Do you "knuckle" under too?

The cracking, popping sound is unmistakable.

I crane my neck to see who it is.

It is the middle-aged, pot-bellied colleague this time. And he insists on doing an encore (Groannnnn)!

As I turn my head away, I can’t help but remember how people, at some time or the other, have indulged in some (harmless) knuckle-cracking. Leaving some, like me, frothing at the mouth!

The first recollection I had of it was of my brother cracking his knuckles as close to my ears as possible, to get his back on me for having scratched my nails on some muslin / silk – something which made him feel as squeamish as the average person feels when he hears the sound of screeching chalk on a blackboard. The anguished look on my face was totally complemented by the gleeful one writ largely on his. Of course a loud fight, complete with bloodcurdling screams, was in order, much to my Mom’s despair.

You can obviously discern that I never was a fan of knuckle-cracking.

Then you had those at school who insisted on cracking their knuckles at each class test, half yearlies, and annual examinations. My reaction all those times remained the same – a glowering look at the “offender,” complete with furrowed forehead, and knitted eyebrows, or sometimes, just for a change, an arched eyebrow, reminiscent of a well-known Bollywood vamp.

Most times I’m sunny, and yet there are those odd occasions when the only thing that comes to my mind when I hear habitual knuckle-crackers, is to hook my right index finger, walk straight up to them, and rap them smartly on their heads. Of course, social propriety ensures that I desist from carrying out my designs...

In college, when we sat around with each other over cups of steaming tea / coffee, the common room resembled a theater full of eager youngsters, gathered to catch tickets to a screening of their favorite movie idol. The only difference was that here everyone had assembled to catch last minute scribbles / notes that would take them from that shamefully low-score to a barely-sidestepping-borderline-one. With all that palpable tension rife in the air, it was but natural that the distasteful sound would “pop” (pun intended), causing many people’s heartbeats to race just that little bit faster, and fetch quite a few funny looks for the knuckle-cracker.

For some, it was that time again to dole out that much-perfected scowl. All the more at people, who after having tormented you with their incessant knuckle-cracking, proceeded to crack their wrists, and necks – leaving you with no option than to leave the room, but not before giving them a pretty unhealthy dose of murderous looks.

With my history of practical jokes, wisecracks, general goofiness, and loony tales to back me up, you couldn’t blame me for people not believing a word when I would, solemn wise face and all, spout how cracking knuckles could lead to arthritis. The disbelieving faces are still etched in my otherwise awful memory.

As are the loud cracking sounds that reminded me of the box of untouched Rice crispies at home…

Wonder what knuckle-crackers will do next…probably come up with a dedicated website, complete with forum and chat.

Oh wait, they already have that…

Dunno what’s next then.

Maybe I really should get “cracking” and consult a chiropractor…

A thing of beauty is a joy forever - Taj Mahal

It is said that familiarity breeds contempt.

I respectfully disagree.

Even if I were residing in Agra, and were to walk past the Taj Mahal every day of my life, I am certain that even a fleeting glimpse of the towering white-marbled structure would be enough to take my breath away.

Upon my mother’s insistence on a girlie trip to the most romantic structure in the country, she and I made our way last weekend, bleary-eyed to the station, where a languorous locomotive would chug-chug to life, and speed us away to our intended destination. So a little over a couple of hours later, we embarked at the city that houses the spectacularly gorgeous masterpiece.

Another half hour and we stood in front of the lofty domed mausoleum. Even though it was only a little over a year since I had last seen it, I couldn’t help but stare at it, stunned the same way as I had on the previous two occasions I had seen it.
Mom was agape. Pure silence followed for the next two minutes.

The early morning sun, which had decided to beam relentlessly upon all men, was duly forgotten by us. As we walked past the impeccably-tended lawns and fountains, we couldn’t help but be staggered by the very beauty of the structure that loomed before us.

Truly a place worth visiting, it is small wonder that this universally acclaimed structure of eternal love sees a steady throng of tourists, who flock to it from all parts of the globe.

After a day well-spent in Agra, we made our way back.

I couldn’t help but think about when I would see it again...

Guess I can't get enough of it :-)

Wanna spread some color in your life?

The grip and the hurl are unmistakably accurate.

Splashhhhhhhhhhhh.

And if you are lucky to escape the deftly-tossed balloon the first time, don’t clap your hands merrily and shake in glee. It might be a tad too soon. The very next moment, who knows, you may be shaking your pretty head because of the water-filled balloon that hits you smack, bang on target. That you shake with the utter chill of it all, with simultaneous teeth-chattering, and a frayed temper to boot – well, what can I say except that boy! You sure sound like one nifty multitasker. Tee hee.

These words come from someone who’s been at the receiving end…of well-pitched balloons. Someone who’s flared her nostrils, hitched her sleeves symbolic of confrontation, gritted her teeth and bitten her lips to keep from hurling a string of abuses that would make the ears of a sailor / fisherman turn beetroot red, put her hands on her hips – and all because of a well-aimed balloon that she forgot to duck, and which hit her BANG!. Much to her visible annoyance. !@#$%^&*

And the balloon-tossing starts well in advance. So say, a cool twenty-days before Holi, the Indian festival of colors, a balloon, flung in a way which can only be comparable to a participant in the Olympic javelin throw competition, lands on the intended target – YOU. Leaving you wet, cross, and cussing.

As the festival approaches, the days only get worse. Even nights don’t offer any relief, giving the aimers the added advantage of pitch darkness ensuring that their faces remain anonymous.

It’s open warfare then. Buckets, pichkaris, water pistols, mugfuls, and the odd tomato / egg make an appearance. And how!

Hapless victims run pell-mell in colonies. Little Johnny head in air would be wise to keep an eye as well in front, cos if he’s only keeping it on the second-floor devils armed with water-gear, he would soon get some tell-tale wet marks on his tummy, back or nape. Besides hoots of well-audible guffaws at his expense.

