The 'Aur Batao' syndrome

The phone rings. It’s really not one of your speaking days, yet you sigh, cradling the phone in your palm, and exchange the mandatory greetings.

Barely a minute into the pleasantries, and you hear that most annoying of questions –‘Aur Batao' (loosely translated as ‘Tell Me More’)?

You reply with the listless, non-commital ‘Nothing much, things are pretty decent,’ statement that you have mugged-up for precisely such moments.

Hoping that the person on the other side of the line gets the hint, and gives you the opportunity to parrot that much-too-obvious-cheerful ‘Bye.’

She is made of stronger stuff though and it’s easier said than done to shake her off.

And so she starts venting. A not-so-brief vent / crib.

About the weather.
The latest scandal to have hit tinsel town.
The so-called smug friend who drops names lavishly.
Her year-end plans to go for an oh-so-romantic cruise.
Colleagues who make her hair stand up on end.
Upcoming movies that have made it to her definitely-must-watch list.

You try a couple of times to butt-in, but you obviously cannot manage a word in between.

And then the ironical expression resurfaces – ‘Aur Batao.’ Yeah Right!!

You hitch your eyebrows, and manage to mumble a lame ‘Nothing. All is well.’

To which, the joker, oblivious to your reticence, chants an ‘Oh, ok.’ And her most favourite expression comes flooding back. With a vengeance!

‘Aur Batao.’

Aaargh! Bite Me!

Telecom companies must sure love these two words that probably standalone marshal a sizeable revenue for them.

You wish the phone lines would snap, thus ending the meaningless conversation that is taking place (horror horror) in your very own life, and not from some monotonous family saga that some women swear by religiously.

Ha! Fat chance! If your luck were really that good, you would have hit the jackpot a couple of times by now, considering you had bought tickets to every Lotto since you were 15.

Your walk down memory lane is interrupted by yet another ‘Aur Batao.’ (In Tone #77 - there are different pitches and tones in which this question is uttered, you see - from a sighing fashion to a more upbeat one, from a squeaky falsetto to a deep-throated one).

Sheeeesh! Why the constant prodding?

Christ! If you did want to tell her in the first place, you wouldn't need the constant nudging for sure!

It’s easier to get a dog to part with his bone that it is to elicit a response from you, by using that obnoxious, Nosy Parker-ish, intrusive query, innit?

Don't people learn?

Aur Ab Aaap Batao?*
(Cheshire-cat grin)

*(Loosely translated into 'And now, you tell me more).

Through the looking glass...

Came across a very interesting fact file. Apparently, sunglasses appeared on the scene first in China, and subsequently Italy, but not for what they are used today. Instead, they were used to shield the expressions of judges while they decided court cases, and questioned those in the witness stand.

Today, we are obviously spoilt for choice, and see sunglasses ranging from the wonderful to the weird. For God's sake, you even have those with integrated audio players. Whatever will we have next? Nevertheless, these definitely UP your glam quotient and accentuate your best features.

So we have the most famous style – called the Aviators – perhaps what notched up their spectacular success was their endorsement by a Hollywood celeb, who was earlier famous for a particular 'Maverick' role, but who now, is equally famous (notorious?) with a couch-hopping episode on a very visible chat show.

Next, we have the Jacki-O's or the Onassis glares, sometimes called Vintage / retro glasses), named after JFK's glam wife. These are a preferred lot with today's celebs, who are perpetually trying their best to hide from the pesky paparazzi. Today, they adorn the entire world and its neighbour, for which they have a very 'posh' woman to thank.

You also have tea-shades, referred to as John Lennons or Ozzy glasses (after Ozzy Osbourne), round lenses, held together by a thin rim. Not a style that suits all, these glares need to be worn keeping one's face-cut in mind, lest someone may mistake you for a frog with exopthalmic goitre and
a) either run away from you
or
b) wait for you to hear you croak and hop away.

Next in line are the Wayfarers considered only next to aviators in terms of classic enduring styls that never go out of vogue. They have been made famous by numerous actors and actresses. The trapezoid sits pertly on one's nose, thick arms preventing them from getting unstable and falling off. However, these frames again do not suit all, and if not quite right, can make the wearer look straight out of the pages of a masquerade ball.

The rimless glasses have rapidly ascended the style charts. Sometimes termed snow-goggles, they are larger than the average wayfarer, and perch smartly over the bridge of one's nose. Since they are rimless, they do not sit heavy.

And of course, who can forget the two blinking red hearts perched atop the bridge of a bratty Indian actor's nose last year - and which went straight to the top of the quirky ladder. Millions followed suit - and the red glares were also spotted on an American pop singer, famed for her outrageous dressing sense...

