The honeymoon's not over yet...

The last few days have been a whirlwind for me literally.

Dream marriage followed by a dream honeymoon.

When the entire rigmarole of marriage ceremonies was over, and TOOMA and I had some breathing time finally, it was soon time to zoom off to that city of lovers – Paris.

And boy! Were we not disappointed!

Stylish women dressed to the nines, blowing ringlets of smoke, hailed cabs with perfectly manicured hands, their Hermes scarves fluttering in the wind, like sails of a ship. Their chic chignons were the last you saw of them as they stepped in gracefully in one fluid movement. Oh, and did I mention the surfeit of sky-high Jimmy Choos and Diors that made their way into my line of vision.

It’s a wonder I am back to my regular skin tone from the emerald shade I was.

They don’t call Paris the fashion capital of the world for nothing.

While the men there experimented with various zany hairstyles, carpenter jeans and ochre / fuschia loafers and Surprise Surprise managed to look good after them all, the women were the ones who caught my attention and TOOMA’s. For entirely different reasons, I may add.

Let me limit myself to a single word that summed up their modish garb – WOW!

Bolero jackets, Daisy Dukes, cashmeres that whispered to be touched, ponchos, bodices, knickerbockers, capes, mantles, smocks, jumpers, kilts, minijupes with fishnet stockings – you name it, and it could be seen on the streets.

The garb bought on a shoe-string budget kept neck to neck to their snootier, dressier designer labels counterparts. So while I gaped at them openly, the wearers walked regally past me, their Jimmy Choos clicking smartly, canines of different breeds keeping pace with their long strides.

The Parisian breakfast that we treated ourselves to the next day, deserve a worthy note of mention.

Brioches, Croissants of all kinds, raisin pecan bread (TOOMA’s favorite), whipped-cream and cheese baguettes, choquettes. Washed down with freshly squeezed orange juice, or as was the case with TOOMA, the bottle of Chardonnay / Chianti / Chablis that beckoned to him invitingly.

The list of places that we visited there, in no particular order:

1. The Eiffel Tower. But obviously!
2. Champs Elysees – and oh boy! Was I blinded by the overdose of fashion houses that stood tall and majestic there
3. Montmartre / Basilique du Sacre-Coeur and the tiny market on the mountain which many artists had made their hub – offering sketches@Euro 20-30 per sketch
4. Fragonard Le Musee du Parfum – the Museum of Perfumes, Einstein
5. The closely resembling our very own Gateway of India - the Arc De Triomphe
6. While the Da Vinci Code went a long way in acquaintig millions with the Louvre, our abbreviated tour of the Louvre and the Mona Lisa in person went far ahead.
7. Moulin Rouge
8. The Lido
9. Hard Rock Café and its amazing memorabilia. Va-Va-Voom!
10. The Le Mur Des Je T’Aime Wall
11. Notre-Dame Cathedral
12. The Statue of Liberty replica in the middle of the River Seine
13. The Flame of Liberty
14. The tunnel where Princess Diana expired with beau, Dodi Al-Fayed, in the horrendous car crash that fateful August 1997

The evening cruise on one of the beautiful Bateaux Mouches the River Seine was by far the most romantic, affording us spectacular views of the illuminated Eiffel Tower, the Assemblee Nationale, Louvre, Notre-Dame Cathedral, Palais Royal, Les Invalides, Alexander III Bridge, Orsay Museum.

The City of Lights made more than a pretty picture. It was one of the prettiest pictures I have ever seen.

To add to the romantic air were the mandatory kisses under every bridge(and I stopped counting after 12), much to my glee and TOOMA’s evident discomfiture. Tee hee.

And how can I forget – the duty-free shopping at Dubai that did wonders to bring out my Colgate-white pearlies on full display.

What else can a girl ask for?

Right from the time we stepped out from the aircraft into the Parisian nippy evening air, to the time we boarded our flight back, it was one long party.

And thankfully, everybody wasn’t invited.

J’adore Paris!

'Break'ing News

Lest my loyal readers think that I have sworn off blogging, or am practising my neglecting act to a ‘T,’ I should sit up straight, try a blushing-bride-shy-smile routine, fail miserably at it, and then try something else.

So here it goes.

With my wedding scheduled for this month for April 17, I wouldn’t be able to do justice to my blog, much as I would like to.

