Shades of grey

If I had to think of the most depressing or boring color, there are no contenders for the blah grey.

I mean, have you ever seen a grey flower?

Grey for me, stands for all that is plain – grey clouds that wreak havoc on crops, the skeptical greys, grey for the hardened, the first grey strand, grey for the rigid, grey for the wallflower, grey for the rocks, grey owls, grey for ash.

Besides of course, being the color of solitude.

Movie Review: Made of Honor

Notwithstanding the uncanny resemblance to my Best Friend’s Wedding, Made of Honor does have its own spurts of radiance, where you smile in spite of yourself, similarities be damned.

So you have Patrick Dempsey (swoon yum dreamy delicacy) essaying the role of Tom, the eternal Casanova, who when he is not leading willing blondes, brunettes, you name it, into bed, is tagging along with his only platonic friend, best friend Hannah (Michelle Monaghan), a director of acquisitions at the metropolitan Museum of Art.

Their friendship goes back ten years, when Tom, masked as Bill Clinton, is looking for his Monica at a Halloween bash, and mistakenly jumps into bed with her roommate, Hannah, only to have perfume sprayed into his eyes. The two strike up an unusual friendship, discussing flavors of cakes, petting random canines on the way, and walking along the breathtaking New York streets.

Tom, fondly called “Fornicator,” by Hannah’s grandmother, has made millions by inventing the coffee paper-cup sleeve. His rule while carrying out his favorite pastime is singular – never do back-to-backs with the same girl (a la Joey from F*R*I*E*N*D*S*), and never call a date until a full day has passed.

Of course, he’s got competition – from his father (Sydney Pollack’s last role), who is a church and a divorce attorney’s dream customer – rolled into one. So while he is on his way to the altar to get “knotty” for the seventh time, the gorgeous bride and her lawyer are already negotiating the pre-nup settlement. So much for the sanctity of marriage.

Then Hannah announces that her work requires her to go to Scotland for six weeks, much to Tom’s petulance. The next six weeks are a trial for Tom, who realizes how much he misses Hannah, and makes up his mind to confess his love to her, but without offering matrimony.

His dreams are dashed short, ‘cos Hannah returns from Scotland, in love with Colin (the quintessential Scotsman, who in an almost Bronte style of romance, whisks her off her feet, on a white horse no less.

Tom, not to be outdone by some Scottish thief, decides to strategize. Things are made easier for him because Hannah, the typical, postfeminist, asks him to be her maid of honor (a situation that makes him the butt of some gay jokes).

Now Tom has to think, and think fast. So you have his basketballer guy friends pitching in, each stage-managing the mega plan of stealing the bride. There are magazines to be read on how to become the perfect maid of honor, videos to be watched, gifts to be wrapped, lingerie to be bought, trousseau to be decided upon, besides of course trying one’s level best to bring up the dirt on Colin, who reminds me a lot of Daniel Craig, sans the famous boxers scene. Here’s the kicker – Colin is squeaky clean, and has it all – a perfect family (he’s a Duke for God’s sake), perfect vineyards, perfect way to dunk the basketball, and during a locker room shower session, a view at his more than perfect “package,” which leaves Tom's friends goin "Whoa" and Tom more than a little snappish understandably.

Humor is freely interspersed – so you have appalling hairdos that would do bees proud, a grandma who takes a string of dayglo beads (Ahem Ahem) from a “lady” at a bachelorette party and puts them around her neck (Holy Moly), a more-than-plump maid of honor who survives on some indescribable liquid diet – all to fit into a size 8 dress, but which rips at the seams on the actual day, an obsessed woman who updates her blog on her favorite subject – Tom, amusing wedding customs and some more.

It takes a lip lock between Hannah and Tom, when she is exchanging kisses for change – a Scottish wedding tradition, which sets her thinking.

The rest is fairly predictable fare. But nevertheless makes for a sweet watch with your popcorn and cola.

Watch it for some smiles with your girlfriends.

Not bad at all.

Of cabs and cabmates...