There are of course major benefits of donning sunglasses. They accentuate your best features. Read: eyes too small – wear a dark pair. Unibrow – Jacki O's for you all the way. Nose too thin or fat – choose a flattering Vintage pair. Also, because they make eye contact impossible, glares are conducive in those shoe-shifting, lying moments.

And of course, after a particularly 'spirited' time, and your bloodshot eyes are a dead giveaway or if you have been shedding buckets for that no-gooder beau who left you high and dry, these peeper-hiders come to your rescue brilliantly.

Oh and did I mention, they also do the run-of-the-mill, obvious function of saving your eyes from harmful ultraviolet rays? Yawnnn!

Let's blow out the candles: Happy Birthday!

To the A-lister, who made being of Irish descent fashionable, here’s wishing him many many more birthday candles to blow out. Cheers!

Happy Birthday, George Clooney!

Being him sure isn’t easy. Here’s why:

• He’s the first person to be nominated for Oscars for both Best Director (Good Night, and Good Luck), and Best Supporting Actor (Syriana) in the year 2006 (He won in the latter category). And we know that that gold-plated lady is pretty choosy, turning up her nose more times than Paris Hilton can change her beaus

• Named the Sexiest Man Alive by People Magazine, not once, but twice. Again a first.. Is the world sitting up and taking note? The only other guys to be named twice besides Clooney – Brad Pitt (drool) and Johnny Depp (pant pant). Now why aren’t we surprised?

• This yummy, baritoned-twinkling eyed Batman, is the United Nations messenger of peace. May there be more super heroes like him! Of course, the Bat Mobile must make it easier for him to Vroooom there

• Talk about confidence. He has struck arguably one of Hollywood’s most-talked about bet. Both Michelle Pfeiffer and Nicole Kidman bet him $ 10,000 each that by the time he turned 40, he would have fathered at least one child. They were both wrong. Beaten, they sent their respective cheques to him, which were duly returned. Reason – he bet double or nothing, adding that he would still not have fathered a child even by age 50. Well, he turns 50 today, and I bet Michelle and Nicole have had to eat humble-pie again.

• Being the eternal bachelor, he’s turned on the charm to thousands of swooning women. There are also those who make a beeline to Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum in Vegas, to be photographed with a beaming, ‘Marrying George Clooney’ in a tux, no less. Visitors can put on a wedding gown and stand right next to the beaming wax impression (and now you know the second reason for me to make a visit to LV)…Shhhhhh...


• He’s had my attention since the first time I saw him in Street Hawk. Talk about first impressions. Okie okie, am making this up – I looked this one up;-)

As this salt-and-pepper haired hottie turns 50 today, let’s just hope that he never goes “Out of Sight,” cos’ it would be “Intolerable Cruelty” if that totally unthinkable thing were to happen.

And, let’s see, perhaps “One Fine Day,” I do get to meet him…that’ll sure have me on cloud nine, “Up in the air.”

Ahhh! dreams...What would I do without them?

“Good Night and Good Luck” to me.

Knock on wood...

Women Who Whistle

WWW – What is arguably the most common acronym for the World Wide Web, has another connotation for me.

I belong to that category of women – the ones that whistle. Hence the acronym – WWW – Women Who Whistle.

And it’s jolly good fun too.

I suppose the habit stuck to me while reading ‘Little Women’ – donkeys years back (might I add), when Jo (Josephine) is reprimanded for whistling, as it was boyish and unfeminine. Jo, the obstinate mule that she was, obviously stuck to her whistling routine, much to Meg’s annoyance.

There! I said it. I probably began whistling to annoy people.

Except that it turned out, many found it unusual / cool, and I often had requests for renditions of cat calls, loud whistles and the eternal favorite – whistling to popular Bollywood / Hollywood tracks. And since modesty is just not one of my virtues, let me add too that I am also pretty good at it still (Tilt of hat, victory bow.

Of course, there were the odd / exasperated looks I got from an entire class of aunts who tut-tutted and shook their heads in dismay, narrating stories of unladylike girls who whistled in gay abandonment. My refrain that some girls sang; my thing was whistling, didn’t really gather the endorsement I was hoping to garner. There were also constant references to that ancient poem which never failed to elicit a baleful look from me, going somewhat like this:

“A whistling maid and a crowing hen
are neither fit for God or men…”

Hearing the above was enough to make me pucker up and go into a five minute frenzy of whistling loudly, tunelessly (deliberate), accompanied by its equally cacophonic drumming of palms on any wooden surface. It sounded like a cageful of angry birds who were drumming for all their worth…Oh yeah, tit for tat was definitely in vogue back then…Pleas for putting an end to whistling fell on my intentionally deaf ears. The only thing that worked was being presented with a stick of gum or a candy bar, which seemed to do the trick – well at least for sometime…

I also bayed for anyone’s blood who proceeded to recite the following:

“Grandma told a curious thing
Boys must whistle, and girls must sing.”
Ha!

