Adios 2009. Hola 2010!

Looking back at my loooong list of Resolutions that I’d laid down for this year, I can safely say I haven’t fared all that badly.

For one, I learnt how to drive – not into a ditch or into the pair of wheels ahead – but reasonably well. Cooking however still remains to be an area of skill I haven’t been too ‘driven’ towards.

I also got married – not that it was on my list of Resolutions. But since that is the single most extraordinarily life-altering thing that I’ve done to date, I thought I ought to give it a worthy mention here...

Grew my nails. Finally! They were long at the wedding. Ha!

Didn’t change my job. How’s that for longevity and commitment!

Exercised – tick. Went a step further – despite everyone’s surprise, pleated with shock – went ahead and participated in this time’s Marathon. Now that is one huge tick!

Didn’t exactly give up junk food, but yeah – those days of being surrounded by takeaway food menus are a thing of the past, I can safely say. Maggi too – an eternal dinner companion, has graciously stepped aside from a daily to a weekly / fortnightly treat….

I also decided that variety was the name of the game – and have deigned to download new songs instead of song-bingeing on the same Metallica numbers (though it is to be noted that they are still by far the best of the lot).

Knocked down the sarcasm factor a teeny-weeny bit, and went ahead to do my share in letting people smile rather than making them hang their heads in mute shame…Tee hee…couldn’t resist the last bit.

Now makeup –that needs to be knocked down a tad. But we’re getting there, aren’t we..? Perfumes – a total of 6 luxury fumes bought this year – that doesn’t even average into one per month. So I’m thumping my tail wildly with joy…Haven’t ODed on facewashes, clips, nail enamels, or wet face wipes. Creams and gum – uhmmm – getting there, getting there! Have some patience!

Didn’t’ learn French. Or any other language for that matter. Did visit France though. Broke bread there. Broke into sighs at the stores on Champs Elysees. Tasted their super wine. Fell in love with the place. They don’t call it the most romantic / fashionable place in the world for nothing! Paris – I’m coming back again – for sure…

Post-marriage, our room, while it won’t make the cut in an edition of the ‘Spic and Span’ magazine, will not get a mention in the ‘Piggiest of them all’ either. So that’s good…

Wore the caps I’ve been meaning to wear for quite sometime. Despite the amused look that TOOMA gives me each time I don one. Of course, it helped that till a couple of days back, I was in chilly Shimla - where everyone wears caps...

Other things I’ve been good at:

- Haven’t cussed rude people in a while. Supremely ignored the crass souls.
- Just smile benignly when anyone comments upon another girl college being better than my own. God bless ignorance!
- Now give my previous Cosmo issues away…much to the delight of P, our household help.
-Get ready post-shower in under ten minutes.
- Don’t guffaw uncontrollably at people who look dressed for a Punjabi wedding, even though they are at a mall.
- Watched quite a few good moves with TOOMA…And embarrassed him by repeating corny dialogues, thankfully in private, much to his relief.
- Completely stopped wearing wrinkled, un-ironed clothes. God bless P…
- Reduced my chances of being the top contender at who-texted-the-most-in-2009 contest. No regrets!
- Learnt new jokes. Shared them too.
- Didn’t relapse into being a chimney.
- Took my name off from the most-likely-to-be-put-into-therapy-for-whining list (remove ‘h’ from the underlined word)
- Learnt Excel. All those pivots, importing, conditional formatting, etc suddenly look less intimidating..
- Shot pictures – more than a plentiful share.
- And lastly – kept to what I love – Blogging!

Things I’ve not been so good at:

- Sending pictures to my Mum is not the same as writing letters to her. Will ensure that I write to her too…
- Improving my memory. Three words – my memory sucks! Clueless how to better it. Have been popping almonds and olives for quite a while now.
- Watching TV. While this would probably be on the things not to do list of people, for me, it should be on my to-do list. At least sometimes. There are some pretty good things they show nowadays, besides the tears-stained-cheeked soap actresses and starlets in dragging reality shows.
- Still haven’t gone around to getting a white Tee. Someday. Someday…

For 2010, the Resolutions are just a handful:

1. Learn a language or a musical instrument
2. Visit a place with five letters
3. Go Camping / for another all girl’s trip
4. Learn how to cook. Nothing fancy. No elaborate seven course meal. Simple fare would do. Thank you
5. Stick to a budget
6. Be less grumpy
7. Get an annual check-up with TOOMA
8. Conquer an unmentionable fear
9. De-stress at a spa once a quarter
10. Switch jobs

Let’s see how I fare this coming year. Happy New Year everyone!

A Baker's Dozen of couples

Take a look around - couples are aplenty – walking hand in hand at the park, learning how to groove to the salsa, grocery-shopping, at the mall, at clubs, sweating it out in a queue outside the theatre, haggling with the roadside vendor – in short – everywhere.

Yet despite their ubiquity, couples are all different – the Laurel and Hardy sorts, the volcanic and placid sorts, the master-slave sorts, the he / she completes me in everything sorts, the idol and fan sorts, and finally – those who are downright endearing to the exact opposite. This post, however, in true VA style, will not celebrate the saccharine sweetness of the charming types, focusing instead on some of the more exasperating specimens – the ones you feel like sending to a Finishing school – at their expense, of course.

Without any further ado, let’s look at some types that put the A in ‘Annoying’…

 The cat and dog fighters – they give a whole new meaning to love – loving looks are replaced by glares, smiles are replaced by smirks, sweet nothings are replaces by nasty adjectives, caresses are replaced by painful jabs in the middle – you get the drift, don’t you. Looking at them you wonder why they are even together in the first place, since they look they would be more at peace if they would drive a stake through each other’s hearts. If they had to make a movie on themselves, it would in all probability, be called ‘Conflict Zone’

 The Shrink’s Delight – This is not the name of a diet ice-cream. These couples have absolutely no qualms about pouring perfectly good money into the hands of yet another gleeful counsellor. They believe that therapy is the solution to all their problems – big and small. So be it what breed of dog to buy, to what they should name their child – they hop over to the nearest counsellor, who nods his head, clucks his tongue sympathetically, rests his chin patiently on his elbow, has that faraway, thoughtful look on his face while he listens to them rapt in attention….and after the cathartic hour has passed, guffaws at their expense (pun intended) when the couple walks away

 The Social Networking Relationshippers – If you are a social networking retard, chances are – you wouldn’t know that X was dating Y. Such couples are prime examples of people who get into a relationship, or worse, pretend to be in one, just so they can update their relationship status on their FB, Twitter, Orkut, MySpace, Wayn, and Hi5 accounts.
Sample the following series of events:
Date: December 15, 2009
X: Relationship status – single
(December 16 – X in a gym. Goes towards water cooler. Bumps into Random guy – Y. Y smiles awkwardly, mouthing a hasty 'I'm sorry.' Offers full cup of water as way of apology to X. needless to say - X is ecstatic)
Date: December 16, 2009
X: Relationship status – committed
(Smileys rub shoulders with each other. He’s the One’ shrieking in bold, red lettering. Not to be missed – the dripping blood-red string of hearts

 The Joined at the hip couple – barring the odd trip to the loo, they do everything together (though I have a strong suspicion that if society didn’t frown upon members of the opposite gender going into gender-specified restrooms, they wouldn’t have given it a miss). Faithful to a fault, they would do a sleuth proud, shadowing each other in perfect, dizzying harmony. Sandwiches are broken into two, morsels fed lovingly to each other, glasses of lemonade are downed in simultaneous sips – I have a feeling they also synchronize their...tch tch – dirty fellas – I was talking about them synchronizng their breathing – sheesh! Filthy minds can only think of one thing!

 The PDA champions – an exposed wrist is all that they need to begin the drooling, dribbling routine. They don’t believe in playing footsie under the table – anything subtle is not for them. They fit more in the flaunt-it-to-all-and-sundry compartment. Even if you are six tables away from them, you can’t help but notice the aggressive tongue hockey they engage in – it’s a wonder the bartender who’s serving them, can keep a straight face.