It’s been over two years since cabs have featured regularly on my weekdays, taking me to that destination called the workplace.

This has put me in a more than capable position to pen my observations about the people who share them with me.

Quite a few specimens, they can be.

So you have the girl with large, soulful eyes, whose main joy in life is to whisper sweet-nothings into the ears of her (un)willing (?) beloved, who might just be cursing Graham Bell’s invention. Anyway, the motto for this lass is ‘till death do us apart,’ a motto she seems to take a tad too seriously.

Then you have the guy who, every five minutes or less, pats his carefully gelled hair,, and who is terribly partial to any shiny surface that even remotely resembles a mirror, and into which he can manage a peek at his shining crop. This guy is the easiest one to deal with – as you have to only touch his mane, which will make him shrilly scream for cover, and mutter to himself throughout the way, leaving you free to smirk all the way.

Then you have the bloke who believes in making everyone present fully aware that he suffers from ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder). Nothing else can explain why, within a spell of two minutes, he has to change the blessed radio station at least seven times. Just as soon you think you can settle down into a cosy doze with an oldie playing melodiously in the background, you are shattered out of your complacence by what can only be best described as a toad which has a severe case of the sinus, and has to make-do with a nasal, guttural rasp. At the end of five minutes, all that you can remember is a throbbing sound where your forehead used to be, and a heart that yells bloody murder.

Moving on, how can we forget the girl who makes everyone sit up and take note? And not because of the flaming lip colour she swears by. This is the girl who strongly believes in the phone syndrome – ‘Have mouth, will speak.’ And loudly, at that! So you can’t help but hear how so-and-so has bad breath or body odour. Or how the bespectacled person at work digs his nose in full view. Or what she had for dinner last Tuesday (with a running commentary of the recipe). Or to which doctor so-and-so had to go to sort out his little ‘problem.’ Ahem! Or where her family would be going on vacation in the next decade. Boy! This lady sure has some thoughts to share.

Next is the girl who is probably preparing for a chequered career in the secret services. How else can you explain the barrage of questions that come your way - How is your work? Do you have a boyfriend / girlfriend? What does he / she do? What, you don’t have one? Why not (look of unspeakable pity and horror write large on her painted face, and in her saucer-like eyes)? Some more digging around - have you never had one? Or did you decide to part ways? Why? Do you plan to stick to the job? Have you seen the new movie being aired at the theatres? What will you do for the weekend? Yada yada. She Till your eyes become glazed, your throat becomes parched, and you have to reach out for your phone to pick up an imaginary call.

Aha. Leaving out the self-proclaimed DJ would be a crime. With earphones perpetually stuck to his ears, and a mouth constantly chewing on gum, you can’t help but notice him. Or rather, hear him. So loud is the volume of the rock he is hearing that you are tempted to carry along your own set of headphones the next day onwards.

The above sometimes make way for new faces, notably the girl who can’t stop humming (and who makes you constantly look out for the mysterious bee inside the cab), the guy who can’t wait for the weather to get pleasant, so that he could request that the air conditioning be kept off (and he can conveniently puff smoke-spirals), the guy who constantly drums on the window panes (perfecting his hand at the bongos, no doubt), the constantly-rummaging-in-her-bag-for-something-or-the-other-girl etc.

There is always a constant though - the twinkling-eyed girl who has made it her business to observe them all, to pen her next blog post…

(Optional applause).

Stand back people. Let me give a sweeping bow.

Some more food for thought...

We Indians, oh boy! We share a deep-seated common passion for food.

While I will not put ourselves in the hedonist bracket, I will also not discount the fact that for us, all occasions (and there are really a lot of them), become a long procession of delicacies, sweetmeats, and savories which we religiously chomp our way through.

By the time we lick our fingers, and reach out for the strategically-placed box of tissues, we have already thought about our next mega meal.

Lest you think that the penchant is limited to prepubescents and / or children who coo in delight at the very mention of food, I’d say, try again. All drool equally.

