is his mysophobia( fear of contamination) that he washes his hands every half an hour or so, a la our very own Lady Macbeth. What guilt or long suppressed conscience is plaguing him is quite another story…

The closely-resembling a Greek God, David Beckham, has an OCD for symmetry. Something which has wreaked havoc upon his personal life, and caused his usually tight-lipped anorexic wife to speak out. He insists on lining-up his shirts hue-wise. Fair enough. Except that it doesn’t end there. His sprawling mansion houses three refrigerators – one for food, one for snacks, and one for drinks, all coordinated down either side. Wait, there’s more. If his fridge stocks three cans of some drink, he’d rather throw one than keep three – such is his penchant for even numbers (and abhorrence for their odd counterparts). A certain Ms. Gurinder Chadha should really have re-considered naming that delightful movie, “Align it like Beckham.” Tee hee

A close friend, I have observed, has this long-running pattern where she will twirl her hair constantly while conversing. While I find it amusing and indulgently overlook it, some may be annoyed. A friend back in college had to re-apply the war paint on her face every hour. Why she was addicted to the touching-up, when anyway most of it was intact, and more importantly smudge-proof, completely beat me.

A common scene is men adjusting their belts or pulling up their trousers / jeans every now and then. While this may be appropriate for those who swear by their anti-fit Levis, it does seem a tad ludicrous when middle-aged, office executives become the newest addicts. Then you have those who believe that trousers are the best shoe-brushes known to mankind. So there you are holding a serious conversation when all of a sudden, their right leg goes behind their left trouser leg, and lo and Behold! A vigorous shoe-shine has just been done, all within ten seconds. Shoe-shine boys be damned.

Another breed are the adjusters. They adjust anything and everything – their car rear-view mirrors, ties, spectacles, watch, caps you name it. There are those who straighten their ties countless times in a day, giving a whole new meaning to the term “tie-breaker” altogether!

Best guy friend recounted how one of his friends, a budding mathematician no doubt, had an unusual pastime while driving. He would read the numbers of licence plates on cars, and do the works with them – add, multiply, subtract, and divide them with each other. Once the car in front would slow down, or he would overtake it, his interest would wane – till he espied another licence plate. Then his interest would be reinstated.

I have come across more than a fair share of people who repeat words, many of which are often superfluous. Common examples are – like, basically, generally, usually, obviously, suffixing “no” after every sentence, sorry, etc, all of which certainly sound grating on one’s ears.

There are many who count poles or temples while traveling. While some of these eccentricities may be innocuous enough, there are some that border on the bizarre.

Billy Bob Thornton, known more for his failed marriage to Angelina Jolie, and the idiosyncratic marriage vows and rituals he shared with her, is also known for taking his mail out of the mailbox and putting it back repeatedly. Cameron Diaz, “destined” for a life of OCD, is committed to washing her hands incessantly, and for making it a point to open all doors with her elbows, thanks to her inordinate fear of germs. Leonardo Di Caprio takes superstition to a new level altogether, and is known to retrace his steps to avoid cracks on pavements.

There you are. I guess if you’d only analyze a bit, you’d find some of your own petty foibles. Now if you shake your head, and gloat that you have none, I’d just say that your analysis could do with some more depth.

While you go ponder over your own quirks, let me go and check one last time if the door is thoroughly locked, count my steps to the kitchen (they should be twelve and no more), pick my good luck green bottle, lay it on my right, and call it a day! Whew!

Giving off a message...

While stuck in a traffic snarl, I often do one of the following activities to keep myself amused / occupied -
a)yap incessantly into my phone
b)look at my nails to see if one of them has grown overnight (they never do. Bah!)
c)try to guess what people in the loco pulled alongside are conversing about (pretty boring actually, as one can never know whether the guesses are right or otherwise)
d)counting cows on the roads (there are quite a few you see), and so on…

Another time pass, especially on a long long highway, is reading the messages emblazoned vividly on the backs of trucks. Yes, those smoke-puffing horrors that are driven by sadists / perverts who look straight out of some D-grade Punjabi flick, have quite a few amusing, some downright side-splitting messages.