 The Shakes-peer queers – if it’s a book, chances are they’ve turned its pages. According to them, there is no other more well-read couple than them on the planet. And they have no qualms of turning up their cultured noses at the lesser mortals who engage in frivolous reading, or worse – no reading at all. No conversation in the attendance of these couples is complete without some soul-baring experience which they narrate copiously, till your eyes start drooping all by themselves

 The we-can’t-help-but-be-accomplished couple – Now this is one couple you don’t want to risk meeting, unless you are a masochist, out to get a deliberate beating in self worth and esteem. They nonchalantly drop titbits of information about how the Cabinet Minister insists on coming for their Sunday brunch, how next week they'd have to cancel plans wth you as they would be fundraising for the Make a Wish Foundation with the CEO of the oh-so-hot-right-now MNC. His business proposal has been accepted at London, and now Bummer - he has to purchase woollens for his one-month stay there (maybe the Dorchester, where he usually bumps into his good friend - Liz Taylor, will have wollens in their clothes outlet). Meanwhile, wifey - would be de-stressing after her new restaurant opening with her friends, who include a reigning beauty queen, a spa owner, the top buyer from Harrods, and the Director of an international cosmetics brand. They make everything sound so apologetically sweet and casual, that you feel disgusted at yourself for wanting them both to choke on the matching Hermes scarves they wear

 The Cutesy name caller couples – their conversation goes somewhat like this –
‘She - Munchkin, would you get me a Fruit Punch please?
He – Of course, honey bun.
She - Oh you would, cuddle muffin?
He - Anything for you – my Snuggle Bunny.
She - Thanks, dumpling. Mwahhs.
He – Mwahhs. Be right back, Pooky Pooky. ’While they expect you to go ‘Awwww, they’re cho chweet,’ the only expression that comes on your face is one of wide-eyed disbelief, followed soon by sheer disgust.

 The Sloshed couple – The first letter of the English alphabet is ‘A’ – and instead of the fruit that we associate it with, they have replaced it with a more pungent, and giving-more-kick-than-fruit - Alcohol. Hic hic. Serving liquor in their midst is like keeping a bunch of bananas in front of apes. Literally speaking, alcohol makes them ‘Go Bananas.’ Two hours later – let’s just say that to get them home, you need an animal van, some tranquilizer, a can of strong room freshener, a fresh pair of clothes, and a very patient driver who doesn’t need to be pointed out where they live. You want to steer clear of this couple ata party, unless you fantasize about becoming a babysitter to two grown adults...

 The Sober sorts – the exact opposites of the kind above, they are so squeaky clean, a vodka would blush in front of them, and try to drown by itself in a liter of water. Self righteous to the core, they cross their arms and arch their eyebrows, tut-tutting and frowning upon any kind of intoxication. If you weren’t such a rigid bull, you would have by now thrown away that ‘evil’ pack of B&H Lights, after dipping it in that ‘equally wicked’ pilsner of beer.

 The matchmaker sorts – if by some stroke of ill-luck they come to know that you are a singleton, they would decide to take you under their wing – alternating between reasons why you should be in a relationship (no matter how bad), narrating nasty little stories about the single owner whose cat ate him / her up and the body was found by the sweeper, and setting you up with hideous people who you can only imagine came straight out of your niece’s book on nightmares and scary creatures.

 The Been-there-done-that couple – Going for bungee jumping? Try the one in Ticino. Fancy a spa – you should go to Phuket, and use their name for a discount. Getting a membership at the golf club? Yeah – it’s nice, they got it two years back. Yawnnn! Anything new? Anything that you do or are planning to do – they’ve already done that – adventure sports, luxury vacations, cruises, club memberships, rally driving - and you would of course, do well to ‘benefit’ from their sound bytes. Smug little twits they are – but of course, they were only ‘trying to help.’ After all, what are ‘friends’ for..?

 The laughing at their own jokes couple – agreed, we all have our own secrets, codes and jokes. But these couples take it to the hilt – in the middle of conversation, they will look at each other, nudge and shake with uncontrollable laughter, while all the time you are itching to know the joke. Of course they won’t tell you, and just when you have resigned yourself to nobody status, there they are at it again – laughing yet again at another inside joke which you are totally clueless about/

I’m wondering, which of these TOOMA and I fall in. And which kinds of couples have I missed out on.

Eitherwhichways, care to answer? I’d love to hear your say...

Fear Factory

What would it feel to have a gun to your head?

Not a routine question, I’d say.

Now, lest my asking the above question gets me a permanent spot in the sadist bracket, let me spell out that this is just some rudimentary digging by me into assessing which other scenarios are equally sweaty-palm inducing and downright terrifying for people.

So while it could be a seemingly innocuous lobster floating in a sea of sauce for a sworn vegan, it could be the mention of death to someone who is horrified at thinking of what lies beyond this mortality.

Some others too traipse behind…

A set of panic-stricken parents – their child, a habitual returner from school at half past two, is no where in sight. And the clock just struck three. Worse – the offspring’s phone is unreachable.

For some, it could be the very thought of being friendless and alone. For others, it could be the slow, haunting music that creeps up in a horror / thriller flick – right before the bloodcurdling scream...By the way, you might want to check that curtain behind you….

I can imagine I would be all cold and dripping with perspiration if I were to look out of the window at night and see an intruder trying to break into the house. Armed with a shiny object, which I was sure, wasn’t a gift for me….

Any talk of putting on weight could perhaps make shivers run down the bone for an athlete, a deliberately-anorexic woman, or for the flight attendant who could lose his / her job if the pounds were to add up.

A perfectly radiant teenager’s face could turn pale when his parents announce that they would return from the wedding in the suburbs late night. While being a teenager had its own advantages, one thing you couldn’t possibly ask was a babysitter. The adolescent couldn’t fathom being alone in the huge brick structure they called home – demons of the past haunted him, and worse – it was already dusk? He was a confirmed nyctophobe – terrified of the dark, much like his idols Megan Fox and JLo, but much too embarrassed to admit it to his folks.

Some people’s hands get clammy when they are intimated that they would be flying to another city for the upcoming conference. Give them an option to take the train, and despite the over two-day long journey, they would do so – such is their aversion and fright of flying.

A model wrings her hands nervously while watching a feature on her – the journo has done his homework thoroughly and would, any minute now, spill the beans that what she claimed as her natural body frame, was in fact the work of a reputed LA plastic surgeon.

Hair woes. A woman somewhere cups her face in her hands, moaning – she’s spotted her first grey strand amongst her otherwise full crop of blacks. Let’s concede - at least her eye-sight was flawless!

Another ha(i)rried soul looks despairingly at his reflection in the wall-mounted mirror – his thinning pate is only getting worse by the so-called miracle hair-boosting vitamins that the pricey hair clinic had suggested him.

A father-to-be spends anxious moments outside the OT, striding nervously, sweating profusely despite the controlled inside temperature. An additional doctor has been summoned to make an emergency entry into what was supposed to be a routine delivery. Ten minutes had never seemed so long…

Thanks to the MD’s missed flight, the VP of the company is asked to address a few hundred people about the business benefits of a new strategy. Despite a kickass memory which remembers every minute detail from the review document, he can scarcely bring himself to speak – such is his fear of public speaking. Between battling with a hostile army and a cold audience, he would rather combat the former.

A 20-something, despite his rushing adrenaline and unmistakable swagger, cannot bring himself to plummet down the cliff as his friends did nonchalantly. Digging his nails into his palms, he sends up a silent prayer above, while people fidget behind him in line impatiently.

Another – an until-recently gleeful bachelor treasures the last few days he has, until he has to hand over his life to the girl who has taken the reins, making him trot smartly towards the mini-handcuffed version of prison, often termed matrimony. His T-shirt gets drenched as he decides what to make of his few remaining days of freedom…

An anxious girl sends up a silent prayer above each morning that the terrible secret she’s harboured all these ears – does not reach the ears of her unforgiving family.

An otherwise easy-going, gum-chewing corporate executive stares gloomily at the calendar. In a few months he would hit the dreaded 40 mark. The date loomed red in front of him – so much so that he could only spot his date of birth on the floral calendar.

A famous closet queer, caught schmoozing his same gender partner at a glitzy party, is paranoid that the next day’s city supplement might fall into the hands of his extra-conservative parents. All hell was sure to follow, especially with a Hitler prototype ex-defence Colonel as a father. Since prayers for the next day’s paper getting misplaced sounded a tad hollow, he decided to take things into his own hands. Despite returning from the party in the wee hours of the morning, he remembers to set his alarm – to do what needed to be done – waylaying the newspaper vendor and ensuring that the paper got flushed…

A politician, considered honest and holier-than-thou, fears that he would lose face, and more importantly, his adulating vote bank, if news of his alleged involvement in the flesh trade leaked out – thanks to the work of an assiduous – read snoopy - reporter. Even though the incident happened donkeys years back, and his level of involvement was only ‘alleged,’ he doubted if he would ever save face if it came out..

Everyone, everywhere fears something or the other. It could be the unthinkable, the unspeakable, the unimaginable, or something from one’s forgettable past.

So, what do you dread?

Two wrongs don't make a right

What can I say about people who, whether intentionally or otherwise, point you in the opposite direction from your intended destination?

That they are evil. Besides being inaccurate, of course. The irony is that some genuinely want to help – but fail, despite their noblest of intentions...

Could it be perhaps that bred in an urban culture that considers not offering to ‘help’ an improper and impolite mannerism, people look up and down the street, eyebrows knitted in concentration, and then point out along the road that looks fairer? You smile at them, acknowledging that they stopped whatever they were doing – driving, riding, walking, reading the newspaper, eating talking – to give you directions, and along you go...

