Musings from the girl in the cast

Cooped-up at home courtesy a nasty leg fracture in Amsterdam, I have two unsolicited things to deal with - a lot of free time on my hands and a state of agonizing, seemingly-eternal immobility.

To say that I’m exasperated to the core, would be putting it a tad too mildly. To while away my time, I rely upon diligently leafing through newspapers, pamphlets, magazines, and the odd novel, hoping they would be useful anger tamers. No such luck though! Ample use has also been made of online shopping sites, the largess of family and friends (wink wink), mobile games, neighborhood stores that deliver treats right to my doorstep, half-an-hour pizza or Chinese deliveries, and guaranteed-to-induce-sympathy phone calls - though not necessarily in that order...

Also, how much can one get pampered, without feeling stifled like a mollycoddled pekingese pup? On days when I am at my grumpiest, snarling, most brooding, sulking (did I miss 'most unlovable?') best, it would take a daring person to touch me with a pole. To add to my hyperventilation, the weekly salon visits, that heady rush of entering a swanky mall or that much-favored little square market (as my Mum terms it) and exiting with multi-hued shopping bags that crunch happily together, the weekly ‘spirited’ lounge visits, the spa sessions – seem a thing of the distant past.

My hanging-in-gloom face is perhaps matched only by our dog’s long face, who is most aggrieved and puzzled by the infrequency of his regular thrice-a-week-if-not-more post-dinner drives.

To add to it all – the mercury rising by the day isn’t exactly doing much for the usual ‘sunniness’ of my disposition. While a splash of rain could do wonders to douse the fiery fury within me, the Met Department too looks hand-in-glove and has reported that the fickle monsoons still look a good 20 days or so away. I hope they are wrong!

The last straw was when the doc said today that the cast with which I have been hobbling painfully all this while (and which, may I add, makes me look and feel like a pale pixie lurching in exceedingly constricting stocking and pointy-shoes) – has to be worn for another three weeks.

Oh well – things aren’t really super-bright right now. But I’ll get by. Hopefully soon!

'Picture' Perfect? Not quite!

A picture speaks a thousand words, someone said.

I’ll say it does two thousand! Phew!

There are two kinds of people in this world – those who like to splash their vacation pictures all over the sun and moon, and gush on and on in that nauseating monotone about the verdant mountains / scenic beach they visited for summer. Not to mention the cute ‘friend’ they hooked up with.

And those pesky sorts who will corner you over the phone, over social networking sites, at the gym, in the mall, at the neighborhood bistro, hell - right at your work desk, and demand to know (in that hugely-annoying sing-song falsetto) why you still haven’t mailed/ posted the url of the pics you took while you were on vacay.

Of course, there is a third set of people – which includes me.

Those who don’t care a rat’s ass about showing pics of their holiday snaps to people who for brevity’s sake, we’ll term somewhere between strangers and acquaintances.

And who are equally indifferent about being made to see yet another carefully-maintained album of some poor joker’s last trip to Waikiki. Frankly, I care two hoots about hearing some bozo’s account of how much fun they had on the sun-kissed beaches, languorous breakfasts overlooking the ocean and all, while I was working my rear off at the workplace. Doing my job. And probably his too!

My eyes glaze, my auditory senses take a backseat, and I wait impatiently for him to rattle off his rehearsed script.

And nope, the trinkets you bought at the flea market don’t exactly fascinate me. Those orange flip-flops are hideous, that floral dress would probably look better on a dead Jersey cow, those Chanel sunglasses scream ‘FAKE’ from a mile away, you were ripped by that ‘local’ who passed off a cheap bottle of port wine to you as Pinot Noir, you paid way too much for that straw hat (and to top it – it’s not exactly your color), and those beads – who do you think you are - a Zulu tribesman?

And please don’t bore me to death by showing me yet another ‘angle’ your ‘super-genius’ younger sibling took of you throwing pebbles like a retard into the rippling pool. He / she undoubtedly deserves a worthy mention in the Mensa International.

