Actions speak louder than words: New Year Resolutions - 2009

With 2008 speeding away, I thought I would do a volte-face.

So this time, instead of sticking up at nose at New Year Resolutions, I decided to make a few to hold on to in the coming year.

Only time would tell if I have set myself up for failure. Or if success does come in my stride...

In no particular order (or implementation due date), hear them out.

In 2009, I will:

 Not roll my eyes or look condescendingly when people don’t understand a joke that I just cracked
 Stop wearing too much makeup. Only some gloss, mascara, and maybe a liner, and I should be ready to roll
 Learn how to drive. And cook. A car and food respectively. Instead of driving people up the wall and cooking sarcastic comments
 Get a French Connection. And not by ordering French bread. Learn the language
 Eat less junk food. And exercise. And get into a couple of sizes smaller jeans(Difficulty level – Highest. Multiplied by 10)
 Not song binge. Instead of listening to the same song over and over again, I will change the track. Or the CD
 Keep my room clean. Instead of it looking like a mix between a pigsty and something the rats broke into
 Participate in this year’s marathon
 Stop eating Maggi for dinner. On a regular basis. Smack my lips and gulp down some dal instead
 Stop buying yet more facewashes that I don’t use. Or creams. Or clips. Or nail enamels. Or mints. Or chewing gums. Or wet face tissues...
 Not cuss loudly when some bugger’s cell phone blares the latest Bollywood track in the theatre. Will just prettily show him the middle finger. Or cast a murderous look. Might work better
 Stop being a scrapdealer and give away old magazines, clothes, makeup, and footwear I have hoarded over time
 Not burst into laughter when I see a person walk by me, wearing something in neon green. Or anything that has all the colours of the rainbow. Or who looks like a bejewelled Christmas tree
 Improve my memory. And not forget people’s names. It’s embarrassing
 Write more letters to my Mother
 Watch at least some TV. So that when people discuss what’s playing on air, I can throw in a word or two. Instead of blinking rapidly / scratching my head / smiling blankly. Or worse – moving away from them to a corner
 Not become a shrieking idiot even when anyone says that my college may not be the absolute best, contrary to what I think
 Be open to criticism. Instead of pretending that it’s alright, but sulk later in my room
 Make more trips. Physical ones. Not ego trips
 Look TOOMA straight in the eyes, cup his face in my palms, and utter those three words on a more regular basis. And see him melt…
 Buy a white T-shirt. Instead of yet another black one
 Watch Godfather. And Rambo. And Rocky. And Pirates of the Caribbean. And Lord of the Rings. Bourne series. All parts
 Whiten my teeth
 Take more leaves from work. And sleep at home
 Learn to accept that not every lustworthy shoe / bag / perfume is for me
 Watch all movies starring George Clooney. Mmmmmm....
 Not wear un-ironed clothes and look like a ragpicker. Will pick up the darn steam-iron, and iron them
 Not average more than one perfume in 3 months. And stick to it
 Read more
 Not fight with people close to me
 Learn a new language (optional). Other than monkey-speak, that is
 Text less over the phone. Ditto for mindless yapping (Difficulty Level – High)
 Wear the two Levis caps I bought. And sock any of my friends who giggle when I do
 Not tell the same stories at get-togethers. Or the same stale jokes
 Buy a camera. And shoot the world
 Not show all my pearlies by breaking into a Cheshire cat grin everytime someone clicks my pic. It’s perfectly alright not to show all 32 of them in every pic
 Not bite my nails. Long nails look classier. Besides looking pretty when painted. Period
 Be less bitchy. And less superficial
 Get regular trims. Instead of cribbing about split ends
 Kill every mosquito that buzzes near me
 Not leave a job unless I complete at least a year and a half there. Which means that this year I am not changing my job
 I will not pet every dog who wags his tail at me
 Shed weight. And keep it off
 Save money
 Stick to my having kicked the butt
 Drink less alcohol
 Not wait till 4 o’clock on weekends to take a shower
 Not pretend to listen to boring stories when I can barely keep my eyes open. Will yawn and snore. Or politely move away
 Learn Excel and PowerPoint. And learn them Goddamned well
And lastly,
 Keep blogging

Saving the best for the last...

Yesterday, as I sat with a friend at a warm Pizza Hut, the only tell-tale things that bore testimony to the quick meal we had just wolfed through, were dregs of mushroom soup in two bowls, and an odd olive from the salad.

Oh yes, and a full cheese tortilla slice.

Both of us eyed it, asking the other if she felt like it. Both answered in the negative.

Eventually, I broke it into two, proffering one part to her.

End of story?

Not quite.

How many times have we sat across a table with friends, measuring how that last scrumptious piece of pie will melt in your mouth, but for general courtesy’s sake, refrained from reaching out for it?

On more occasion than one, for me at least.

As the last finger-smacking kebab piece cries loudly to be picked and placed on your plate, you look around, hoping someone would offer the same for you.

You are in luck.

Someone suggests just that, and after feigning the correct amount of reluctance (read: I’m-so-full-I-couldn’t-possibly-eat-another-morsel routine), you shake your head, daintily using the fork to deposit the nibble onto your filled-with-onions-and-mint-dip plate.

You pause – and then place the savoury appetizer on the tip of your tantalised tongue.

Pure bliss.

Reaching out for that last delectable McDonald's French fry is not about gluttony.
For me, it’s sometimes saving-the-best-for-the-last mindset that makes me wanna reach out, but on almost all occasions, I desist from doing so.

What transpires in the heads of people when they want to help themselves to the last serving, but don’t?

Is it embarrassment? Awkwardness? A nagging fear of ridicule? Fear of being branded a human version of the Hungry Hippo?

What’s your take?

Drop me a line...

For crying out 'loud'

Since when is it ok to shout over your phone?

Continuing upon my (extensive) list of pet peeves is yet another – obnoxious people who will insist upon you hearing every gory detail about the lame-assed manager they have been cursed with, that erm..little problem that is affecting someone in THAT area, what they ate for dinner the previous night, what conversation they had with the hot neighbour, what you will. No matter how much you want to ignore them, you can't.

Their louder than louder voices ensure that each bit of their conversation faithfully breezes into your reluctant ears.

Leaving you looking like a mix between a flaming tomato and the exact crimson shade of the Persian rug that sits prettily in your aunt's sitting room. Smoke drifts out from your ears and nose, and you have woken up to the thrills of snorting like the stout buffalo from the Spanish matador's nightmare.

You decide that being a murderer is just not your style, and instead just concentrate on perfecting that that unbecoming scowl on your face.

You can't help but grin you teeth in annoyance when random people holler into their phones as if it is one of two cans held with a string, the kinds that children play with.

I wince each time they increase their decibel, wishing there was a tank or a pond nearby into which I could drown their phone, or better still, they.

While I am tempted to repeat their conversation word for word as they are in the middle of it, my gumption encourages me not to work upon that original plan. Instead I clear my throat impatiently, an abrupt cough rising to the occasion, raise my perfectly-arched eyebrow and give them a death-stare, the kind that always works well.

Except in this case, sometimes it doesn't, and those people who should probably have had silencers fitted into their throats in the first place, also need to invest in a pair of hearing-aids, since they are seemingly oblivious to my (loud) exaggerated cough / clearing my throat.

Which leaves me with the last option…

Now where did I leave my sturdy mahogany cane?

Biting the bullet (literally)!

Of course, it's a fact that everyone wants to wreck their car(s).

Want to sabotage yours?

Simple. Take your home keys, and drag it across the sides, ensuring that the entire front to back gets equally scraped. Then step back, wipe the perspiration off your brow, and enjoy the admirable vandalism you have committed.

Too extreme for you? Chicken, eh?

Then look no further than decal vinyl stickers, all the rage these days, and freely available at stores worldwide.

Taking the world of customising cars by storm. To a new high altogether.

Of course, this is what every car owner wants – giving the impression that he is a badass gangster whose 4 x 4 has been riddled by bullets from a .50 or a .20, isn't it?

And oh boy! Is this fad popular! You bet! How else in the world would you explain the 4 cars that zipped past me last week, their exteriors proudly emblazoned with these 100% vinyl stickers, the hot wheels looking as if they have had more than their share of gunshots?

They look so real that unless you touch them, you wouldn't be able to tell them apart from, let's say, the real deal at the unfortunate Jallianwala Bagh wall.

Ingenious? No other word comes close to it...

Psst – can't locate a store? Fear not. Place an order online. There are a horde of websites who will only be too happy to assist you in making you look like a lame Alphaghetto. Go ahead – it isn't tacky or lame at all - Bullet1, Bullet Hole Decals, oh come on, even Prank Place has them.