Seems like that there is more to those colorfully decorated trucks than just their lame attempts at jinx-proofings(read the ubiquitous slipper / green-chili / lemon strung on a string) after all.

And each truck has a different story to unfurl...

That you can read these messages only when their drivers are NOT doing the Michael Schumacher / Fernando Alonso (drool drool) impersonation is a different story altogether.

Besides the "Hum do, Hamare Do" (We two, our two) message that spreads its social-awareness bit, and appeals for small-sized families, there are others that range from the Oh-my-Gosh-what-in-goodness-gracious-is-that to the wickedly funny.

I’ve never been able to understand why trucks (and there are many of these) that cheerfully proclaim, "Horn OK Please." Some people are lactose-intolerant, some are saccharine-intolerant - I’m horn-intolerant. Why anyone in his right mind would invite aural trouble upon himself, and encourage people to toot their obnoxious horns, completely beats me. You do have weirdos everywhere, I guess.

Then you have one of the eternal-favorites “OK Tata Phir Milengey”(OK, Bye, We’ll meet again), that borders on the persistently-optimistic.

A classic-cult movie (in the news again for its shoddy remake by one of our most talented film-makers), has spawned an entire legacy in truck literature, the most common one being, “Chal, Meri Dhanno,” (in honor of an equestrian in the flick). Other spin-offs include, “Chal meri Raam Dulaari / Pyaari.”

Upping the patriotic fervor, you have the much-used-to-death, “Mera Bharat Mahaan” (My India is great).

Keeping with a “nasal,” capped singer’s “singing”prowess in mind, is another hot-favorite, “Tera Mera Saat” (13-mera-7), meaning "Your and my comradeship". Not to be crooned, let me add hastily. Not to be left behind, another numerically-inclined message proffers itself - “Ek saat teen teen” ( 1-7-3-3), which can be loosely interpreted as the randy “three simultaneously, ” an expression, I must admit, put my guy into bursts of rapturous sighing, and longing “If onlys…” And causing me to repent instantly my penchant for putting my foot into my mouth.

There are the occasional ones in verse too.

Sample this:

“Chalti hain gaadi,
Udti hain dhool,
Jaltey hain dushman,
Khiltey hain phool.”

(Uhmm, lemme try the translation here: the truck moves, the dust billows; enemies are envious, while flowers bloom).

Yet another of those rhyming ones:

“Amiron ki zindagi biscuit aur cake par
Driver ki zindagi clutch aur brake par”
(Loosely translated into: The wealthy thrive on their biscuits and cakes; the driver thrives on the clutch and brake).

Some sensible ones also decide to show-up, common among them being the stoic “Use Dipper at Night” ones, and extending to the slightly exaggerated but nevertheless well-meaning advice, “Babuji, dheerey chalna,” (Hey Mister, go slow), probably “inspired” by a popular yesteryear’s silver screen song.

Another fairly frequent one is the one where the driver’s / owner’s name is liberally splashed in vivid hues. Causing you to know their names, from miles away.

Some border on the droll:

“Shaam hotey hi yeh dil udaas hota hain,
Tootey khwabon ke siwa kuch na pass hota hain,
Tumhari yaad aise waqt bahut aati hain,
Bandar jab koi aas-paas hota hain.”
(Dusk falls, and this heart feels glum, it has nothing but broken dreams with it. It misses you immensely at such times, when a monkey is nearby.) No, don’t glare at me – I didn’t make this up myself. And another N-O – don’t even ask me what in the world is it supposed to mean!

Then,there are the ones that leave you at a loss for words.

“Ladki ko mat chhed, paap hoga,
Ek din tu bhi kisi ladki ka baap hoga”
(Don’t eve-tease the girl, one day you shall yourself be the father of a daughter).

