Jaipur Jaunt

I deserved a pat on the back. Despite the nip in the air last Saturday morning, I had done the unthinkable - swapped loyalties from my bed for a train journey to Jaipur. So while most people lay swaddled in their cozy mink blankets, two eager beavers – Mum and I, set out on our Jaipur jaunt.

The 4-hour something journey was uneventful, patterned with both us girls nodding off in unison, only to be awakened by either liveried attendants who wanted to feed us or by the the dull recorded monotone of the woman, announcing the arrival of a station.

The ticket collector had chattily informed us that the train halted at Jaipur for a mere 5 minutes. We hopped off excitedly, animated expressions writ clearly over our faces. 10 mins later, the hotel cab transported us through the dusty streets, bringing back warm (literally) memories of another time when a friend and I had visited another lovely city in Royal Rajasthan – Jaisalmer.

The hotel was opulent, doing full justice to the luxurious pictures that were splashed on its website. A quick freshening up, and the mother-daughter duo was more than ready to explore the Pink City.

And we weren’t disappointed. Markets beckoned us invitingly, their colorful wares spread cheerfully both inside and outside shops. A tourist tried on colorful lac bangles, while yet another was busy adjusting a rainbow-hued turban onto his blonde, wavy hair. Some children, oblivious to the sounds and smells of the markets, had decided that one corner belonged to them, and were busy in a game of hopskotch.

Three gipsy women, bedecked in silver ornaments, were sharing a beedi, and no doubt, stories that were undoubtedly the cause of much amusement to them – which explained their giggles at regular intervals. It being a weekend, college girls had decided to visit all shops – to touch a dupatta here, sample some scented saunf (asafoetida) there, try on a gaily-colored jutti or a beaded necklace ahead, look longingly at a colorful lehenga that spangled from inside a shop’s display window. They settled at purchasing some bangles each, their lilting laughter following all the way to the corner shop where they stopped to share some some sour and spicy pani puris. Some minutes later, noses running, eyes streaming, they head to the nearby theater to check if their two most favorite Bollywood movie stars could wield the same magic they did when they romanced in the green-yellow mustard fields of Punjab some 15 years ago.

We weaved our way through the market, heading for the fourteenth floor revolving restaurant of a hotel which promised to show entire Jaipur even as one made his way through his Makhani Daal and Amritsari Naan. It lived up to its promise. We ate a hearty meal, fascinated by seeing the entire Jaipur unfold around us. Some picturesque places were immediately added to our to-see list, their names provided by an attentive restaurant maitre.

The next few hours unfolded the heritage of this Planned city – our rented cab shuttling us from one glorious architectural specimen to another. Hawa Mahal, Amer Fort, Albert Hall Museum, City Palace, Jantar Mantar, Statue Circle, Kanak Vrindavan Valley, Sawai Mansingh Stadium (where a thrilling, much-awaited ODI between India and South Africa was to commence the next day) – all these and more were duly visited and clicked pictures at.

The evening was cooler – and we sped to Chokhi Dhani – an ‘authentic’ village atmosphere, spread over 10 acres, which promises to capture the very essence and spirit of Rajasthan. Camels and elephants vied for tourists’ attention, as did folk dancers, acrobats and other artistes. An astrologer – complete with a merrily-picking-tarots-from-the-ground parrot, sat in a corner – surrounded by people eager to hear what lay in store for them. An old, turbaned handlebar-moustached artiste sang in accompaniment to a sarangi. Age had been kind on his voice and his rendition of famous folklore songs stayed with you long after you had passed him. A community styled dining room was where we headed to next. The next 20 minutes probably made it to my tummy’s record list. Smiling attendants (force)fed you with around 10 different varieties of lentils and vegetables, 4 different types of bread and two sweetmeats. People watched in wide-eyed surprise (horror)? as yet another cheerful attendant poured an enormous spoonful of rich, Indian clarified butter onto the bowl of lentils.

Half hour later, we carried our overfed tummies out of the ethnic village, groaning about the pure act of hospitality we had just experienced.

An hour later at the hotel, while recounting how we were unable to see the puppet show at Chokhi Dhani, the executive manning the front desk, very thoughtfully arranged a puppet show right in the hotel premises, next to the sparkling pool. A delighted Mum and me watched spellbound, joined soon by various other Europeans who were also guests at the hotel. Gushing about the hotel’s hospitality, we went up to our tastefully furnished room, and decided to call it a day.