Eventually, I’ve turned out pretty fine…I can hear a multitude of aunts sighing with relief. I still whistle occasionally – I call them my happy tunes. I whistle ditties to children. I whistle in the shower (and drown out the sound of the pesky neighborhood kids who scream like banshees in the park while playing footie). I also whistle to my Labrador, who cocks his ear to one side and looks at me from the corner of his eye, a half-amused, droll expression plastered on his face. Whistling is severely underrated, I think. Perhaps it is the sheer knowledge that what one can whistle, the iPod can do a note-to-note perfect rendition…Maybe there ought to be a law making whistling compulsory at schools – like they do at La Gomera, a Spanish island where the government is trying to keep the national whistling language, el Silbo, alive...

A recent invite for an audition to the country’s premier whistling organization, was an honor...which unfortunately now has to be put aside for a later month, thanks to the cast on my leg. Drat! Just my luck!

But as is said, I’ll be back. Like the wind (pun intended)...

Getting into one's hair

For as long as I can remember, I have had a complex relationship with my hair.

I have my fair share of “dreadful” hair days even today, when nothing on earth can possibly drag me out of the house, programs of wine tasting / shopping notwithstanding.

Then I have the days when all I can think of is going the bald way, or getting them shorn like new army recruits. Between these days of insanity, I also have the my-hair-refuses-to-grow-no-matter-what-product-I-use-on-it days, the cribbing-about-my-lackluster-hair days, and the plain I-just-don’t-like-my-hair days, interspersed with the four times a year the-jerk-at-the-salon-cut-my-hair-too-short moan.

Way back in school, I was resigned to my curly, unmanageable mop of hair, held in place with what could only be a zillion hair clips, and which would, invariably fly pell-mell, when I would shake my ringlets. An incident in my secondary primary school is still etched in my otherwise muddled, amnesiac, absent-minded head, is of my classmates, who, for want of a pen stand, decided that the curls on my hair were the perfect place to keep their pens / pencils. Imagine my surprise (and the teacher’s displeasure) when a couple of pencils and / or pens (I fail to remember which), darted across my desk onto the cold, tiled floor, when I tossed my mane….distracting the entire class from a surprise test…let’s just say that I had more to worry about that day than just my poor score at the test…

College was the time which unleashed all my pent-up creativity with my hair. Styles came and went. Bangs, pony-tails, feather-cuts, pinned-back - you name it. Various hues also passed their fair share across my otherwise, natural chestnut-brown hair. (Long live hair mascaras – that was our favorite refrain). One evening, when my name was boomed on the PA System, announcing that I had a visitor, I came sprinting down the stairs, two at a time. As good luck would have it, I met a chum on the way, who intimated me about my father’s arrival – her one look at my brinjal-colored hair had me sprinting back upstairs to my room, dash to the shower, shampoo and towel in hand. 3.5 minutes later, I was transformed from hippie hell’s own aubergine-haired child to presentable teenager. Whew! That I had a serious case of the sneezes, oh well! That’s quite another story. Atishooooo!!!

And then one day in college, I decided – enough was enough. Curly was ugly. Period.

Chop chop chop, the stylist snipped “em off with barely-concealed glee. I hoped they would grow – glossy and poker-straight, and look straight from the pages of the fashion glosses we pored over for hours. I couldn’t have been more wrong! The hair grew back – oh yes. BUT CURLIER THAN EVER! Much to my utter disgust.

Next in line was the last solution left in the book - permanent straightening. What followed were the mandatory visits to nearby salons of repute. The decision had been made – curly was no longer what I wanted. It was poker-straight hair, all the way.

And no – even the teeny-weeny wave wouldn’t do.

The day dawned – appointments had been made well in order. The night before, I stared and stared at the mirror, asking myself if I would miss my curls, and all that tossing around of ringlets…but my mind was set. Punctual me arrived bang on time…

5 hours in the salon, and when I emerged, gone were the curls and waves. I had given the no-no to the stylist, who insisted that feathered bangs would look grrrrrreat on me. The glossy hair all over my head felt nothing less than great. However, I was still uncertain about how I looked.

