Goodbye 2010. Hello 2011

While 2010 was not the year when my mind exploded with clever ideas that would have the world’s VCs tripping over each other to reach to me - arms laden with blank cheques, solitaires, keys to swanky penthouses and automobiles; it was a year which changed my world. I did develop some mental agility (which balanced my physical inertia that came with a horrid leg fracture. Sigh).

With 2011 just a knock away, I guess it’s time to jot the obligatory musings about the year that went by. This of course meant fishing out last year’s reflections and a mental ticker that pronounced me as having been good or bad. I'm in one of my generous moods, so you decide...

Did quite a bit of traveling. In the following order:

Went for a Girl’s Trip. To Jaipur. Had a fantastic time too. The weather was also at its courteous best, ensuring that those annoying beads of perspiration didn’t drown those around us.

Visited what I consider the most beautiful place on this planet – Venice. Floated in a gondola in the middle of the Grand Canal. Stuffed our faces with gelatos in every flavor under the sun. Gorged on raviolis, risottos, gnocchis, tiramisu, pasta, spaghetti, lasagna, brioches, cannoli and of course pizzas. Loved their Bellini, Campari and Merlot. Kept eyes peeled for Johnny Depp, Angelina Jolie (accompanied by Brad Pitt and their brood) who were shooting for ‘The Tourist” there.
Level of Excitement – at the highest notch
End Result – No luck. (Include fair amount of justifiable cussing)

Did the mandatory tick-in-the-box for moda paradiso (fashion paradise) - Milan, Murano & Burano Islands and Amsterdam too. But broke my leg at the last place mentioned (another resolution, perhaps? To not be an eager beaver and let my (over)excitement lead to mishaps like these...)

Frolicked on the Bondi beach in Sydney. Downed a few, surrounded by the golden sand. Surrendered to the divine IMAX experience with the latest Harry Potter.

Did switch jobs. Liking it too (Cheshire Cat grin)

Conquered a fear. Tick. Can get onto any escalator now. Unaccompanied. Kindly abstain from shaking your pretty lil heads in disbelief. Yes, I did have a phobia of escalators. Now conquered. You might as well do an air high-five for me…

Cooked a bit (in all truth, baked). 6 cakes to be precise. All turned out well, thank you (before you may ask). Now that’s getting somewhere, isn’t it? Who knows – I might just surprise hubby dearest with a full meal someday...Hope the shock’s not too big for him though...

Did stick to a budget. Managed reasonably well too.
(Loud Drumroll)

Wasn’t as grumpy as I thought I’d be . Especially since was bedridden for the better part of 1.5 months.

De-stressed a lot – with the help of (un)forgettable Kerala spas, play sessions with our Labrador, and bubble-popping games. Didn’t resort too much to a workout (and there are obviously no results thanks to that slackness)

So what makes it to my to-do list for 2011? Here’s for starters:

• Be able to touch my toes. For this, working out at least five times a week is crucial
• Drink more water (even without rum)
• Work on my attention span. Right now, even a fly is probably better than me
• Finish at least some of the books I started
• Make people laugh. While I am no Court Jester, I can do stir up the amusement quotient and cause people to clutch their stomachs
• Learn a language. Instead of staring at and stammering a hasty ‘Comment dites-vous cela en Français’ (how do you say this in French) to a toffee-nosed Mademoiselle
• Learn how to strum. High time that I do before age catches up with me and my hands start to tremble
• Shake up my leniency and make ‘far-too-easily-pleased’ spirit go away on vacation.
• Visit at least two dream destinations. Knock on wood
• Buy a bicycle. Use it too instead of just taking it out for dusting every month
• This is a joint resolution with the hubby - do a lot more socializing – go for more dinner parties and not pass up social invitations
• Use the array of hair and skin products that I have diligently amassed over the last one year
• Stop eating out of boredom
• Keep my (strong) opinions to myself. Well, at least sometimes
• Stop hitting the snooze button on weekends and wake up at the first go
• Not check my emails every 5 minutes
• Continue writing a weekly blog post
• Stop sitting in the house on weekends in my old, faded tracks or skirt. Shower and be dressed respectably
• Resist the urge to fascinate people with oooooold jokes. Learn a few new ones
• Resist the urge to pick up the phone and have an imaginary conversation, while seated in an auto in a traffic intersection. Look right into the eyes of the panhandler / eunuch and refuse to handout money
• Think of more interesting things to do outside the house during weekend evenings than stepping into one of the numerous coffee bars that have mushroomed across the city
• And lastly, as a dear friend put it - I should consistently pen the manuscript of my first book. Someday I will. Someday I surely will, D. And thanks for your confidence in me...

Hope I fare well in the coming year. Happy New 2010, everyone…
Cheers!

By the way, do you have any Resolutions you'd like to share? I'd lurrrve to hear from you...

No one can pop just one

I love bubble wrap.

So much so that if a friend were to unwrap some new, fragile item, my hands automatically outstretch greedily for the accompanying bubble wrap.

And darn those packages that arrive unaccompanied by it. Heights of cheapness!

If it happens to be those sunny days when I DO get my hands on one of ‘em, I am like a kitten with a yarn of wool.

Having a ball!

Playfully popping the bubbles, not too rapidly though, for fear that I might finish them all too soon.

I was introduced to this goofy, cathartic fun by my mother. Many thanks to her.

My brother and I spent many mindless hours collectively, popping rows upon rows of bubbles, each soft, pleasing ‘POP’ sound making us dissolve into giggles of barely-concealed glee, much to my Dad’s annoyance, who would arch his eyebrow into his trademark, disapproving glare, making us squeal and run away elsewhere…

Once, I even ran a toy jeep on a roll of bubble wrap. Ahhhh, the blissful sound is still fresh in my ears...

It was always the same scene at home – new packages were flung, and with wild, banshee yells, my brother and I would make a beeline for the coveted bubbles.

Lots of pulling and not very kind shoving would be at display.

Upon tearing the wretched sheet into two, and casting baleful looks at the one who got the bigger share, he and I would set about work.

Anybody who would see us would probably think we were two children busily unwrapping all our Christmas presents on a frosty Christmas morning.

After all the bubbles had been popped, I would commence with a round of re-checking, making sure that I hadn’t left even one. And look slyly to see if my brother was:

a) Left with any unpopped ones
b) Looking my way, and in case not, if it was feasible to grab his half-popped sheet and dash to the loo?

(In the event of the latter happening, a lot of door rapping would take place, with one of us two looking rather sorry with a black eye...No points for guessing who usually slunk around the house like a peeved, glum-faced puppy)!

After all these years, the novelty hasn’t worn off.

I hear I’m not the only one addicted to it – the Japanese seem to be particularly fond of it too, calling popping the bubble wrap ‘puchipuchi,’ games dedicated to it, puchipuchi keychains that simulate the popping sound, aromatic bubble wrap that releases fragrance upon getting popped, music dedicated to bubble wrap..the works…

And people call me dotty!

An online version wherein you can pop bubble wrap is also available. Check it out here.

There's more - there is an entire day dedicated to appreciating Bubble Wrap - January 28...Not too far away, isn’t it?

It’s also suddenly dawned upon me why my friends never call me over for packing or unpacking...

Grrrr!

The Quintessential Drinkers. Hic!

In a country that stigmatises women drinkers, I sometimes commiserate with yours truly, who truly likes to be ‘spirited’- well at least sometimes.

Anyway, this blog post is not a rant against societal norms which frown upon women tipplers, but about how when they drink, both fine ‘samples’ of genders turn from silently sober to indecorously inebriated, causing a trail of frequently-displayed behaviour patterns, that either cause their friends to laugh and slap their hands to their head, groaning ‘Oh no, not again,' or look away in clear mortification, provided they are not too dead drunk / totally sloshed themselves in the first place.

Here, in no special order, are the common categories into which some drinkers fall, some in the royal-pain-in-the-rear varieties, some in the plainly obnoxious category:

