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?’