With unsure steps, I descended the stairs. It being evening time, the small box-shaped market was teeming with people. While crossing a display window at a jeweller’s, I glimpsed a young woman, walking with unsure steps. Her hair looked great though.

She smiled back. A dimple sparkled. Her cheeks flushed, she tossed her tresses slightly.

And walked on, a spring in her step, renewed confidence written boldly over her face.

The other Sania Bhabhi

With the World Cup thrill reaching a crescendo, it is not uncommon to find motorists, eyes firmly set on the road, ears glued to the various radio channels that do a neat job of narrating the latest scores.

With the din that the crowds make, it is a marvel that the commentary is audible, which probably accounts for the hiked decibel levels of the car’s music system and furrowed lines on the motorist and his passengers’ foreheads.

Without warning, the cheering of the stadium crowds fades away, to give way to the exaggerated drawl and provocative sighs of a woman, who calls herself ‘Aapki Bhabhi Sania.’

The titular ‘Bhabhi,’ with a wristful of jingling bangles, proceeds to read out a letter that she’s penned, one of the many she’s written in the past few weeks, addressed to one of her numerous ‘devars’ (brothers-in-law).

Her style is inimitable (and not in a good way). She speaks in a breathless, sultry tone, her amorousness all too evident in the way she voices her text. While her innuendos are not explicit, they are enough to slice through the air, and elicit an awkward laugh / pause in the conversation that the passengers in the car might be having.

More titillating laughter ensues on the part of ‘Sania Bhabhi,’ who reads her corny, rife with sexual overtones letter. The letter is replete with allusions to the cricketers’ rippling muscles, masculine prowess, and ability to bring her to her knees (Uhmmm) – all with subtle promiscuity thrown in for good measure. Just when you shake your head in utter disbelief at the veiled, suggestive statements she just poured into your ears, she probably takes a cue, and signs off, but not before an ardent sigh escapes from her, almost as if she were heaving her bosom at the sad thought of leaving her ‘spellbound’ listeners.

One last throaty laugh, and it’s time for Sania Bhabhi to be off and a commercial to be aired, much to the palpable delight of the passengers who recently underwent severe discomfiture.

Leaving prudish puritans yelling their lungs out about the debauchery this world had come to, as compared to the libertarians who pooh-pooh and scoff at this blatantly overbearing censoring.

Which one are you? The puritan or the libertarian?

Drop me a line...

Showing one's true colours

With the festival of colors barely four days from now, the kids in my colony never had it better.

Especially since my ample posterior literally cries out to them, begging them to perfect their water-balloon target throwing skills upon it. And the obliging souls that they are, they obviously can’t say no to such a sincere request.

The lil devils, armed to the teeth with their stash of ‘missiles,’ take refuge in balconies, terraces; behind bushes, and cars, ready to swoop upon any unsuspecting victim who decides to make an entry in the declared-danger zone.

The unwary prey approaches, oblivious to the shock that is about to befall him.
5
4
3
2
1
With a war cry that is clearly enough to wake the dead, the young fiends come out in all their united glory. As if caught in a trance, the victim blinks – once, twice, and then, before comprehension dawns upon him, all hell breaks loose.

The water pichkaris (water guns) are pulled out, releasing a stinging current of colored water upon the poor soul. As the chap gasps, trying to regain his startled breath, a regular stream of water balloons descend upon him, pelting him as hard as probably a bunch of stones would. Wiping his face and looking at his clothes with a dismayed expression on, his look changes to one of sheer horror when he looks up at the balcony of giggling uns, and suddenly realizes that they are not done yet. No Sir!

Whooooosh! A bucketful of icy cold water greets his face and clothes, making him look like a cross between a mangly, wet puppy and a rotten custard apple that even the friendly fruit vendor leaves for the bees.

Our man is now livid. Shivering and spluttering, he brandishes an angry fist, piecing together some incomprehensible words which he can only spit from his furious mouth.

Deciding to take pity on the miserable watery mess, the adolescents look away, already on the lookout for their next victim. It comes in the form of the boy and girl, laughingly riding a mo’bike.

The ‘Splash’ and the subsequent howl signal that the deed has been accomplished.

A cyclist, a postman perhaps, meets the same fate, his cycle teetering dangerously close to the car that always remained in its same parking spot, day in and day out, thanks to an owner who believed more in driving away children who played ball near his house, than drive the darn vehicle.

Two giggling college girls fare no better – two huge balloons greeted them inside the autorickshaw they were travelling in.