Good for him / her. Just spare me the details!

I also do not want to know about the glorious weather you enjoyed and how deep your lady luck runs, since the weather Gods were kind upon you, and rains did not disrupt all the canoodling you had planned.

I don't mind a couple of lines, or max, a paragraph, but Gawd - don't take my polite nodding as signs of encouragement to tell me about the coconut you kept in your room as a lucky charm!!! I'd appreciate brevity, not a full blow-by-blow account of those two wonderful weeks. Frankly, you'll either leave me gagging or frothing at the mouth. And believe me when I say I don't look appealing either way...

The only pictures I like to see are those of dogs, not because I am one myself (ahem ahem), but ‘cos I love them. Don’t make an exception to this rule and try to sneak upon me some pictures of friends / cousins / kids, because if you ask me how they look, you’d better be prepared to hear my no-holds-barred chili-laced commentary.

You shouldn't even get me started on the pictures of the red-eyed retards, asses hanging out of their pyjamas, groping hands at all the wrong places, puking all the cheap alcohol they had managed to lay their paws on. I’m a democrat – so let me tell you that there are three places for such snaps –
the fireplace,
the deep sea,
or
six feet under the ground.

The same goes for pictures of men lying half-naked in hammocks, scratching their you-know-what beneath those red Santa knickers. George Clooney can’t carry off that look, pecs notwithstanding. What makes you think you can?

And since we are on the subject – perhaps it would be best to altogether skip that pic of the ten of you eyeing the complimentary buffet like a pack of hungry wolves.

Numerous interactions with people like the ones have wisened me, and now instead of an open, ‘Hey, how was your vacay,’ I leave nothing to chance, and instead put a closed ‘Bet your vacay was fun, eh!’ When the intended recipient of the question nods or replies with a ‘Yes,’ or a ‘you betcha!’ I give a high-five or slap him on the back, and move on with an enthusiastic ‘Way to Go, man!’

My ears don’t hurt, and he gets a nice sorta feeling at being asked...

Works all the time...

Go on - try it. You can't go wrong with that one.

And remember, you heard it here!

The (un)common cold

The common cold is pretty common, say around twice or thrice a year, for most people. That is the time for runny noses, watery eyes, congestion, hoarse voices, and an abundant use of tissues and kerchiefs.

It goes somewhat like this – “Atishoo. “Scuse me. Sniff Sniff. Thank you (when you extend a welcome tissue).”

However, this blog post is not about these regular people, who are assaulted by the twice-a-year-common-cold. This post is about that breed of people who suffer from a perpetual cold, and who go about, sniffing their way through, the entire year round.

They give a whole new perspective to runny noses. Sounds of all kinds escape from their noses, many of which often causing the hearers to give looks alternating between horror and disdain. Sniff sniff sniff – they go at regular intervals, almost akin to a hurt child or a puppy left out in the cold by its inconsiderate master. Their snuffles only get louder, when they realize that they have an audience. That the audience is loathing them, is only incidental. Their sneezes happen at such an alarming regularity that you run out of the "God Bless Yous," alternating them with the "Oh God, not another one pleases."

Slime green seems to their favorite color, what with the occasional uhmmm you-know-what making an odd entry into the ever-open tissue. The very sight of that gooooey phlegm is enough to make even the strongest of men nauseous, and ready to swoon.

Then there is the case of the cough. It starts as a slow, hollow, dry one, like a sheep’s almost, increasing in intensity, till it wipes out all other sounds, leaving the hearer with a pained look on his face, an aching desire to erase the offending sound, and a longing for the monkey cap that one stopped wearing years ago. Even those gaily-colored muffins would have come in handy, if only to hold to your ears.

So there you are, sitting around a table with some people, trying to enjoy your meal. Ha! Easier said than done. The guy sitting right across you has a permanent cold, and insists on sniffling sixteen times in every sentence.