The only hitch – they were clueless. But would sooner eat a hat than admit it that they have no idea where house number xxx on avenue 123 along street XIV was located.

Which explains why after the seventh right bend, you are where you started, or worse even further from where you wanted to be. A poultry farm stares you in the face instead of the house you had to visit. Guttural sounds of disgust do nothing to relieve your state of mind...And to think that you thought the chap knew what he was talking about.

Are we that conditioned to believe that not knowing something as trivial as a site location is a sign of inadequacy, a limiting factor, an Achilles’ Heel? Does not knowing the way to a certain locale make us insufficient and cause us to question our own competence?

Going a step further – those who create their own directions. These are a seriously malevolent one. One look at your harried face and perspiring brow – and voila! They have found a simpleton - willing victim, pardon the colloquialism – a ‘bakraa’ - for their sick humor. As soon as you push off on the deliberately-sent-upon-wrong-route, they burst into raucous guffaws, while you, all too oblivious to their perversity…till a few blocks later. By then, it’s too late – for your appointment.

As well as for you to lay your hands on the chortling scoundrel!

The only consolation – you escaped being tried for cold murder by an unsympathetic judge.

Dancing in the Dark?

The world is divided into two categories – those who can dance, and those who can’t.

And yet, we have hordes who cannot accept that they really weren’t meant to be in the sequel to Saturday Night Fever. Despite their all-too-clear case of two left feet, they insist on showing off to all and sundry that they are best fit to be head trainers for the advanced dance class at the posh studio in the next block. So much for optimism! And dance academies that scream otherwise from the rooftops...

Let me just state for the record: I’m no good with dancing. Years of flailing my arms around, I’ve reconciled that while I don’t exactly have two left feet, dance is something I should keep aside – like flat beer. I have absolutely no delusions about my dancing skills (or lack of them), and am quite at peace with the fact that I’ll probably never be an integral part of a dance troupe.

There I said it!

No shamefacedness. Just a crisp, clear confession.

Equally candid is my compilation about the various ‘dancers’ I have had the good fortune to have come across – the ones who I could watch all day.

While some are like ostriches on a see-saw, some step on your toes (and your patience), some just bop, some look as if they are in extreme agony and should visit an acupuncturist, while some look as if they are gingerly avoiding cracks on the pavement.

Here they go:

1. Snake dancer – Right at the top of my list is this specimen – he would make a snake proud – what with all the sweeping, circular, uncoiling, and writhing. He’s got a hood too – make that two hoods – hands raised together, shaped as domes. And as if the hoods weren’t enough to scare you, you have to also contend with the biting postures and occasional hissing sounds. Give this dancer a wide berth – you’ll thank me later…

2. The tipsy tap dancer – Such sorts ‘dance’ (or rather, make you laugh at their antics), but only after they have downed a few. The beer-brings-a-cheer philosophy was perhaps coined keeping them in mind. And they sure bring the house down after their sozzled feet make an entry on the dance floor. A one-a two-a three-and there! You spot them next squatting on the dance floor – complaining to no one in particular how the floor ‘caved’ under their feet. These dancers often also ape superheroes, and you can easily see them looking for their Batmobiles (or cloaks), trying to scale the wall a la Spiderman, or darting looks in horror why their Superman flying skills have left them in the lurch suddenly. Amusing – to say the least...

3. The ‘Walk like the Egyptian’ dancers – Remember this immensely popular Bangles number in the 80’s? Now cut back to current times – and imagine, some people still dance like that. Perhaps they are caught in a time warp. Perhaps they are avid fans of the Bangles. Perhaps they recently returned from a trip to the Pyramids of Giza. Whatever be the reasons – they shuffle awkwardly, swing slowly from side to side, trying hard to maintain their balance, while the onlookers try hard to swallow their chuckles.

4. The No-dancers – these ones have mastered the art of deluding. So while people think that they are dancing, what they are only doing are tapping their feet, drumming their beer or twirling their glasses, swaying lightly, doing karaoke renditions, snapping their fingers in rhythm – in all, doing everything except dancing. Super smart – I call these.

4. a. The wishing-I-was-the-DJ sorts - A variation of the above category, this guy will not only not dance but also, at regular intervals, how he would have made a much better (and popular) DJ than the one currently belting out tunes to the dancing junta. If he happens to be a friend, and you gently remind him that the last time he was given a free hand to get into the DJ avatar, he had song binged 17 odd times, you would suddenly find yourself the subject of a freezing stare or worse, an unkind elbow shove.

5. The Headbangers – now while I have absolutely no problem whatsoever with these (having been one myself), quite a few of them take the term pretty literally. So heads are banged animatedly, causing those standing nearby to go ‘Owwwww,’ tempers are somewhere near boiling point, and it doesn’t help that the glass you had been nursing affectionately for the last half hour, is dashed unceremoniously to the ground. So while their undisguised enthusiasm is all too obvious, equally unmistakable is the anger it evokes in those nearby

6. The train dancers – 1,2,3,4,5,6 people…enough to start a chugging train. You are in the midst of impressing that Hot! Hot! Hot! Stranger with your mean moves on the dance floor, when poof – you are relegated to the background…’cos a human train of 6 barely-out-of-their-teens party has decided to chug-chug around you, puffing engine sounds including. And before you can damage-control your dance moves, you find that the stranger who you had been madding round eyes at, the entire evening, has also decided to hop on..Phee Phee Chug Chug – he / she coos. What a waste, innit!

7. I will dance only when they play ‘MY’ song – hard to be missed, these ones – they will stand anywhere – in the corner, near a table, in the middle of the dance floor, looking hard at the DJ the entire time, waiting for that elusive number which they claim is their ‘Faaaaaaaaaayvorite.’ If and only if that number is played, will they deign to grace the dance floor with their moves. But till then, they will stand, fully ready. Sometimes the DJ does play their song – which puts them into a wildly euphoric mood; sometimes he doesn’t – in which case they keep looking longingly at him. Frantic ‘Hoys and Heys’ are shouted across the dance floor – and sometimes the DJ does relent, and put them out of their miseries…

8. People who dance to be picked up – their grotesque dance moves are eyeball popping and openly scream – ‘pick me up!’ Their sinuous steps are deliberate, so are their pelvic thrusts, and anyone within an arm’s radius and sometimes even beyond that, can figure that streetwalkers aren’t easier to come by than at the nearest discotheque.

9. The ‘mates’ – Aussies they are not, they dance as if in a mating ritual. The only difference – they might not wind up with a mate, but only appalled / revolted / murderous looks from horrified onlookers. The mating ritual is sometimes accompanied by groans which would have been more apt for a debauch flick.

10. The smoke-dancers – these have perfected the art of puffing and dancing. They pooh-pooh the idea of smoke-free dance floors, but since the sight of burly bouncers aren’t really their idea of fun, they inhale a long drag of nicotine, make their way to the floor, and while in the midst of a Cha-Cha step, exhale right into your lungs. Your indignant splutter does not elicit any apology from them, and in the next few moments, you are at the receiving end of a coughing fit, an unkind elbow into your unmentionables, and some very overpowering odor near your sickened nose, thanks to sweaty armpits doing an enthusiastic jig.

And the list goes on…

Perhaps you know some freestylers too. Feel free to pen your thoughts here.

No one’s judging… Go ahead…

Airtel Delhi Half Marathon 2009

November announced itself with a bang this Sunday. Quite literally!

Bringing with it an unmistakable nip, and of course the arrival of the Delhi Half Marathon - an event I had signed up for like a true zealot. To seal the deal, in case I did decide to look the other way, and sleep through the deliciously cool Sunday morning, I had also registered Daddy Dearest - an avid runner.

There really was no looking back.

Saturday noon – the day I collected the marathon goodie bag from a swish mall - was the day when it really dawned upon me that I would be joining the likes of 20,000 other runners by rubbing shoulders with them the next day.

TOOMA scoffed (quite a bit), did the Santa Ho Ho Ho chuckle, much to my indignation, and put it this way that I was running merely to scratch off at least one item off from my (very long and dismay-inducing) list of New Year Resolutions. Uhmm, maybe...But then, sitting 45 hours every week in a controlled work environment doesn't really let me know what physical endurance I am capable of, so there - I DO have another less-harsh reason for having run it...

I know for one that Daddy Dearest ran, not because of the sense of accomplishment it elicits, but because he wanted to assess his level of fitness. He needn't have worried - he crossed the 7-km line within an enviable 30 minutes, beating his own daughter, yours truly, rather hollow (shamefaced grin)...

Each runner probably has a different reason for running a marathon...