A lone street dog, busily playing with a balled up piece of paper on the road, whimpers, looking around itself in alarm, and then, tail between its legs, ran to tell its just-been-hit-by-a-water-balloon story to its pals.

The smiling fruit seller is next. He however, poses, looks up, waves at the children, his pearlies flashing endearingly at them.

A twenty-year something, harried door-to-door salesman looks up, and ducks in time. Grinning, he smiles mockingly at the kids, and gets a big one right on his shoulder. Tut-tutting, he quickly makes his way to the next neighborhood, trying to convince some bored housewife to purchase the water purifier he was selling.

A scrap-dealer, cycling languorously in the sun, fares no better. He looks up, smiles sadly, and cycles on, his mind clearly occupied with thoughts of the evening meal with his nagging wife.

On Holi Day, the chaos reaches a crescendo. If you venture out, be ready to be attacked by a horde of people who all look alike in their colored-ness. Out of nowhere, a pair of hands make their way to your face, and before you know it, one of your cheeks has been brushed with the brightest pink gulal, while the other looks like the shade your Mum turned in your school days, when you returned from school yet again, in all your muddied glory.

For me right now, I only lok forward to the day after Holi, when people return to their more sober colors. Pun intended.

Holi (Kyun)Hain?!!!

Moan Machines

Haven’t you ever been at your wit’s end because that pesky colleague right across the corridor / sometimes-friend-sometimes-foe puts the “W” in Whining?

Constantly cribbing, their kind ensures that no one in their vicinity of a kilometer forgets that their life is the saddest, most bleak, utterly-devoid-of-rays-of-sunshine, yada yada. For them no day is perfect – it is either too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry, you name it – they are bound to nitpick.

They are the ones who sit on their despair / pity pots, but unlike the rest of us, forget to flush, leaving their lives, as well as of those around them, full of, uhmmm, muck.

Bigotry is their middle name. The higher the hemlines go, the more their blood boils. The lower the neckline, the lower is their tolerance level, though they don’t mind the odd peek. Disguising their moral indignation with conspicuous, hard-to-miss halos around their swollen heads, they are the lone, valiant warriors out to battle it out with the depraved souls, who, according to them, have infested the world, almost like a severe invasion of the dreaded bubonic plague.

Heated arguments are their forte - they can outshine / outwit any seasoned lawyer waiting for his turn in the crowded courtroom. Heaven help those poor souls who decide to axe their own feet by daring to step into a dispute with them. Silly creatures – don’t they know that the best man wins, and undoubtedly, they are the best as best can be.

Freshly-boiled milk can, within minutes, turn sour – one look from them is all it takes. Ditto for an-in-the-pink-of-health-and-bloom plant, which can wither with one scornful look from these sorts. And to think that some people still imagine that they can win a quarrel with them. Oh well, that’s what is called optimism, I guess.

They are the reason for petty people like us scurrying for cover, and all because we prefer to retain that pleasant taste in our mouths than the obnoxious, bitter one that results post a discussion with them, a discussion that is, to most parts, dominated by them. What is a common man to do otherwise? And especially when their sighs and moans are audible from miles away, they really leave us with no choice.

Day after day, such people trudge along to wage their individual wars with the world, sneer plastered fixedly on face, index finger pointing accusingly at the wicked world, perfectly-arched contemptuous eyebrow in place, lips drawn out into a half-snarl – waiting to pounce upon their next prey.

Life sure is tough for them.

God bless these gallant sorts.

An overdose of red and pink - Valentine's Day!

It all started with a soft beep last night.

My cell had just received a message.

Nothing extraordinary about it – I receive a fair share of messages everyday.

Except that this one came from a person who I had not been in touch with for ages.

A saccharine-sweet, threatening-to-give-diabetes-to-me message unfolded right in front of my eyes, much to my surprise.

And then it dawned upon me - the clock had just chimed twelve…

And it was Valentine’s Day. The day Cupid works for all year round, but gets credit for only today...

I was just wondering the other day why this day whips up so many otherwise sane people in a frenzy. Sample the following:

For some people, preparations start right in earnest as long back as a fortnight or even a month before the actual day.

- Premier tickets to the pulling-at-your-heart-strings, achingly sweet movies - TICK
- Couple sessions to the his and hers spa - TICK
- Romantic horoscope books (zodiac-wise) - TICK
- Aromatherapy candles in every possible fragrance - TICK
- Pay budding guitarist friend to serenede object of affection with his / her fave song - Uhmm, yeah TICK

A field month for card and gift makers, flower-sellers, jewelry manufacturers, spa and resort owners, even gadget giants – who go grinning like Cheshire cats, all the way to the bank. Oh did I mention the (cheesy) matching ‘couple’ watches?