The next morning was dedicated to what we do best – shopping. No wonder my left palm had been itching for the past two days! What was meant to be an only-one-piece-of-baggage journey soon turned into several odd packets. But neither of us was complaining.

The hearty breakfast at the hotel carried us through the day, and several hours later, a late lunch ensued, after which it was time to fetch our baggage from the hotel.

And catch our return train to Delhi, with fond memories of a city that overwhelmed us with its sights, foods, rich culture, and larget-than-life hospitality….

Watching spooky flicks - a 'ghost' of a chance for me...

I grew up on a regular diet of books. You could call me your regular bookworm. However, there was one stack of books I never did touch - my brother’s collection of horror novels (No he wasn’t a bookworm, he just kept them to keep me from fiddling in his shelf).

The only ghost I could see without scaring people half to death with my bloodcurdling scream, was Casper. And he didn’t really count – cute, white, slightly obese kid-ghost. That he stayed in a gravestone only added to his quirkiness…
So here I am - an incurable phasmophobe. In simpler words, I fear ghosts. Many might share my fear, I know. It gives me some solace that there are many others like me whose hearbeats increase rapidly, a feeling of dread descends, their mouths go dry - when they as much as hear a friend narrate a particularly spooky story in the middle of a night.

Best friend is a sucker for horror, spooky tales. And movies. If she’s watching one at home, chances are that it would be along the likes of The Exorcist, The Haunting, Poltergeist, Blair Witch Project, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the Evil Dead, or Ring. And to think that during the most scary parts, she calmly pops popcorn into her mouth. More recently – she’s been gushing about the home-video Paranormal Activity, a spooky flick about a young couple who have a demonic presence in their apartment. Even hubby dearest is partial to this very same movie. Argh!

Which brings me to that eternal question – why do people pay big bucks at theaters to get terrified?
Is it the thrill of getting to assess their threat levels?
Does it elicit some primal behavior?
Do they like the escapism factor?
Do they get an adrenaline rush akin to like going on a rollercoaster ride?
Do they like the idea of watching someone’s fear unfold in a controlled environment?
Or do they like to count their palpitating heart beats?

Beats me!

What's your say?

People you see at the gym

A well-heeled patron of the gym that I am an (in)frequent member of, had his picture splashed over Monday’s daily supplement. There he was, flashing his pearlies, arm-in-arm wth wifey dearest, bringing in his birthday in style. In style, it certainly must have been, as a host of tinseltown celebs, P3 regulars and the ubiquitous blowing-kisses-at-the-camera PYTs had all decided to pop in to wish the birthday boy (man?) as he ushered in his 40th Bday.

Which brought me to think of the different types of people I get to see sweating it out at the gym. Chances are – this list is not comprehensive (thanks to a fluctuating-in-regularity gym-goer ). Any guesses who?

So you have the sweaty and smelly guy. He is averse to showering on the days he works out (and he works out six times a week – so you do the Math). To make matters worse, he’s never heard of a deodorant stick – he hops around you, pumping iron, assailing your sense of smell, increasing your agony by leaps and bounds. He is the sole reason why so many people in his proximity take recourse to botox – they wrinkle their noses and furrow their foreheads so when he’s around. See him – and you should run a mile away, or burrow deep into the ground, the gym-towel tightly wrapped around your nose.

Next is the Screamer. Now, people have been known to let out a grunt or an occasional groan when they are in the midst of a heavy-duty workout. Fair enough. Not this one – he lets out a loud yelp, startling everyone in the vicinity of half a mile. Five seconds later, people exchange amused glances and resume their interrupted workout. A screech follows, a mini-scream that would do a banshee proud, and then several squeals that would have no doubt been helpful in attracting a drove of pigs into a celebratory mating ritual. This guy rubbishes anyone who extols the virtue of silence. Keep some cotton swabs ready if you happen to be near him, unless you enjoy the idea of jumping out of your skin every now and then.

Then there is the mobile maniac. This one’s perfected the art of multi-tasking. Eyes trained on the speed, his feet move effortlessly on the cross-trainer, while his / her fingers hammer away at a much-used mobile phone. Tiny giggles also make their way to your ears, when he / she reads a particularly funny sms. They can also, during the midst of this all, receive a phone call and jabber away, without any trace of a pant or a huff entering into their voices. And to think that my speech becomes wobbly if I happen to walk my jelly thighs above a speed 6. Shame on me!