1. The Of-course-I’m-not-drunk – One of the commonest categories, these people believe in words being louder than actions. What else can explain their loud proclamations of their sobriety, and their indignant denials of their inebriation (before they crash to the floor in an embarrassing heap)
2. The full-nighters – they take the word ‘night out’ literally, drinking faithfully till the wee hours of the morning. They do stop – but only for either two-minute breaks to answer nature’s call or, because of the smoking ban, for five-minute-huddled-smoke-breaks at designated places in and around the watering hole for puffers. God created alcohol – and these people sure know how to enjoy it, downing the bottles / tumblers eagerly. Hic hic. Amen. Stamina is their middle name, and no one knows it more than these chuggers and gluggers. They are the ones who keep the bartenders busy and up on their feet – all night…Somebody should perhaps just hand them a hose, attached to a beer factory. But knowing these sorts, they'd perhaps be delighted...
3. The variety-is-the-spice-of-life drinkers - The Budweisers and Fosters flow smoothly, before making way for the more regal Chivas Regals and Johhnie Walkers, closely followed by shots of tequila. Coming up next are the fat Old Monk bottles, as are the Bacardi vodka bottles, which make a shy appearance on the threatening-to-collapse table. All these are nicely rounded up with a last glass of gin and lime juice cordiale or another pitcher of beer – you DO get the gist, right?
4. The I-am-a-superhero kinds –A few drinks down, they fancy themselves to be avatars of their favourite Marvel comics superhero. Superman, you've got tough competition. It’s actually a marvel they don’t try their hand at flying…TGFSM 5. The I-know-my-wine sorts – Move over Tom Collins, Pilsners, and Steins. With a clink of flutes, stem glasses, and goblets, the wine-connoisseurs present themselves, swirling their favoured Merlots, Chiraz, Cabernet Sauvignons, Chablis, Chardonnays and pink wines, taking in the heady aroma, and the scene around them. The most sober category, they are every hostess’ dream-guests come true, though not necessarily the most frugal. But then quality comes for a price, innit? (customary wrinkling-up of nose)
6. The (irresponsible and irrepressible) I-will-drive-insisters – No matter how many bottles, pints, and pitchers have made happy entries in their by-now swollen tummies, these are the sorts who will disdainfully toss their heads and turn up their noses at any comment that they are sloshed. Time your watch by their regular ten-minute-speeches into the drinkathon, where they insist that they will be the ONLY ones who steer their prized pair of wheels. The road better be empty though. Or the people out there better watch out! Hic. One more for the road, you there! And make it large!
7. The I-am-better-than-Russell Peters – they consider themselves the country’s answer to a class comedian act; however instead of the audience laughing WITH them, they laugh AT them. Now that’s a fact clearly lost on these delusional souls. They alternate their generously borrowed stand-up acts with an equally ample dose of much-compiled shero-shairi (popular Hindi / Urdu short verse, spoken with dramatic effect). They are the sole reason why their audience can be seen reaching out for headache-relieving pills…
8. The-leading-the-headbanger-club – a specimen, this category, they are the ones most likely to hold imaginary mikes, doing karaoke renditions of popular numbers, jumping onto the podium, strumming invisible guitars, headbanging for all their worth (complaining that their head feels strangley woozy afterwards – surprise, you’d think). You’d think that’s all – but wait, hear this out – they also croon in voices upon hearing which a frog would consider itself a more suitable candidate for the dime-a-dozen-on-the-idiot-box talent shows.
9. The apologisers – Regularly spouting the ‘sorry’ word, these soppy sorts request for forgiveness at the drop of a hat. Even if you happen to dig your deathly stiletto heel onto their foot or poke a bony elbow into their unmentionables, instead of yelping in distress, they will look their most contrite, and utter an apology. I’ve never been able to fathom these ones. Pardon me. And the pun!
10. The you’ve-hurt-me-terribly sorts – These are the toughest to placate – they have taken it into their minds that they have been hurt (by you, no less). And will follow you around like the loyal puppy of a leading telecom provider, all the while muttering how deeply injured and upset they are by some inadvertent comment made by you (or hopefully, someone else a decade back). All pleas to be forgiven fall on deaf ears, and they continue their business, threading their ways miserably through the crowd, a permanently wounded expression writ large over their gloomy faces
11. The I-miss-my-ex sorts – it’s been four years that their significant other has decided to part ways (un)amicably, but that doesn’t mean that the miserable pig cannot be called over the phone and:
a) shouted at for ruining their lives (at 3 am)
b) begged to be taken back into their lives (at 3.30 am), followed by
c) the deep I miss-him/her-conversations to anyone who is even half-willing to listen (4am onwards and counting)…
12. The alcohol-makes-me-get-in-touch-with-my-real-self-and-makes-me-lose-my-inhibitions sorts – it’s another matter that within the next three hours, these ‘real’ selves, after connecting with their uninhibited sides, have to be rushed to the hospital to get their stomachs pumped, after they have puked themselves silly over themselves, over the table, your jeans, the adjacent table, the car etc, of course, with some parts of their clothing missing (generous souls that they are, they do not even remember who they donated them to).

And my personal favourite

The-professing-eternal-love sorts – Glazed look in eyes, these are the ones most probable to hold you in a bear embrace or clutch your hands with their own sweaty, greasy palms, and upon giving you a soul-searching-stare from which you flinch, constantly affirm their undying love, and everlasting fidelity to you. Slobbering kiss - optional.
Slurring words - an obvious.

And when you reassure them that the thought of their infidelity did not even cross your mind, they will thump their hand to their heart, do the penetrating-soul gaze all over again, and swear – that they will never let you down.

Ever.

Over and over again…

Straight from the horse's mouth

If they feed me one more piece of jaggery, I swear I will gallop away...

In the opposite direction, no less.

These days are the official calendared days for Indian weddings, and if you think that is enough to make me - a white mare - break out into a welcome jig, you couldn’t be more wrong.

I am draped in what is termed ‘choicest finery’ – but which is more like a prickly, choking piece of another five kgs onto my smooth back.

(I can imagine what the poor bride must feel, weighed down with a 20-kilo plus lehenga and all that jewelry. And she has to smile shyly through it all!) Heavens!

Even though there is a cool breeze blowing, today it will not make my mane bristle, plaited as it is with a mouli (a red sacred thread).

Several people breathe down my neck, looking at the handsome groom who straddles me, prince-like. Him – I don’t mind, but the multitude of people who push to catch a glimpse (of him, not me) – now that is what causes my latent claustrophobia to resurface with a vengeance...

Almost if reading my mind, my keeper tightens the reins around me, making all thoughts of escape impossible.

The boy who sits with the groom tests all my patience put together though, what with his constant digging his heels into my delicate sides, and pulling my ears. It is a miracle I don’t snort, pull my hooves up into the air, and cause the little bugger to fall off.

And then starts the ritual of stuffing me silly with Bengal gram. Groannnn!!!

Now I like soaked-he-previous-night Bengal gram. I even find it tasty. But there is only one mouth that I have been blessed with, and the number of hands feeding me, to put it mildly, are more than quite a few. And then there the other problem of being able to eat only that much...

Plus I have never been a ready contender for who-can-eat-the-most competitions, preferring to enjoy the hay and oats that my keeper provides me. I look around languorously, taking my own sweet time, reminiscing of those moments when that flawlessly handsome stallion had looked at me from over yonder, and time for me had stood still..Sweeeeeet.

Needless to say, I sullenly partake the offering by the many eager pairs of hands, which have made it their business to make me choke and splutter.

Don't even get me started about the fireworks. Which cause my very hooves to tremble. Why they insist on frightening me half to death, is something which frankly, goes beyond me.

And then there are the drums that threaten to include my name in the list of the hearing-impaired. And which are enough to bring back those from six feet under (Shudder).

Resentfully I make my way through it all, sighing in relief when I reach the brightly-lit venue, where many garlands and vermilion-cum-incense trayed people await us. The forty-minute walk with the groom and child atop, and the crowd of accompanying dancing baraatis have done nothing to put me into a happy frame of mind.

However, when I snort impatiently and look up, I catch a glimpse of the shy, bedecked bride, blushingly looking at her husband-to-be as he alights from me.

And suddenly it is totally worth every miserable minute.

It is almost as if time has stood still for her too as she catches that first glimpse of her soul mate walking majestically towards her. To make her his. Forver...

Being a white mare at a wedding isn’t all that bad, after all.

I'm such a sucker for romance. Sighhhh!!!

Is it your cup of Tea?

Though many people claim addiction to their favourite cuppa of luke-warm cappuccino (as a much-hyped coffee house serves it), I am partial to its piping hot, humbler variant - tea.

And no one makes it better than the numerous roadside tapris (stalls) that dot the highways.

The stalls found at every second nook and corner of the city come a close second.

The humble tapri / dhaba chai, priced at a pocket-friendly Rs 3 – 5, endears itself immensely to me.

Blame it on the crushed elaichis (cardamoms) that the smiling tea stall owner mixes generously into the simmering kettle, stirring the bubbling tea awhile.

A couple of tulsi pattas (basil) float lazily amongst the tea leaves that are doing a heady, circular dance leaves atop the brimming, threatening-to-spill-over-the-kettle tea.

Many stalls also flavour tea with adrak (ginger), dalchini (cinnamon sticks) and laung (cloves), which give the tea a slightly, spicy flavour – a plus, especially during Delhi winters. I’m guessing these tea corners are going to be quite the favoured haunt this year, given Delhi’s early brush with winters. Brrr

For those who do not like their tea empty-stomached, matthis (flaky, salted crackers) or local bakery made biskoots (biscuits) beckon invitingly from their glass jars, begging to be picked. Some tapris also keep boiled eggs and bread ready. Those who eye these eats sceptically, have two options – to either sip their tea without any accompanying snack, or hand over a tenner for a pack of glucose / orange cream biscuits, no fancy Bourbon, Oreo or Hide and Seek biscuits being available. ‘Basic’ is the key word and the stall owners follow this to the T...

Pictures of deities jostle for space with gaudy posters of Bollywood stars. A radio hidden somewhere in the background, belts out popular (read raunchy) tunes from the movies.

Packs of Marlboros are haphazardly lined up with Classic Regulars, Benson and Hedges, Gold Flakes, and the unassuming rolled-up bidis. They are often bundled into the eager hands of those tea lovers who like their tea with some nicotine kicks…

Two-three jars of imli laddoos (sweet-sour balls of tamarind) and candy, also sometimes flank each other.

Another kettle sits nearby, its handle struggling not to fall off.

For me, drinking roadside tea is divine. One cup and I look the equivalent of a contented cat, sitting cosily near the hearth. A second is sometimes needed, if the glass is one of those two-incher ones.