Shades of red (and pink) which I had never known existed, seem to be shouting off the rooftops in the form of abundant soft, furry toys that make me

a) Grimace
b) Break out in a cold sweat
c) Both the above

An up market coffee place has even come out with “innovative” Valentine shakes, complete with one straw (how exceedingly orally-hygienic. Ahem.) for the oh-so-much-in-love couples…

Promises to be quite a mentally-progressive sight.

The D-Day has come. Complete with all the fanfare you can imagine.

Couples, dressed all in their finery (read more shades of crimson), walk all lovey-dovey, hand-in-hand, casting deep looks of adoration at each other.

Oblivious to those around them, they proceed to their chosen venue – a restaurant, a hotel, a tapri, a park, McDonald’s (depending on how deep their pockets are).

Some of the men cast furtive looks around - hoping, wishing, praying that they are not spotted by anyone who will snitch on them to the boss. After all, all that bulldozing by the lady love had made them call up at work with the lame, 'I-don't-feel-well-enough-to-come-to-office ruse...As if a day's earning not reaching their pockets was not enough, they have to also make peace with endless rounds of the swanky mall, and (sob) paying for obnoxiously expensive items...

Ohhh, and can I forget, they are armed with bouquets – blushing flowers (again of the red-hued variety), carrying them like war-trophies. Some hands are also laden with chocolates (in heart shapes, no less), cushions (again of the heart-shaped variety), CDS of the mushiest-possible numbers - and other such 'heart-y' paraphernalia.

(The flowers have been purchased at triple their actual costs, making many flower-sellers break out into merry jigs).

Quite a few cliched 'proposals' do the rounds on this day...The 'L'-word is spluttered out, causing immense merriment for friends the next day, who leave no stone unturned in tormenting the poor souls who uttered the dreadful word...

With looks that speak a thousand words, the couples then start the customary gift-giving (procured from beaming merchants). Ooooohs and aaahs follow in quick succession. Furtive pecks, kisses, caresses, you name it - do the rounds.
And that’s what Valentine’s Day has come to…For quite a few folks…


Though the next morning many of these selfsame couples may go back to their quibbling selves, for one 'glorious" day, love is definitely in the air.

And how!

Sailing through Sales

There is another four letter word that has people working up a sweat: S-A-L-E.

Palpably excited, short on patience people make their way pell-mell to the nearest mall – lured no doubt by the colourful advertisements that stare up at them from newspapers, glossies, web pages. Heck – even mobile phones are not spared, what with announcements of discounts appearing regularly on them.

Gaily decorated shops eagerly stretch their welcoming arms.

And considering the multitude who throng the shops, mighty alluring those arms are.

So with a song in your heart, you merrily hop into the store that has a huge ‘50% OFF’ in scarlet red emblazoned all over the entrance – the same entrance you’ve kept your eyes peeled on, all throughout those cold, winter days. Inside, your smile freezes when you find that only the shoddiest article is on half-price, everything else at only a measly 10-15% discount. Too bad you didn’t pay that yearly trip to the ophthalmologist – which explains why you missed the tiny asterisk right after the 50% sign. Sigh!

Gritting your teeth, you mutter an unmentionable term, making your way to the next store which also has ‘SALE’ screaming at you in bold lettering. A lil warily now, you step inside. A cheerily-dressed executive comes to attend upon you, piping in how the day was a lucky one for you, since they had a buy-one-get-one-free scheme running. You nod, mumble a polite thank you, try to look reasonably excited at her sales pitch, and then start looking around.

After a gruelling ten minutes, when you finally pounce upon the exact shade, size, and fabric of the shirt you had been meaning to purchase, and head towards the ‘free’ articles, you can barely keep from gasping...in shock, that is.

The saddest scarves that even a three year old would wince if forced to wear, look up at you glumly. You tear your eyes away, and blink rapidly when you espy the belt that would make the neighbour’s terrier’s weathered collar look bright in comparison. There is more – a watch that would look best when smashed into smithereens, a crumbled-up, fading towel you would only give to your enemy to wipe his ermmm, or perhaps to that crater-faced girl at work you abhor; socks that had clearly seen better days before the dog got them in its mouth; satchels that would look good only on a derelict scarecrow in the sugarcane fields, plastic sunglasses that would make you look right out of a D grade Bollywood hip-thrusting movie; T-shirts that would look best when poured kerosene upon and thrown with a brandish into your annual bonfire part – you do get the drift, don’t you…

You tut-tut your way out (after gingerly picking up the scarf that looks the best of the worst).