Enough said.

I rest my case.

OK Tata Phir Milengey…

My cup of love goes to....

As you take that bending slope on your way to a hill station, taking pleasure in the wind puffing lightly on your face, you are inclined to let the accelerator slide.

It is then that you see that hoarding looking up at you authoritatively, compelling you to stop.

And stop you do.

You have to.

There’s no two ways about it.

That is N, at least for me.

His full-throated laughter was what first drew me to him.

I didn’t admit it to him then, but it was I who had asked someone to ask him to come and share a ciggie with us. Since I was too proud to go up to someone myself and ask to share a smoke.

(When I eventually made a clean breast, I heard no end from him, and had to contend with endless leg-pulling…)

An entire fortnight passed, and good sense didn’t prevail upon us to exchange numbers, and use Graham Bell’s invention.

When I look back, I go, “Gosh! Could it get any more lame than that?”

The smokes soon extended to exchanging mints, coffee dates, and the occasional beer.
The phone conversations grew longer in duration…

My scowls would give way to sunny Cheshire cat grins when I would hear his reassuring voice (which I must admit, sounds downright hot as hell in the mornings).

Eat your hearts out – his number aint coming your way. Anytime soon.

Ok, make that, Never!

Add chocolate brown liquid eyes, an absolutely mischievous grin, and you get the complete picture, right?

Ohh, and I forgot to mention that he always smells divine (blame that potent bottle of Polo for that)…

I’ve re-christened him time and again. He’s countered, and my monikers have ranged from rustic Rajasthani ones, to the occasional eye-popping Haryanvis, to the positively funny Bihari ones.

He’s gallantly fed me forkfuls between his own bites, held doors (and my heart) for me.

The most mundane of topics become super-interesting when I’m discussing them with him.

Though some (especially the kinds where two girl-colleges are pitted with each other) can lead to sour tempers and tongues…

His jokes are like double-edges swords – while they can usually make you go into hoots of hysterical laughter, every now and then, they can also make you want to pull out all your hair.

And ohhh, the times I’ve goofed up with him.

I remember how on one occasion, I thought that the mole a lil above his eyebrows was some black mark, and I tried to scratch it off, much to his bewilderment, and later visible vexation.

I’ve driven him up the wall on more occasions that I would want to recall, on account of my atrocious memory. I marvel at his patience, and when I do marvel too much, that is the time he decides to alternate between sighing resignation and a slight outburst.

I’ve also done my bit in driving him crazy with my incessant questions-popping, a habit, I am happy to say, I am not gonna nurture.

A self-confessed lover of Yo-China, he is also not averse to his share of popcorn and Corona.

Playing pool with his best bud is a highlight for him; almost as much as it is for me to look longingly at the calendar and count the days till he touches home-turf.

Quite the Nostradamus, he has the uncanny ability to analyze any situation at hand, cut through the mire to its very essence, and give me a candid bird’s eye view and the future prospects of any situ. However, me, the mule that I frequently am, gleefully refuse to lissen to him then.

But the next day or week, with red face smarting, I have to bite my lower lip and come clean that his verdict / solution was the one that mattered, held true, and was the best one.

Eat crow is what I do then. Humbly...

I like the ease with which he connects with all – though he hardly calls himself congenial / affable, I’d like to think he is.

I also admire the way he can set the ball rolling, and bring any situ towards its intended accomplishment.

I think of myself as lackadaisical sometimes; he galvanizes me snap into action on account of his infectious commitment and passion that he displays and which goes into whatever he chooses to do at that moment.

What I need to learn from him is his ability to not get affected or changed by the obvious inconsistency or frivolous judgment of others. (He’s still light years ahead of me, and I have SOME catching up to do…)

I take pride in the way he races on the tracks even when the last spectator has left and the last light has been dimmed because he keeps personal scorecards and the race isn’t over till his heart says so.