Now admit it - isn't that exactly the kind of uniqueness and trendy fashion you were looking for in the first place? (Cheshire cat grin)

TOOMA* was visibly horrified to see a Safari whizzing past his own plain vanilla Accent, rolling his eyes at what he claimed was an 'eyesore.' Being his ever-wise gurl, I woke him up to the entire 'chic fashion statment' theory, exlaining that this was exactly what I called flaunting the 'right' 'With-It,' and with that, we let the subject drift to other light topics.

An enterprising poll on one such site asks readers to adjudge if applying decals that look like Bullet Holes to their cars, sends across a bad message promoting violence, or if it's cool? I voted for the former (as did 23.5% who agreed with me), but the remaining whopping 76.3% stated it looked cool and was for fun.

I mean, Foolish ol’ me! I should have had gone along with the safety in numbers theory. Duh!

That the website is dedicated in remembrance of the 9/11 attack could only be a mere coincidence, isn't it?

These guys are pure genius, I tell you.

As are those who buy these oh-so-in-vogue stickers.

Want to order some stickers for your bike / pair of wheels? Go right ahead.

My admiring glance is sure to follow you even seconds after you whiz by...


*TOOMA - The Object Of My Affection

The School of Hard Knocks

The chirpy face of the ruddy-cheeked, pre-school tot belies those of his parents.

While he grins and lightly pulls the pig-tails of his elder sister who screams and runs after him for a mock fight, his parents, who would otherwise have smiled at this engaging picture of family life, look the very pictures of worry.

They are not alone in their anxiety.

Several other parents across the country are losing sleep over the fact that highly sought-after schools do not have much to offer in the name of admissions for pre-primary.

With today being the day when quite a few schools put up their glossy prospectuses up for grabs(which don't come cheap by the way) as also their admission forms, parents are tripping over one another to get their hands on these, their teeth clenched in determination.

The last few days of teaching their wards various colours of the rainbow, names of fruits and vegetables, counting upto 100, the months of the year, and reciting letters of the alphabet in an endearing manner - look as if they might not pay off at all.

Infact the situation is so grim that some reputed schools have decided not to offer any seats in the coming academic year.

Leaving yet more parents high and dry.

Prepared to even pay through their noses for securing their wards' admission into one of the snooty / 'with-it' / elite schools, these parents are at a loss what with the Department of Education (DOE) doing nothing to allay their fears and misgivings.

Besides prepping themselves for the informal interview, bracing themselves for the grilling they could be subjected to, countering questions on anything from their religious levels to status in society to the moolah they rake in every month. Phew!

And if things don't go as planned, that done-to-death, heart-tugging scene in which a teary-eyed child refuses to let-go of his mother's finger as she leaves him at his first day of school, she walking back to the supportive, reassuring-shouldered husband in the car – could very well be reversed.

With the tot gleefully going back home in the gleaming pair of wheels, and the parents comforting each other through their tears.

Not all role reversals are happy. Or even welcome, for that matter.

NEW! Guns and Roses - Chinese Democracy

The wait is over.

15 years after their last album, the highly successful The Spaghetti Incident, Guns and Roses are all set to officially release their sixth studio album, Chinese Democracy. TOMORROW!

While the title track was released last month on the 22nd, the second single, Better, was released just seven days back.

Axl Rose, has never been in better form, they say.

I hope so.

He has had 15 years to cure himself of his stage-rage…

The solitude of a remote beach

Sometimes all that I can think of is a beach.

Today is one of those days when I have an aching desire to be on one.

Not one of those teeming with people, the women half sucking n their breaths to keep from bursting in a constricting, smaller size bikini / tankini, while doing a 360 degree overview of all those they survey from their gender - taking-in everything from the the snazzy Dior / YSL sunglasses they sport to whether they are partial to slathering Bullfrog or Neutrogena suntan lotion generously upon their toned (or not so toned) bodies...

While the men suck in their breaths or gasp for entirely different reasons...

I want to escape to a solitary beach right now...

What I would like to do most right now is to toss some gaily-colored skirts / sarongs (which I would have to purchase) into an oversized straw bag, fish out the dark grey sunglasses I have discarded (and which lie somewhere beneath all that is heaped on my table), rack my memory hard for where I last put the hat I bought while on my desert trip to Jaisalmer, borrow the lime-green pair of flip-flops from a college friend, pack the couple of books I am simultaneously trying to get-through, throw in my Banana Boat sunscreen tube, check that I have enough cash on me, keep some spirits and a pack of ciggies, and catch the next flight to the nearest beach (which happens to be Mumbai in my case, but I'd rather choose Goa over it anyday).

And while sipping a cool beer, take a stroll...

Alone.

This is what peace means to me right now.

Me.
Alone on a beach.
The waves lapping up at my barefeet, the azure ocean spread silently till as far as the eyes can discern; the beach crabs also ensuring that they leave me to myself. A yard further, there is a shack with a cane chair, an icebox, a hammock tied to two palm trees nearby, and a chaise-lounge - all beckoning to me invitingly, lest my body and peds desire some rest.
Pure bliss!

Something which no Rs-4500-an-hour-spa can give me. No matter how much they try to convince me

Will someone please take down these Diwali fairy lights? Like Now!

So the other day I heard the following conversation on a leading radio channel, in which a guy kept delivering to another, a chain of Diwali (the Indian festival of lights) greetings, each one longer than the previous one rendered.

The effusiveness only kept getting onto one's nerves.

After replying the first two times, albeit a tad half-heartedly, the other man finally lost his cool demeanour, visibly vexed by the wishes, and especially since the eagerly-circled-Diwali-holiday had long sped by from his Hindu calendar.

A fortnight back, to be exact.

In a huff, he asked why the other dude was insistent on doing the utterly irksome season's greetings bit. To this, guy # 1 replied that the other still had Diwali fairy lights (commonly called ladiyaas) up on his walls, and lit them every night religiously.

Obviously his Diwali was not yet over.

Hence the Diwali greetings.

Point noted.

The same runs true in many other colonies too.

Pretty fairy-lights, rows upon rows of them, make for a sparkling visual treat at night – when the festival season descends upon us.

They sometimes make an appearance a full fortnight before Diwali day, or even before that (in some cases). Strings of lights garland most houses, the owners of some sworn to keeping them on for close to a month perhaps.

Now are these people foolish?

Or do they simply think that they are the guiding light of some people's lives?

You decide.

Movie Review: Quantum of Solace

Bond is back.

He of the blue eyes, clipped Brit accent, steely resolve, wry sense of humor, impeccable Savile Row suits, black Aston Martin, cool handling of martinis, and gasp-inducing, stomach-churning, sucking-breath, death-defying stunts.

All the above are there in the 22nd James Bond flick, Quantum of Solace, where Daniel Craig reprises second innings as the legendary 007 super spy.

And in a first, he arrives in India a full week before his scheduled November 14 date.

Sunday afternoon had all the trappings of a very pleasant time for me - lunch with great friend from college, window-shooping (I've sworn off shopping for a while - touche), and the new 007 flick. All in all, it promised to be a very pleasurable afternoon.

However, that was not to be. While the former two went off rather well, I was miffed, cheated, and sorely disappointed with Quantum of Solace.

Daniel Craig, instead of looking suaveness personified, looks more like a sneering, ruthless trigger-happy street-fighter agent-cum-boxer, with a constantly contemptuous look on his face.

The perpetually snarling, curled upper-lip doesn’t help much to redeem him either.

While Marc Forster (of Monster’s Ball, Finding Neverland fame) deserves full marks for directing Ian Fleming’s most famous spy, the story leaves you a little cold and disenchanted.

So you have a still nursing-a-broken-heart, embittered Craig chasing a sinister Dominic Greene (Mathieu Amalric) over three continents, and six countries, with some stunning images of Chile’s Atacama desert. Greene’s character is based on French President Nocolas Sarkozy and former English PM, Tony Blair. The smirking owner of an ecological Organization that he is, has more than the planet’s green resources in mind, and is all out to crack a deal which would make him the undisputed controller of Bolivia’s water resources. He is also a member of the mysterious shadow Organization, Quantum, which has tentacles everywhere.

Bond, in characteristic style, is determined to splash ‘water’ over and ruin Greene’s ambitious plans. Pun intended.

Besides mixing an unforgotten sense of vendetta for the death of Vesper Lynd, the only woman out of the flock he had seduced and been seduced by (see Casino Royale).

