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?