Mum, an avid tea-drinker herself, is not averse to sipping roadside fare.

However, seeing one of those ubiquitous, vest-wearing ‘chhottus’ going to the corner of the shack and dipping the grubby glasses into a bucket of questionable water, in the name of ‘washing’ them is enough to make her shudder in revulsion, and reach out for the perennially-stocked-by-her translucent disposable glasses.

Of course, if she espies a pack of Styrofoam glasses perched on a stool, her delight is obvious.

While a number of fashionable tea bars have mushroomed in the city (Cha Bar, Passion – My Cup of Tea, The Tea Lounge, Craft House, Triveni / Aap Ki PAsand / Premium etc), I remain a loyal fan of the modest tea stall.

Let the so-called tea connoisseurs and enthusiasts enjoy their lemon teas, mint, chamomile, or iced teas). Let them down these with some overpriced double-chip muffin, complete with chocolate sauce or the accompanying almond biscotti.

Nothing can touch my heart (and my picky tongue) the way that glass of kadak chai can.

As far as machine Nes-tea (the press-a-button-and-the-tea-falls-into-the-cup-below) is concerned, what can I say?

That it makes me wrinkle my nose in disdain...

Somebody tell me, is it a coincidence that it rhymes with ‘Nasty?’

'Knotty' gifts - Being at the receiving end

An article about (un)wanted wedding gifts in yesterday’s national daily brought back a flood of memories from my own ‘knotty’ affair in 2009.

It being mid-April, the weather was at its most-sweltering, hottest, sweatiest best. As if that were not enough, the morning after we took our vows, was dedicated to ripping the carefully-wrapped wedding presents. Some people had done an exceptionally great job of packing - their prezzies tightly-swaddled in mile-long garishly-colored wrapping sheets.

The job looked daunting, but a pair of shiny steel scissors made it a tad easier. Wiping beads of perspiration from our brows, newly-knotty hubby and me descended upon the task at hand, slashing the bow-tied packages.

While some gifts did get the ‘Ooooh, that’s just what we need,’ or ‘I love it’ responses, there were also those that had us scratching our heads in bewilderment.

Which brings me to that pertinent question – why do people insist on gifting these hugely unimaginative gifts?

 The set of air-diffusers, the set of two mugs or the faux leather bag that they very evidently got with a subscription to a magazine. Thrift? Or plain cheap?
 The assortment of lemonade glasses, pitchers, cups and saucers, mugs, tumblers, goblets and crystal bowls. Maybe a cupboard to stack these could be a handy gift too...
 Bath robes and matching carpet slippers for the bride and groom are fine. Why do they have to be accompanied by two more pairs in much smaller sizes – in anticipation of the kids? Duh!
 Cushion covers / table mats / bedsheets / tea cosys / sofa covers / curtains. Did you not read the invite properly? It’s a wedding, for Chrissake! Not a housewarming party. And what really is the need for those 5 vases in one case, in various sizes? Are you telling them that their future home is so drab, all its rooms need flowers to brighten them? Be sure that they would have struck your name off their party list PERMANENTLY...
 Huge picture frames. With bright gold borders. Oh, and did I mention – with the wrong initials
 Clothes in rainbow hues. Or in sizes that you cannot squeeze your frame into, no matter how hard you suck in your breath. Or in sizes that the bride or groom can only fit into if they were 8-months preggers. Reversible belts – Wow!!! Just what they need! And pray what are the ties for – for the newly-weds to hang themselves? Point noted
 Coffee table books. Sheathed in heavier than cast-iron boxes. The kinds that would make you go ‘Owwww’ if they were to fall upon your foot
 Spa vouchers. At seedy spas. Or at spas you would grade 0.25 on a rate of 1 to 10 in terms of their hygiene factor
 Philosophy books. Really???
 Ceramic animals. ‘Nuf said!
 This one is for that ingenious species – called the Re-gifters. Old, (un)used gifts are wrapped in gaudy sheets, and Voila! You have yellowed-frayed-at-the-edges towels, that have unquestionably seen better days. And which were kept surrounded by mothballs in that family trunk for years, waiting to see the light of day. They did emerge from their hibernation - after 6 loooong years. Ahem!
 Prezzies with price tags deliberately left on. No matter how much you want to impress, their givers invariably get an entry into the Most-trashy-gifters category...
 Blenders, irons and iron boards, tea kettles, hot flasks, toasters, immersion rods (Gasp), juicers
 Cook books. Loads of them. Some in regional languages that the groom and the bride may not be familiar with
 A stationery hamper. No doubt flicked over a period of time from office (eyes rolling)

With the wedding season on in full gusto around us, I hear many of my about-to-get-hitched pals, making plans of making elaborate gift registries, to avoid the frustration of getting multiple bedsheets. There are also those who are toying with the idea of putting in a wishing well at the venue, for added measure, hoping that the ‘green’ initiative takes off well...

To see whether their efforts bear fruit, I’d have to wait for a good month and a half to transpire (which is the time for those friends to get ‘knotty’).

Or perhaps, we’ll be sitting together on some warm January Sunday afternoon, drinking out of those same painted lemonade glasses, and guffawing about the seventeen exactly-similar mini-irons that were probably bought around the same time at this year’s Trade Fair...

Keep watching this space for more on this…

To sue or not to sue - now THAT is the question

The Stella Awards, synonymous with outrageous lawsuits, are guaranteed to make you raise your eyebrows, smirk at the plainly ludicrous and frivolous lawsuits slapped by many, and shake your head in disbelief when you learn that those opportunistic weirdos got greenbacks, loads of ‘them, for those same absurd claims.

In 1992, a septuagenarian lady - Stella Liebeck (and you thought that women that age are relatively harmless), sued McDonald’s when the hot coffee she had bought from a drive-in, fell on her lap, scalding her.

Her claim—McDonald’s sold “dangerous” coffee that could lead to burns (as in her case).

Her next step...? She sued!

The damages that she won - to the tune of $6,40,000 (but many claim that it was much more than that) had everyone sitting up, blinking their eyes rapidly and making a mental note to strike her off their party lists. F-O-R-E-V-E-R! Is that me whistling...you bet!

Since the Mcdonald’s Coffee claim, there have been many cases that defy sanity and gumption. To make it worse, many of these have actually gone on to collect mini-fortunes, cash-in on their fiteen seconds of fame on the idiot box, and go laughing all the way to the bank. Whoa!

The Stella Awards does a neat job of handpicking the most bizarre cases, every year. Sample some of these:

— A woman sued a home store when a bird flying outside the store attacked her (her line of reasoning – the home store shouldn’t be allowing birds to fly around it.). What did she expect – the home store to hire men with air guns…?

— A chap sued two magicians – they were being ‘difficult,’ he said. The motive – they didn’t share with him their trade secrets of how they performed their magic tricks. I say the two poor magicians should have taught him, albeit a little differently – would have been fun to see him pull out a hungry, roaring lion out of his black hat, instead of the customary long-eared rabbit, at a Sunday practice for children. Let’s just say the parents wouldn’t have been very amused, and gone ahead to slap some charges of their own...

— A woman involved in a car wreck sued the automobile maker for not issuing instructions that every passenger was required to wear a seatbelt.

— A guy hit by lightning outside an amusement park, sued the amusement park for failing to issue a notice to people advising them to stay in during thunderstorms.

— An enterprising guy changed his name to “Jack Ass,” and claimed that the MTV and American namesakes films and shows were plagiarized from him, and severely hurt his image. So he proved that his self-christening was just about right and made a Jack Ass of himself and went right ahead in suing MTV.

- A smoke-puffing woman, with a family history of coronary artery disease and high blood pressure, weighing over 150 pounds, with a penchant for high-cholesterol, swimming-in-fat fried food, sued her doctors for $1 million for not forcing her to change her habits! Along the same lines, a guy dued KFC, McDonald’s, Burger King and Wendy’s for becoming obese and diabetic, and not advising him that he shouldn’t be frequenting them multiple times every week. WTH!

There certainly isn’t a dearth of dotty people in the world, I guess.

Our 'Children's Day'

We walk down the street happily,
This day is after all ours,
When we spot a little girl crying,
Suffering hunger, for no fault of hers.

We stand there, shocked,
As the smile soon goes off our face.
Our friends are rejoicing, celebrating,
And there is gloom all over this place.

We know not how to react,
To be happy anyway, or to feel sad.
Many of us wear costly attires,
But some kids are barely clad.

Our hearts sink deeper,
When those poor children we see,
Who spend their days slogging,
When they should be jumping with glee.

We wipe a tear and then decide,
These kids too, deserve some joys.
We pull out some clothes and toys,
And give them to those girls and boys.

When they smile, and their faces glow,
Our day is made, yes, we know.

Dunno who wrote the above, but does strike a deep chord in me, reminding me that I am lucky, as probably you are. But there are millions of kids out there, for whom it is a different story altogether.

Every day, we see the sobering statistics on what it’s like to be a vulnerable, underprivileged child in today’s society. We shake our heads sympathetically, deplore their conditions, make a mental note to drop some coins into the outstretched palms of the next child we see on the roads, and the very next minute, forget all about them.

Let's do something for these kids, each in our own small way. You could volunteer at an NGO, attend some workshops for CRY, or even start with teaching your maid's daughter / kid the English alphabet.