So you have adrenaline pumping fight scenes, where a brawny, rippling muscled Craig battles it out, often bare-handed, with nimble-footed, deft adversaries. There are speedboat and bike chases, skydiving stunts, pumping bullets that leave one dazed, jet fights, glass-crashing-into-smithereens moments, car crunchings – all leaving you sitting on the edge of your cushy seats, looking wide-eyed at the almost impossible-looking, gravity-defying stunts.

Veteran Dame Judi Dench returns as M for the sixth time, this time a tad disapproving and resentful of Bond’s trigger-happy ways, trying her best to restrain the unstoppable Bond's reckless movements and ruthless killing sprees. But eventually re-imposes her complete trust and faith in him.

Moving on to the women.

You have the achingly-lovely, luscious-lipped Olga Kurylenko playing Camille Montes, a Russian-Bolivian agent, who harbours a mission to destroy Greene. While the fake tan is a dead giveaway, the lilting accent is pleasing enough, and she holds her own with Craig as a tough-as-nails agent.

The guys will be pleased to know that Craig only shares a brief lip-lock with her at the end of the movie, and not any steamy between-the-sheets encounter. Agent Fields (played by freckled, red-wigged Gemma Arterton) however does have an amorous shot with Craig dropping kisses on her shivering bare back, though in the next scene she is found dead on the same bed, daubed in oil – a shuddering pre-present of what horrors lie ahead, from Quantum.

The only other saving grace of Quantum of Solace besides Olga – is its length. Running for a maximum of 106-odd minutes, it marks itself as the shortest Bond movie.

Go catch the associated video game instead, its namesake, which also marks a release this weekend. Read more about it here.

Maybe you wouldn’t be that disappointed.

Ohh, by the by, Bond wields a Sony phone.

I can almost see that wiping the grins off the faces of the Nokia suckers. Ha!

The Mystery of the Magic Wallet

Aladdin had a magic carpet which transported him, in the twinkling of an eye, across the swirling sands of the desert.

I saw an old couple sharing some magical moments with each other, while taking a walk into the evening sun.

Some entrepreneurs have a magical touch; whatever they touch turns to gold, making each venture more successful than the last.

When you are hurt (emotionally or physically), someone’s reassuring, soothing words work like magic.

Cinderella’s fairy Godmother had the magic wand which, with one wave, turned the sweet put plain cinder girl to centrefold gorgeousness personified.

For some, thankfully, the three magic words – ‘Please, sorry, thank you,’ still exist.

As for me, what magic do I have in my life?

I have a magic wallet.

Pray what is that, you might arch an eyebrow and ask curiously.

Well, to answer your query, I have a wallet, which no matter how much money you put into it, does one of the following:

A) makes the money disappear (one day its clearly there, the other day it vanishes)
B) changes the currency notes into receipts!!

Can you think of anything more magical!

I suspect the glitzy malls that have mushroomed in every nook and corner of the city, have something to do with the case of my perpetually drained-out wallet / purse.

These pesky shops pull me to them, extending their ritzy arms to me, waiting for me to reciprocate their warm embrace.

And once I do, everyone knows the story of the Venus trap, and how difficult, almost impossible it is, to escape from its clutches. It is akin to a flailing fish trying to escape from the tentacles to a triumphant octopus.

Anywhichways, yours truly’s wallet is usually the picture of a barren nation, quite a far picture from the ‘greenery’ she would like to see.

Sometimes, methinks it has an invisible suction cup attached to it, which cunningly siphons off all the hard-earned cash I religiously put into it. Drat!

Good friend from college, let’s call her by her initials – RS, also echoes my feelings, saying that her wallet too has this black hole which constantly makes trips to the friendly ATM to replenish it, almost a bi-weekly feature.

Those plastic shopping bags that produce such a pleasing, crunching sound are also to be blamed, as even when RS and I walk like two horses with blinkers, we inadvertently chance upon bargains that are too-hard-to-pass-up-and-go-by and no matter how hard we bite our lips, we can’t help but take a peek, and then…DISASTER strikes - wallets are whipped-out, payments are made, and those beguiling packets are handed us. Guilt often sets in, within 10-15 minutes of the shopping spree, depending upon the bill run-up.

To drown our sorrows, the strategically-placed bistro / lounge almost calls out to us in a sexy baritone, and we fall victim yet again – to yet another meal, where, for the amount we pay, the portions are surprisingly miniscule.

(The poor wallets scowl, muttering to no one in particular about how they like to be exclusive, and don't like making too frequent appearances, and how they wished their daft owners understood that).

Promises are made – that we would watch where our steps lead us(literally), that we would swear off the FDs (four devils, not the other acronym that my Dad would be proud of if I invested in them). These demons are, in descending order of costs – perfumes, bags, footwear, and clothes / accessories / makeup. Darn!

However, considering that a couple of days back, I made my way through an entire floor of a perfume-sniffer’s delight, without picking up a single bottle, does speak volumes of my turning over a new leaf.

Well, just maybe...

The soap bubble has burst

Ekta Kapoor, she of the vermillion-tikka-on-forehead, and K-serials-business fame, is bound to be a sad woman today.

‘Cos no amount of ringing bells at various temples dotting the city, will stop the knell for one of her longest running soaps, which ran for…hold your breath…an astounding 8 years.

While you have the usual crowd of people do the elitist act, raising a hue and cry, rolling up their eyes dramatically, and holding their noses disdainfully high at the very mention of these saas-bahu (mother-in-law – daughter-in-law) sagas, it is also not unknown for these very same people to furtively fish-out the remote, fluff the cushions, sink into the couch and sit through yet another episode of the mind-numbing family drama.

So far so good.

There are pretenders everywhere in the world.

Now, with a clap of thunder, Rupert Murdoch’s Star TV has decided to pull off Balaji Telefilm’s prime-time show and replace it with some other series that will ensure that its falling TRPs fall no further.

Renowned lawyer, Ram Jethmalani, currently fighting the suit, counsels that Star undertaking such a measure is a dire breach of an agreement which established that the soap was to run till March next year.

Star is frankly weary with the allegations, and with one stroke which screams FINALITY, has decided to go ahead with the TRP-spinning-no-more soap, much to the palpable anger, tears, and cussing by the producers, director, and cast.


While some were sorely offended and saddened by the curtains call for the soap, saying that they finished their household chores to watch yet another addictive episode, quite a few openly expressed unrestrained delight and whoops of ecstasy.

Although the dramatic renditions of family values, truth and good triumph over all odds, and sacrifice appealed to many, there were loads (including me) who were put off by:

a) The Over The Top (OTT) accessories – bling mangalsutras and vermillion sindoor on full-display especially when the protagonist comes face to face with the perpetually-designer-attired, grey-eyed, stylish vamp
b) Bouts of amnesia (with thunder and lightning sounds playing not-so-subtly in the background)
c) The face close-ups from every angle when a character received news, often unbelievable or of the depressing category
d) Female characters who looked like prototypical Christmas trees, dressed in all their gaudy best, bedecked alike whether they were shown sleeping, at a funeral, or just awake and reaching out for the morning cuppa (Woo hoo – no bad hair days, no mussed makeup, no rumpled clothing, not even an eyelash out of place – Bravo)
e) Vamps who wore dangerously revealing blouses, and bindis that could only elicit an ‘Ohh my gosh’ from the viewer
f) All that money spent over yet another face restructuring surgery (and ohh on those cannot-done-without glycerine bottles)
g) Themes of resurrection, murders, flashbacks of memory returns, backstabbing, illegitimate children spawned by a degenerate generation, infidelity by both the genders – the works
h) Women playing roles double their age (sample this - a nubile 20 year old, playing dutiful mother to two teenagers)

Undoubtedly, the soap was hugely popular, bringing together women for discussing animatedly what the next episode would reveal. Such was its popularity that even movies are cashing on soap-obsessed homemakers, as was the case with a recent Bollywood flick, wherein the leading lady is a teletubby, her flat chest heaving emotionally at every episode of the much-loved soap.

The death of a male protagonist in Kyunki…even brought people to the streets, made headlines in a national daily, and forced Ekta Kapoor to tread the path of resurrecting her characters, bringing him back, albeit with a new face. Enchanting.

I bet she’s now wishing that much in the same way as in her soaps, she could resurrect the future of her favourite soap.

Which now looks like a distant dream, what with ‘Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thhi’ airing its very last episode on November 10, 2008.

If I crane my neck, I can see that the corner store is full to the brim with women.

I bet they are stocking up on the tissue boxes....

Movie Review: Fashion

I wouldn’t call ‘Fashion’ a dud, but yeah, coming from Madhur Bhandarkar, the man who gave us stellar hits like Page 3 and Corporate, watching ‘Fashion’ was a tad disappointing.

What could have been an insightful glimpse into the fashion world, turns instead into a protracted catechism / moral science class.