Making you look miserably into your hot and sour soup, and wishing you could drain it all down his throat. Might just help the dratted guy.

Atishoooooooooo. There he goes YET again.

Oh hell. Time for another trip to the washroom – the only place of solace for you.

Run! Run! Unless you are up for another display of the greenish liquid.

Blech!

The sounds and sights of Diwali

An evening walk in my otherwise pristine neighborhood park revealed the sordid side of the festival of lights. Remnants of burnt firecrackers reminded one of the last few days, wherein children and adults alike chose to add their bit to the Delhi smog – with firecrackers of every imaginable type.

While the skies glowed with the colorful pyrotechnics on display, people vied with each other to out surpass one another’s firecrackers – be it in terms of loudness, duration of their blaze, or the attached price tag. Things were no less different in smaller towns and cities, where loud cheering and whistles led on the herd-minded ones who insisted on perpetuating the have-money-will-burst-the-loudest-of-‘em-all-firecrackers syndrome.

Back in my hometown too, a bunch of kids made an impromptu visit to my place at night, to exchange greetings. Almost sleepy me sat with them for a few minutes, and then noticing that the clock read almost half-past ten, bade them good night, much to their utter amusement. They maintained that they would burst their “share” only after 11 pm, when people would be drifting away to slumberland. That made me sit up and notice their eager faces, and take-in their visible enthusiasm at the “thrill” of waking up the sleeping.

One tot, barely 10 years old, stammered excitedly about how his Daddy dearest had ensured that he had the longest string of crackers which he would burst after everyone else was through with their quota. Gave a whole new meaning to competition in its rawest form. Wonder what today’s parents say. Or probably today’s kids are too used to getting their own way, aided no doubt by some well-rehearsed tantrums, tears, and emotional blackmail – not in that order though.

So while a few brought on the sparklers with a flourish, the rest wheezed, gasped, coughed, and spluttered with tears in their eyes.

And cleaned the remnants the day after…sleepily.

Joined-at-the-hip couples

Have you ever seen one of those couples who stick to each other like conjoined twins?

They give a whole new meaning to the term, “surgically inseparable.”

Now, don’t take me for one of those cynical sorts.

I mean, I DO like couples who stick it out, through thick and thin, who are like mutual support systems, push boundaries to be with each other, yada yada yada.

I mean, who doesn’t, right?

But hell! What I totally fail to understand is when two adults hang out together, at say, a party / gathering / meet, and suffer pangs of separation anxiety when one of them goes to probably re-fill a glass with that very potent rum!!

Duration of "separation" - not more than 3 minutes. OMG!

And it’s usually we women folks who are the ones who do this.

Aw come on folks, it’s only a matter of a couple of minutes (ok, maybe a FEW minutes), before the darling sweetheart will re-appear with a flourish, armed with the bubbly. I really wouldn't be surprised if they were to make each other pee. Jeeeez.

However what transpires in those two minutes, is something like this, give or take a couple of things:

The “waiting” beloved will constantly look longingly at the bar / watch on her wrist, an anxious look plainly plastered over her carefully-made up face.

After what seems like an eternity (Ahem), when the guy in question FINALLY seems to be weaving his way through the crowd to her, she would heave a very very audible sigh of relief, flash all her pearlies, probably give a triumphant high-five on his “successful return,” maybe squeeze in a kiss (or two), hold hands, while all the while maintaining the lovey-dovey look (much to my exasperation), and murmur a (nauseating) I-missed-you-so-much-my-cootchie-coo-fluffy-hunny-tweedledums!!
And cause me to roll my eyes in the exaggerated way I excel at. To add to my annoyance, I sure do see a very very vivid red when I see them going at each others' tonsils.

Oh heavens!!

Sometimes, all I need is a .60 calibre.

Care to oblige me...?

Everyone's watching...but it's not that they give a damn...