Let's get together and engage in a hand-up, not merely a hand-out...

Go spread the love, and make someone smile.

Some Neverlands

Haven’t we all been through that agonizing day, when we would give an arm and a leg to escape to an imaginary land, a getaway from that hard as nails boss / that whining co-worker / so-called friends who fail to ‘understand us,” / a pay packet that tries to equate peanuts with the Crown jewels / the relative from hell who makes the evil stepmother from Snow White look like an angel / (add your own pet-peeve here)?

Wouldn’t it be just wonderful to run away from it all, and seek refuge in some charming place, far far away from the madding crowd (pardon the plagiarizing, Mr. Hardy)? An assortment of names of imaginary lands comes to my mind, where you could run off, and begin the happily-ever-after-fairytale that has eluded you forever?

So while the following are the top imaginary places that come to my mind, whether or not you’d some day, like to retreat to the, is entirely your choice..

1. Riverdale: who can possibly not want to live in Riverdale, the much-loved residence of unforgettable characters like freckle-face Archie, high and mighty Reggie, snobbish Veronica, classic girl-next-door Betty, constantly-fantasizing about food Jughead, with his equally-gluttonous mutt – Top Dog, hopelessly-in-love-with-Jughead-who-doesn’t-even-know-her-existence Big Ethel, beefcake-with-no-brains Moose, his pint-sized girlfriend – Midge (often the object of Archie and Reggie’s joint affection), the battling-his-bulge Mr. Weatherbee, human computer Dilton, and a host of other characters – all equally contributing to making Riverdale High the coolest, hippest place to be in. Add to it, beaches, shopping malls, the iconic ice-cream parlor owner by plump Pop Tates, and you get an idyllic retreat. Perfect place for the young at heart. The others can just go and eat crow…

2. Lilliput and Blefuscu: First appearing in the eighteenth century novel, Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift, Lilliput and Blefuscu are two fictional islands separated from each other by a channel, and whose inhabitants were notable for their dwarf-like stature and their evident bitterness with each other because of differences of opinion over how to “correctly” eat a boiled-egg. Talk about being bad eggs!!

3. Narnia: Four siblings. A seemingly innocous looking wardrobe. A magical land where it is always winter. Animals that talk. A wicked usurper White Witch reigning over the kingdom. A wronged lion-king, Aslan. And lo and behold! You have your very own fantasy world. One where obviously good prevails over evil in the end. Now if only things were this simple in our mundane lives…

4. Oz: Possibly one of the most well-known and read-about imaginary lands. Divided into four color-coordinated countries, Oz houses fairies, witches, wizards, gnomes, flatheads, living dolls – called cuttenclips etc. Sure would be an interesting place to be in…

5. Utopia: Best friend, an ex-reporter, and perpetual philosophy-spouting wonder woman, first talked about this Greek fictional island, a few days after it was discussed in my majors class – many many years back (yeah, I AM that old). Boasting of a perfect social, legal, and political system, Utopia, is now, more often used to refer to an ideal place, obviously an impossibility. As to why best friend had brought up the issue, let’s just keep it for another day…

6. Wonderland: Favorite cousin is eternally like the quintessential Alice, lost in her very own wonderland, a private-dreamlike state of mind, wherein she forgets simple chores, giggling like a school-girl when she is reminded of them. A habit, I am unfortunately, picking up from her, I guess. Not my proudest achievements, let me add...

7. Malgudi: Immortalized by the Indian author R.K. Narayan, Malgudi forms the setting for the adventures of Swami, a mischievous ten-year old, along with his friends, Rajam and Mani, all of whom are joined in their ambition of forming a cricket team, to break away from the monotony of their evangelical, stressing-on-Christianity-and-literature school.

And obviously the list cannot be complete without...

8. Hogwarts: An adolescent wizard. Two best friends. A malevolent wizard. An academy for young wizards and witches. All of them have captured the undivided attention of children and adults alike. And making the blonde writer go chuckling all the way to the bank. Not that we are complaining...After all, isn’t it therapeutic to read about magical realms, far away from the harsh reality that pervades our lives on a daily basis?

So, which one would you kill to escape to?

My vote is divided between Riverdale and Hogwarts...

And your point is...?

Sample this:

Person 1 - ‘Ohh, I’m glad to hear he was able to come and sort out the issue at your place. Good friends are hard to come by. Does he stay someplace nearby?’

Person 2 – ‘Yeah, he stays right on my backside.’

Person 1 (Chuckling) (All this while, thinking of the abovementioned friend, who probably had a certificate course in glue-management under his smart belt...What else could explain how he was always around him, much like a Siamese twin, joined at the much touted rear)– ‘Ermm, Uhmmm, well, nevermind.’


The chuckling would invariably offend the first friend, who would, in all certainty – either glare or stare blankly, completely oblivious to the fact how his behind had become the butt of a joke. Pun intended!

He is not alone – he’s joined by many others, who unwittingly pass an innocuous remark, often causing the listener(s) to dissolve into unrestrained mirth. Such are the ways of this world – wherein merrily-spirited people will chuckle, guffaw, jab fingers unkindly, wipe streams of tears while clutching their bellies – all the while at the expense of a poor chap who has innocently committed a verbal gaffe...

Take for instance, quite some time back, a sedate lady caused me endless hilarity when she stated solemnly how her aunt was paralyzed, a criminal from the waist down. The poor soul most probably meant crippled, and was aghast when I stuffed a tissue into my mouth to stifle my laughter.

I’m guessing she won’t be speaking with me ever again.

A week back, I was speaking with a group who had only unkind things to say about our country. A gentleman in his late thirties even commented how we would have been better off had the British continued their rule.

I retorted that such confirmed Anglophiles should leave the country and seek citizenship in England, munch on cookies and sing Long Live the Queen.

He turned an apoplectic purple – if looks could kill, I would have dropped dead instantaneously.

He started a vitriolic attack against me, emphatically stating that he was not an Anglophile, how could I have had called him such a lowly thing (?), and all horrid Anglophiles along the likes of a tainted King of Pop should be chained, caned and given the Electric chair.

In a minute, my face contorted into a broad Cheshire cat grin – the guy was talking of the other Phile – Paedophile. That explained his caustic rage at me.

Shaking my head, and suppressing a smile, I promised myself that I would speak the simplest words with him in the future.

“He is the very pineapple of success.”(Deliberate pause by speaker to receive a round of applause).

However, he was mildly surprised that his oft-spoken line did not meet with loud clapping; what was even more unsettling was that some people in the audience were smirking.

Gosh-in a split second, he realized that he had used a malapropism for “pinnacle.”
That explained the snide remarks and sly nudges...

I was mildly alarmed, when a well-meaning friend’s wife admired the delicate pendulum (pendant) around my neck.

Yet another acquaintance, after several minutes of my careful explaining of a particular procedure to her, announced dramatically, her hands high up in the air, "It is beyond my apprehension (comprehension)!"

A co-worker on a Project was left rather red-faced when he pointed out that he preferred doing both phases of the project simultaneously, as he wanted to paralyze the project.

Imagine my face when I was seeking reassurance from a chap, asking him if he would get the job done – and he, a picture of confidence, asked me not to worry, adding that the job would be done – after all, he was very remorseful (resourceful)...

My trust in him was slightly shaken, to say the least!

A person who I know slightly, once told me that upon his death, he wanted me to write his tributary in the newspaper.

He was most hurt to see me smiling.

I had to do my utmost to reassure him that I would be shattered if he were to die, but I would definitely write a glowing obituary for him.

I once met this earringed-spiked-haired-student, who announced to me that he was most keen on studying in the US of A.

Upon my casual asking, if he would be seeking a scholarship / funding, he was quick to reply that he came from a very effluent (affluent)family…

Needless to say, I almost passed out…

There are funnier examples, for instance, once, while talking about surnames and nee names, this 20-something girl chirped that her mother’s mating(maiden) name was Choudhary.

I bet the mother would not have been very pleased with her daughter’s candor…

Another time, a bloke had me scratching my head, when he declared that his density lay in becoming a singer. It took me all of a minute to realize that he meant destiny, and that I was not that dense.

A spinster, in her late thirties, once told me that she felt like a social piranha (pariah), because of her unmarried status.

She thought I was tremendously rude, when instead of tut-tutting sympathetically, I shot her a look of pure glee.

The look that she gave me was however, pure venom...

At the gym, the other day, a lady was conversing with another in the locker room, how she preferred working out than swimming for dietary reasons – because when she swam, she'd invariably return vanished(?) (famished), and could almost eat a horse…

The last one definitely takes the cake...

Imagine that you are deeply immersed in your work, and this apologetic-faced person comes up to you, and starts off breathlessly, “Pardon me for protruding (intruding)...”

I guessing you will relapse (collapse) in a fit of laughter…

Ladies Only - A peek into the DMRC's women-only coach

A 20-minute trip in Delhi Metro’s Ladies Coach yesterday proved to be quite an enjoyable ride indeed. The occasion being Karwa Chauth, I even saw a couple of women blowing at their hands to dry the intricate henna some pavement artisan had no doubt painstakingly applied. The women looked happy - sharing anecdotes, sitting comfortably with one another, their oversized bags lying languidly on the coach floor.