It starts off well though. Predictable, but nice.

So you have the middle-class model-in-the-making, Meghna (Priyanka) who harbours a secret desire to escape from smothering Chandigarh to glitzy Mumbai, and at the end of the long ride, achieve supermodel stardom, complete with all the perks.

So she arrives bag and baggage at the doorstep of a distant relative in Mumbai, a gay friend, who is assistant to a fashion designer, having assured her that he would do all it takes to get her onto the fashion bandwagon.

So far, so good.

After this, the movie goes on a downslide.

In the almost 3 hour long torture, Madhur Bhandarkar introduces you, can by can of every possible vice one may encounter in the swanky fashion realm.

So you have the teetering-off-the-edges supermodel, Shonali (played by Kangana Ranaut) who is on a destructive journey of coke-overdose, nicotine, and arrogance; the fellow struggler (Arjun Bawa) – who shares her profession, and later her bed; an openly-gay designer who marries his school friend Janet (Mughda Godse) – the tough-but-good-hearted model – for the sake of pacifying a society which frowns upon homosexuality as a depraved disease; the grieving parents who moan about their daughter who has kicked off her flat sandals in favour of sky-high stilettos.

There is also the gory / murky side – the business tycoon (Arbaaz Khan) – who provides for her, expecting his pound of flesh in return; his wife (Suchitra Pillai) who turns a blind eye to his flagrant, amorous adventures with young, upcoming, petite models; the hard-as-nails modelling agency head (Kitu Gidwani), who is herself a pawn in the hands of the tycoon...

The movie also deals with fashion issues like a brilliantly handled wardrobe malfunction scene upon Kangana, existence of an evident casting couch, bohemian models whose lifestyles can be called anything but model, excessive forms of intoxication, including snorting, designers ripping off designs from one another, passing-off streetwear as avant-garde fashionwear, catty exchanges between models, promiscuity – the works.

In between, you see Priyanka Chopra, she of the swollen lips, exhibit a hugely-swollen ego and caustic tongue - success has clearly gone to her poker-straight haired head. While Kangana needs urgent voice modulation and dialogue delivery / diction / pronunciation classes, she has still brought the right level of unhinged-ness to her character portrayal. Mughda is bound to go far, the way she has breathed confidence and spontaneity to her character.

As far as Madhur Bhandarkar goes – what can I say – he definitely has a little black book which numbers all the ‘sins’ of the fashion world.

A book which he needs to toss in favour of some much-needed designer scissors.

To trim his next realistic movie.

The (Un)willing Groom

Indian guys are luckier than guys in other nations. On their marriage day, it is customary for some Indian grooms to sit on a white mare.

Talk about getting a last, providential chance to escape….

Their less-fortunate counterparts on the other hand, keep thinking why they did not invest in those superbly-crafted running shoes, that would have carried them far-far away to safety…to the land of the five Bs – Budweisers, Boys’ night outs, Bikes and let me not write the last two which go hand-in-hand, and which if I make a mention here, will cause my blog rating to change from a neat PG13 to an A.

Unfortunately, a Japanese guy, Tatsuhiko Kawata , who was due to get married on October 26 this year, decided that he couldn’t get the better of his decidedly clammy case of cold feet. And he wasn’t even to be given a horse to sit on.

A decidedly raw deal, he was certain.

Which is when the 39-year old, unwilling-groom-to-be, hit upon a brilliant plan.

In the week hours of Sunday, he set fire to the hotel that was to have been the venue for his marriage later that day. And cancelled the wedding thereafter.

The cancelling-act did him in, because he was arrested soon after.

After he is released from prison, I sure hopes he invests in some heavy-duty protection wear, including the toughest helmet money can buy, and maybe a bouncer for himself. Sturdy pair of ear muffs – optional.

After all, you never know what ‘gifts’ his (now-ex)fiancée will be bestowing upon him...

Diwali 2008 vis-a-vis Diwali 2007

With tomorrow being the much-awaited Indian Festival of Light, Diwali (a.k.a. Deepawali), I expected the entire city to be lit like a bride on her wedding day, garlanded with flickering fairy lights, earthen lamps, and strings of gaudy papiermache lamps hanging from doorways. I also expected people driving up in droves to shopping malls, carrying several colorful, crunchy-sounding shopping bags, filled to the brims with gifts, consumer goods, clothes and firecrackers.

Instead I encountered endless traffic snarls – where are all these people driving to anyway? On a Saturday afternoon too, no less, there seemed little respite for the choking roads, with people barely helping, thanks to flaring tempers and the occasional rude comments they hurled deftly at one another, etiquette and soft-spokenness be darned! Add to that, a winter on the verge of spreading its chill, and you had to also contend with shivering bikers who rode their bikes fast, albeit a little wobbly on the tyres.

While storekeepers did grumble about the paucity of shoppers, it would be wrong to say that all shopping malls wore a desolate look. People did trickle in - however, the recent economic slump had made the to-be-distributed gifts less extravagant than last year’s.

So out went the Swarovski-studded idols, making way for more pocket-friendly deities, exotic champagnes and Merlot bottles fizzled out in favour of their domestic partners, sparkling diamonds and platinum were left unpurchased with people preferring their more ‘humble’ gold and silver counterparts…

Even companies that had showered generous gifts on their employees last year, made do with sensible one kg sweetboxes.

Children, flanked by their parents, pointed at the firecrackers on bright display in glittering windows and at roadside stalls, which seemed less than the bountiful display evident in 2007. Because of the steep prices the firecrackers commanded, the visibly-disappointed children had to contend with 2-3 boxes as compared to the indulgent 8-10 packs they had burst last year.

Thankfully though, this year, because of more stringent rules, the elderly, the ill, children, pets and other animals might sleep a bit more peacefully as compared to the fitful sleep they kept dozing in and out of, last year.

With ears that don’t quite hurt as much.

And maybe you will be able to see the car threading its way through the neighbourhood gate this year. Which is more than what you could squint at, last year, through the thick smoke that enveloped the street outside your home.

And maybe your Grandpa’s asthmatic cough this year might not get aggravated...making you too breathe easy...

Wish you all a warm, sparkling, prosperous, and safe Diwali!

Yayyyy!

It's been one crazyyyyy week
Monday - Dog tired, ears-pressed-back me. Pots of work. Aaaargh
Tuesday - Dog tired, ears-pressed-back me. Pots of work. Aaaargh
Wednesday - Dog tired, ears-pressed-back me. Pots of work. Aaaargh
Thursday - Dog tired, ears-pressed-back me. Pots of work. Aaaargh
Friday - TOOMA is in town. One word - HURRAY!

'Nuff said!

Movie Review: Babylon AD

Despite our best efforts to reach in time to catch the latest Leonardo Di Caprio and Russell Crowe CIA flick, Delhi’s traffic had already made up its mind to play killjoy.

Hence movie aficionados us had to make-do with the second choice – Babylon AD.

And a poor choice it turned out, might I add.

The movie started fairly well - not exactly keeping-one-glued-to-one’s-seat-stuff, but passable fare nevertheless.

Till after intermission, when it started the tanking and the tanking-hard routine.
So you have a heavily tattooed Vin Diesel (he has a sigil tatoo, for God’s sake, on the right side of his neck), playing the role of Hugo Cornelius Toorop (let’s just call him Toorop), a mercenary. He’s hired on a mission to transport a package (Aurora - played by 27 year old Mélanie Thierry), from Eastern Europe to New York.

Sounds like a simple case of a mercenary protecting and delivering a blue-eyed, innocent, hormonally-charged teen?

You couldn’t be more wrong.

‘Cos Aurora has been cloistered in a Noelite Convent all her life, and has the uncanny ability to prophesy the truth. Except that she only spells pictures of doom. Her Japanese guardian nun, Sister Rebeka (the eternally-elegant Michelle Yeoh), revelas how, when Aurora was barely 2, could speak as many as 19 languages. And often acted strangely, more so after a Noelite doctor had administered a pill to her.

Things take a turn for a science fiction twist then, when it is revealed that Aurora is a sort of biological weapon. She was genetically enhanced as a foetus by one Dr. Arthur Darquandier (Lambert Wilson), who ‘implanted’ super intelligence into her brain. This doctor considers her as his child.

Aurora also has a so-called ‘mother’ – the wicked High Priestess (Charlotte Rampling), who is looking for an opprtune moment to reveal her as the miracle of the Noelite group. The High Priestess had made Dr. Arthur program Aurora in such a way that she was to become impregnated despite being a virgin, thus propagating a modern day Virgin Mary analogy and a Messiah figure for the Noelite religion.