With festivals and occasions a regular feature on our generally expansive calendars, I is hardly surprising that a lot of attention goes into deciding what makes a delicious entry or unceremonious exit from the menu.

So sweet-toothed Sandra is taken care of by three varieties of desserts (tiramisu, gulab jamuns, and the ubiquitous ice-cream). Greens-loving George is given due course of attention, and salads “sprout” on the menu. Jack who will eat anything that moves in his house (save his German shepherd, that is), is spoilt for choice, and the table shudders under the combined weight of steaks, kebabs, pork chops, rolls, etc. For the likes of vegan me, despair need not even cross their minds, a delightful spread winks at us invitingly.

The gastronomes that we are, we are also not averse to experimenting with new cuisines, generously indulging in them. So paneer tikkas rub shoulders with pasta and penne, while shorbas and sherbets are neck to neck with the shrimp and mulligatawny soups. Similarly, gajar ka halwa is reached out for, as are gelatos and guava soufflés. The pan-admired chicken tikka masala and flavorful Dal Makhani, ungrudgingly, share space with Hakka noodles, risottos, pizzas, and fish and chips.

Relatives, armed with gaily-wrapped sweetmeat boxes, (the wrapping next only to their sparkling, spangled dresses), arrive on our doorsteps, and after the customary round of back-slapping, pinching of cheeks (ohhh painful), and updated versions of who’s-doing-what and marrying-into-what, hurry back to their respective homes (and Thank God for small mercies). However, this deliverance is only after several rounds of snacks, (soft / hard) drinks, sweetmeats, and the odd lunch or dinner episode (depending upon what time they choose to land up on your doorstep) have made their appearance on the large table kept in the sitting room (kept for that very purpose perhaps?).

Whatever you will, food plays a pivotal role in the lives of us Indians. The concept of “Ghar ka khaana” (home-cooked food) is not wasted upon the likes of hose who stay away from their homes – students and people who work in place other than their own (TOMA and I being prime examples).

So when an invitation pops up from an ex-colleague, for a round of piping-hot-made-in-clarified-butter at his home on a Sunday morning, I’d be a fool to pass up such a brilliant offer, right?

Which is why, unlike other Sundays, this Sunday morning will see me showered, clothed, and perfumed , making my way to the colleague’s place, a song on my lips, a spring in my step, and an expectant hum in my belly.

Sunday, here I come….

"Penciling" it out

When I “upgraded” from pencils to pens in school, I couldn't be happier; infact, I felt a strange sense of deliverance.

After all, the sound of a pencil on paper is as disgusting to me as a person sucking snot out of his nose into his mouth may be for you.

While a lot of my classmates in school and college flinched when the teacher’s chalk, in a hasty spell of writing, produced a screeching sound where it met the blackboard, I was the only “whacko” who would cringe every time someone would hastily jot down something with a pencil.

It became worse in college, when my roommate (now my best friend), would study with me for the approaching exams. While m textbooks and notes looked like a rainbow, thanks to the multi-highlighter approach I was partial to, she would proceed with her studying by underlining (and boy! Could she underline) the text, much to my obvious vexation.

One look at my perfectly arched disapproving eyebrow, and she would promise not to use the displeasing pencil.

However, ever so softly, within minutes, she would be willfully underlining with the offensive pencil again.

Despite the next to no sound, my keen sense of sound would be in force, and after five seconds or so of keeping my ears pricked like a vigilant cocker-spaniel, I would spring up from the chair or bed, as the case may be, cast a look of pure venom at my now apologetic friend, and fling myself on either the courtyard bench or the corridor stairs, a decidedly scowling look evident on my face.

What else could you expect from someone, who, right in the middle of an entire year of debating, writing, sports, quizzing, and retail-therapy, was rudely awakened by the call of the annual monster – the examinations? And who, while in the midst of a chaotic time of notes-borrowing, cramming, studying with one sleepy and one half-awake eye, on a tummy which craved outside food, but which had to contend with hostel-food for the time-being, had to also cope with dreadful pencil-underlining sounds.