All this looked a far cry from the scene twenty odd days ago – when they had to rub shoulders with the city’s mensfolk – and in the process, contend with constant staring, obnoxious lip-smacking sounds, eve-teasing, lascivious things murmured into ears, pinching of rears, and the occasional but very deliberate groping or ‘accidental’ brushing of an arm against their sensitive parts.

While the women enjoyed the controlled cooling in their allotted coach, the men from the adjoining coach cast looks at them – some woebegone, other envious, while some others cast looks of pure venom and red-faced fury. All the while jostling for space, the feeling akin to being a trussed-up sardine in a can with many others of its ilk.

An unsuspecting man strolled into the coach, only to be shooed away by the many women – who went up in collective peals of laughter when the alarmed man beat a hasty retreat, disappearing in a huff.

An elderly gentleman was however, immediately made to sit, bringing a smile to his weary eyes. As was a wide-eyed 8 year-old boy, who shyly stood behind his mother, his right hand trustingly in hers.

A couple of boisterous college-goers boarded the Metro, stepping in smartly into the all-ladies coach. Despite repeated protests from the womenfolk, they flippantly replied that they would be alighting at the next station. The next station didn’t prove to be that lucky for them though – as a pot-bellied, stern policeman marched them off to the side to perhaps collect the Rupees 200 penalty for riding in the women’s coach. I’m guessing they wouldn’t be repeating the same in a hurry.

Women of various ages, dressed in sarees, dapper business suits, comfortable kurtas and salwars, some in their tighter cousins – churidars, while yet some in jeans and skirts – made eye-contact with their fellow companions. Smiles were exchanged when one caught sight of an exquisite neck piece there, or a particularly pretty bangle.

Not a word was exchanged – and yet it was all too palpable – the collective feeling of contentment at their own private space.

With perhaps the additional joy of being among other lavender-talc-ed folks...

Delhi - post the Commonwealth Games

After the 12-day extravaganza that was the Commonwealth Games will come to an end today, do you think Delhi will relapse to its pre-Commonwealth days?

The changes in these last few months have been tremendous - from refurbished roads, lined with shrubs that miraculously appeared out of nowhere at all, to new flyovers, the Metro dotting more stations on its routes, the swanky T3 Terminal, facelifts to erstwhile monuments and areas of social interaction, besides the spruced-up stadiums and markets. Delhi now also boasts of a Delhi Eye, built on the lines of the London Eye and the Singapore Flyer – a state-of-the-art giant wheel that promises a panoramic view of Delhi’s monuments. There is also a palpable change in lathi-wielding policemen, cab and auto rickshaw drivers. I suppose the etiquette and conversation lessons paid off after all.

The opening ceremony – the last word in stunning grandeur, made the world sit up and notice India – only the third developing country to host the Commonwealth Games, after Malaysia and Jamaica. Hell, even the usually stiff-upper-lipped Prince Charles was seen smiling – which speaks a lot of the well-organized show.

However, after that splendid showcase of traditional diversity in a crisp, modern flavour, what remains to be seen now if Delhi will continue to be what it has been in the last few days – polished, cheery, clean, and not aversive to flouting rules.

Or do you think the days of traffic snarls, uncouth paan-stained-teethed traffic cops with bulging bellies, hurling abuses and blows with equal ease, (in)sane driving, surly auto drivers who charge astronomical sums, and littered roads, will be back with a vengeance?

Shera sure wouldn't be grinning at that, I'm guessing...

Another Reality Show. Yawn!

Another Indian reality show kicked off last Sunday. Well into its fourth season, this time the show boasts of a bratty Bollywood actor host, known equally for his antics off screen as on it.

14 inmates, ranging from an erstwhile woman dacoit, a former mastermind thief credited with numerous daring robberies, a cross-dressing TV chat who is a neighoring country’s answer to Oprah Winfrey, the tainted son of a leading movie director, a leading defense lawyer who found himself in the eye of the storm after he was appointed by the State to represent an ignominious agent of terror, an ex-squeeze of a neighboring cricketer involved in a matchfixing scandal, and a liberal sprinkling of star(let)s from the glamour world will all battle it out for 3 months in a house. They’ve come from various parts of the country, and beyond –while some seek to soak in their 15-minutes of fame, some could benefit from a boost to their sagging……careers, others are anxious to clear their names that are embroiled in controversy – there is also the added charm and chance of winning a sizeable amount of money, and the flood of opportunities that await the winner subsequently. The viewership would undoubtedly be tremendous – after all, tacky voyeurism tops the chart for entertainment mediums these days. And nope, lest you think this is one of my homilies, I’m guilty as charged too.

While reality shows are a dime a dozen these days, the earliest recollection I have of reality television was way back in the late ‘80’s (and I could be wrong about the year, which is why I’ve refrained from giving specifics). Candid cameras captured equally candid moments and reactions of people to pranks and ploys. Humorous situations, people’s startled expressions and sheer jumping out of their skins made for some very amusing videos.

Of course, reality shows have come a long way from the ‘80’s. And while I do like the occasional glamour, I’d still be reluctant to sign-up for participation in one of them reality shows. The reasons are multifarious:

1. Gravity-defying stunts are just not my game. While some people can get adrenaline-pumps, I can probably get those and a lot more with frequent retail-therapy sessions. In the same breath and line of thought - swimming in the ocean, picking honey-dipped insects with my mouth, getting a pack of angry hounds chasing me across a farm, slithering snakes giving me company in a cage, and regular explosions of cars and trucks – thanks but no thanks. And with this I end any chance of entering India’s answer to Fear Factor – Khatron Key Khiladey.

2. Now, I’m by no means a Celine Dion. The taps in the restroom will vouch for that. While my singing will not exactly crack the mirror, it will also not be considered for a Grammy. Gargling with lukewarm water won’t help, neither will frequent throat lozenges. My ‘crooning’ will probably be termed a haunting melody, and not in a good sense of way, may I add. Let’s just say that the stage is not ready for the new singing sensation – Me. I’ve made my peace with the fact that mics, late night record sessions, screaming fans, and super-dark Raybans are just not cut out for me. By Bye Indian Idol. Farewell Sa Re Ga Ma. I’m not the next singing sensation out to swoop on the world. Peace!

3. While my General Knowledge is better than average, I would definitely be clueless if I were to be asked which city is located in a country that does not border a country with a coast line on the Mediterranean Sea. Even the so-called Multiple choice answer options of Berlin, Warsaw, Lisbon and Vienna wouldn’t make my task any easier. I did pass my Class V, but maybe it’s just not my luck to sit atop a revolving bar stool opposite that imposing Bollywood icon with the booming baritone.

4. Let’s not even venture into my (lack of) dancing skills. Cursed with two left feet, dance instructors should be out there hopping over each other to get to me – to do a before and after piece. I’m perhaps best known for my robot impersonation dance – and that too will, on a good day, fetch an 8 out of 10. Max. So you really can’t expect me to get bothered or sweaty over popular dance reality shows, where participants would look condescendingly towards the likes of lesser mortals like me, who walk, instead of glide like them. And who pirouette when they win the glass dancing shoe trophy. Bah!

5. While I definitely have the height, my ‘evenly proportionate’ (Ahem Ahem) body would stand out like an eyesore among all the curvaceous, bootylicious ones. Sashaying down the ramp in stilettos is easy enough, but let’s just say that there are a bulge too many on what should have been a slinky washboard. Enuf said! So long Indian Supermodel Hunt!

6. Bikes are droolworthy. But are fun only if I’m drooling over them in large, glossy print ads (preferably with chiselled Adonis-look alikes driving them). Or seeing them Vroom on a superhighway. In other words – from a safe distance. God knows that if hubby were to someday buy a mean super machines on two wheels, I’d clap, cheer, whistle admiringly. But perhaps never drive. And for this, I’m sure he just pulled some air strings in glee. As for me, Roadies – thanks but no thanks...

7. Sure, I can make people roll their eyes in amusement sometimes. But to keep them from falling off their seats in utter merriment, for 10 minutes at a stretch – now that’s stretching my amusement quotient a tad too much. While there are those days when I have been known to make people clutch their tummies ‘cos of hysterical laughter, I’ve never been declared resident clown or laugh-riot expert. Add to that – I don’t respond too well to 1,2,3s of getting on stage and instructions to have the audience in splits. Which is the reason for my hasty exit from Laughter Challenges.

8. Familiar question pointed at brazen me – ‘Do you cook?’ My usual brash answer – ‘Stories? Yeah.’ The entire world and its neighbour knows that I can’t cook – not a simple serving of lentils and rice, leave alone much grander cuisine. Instant noodles, the odd tea and coffee, and warming bread for the dog don’t count. So any chances of donning a chef’s cap and doling out fingerlicking pies and curries to an appreciative star judge crew just went up in smoke. Pun intended!


Which leaves me introspecting – I can’t sing to save my life, my dance would be termed amusing monkey antics, even if I would have been single – I’d be rather dead than sign up as a prospective empty-top-floored bride in a glorified matchmaking endeavour. There must be something I must be good at. Hmmmm...*Scratching head vigorously*

Ahh yes, if there were to someday be a reality show where they would be crowning the Queen of satire and sarcasm, guess who’ll be walking away with top honors?