Popping guns, snowmobiles that whizz past the gleaming Russian snow, a cybernetics twist, revival after death, a lacklustre Vin Diesel, a wasted Michelle Yeoh, arctic tundras that freeze your mind, a passport that is to be injected under the skin of the neck, bombings, tracking rockets – this movie has them all – but will eventually, do one of these thigns to you:

a) Put you to sleep
b) Make you glare into your tub of butter popcorn
c) Make you delve into your or your companion’s bag for an aspirin
d) Make you swear off Vin Diesel for a long time

I should know. I did (b) and (d)

Yet another Booker: The White Tiger (Aravind Adiga)

Aravind Adiga is in esteemed company indeed.

After all, he has joined the likes of V.S. Naipaul, Salman Rushdie, Arundhati Roy, and Kiran Desai, making him the fifth India, after the four mentioned here, to win the prestigious Man Booker Prize for this year.

His debut novel, ‘The White Tiger,’ beat the likes of Amitav Ghosh (Sea of Poppies), Steve Toltz (A Fraction of the whole), Sebastian Barry (The Secret Scripture), Linda Grant (The Clothes on their Backs), and Philip Hensher (The Northern Clemency).

A seasoned writer, Adiga has made his mark in writing as a financial journalist at the Financial Times, writing well-received pieces for Money and the Wal Street Journal; his most recent career association with TIME magazine.

The protagonist in one Balram Halwai. The story outlines his journey from abysmal poverty in Laxmangarh (a fictional village) to huger than huge successful business (in New Delhi). The journey is one which sees him metamorphose into a cynical, sneering, manipulative, one who carries a secret in his dark heart – he has murdered his employer to reach his social standing in ‘new’ India.

The second debut novelist and the second India debut novelist to win the award in its 40 year-old inception, this 33 year old celebrates his birthday this month.

He couldn’t have asked for a better birthday present.

Unsmiling faces on the ramp

See any model sashaying down the ramp, and chances are that he / she would be parading elegant evening wear, swimwear, prêt lines, ready-to-wear collections, you name it - all with poker straight expressions on their faces.

Some of them look straight out of the pages of a magazine which is dedicated to grim, sombre, serious expressions – such are the deadpan looks plastered on their dour faces.

The others look straight ahead, hands in pockets sometimes, the women gracefully keeping their hands on their tiny waists – unseeingly walking towards a wall ahead, tossing their pretty curls disdainfully, towering on their strappy stilettos.

The number one reason why most models pout, sneer, half-smile patronisingly, or look sneeringly at the front-row socialites dripping with diamonds, is that often many designers themselves forbid their models from showing their pearlies on the ramp, lest it distract the audience from the clothes.

True.

With the number of beauties and hunks who parade on the ramp, many of whom look like perfect Grecian specimens of graceful womanhood / manhood, it would indeed be distracting to tear one's look away from the sheer dazzle of their sparkling smiles, and try instead to concentrate on the clothes they are modelling.

There is also the opinion that smiling makes one look younger, and that may look a tad out of place from an elegant collection of formal evening wear.

There is of course the group of funnies who swear that sales would boom if only the models would flash (their teeth, sillies) on the runway, and bet that many women models don't smile because of the sheer pancake plastered on their faces, all in the name of beauty cosmetics.

Smiling, in that case, would cause cracks in the makeup.

There are others who are willing to believe that most models don't
smile on the ramp, because they are:

a) stressed out
b) hungry (not eating for the last two days, all to fit into that
ouch-inducing corset)
c) in pain (blame those footwear and clothes that pinch, all in the
wrong places)
d) scared of developing wrinkles
e) a dentist's delight (what with bad, jutting, maybe uneven teeth) –
a little far-fetched, this one
f) all of the above

Whatever the reasons, the truth is universal – models rarely smile on the ramp.

Even the most theatrical setup for a show will seldom have models who smile dazzlingly.

Instead they prefer to keep stoical, solemn, sneering looks on their expressive, high cheekboned faces, a condescending look plainly evident to all who can see.

Making us go Oooohing and aaahing over their 'attitude,' the clothes they model, and making us wonder about how similar they are to blank canvases displaying an outfit.

What if they traded their expressions, making us think they were animated clothes hangers?

Would that really be such a disaster?

Blast from the past

Today morning, while walking to my colony gate where the office cab comes to pick me up faithfully everyday, I saw a group of children, dressed in all their finery, gathered around a house.

With yesterday and today being days for Kanjak, the Puja wherein pre-pubescent girls are ceremoniously worshipped, their feet washed, and they are offered sweets, gifts, and money, I wasn’t too surprised at the sight.

Smiling at them, I walked on.

And then there was a booming sound.

I froze dead in my tracks, my mind racing to the slew of bomb blasts that had the length and breadth of the country shivering in mute terror.

My first thought was of the children who were chattering excitedly among themselves.

Hoping for the best, fear writ large over my face, I swung around.

Where I saw a boy, aged no more than 10 years, circled by the admiring group of children, beams resplendent on their rosy cheeks.

Apparently, he had lit a firecracker, much to the delight of his friends.

An innocuous firecracker had succeeded in driving fear into the innermost chamber of my heart.

With the festival of lights - Diwali, fast approaching, I can't help but shudder thinking of the times when a firecracker would fizzle and then burst, causing nearby people to freeze in whatever they were doing, the dread of blasts uppermost in everyone’s minds. Chaos is inevitable, a stampede more than a possibility.

Or worse, in the eventuality of an actual blast, people might continue milling around, carrying on with their routine chores, misconstruing it for a display of loud pyrotechnics. Putting themselves and others in grave danger.

Both cases chill me to the very core…

A Timeless Love

Yesterday, while walking down the corridors of Connaught Place, I saw a touching sight.

Two octogenarians were enjoying what clearly looked like a leisurely post-tea stroll.

Hand in hand, they looked the picture of love personified, the etched wrinkles only adding character to their time-worn faces.

The gentleman, attired in a shirt and loose trousers, had a small diary tucked neatly under his arm, while with the other hand, he gallantly held onto two colorful shawls, lest the evening decided to act nippy, in which case they could keep the chill at bay.

The lady, dressed gaily in a long, flowing violet-colored skirt and matching flip flops, clutched a small pouch, no doubt containing some currency.

A child, no more than 8, approached them, his arms covered with red rose buds.

As is their wont, he singled out the elderly couple, pulling at the lady’s skirt.

With a girlish laugh, she patted his head, and proceeded to make way with her husband.

The child was not to be that easily shaken-off.

Despite the lady’s vehement protests that they did not want to buy his roses, he looked like the sorts who refuse to hear ‘No’ for an answer.

And then he must have said something, because next I remember the lady tugging at her husband, who all this while, had an amused look on his vizened face.

A tender look replaced the amusement on his face, and the gentleman lovingly pushed back an errant strand of silver hair that had come out of the lady’s neatly coiffed hair.

Looking down at the child, he proceeded to grasp the posy of roses that was proffered to him; however, his wife shook her head and signaled ‘one.’

Much to the child’s diappointment, the elderly gentleman took one blood-red rose, and paid for it.

Off the child went to find his next customer.

All the attention of the gentleman now rested on his aldy love.

A gentle look on his face, he whispered something into his wife’s left ear – she blushed as prettily as a young bride, and still flushed with radiance, accepted the single rose he held out to her.

Mouthed a ‘Thank you,’ and with me still watching, she walked off, hand in hand, with the man she loved.

Who loved her back equally, if not more.

The sunset into which they walked, made a fitting background....

Kick the stick

Union Minister for Health and Family Welfare, Anbumani Ramadoss, is bound to be a happier man starting today, what with the stringent ban on smoking
in public places coming into effect.

The country's puffers are up in arms with him though, raising a hue
and cry, spluttering indignant protests against the ban, gathering for
community smoke sessions, twirling smoke from their fingers, venting
their angst at anyone who proffers a sympathetic ear.

Ramadoss though is intractable.

After all, though the No-smoking-in-public-places ban-Act was brought
out by the Center over three years, it remained just a piece of paper.

And now, the Act is back with a vengeance.

Extending itself to even those who swear by their preferred brand of
chimneys at the place they call home for 8 hours on weekdays – the
workplace.

Even those Organizations that have designated smoking zones are not to
entertain employees with ciggies. Penalties have been raised – from a
paltry Rs 200 to a sizeable Rs 1000 on violators.

Next are the proposed pictorial warnings on all tobacco products, due
to come into effect from December 01, 2008. So, there are orders in
place for graphic warnings on cigarette packets, which the Center
hopes will dissuade smokers or those who are keen to try out that one
addictive drag.