What I like a lot about him is that he never convinces anyone that he is right – that is probably the most miserable way to start a discussion. Consensus is not the end, conciliation is.

Even if I try to do the occasional Houdini, he uncannily figures the state of my mind.

He’s crooned numerous karaokes – be it in his car, or a watering hole; joined quite a few times by me. The reluctant singer, who is fast blossoming :)

I took it to another level altogether, going live on a popular radio channel, dedicating the over-one-hour show to him.

I’m not sure what feelings he went through at that point of time, but I’m guessing, they were any / or all of these: surprise, bashfulness, embarrassment, amusement, and maybe the odd touched feeling….

The tea that he makes is one of the most divine I have ever tasted – and it is not an acquired taste – it is absolutely flavorsome. The flavor remains the same, however many times he may make it, much to my wonder, and his amusement…

My very own Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung rolled into one, he gives me some of the most soul-baring, and bang-on advice.

We have laughed over inane jokes, read each others’ horoscopes, pulled each others’ legs randomly, played assorted (cartoon) games online (at which he always comes sunny side up, however hard I try). But I’m not complaining – I give in to him with a goofy-look-plastered-all-over-my-face.

Coffee is not just a beverage for me when I am with it – it’s a bond…

His rendition of Joey (of F*R*I*E*N*D*S fame) will dispel the clouds for you, even on the most murky of days.

When I rest my head on his shoulders, all my fretting peter out..….

Lastly, there is something about the way he can hold a cigarette, and speak with you earnestly.

Bowling you over.

I should know...(sheepish grin).

They say, smoking is injurious.

In my case, it was positively of assistance - it introduced me to the guy whom I love to distraction……

Woodstock recreated....?

If word is to be believed, Jackie Shroff, he of the sexy baritone (second only to someone’s super-hot voice early mornings), and moustached “splendor,” plans to hold a rock / other genres of music festival in Goa. Reminiscent of the original Woodstock festival of 1969, the festival, if it happens, will be huge.

I mean, how wrong can you go with the following list of tentative names that have been drawn up:
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Starship
Jethro Tull
Fleetwood Mac
Queen (Paul Rodgers)
Ravi Shankar
Iron Butterfly
Aerosmith
Santana
Rolling Stones
Fat Boy Slim
Norah Jones
Prodigy
Black Eyed Peas
Paul McCartney

Whoop! That’s quite a mouthful, don’t you think?

Now if only Jaggu dada is able to pull it off, it'll be a virtual treat for music aficianados like me, and countless others.

Meanwhile, let me see if I can coax / cajole / persuade / convince / wheedle / sweet-talk a certain someone to go with me to the sun-kissed Goan beaches.

For I'd be most loath to miss this festival, if it happens.

Amen!

In the Blues...

Halle Berry

Britney Spears

Del Synnott

Besides being your average list of Hollywood’s beautiful people, the above names have done more than sparked off interest in their luck-kissed lives. They have quite a few things in common – having lent their names to million-dollar brand endorsements, flashed those pearlies, arm-in-arm with other beautiful people at red-carpet and other gala events, and graced numerous magazines and newspapers.

Additionally - they all, have some time or the other, attempted suicide.

Owen Wilson, he of the 13-times broken nose, twinkling eyes, and lopsided grin, considered Hugh Grant’s American equivalent of the archetypical romantic actor, decided to join the unenviable list above. Thankfully, he lives to tell his tale.

Three days back, he fell prey to a broken spirit three days back, ODed on sleeping pills, and slashed his wrists. Speculation is rife over the reasons that led him to take such an extreme action. The most prominent rumor doing the rounds is that he was suffering prolonged bouts of the blues, following his much-splashed-in-the-tabloids, very very public breakup with a popular blonde actress.

Which brings me to the all-important question. Why do such people, seemingly living lives that others would kill for, try to take their own lives? What led a prominent singer like Jerry Hadley to shoot himself in the head last month, an act that claimed his life?