I know that you would understand that there would be oodles of wholly important stuff I shall be busy with, like:

a) Nodding off at every opportunity I get
b) Thinking up ways to scratch some unmentionable parts when both my hands are covered in henna (oh horror!) or worse, an inability to visit the washroom despite a threatening-to-burst bladder
c) Blinking at and trying to recognise relatives I haven’t seen since the time I was in diapers
d) Wondering how I would balance a 20-something kg ‘lehenga’s drape on my beehive hairdo
e) Frowningly staring at people stuffing their faces while my tummy makes indignant, rumbling sounds, and
f) All the while keeping a serene / coy smile, when all I can do is to keep from bursting into tears

I know that doing all the above warrants some sympathetic tongue-clicking and / or a standing ovation.

Ohh, thank you. You needn’t have!

I understand what a gaping hole the next 25 days would be for you.

But, I promise to return with a BANG! Literally!

Around the first week of May.

And if I get an opportunity to dash off something in between too, I would definitely do that too.

Wish me luck.

As I bring in yet another phase of my (eventful) life.

My 'ALTARED' state of mind

Most people would have sat on a rollercoaster.

Or at least stared at one, as it speeds dizzyingly, eliciting screams from those who
are riding it.

I feel I am ON a rollercoaster. An emotional one at that.

The oscillating, heart-in-my-mouth-dry-throated feeling is frequent, to say the least.

So you have my deliriously happy spells, interspersed with gleeful spiel by close friends, all conjuring merry pictures of conjugal bliss. (The glossy magazines sure do their work well).

On the flip side, there are also those moments when I sit with my face cupped in my palms, glumness writ large over my face – such are the images that some paint for me.

Some questions / comments that are guaranteed to make me do a volte-face from cool, collected chica to an anxiety-attacked, shitting bricks woman:

Uhmm, you are such a party animal. Have you kissed ‘em parties Goodbye?
You do know you wouldn’t have the freedom to travel when you want to, don’t you?
But you don’t know how to cook (anything except stories) (Incredulous expression)? How would you manage?
How would you buy your (insert appropriate number) pair of sandals? Wouldn’t you guys fight over it?
I’m really happy for you. But Aha! Giving up the joys of being single, are you? (Sigh) Good luck, dude!

And the worst –

Oh super!!! You getting hitched. Thinking of a Valentine baby?

Aaaaargh!

Stop. Just stop.

Thank God it just takes a conversation with TOOMA to soothe my ruffled feathers.

And make me jump out of my blues and swing back, with renewed vigor, into my idyllic state.

Of Dear Beer and No Deal Meals

With this weekend being our last single weekend, TOOMA and I decided to live it up in style.

So Saturday night, when all roads led to some or the other watering hole, we trotted smartly to Sevilla, an upscale Mediterranean restaurant at a centrally located luxury Hotel. A friend had only the highest praise and very positive feedback about it, which only bolstered our resolve to make it the venue for our last single rendezvous.

We drove into the long, winding, graveled driveway, stepping out to let a smartly-liveried valet to assume full responsibility for parking our pair of wheels.

The view that awaited us was breathtaking, to say the least.

It was almost like stepping into an ethereal wonderland.

The similarity to what you see as you turn the glossy pages of glossy fairytales, was unmistakable.

Tastefully decorated tree houses with private seating areas, complete with white drapes, fire marshals, the backdrop of a serene waterfall as it gushed peacefully nearby – all added to the classy, magical ambience.

A waiter stood unobtrusively in the background, waiting for you to usher him towards you.

Tasteful ambience – tick.
Soothing strains of music – tick.
Waiters who didn’t hover over your head like bloodsucking mosquitoes – tick.
Comfortable, low couches that begged to be seated upon – tick.

And that’s when the ‘Ouches’ started.

What started as an innocuously declared, ‘Sir, we do not serve regular water H-E-R-E,’ by a disdainfully-expressioned waiter, didn’t just end with that…

After handing you two heavily-embossed menus - one with a select menu, comprising chiefly of Spanish, Asian and Italian cuisine, and the other promising a ‘heady’ session, he slinks away.

Our breaths were collectively taken away once again – though this time the feeling was anything but pleasurable, thanks to the exorbitant rates that spelled themselves out in bold, italicized lettering.