Non-smokers on the other hand, are a relieved lot - no longer will
they be passive smokers, or have to hear smokers' dry coughs, which
some say, sound like a mix between bleating goats and old, crotchety,
senile men.

It's not all that bad though - those who had been planning to 'kick the nicotine stick' feel this is the right time to do so. Some of their partners are even going so far as terming it Providential Intervention, in the guise of a national embargo.

A random glance at the busy Connaught Place today saw people looking furtively at their surroundings before taking a long drag on the taboo stick in hand, before hastily throwing it aside at the sight of the approaching 'thhulla' (policeman).


While there are two clear divisions over the proposed Act which is to
be implemented today, it remains to be seen if it proves to be a
success, or gets 'stubbed' out as it was, three years ago…

It's October

Hurray, it’s October!

One of my favourites when it comes to months.

Besides being my Mom’s birth month, October endears itself to me as this is the time spring kicks into high gear.

Before people descend into winter gloom (though winters are delicious too)..

October is the time when the skies are azure like in those clear-blue skied flight calendars,
the mornings crisp,
the temperature mild,
and the breeze brisk and invigorating.
The leaves are slowly turning at the tops of trees.

Take a morning walk in October to know what I mean.

Robert Frost brilliantly rose to the occasion when he penned this poem dedicated to October…

I quote below:

OCTOBER

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.

- Robert Frost (1874 - 1963)

175th Oktoberfest: Munich (September 20 - October 05, 2008)

With best guy friend having touched Munich this month, and that too during the time when all ‘spirited’ roads lead to Munich, I can hardly be faulted for going green.

And not a very becoming color it is on my face, let me add.

After all Oktoberfest comes only once a year. Nonetheless, the 14 day long extravaganza leaves all hic-hic-happy people a lot to talk about for the rest of the year.

And ohhh, did I mention – it is the largest fair in the world.

And not all people go there to see racks of beer mugs balanced on well-structured women’s erm…racks, as you may think. Or only to try their luck at being able to find a sloshed girl and drink beer off her…you get the gist.

You have the serious drinkers who are only concerned with glugging all the beer they can manage to get their hands on. After all, that is what they were there for, weren’t there? There are those who liven it up by getting into traditional gear (read lederhosen [leather knee-breeches] for men and dirndls [bodice, blouse, full skirt and apron] for women). You have those who wear goofy hats, offset by goofy grins plastered all over their flushed faces. Then there the ones who do away with tons of traditional grub on display – cheese noodles, potato pancakes, sausages, pretzels etc.

The twleve-gun salute and the tapping ot the first keg of Oktoberfest beer at 12 noon by the Mayor of Munich, in accompaniment to hoarse cries, is the opening stroke. Colorful tents dot the area, music streaming out of them.

Getting back the customary Oktoberfest souvenir mug is di-rigeur.

As is getting back stories of revelry that will be begged for as encores by your granchildren.

Beer ahoy!

Hic!

Aaaaaaaaargh, I so wanna go.....

A scratchy affair

There are those people who wrinkle their noses when they take their petrol-guzzling pair of wheels to the gas station.

And then there are those like me who can scarcely wipe the delight writ large on her face when it is time for the trip to the one of ‘em gas stations.

This blog post, lest you may think is about gas (pun unintended), is not in the least about it. So before I go off into one of my favourite rambling sessions, let me launch into what this is all about.

Last week, on a Monday morning, while on my way to work, I chanced to see a car without scratches.

What’s the huge deal about it, you may ask.

Well, in a place like Delhi, where all cars, and I mean ALL cars, have at least half a dozen nicks, scrapes, and scratches, on their otherwise metallic frames, coming by a car without the proverbial graze is nothing short of a rarity.

Now, people do love their cars. In fact, some people love theirs more than they do their respective spouses. After all, there is nothing as liberating as getting behind the wheel, upping the surround system, rolling up the windows (depending on whether it is drizzling or not. In case of the former, the windows are rolled down), and settling out for a spin about town, the highway, the suburban mall, or what you will. Add to that, the car, not just a means of conveyance, has a striking personality of its own too.

So you have macho men who become gooey-eyed when they scrub their beauties on wheels, and stand back to look at their piece of art, covered with suds (the car I mean. Duh!). You also have the busy executive, who before settling down into his cushy sedan with his copy of the Economic Times, decides to take a step back and see the beauty he rides, caresses it lovingly, and then takes a step in.

You also have the girl who takes a look at herself in the rear-view mirror of the car she is paying EMIs for from her current job. Satisfied, she smiles, saying a silent prayer of thanks for the ability to drive down, come rain or shine, to any place that takes her fancy (read the mall, the salon, the grocery mart, the NGO for children etc).

Despite people guarding their cars with their life, the inevitable, ugly scratch rears its head, leaving behind distressed sighs from the owners.

And some exasperated / pained looks from the fathers who have shelled-out money from their pockets for these wheels.

If only….

The Big-Bang recreated

With the ‘Big Bang’ experiment having begun about 4 hours back, the world and all its brother is crying over how it will could earthquakes and tsunamis, bringing us closer to Judgment Day, our Maker, apocalypse, the day of reckoning, what you will etc.

Which is why the scientists working on the experiment have been snowed under by threatening calls and visits by outraged and anxious people, who believe the entire world is jeopardised by the research.

The physicists initiated this most ambitious atom-smashing research today at 1300 hours IST at European Center for Nuclear Research (CERN). Similarities to a virtual time machine are glaringly obvious, what with the Large Hadron Collider (LHC), a $10 billion and a 17-mile long particle accelerator lying in a circular tunnel, attempting to reveal how the universe came into existence 1.4 billion years ago.

While the entire world monitors the progress of this trial with growing panic and / or anxiety, there are yet others who believe that this will part the clouds for the one of the biggest mysteries for us.

The world is divided into two clear sects again.

To be continued…

The Sale Story

Sale.

A four letter word, guaranteed to send most people of my gender into a tizzy, and their male counterparts into a paroxysm of utter gloom, their grimaces barely concealed by the watery smiles they manage to write on their faces.

But you can hardly blame them.

The women, I mean.

After all, why wouldn’t they? That alluring lime-colored dress that had been making them go weak in the knees for months, and which was almost as addictive as looking at dishy Clooney in the Omega full-page advert, with genuine avarice in the eyes, is up for grabs.

At an unbeatable price slash.

One would be a fool to let go of such an alluring offer.

So why wouldn’t that make them put on their trainers, and make a beeline to the morning queue outside the store, where a number of other like-minded women had decided to make a mad sprint to, too?

Inside, the scene is nothing short of a war, where women of all shapes and sizes sweat it out to get that last wine-colored bolero jacket, the tan waistcoat, those charcoal-grey flannel trousers…

There is no time to waste over phone calls – so any calls received are done so in under thirty seconds – a record of sorts. Unless of course the caller in question has called with news of another discount in the vicinity, in which case the phone call is attended to with the utmost reverence…

Amid jostling, cussing, eyebrow-raising, and the odd stepping on one another’s toes, when one emerges with the garment / object of contention, it is nothing short of a victory.

And the look upon your colleague / acquaintance when you smugly show her the winning article – priceless, to say the least….

Yakkety-yak people and their instruments of mass annoyance

If aliens from a planet yonder spend a good amount of time peering at mortals, and if one of them right at this moment is penciling a sketch of one of us, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was an outline of a person with a hand to his ear, holding that much (mis)used gadget – the mobile phone.

Cellphones – ahh. Where do I even start from?

Everyone seems to have one these days.

Which is perfectly fine by me.

Except when it starts grating on your senses, making you want to snatch it.

Like off the ear of the person sitting with you at the restaurant where it has been doggedly perched for the last ten minutes. Instead of enjoying his meal, and using the cutlery neatly arrenged in front of him, the bloke with you is more intent on keeping one of his arms leaning on the teak table, to support the darned thing that is glued to his ear.

It’s only that you have sworn off violence altogether that you are able to keep those murderous intentions at bay, and instead smile sweetly through your second glass of bubbly.

Any other time, and the bubbly would have fizzled out of your chute glass into the surprised face of your companion.

You have many who swear by their cells, probably carrying them to their washrooms too, lest a call / message escape their ever-vigilant eyes.

And if they forget to was their hands after doing their ermm..business, cos they are going yakkety-yak on their phones, what’s a little unhygiene after all. Righto?

Sheesh!

Yesterday, while watching a movie, there were quite a few samples who obviously espoused the have-cellphone-and-my-ringtone-is-by-far-the-loudest-and-don’t-you-forget-that-in-a-hurry syndrome. So right in the middle of a lachrymose dialogue being spouted by the leading lady on the silver screen, an ear-splitting, nasal song announced its esteemed presence.