Seems like the black feelings of rejection, gloom, separation and isolation spare no one from their fangs, doing Octopus numbers on all.

Get a (Second) Life

When I was in first year college (which seems like so far far away now), I read Sidney Sheldon’s “Tell Me Your Dream.” The story, revolving around a woman and her two alter-egos, stayed in my memory for quite a bit. And I often mused what it would be like to have an alter ego. Not violent, psychopathic ones that we get to see aplenty in movies like Sybil, Psycho, Primal Fear, X-Men etc. But just as an innocuous variation from humdrum lives.

Now before you shake your head, and give me up as a probable case of another person suffering from a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde syndrome / an MPD patient in the making, let me hastily assure you that being cited as suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder is hardly appealing to anyone, not even quirky me, but hmmmm, it definitely would be interesting, to say the least.

For those who have wondered how it would all be, a website, Second Life, promises to deliver all that. Registration is relatively hassle-free, and lo and behold! You are a “Resident,” who can create motional avatars, hob-nob with other Residents, own property (virtual, of course), create buildings (now is the best time for you to build your very own private skyscraper dazzling in the azure sky), buy / sell an island (using Second Life’s own currency, termed Linden Dollars - L$- with 270 L$ = 270 USD).

Sounds neat, right?

Though parodies of the site are aplenty, and criticism / singgering rife, the site has managed to get more than 8.9 million people, oops, Residents, excited enough to sign up.

Besides finding a loyal fan in my niece, who is thrilled to bits since the time she heard about it from me.

I’m guessing she’ll buy an entire island to safely stack her army of Mattel blonde dolls, far far away from her elder brother who has a penchant for smashing all things even vaguely “girlie” to smithereens.

Go on, become a Resident here.

Quite Some Monkey Business This

There’s quite a lot you can hide from view under a hat.

Must be what some airport officials must be repeating to each other, and rolling their eyes in disbelief in the bargain.

Seems like an enterprising passenger, flying from Peru to the US, managed to conveniently smuggle a monkey under his hat.

I don’t blame you – I also shook my head in a) incredulity, and b) mirth when I first heard the news.

So coming back to the passenger in question, he smoothly walked past customs in Peru, reached Florida, and boarded another plane to New York. Quite a cool, unruffled, cucumber, I must say.

I'm certain he didn’t tip his hat off in respect to anyone. Or give a wobbly curtsy.

The monkey business wouldn’t have been found out, had it not been for the simian making up its mind to take a peep from under its hideaway, in teh middle of the flight, much to the other passengers’ astonishment, replaced soon by alarm.

I would have been startled too if I would have suddenly set my eyes upon my co-passenger, and seen another pair of glittering eyes peeping out from under his hat, when he had a perfectly normal pair perched on his face...

Understandably, all hell broke loose on the flight, and harried crew-members tried their utmost to hold down the hysterical passengers.

The errant passenger held the monkey in his hands throughout the rest of the flight.
It was only when the flight reached its destination – New York’s Guardia Airport, and the Police Department escorted the passenger and the monkey off the craft, that the others heaved a collective sigh of relief.

I’m sure the situ must have been grim for the answerable officials in Peru and Florida who, despite the snazziest of gadgets and stringent security methods, had failed to detect the grinning ape. One humble pie lesson that sure it would have been.

Me – I would have loved being on that flight.

It sure would have been more funny than a barrel of monkeys (pun intended);-)

She's got the Look...

I’m not in the business of deciding right and wrong, cos that’s not me.

But even I was surprised last weekend, when on my way out of an upscale coffee house with my guy, I chanced to settle my eyes on a PYT (Pretty Young Thing, for you uninitiated people), who, incidentally, had also decided to cast a look at me.
Difference was – mine was one of those nonchalant looks you bestow upon people, when you are thinking of other matters, and are seeing (or rather unseeing them). That may lead the person to actually think that you are looking at them, though is someone may ask, you may have even missed that David Beckham / Gisele Bunndchen look-alike, sitting in your clear range of vision.