So while some people run for a cause, some do it for the smug 'Oh-yes,-I-ran-in-the-Marathon' routine, some for the adrenaline pumping, pushing oneself against limits that it entails.

Of course - there are also those who claim it is a change from their otherwise dreary, monotonous routine, those in the throes of midlife crises, those battling personal / professional strife, and then there are those who, instead of exercising their limbs at the run, exercise their vocal chords instead and scream their lungs out as soon as they spot their favorite celebrity who has flown in to show a thumbs-up sign at them.

Which was the case with many participants who set their eyes on the reigning superstar of the country - a recent convert to six pack abs and a walking mannequin of Armani suits. They stopped right in their tracks (pun intended), shouting his name in crescendo, while the State Chief Minister and the white-clothing favourer talk show lady host – our very own answer to Oprah Winfrey - looked on, half-amused expressions all too obvious at the blatant adulation on mass display. Chaos was rampant – and the star had to be handed a mic to remind and urge the people that they were there to run, and promising them that he would be there to greet, meet and treat them at the finish line.

I, on the other hand, was happy to have spoken with the not-so tall former rugby union player turned actor, known for his penchant for offbeat films and dedication for charitable work.

And then – it was time to run...a la Forrest Gump...

All around me, people ran enthusiastically, slowing down to hear the two bands belting out popular soft rock and pop numbers at strategic corners. All around me – feet pounded into the asphalt road. Even those people who would normally have driven to a 500-meter away grocery store – ran. Running shoes of all makes and kinds were united in one long sprint. Volunteers handed out bottled water to the avid runners. While for some it was a struggle to run, and who were clearly out of breath, the more energetic ones chanted peppy slogans, jingles and anthems. Smiles and names were exchanged, high-fives did the rounds especially from those wearing quirky headgears and neon wigs. Associating charity partners and corporates, complete with banners, flags and posters, ran hand in hand.

While some did not make it to the finish line, opting out after the survival shuffle failed them, others were luckier. Tired but victorious smiles were exchanged, and I guess most of them went back with a sense of accomplishment, pride, participation and oneness.

While some like me, hobble painfully - even two days after - swollen footed, a permanent grimace on their face, dipping their feet in bath salts added hot water at every opportunity they get...

Born to Run – Bruce Springsteen crooned.

Let’s put it this way – it definitely isn’t my favourite number for right now!

A Qui(c)rk Study

My trusty online dictionary describes a quirk as a ‘peculiarity of action, behavior, or personality.’ While the origins of the word are hidden somewhere in the realms of foggy land, quite a few amongst us, ACTUALLY strike that out – many of us, do have the odd behavior pattern, which might mystify, baffle, hell even, amuse us. And the weirdest part is – most of the times we can’t even fathom why we do it...

So we have people who sleep with their TVs on – if they wake up in the middle of the night and find it switched-off, they switch it on again, and promptly dropping off to la-la land; some people do not eat sliced cake – preferring to eat right out of the box it came in by breaking off pieces by hand; some drive their cars barefeet; some sleep with pillows on their faces rather than beneath their heads; some people cannot play / work / whatevah without their favorite handkerchiefs (I’m only hoping the rule doesn’t apply to inner-clothing items)…

Celebrities too are not untouched by quirks – the late MJ would never take off his makeup even when in bed, Jennifer Lowe Hewitt and her Mum count stairs, the list goes on…

I’ll start with some of my own, and then if you so wish, you could perhaps add some of your own idiosyncrasies:

• I can’t hear anyone brushing their teeth. Not in real life, not on the idiot box. It’s a dead No-No. I go a step further, applying it to people highlighting or underlining portions in a book, notes, newspaper. And to think I survived in the on-campus college accommodation with hundred of chicks who changed overnight from worshippers of lip glosses to devotees of glossy neon and hot pink highlighters. Five years - and innumerable term papers, exams, tutorials, assignments – you do the Math why March thru May was never the happiest (or calmest) period of my otherwise blissful all-year round time. I didn’t leave the quirk behind in college. It’s a loyal companion even today, much to hubby dearest’s annoyance. I'd rather hear screeching or squelching of tyrs in mud than the screeching of pen / pencil on paper

• I count, and worse – color coordinate, M&Ms while eating them. I extend this favored rule to Skittles, Dragees, Smarties, Reese’s pieces, as well as closer home, Gems (You can’t call me a racist candy-lover, as you can see). Red invariably gets popped first into my mouth, followed by purples, orange and pinks. Yellow and green are usually the last ones. No reason for this one either

• If I happen to spot a strip of medicine, and have easy access to a small pair of scissors, I just have to round off the corners. Go figure that one out…

• If I spot lotion balls that have formed near the mosituriser / lotion / cream lid, I scream an extended ‘Eeyuck’ in my mind, and run off to clean it with a wet cotton ball. Touching them with bare hands is a beyond all imagination

• All currency notes in my wallet have to be arranged in denomination. I even go a step ahead – smoothe out wrinkled notes and place them heads-up

• Not all shoes are born equal for me, I have to wear my right shoe first. If while going for my workout I slip on my left shoe by mistake, and realize it the next minute, off the shoe comes. Probably my Cinderella-fixation from my childhood days is still dormant in my subconscious, who knows…

• I have my good luck perfumes, and my jinxed ones. And even though I never do use the latter, I cannot dream of passing them on to people who will. Of course, the infrequent dropping of these jinxed perfumes – all ‘by mistake,’ let me assure you, does happen...

• My daily ablutions all have to happen in a particular order – Handwash, shampoo, conditioner, body wash, foam facial cleanser. To the T! Luckily, if I go over the schedule a little out of order, I only obsess about it for the next half hour, and do not go over the ritual again...TGFSM

• Even if I don’t have to empty my bladder, I visit the loo before I hit the sack. Just so I don't need to get up in the middle of the night to atend to nature's call...

• When TOOMA* holds my hand while sleeping, my hand has to always be the bottom one. I make the ‘correction’ if the order is reversed

• Since my childhood, I have this quirk of starting with the items I dislike on my plate, moving to my more appreciated food items. The last piece I swallow is usually what I like best. Sometimes I leave a portion till all the others have been finished on my plate. I don’t even realize that I’m doing it, but oh yeah – I sure do relish what I eat last

• While eating chocolate or candies, I suck on them till they are melted, and subsequently eat them, unlike ‘normal’ people who chew them right away

• My feet or toes are always in motion. Even in the midst of a training or a lunch session, they are usually doing their own tap dance ritual or wiggling

Moving on to the others - the Crème de la crème

• Not that I spy on him, I know that TOOMA while he’s on the John, has to have a newspaper in hand. I have no idea if he reads it, or if while reading, he is assured of a ‘steady deposit, ‘I do know that he is not selective – he will just about take any paper / magazine in the English language– even one that is a couple of days old, and he’s already pored through it

• My Mom and BFF (Best Female Friend) have to set things in the house in a proper manner always. You push a table a few inches here and there – they will glower at you, and put it right where it was. But I think instead of calling it a quirk, people are calling these OCD patterns…Heeyuck Heeyuck (I sure am dead if either of them were to read this)

• Good friend twirls her hair at all times – at the breakfast table, in a meeting, while watching a movie, while reading her own article that’s come out in that day’s newspaper issue, while buying groceries, heck even sometimes while she’s driving the car (and me nuts)...

• Another friend has to pull back the shower curtain, and peep inside that no cold-blooded killer is out to kill her, and only after she is fully satisfied that the bath only consists of her, her tub, her bath salts, and an assortment of bath products that she sighs in relief and sets about performing her daily bathing ritual. Try telling her that she borders on the paranoid, and there! You shall be subjected to a scowl, in whose comparison, Victoria Beckham’s scowl will seem like a golden ray of sunshine

• Another friend from college, if you try to fold her clothes, will unfold them again – as she likes her clothes to be folded in a certain fashion – her fashion. Needless to say, I never proffered her my help again...

• A good friend enjoys a love-hate relationship with ketchup. So while he would dunk his French fries and cutlets in ketchup, he will often ask for a side dish to put the ketchup in, and only then, begin his dipping ritual. Apparently, he hates his food items get soggy with the ketchup. I wonder what his stomach thinks of his odd habit...

And of course, the list would be incomplete without a mention of my BFF again – who, no matter how sting-free an onion may be, just has t wear sunglasses while chopping it. And if she, so much as squeaks in indignation that she doesn’t, she should know that I have photographic evidence…

And now, let me prepare myself to be choked to death by her very own bare hands….

The only consolation - at least, I’ll die laffing...

(*TOOMA - The Object of my Affection. Sometimes also referred to as hubby dearest)

Yet another victim of the (S)Wine Flu...

I’ve been bitten by the flu literally.

And it’s not what you think.