State of mind – foul, to say the least!

Then you have those bargain schemes that announce spectacular savings. You look closely, and the deal does look the real thing. So, you skip you way to the sales counter, and with a smug at-last-I’m-lucky smile, place all the items you have diligently chosen over the better part of the last one hour. The barely-out-of-his-teens cashier carelessly tosses your articles into smart paper bags (plastics are banned now, you see), while you calmly listen to him punching some numbers. Before he can finish his question of ‘how would you like to pay? Cash or card,’ you whip-out that gold card that arrived last week, and which you were itching to use. Smiling, the guy tears a roll of paper which bears testimony to the heavy-duty shopping you had just actively participated in.

Except that a dull headache begins to make itself felt, and that disagreeable frown makes an appearance on your otherwise sunny face. The reason – the buggers had not deducted the promised discount. Apparently the items you’d picked gleefully weren’t from the 70% off slot – but the 10% discounted lot!

You are on the verge of screaming bloody murder. You scowl and snap at the cashier. You cast baleful looks at all the store attendants. You are tempted to do full justice to the ‘abuses like a fisherman’ tag you were once given in college, but decide against it. You grumble. You look ready to throw a fit. Except that the cash memo is ready. Add to that the impatient queue tut-tutting behind you with annoyance, and you have no other option left but to pay up.

Promising yourself that you would think twice before stepping into one of these so-called ‘genuine’ sales, you fling the door open, head held high, nose turned up in disdain, and stomp out in sheer disgust, much to the surprise of the door man who has been employed for the sole purpose of opening doors for shoppers.

You stop dead in your tracks outside though. There is the magic word again on the shop opposite, luring you with a seductively painted, sequinned placard. While your brain and wallet both groan, your wilful feet decide to step in anyway.

And the rigmarole starts from scratch…yet again.

Some people never do learn, do they?

Who is to blame anyway?

Un)smart shoppers (are you nodding?) who step into stores, lured no doubt by fancy hoardings that shriek 'SALE?'

Or the store management that tempts all and sundry by misleading adverts?

Che it isn't so

What is one of the most enduring images that you associate with T-shirts?

Or even with posters for that matter?

Chances are that 4 out of 5 people would say Che Guevara, the Argentine guerrilla leader, who under Fidel Castro’s leadership, led revolutionaries to a Cuban invasion.

Synonymous with rebellion, adventure, and independence, Guevara strikes a chord with quite a few.

However, strangely enough, even though there are many who wear bright T-shirts with Che’s image emblazoned on them, they are oblivious to who he really was.

Or what he really stood for.

And no, we do not mean global commercialism of his pictures that peep at us from every corner.

Sample some real answers to what some people have to say about his identity:

- 'He was Nirvana’s lead singer.'
Kurt Cobain must be tossing in his grave)

- 'He was a Spanish revolutionary leader.'
(I'm guessing, Franco wouldn't have been amused one bit)

- 'He was the father of Punk.'
(Iggy Punk is probably stamping and screaming in blind rage on some stage)

- 'He is an ace biker who went round the world.'
(Agreed his Motorcycle Diaries was a New York bestseller, but who created this hocus-pocus about his world trip? And nope, he ain't alive no more)

But, this one absolutely takes the cake.

‘He was a saint who stood against militancy and Marxism.’

Sigh.

God bless these poor souls who are steeped in historical ignorance.

Amen.

In Memoriam: 'Daada' Gopal Panjwani (7 March 1941 - 12 January 2011)

If tears could build a stairway, and memories a lane,
We’d walk right up to heaven, and bring YOU home again.

My father-in-law, Gopal Panjwani’s true success in life was people. He understood the joy in lifting other people, bringing a smile to them, and leaving them changed in a positive way.

One week back - on January 12, 2011, he was lifted from this world.

This tribute is a selfish one - perhaps in my naivete, I feel that sharing my pain here will be healing for my family and me...

A man of incredible perseverance, unsurpassed integrity and courage, my father-in-law was born to a family of modest means in Larkana District (Sindh Province, Pakistan) on March 7, 1941. A self-made man, he excelled in academics – post-graduating magna cum laude in Economics from University of Delhi, and moving on to a distinguished Central Civil Services career in the Ministry of Transport, spanning more than 30 years.

However, his real passion lay in theatre, and he carved an impressive niche for himself in the Sindhi theatre world.