She, on the other hand, was definitely casting more than one of those offhand, casual looks.

In fact, I was flabbergasted when I realized that the look she was giving me was one of pure venom.

Completely knocked for a six, I could scarcely fathom what the look was for.

Out of the coffee home, I couldn’t help but remember the unmistakable poison-stare that the red-lipped-pouting girl had decided to cast upon me.

Strange is the world.

Stranger are its people, I guess.

Since I am talking of looks that people cast on others, I was just thinking of some looks that we are familiar with:

The look which a person, asking for alms, gives you when you reach out for your wallet.

The look your pet gives you when you open the front door and walk home.

The look you give to the waiter who runs behind you to return the wallet that you had absent-mindedly left behind in the restaurant that you were dining at.

The look your subordinate gives you when you cover-up for his goof-up.

The look your friends give you when you reach out for that sinful tiramisu.
Calories: 1000000000. Taste: Pure bliss.

The look your friendly neighborhood store-owner gives you when you forget to carry the exact change yet again.

The look your dad gives you when you are glued to the idiot-box when you should be in your room, finishing that pending task.

The look your five-year old niece / nephew give you when you whip out that gaily-wrapped present from your duffel bag.

The look your best friend bestows at you when you pass your favorite store, and see bold-red lettering, screaming, S-A-L-E.

The look your beloved has when he / she sets eyes upon you you, though you might have had met the day before…..

Dash in a flash....

The other day a guy friend told me about the vanities of the female sex.

And about the more than ample time on their prettily-manicured hands to pander to these vanities.

Point in question – St. Petersburg hosted a run for women wearing...

Hold your horses, all you pervs out there.

The participants had to wear stilettos, with a minimum height of 9 cms (3.5 inches).

And if you thought that most would turn up their pretty noses at the event, think again.

More than a hundred Russian women turned up, to sweat it out for this 100-meter High-Heel Race.

What were they all running for, you might ask?

The prize was a $2,000 shopping-spree.

Not bad, eh?

Now if only they would hold such stuff here in India, I’m sure quite a few of my friends would sprint it out...

Everyone's watching...but it's not that they give a damn...

Last weekend, post a good friend’s housewarming soiree, I made my way, with best guy friend, and some others, to a club that had all the trappings of a chic one, and looked guaranteed to give us all an evening of spirited dances.

That we cut short our intended time there, cos of someone’s unexpected appearance there, is true, but then, that’s altogether a different story.

The time was an hour and a half past midnight, and none assembled there looked as if they would be calling it a day soon.

The DJ was rolling out pretty decent fare, the swish crowd whirled and gyrated without missing a step; even those who looked as if they had previously professed their two left-feet with certitude, were doing more than a decent job, swinging to the thumping beats. The psychedelic lights and crystal balls shone criss-cross patterns on the people, floor, ceiling, and walls alike.

Drinks of various shades were doing the rounds. Twirling smoke ensured that no one forgot to give the ubiquitous cigarette its due. The DJ, casting a look around him, had a pleased as Punch expression on his face that the crowd was happily swaying to his music, and cranked up the volume…

That’s when I saw them.

Unmistakably in their mid-twenties (despite the weak attempts to ape their teeny-bopper, college-going siblings – both in their attire as well as their attitudes), they did not look misfits in the crowd, but definitely stood out (and not in a flattering way).