Look who’s laffing now...(Wink Wink)

The Story of a Shoe

Stoically, the school kid marches in his shining black shoes

Brushed vigorously by a doting maid the previous night

He sees a puddle, side-steps it smartly, groans -

Wishing his new shoes weren’t so tight



The old beggar spots the waiting car

He shuffles towards it, begging bowl in hand

One brown, one grey shoe shod on each foot

He stops a while to shake out some sand



The demure girl wraps her shawl tightly around her

Shivering and exhaling sharply after taking off her dainty heels

The marble stairs of the temple are as cold as they could be

Upon reaching the idols, she bows her head and kneels



The new employee walks into the swanky office sheepishly

Aware that all eyes were upon his ‘formal’ threadbare shoes

He stumbles, grunts an apology to no one in particular

Walks as if on a tightrope, keeping his ears open for any boos



The waif-thin model looked disdainfully at her muddy feet

The dreadful rains had wreaked havoc in the city,

Her car pulled over, she had to sprint to her swish apartment

Mentally making a note to diss the pricey stilettos – what a pity!



The ‘holy’ man - forehead smeared with vermilion, walked barefooted

Chanting trance-like, surrounded by a devoted crowd

The stone floor felt coarse against the soles of his feet,

He counted the minutes till he retired to his room, where unbeknownst to all - shoes were allowed



The soldier glided with his fellow comrades, a soft song on his lips

He clasped his rifle closer to his chest, the enemy border was in plain sight

He cast a grateful look at his hardy black combat boots

Invincible they were. but the next day they were torn by a bullet, and made for a gory sight



He dropped to his knees - blood gushing freely from the raw wound

Realization hit him - the contract of military boots had made the coffers of a procurement minister full

The shoes, once invincible, were no longer so, and as he knelt, another bullet ripped his chest

He breathed his last - nothing could save him - not his wife's memory, nor his child's pull


The shoe wept at its sore misery

His words I recount – a mere emissary



He said – ‘We are guardians - we keep you clean and warm

We are also fighters, keep you dry, and protect you from bodily harm

Despite that, not one word of gratitude does anyone mutter

Much as we’d want to, outside every temple, we’re discarded like items from the gutter.


While all these hurt, all these grouses we will happily lay to rest

If our patience weren’t so put to the test

Being hurled at lowly ministers is the most demeaning for us

Have a heart - keep us away from them - we deserve some much-needed rest


We can do without this demeaning, this insult - we don't need any thanks

Pray - stop hurling us at politicians - stop treating us like common skanks'...

Of doctored visits and more

I have a deep-rooted fascination for doctors’ tables, chairs, and medical devices and / or tools. It all started when I was a child, and while on visits to family chemists or doctors, would ask for those little notepads, one-rupee Stic pens, and keychains – a staple of pharmaceutical companies. Hell hath no fury than me separated from my “booty”, so much so that glistening tears would well up in my eyes, lower lip trembling and pouting, and there would be all the trappings for a round of shrieking waterworks, minus the tantrums (the latter reserved for a larger audience) - if someone dared to flick any from my chunk, hidden in my treasure chest at home…

Next in line were the dozens of Strepsils, Vicks, Halls, and other cough lozenges, that I would religiously stock up on, just in case a national throat emergency would strike, and all my countrymen decided to visit me - to seek therapy, blessings, and lozenges. In that order.

Band-Aids were another hot favorite, and anyone within the radius of one kilometer was bound to be asked the staple question as to whether he / she were in need of a Band-Aid. Sometimes, when I would be out of “patients,” as I liked to call them, I would decide to “heal” myself, and stick bright Mickey-Mouse or Handyplast Band-Aids on random spots on my body, mostly my forehead and hands - much to my mom’s annoyance, and visible admiring glances from classmates. A quick pull from my brother would result in the Band-Aid peeling off, and my fake injury instantaneously discovered. Next would be a mad chase for the ‘offender” – my brother. A minor scuffle would ensue, and Bang! There might just be reason enough to bring out the Band-Aid once more, this time for real. Ouch! Regular shinning (and falling from) trees also caused a fair share of the Band-Aids getting into use.

Then there were the syringes. Having been bitten twice by canines and the same number of times by monkeys (Hold your smirk. Nope, I don’t bark. Ditto for biting!@#$ %^&*), and having those hypodermic needles pricked into me on a lot of tetanus moments too, I can safely say that I was a doctor’s delight, and parents’ nightmare. Every time those dratted injections would come near me, my furrowed forehead would give stiff competition to any agitated grown-up. I'd act nonchalant for a few moments, but that nonchalance would be soon replaced by ear-splitting howls that would make any neighborhood dog proud. However, once the doc would be through with the torture, a sunny smile would soon dispel the glistening tears from my cheeks, and pat – my hands would outstretch, awaiting their reward. New docs would hastily look around for an éclair or a chocolate to give me; my Dad would then intervene, and tell him that my “prize” was the empty syringe, and not some sugar-boiled confectionery. Armed with the syringe, I would make my way home, praying for an audience (in the form of any guest who may have called upon us), so as to display my “trophy,” and act out my well rehearsed injured warrior / survivor role to perfection.

Since I was a relatively illness-free child (illness-free, mind you, not accident-free), I would often wish I were sick, in order to make those distant twice-a-year visit(s) to the home physician a more regular feature. A mildly hot forehead was enough to send me into a tizzy, and lo and behold! Shoed and stockinged me would make an appearance in front of utterly bemused folks, and demand to be taken to the doc, hinting that my end was near, in case I were “cruelly” kept away from my “rightful” and “due” visit. Melodramatic – yep, that's the word you would have used for me then...(the emphasis is on the 'then.' Ahem!)

Syringes, stethoscopes, hypodermic needles, medical gloves, tweezers, scalpels, curettes (of course I didn’t know many of these words then) – anything that I would chance to espy on the doctor’s table, would be given the two-minute intense look from me. Given the chance, I would often try to touch them, after asking for permission, of course (my manners were impeccable – Oh yes), and such was my charm, that on most occasions, the doctors would relent, and hand them to me themselves, much to bouncing-up-and-down-in-the-chair-happiness-personified-me.

The dentist’s high-chair was an endless source of merriment for me. With a mother whose middle name is chocolates, occasions to visit the friendly dentist were many and not al all infrequent. My mouth would open in one long-drawn out, admiring “Ohhhh,” when she would sit across the dentist, and he, in his starchy-white medical coat, would inspect her teeth, and cluck his head disapprovingly, every two minutes. God – I loved the tiny torch-around-a-huge-band-thingy he wore around his head, with whose help he would peer at people’s teeth. After giving a stern warning to my mom about cutting down her intake of cocoa, chocolates, and rosogullas, he would turn to me, who had been waiting for this very moment. One fluid movement, and I would spring into his chair, waiting for that exquisite moment when he would lower himself to adjust the lever, and I would be up almost next to the ceiling, staying there till my Mom’s indulgent look would change to one of okie-enough-you’ve-had-your-fun-now-come-down, causing me to try my various sorrowful looks on her, all of which failing whatsoever, and I would be back on the ground, sighing, already looking forward to my next visit…

Such was my fondness for medical equipment and other such tools, that my parents were led to believe that a long, chequered career in medicine awaited me.

One fine day, some family friends had come visiting, and had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I can still see my dad’s chest pumping in proud anticipation at what I would say.

Knitting my eyebrows together, I proudly announced that I was confused as to what I wanted to be – and would decide in the next few years if I wanted to be an usher and show people their way to their seats in glitzy theaters, or become a newspaper delivery girl.

Trust me to always be the one responsible for the anti-climax...
(Let's just say I was the only one amused in that room).

The Curious Case of the Accented Crowd

The other day, I happened to be in the restroom of a plush South Delhi hotel where a known Emcee was speaking with a couple of her friends. They were like any other giggling, late-twenty somethings - sharing some light moments, powdering their noses, exchanging notes about the new salon in town, making plans for the upcoming weekend etc. Nothing singular in that.

So far, so good.

Which is why, it came as a surprise, when outside the hotel, when she was approached by a ‘Zoom’in channel for a quick byte, she drawled her reply in a noticeably fake, nasal American accent.

Leaving me and the others very startled at the sudden accent-switch.

Now I am all for accents. I quite like some of them - the clipped Brit accent, the soft Scottish and the laidback Aussie accent (even though they do eat most of their syllables).

However, the key to liking all of them is the same - authenticity.

Which was not the case with the above Emcee in question. Dressed in her vintage Chanel dress, red-soled CLs, an LV bag in tow, and an Omega Constellation (yes I do notice these details), she hardly seemed to be in want of confidence – which is why it was harder to put down her accent as a case of one of those low self-esteem days.

Which led me to wonder – why do some people imitate accents? And do a bad job at that?

Madonna couldn’t carry off her weirdly-pronounced Brit accent either, drawing many mocking jeers and stifled chortles from those who heard her. Closer home, Bollywood’s brat – SK – and his ex-flame, the ethereally beautiful Miss World – AR (or is it ARB now), are known, albeit infamously, for their nasal accents. Mid-life crises, anyone?

The nerdy Ross from the American sitcom F*R*I*E*N*D*S, also tried his hand at a British accent, but only managed a hint of an Aussie one. But full marks for effort - he after all, did manage to have the viewers in splits.