This is a different flu altogether. So while for some people, it does have the characteristic symptoms associated with that rhyming named flu, namely – a dry mouth (manageable), upset stomach (uh oh), a heaving sensation (Ewww), a throbbing head (Sheesh), and general feeling of irritated sweatiness (Gawd), for more ‘seasoned’ people like TOOMA and me, it only leads to general languidness, and possibly an earlier sleep pattern than usual. The icing on the cake – this flu is not even contagious!

My romance with wines started a few years back. It all began with a curious sniff here, a swirl in an expensive stemware there, and an asparagus colored bottle of what I later came to know was Zinfandel somewhere in between. Sophistication was suddenly the most potent brew. And while I never did take to Zinfandel or the cheesy, overly-sweet Port wine, somewhere along the line, I was addicted to the other wines - hook, line and sinker. Of course, watching movies like ‘A Walk in the Clouds’ and ‘The Good Year’ helped – ensuring that I do the customary once a year routine sipping, hopping away from my otherwise that most preferred poison – O.M.

The romance grew with TOOMA. So much so that we followed it up with a workshop on wines. And I, a regular napper at most workshops, found myself awake – and actually listening, registering, hell – even taking down notes. So much for people who crib that I am the current chairperson of the Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) Club. High time they took a hike actually!

And maybe even churn out a few grunts!

The workshop was a success – barring a few minutes at the end (an area we shall not delve into). Three hours flew, and by the time we emerged from the white decored watering hole where the event was held, we knew our reds from the whites and the pinks, as well as all the other trappings like color, aroma, tannins, earthiness, zippiness, aging, pairing which wine with which food, swirling a full glass without spilling (bye bye clumsy, butter fingers), dryness or otherwise, and the best – the art of sniffing delicately without looking like a dog on heat!

We also came out with some favorites. In no particular order – Sauvignon Blanc, Cabernet Sauvignon, Chianti, Merlot (Red), Pinot Noir, Burgundy, Bordeaux, and the one which wins top honors – Chardonnay!

Which reminds me – Diwali! A bottle of unopened Chardonnay from Paris! You do the math….

I bet it’s gonna be worth the wait...

Dabble in some Babble

Barring the odd Kings and Queens of small talk, most of us fall into the latter category of people who are anything but adept at small talk.

There are the hugely-annoying sorts too though, who sniff you out, and then starts the barrage of queries, much to your chagrin. So Ms Nosy Parker sails into a lift, drowning you in a sea of cheap perfume – your ears are subsequently assailed by the volley of questions that she throws – thankfully not at you, but at the unfortunate colleague, who suddenly goes from atheist to a believer – never before has he probably sent up a prayer. But this time he does, crinkling his eyebrows, hoping that the lift would whoosh to the top floor.

Not really his lucky day – he has to answer several questions in the course of that interminable 3-minute elevator ride. By the end of it all, when the doors finally open, giving him some much-needed air, his co-passengers have all had their fill of gossip and dope about him, including a very very embarrassing personal problem that he would rather have remained an untouched-upon topic.

The others fall into that glorious classification of people who struggle to bring up ‘safe’ topics to discuss with people whom you’d term anything between acquaintances and friends of friends. Weather is probably the first dwelled-upon area, followed by what’s happening around the world or on the idiot box. The world of sports is the second runner-up, which politico put his foot into his mouth (yet again), followed closely by most people’s personal favorites (mine excluded) – ‘the country is going to the dogs’ dialogue. And mind you, a mighty animated debate follows.

I like to call myself a lousy conversationalist. Put me in a party, and chances are that I might smile fixedly at a few people, nod in acknowledgement at those who I recollect faintly, down a couple, and then head for the nearest exit. I understand that it is rude to not converse with others, but I’d rather disappear than make a polite effort to know about the other’s migraine, job, hobbies, family, or jilted love story.

Give me some good music, throw in a couple of ‘spirits,’ and I’m good.

No chattiness for me. Sometimes silence just is golden.

Amen!

'Picture' Perfect? Not quite!

A picture speaks a thousand words, someone said.

I’ll say it does two thousand! Phew!

There are two kinds of people in this world – those who like to splash their vacation pictures all over the sun and moon, and gush on and on in that nauseating monotone about the verdant mountains / scenic beach they visited for summer. Not to mention the cute ‘friend’ they hooked up with.

And those pesky sorts who will corner you over the phone, over social networking sites, at the gym, in the mall, at the neighborhood bistro, hell - right at your work desk, and demand to know (in that hugely-annoying sing-song falsetto) why you still haven’t mailed/ posted the url of the pics you took while you were on vacay.

Of course, there is a third set of people – which includes me.

Those who don’t care a rat’s ass about showing pics of their holiday snaps to people who for brevity’s sake, we’ll term somewhere between strangers and acquaintances.

And who are equally indifferent about being made to see yet another carefully-maintained album of some poor joker’s last trip to Waikiki. Frankly, I care two hoots about hearing some bozo’s account of how much fun they had on the sun-kissed beaches, languorous breakfasts overlooking the ocean and all, while I was working my rear off at the workplace. Doing my job. And probably his too!

My eyes glaze, my auditory senses take a backseat, and I wait impatiently for him to rattle off his rehearsed script.

And nope, the trinkets you bought at the flea market don’t exactly fascinate me. Those orange flip-flops are hideous, that floral dress would probably look better on a dead Jersey cow, those Chanel sunglasses scream ‘FAKE’ from a mile away, you were ripped by that ‘local’ who passed off a cheap bottle of port wine to you as Pinot Noir, you paid way too much for that straw hat (and to top it – it’s not exactly your color), and those beads – who do you think you are - a Zulu tribesman?

And please don’t bore me to death by showing me yet another ‘angle’ your ‘super-genius’ younger sibling took of you throwing pebbles like a retard into the rippling pool. He / she undoubtedly deserves a worthy mention in the Mensa International.

Good for him / her. Just spare me the details!

I also do not want to know about the glorious weather you enjoyed and how deep your lady luck runs, since the weather Gods were kind upon you, and rains did not disrupt all the canoodling you had planned.

I don't mind a couple of lines, or max, a paragraph, but Gawd - don't take my polite nodding as signs of encouragement to tell me about the coconut you kept in your room as a lucky charm!!! I'd appreciate brevity, not a full blow-by-blow account of those two wonderful weeks. Frankly, you'll either leave me gagging or frothing at the mouth. And believe me when I say I don't look appealing either way...

The only pictures I like to see are those of dogs, not because I am one myself (ahem ahem), but ‘cos I love them. Don’t make an exception to this rule and try to sneak upon me some pictures of friends / cousins / kids, because if you ask me how they look, you’d better be prepared to hear my no-holds-barred chili-laced commentary.

You shouldn't even get me started on the pictures of the red-eyed retards, asses hanging out of their pyjamas, groping hands at all the wrong places, puking all the cheap alcohol they had managed to lay their paws on. I’m a democrat – so let me tell you that there are three places for such snaps –
the fireplace,
the deep sea,
or
six feet under the ground.

The same goes for pictures of men lying half-naked in hammocks, scratching their you-know-what beneath those red Santa knickers. George Clooney can’t carry off that look, pecs notwithstanding. What makes you think you can?

And since we are on the subject – perhaps it would be best to altogether skip that pic of the ten of you eyeing the complimentary buffet like a pack of hungry wolves.

Numerous interactions with people like the ones have wisened me, and now instead of an open, ‘Hey, how was your vacay,’ I leave nothing to chance, and instead put a closed ‘Bet your vacay was fun, eh!’ When the intended recipient of the question nods or replies with a ‘Yes,’ or a ‘you betcha!’ I give a high-five or slap him on the back, and move on with an enthusiastic ‘Way to Go, man!’

My ears don’t hurt, and he gets a nice sorta feeling at being asked...

Works all the time...

Go on - try it. You can't go wrong with that one.

And remember, you heard it here!

A Fate to Fade...

Barring that illegible doctor’s scrawl in the prescription, I can’t think of too many handwritings I get to see these days.

Save perhaps my Mum’s printed handwriting in one of her letters.

Or hastily scribbled forms.

Or neatly signed cheques.

But such cases are less and far in between.

Of course there was the much-publicized hand-written letter by Barrack Obama in May this year, to the openly gayelle army soldier in Missouri, pledging the repeal of the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT) law. But then, such letters fall again in the category of exception than the general rule.

After all, who does handwrite letters anymore today, you’d think?

Some years back though, the scene was quite different. At any given moment of time, when a person would be stepping out of his house, his mental check-list would have looked somewhat like this:

Home keys – check
Car keys – check
Phone (if he had one) – check
Wallet – check
Pen – check

As compared to now, where the last item invariably sees an unceremonious knock-off.

Even kids these days, would possibly raise their eyebrows questioningly in a ‘you-don’t-really-mean-that, do-you?’ stare if you were to even suggest a module in cursive writing.