The scene was no better in the college common-room, where students from all three years, probably vied with unsaid competitions of who-will-underline-the-most-and-drive-Vandana-hopping-crazy, leaving me very very hot and bothered.
Till now, when someone picks up a pencil, I look alarmingly at the person, a look of don’t-tell-me-you-are-going-to-use-that-thing-are-you? on my very expressive face.

It is easy if the person is known and if I have a comfort level with him / her, because then I can playfully a) pass a pen into his / her hands (like when I do to TOOMA when he is penciling a writing task) or b) in the eventuality of no pen in hand, plead with him / her not to make use of the odious writing instrument, citing the virtues of oral communication or honing a razor-sharp memory instead.

However, the trouble arises if the person is not too well-known to me, or worse, if I, for obvious reasons, cannot risk myself be termed a weirdo by confiding about my unease at hearing a pencil sound. I have known people who, after hearing about my idiosyncrasy, have a look of disbelief and / or pity at my plight plainly plastered on their sometimes smug faces.

Needless to say, they don’t do wonders for me.

At all such times, I just squirm in my place, waiting for the abominable sound to stop.

Sighing with relief when the monstrous pencil is put down….

This is probably me at her quirky best!

It's Friday the 13th

Considering that today is this year's only Friday the 13th, it was hardly surprising people would be a tad jittery.

So I have an acquaintance who has decided not to venture out from her home today; there is yet another colleague who got his tickets to travel back home postponed from today to tomorrow.

While some cases border on the bizarre, one thing is for sure, alarm bells sure trigger off when it comes to Friday the 13th.

And I am speaking for quite a generous proportion here.

There are of course the exceptions, people who try and shatter the superstitious hex that seemingly surrounds this date. So you have our unconventional director, M. Night Shyamalan who releases his movie “The Happening” today. But then again, it falls in the horror genre, so I can't say I am surprised.

You also have Black Sabbath which released its debut album on the (un)lucky day as far back as 1970. Going by its sales, the album was anything but star-crossed.

And now, a new Dutch study says that Fridays the 13th, long considered to be ominous, are in actual fact, safer than average Fridays. It points out statistics to corroborate its findings, citing that there are fewer accidents, fires, and thefts on Fridays the 13th as compared to your average Friday. However, people who believe this are less and too far in between.

There are however those who swear by the hard luck that befalls people on such days.

Whatever the case may be, I sure hope no gloominess comes my way.

Lemme jus knock my chair twice though.

There! now what was I saying?

Getting "ant"-sy

I like looking at ants.....especially when they clamber onto a morsel of food, and then make away with it, akin to an army victoriously carrying off a struggling POW.

It's not uncommon to see them in my room, for which they seem to have a strange affinity for , much to my maid's visible annoyance. Week after week, they plod their way through the length and breadth of my room, sometimes carrying a piece of chocolate that has eluded my choc-loving roomie, or some breadcrumbs (my now-regular clumsiness culpable here).

I can't help but be surprised by their quick turnaround - a piece of cookie falls; a string of ants collects there within no time at all. Their industriousness is worthy of emulation.

Similarities can be found to their human counterparts, who also sweat it out, teamwork and competition aside, what with unrealistic deadlines that need to be met, gargantuan tasks that need attending to...what you will.

And finally, they can literally move mountains.

Quite a few lessons these humble insects can teach us.

Review: Sex and the City: The Movie

With Sarah Jessica Parker playing the role of now household name Carrie Bradshaw, it was naturally expected that women of all shapes and kinds would come out in hordes to watch the movie adaptation of the hugely popular Sex and the City (SATC) series.


And oh! They did come out in numbers. Accompanied by their ever-accommodating guy friends, boyfriends, fiancés, and husbands.

So we have Carrie, sassy writer for a New York newspaper, and show fetishist, who is all set to give up her single status for one of matrimony to Big a.k.a. John Preston (Chris Noth), her companion of ten years, much to the delight of her clique. The clique consists of Miranda Hobbes (Cynthia Nixon), a successful lawyer, who, while toiling at her work, grows distant with her husband, who meanwhile cheats upon her, and later confesses his adultery, much to her utter misery. There is also Charlotte York (Kristin Davis), the eternal sunshine girl, who is trying her best to conceive.