A writer, director, producer and actor of repute, his theater group, Mehran – saw unparalleled success, with over 20 productions to its credit. His feature film – ‘Ammi Ya Mummy’ (1986), is considered a legendary masterpiece in Sindhi circles, going on to win many honors, including the reputed National Dramatics Award. In a first, this was also the only Sindhi feature film to have ever been screened by the PVR cinemas. Some other notable, immensely popular Sindhi productions that he acted in, wrote, directed and produced are Zaal Kare Thi Taal, Mavali-Mulk Ja Wali, Sindhi Minister, Khapali DilTa Achi Mil, Jetho-Metho, Karorpati Naukar, Je Maan Chhokri Huja, Raat Jo Mem Dinh Mein Saheb, Muhinji Zaal Bemisaal, Sava Sava Kare Seengar, Dohi Ker!, Ulti Ganga, Hika Mein Ba, Zaala-Moorsu, Moh-Maaya, Ker Kahinjo, Chamcho Joi Jo, and Sundari. His name was also renowned for his Hindi plays – Dial M for Murder, Ek Akela, Joru Ka Gulam, Pati-Patni, Gar Mein Ladki Hota, Sazaa, Sundari, and Minister; and two Punjabi productions – Bebe Bani Vilaiti and Raati Mem Dine Saab.

He breathed conviction and life into the roles he portrayed – his enviable array of national and regional awards bearing strong testimony to this fact. He was felicitated with the prestigious Sindhu Ratan Award (1997) – the highest honor for Sindhis worldwide, the Ram Buxani Foundation Award (1996), the Sindhi Social & Cultural Society Award (2000), the Akhil Bharat Sindhi Boli and Sahitya Sabha Award, the Dada Moti Award, multiple Central Civil Services Awards, and most recently – the Jyoti Kala Mandir Award in 2010 for versatile Sindhi artiste for his memorable performances in more than 100 shows. Theatre took him to many corners of the country and even beyond, and his productions were well-loved by all.

To add to this, his magnanimity and larger than life persona touched the lives and hearts of whoever he interacted with. While he was a strong believer in diversity, he remained unswerving in his demeanor - be it talking to the humblest of them all, to chatting with the so-called high and mighty from political corridors. His mantra was simple and effective - 'Live and Let Live.' His sagacious words still ring in my ears. I guess I'll always hold them and him in my heart and look forward to seeing him when it is my time to call it quits...

An exceptional son, brother, husband, father, father-in-law and grandfather, Daada – as he was fondly called, was the life on every occasion, spreading cheer wherever he went. A narrator par excellence, his anecdotes and stories will be fondly remembered forever. His untimely demise has left an indelible void in our lives. Perhaps I now know the truth about saying your Hellos and Byes very carefully - you never know when it could be your last...A mentor in the true sense of the word, Daada was a legend and a visionary – he made the world a little better. His legacy will live on in the people whose lives he touched.

And it’s our loss that they don’t make them like him any more...

RIP, Daada. We miss you...

Ushering in a spanking-new decade. Hop aboard 2011

My earliest recollection of midnight 2011 was a large crystal ball, psychedelic lights, a DJ spinning a spiel about the countdown, hundreds of people arm-in-arm waiting for the clock to strike 12 to swoop down on their partners in a bear hug / liplock, a troupe of Moulin Rouge dancers, a laser show and spectacular fireworks. Besides of course, a sea of freely-flowing spirits and yummy hors d'œuvre.

After a late late night (or did it turn morning, Uhmmm), returned home, crashed, and now - throbbing head, dazed-eyed, dry-mouthed – Here I am. And nope, I'm not Bryan Adams...(Though he is gonna be here in a month or so, crooning and belting out his raspy (but nevertheless popular) tunes...

The year ahead looks promising. The Royal Wedding is just 4 months away. An array of movies will ensure that our movies online reservation will be at its merriest best. It is the year of sequels – Spiderman, Harry Potter, Mission Impossible, The Hangover, Wanted, Sherlock Holmes, Transformers, Pirates of the Caribbean, Kung Fu Panda, X-Men, The Twilight Saga– will all try their luck on the silver screen.

Many will rejoice and be glued to their idiot boxes for the 10th ICC World Cup is almost on its heels.

And if all goes well, Sony Vaio’s 3D laptop, the iPhone 5, the iPad 2, the Blackberry Playbook, Sony's PlayStation Phone and Nintendo’s 3D camera will keep every gadget freak smiling from ear to ear. Can see the hubby going into a paroxysm of ecstasy...

2011 looks to be a bright year ahead...It's a brand new decade, and hope it brings all that we could hope for...professionally and personally...

On that note, I wish you all a warm, joyous, prosperous and peaceful New Year. God Bless!