Last weekend, post a good friend’s housewarming soiree, I made my way, with best guy friend, and some others, to a club that had all the trappings of a chic one, and looked guaranteed to give us all an evening of spirited dances.

That we cut short our intended time there, cos of someone’s unexpected appearance there, is true, but then, that’s altogether a different story.

The time was an hour and a half past midnight, and none assembled there looked as if they would be calling it a day soon.

The DJ was rolling out pretty decent fare, the swish crowd whirled and gyrated without missing a step; even those who looked as if they had previously professed their two left-feet with certitude, were doing more than a decent job, swinging to the thumping beats. The psychedelic lights and crystal balls shone criss-cross patterns on the people, floor, ceiling, and walls alike.

Drinks of various shades were doing the rounds. Twirling smoke ensured that no one forgot to give the ubiquitous cigarette its due. The DJ, casting a look around him, had a pleased as Punch expression on his face that the crowd was happily swaying to his music, and cranked up the volume…

That’s when I saw them.

Unmistakably in their mid-twenties (despite the weak attempts to ape their teeny-bopper, college-going siblings – both in their attire as well as their attitudes), they did not look misfits in the crowd, but definitely stood out (and not in a flattering way).

Now I am no prude, but even I did have to admit – the girl outfitted in a skirt that could only be called a butt-helmet was definitely getting eye-ball grabbing attention. Of the lewd kinds. She had understandably started looking pretty uneasy. Her constant inane giggling, and high-pitched shriek, probably brought on by a drink too many, ensured that those near her, did enough staring / glaring / pointing / sniggering. Her partner, not to be outdone, was dressed the part. Hair spiked like needles of the mint-green American grass that my Mom is so fond of, in a spandex / lycra (I dunno which) torso-hugging Tee that looked:

a) as it would burst at the seams any moment, thus exposing his much-sweated-it-out-tirelessly-in-the-gym-rippling/bulging-muscles any moment
b) as it had been stitched onto him

A typical bling-bling couple, his chunky leather wristband, and what looked like a steel dog-chain around his neck, ofered stiff competition to her bracelets, and other extremely loud fusion jewelry (all of which looked like the work of a shopping spree gone completely awry)(Gosh,even I admit I'm getting mean here). It was hard not to miss their gleaming white shoes (she in her stilettoed version; he in his pointy-alligator slip-ons - Aaaaargh). Hey neon-pink (or was it fuschia pink) tote completed her assembled outfit. I wouldn't have been surprised to see them wearing matching Police and Gucci glares. Had it not been night, I'm sure they would have painstakingly co-ordinated those too. I wish they had taken time out to cast a long, hard, critical look at each other before venturing out for the night.

I did a Heimlich, and cast many a covert look at them, more so cos his tongue seemed to be almost down her throat, gagging her. She didn't look choked though - just had this happy, albeit glazed look plastered over her painted face. Their fervent liplocking didn’t look anything like those beautifully-shot Hollywood-exchange-of-kisses-at-the-altar-post-the-marriage-vows, but more like an exercise of tongues playing tonsils of death.

Ouch! They seemed to be one of those couples who stick to each other like conjoined twins. Come what may. (Shudder).

You see them everywhere.

On the roads.

In the neighborhood park.

At restaurants.

At roadside bistros.

In the malls that seem to be mushrooming a dime a dozen everyday.

In cyber cafes.

You name it.

Heck, even in theaters. When all that you wanna watch is the movie being filmed, but you are denied such simple pleasures, and have to shift your attention elsewhere. Courtesy – the two moaning machines seated in the same row as you and your friend(s), and who, despite your constant “Tsk tsk, tch tchs, ” sarcastic words, pleadings, and threats (in ascending order), seem to be really getting it on, some six seats away from you). Quite a nauseating / obnoxious sight, believe me, dahlins...

This particular genre / breed of couple swear by PDA, and its obvious attention-grabbing nature.