And oh of course! How can you forget Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall), the predator who candidly confesses her love for all things male, and who takes her love for sushi to new, bare levels (pun intended).


Their lives are all thrown asunder when Big develops cold feet on the day of the wedding, and decides not to go along with the wedding, leaving Carrie devastated. The four friends decide to go along on the already paid-for honeymoon for Carrie and Big, to Mexico, where they try to collect themselves.


Carrie returns to her New York job, hiring an assistant, Louise (Jennifer Hudson of Dreamgirls fame) to manage her administration.


In between the generous doses of Manolo Blahniks, Jimmy Choos, Louis Vuittons, Chanels, Givenchys, Moschinos, Vera Wangs, Jean Paul Gaultiers, Balenciagas, Roberto Cavallis, Fensis, Marc Jacobs, Versaces, Guccis, and Christian Louboutins, a sensitive, witty story of four friends emerges, twirling everyone in its wake.


So while you have the four girls sipping Cosmopolitans and martinis and getting sloshed, you also have the cheeky conversations about that taboo three letter word, all the while wearing the most wow of clothes and footwear, much to best friend and my agony and barely-contained gritting-teeth envy.


A much watch for every woman worth her Dior, SATC is two hours and a few minutes of pure, unadulterated fashion heaven. Though I’m sure that the men may hold a contrary opinion.


I couldn't help but hear the occasional yawning / gentle snoring spells by the men folk who had gallantly shown up.


God bless these noble souls!


And to more silver-screen adaptations of SATC, a huge Amen from all the womenfolk...

Daffodils - William Wordsworth

Never has yellow looked so alluring to me, as in this poem below by Wordsworth. The last six lines have stayed fresh in my otherwise lousy memory, no mean feat let me assure you.

Each time I read it, I think about the host of unforgettable memories that will stay with me forever. Touche!

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Of cars and their drivers

Depending upon the number of zeroes the car in front costs, the car right behind it keeps its distance – safe or with its nose right up the first car’s bumper.

Just one of my many observations, on one of my many spells of lack of any occupation (I can almost see many heads nod in unison - !@#$%^&).

Now that I have let off steam with those therapeutic words (ahem ahem - and I hope my Mom never reads this post), let me come right back to the topic.

The other day, I asked my cab diver why he was moving along at a snail’s pace behind the sleek black car (that must have cost its owner a tidy sum) in front. His answer was classic – “Madame, uss gaadi ka ek tyre meri poori gaadi se zyaada mehenga hoga shaayad,” loosely translated in English as: “Madame, probably one tyre of that car will cost more than my entire car.”

This set me thinking. Staying in Delhi, I have had seen more than my share of traffic snarls on the road. I’ve seen it all – roadside vendors selling anything at traffic jams - from tender coconuts, magazines, wilted roses, balloons, toys, pens, you name it (I wouldn’t be surprised one day if you are waiting for the traffic light to turn green, and you can choose from the cans the vendor proffers: Budweiser, Carlsberg, Heineken, Corona, closer home – Kingfisher, Haywards, and some other fizzies).

Being a frequent user of the three-wheeled green and yellow CNG auto rickshaws, I have to also contend with urchins who shove their palms right under your nose, moving away only when you drop a shiny coin or a note in it, and sometimes, the odd snake-charmer out to make you reach out for your wallet in fright, thanks to the lazy python that twists around its master’s neck and peeps at you with one glittering eye (Oh horror!), and the joss sick seller who sells fragrant incense-sticks, one of my favorites. Till last fortnight, I had a neat stack of packs of incense-sticks, so I am in a pretty good position to comment upon this particular subject.

But as is my wont, I have again rambled. Sigh. I could do with some focus, really!