In all fairness, I don’t blame them - writing could indeed be messy and time-consuming, as compared to the easier texting on a mobile phone or shooting off a few sentences in a snap of a finger (for which we have the World Wide Web to thank)). No smudging, no dipping fountain-pen-in-ink routine, no looking for pencil sharpeners / erasers, heck - not even rummaging the drawer for a refill!

And now with technologies like fingerless gloves and electrical pattern-recognized algorithms being discussed as future realities, the art of handwriting looks set to fizzle out completely.

It is poignant – this ebbing, fading trend, a trend on its way to a definite extinction…

Especially for the school / college same girl who would use pens of all makes and colors to pen down her thoughts in her distinctive, loopy handwriting, doing-up her ‘i’s’ in fancy little circles, and who has now resorted to the more ‘convenient,’ no-fuss texting in getting a thought across as quickly as possible...

As usual practicality prevails over the channel adopted…

In Memoriam: Nani Ma (1924 - 04 September 2009)

One look at my petite grandmother, and it would have perhaps been difficult to imagine that her fragile structure once housed a remarkable, razor mind, but which life had debilitated.

And now, fate has taken her away.

Nani Ma, as we fondly referred to her – ensured that on our annual winter vacations, my brother and I were sunny-tempered children – a stark contrast to the grumpy / bratty sorts back home in Dehradun. She was the reason why a certain steel chest beneath her queen-sized bed, provided the only means to quieten us down / soothe our ruffled feathers. We never saw her deposit anything – yet it housed all that our young hearts desired – toys, sticky sugar-boiled sweets, imitation mint-sugar cigarettes, comics by the dozen, chocolates, fizzy drinks, crayons and colouring material etc. Sometimes, the ‘resourceful’ twit I was, I would will my cheeks to get drenched with streaming tears – just so that she would dip into the chest and hand me a delightful treat (much to the irritation of those cousins whose lachrymal glands were sorely out of their control).

Her lap was a fortress – if you were in it, nothing could touch you – no one’s temper (no matter how justified), no silly sibling’s slapping spree (Whoa – my alliteration sure is getting better by the day), no thunderstorm, not even Mum’s stern gaze for not finishing ‘em horrid green veggies or that acutely nauseating glass of milk.

Sometimes, the same lap was also our Godsend when we didn’t want to bathe.

A hug from her, and you would be enveloped in the same delicate fragrance as her – sandalwood / rose incense, Pond’s Cold Cream, betel nut leaves, and her patented lightly scented Keo Karpin.

Her ability to cause us to break into peals of laughter, was extraordinary, to say the least. And she didn’t even have to resort to tickling!

I remember our long walks inside tea estates – me clutching her index finger trustingly, trying to fog any shiny surface with the mist from my mouth. Sometimes I would loll my tongue out in mock-exhaustion, and the very next minute would find myself perched atop someone’s shoulders. Her story-telling half hour at bedtime was a ritual on those cold nights, and once back home, I would badger my parents to continue the practice, much to their exasperation.

I guess I am no different from other grandchildren who think their grandparents will live forever.

And in the next few years, get proven wrong.

R.I.P. Nani Ma.

Our world will not be the same without you.

My (Missing) Streak of Luck

A good friend won a spanking new car yesterday.

In a lucky draw, no less.

I, on the other hand, am the current promoter of the ‘I’ll-never-win-anything-at-the-lottery/raffle/lucky-draw-club.' Come to think of it, I probably will land up as chairing it too, considering my dry spell.

People try to console me that they haven’t won anything super-cool themselves. But what can explain this good friend in another city who has a home filled with consumer durables? So what, you may ask? Heck – all these durables are items she has won in raffles and lucky draws...

So while I religiously scribble out my digits onto some random form at some dim, red-lanterned Chinese restobar, glug the occasional ‘clear’ soft drink, or the lime and lemony variation, buy ice creams by the dozen, think where all I would roam if I were to win the sleek SUV they showed in the promos, look longingly at the fun destinations that are a slogan away, scratch my talons on some scratch card, the only thing I end up with are a hundred mini-explosions in my head – as my mind has roamed a tad too far.

I do have those two moments of living vicariously through some person who I feel, got cherry picked, for some serendipitous prize, or worse a fun getaway. But the feeling subsides all too soon, and gets replaced by a ‘Why-couldn’t-it-have-been-me’ melancholy. Of course, the very next lucky dip ‘draws’ me soon, and all is forgotten, giving way to a sense of perky euphoria.

There are some times when I do win the occasional Housie / Bingo, a couple of hundreds making their way into my pocket, but the greedy lil’ pig I am, I’d probably toss my hair and wrinkle up my nose at anything less than winning at the Vegas Wheel of Fortune slot machines.

That is me.

Willing to be proven otherwise that it is not my cosmic lot in life to be unlucky...

(P)ASSWORDS

Considering the number of passwords I struggle to remember, it’s a wonder that the three odd grey strands of hair on my recently-turned 29 year-old crop of hair, haven’t multiplied by now.

And since I haven’t started colouring them, I can’t even attribute them to some ‘because-you’re-worth-it’ snooty hair colour brand that so many whom I know, are patrons of.

Of course, there are those who never forget any password, and wrinkle up their noses in disdain at me. This article is clearly not for those condescending sorts. But for people like me for whom wading through several passwords is nothing short of a miracle- almost like an inept child trying to swim the Atlantic, that useful link on most webpages – ‘Forgot your password? Click here,’ is a Godsend.

For how else are you supposed to commit to memory at least 30-40 passwords, some alpha-numeric, some in capitals, and some with both upper and lower case. And just when you think you have finally stored your office PC’s password, Bang! It’s time for you to change it.

There are cute little utilities like the Apple Keychain, which saves all your passwords, leaving you free to remember other details of your life. But I do not own a Mac, and will therefore just pause to do the customary shaking-head-in-pity-for-myself schedule.

(Pause)

And now, since the above is also out of the way, the time is now right for me to give you a better idea of how my life is one long swim through passwords.

Giving you an idea of the various areas where I have to wade through. Sample the following areas where I need to remember my ‘unique’ password:

1) Blog password
2) Email account
3) Official email account
4) Internet Banking account (The more accounts, the better? Says who?)
5) Internet broadband password
6) Internet bill password
7) PC password
8) Laptop password
9) Social networking password
10) Blog password
11) Cellfone bill password
12) Cellfone password
13) Credit / Debitcard password
14) Online shopping password
15) Photo editing password
16) Job portals passwords
17) Insurance password
18) Railway booking password
19) Airlines and hotel booking website password
20) NGOs passwords
21) IT returns password
22) Electricity bill password
23) Business Networking password
24) Online cakes and florist website password
25) Clustrmaps password
26) Movie booking site password
27) Onlne book purchasing store password
28) Onlne survey conducting tool password
29) Pet password (yes, believe it or not, our labrador has a membership to a social networking site too)
30) CISCO Phone login password
31) College alumni password
32) Wikipeda editing password

....And the list goes on.....

Too bad Arnold’s ‘Total Recall’ never figured in my lists of favorites.

Not upto 'Scratch'...

Agreed that there is probably no better pleasure in scratching that part of your body which is itching like crazy (next perhaps only to releasing your full bladder).

Which probably explains why so many people can be seen holding a magazine over their ahem…and getting down to business. You also have the ones who refuse to take ‘refuge’ behind the pages of some glossy, and scratch furiously in full sight of everyone who chances to look their way. And by the time you get that much-perfected disdainful expression on your face, you see that after their Michael Jackson crotch-holding impersonation, they bring up their fingers to sniff at them, or worse – delve into a frankfurter.

Of course we all suffer from the – ‘Have-an-itch-will-scratch’ syndrome. The degree and subtlety of the action differs from person to person. It would be a generalisation to say that all men do it (I have seen enough women scratching their cameltoes in my life).

But there are those who scratch as f there’s no tomorrow. If you were to hand them a back loofah, they would probably cast you a look of pure venom, and proceed to do the deed with their claws / nails / talons – what you will. The sound is agonizingly annoying.

It’s not like chalk scratching upon the classroom blackboard.

It’s not like the sound when a DJ moves a vinyl record back and forth over a turntable.

It’s not even faintly like the sound which a hooligan makes while scratching someone’s car by taking a key around it.

It’s not like the scratching sound made by a mongrel who is offering from an acute case of ticks / lice.

It’s not even like the sound made by the 10-year old girl scratching her head, and making the dry skin / dandruff fall off in flakes.

Neither is it like the scratching sound which you make while you are hurriedly jotting the number of the insurance agent.

It’s not like the sound made by your filer over your nails in a D-I-Y session.

It’s not like the sound when you push the brake pedal all the way down.

It’s worse!

Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch – they go vigorously! Making you cringe, and almost making your hands go up by themselves to cup your ears.