A day before Holi, if you do not count yourself amongst the adventurous ones, it is best to lock yourself indoors. Because if you are to venture out, stern-look-on-face-firmly-in-place, chances are that you might just be engulfed in a bear-hug by someone who you may have never set eyes upon before, but who nevertheless envelopes you in his brawny arms, and proceeds to smear dry (or wet color – depending on your luck) all over your already-crimson face, hair, and neck. And before you can extricate yourself from this delicate position, you would be deafened by a “Holi Hain” chant, and then within seconds left alone on the lane, looking very very foolish with clean clothes, and a face that would compete with the best of ‘em Aztec warriors / Red Indian chiefs after a major victory. (Putting some feathers on your head would complete the picture, if you get the drift…)

Face smarting, some with fury, some with the color that has crept into your mouth, you spit your way back to home sweet home. A vigorous shower later, you emerge – clean-smelling and clean-feeling, utterly exhausted. After all, who would have known that the dratted color would make its way into your ears and entrench itself into your soft hair, which while lathering, would leave rainbow-colored rivers in its wake? With a face raw after several minutes of scrubbing, that too with that new pumice stone (tsk tsk), you either:

a) swear revenge
b) swear to go off Holi altogether

I proceeded from from point (a) to resigned (b).

No wonder, I’m getting all my door locks checked.

After all, next Saturday isn’t all that far away (Shudder)!

A Bags to Riches Story

A self-confessed bag lover, I have often been the butt of ridicule for my (not-so) strange obsession. My only point of defence is that I only have some ten bags, as compared to women who have closets spilling over with them, and are perpetually on the lookout for yet some more to add to the loot. Oh boy! Don’t I just turn a not-so-pretty emerald shade when I think of those closets, and how I would gladly give an arm and a leg to get my greedy hands on one of ‘em Vera Bradleys, Louis Vuittons, Mark Jacobs, Pradas, Fendis, Chanels, Guccis, Diors – Mmmmm.

And ohhh, it’s such a wondrous pleasure to walk into a shopping section, better still, a glitzy showroom, brimming over with bags, purses, clutches, totes, satchels, of all shapes and sizes, hues, patterns, fabrics – you name it – they probably have one that you wanna “bag.”

The average British woman slings a bag that weighs approximately 5.2 pounds. Into it, she probably dunks her mini-world (Read fume, emergency hair products, wet face tissues, keys, change, wallet, those monthly supplies, Oh, did I forget gloss, mascara, and other goop she applies on her face. Phew! Now what have I missed?).

Friends call my bag a Pandora’s box – dig into it, and you’ll probably find a half-eaten bar of chocolate. Dig even deeper, you might find gum, different kinds of stationery products; for those luckier, there could be everything from earrings to switch blades, mini lotions and the odd fruit face pack sachet.

Just as a woman’s moods change, so do her handbag. So just when you get used to the red monstrosity she insists on carrying with her everywhere (including the rest room), enter she does the next day, with a teeny-weeny white clutch, clasped in her left hand, leaving you wondering what she could carry in it, barring a lipper and a pair of keys. Thank God that the red eyesore was shelved – that’s your only refrain. However, your prayers were premature, cos the next time, she is armed with a huge (big would only be an understatement), straw bag, in a rich brinjal shade, leaving you cringing, and making you wonder if she carried a twenty pound bull-terrier in it – it is that bulging.

And boy! if she’s the sort to make you carry her bag when she’s tired, may the Gods be with you! Be prepared to receive smirks from passing strangers…

Coming back to the topic, going bag / shoe-shopping is one of the highlights for us women. Skimming the daily for half-price bag sales is a perpetual hobby. Even better if our favorite showrooms have them on discount. Entering one of these places is like getting a new high. An hour later, we emerge, clutching a coveted trophy victoriously. Men would never understand our bag-fetish. For them, one black / brown wallet is more than enough for an entire year.

No wonder they roll their eyes dramatically every time we utter those words – “honey, I’m going shopping for a bag.”

Their silent groans couldn’t be more audible…;-)

A Ride To Remember...

Duug Duug Duug Duug...

The roar of the mean machine is unmistakable, a distinctive chick magnet, guaranteed to garner that second glance.

And if you happen to be as lucky as me, to ride pillion behind the guy who makes your heart skip a beat, it would be one ride you’d not forget in a hurry.

So when TOOMA zipped to my doorstep on the shiny red mo’bike on his birthday, my heart went aflutter. After all, its not everyday that I get to act out one of my oft-repeated dreams...

I was akin to a delighted child, who had just been presented with a much-prayed-for present, and now that it was right in front, was unsure whether to:
a) Clap hands
b) Jump up and down
c) Give a whoooopeeee of pure, unadulterated glee
d) All the above

So I settled for a girlie hand over my mouth (lest my screams of ecstasy brought all the neighbors to see what all the fuss was all about), and hugged TOOMA more than my usual self.

After a complete five minutes - what with my staring at the beauty, and TOOMA's ciggie-marathon, it was time for the much-awaited ride.

I needed no second bidding.

Within a trice, I was sitting behind him. As soon as the engine started full throttle, I knew that the red beauty meant business.

Roaring like a roused tiger, it sprang into action, causing those on the road to make way for the royalty.

The wind in my hair, the warm sun shining on my face, a song in my heart, holding the guy I love, smelling his divine cologne - what more could a woman ask for.

Evening was even better. The cool evening wind did wonders for my cheeks – giving them a flushed, dewy-fresh, freshly-kissed, rouged look…

Would you blame me that I asked for a retry?

Vrooooooom! Till next month, my motto is:

I SHALT BE PATIENT...