Several tut-tuts from the people around, and the owner of the offending instrument silenced it. Several minutes passed, and once again the audience settled into some peaceful movie-watching.

Not for too long though.

An old Bollywood number, warning a babu to walk slowly and cautiously on the path to love, ridden with treachery, trilled its tune for all to listen. Gasps of annoyance escaped from the audience.

Oh hell!

Haven’t these people heard of vibrate / silent modes?

And to those insolent people who stare sullenly at me when I stick out my tongue and ball my fist menacingly at them upon hearing their shrieking ringtones, here’s what I have to say…

Bite me!

Looking for a mate for your mutt?

If you stay in New Delhi or planning to visit it this weekend, it could very well be a ‘knotty’ one for your canine.

In a first, the Ansal Plaza Business Center, which has been in the news recently for its plans to throw open its mall doors to pet dogs during non-peak hours, is organising a mutt-marriage tomorrow – Saturday, August 30.

The ‘ceremony,’ besides allowing pet owners to decide upon a suitable partner for their pets, will also feature fashion shows, and titles like ‘most lovable pet,’ ‘most photogenic pet,’ etc.

The four hour long event, can be registered for free, and will see the likes of pet marshals and vets, besides the regular police personnel, to ensure safety and security.

Promises to be lots of fun.

And if you are scoffing at the idea, maybe you should go eat your hat, as ninety pet owners have already registered for the event.

Quite a novel way to saw ‘Bow Vows,’ I must say.

I approve.

Wuff Wuff.

Awesome Amritsar

So seven of us girls decided that Amritsar could do with some girl power over the weekend.

Which is why we paid a visit there this weekend.

After a six hour train journey, pouring rain and an army jeep welcomed us at the small Amritsar station.

Sights and smells beckoned us from all angles; however, journey fatigue persuaded us to do otherwise and head for the army guest house, which was to be our residence for the next two days.

Braving the rain, we ran towards the vehicle, hopping pell-mell into its open warmth.

Our prayers to the Rain Gods did not go in vain, and soon enough, the clouds gave way to clear blue skies, and a merry wind which decided to ruffle our hairthroughout the rest of the day.

After a hearty meal, the Wagah border was our intended destination, where with much fanfare and national fervour, we, accompanied by over a thousand people had decided to see the beating retreat between Indian and Pakistani soldiers.

Slogans reverberated in the air, cameras saw some of their busiest action till date,
throats went hoarse, flags were brandished with gay abandon, inhibitions were dropped and there were some very enthusiastic dancing to the pulsating music that boomed from the loudspeakers…the works

After two hours of shouting ourselves hoarse, we made our way to a roadside dhaba, where we thankfully gulped down piping hot tea

The evening sped by, and the next morning dawned too soon

Soon it was time to see the breathtakingly beautiful Golden Temple – where a multitude of approximately 70,000 devotees braved it out on the hot, humid day, in a queue that could only best be described as moving at a snail's pace

The next stop was Jallianwala Bagh – where we sobered up, the bullet-ridden walls that bore testimony to that sad day making us walk right into the books of our school history books.

Ambling down the busy streets, we wove our way to the most famous dhaba in all of Amritsar, where an hour later, we emerged like trussed-up turkeys.

Except that thankfully no Christmas knife lay ready to carve us for the dinner table.

And then it was time to catch the train back home.

The journey back was the exact opposite of the previous day's, in which we had riotously kept all our co-passengers awake, what with our endless chatter, and leg-pulling routine.

Within minutes of the train starting on its return journey, seven heads plopped to
sleep, exhaustion writ in bold letters on their faces

And to think that we didn't even do our gender proud by what we are second best at – shop, I can only say that the trip was too short…

Oh well, maybe another trip to Amritsar (this time with TOOMA) might materialise sometime…

A girl can dream, can't she?

Amritsar Ahoy!

After an extremely eventful, nope, actually call it blissful last week, this week looks pretty much mundane...no TOOMA, all five days of work, no holidays making their presence felt on my desk calendar, not even nice weather to give me company.

The only thing that is keeping me going however, is my trip with six gal pals to Amritsar this weekend.

Promises to be loads of fun...

After all, what else can you expect when you have seven women, jabbering nineteen-to-the-dozen, out on a trip, where they get to see the border of the country, complete with the Beating Retreat Ceremony and smartly-dressed soldiers, proudly marching with their boots held high?

That we will we staying in the army area only adds to the fun...

Smiles ahead of the trip

Atta Gurls!!

Hic Hic Hooray!

After what seems like ages, though the nagging calendar on my desk begs to differ, pointing out stubbornly that it is only 8 weeks (Ha! What does the foolish thing know how long that is), it is time for me to bring out the champagne chutes....

The delight is writ large over my face, more so, when I look now at my watch, and see it is only 7 more hours to go...

Celebrations are in order.

And why not!

I get to be reunited with my sweetheart tomorrow, after his longish trip (work-related, let me add)

The champagne bubbles are definitely getting a run for their money from me :-)

08-08-'08 - Olympics

I made an exception to my usual I-don’t-watch-television routine today…

After all, it’s not everyday that reads as 08-08-’08.

Besides being one of top dates this year for couples to get 'knotty,' it also kicks-off the 16 day Olympics in China.

So, after surfing sundry news channels, which were all falling over each other with repeats of the opening ceremony, I finally arrived at my preferred one.

The view at Beijing’s state-of-the-art National stadium, was breathtaking, to say the least.

At exactly the eighth moment of 8 o’clock, the extravaganza had commenced for a spell-bound audience.

Approximately 91,000 people sweated it out to watch the dazzling display, which cost China a staggering $43, beating Athens’ record of $15 billion in the 2004 Olympics, by a more than fair margin.

Now I have seen my fair share of fireworks, considering that they are de-rigueur at Indian weddings, the Indian festival of lights – Diwali, when the country beats its arch-rival and neighboring country at a match of cricket, and other equally pyrotechnical moments.

However, the fireworks at this ceremony were a showstopper and completely jaw-dropping.

To add to them, were hundreds of thundering drums, strobe lights, acrobats who performed gravity-defying stunts, contortionists, martial arts performers, you name it…

I'm putting my money on the fact that quite a few people from amongst the audience will be numb in the ears for sometime at least.

But I also bet that the experience must be totally worth it...

Birthday Bliss

BFF (Best Female Friend) gifted me a spa experience yesterday on my birthday

Oh boy! Was it invigorating!

The two hours that we spent there, slipped by wayyyyyy too soon, leaving us glaring at our watches and the clock that tick-tocked its existence on the wooden wall. The experience definitely 'clocked' its one-of-those-defining-moments-one though......

So after trotting into the visually appealing building, we were led to a tastefully done up reception area. BFF had done her homework, and after the friendly receptionist checked our appointment time, we were ushered into a subtly-lit room, our trademark heels having been traded for the more appropriate heavily-padded carpet slippers.

Lounge chairs were neatly arranged for us. After the two-minute foot cleansing and drying ritual, two lovely metal flat basins appeared as if by magic, full almost to the brim with water, rose and lotus petals floating lazily on the surface.

And when we dipped our feet into that water that was at just the right temperature, a delicious toe-curling moment it was. Sheer bliss…

What followed next is what would have made TOOMA* go into raptures.

We were led into another wood-paneled, wood-floored area where two comfy barcaloungers were spread invitingly for us. BFF and I needed no second bidding.

Ohhh heaven! No wonder Joey and Chandler (of F*R*I*E*N*D*S* fame) were so attached to their respective recliners. The barcaloungers spelled comfort with a Capital ‘C.’ I’m definitely getting one of those one day, but that is another story…

The foot massage started – all physical strain looked set to evaporate, what with the heady dose of massage, the smell of jasmine joss sticks wafting towards us, the soporific air conditioning (just right again), and the pleasing-to-the-ear Oriental instrumental music

After an hour of one of the most stress-relieving foot massages I had ever received, it was time to change and make our way to the massage room.

Shiatsu was what followed next – the traditional Japanese hands-on acupressure therapy cum massage. An indescribable sense of calm prevailed in the air, and BFF and I were almost lulled into sleep. Our two Oriental masseuse’s fingers deftly wove our pressure spots, releasing the strain within, and leaving in its trail a most exquisite feeling of serenity…

The hour passed too soon, and we were loath to open our eyes, and wake up after that…

However, wake up we had to, and had to also make our way outside, where it was raining pitter-patter…

Oh unfair world!

And damn those clocks and watches that make lovely hours like these pass so soon…

*TOOMA: The Object of My Affection

Bidding adieu to my sole(s)

Yesterday I cleaned my shoe rack. And boy! Was it therapeutic!