Agreed we descended from apes – must we ape them so in this regard too?

Then perhaps, we should also go Ga-Ga over bananas, swing from branches, and bare our teeth at the very thought of shinning an orange tree...?

Ba(n)g On!

Why women need bags (and big ones at that) is beyond the comprehension of most men.
I don’t blame them for their unawareness - simple, uncomplicated people that they are.

On a typical day, your average guy leaves with three things – his wallet, phone and keys. And maybe a handkerchief. That's all they need, and they cant go wrong with them.

Women on the other hand, need their emergency survival gear. So besides the customary wallets-phone-keys-pens-gloss-kohl-fume-sunglasses-keys-tissues-tampons, a lot of other items also make their way merrily into those bags.

Like dogs for instance. Blonde heiresses place their pocket dogs into their plush croc-leather bags, and sway happily into their much-frequented swish malls.

Bags are the first thing one reaches out when one is in dire need of a tissue and feels the urge to cry / sneeze / cough / dissolve into guffaws.

Of course, the constantly-replenished contents of the bag have other uses too...

Sample these...

Loverboy feeling hungry? Out come a half-nibbled bar of chocolate, some chewies, a pack of spearmint, an energy snack, and a couple of toffees.

Need to get yourself clicked for an ID at work? – Just reach out for your bag – those Polaroid pics are literally begging to be taken out.

Sister’s hands look like a dry and bumpy road in a desert? – help is at hand – just hand her that tube of silky-soft hand lotion to squeeze out and smoothen on.

Cousin’s throat feeling scratched? Lozenges appear as if by magic, in both the flavours he likes.

Body feeling feverish? The strip of paracetamol is handy.

Colleague’s got a chipped nail – hand over the filer to an eternally-grateful her (and be rest assured that next time you need some help with the goddamned presentation you are trying to create, she is sure to ‘chip in.’)

Best friend had a chicken nugget too many? The satchet of Alka-Seltzer is waved cheerily into his / her face.

College mate needs to jot down the digits of the gorgeous stranger at the party? And is scribbling them on the palm of his hand? – Sheeesh! Hand the joker those yellow sticky pads instead.

Stalker following you yet again? The hammer and the rolling pin could do with some airing (and use)(ok ok – I admit, I got carried away)…

Of course, there are those occasions when I consider my bag to be some dark abyss which constantly keeps swallowing the contents. What else can explain the zillion pens, nail filers, clips, lipsticks and miniature perfumes that have gone into it, and vanished nto the cosmos from it?

Nonetheless – the oversized, spilling-its-contents-bag does have its fair share of benefits (and loyalists). And I, the die-hard advocate that I am, cannot for the life of me comprehend how women can make-do with teeny-weeny ones. Totally beats me, that one!

And yet, I still have some who shake their heads disbelievingly when they look at my Mary Poppins bag. They nudge each other, point, tut-tut, click their tongues, roll their eyes, and ask me if thet should expect a genie to jump out of it any minute…

High time I started showing them all those heads I've chopped off and collected...

From all 'Walks' of Life

While I can’t really term myself a morning person, there are those days when I do have to venture out (and not with a jug of water into the nearby bushes, as you may suppose).

And these mornings are the time that afford me with a very compelling, entertaining glimpse (and sometimes a gawk), at the diverse set of people who have taken it upon their heads to ‘walk’ their way to good health.

Walk to your neighbourhood park to know what I mean…

We’ll start with the ones with the happy walk. They exude happiness; faces flushed, and often wave out a cheery ‘Hello,’ and are returned with the same salutation. Popular, undoubtedly! They walk hurriedly, some because of the daily cab they have to catch to make it to their workplace. They could be young executives – married and otherwise, college-goers, freshly-bathed housewives who will run back to attend to their chores, grandparents. These are easily the most common people in the walking circuit.

Then you have the smart military sorts – their saddled-with-grey moustaches twitching furiously as they make the 4-minute jog around the neighbourhood park within record time. You would think they would celebrate, considering their record was maintained. Heck no – they glance at the black chronograph on their wrists, ad set out…for yet another sprint.

I call the next sorts - the ‘Jigglers’ – they jiggle their bellies, their butts, or worse – their boobs. The increase in their gait is directly proportional to the intensity with which their aforementioned body parts wiggle. One-two-jiggle-one-two-jiggle-one-two-jiggle…and so on and so forth they waddle. They often take breaks and flop on the strategically put benches, huffing and puffing, and panting to catch their breaths. They are the ones who should be given an ‘E’ for ‘Effort.’

There are also the ‘Johnny-Heads-In-Air’ – their middle names are Attitude. They take heavy steps, head held high - nothing escapes their hawk eye, and their ached eyebrows speak more than a hundred words. If they were to be walking towards you, you would be wise to make way for them. Unless you want to be a recipient of their famous (notorious?) incredulous stare, which translates loosely into – ‘Did you really mean to do that?’ Point taken! Do not mess with them.

Next are the ladies who make their way in a group. They giggle, and cackle – nudging and stumbling over each other to ensure that not a careful whisper is lost from making its way to their eagerly-lapping-up ears. Shocked looks are all too evident on their faces - when Ms. Nosy Parker gives a blow by blow account of her neighbour’s steamy escapades with So-and-So. Tittering, they exchange horrified glances, and amble leisurely for yet another round of the park – this time to discuss tamer topics like children’s education, the weather, movies, jewellery trends, the upcoming raffle party at the Club and their designer chiffons.

You also have those who look as if they have just stepped out from a swanky salon. What else could explain their not-a-hair-out-of-place appearance. They never seem to walk – floating is more like it. They never have bad hair days, zits are an alien thing for them, those annoying beads of perspiration never seem to appear on their perfectly serene faces. Hell – only the halo round their heads are missing. Or maybe, you, with your permanent pact for entering hell, are unable to see it.

The next in line are the ones who scream – ‘Look at me! I have arrived.’ And they ARE quite an eyeful. Red sneakers and anklets shake you out of your sleep, neon-green shorts are dangerously high, and the Orange tee just makes you suddenly feel very thirsty for your orangeade. iPod headfones are a permanent fixture on the ears, and a bottle of perfume has clearly marinated them. Flashy would be an understatement for them. But attention score on a scale of 0-100 – any guesses? You got it – 100! It’s hard not to see why!

You next have the ones who have a sullen, dismal look on their faces. Sometimes pensive, they have a constantly bothered look around them. Almost as if their toes are getting pinched in a size-smaller shoes. Round after round of the park makes no change to their consistently gloomy expressions. Perhaps they should take a leaf out of a social butterfly’s life, whose sole aim in life is to flash those pearlies and get clicked.

And then you have me – the ambler, taking in all the sights before me, and committing them all to memory – and thereby reserving a place for myself in hell…

Off the beaten track

Travel – the very word conjures images of never-before seen places, the sun beaming its rays on scenic landscapes, exotic food, a vast array of local eateries, a diverse crowd, currency notes of different denominations, and maybe the odd map.

Whatever it may be, and whether you choose a comfy Boeing, a humbler bus, or that perennial fixture – the rail - the excitement that builds up while making preps to set on a journey (and I mean purely one for pleasure), is unparalleled. Even my otherwise preferred pursuit of retail therapy takes a beating when it comes to travel.

Right from choosing the suitcase in which you stash your favourite faded jeans and orange-tee, to checking that your wallet has ample currency, to setting the alarm for the next day, to making arrangements for your stopover, to checking that you’ve included your phone charger / iPod / cam charger into your knapsack - is thrilling, to say the least.

So, when I change my pace tomorrow, and get out of the daily grind, and fly to be re-united with TOOMA, it sure is gonna be an exquisite, extended weekend.

Now if only I could get paid to travel. That would solve my wanderlust and ennui with one shot.

Are STA Travel and Isango listening?

Summer, Winter, Spring and Autumn - All weather makes us touch rock bottom

One thing is inevitable.

People will always grumble about the weather.

So when you have beads of perspiration running down your eye brows / trickling down your cheeks, you arch those very same brows with displeasure, declaring how the darn heat makes you feel like melted cheese, minus the appealing image that conjures itself up from one of the restobar menus. Any moment, and you would probably pass out. After all, you ain’t a grasshopper / Katydid / locust that you would adore summer, and sing like they do in Ibiza. Ever had your thighs stick to plastic chairs? That’s summer. The time when beer gets hot all too soon, when your tongue hangs out – and not because you are in the company of a gorgeous member of the opposite sex. Summers are the time when for women, wearing a bra is unbearable; going without one is unthinkable. The time when you would want to tear off your clothes, and splash into the fountain in the park. If you were to strip, people would gawk and call you obscene. And you’d still be scorched! Aaaargh! Thank Gawd for Aircons. And you wish for a nice long spell of rain.

Cut to a few months later.