They inevitably make an appearance when you least expect them to, and make certain that they don’t leave, without first administering some choice “sights” to your shocked beyond belief peepers, and garnering gasps from you.

The lovey-dovey small sights that are a given with lost-in-love-cootchie-cooing couples, does not exist for them.

So if you are thinking of couples walking hand-in-hand, looking mooningly / longingly at each other, sighing, a gentle tap on the back – dude! It’s time for you to wake up and smell the coffee beans.

Now I’m not averse to a quick hug and some clandestine footsie under the table myself, but these people insist on taking it a couple of steps further.

Going on to publicly espouse groping, kissing, nudging suggestively, sticking tongues into each others mouths (gross), a case of the Octopus-touchy-feely-syndrome-in-overdrive – the works.

Some would call them gross exhibitionists. Others call them desperate. Undoubtedly such surgically-inseparable couples invite leering comments from others, to the tune of, “guys, why don’t both do us all a favor, and get yourselves a room? We’ll pick the tab, if we must.”

To which they promptly react / work upon by leaving that place, and seek "refuge" in each others arms, elsewhere. Sigh!

The self-righteous arch those perfect eyebrows, twitch their noses, click their tongues disapprovingly.

The elders may frown all the more sternly.

The less tolerant would spout abuses / snarl / sneer.

The rest will just look on vicariously, getting thrills and kicks from such “steamy” couples.

But this particular breed will not take hints, and continue with what most people do clandestinely, behind closed doors, out in the public.

Some people will never cease to invite our censure.

May their tribe peter out.

Amen.

Soft Toys in that Skoda - Eeeeks

Now I like cars. A lot.

I mean, who doesn’t?

But what really peeves me are the weird soft toys that have of late started making their presence felt in the space behind the back seats of almost every third car that zips along.

You know what’s worse? They are not limited to your average teddy bears / cuddly dogs / golliwogs / pixies.

I bet you might not have read as many fairy tales in your childhood, as see the plethora of fairy tale / Disney / Brothers Grimm characters that cast glassy looks at you (if you happen to be the unfortunate person behind a car that “boasts” of such unique decoration devices).

Glass-slippered Cinderella , Virtuous Snow White (complete with her ever-obliging seven dwarfs), the in-quest-of-a-lip-lock frog prince, nimble-fingered Geppetto and his mendacious marionette, Pinocchio, bow-legged, doe-eyed deer- Bambi, glass-slippered Cinderella, the quintessentially-young-refusing-to-grow-up Peter Pan , crooked pirate Captain Cook, slumbering Sleeping Beauty, Goldilocks, and the other raven-haired Rapunzel, Mousey Mickey Mouse, Daffy duck, jumpy Jiminy Cricket, the-bear-with-a-penchant-for-speaking-in-verse Yogi bear, Charlie Brown, Tom Thumb – you name it, the stuffed toy will be there somewhere in one of your regular Archies galleries. Blech.

Though some people do go in rapturous “Oooooooooooooooohs” and "Oooh cho-chweets"(the kinds that are doubtlessly going to leave me with Type II diabetes)upon seeing these “cuddlies” (shudder!), I fall in the latter category that feels instantly repelled after catching even one glimpse of their stuffed faces, and often feel like
a) ripping them with my trusty pair of scissors
b) guffawing openly on the faces of their owners
c) cringing
d) all of the above.

Goodness gracious – is that really Snow White, complete with her ever-obliging seven dwarfs in the back of that Civic? The beady eyes are on you for a second, before thankfully, the silver auto speeds along. Gosh – what was the owner thinking?

I don’t think I’d ever understand. Would you?

Today's insensitive gospel

So the other day, I went for a quick break with some of my colleagues to the roadside tea-shack. While we chit-chatted, the smell of piping hot tea wafted towards us, making me(a confirmed tea-lover), break out into a smile.

An avuncular man, with a toddler-girl in tow, walked towards us. Thrusting a pink pamphlet in our hands, he proceeded to talk earnestly about a nearby church, which was to hold an hour's gospel session that Sunday.