Many people, who drive, have a strange predilection for inching their cars as close as is humanly possible to the car right in front. A frog would be the only animal that would be able to escape from between where the bumper of the first car and the bonnet of the second car looked as if they were leaning in for a passionate embrace, and that too only because it would go hoppity-hop.

The second car right behind looks akin to a schoolteacher who has notions about a possibility of cheating by an errant schoolboy, and is therefore, extra cautious, breathing down the student’s neck, who all the while, tries his best to remember what he has rote-learned the day before, and is hastily scribbling it all on his examination sheet.

All this changes if the car in front happens to be from the luxury car segment.

In which case, the car behind suddenly decides to make slow-and-steady its new road-mantra, keeping a safe distance, almost like a reverential devotee standing hands-folded, head bowed, in front of a deity’s icon.

Honking, that favorite pastime of many drivers, enough to make even the sanest crazy, is also done away with. Welcome PEACE. Obligatory applause.

It is also a sight for sore eyes when two cars come right on towards each other.

Rule # 1 – the guy in the small car is always expected to back off, even if he is on the right of way. I keep wondering who created this Rule.

The Golden Rule – remember this – Have Vocal chords. Will Scream. (Enuff said).

Rule # 2 – When in any confusion, refer to the Golden Rule. Always works. Use your voice, Mistah!

However, if a single metal scrape between the luxury car and an average car were to happen, you may bid adieu to all the peace you were reveling in.

And it is highly recommended that reach out for your iPod, adjusting it to full blast.

Next / Sometime else: The scrape that results in DOP (Destruction of Peace).

Unsightly "spitting"-images

So the other day I was waitin on the railway platform, waiting for my train to chug-chug me to Momie and Dadie dearest.

The people around me were varied - a young couple, armed with the latest who-dun-it, four-year something kid in tow; the old lady who alternated between looking at her cane basket and her gold wrist-watch; the two girls who looked as if they had just completed their annual college exams and were happily headed home; the young executive who stood pompously with his laptop (office-given?), shaking his head regularly, and clucking to himself; the three army jawans who were enjoying steaming hot cups of tea in the cool, summery night; and yours truly looking intently at them all (when she was not cooing sweet nothings into the phone to TOOMA).

It was then that the couple’s kid decided to whine.

Very characteristically loudly at that.

Shaking me out of my observing spell.

Many pairs of eyes, mine included, peered at the loud child, who seemed to be thoroughly annoyed with someone or something.

The offending thing turned out to be a sticky piece of chewing gum which some inconsiderate so-and-so had spat out, and which had, in turn, stuck to the back of the bench upon which the unfortunate child had chosen to play jumping-jack on.

The more the kid tried to remove the mucky piece of gum, the more it stuck to him. A shrill whimper escaped from his lips, making his parents leave their books upon their luggage, and rush to his rescue.

While they took turns to get the mess off him, I couldn’t help but wonder what makes people spit out chewing gum onto pavements, backs of chairs and tables, walls, public transport etc. While many crib about the odd cigarette butt that you may espy on the road, it is not too uncommon to find a stray chewing gum making its way to the sole of your brand-new Adidas,’ much to your visible exasperation.

So many aesthetically-designed, peeper-pleasing buildings and campuses turn to eye-sores this way. Seeing chewing gum on the road is as disgusting as seeing a giant blob of “gob” which some thoughtless person has spat. In a country where people make their way regularly through mouthfuls of orange-colored betel nut leaves and other forms of tobacco, it is not rare to see these visibly tell-tale orange blobs on the pavements, and many a time, even bang in the middle of the street.

Unsightly-sights them all.

Makes me want to go over personally to the houses of these wayward “spitters” and do a good job of spewing out some of my own onto their carefully arranged carpets, rugs, mats, etc. Blech!

Alternatively, a one-way ticket to Singapore is what I would recommend to such people. And of course they need to be armed with cartons of chewing gums of all shapes and kinds.

Thank God they make top-notch whips out there.

I’m no liberal bleeding-heart, I know.

And I also know I’m definitely going to hell;-)