You have also the shine sisters. Their favorite tree is a Christmas tree. Which explains their fascination for dolling / dressing up as one. Early morning, late evening, night time – whatever time they enter the gym premises, they shine, glimmer, gleam, twinkle. Glossy lipped, freshly-straightened, neatly combed back or sleekly-ponytailed hair, they are often seen in gold or spangled silver leotards. Each time they turn in the bright gym lights, you wince, your eyes hurting from the riot of sparkling colors that they call their gymwear. If not daintily sipping cupfuls of water, they are found staring at themselves in any shiny (what else) surface that catches their eyes. Often the most amusing sorts, they are also sometimes blessed with high-pitched, unnatural voices. Which adds to their charm most definitely…

Who can forget the buxom babe. She is sometimes also referred to as the Cleavage Queen. Her mantra in clothing is – ‘Less is more.’ She strides into the gym, aware that all eyes are upon her, straining to see what she’s worn for the day. And she sure doesn’t disappoint you – her low cut, heaving tank top, leaving nothing to the imagination, causing many a guy to suddenly develop an interest in jogging on the treadmill next to hers. After twenty minutes or so of shimmying her derriere and shaking her booty, she hops off, leaving the guys guessing what she’d do next. She sashays over to the yoga mat – for her calisthenics – titillating the spectators with her ample-skin showing squats-lunges-sit-ups-crunches-jumping-jacks routine. Next, she straddles the exercycle, riding it suggestively, causing men to goggle and women to roll their eyes in derision. A collective sigh escapes when she exits the gym after her show, oops I mean workout, leaving behind a trail of overpowering perfume and a group of love-lorn guys / disdainful girls.

The fashion-challenged – this guy screams ‘Look at Me,’ and would love to be called ‘Has It.’ But what sounds good as a tag line for lycra, is completely washed and wasted on him. What else can explain the bandanna over his overly gelled hair, sheer black vest (showing his rudimentary breasts), micro-shorts that can pass off as briefs, the flaming red pair of Nikes he’s donned and the cologne that would best be suited for spritzing as a car fragrance. He passes you with a breezy smile, a faithful iPod in his left hand, a pair of silver gloves clutched in his hand. You blink rapidly, mentally giving him an A for his confidence. Not a bad sort this one – if you discount his self-proclaimed (lack of) style statement.

The I’m-my-own-instructor (and yours too) is another specimen you meet. No matter how fast you run on the treadmill, he can outrun you. No matter how heavy your weights are, he can add another 5 kgs and lift them nonchalantly. You flex your (budding) muscles, he will stand next to you, flaunting his bulging, rippling, sinewy muscles in your face. Each time he crosses you, you suck in your breath (curse the Tandoori chicken you washed down with beer the night before), and exhale only when he is well out of sight. Whatever your workout regime is, he can do better. And he makes no bones about letting you know. So there starts the free, unwarranted advice hour.
Sample this - 'Uh-huh-pick-it-this-way' (free demonstration)
'Nope, you getting it all wrong, man – hold it like this' (another demonstration)
'That protein shake is no good, you should drink this' (rattles off name) - you get the drift, don’t you.
Best avoided, this dude can cause you some serious ego issues. Besides of course, a severely saturated pair of ears.

Then there is the Perfume factory, doused in an entire bottle of Davidoff (the cologne I love to hate). He / she bathes in perfume, and even before they enter, their cologne has long entered, making people a) gag and drop with dizziness b) sneeze uncontrollably c) hold their breaths for 10 seconds or so d) bring out their tiny jar of coffee beans concealed in their palm for precisely this very moment or e) bolt for the nearest spot under the fan / next to the air con duct and gulp / suck in mouthfuls of unadulterated air. Having just freshly emerged from a shower in Chanel, they saunter into the gym, completely oblivious to the fact that others are poking fun at their social ignorance and over-indulgence. Why must they marinate in their perfume, is everyone’s favorite question…

There is that category – the Hopeless – no matter how much they run, panting to catch their breaths, or slogging it out on the floor, they fail to even lose an inch. They blame their metabolism rate, and have tried every trick in the book – fasting, crash diets, Chinese tea, you name it. They huff and puff everyday, smile sadly at their reflection and when everything fails, they step out of the gym after their workout and out of sheer misery, reach out for that double chocochip brownie, dipped in sinful chocolate. Nuff said.