Now I claim to be no Imelda Marcos (though I would give an arm and a leg to be her. Well, actually, make that just one arm).

So sandals of all shades and styles spilled out from my two groaning racks, the same racks that take up quite a bit of space in my already-overflowing-room

There was even an aubergine pair of atrocious-looking footwear, which I had absolutely no recollection of ever purchasing

Though my heart was pained beyond imagination to part ways with my treasure trove, I had to give in sheepishly under my roommate’s stern arched eyebrow

So stilettos, boots, peep-toes, ballerinas, pumps, mules, wedges, kitten heels, and some flats were gradually piled up.

When I had painfully piled-high my collection of never-used / oft-neglected footwear,

The next part was the more painful one…

Handing over ‘em shoes to the utter delight of my maid..

With a heavy heart, I parted ways with those faithful pairs…

However, one look at my maid, who was only two steps away from dancing with glee at the very thought of ‘em shoes adorning her happy feet, made me also break out into a slow, and then full 100-wattage beam…

Plus, with my racks now a little free, there is always scope for more shopping..

And oh, by the way, my new satin peep-toes, barely three days old, have a new place to sit pretty

Tee hee

The swirling sands of Jaisalmer

After incessant questions from people who thought we were plain dotty to tour the desert in the month of July or that we were both on lookouts for exotic places to get married(no no, not to each other, stooopid), my friend, Radhika (let’s call her R) and I valiantly set out for our much-awaited trip to the Golden City, Jaisalmer.

And might I say, we were not disappointed.

Though the train journey of around 20 hours dampened our initial enthusiasm, books, those best friends, kept us sane. Add to that, incessant cups of tea, entertaining tourists in our coach, chattering, standing at the foot of the train step (guaranteed to give my Mom an acute case of alarming hiccups), and you get the picture, dontcha…

The next day, we descended at Jaisalmer station - a picturesque fort-looking structure (on our way to the hotel, we soon gathered that most official buildings, banks, post offices etc were shaped like forts, and it was difficult to distinguish one building from the other – thanks to the same sandstone used).

The hotel turned out to be a lovely haveli which had been converted into a boutique hotel. We were whisked to see our room, and discovered that every room was done up in a particular vivid shade. After ensconcing ourselves in the lavender colored room, we grinned at each other. We had made it to Jaisalmer. All those days of looking forward to the place could not equal the satisfaction we felt when we peeped out from behind the lavender curtains in the hotel room, and caught yet another breathtaking view of the Jaisalmer fort. Perched on a hillock, it looked fantastic, to say the least.

Bargain shopping was fun. But the most fun was going to where the Thar desert began by an open-roof jeep, and then getting onto camels. Yes, the desert safari was indeed something. While the camels gallantly plodded through the sand, we couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the vast expanse of vacant land around us. Seeing the forts, temples, lake, and havelis in the morning, had made us feel as if we had been thrown back into time. However, now in the midst of the desert, where not even a bird fluttered, and a shrub bravely put up its head from amongst the sand, we felt in the middle of nowhere.

The sight from the top of the sand dunes was breathtaking, to say the least. The orange sun which was slowly setting, made for a sight that I won’t forget in a hurry. And when the camp people proceeded to break off some twigs, and make some fresh tea for us, the aroma that wafted towards us was lip-smacking. The sandstorm the previous day had ensured that the day was pleasant, with the sun not beating upon us mercilessly, but graciously giving way to a gentle drizzle.

The over one hour drive back from the desert was peppered with excited chatter, but after a while, we drifted off into an exhausted slumber land. The trip was rapidly coming to an end, and we knew it. Yet the eyes could scarcely stay open.

The next morning dawned with a fierce sun, which seemed intent to show us what a desert actually was. Slathering ourselves with triple layers of sun block, we made our way one last time to the market and fort, soaking in more than the sun – soaking in memories, before we made our way back home.

My only regret – I wish I had made the trip with him…Walking among the sand dunes barefeet, I was engulfed by an inordinate yearning for his footprints matching mine in the sand…

Who says exercising is fun??

So yours truly joined an aerobics batch a couple of days back.

Though she has been trying her best to keep up her cheerful demeanour, she only knows the many aches that can scarcely keep from escaping her tightly pursed lips.
Muscles that she barely knew existed, are making it a point to get their hours of fame - throbbing, and getting more than their fair share of sore acknowledgement.
The feeling is akin to that of an iron camping bed, creaking at all joints – not a very happy feeling at any cost.

Thank God the batch members more than make up for the pain she is undergoing by sheer variation of their vivacity, and general camaraderie.

So when she goes One-Two-Three-Four, in tune with the pulsating music, the encouraging smiles of her fellow-sufferers is the only thing that helps her keep up with the steps, and stop her from frowning when stern instructor belts out a command to not hog the air conditioning unit.

Drat all those endless Highball glasses of Old Monk she irresponsibly consumed, thanks to which she now has to sweat it out at the gym…

No Hic Hic for her for quite some time now.

"Driving" a wedge between schoolchildren

A schoolboy in Chicago won the lottery from amongst 1,90,000 students – all of whom secured perfect attendance at school.

Brought me back memories of my own school days, where I would have probably been the contender for top honors for the same spot, thanks to parents who believed that rain or shin, a child’s rightful place was the school. A little fever notwithstanding.

So downpour or sultry morning, yours truly would drag herself out of her toasty / cool and inviting bed, shuffle to the loo to make faces at the mirror while brushing her teeth, inspecting her eyes, skin, anything that would give her a chance to pinpoint at it, and thus create an official excuse for not attending school.

No such luck, however.

My eyes would always be crystal white, skin a spotless shade of alabaster, pimples an unknown word, and forehead always the right degree of warm. Nothing more, nothing less.

And my parents an unrelenting shade of grey.

When I would reach school, a storm roaring outside, and looked around to see the rows of empty desks around me, a sense of annoyance would sweep over me.

Why couldn’t a little fever creep over me sometimes at least?

Talk about good health, duh!

And to think I would get a certificate and a book at the end of the year, while this 12 year old schoolboy walked away with a neat Dodge Caliber.

There is nothing like justice in this world, I daresay!!

ADD and me

It’s official.

I am a certified sufferer from ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder).

So while I am in the midst of discussing the dynamics of an important project at work, I have been known to screw my nose, look quizzically around, and ask if anyone other than me could smell someone wearing Ralph Lauren Polo Sport.

Obviously, the only thing I get to see are some blank stares, and an exasperated sigh from my favorite colleague, let’s call her ‘N,’ and a nudge that signifies see-I-told-you-she-was-weird-didn’t-I?

At some other point of time, my eyes will glaze, hearing someone drone about the same crib (yet again), and then suddenly light up of their own accord. The reason – I just realized that the weekend was near, and i could indulge in some retail therapy – my absolute favorite…

Of course, fidgeting, looking into vacant spaces, pulling out my lower lip – all when someone is trying to strike a conversation with me, are fairly common features.
Now this is not to mean that I want the conversation to center on me. Nope, far from it.

Just that a feeling of inordinate restlessness slides over me, and that I get distracted a tad too soon, an annoying feature to everyone, I am sure.

So while I work upon it, and promise that I will not toss my hair around while you continue with your monologue on the rising cost of gas, it is only fair that you glance at the pretty butterfly that just glided over to those sunflowers, and also see that guy over yonder with the crooked nose…

When will my horrid fever break?

With a five-day fever that refuses to leave, yours truly has truly been under the weather.

Add to that sales galore and she unable to lift a pretty foot to step outside home to do justice to them. Quite a sad state of affairs, I must say.

So while the rest of the world enjoys savories in the rain outside, she has to stay cooped up at home, with only endless cups of tea to keep her company, and the odd stack of magazines that, despite their multi-colored hue, do little to add cheer to her life.

Then, there are the medicines that have to be popped into her unwilling mouth ever so often. Medicines which try to disguise their bitter, poisonous taste by their gaily-colored appearance, but which fail miserably. And the ever-smiling doctor who pats your feverish hand, trying to feed you a whole lot of jazz about how it is a seasonal fever, and how by the next day, you would be hopping like a tadpole - happy, sickness-free, sans the croaking voice. And who, smilingly, adds a couple more of those horrid medicines, while merrily pocketing your hard-earned money.

Of course, the last nail on the coffin is that TOOMA is not even in the country, which is understandably making her fret more.

The only silver lining is her trip to the colorful city of Jaisalmer, scheduled on July 26.

But even that is a fortnight away.

Till then, let her use Graham Bell’s invention, and act the role of whiny woman to perfection….