The steeply-priced Heineken didn’t help much to digest what was brought to our table in the name of Arabic goat chevre (cheese), and it was only with restraint that we kept ourselves from choking and spluttering.

No kidding – the miniscule portion had five slices of tomatoes spread carefully over what looked like an abundance of some exotic herbs. Three eye-shaped cheese pieces stared at us quizzically from between the tomatoes.

Upon my indignant questioning to the attendant as to whether he had forgotten to put the remaining three-fourths of the cheese into the portion, I received a cheeky reply that it was but a starter.

For whom, pray? Fairies? I wanted to ask.

Thank God the ambience was faultless, which sort of made up for the way too exorbitant prices the diners were expected to cough up.

What is it with ridiculously overpriced restaurants, main dishes that resemble appetizers, side dishes that would do a frugal saint proud, and starters that would barely suffice even for a chronically anorexic individual?

Some food for thought this…

'Two' good to be true

While I don’t exactly fancy a heated spat with any frowning, strait-jacketed soul about the ethical, legal and social challenges of cloning, what I wouldn’t mind at all would be getting a clone.

So while the clone would sit poker-faced at my workstation, busily sending out official communiqués one after the other, the ‘original’ me would be out:

1. Finishing pending shopping tasks for the wedding. And boy! Are there quite a few left!
2. Watching new releases at my preferred theatre. And at home, curl up with a decaf and a season from F*R*I*E*N*D*S*
3. Going on the last few naughty dates with TOOMA before our ‘knotty’ day
4. Scouting around for bargains with best friend. And follow the motto to the ‘T’ - Shop till we both drop
5. Pampering myself to spas and other luxuriating experiences
6. Getting that long overdue haircut and start looking like my usual self. Instead of resembling a long-lost aborigine from NZ
7. Reading all the books I have bought these last few months, but never got around to reading beyond the first few pages
8. Working out at the gym. Twice. Daily. And not collapse after that
9. Getting my teeth cleaned. And flash that dazzling, pearly smile even at those people who sorely test my patience and / or are in dire need of a shrink
10. And lastly, stopping to get a breather, and smell the flowers along the way…

But here I am. Minus a clone. Holding the fort as a sole warrior.

Is there any fairness in this world?

The apple of her father's (roving) eye

The little girl looked up adoringly at her father, as he hoisted her up onto his broad shoulders to afford her a better view of a marriage procession that trotted in accompaniment to the loud beats of a drum.

She stared wonder-eyed at all the beautifully-dressed people, as they danced gaily, with full abandon, on the streets.

A stray firecracker caused her to shudder involuntarily and blink rapidly. And even when the father gently put her down onto the ground, she clutched at his warm hand for reassurance, looking out trustingly at him from her doe-shaped eyes.

Just when you think this is going to be one of those misty-eyed-leaving- father-daughter-happy stories, a vile twist changes it all.

The father who wouldn’t probably have dreamt of hurting his princess, does the unthinkable.

The same hands that held her hands protectively, paw her private parts.

The same mouth that had mouthed bedtime stories to her, ravages her frail body.

The little girl, who would utter screams of delight when in the company of her father, now whimpers at the very sight of the monster, as he gratifies his insatiable lust with her as she, a reluctant tool, shudders while being drilled into by him. Pleasure is writ large over his crazed-by-perversion face.

The girl’s eyes that had once looked up trustingly into the man’s she once called father, looked with contemptuous pain, rage and shock, as he openly leered at her young body.

The trauma goes on.

Day after day.

In some places, the mother is a mute spectator (as in the Mumbai case), silenced by a so-called Man of God, who claims that the incestuous relationship would assure prosperity to the family, and in the bargain, got a fair share of plundering the little girl when the father was sated, over and done with her (till the next time he came to bed her); in other cases the mother was dead, or as in the Austrian dungeon case, had come to terms with her ‘missing daughter,’ oblivious to the fact that her traumatized daughter lay hidden, for over 24 years, in a basement in the family home itself. Where other kids of her age were playing with doll houses, she was being preyed upon by her biological father.

Who fathered seven children with her. Illegitimate children who would't know how to come to terms with their salacious father / grandfather who brought them into the world, and would be more than willing to chop him into little pieces and feed to the dogs.

What comes upon such men to do such dastardly, violating, puke-inducing, twisted, unforgivable acts?

And is there even a fitting punishment for such sick bastards?