Murmuring our thanks, we expressed regret that that particular weekend looked iffy, but promised to drop by any other Sunday we would be in the area.

The man walked away with a beatific smile.

Our eyes followed him, as he made his way to another group, who, like us, were sleepy(it was the perfect time to snooze away, post lunch), and since a siesta looked improbable(nay, next to impossible), had decided instead, to grab their afternoon cuppa of steaming tea.

A couple of minutes sped by - the man, after distributing the pamphlets, proceeded to the other side of the road, the little girl trotting faithfully behind him.

The minute the duo had crossed the road, the group to which he had been speaking with, carelessly tossed the pamphlets aside. One even went so far as to crumple it, while yet another wiped his hands with it, flinging it disdainfully onto the sandy side of the road.

As I winced, the group merrily chattered away, finished their tea, and walked away, crunching the strewn papers under their ostensibly expensive shoes.

Leaving me with a disdainful expression on my face, thanks to their thoughtlessness, and utterly crass behavior.

The above scene is not one in isolation. You and your neighbor might have also encountered it. Quite a lot of people would probably say that the person distributing the pamphlets was a proselytizer, and it served him right that his pamphlets were treated in the above manner.

Some would pretend that doing so was sacrilege, but in the next breath, say something to the tune of each man being different, and behaving dissimilarly.

The rest would just turn their faces aside, shrug their shoulders, and walk away.

Which one are you?

A World full of @#$%^&*

A lot of my friends say that I make many references to only one blonde – a certain heiress of luxury hotels.

While there have been news of another blonde who recently tried taking her life post a bald pate(and depression – in that order), and yet another one of them(a buxom one, this) shouting off the rooftops that she’s more than game for a stirring relationship, this blog post is about none of these.

I’m referring to a 20-something Hollywood actress who shares the same mane-color like the above mentioned ladies, and has a penchant for letting loose a stream of unparliamentary language.

While the lady in question apologized till she was blue in the face, and quite a few psychologists sympathized with her truly pitiable classic case of Tourette’s Syndrome; the unforgiving press is unlikely to forget, forgive and move on in a hurry.

This situation is not unlike what we see everyday around us.

To cite an instance, a speeding car bumps into another. Though the damage may be next to none, both the drivers are sure to indulge in a volley of cussing and swear words, besides proudly displaying their respective middle fingers, almost like war trophies.

Colorful words are abundant even in the tamest of situations, and one would probably hear them roll off freely, both the mouths of adolescents as well as their more senior (and seemingly mature) counterparts.

Women too are not to be left behind; now I am no prude, but yes, it does sound a lil jarring to hear profanities being delivered effortlessly from the so-called gentler sex, delivered with aplomb, all the while maintaining a cool-as-a-cucumber face.

Phew!

A few choice abuses have made their way into the vocabulary of endearments too. Two bosom pals meet after ages; they will liberally intersperse their salutations with colorful phrases. Case in question, “hey, you @#$%!^&*, where the friggin hell have you been, man / chick?” and then exchange hugs / hi-fives with such carefree abandon that one would think that they had never dropped one profanity.

Such cases leave me clueless as to whether the recipients of such abuses are supposed to keep stoic faces / grin genially / take major offence.

Tricky one that.

What’s your say?

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 close to a hundred messages everyday.

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

A saccharine-sweet message unfolded right in front f my eyes, much to my surprise.

Oooooh, it all dawned upon me: the clock had just chimed twelve (I knew thanks to the nearby temple that devotedly reminded one of the hours that went by).

And it was Valentine’s Day. GROAN.

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.

All the more a field month for card and gift makers, flower-sellers, jewelry manufacturers, watch makers (one enterprising watch company this year even came out with matching ‘couple” watches. Cho chweet. No?!) etc, who go grinning like Cheshire cats, all the way to the banks!

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 and guaranteed pink / red interiors.