Your teeth are chattering, the thin rain that beats down against the windowpanes makes you draw your jacket closer around you to shut out the cold. You curse freely – cussing the usually loyal Old Monk that seems to have lost its magical warmth. Notwithstanding the central heating, you are seriously considering huddling to your same-gendered friend, but decide against it – as it may seem too gay. And once the drizzle halts, and you are outside in the frosty evening, you speculate if wearing ear muffs will make you the butt of all ridicule. You take the risk – and people stare at you, sucking their breaths in sharply to avoid guffawing in your face. And that’s the time you would kill to get some warmth, a la April afternoon. Of course, the frozen toes you have sheathed in two pairs of socks make you wonder if you went swimming in the Arctic perhaps. And don’t let’s start about trying to wake up on a wintry morning to leave your warm, cozy bed for a chore like let’s say – going to the office. You thank your stars that you don’t stay in England.

These days, the rains (when they do come that is), fare no better on the satisfaction index of people. Either it’s too less, and ‘splashed’ all over in the newspapers and channels. Or it is too much. And when it does rain, then ‘frizzy’ is the only word you can use to describe your hair. The once engaging, pitter-pattering sound gives way to drowning out all others. And the smell of rain which you once adored becomes musty and damp. Depression sets in – into the minds of many people. And when you are standing well at the side of the road, a car with a crazy animal comes towards you, and the puddle which you had so carefully sidestepped, gleefully splashes its muddy water onto you. Making you look like a scruffy street dog that was mauled by the neighborhood mongrels. And leaving you with a feeling of doing some serious internal damage to the irresponsible person behind the wheel. After that, just a look at the overcast sky above is enough to make you scurry indoors. And keep an umbrella at hand. Not to mention some cotton wool to stuff into your ears when the thunderstorm you loathe so much, decides to proclaim its arrival. You absolutely hate the rains. Especially when it halts what would have otherwise been a thrilling cricket match.

Autumn fares slightly better – until all that constant crunching-sound-of-leaves-under-shoes act gets to you.

You'd think spring would be slightly more appreciated, what with all that shit about flowers in bloom, and mellow days. Ha! Isn't that the time for all your allergies to come out with full abandon? Remember your annual tryst with hay fever? Forgotten that, hadn't you? I thought so!

And these are the only four seasons of the year.

Four very crib-bable (pardon my neologism) seasons.

I’m no saint and often chant the same tune.

Aren’t we a strange lot?

Me, Myself and Irony

While nothing would normally work better at getting me out of bed on a lazy Saturday morning than an 8-hour voucher at a swish spa, there are aberrations to even this rule of thumb.

Leaving TOOMA* (pleasantly) surprised and marveling at to how his generally materialistic and surgically-inoperable-from-retail-therapy wifey has a slightly altruistic side to her too.

The feeling is tough to put into words though.

After all, how is it that I get equal gratification in whipping out my wallet to make a big shopping purchase as in visiting the five orphanages and foster homes I have visited in the last 8 days?

While the two alter-egos do not wage a war inside of me, and are not necessarily representative of the characteristic good and evil that co-exist in an individual, they sure are differing, to say the least.

Most people are able to put a finger to what they term ‘philanthropy,’ or the cruder, ‘charity,’

To what is their purpose behind it.

I, for one can’t.

Maybe I’m trying to better myself.

Maybe I’m repaying a debt. An emotional one.

It’s not a financial contribution, so I can safely rule out ‘Tax breaks.’

Maybe I’m trying to impress myself.

Or make my resume look better.

Maybe I want to bring about some social change.

Spiritual practice? Nah – that’s not me! So that’s Strike Two.

Therapeutic – yeah - that's a possibility.

Maybe I feel guilty.

Or maybe I just want to stand and be counted. Whatever be the reasons, one thing is sure - espying the flagship Estee Lauder store in town that puts me into raptures, is equaled by the joy when I hold the warm, outstretched hand of an orphan.

The indescribable, exhaustive painting I draw in my mind of the zillion materialistic things I need to chase, is only paralleled by the joy I experience in seeing the colors come to life in the painstaking canvas that the afflicted-with-polio, seven-year old boy draws. His eyes are fixed on the target – at the wondrous scenery unfolding in front of him, rather than consuming his heart with pity when he looks down at his wasted legs.

And lastly, my dream of writing a column in a glamour glossy will afford me with the same contentment as will writing one on the disadvantaged, the destitute, the physically and intellectually-challenged, the browbeaten, the neglected, and the abandoned.

Dichotomous?

You bet!

Strange?

Maybe.

Credible?

You tell me.

Let's get one thing straight - they are not. So?

The recent verdict of the Delhi High Court to legalise homosexuality has opened up a veritable can of worms.

While it comes as a breather and a personal sense of triumph to gay activists, who hope it will trigger a fundamental sea of change in societal attitude towards gays, lesbians, and transgenders, and afford them a much-needed life of dignity and equal rights, all is not ‘consensual’ though.

That's hardly surprising - considering you cannot discount, disregard, and do-away with the pouring-over-with-resentment moral brigade - coughing and spitting with (un)mute indignation, their rage spilling over, making them froth at their mouths in a decidedly unseemly manner, and causing them to make statements to the tune of how these 'sick perverts' with ‘unnatural’ urges should be exiled in some faraway island which has a completely unpronounceable name.

The pride marches that were held country-wide last month –at about the same dates – must have sent the above group in a tizzy – who were probably aghast to see the week-long parades go by, without a single, untoward incident. Sniff Sniff.

Not one effigy was burnt, no saffron-robed politico’s henchmen disrupted the activists, no hate mails did the customary rounds in people's inboxes, no simmering-with-resentment flyers were seen strewn on the pavements, no venomous speeches were delivered by spluttering-with-fury ‘holy’ men. Even their erstwhile best friends – the police force – which had till now been avid opponents of such 'immoral activities,' turned a blind eye to the processions, and gave their regularly-wielded lathis some much needed rest.

And so the processions continued - some for well over a week - a few participants even doing away with the masks and colourful headgear altogether. And coming out, literally.

And now, to add insult to injury, the High Court has gone a step further, by vindicating their sworn enemies - the same, ‘unnatural’ sect, by upholding their rights and putting India as the 127th name in the list of countries that recognise homosexuality as legal.

So while some have it all 'straightened' out for them, let's just say that not all people are happy and 'gay' about the Delhi High Court's landmark verdict...

Now, isn't that a 'queer' piece of news?

Nose Dose - My Fatal Attraction

My love affair with perfumes has been around for many years now.

It all started when I, all of five / six, would sniff like an eager beaver at the exquisitely beautiful sea-green bottle of French perfume that sat prettily on my Mum’s dressing table. Evenings, when she would take her customary shower, she would sometimes spritz some of its divine contents onto her wrists, and since I would invariably be looking wistfully at her, she, the generous soul that she is, would spritz some on my wrists too. I would smile gloriously at her, the rush of the fumes reaching my nose in one long, magical moment.

Cleopatra herself had fallen victim to this addictive, heady rush.

How can you blame me, a mere child?

Now I no longer am one – a child, I mean. And the undeniable charm of stepping into a fragrance boutique is too good to defy - the heady scent enveloping me in that fatal embrace – I stall all resistance – hold out my wrists – let the whiff that came out from the glass stopper settle down, and then purse my lips into a defeated smile.

The rest is all a blur - before you can say ‘Jack Robinson’ - out come the currency notes or the plastic, in goes the sleek bottle into the bag. Once home, a grinning me promptly displays it on my already groaning-from-the-weight-of-twenty-bottles-and-still-counting dressing table. Leaving TOOMA in a state of mild despair / exasperation - his hand clapped to his forehead.

The prices are a dampener though, this flamboyant passion is anything but cheap - a good fume setting you back by a few grand, but ensuring you smell like a dream.

You'd think the cost would deter me?

Ha! Fat chance!

Certainly not me, for whom it sure is one ‘Happy’ day, full of ‘Joy,’ call it ‘Euphoria’ or ‘Rapture,’ and ‘Intense Pleasure’ when she gets a ‘Chance’ to espy a ‘Lovely,’ ‘Very Irresistible’ ‘Bright Crystal,’ bottle with maybe a ‘Touch of Pink’ to it. The feeling is akin to being at the receiving end of some very potent ‘Hypnotic Poison,’ while downing some exquisitely wonderful ‘Champagne’ in the deep throes of passionate ‘Romance,’ and it would be a ‘Miracle’ if I were to pass it up like an ‘Addict’ who is off ‘Opium,’ ‘cos frankly fumes have become a bit of an ‘Obsession,’ for me and their ‘Magnetism’ is overpowering.

Of course, that you are the ‘Envy’ when you enter a room, is enough of a headrush too!

Doesn't hurt one wee bit...