It’s plain amusing to ask someone where they picked a Texan accent, and hear that they ‘can’t help it,’ ‘it’s au naturale’ (they were raised all their lives in some North-Indian town) or because they studied overseas - for a semester, no less! Ahem!

Some people do it subconsciously – speaking with their friends in their ‘regular’ English, and as soon as they are approached by a blonde tourist at let’s say, a watering hole, embark on a put-on accent. The kind that makes their friends eyes pop out, faces distorted with barely-conceled hilarity, waiting for their chance to hoot at their accented friend.

Is it some deeply-entrenched inferiority complex that makes these people break out into an American twang / Irish accent?

Do they want to blend in and adapt with the accent of the listener?

Do they think they make the cut and sound cute / hip / hot?

Do they love being the obnoxious jackass that everyone listens to carefully, only to be made the butt of severely-unkind remarks behind their backs?

Do they suffer from a tragic case of low self esteem and image?

Do they think an accent elevates their status?

Let’s hear your thoughts...

'Bet' it's a long story...

Lagi shart?

(Wanna bet?)

This seemingly innocuous question has led many a person to lay a wager. On the most trivial of issues.

Ranging from money to treats at the expense of the loser, such bets are known to cause glee / grief to quite a few who indulge in them.

I am no exception, and on more occasion than one, have had to to shell out bucks for a coffee treat, or on those rare occasions, clapped my hands in utter joy, upon “winning” a box of my favorite After Eights. With my recent luck though, I've just been doling out crisp hundred-rupee notes to a jubilant hubby, which probably explains my long-facedness...Bah!

For some people, laying a bet is almost a ritual.

The stakes get higher, and money is regulary seen exchanging hands, willingly or, as is pretty much the rule (in the case of the loser), reluctantly.

And here I thought people lay bets only in casinos, during matches, and on horses!

Seems that I couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

Wagers seem to be doing the rounds pretty regularly, from seemingly meaningless bets.

Despite most people knowing very well that gambling doesn’t pay on average, they gladly gamble away.

It’s akin to a person knowing that it is next to impossible to hit that aggressive deadline, knowing all the factors that are out of control, yet being overtly optimistic.

Call it illusion of control.

Or whatever you will.

They do it for a variety of reasons – money, just for fun, to make their day more exciting, or just to assert their knowledge.

There are different kinds of people who lay bets.

You have the cocksure ones.

You have the diffident ones, who place bets the way you put your foot gingerly into an ice-cold pool.

There are the ones who place wagers consciously.

There are also the ones, who are led into placing bets under the influence of spirits, when their judgment is clouded.

Then you have the ones who have done their homework thoroughly (and smile smugly).

While you have also those who haven’t quite checked the odds. The ones who often face the most disillusionment, and emerge cynical and bitter from their speculative experiences.

Whatever section they may be from, betters are your average you and me.

Are you rolling your eyes in skepticism?

Chances are, in the next fortnight, you will probably put a wager on something or the other.

Wanna bet on that?

Flying without Wings...

It was heartening to see the numerous kites that dotted the sky the entire day this Sunday. Even some of those people, the ones who call themselves uber-busy, took time out to fly those gaily-colored creations, and were joined as one in one ritualistic celebration of our country’s Independence Day.

While the evening looked overcast and not very conducive to kite flying, the multitude of accommodating clouds showered promptly, leaving souls like hubby and me raring to jump onto the infectious bandwagon.

The necessary purchases had already been done the same afternoon, and after the mandatory medical tapes on our right thumbs and index fingers, we were ready to roll.

Out came our first warrior – a kite bearing the three colours of the Indian Tiranga. The wind languorously built up, as if indirectly cheering us to give kite-flying a shot.

And gave it a shot we did indeed.

In a span of less than an hour – we passed through various emotions…

Delight when the kite first rose in the air – not like a skillful eagle soaring smugly in the azure skies, but more like a staggering fledgling, trying to take wing.

Some teething problems, but soon our kite, tail firmly in place, was rubbing shoulders with the best of them all - the Chinese lantern ones, the butterfly-hued ones, the bow kites, the ostentatious ones - you name it...

The initial euphoria soon gave way to nail-biting apprehension when other kites steered dangerously towards ours.

Relief spread over our expectant faces when we were able to veer away from the treacherously close kites.

A collective sigh of cheer went up again and triumphant / gloating looks and hurrays arose in unison upon our kite getting the better of another kite, and that kite slowly making its descent towards the earth.

Disappointment set in and we sucked in groans of distress when a neighbor’s kite got the better of ours, and our ‘conquered’ kite descended in spiraling slow-mo towards the ground.


However a mutual feeling of joy was also somewhere in the horizon, for having tried and flown, and given wings to those kites, even if only for a short while.

Cos’ that’s what kites are meant for – to fly.

As we are meant for - to take a shot at everything...even if after trying, we return bruised and battered, to familiar territory - terra firma.

Who'd make the best Bond?

‘Shaken, not stirred’ – a smooth voice booms in the watering hole.
You don’t need to scratch your head. God knows that you’ve heard the catchphrase long enough times to know that the world’s most celebrated spy is standing right behind you. You can visualize him clearly – suave, dressed in an impeccable Saville-Row suit, an Omega Seamaster adorning his wrist, and an Aston Martin waiting for his touch outside, and of course a bevy of admiring glances from both men and women alike. This British Secret Service agent has a license to kill, and takes it to a new level – a License to thrill.

For over five decades, James Bond has been scorching the scenes. It’s not hard to see why - adrenaline-thumping chase scenes, futuristic gadgets that do his bidding at the flick of a finger, a bevy of tantalizing beauties, his stock of ready one-liners in that much-perfected baritone – all do their job in making him a Box Office darling, raking in the moolah and making all those associated with the Bond banner go laughing all the way to the bank.

Sean Connery, Roger Moore, George Lazenby, Roger Moore, Timothy Dalton, Pierce Brosnan and now Daniel Craig – all have assayed the role of the world’s most famous secret agent, with varying degrees of success. And while I think 4 of them absolutely breathed life in their portrayal, I wouldn’t mind the following actors getting into 007’s skin and give that iconic introduction –

The names Bond...James Bond.

1. George Clooney – at the top of my list, most definitely. He oozes charm, can smooth talk his way through any situation, has that mischievous glint in his eyes, is a pro at wink-your-eye flirtiness, and has that slightly wicked-naughty streak. Oh and did I mention that he’s easy on the eyes and has been known to make millions of women worldwide go weak in the knees. With so much as a look...It’s been Intolerable Cruelty that he hasn’t been cast till now. EON Productions should absolutely Burn After Reading this!

2. Hugh Jackman – with his rugged-looks, this Aussie actor can pack a mean punch, thus bringing much-needed realism to the Bond movies. And of course, that baritone isn’t too bad either. It’ll be nice to see him trade his Wolverine three moon claws for a lethal Walther PPK. Will be great Prestige for this Leopold, I’m sure...

3. Gerard Butler – from a humble cameo as a crew member in 1997’s Tomorrow Never Dies to the actual her Majesty's agent, it would be RocknRolla good to see the valiant King Leonidas exchange his steely armor for a suave tuxedo.

4. Jason Statham – This Mean Machine is one helluva Transporter. Plus he looks good in a tux. Plus he’s an acclaimed Martial artiste. He’ll have to work on his voice though – that rasp couldn’t possibly pass off for Bond’s, hough the accent will be his redeeming point for sure.

5. Christian Bale – This stylish Welsh actor has proved his mettle time and again – as Batman, John Connor in the fourth of the Terminator series, as a serial killer in American Psycho. A veritable Treasure Island, he looks good in almost everything (or nothing, as the case may be). He can quip, wield a gun effortlessly, And we’d be delighted to see him reprise the role of Bond. Thank you very much!

6. Clive Owen – This Brit is as Inside Man as it gets and can easily Vroom away in the iconic black Aston Martin. He’s got it all – the looks, that genteel air, the talent – and is bound to leave in his wake millions of people panting for more...

7. Jude Law – He’s among the youngest in this section, but there’s nothing lacking in him in the looks, talent or charm department. We would Love, Honour and Obey this Talented Mr. Ripley if he were to shake his martini, curl his lip in mock-amusement and stroll into a packed-room with that debonair charm, knowing all too well that all eyes are upon him.

8. Ethan Hawke – quite a lady killer this – after all he managed to sweep Uma Thurman off her feet and also put a ring on her finger. Too bad the pair fell through, but one thing’s sure, if this Hamlet were to take on Bond’s role, it would be for keeps.

9. Colin Farrell – Fellow Irishman Pierce Brosnan once famously said that Colin Farrell would probably fit the best in Bond’s sleek shoes. This bad boy gadabout Alexander could be the real thing. After all, he knows a thing or two about strutting his stuff (both onstage and offstage), can arch his eyebrows in mock-amusement like Bond, can mix a mean drink, is not averse to kicking some bu**, is a Daredevil, a pro at driving fast cars, and is known for making women swoon.

10. Eric Bana – another Aussie on this list, this 40-something holds his own against heavyweights (remember him in that fight sequence with Brad Pitt in Troy). On top of that, he’s ruggedly handsome and that smile can make the toughest of hearts melt. ‘Nuff said!


So who do you think could set the BO on fire as Bond? While I’ve had my share of talking, it’s only fair that I turn it over to you.