Another breed are the eternally optimistic. Small, thin frame notwithstanding, they are hell-bent upon lifting the heaviest weights. Sweat drops drip freely from their exhausted faces, their arms tremble, their eyes glaze, they grit their teeth, and gasp and puff while lifting the said weights. Anxious about safety regulations gym instructors advise them to take it easy, but these sorts are on a personal proving-to-all mission, and after collapsing for a five-minute tongue-lolling-out-wheezing interval, are at it again - hopeful that the next session would fare better...Some day...

There is the obnoxious sort - the suggestive starer – the one who makes you want to recall all your karate moves from secondary school. He stares lasciviously, salivating rapidly, licking his lips and smacking them at the sight of any bare skin. You can almost see the drool near his lips. Women glare coldly at him, but he’s a thick-skinned wretch, and goes on to hum yet another suggestive song, all the while making slobbering sounds. He receives another warning from the gym management, and is sober – but only till he sees the next woman in shorts. And then he goes into yet another spasm of pleasure. The only exercise he probably does is when he gets back home – with his right hand. Women would give their right hand to get him murdered – but knowing him, he would dribble drool over that hand first.

And lastly there is the Invisible Gym-goer, a category I belong to. They epitomize the blink-and-you’ll-miss-them breed. You see them enter the gym (once? Or twice a week? God knows!), walk reluctantly to the machines on display or pick the yoga mats half-heartedly. You turn to smile at them, and Voila! They are nowhere to be seen, making you scratch your head in puzzlement as to whether you actually saw them in the first place, or they were just an apparition from your vivid imagination. Some questions have no answers - this being one of them. Ask around about these types, and chances are that the others are equally clueless as you.

What other sorts do you bump into when you go for your workout? Care to share?

Presents at a Price?

There it was – nestled comfortably between the spangled saree and the paisley paperbag it came packed in. Nothing about it was inconspicuous – it stood out like a sore thumb.

Rupees 2800 only – it declared proudly in italicised letters.

This wasn’t the first time that some no-doubt ‘well-meaning’ friend / relative had done the unforgivable – left the price tag on a gift. Not only does it look tacky, but it also makes me feel as if they are weighing how much I mean to them monetarily by spending a said amount on me.
Oh him – let’s give him a 1500-rupee wallet.
Ohh she – let’s see – this 750 rupee shirt will do.
For him, uhmm – this 400 rupee folder is good enough.
And for added measure, let’s leave the price tags on.

Both those ladies – Miss Manners and Dame Etiquette will probably have fits. Not of laughter. But of spluttering indignation.

Now, I can understand leaving the store’s tag and bar / scan code on, if the recipient might want to exchange it. Stores nowadays have an exchange policy even if the price is obliterated or ripped off. I’ve been there, done that – to exchange for a better sized piece of clothing or a different colored item. Without a price tag, no less!

But heck no – the gift-giver refuses to part with the price tag. So before taking the fume out from its velvet case, you have to first deal with the annoying yellow label that sticks out prominently.

So even before the heavenly fragrance can reach my happy nose, the thought that I owe the giver a specified monetary value, takes away from what would have otherwise been a delightful moment. It’s almost as if the giver just rubbed it in my face how much he / she shelled out for a prezzie for me, initiating thoughts that I should reciprocate with an equivalent-valued gift. I’d rather do without that someone-spent-a-mini-fortune-upon-me gift, thank you very much.

A few weeks back, I chanced to overhear a fifty-something lady getting a gift packed at a swish mall. The attendant, while cutting the ribbons and wrapping paper, asked if he should put a piece of scotch-tape on where the price was and remove it. The lady smiled, shook her head, and went back to animatedly describing the gift she’d bought for a relative (and its cost) to somebody on the other end of her phone line. Brought up in a household where leaving the price tag on was frowned upon, I couldn’t help but cast a woeful look at the lady in question.

I’ve also seen people take the discount tag off from an item and keeping the original price tag on. What do the less harsh people have to say to that ‘act of forgetfulness?’ Ha!

It’s almost an insult. Like the gifter is blatantly flaunting his wealth / social prestige – ‘See, I bought you that Swarovski pendant for your birthday / anniversary, simply because I can afford to. Did any of your other other so-called friends get you a premium gift?’

Completely takes the thoughfulness out of the gift giving, don’t you think?

Or do you disagree?