Promises to be quite a mentally-progressive sight.

Then comes the D-Day. 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 McDonald’s (depending on how deep their pockets are).

Ohhh, and can I forget, they are armed with bouquets – blushing flowers (again of the red-hued variety), carrying them like war-trophies.

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

With looks that speak a thousand words, the couples then start the customary gift-giving (procured from grinning merchants). Ooooohs and aaahs follow in quick succession. Furtive pecks, kisses, caresses, you name it - do the rounds.

Some guys down spirits; some "adventurous" women, after circumspect looks, demurely take a sip or two.

Is that really what Valentine’s Day has come to?

Sad but true 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!

Please queue up.

You may think that the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, but believe me, it takes only a trip to your regional passport office, to think otherwise, and count your blessings, however miserable you may consider your life to be.
Early-morning, a bleary-eyed you, make your way to the scheduled place, and find to your dismay, a sea of humans who have beat you to waking up in the morning, and can be seen milling around, all looking equally grumpy and sleepy.
Fighting an urge to dispel the frown that has slowly spread on your face, you try to plunge into the queue, saving yourslef from sharp elbows, and even sharper tempers of people who are awaiting their turn.
you can hear people whispering in your ears how they can get your passport issued / re-issued with just some extra money.
Blah.
Touts.
Fighting off their whispered advances, you weave your way through the crowd; after that last burst of energy, a good three hours later, you make your way to the blessed counter to take your token from an oily-looking babu.
just when you think that you can finally join the alarmingly-long line outside, post-collecting the token that is, the oily-looking babu looks you over (shudder), gives an orange-grin, and utters the dreaded words, "Problem."
Your face takes on that ashen look; and after hearing his monologue about rules, lawas, and the like, you make your way back glumly; your work undone.
That's what happened to me.
And no, I can't help the scowl.

It happens only in Delhi

In typical Delhi fashion, several youth yesterday at a “happening” discotheque in the city, decided that enough was enough, and they just had to liven up stuff at the large gathering.
So loud, cussing words and oh hell! blows were duly exchanged. Next followed some more colorful vocabulary, introduction of a couple of mean-looking knives, and in the flash of a second, there was blood on the dance floor.
Within a matter of minutes, several well-dressed, so called "elite" people had become thirsty for each other's blood, in an extremely savage manner.
Sleepy-looking policemen made an entry on the scene, muttering loudly, wielding their lathis.
And all the people who had come out for a night of dancing and fun, were hastily asked to make their way to their respective homes. Or risked being dragged for a long, cold night at the nearest lock-up.
Loud, beer-bellied people exchanged scowls, and started off on their “Do-you-know-who-I-am” jazz.
It was a painful sight to see people running helter-skelter, looking out for friends who seemed to have been left behind in the crowd, or worse, embroiled in the fight.
My friends and I also beat a hasty retreat to the 24-hour-open-food-joint run by the Indian Railways.
Bleary-eyed, when we all finally returned to our respective homes, we just had one thought – why do some people have to spoil everyone’s fun.
And I have seen that such stuff usually happen in the capital city of our country.
What a shame!

A 12-year old association hits the dust.

Celebrated duo, Mahesh Bhupathi and Leander Paes, nicknamed The Indian Express, have officially called their 12-year old association quits.

The ace pair, which has won multiple Grand Slams, added another feather to their caps after winning the Asian Games Gold in the tennis doubles at Doha yesterday.

But instead of uncorking the champagne and waxing eloquent about each other after the tournament, they preferred to wash each other’s dirty linen in public, and have sworn not to team up again on the marquee.

Though stories of their drifting apart had been doing the rounds for quite some time now, the duo officially called-off their partnership yesterday. As if there weren't enough bad things in the world. Sigh.

If I had my way, I would get the two guys to unwind with each other at a chic lounge, and talk it over.

After all, they look better dueling it out with opponents on lush-green tennis courts than with each other, don’t they?