Now I am no prude, but even I did have to admit – the girl outfitted in a skirt that could only be called a butt-helmet was definitely getting eye-ball grabbing attention. Of the lewd kinds. She had understandably started looking pretty uneasy. Her constant inane giggling, and high-pitched shriek, probably brought on by a drink too many, ensured that those near her, did enough staring / glaring / pointing / sniggering. Her partner, not to be outdone, was dressed the part. Hair spiked like needles of the mint-green American grass that my Mom is so fond of, in a spandex / lycra (I dunno which) torso-hugging Tee that looked:

a) as it would burst at the seams any moment, thus exposing his much-sweated-it-out-tirelessly-in-the-gym-rippling/bulging-muscles any moment
b) as it had been stitched onto him

A typical bling-bling couple, his chunky leather wristband, and what looked like a steel dog-chain around his neck, ofered stiff competition to her bracelets, and other extremely loud fusion jewelry (all of which looked like the work of a shopping spree gone completely awry)(Gosh,even I admit I'm getting mean here). It was hard not to miss their gleaming white shoes (she in her stilettoed version; he in his pointy-alligator slip-ons - Aaaaargh). Hey neon-pink (or was it fuschia pink) tote completed her assembled outfit. I wouldn't have been surprised to see them wearing matching Police and Gucci glares. Had it not been night, I'm sure they would have painstakingly co-ordinated those too. I wish they had taken time out to cast a long, hard, critical look at each other before venturing out for the night.

I did a Heimlich, and cast many a covert look at them, more so cos his tongue seemed to be almost down her throat, gagging her. She didn't look choked though - just had this happy, albeit glazed look plastered over her painted face. Their fervent liplocking didn’t look anything like those beautifully-shot Hollywood-exchange-of-kisses-at-the-altar-post-the-marriage-vows, but more like an exercise of tongues playing tonsils of death.

Ouch! They seemed to be one of those couples who stick to each other like conjoined twins. Come what may. (Shudder).

You see them everywhere.

On the roads.

In the neighborhood park.

At restaurants.

At roadside bistros.

In the malls that seem to be mushrooming a dime a dozen everyday.

In cyber cafes.

You name it.

Heck, even in theaters. When all that you wanna watch is the movie being filmed, but you are denied such simple pleasures, and have to shift your attention elsewhere. Courtesy – the two moaning machines seated in the same row as you and your friend(s), and who, despite your constant “Tsk tsk, tch tchs, ” sarcastic words, pleadings, and threats (in ascending order), seem to be really getting it on, some six seats away from you). Quite a nauseating / obnoxious sight, believe me, dahlins...

This particular genre / breed of couple swear by PDA, and its obvious attention-grabbing nature.

They inevitably make an appearance when you least expect them to, and make certain that they don’t leave, without first administering some choice “sights” to your shocked beyond belief peepers, and garnering gasps from you.

The lovey-dovey small sights that are a given with lost-in-love-cootchie-cooing couples, does not exist for them.

So if you are thinking of couples walking hand-in-hand, looking mooningly / longingly at each other, sighing, a gentle tap on the back – dude! It’s time for you to wake up and smell the coffee beans.

Now I’m not averse to a quick hug and some clandestine footsie under the table myself, but these people insist on taking it a couple of steps further.

Going on to publicly espouse groping, kissing, nudging suggestively, sticking tongues into each others mouths (gross), a case of the Octopus-touchy-feely-syndrome-in-overdrive – the works.

Some would call them gross exhibitionists. Others call them desperate. Undoubtedly such surgically-inseparable couples invite leering comments from others, to the tune of, “guys, why don’t both do us all a favor, and get yourselves a room? We’ll pick the tab, if we must.”

To which they promptly react / work upon by leaving that place, and seek "refuge" in each others arms, elsewhere. Sigh!

The self-righteous arch those perfect eyebrows, twitch their noses, click their tongues disapprovingly.

The elders may frown all the more sternly.

The less tolerant would spout abuses / snarl / sneer.

The rest will just look on vicariously, getting thrills and kicks from such “steamy” couples.

But this particular breed will not take hints, and continue with what most people do clandestinely, behind closed doors, out in the public.

Some people will never cease to invite our censure.

May their tribe peter out.

Amen.