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)