Who do you think could best whip the likes of Le Chiffre, Goldfinger and Blofeld to pulp?

The boy who sold books at the traffic intersection

The flashy red car screeched to a halt, the 20-something college student pursing his lips in resentment at having missed the 60-second green pass at the traffic signal below the flyover. It was a scorching June evening, and despite the effective air-conditioning in his car, he would have to wait an 'agonizing' 180 seconds before he could take a speedy right turn and zoom towards his waiting-at-home-iced cola.

A blue car pulled up next to the first – albeit slowly, the middle-aged man driving it fishing out his phone to return that unattended call...

The cab of riotous young corporates sidled up next – clearly having the time of their lives by singing at the top of their voices – it was a Friday and they looked forward to a well-deserved weekend with family and friends...

A pretty young thing sat in the passenger seat of the sleek 30-lac plus pair of wheels that had purred alongside the cab. She looked at what appeared to be a chipped nail from an otherwise perfect manicure, a plaintive look writ large over her subtly made-up face.

The couple in the adjacent car had erupted into another fight, the hapless guy wringing his hands uneasily – his beau had issued yet another ultimatum to him, perhaps.

A motorcyclist doffed his bulky helmet, relishing what could only be described as a gust of blasting-hot wind. He then proceeds to give equal attention between the quarrelling couple and the pretty young thing.

And then everyone saw him.

A boy of barely 14 staggered-up to the stationary vehicles. At first glance, it appeared as if a stack of books were trudging valiantly to the waiting motorists. Of course that was highly improbable and a closer look revealed a spindly-thin boy who huffed-and-puffed his steps towards these people.

Self help books, potboilers, best sellers, science fiction, biographies, memoirs, travelogues, romances, anthologies, horror – he had them all. He wiped his dripping-with-perspiration face, and ventures to the first car.

The still-checking-out-her-chipped-nail girl glanced at him, dismissing him with a condescending eye.

The college-goer with the flashy red car displays all his pearlies to the boy, shaking his head vigorously from side to side. Whether it was to discourage the boy from making a customer out of him or to keep sync with the music that blared from the music-player, it had the desired effect – the boy nodded, happy to have seen one cheerful, friendly face, and moves on.

Next is the motorcyclist who scratches his head, clucks his tongue in annoyance, growling at the boy to leave him in peace.

The middle-aged man too, in the midst of an earnest conversation, frowns at him. The boy, not to be brushed aside so easily, proceeds with jabbing at one particular novel, murmuring how it was the latest bestseller. The man, clearly in no mood for purchasing the latest Jeffrey Archer, rolls down his window and rebukes – ‘Samajh main nahi aata – nahi chahiyey?(Don’t you understand – I don’t want?’)

The boy flinches, an alarmed look on his face, and plods to the office cab.

The noisy corporates jeer at him, composing songs about people who read books and died sad, lonely deaths.

Recoiling from their attack, the puzzled boy shuffles to the squabbling couple who looked close to exchanging blows and inflicting some serious physical damage on each other. The girl pauses to catch her breath from her nagging, cribbing bout, and the same second espies the young bookseller. She rolls down the car window and rattles off the names of a couple of books. The boy nods, checks with her if she would pay the quoted price, and when she replies in the affirmative, leaves all his books trustingly on the pavement below the flyover, dashing off to the next traffic intersection. Within less than a minute, he had returned with one of the two titles that the girl had asked for, and clasps the hundred-rupee note victoriously that she held out.

The run was worth it, and he caresses the currency note, smoothening out its creases, pocketing it, and returning to the pavement where he had placed his books.

The light turned green, and it was time for him to move to the next traffic signal.

With a spring in his step, despite the blazing heat, he wipes the perspiration from his forehead yet again, hums a tuneless song, and lumbers to the next batch of waiting motorists.

After all, even after he paid his daily quota to his owner, he could buy a humble meal for his mother and himself.

Maybe he would also pretend to read to her from one of the many books he sold – she would smile with great pride that her son could ‘Angrezi’ (English), not knowing that he usually created stories for her based on the many people he came across everyday at the traffic signals he frequented…

It was a good day and he looked up at the sky in gratitude...

Of pink eyes and dark sunglasses...

My particularly vengeful bout of conjunctivitis could put the cheesy Red-eyed Terminator to shame, what with the redness in my eyes clearly surpassing its inset LED.

But the similarity ends here - while the cyborg was on an unstoppable mission to 'terminate' a certain Sarah Connor, I on the other hand, long for normal un-blurry vision - when newspapers, television and the silver screen could see my active viewership again.

It really is no fun sitting near the idior box and looking like an idiot in the other direction, wondering whether the booming voice that emanated from it belongs to Brendan Fraser or Hugh Jackman. More pity if it is the latter and you are denied a look at that awesome Aussie.

And lest I have to make another trip to the ophthalmologist for yet more bottles of eye-drops, I think it is in order to bring a halt to this otherwise small post (by my standards), and give some much-needed rest to my laptop.

Sigh!

Spinning my tunes at the radio station

Ahh, the sheer thrill of being on air.

A couple of weeks back, hubby and I pulled up outside our home, keeping the car lights out except the one that lit up the dial, turning down the radio knob, and willing the phone to ring.

It did, putting us live on a local radio station, where we matched our wits with the spunky Radio Jockey. After the thoroughly enjoyable 3-minute plus conversation, we were richer by a couple tickets to a special screening of a much-touted sci-fi action thriller, slated for an official release next week.

The incident brought back a spate of fond memories from the year 2007, when best pal accompanied me to the office of the radio station where I was to host a show. How I landed this honour requires a lengthy narration, probably best suited for another day...

And that’s how I was ushered to the sound-proof studio where the RJ sat – let’s call him P - a popular voice, sans face, who entertained thousands every evening. He effortlessly hosted an English show – a boon for avid music lovers who turned up the knob when they recognized the strains of their favourite English cult classic. There was of course no script, and he would pepper the show with his tongue-in-cheek humour, speaking with cheerful abandon with the many people who called in. He spoke with them all – the incessantly giggling sorts, the eternally gloomy, the crisp professional, the completely-in-awe of him chaps, the rude losers, and even those who’ve perhaps seen ‘Sleepless in Seattle’ more times than necessary…

I was to observe him for a few minutes, and once comfortable, take over from him – for the rest of the 45-50 minutes. As a bonus, I could play my favourite tracks, whether or not they were requested for by those who called-in.

It was my first time in a recording studio, and I was understandably curious, my eyes darting and taking in all of the room. A large console (board) bang in the middle of the room occupied most of the space. After cracking a joke for the listeners and cranking up the volume for a catchy ‘80s number, the RJ turned to me, and after a warm welcome, proceeded to give me a rapid intro to what was what…

The two screens on the console controlled the Radio station – this was the first bit of info that came my way. Second – the walls had special soundproofing. The digital system stored songs, promos and commercials on it. A couple of laptops were hidden from view by P’s large frame – they had various fancy-sounding software for editing phone calls, beeping any cussing sounds that may be used. What was probably most fascinating, besides the console where you could crank up the volume of a song, were the bright orange microphones with ‘wind-screens’ over them. Apparently even the sound of one’s breathing blowing into the microphone could make one sound as if trapped in the middle of a storm. There was also a handy list of several songs listings – including, much to my pleasure, many of my preferred tunes.

A variety of paraphernalia lay scattered in the brightly-lit room – the last slice of someone’s pepperoni pizza (P’s I guess), a guitar, cymbals, a tambourine, three mouth organs, and some other musical instruments I didn’t know the names of. Posters lined two of the walls. Several music CDs overflowed from a half-opened drawer.

The above was all within a span of 4-5 minutes, during which time, the air-conditioning had wiped out any traces of humidity from that Friday evening, and pretty soon, it was time for 3...2...1, and I was on my own. Well, almost...

Steering clear of the lame introduction that I had thought of in the previous five minutes, I plunged into the show. Light-hearted bantering between P and me on prime-time seemed to be going well, as I could gauge from my sternest critic – best buddy, who nodded his head after regular intervals. It was time for a song and I succeeded in bullying P to airing one of my favourite tunes – ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ All this while, my phone buzzed merrily with messages from friends who had been informed well in advance to block an hour of their time, and who were dutifully listening in.

I was more comfortable and ever – and volunteered to pick the next call, a feisty girl who wanted to chatter about all and sundry. Of course, she wanted to listen to that dying breed – boy bands. After her was a chap, a self-proclaimed culturally-rich sort, who was disdainful of today’s theatre performances. He had no music request, which meant I was free to play what I wanted, which in this case, meant Lynyrd Skynyrd. Hurray!

The next few minutes were interspersed by more bantering, some commercials, 3 (or was it 4) songs, and finally it was time to wrap-up, much to my gloom after my 45 minutes of fame. Apparently, as soon as the clock struck 10, it was time for the next programme, which would play back Bollywood numbers, and spilling time over from one programme to another was frowned upon.

But well, surprise surprise - I wasn’t complaining.

After all,
I’d spun some tunes,
Talked to complete strangers without hanging up,
Had a super chatter-away time,
Revelled in that heady rush of being live on air,
Now, how many people can claim that? At least the last one?*



*And there it is – my modesty - back in action in my swollen head...
Sometimes I wonder why I wasn’t spanked when I was a kid. Should have had. Would have done me some good...