Post-mortem cosmetic surgery? Over my Dead Body!

I’ve never really given a thought of how I would look after I kick the bucket, people staring at how my crows’ feet bore testimony to a life well-spent in crinkling with laughter and merriment. Or how my stiff hands that held the little posy of violets did not have French-manicured nails.

Maybe because know I would get cremated, and not have a priest reading at my memorial service what an irreparable loss my demise would be to the entire world, and what a great soul I was; while my loved ones wiped their eyes, lovingly placed those wreaths of white chrysanthemums at my head, sprinkle some soil into the casket that contains my stiff body, and walked away consoling each other, united in their moment of grief.

The very idea of me lying all by myself in a white shroud, my body shrunk by death, is enough to make even narcissistic me banish all thoughts of glamour from my mind whatsoever.

And replace it with a cold feeling of mind-numbing terror, little beads of perspiration trickling down my neck...

But seems like there is an entire group of people who have!

Toyed with the idea of perfecting their smile / hairdo / makeup.

Who are not necrophobic like me. And who take an inordinate interest in getting that perfect arch, an extra collagen pump in the lips (for good measure), and removing those blessed fine lines.

The difference is that they would like to get the above jobs done on them after they have left the world of the living.

So what do they do? Leave behind neat bundles with their attorneys or their family to make the final settlement (pun intended)!

Beats me.

They have even coined a fancy term for it - Post-mortem cosmetic surgery.

Spooky?
Eerie?
Quirky?
Or plain bizarre?

You decide.

"Penciling" it out

When I “upgraded” from pencils to pens in school, I couldn't be happier; infact, I felt a strange sense of deliverance.

After all, the sound of a pencil on paper is as disgusting to me as a person sucking snot out of his nose into his mouth may be for you.

While a lot of my classmates in school and college flinched when the teacher’s chalk, in a hasty spell of writing, produced a screeching sound where it met the blackboard, I was the only “whacko” who would cringe every time someone would hastily jot down something with a pencil.

It became worse in college, when my roommate (now my best friend), would study with me for the approaching exams. While m textbooks and notes looked like a rainbow, thanks to the multi-highlighter approach I was partial to, she would proceed with her studying by underlining (and boy! Could she underline) the text, much to my obvious vexation.

One look at my perfectly arched disapproving eyebrow, and she would promise not to use the displeasing pencil.

However, ever so softly, within minutes, she would be willfully underlining with the offensive pencil again.

Despite the next to no sound, my keen sense of sound would be in force, and after five seconds or so of keeping my ears pricked like a vigilant cocker-spaniel, I would spring up from the chair or bed, as the case may be, cast a look of pure venom at my now apologetic friend, and fling myself on either the courtyard bench or the corridor stairs, a decidedly scowling look evident on my face.

What else could you expect from someone, who, right in the middle of an entire year of debating, writing, sports, quizzing, and retail-therapy, was rudely awakened by the call of the annual monster – the examinations? And who, while in the midst of a chaotic time of notes-borrowing, cramming, studying with one sleepy and one half-awake eye, on a tummy which craved outside food, but which had to contend with hostel-food for the time-being, had to also cope with dreadful pencil-underlining sounds.

The scene was no better in the college common-room, where students from all three years, probably vied with unsaid competitions of who-will-underline-the-most-and-drive-Vandana-hopping-crazy, leaving me very very hot and bothered.
Till now, when someone picks up a pencil, I look alarmingly at the person, a look of don’t-tell-me-you-are-going-to-use-that-thing-are-you? on my very expressive face.

It is easy if the person is known and if I have a comfort level with him / her, because then I can playfully a) pass a pen into his / her hands (like when I do to TOOMA when he is penciling a writing task) or b) in the eventuality of no pen in hand, plead with him / her not to make use of the odious writing instrument, citing the virtues of oral communication or honing a razor-sharp memory instead.

However, the trouble arises if the person is not too well-known to me, or worse, if I, for obvious reasons, cannot risk myself be termed a weirdo by confiding about my unease at hearing a pencil sound. I have known people who, after hearing about my idiosyncrasy, have a look of disbelief and / or pity at my plight plainly plastered on their sometimes smug faces.

Needless to say, they don’t do wonders for me.

At all such times, I just squirm in my place, waiting for the abominable sound to stop.

Sighing with relief when the monstrous pencil is put down….

This is probably me at her quirky best!

A Room with a view...

Hate crowded hotels?

Guard your privacy jealously?

The very idea of hob-nobbing with the common herd in hotel lobbies, corridors, and elevators, makes you curl your upper lip in distaste?

Well then, look no further than the Everland Hotel.

Perched atop the Palais De Tokyo (Paris), this mobile hotel offers a direct view at the Eiffel Tower.

Ohh, and did I mention, it has only one room to let out to guests?

There,…. your privacy gets a solid tick.

The brainchild of Swiss artists Sabina Lang and Daniel Baumann, Hotel Everland was originally conceived for Expo 2002. It has been exhibited in Yverdon (Switerland), and Leipzig (Germany), and since last year October, it sits pretty atop the contemporary art museum, the Palais De Tokyo, overlooking the Eiffel Tower.

People can visit it during the day, or reserve it for the night, after the museum closes. You have uptil December 31, 2008 to book yourself there, after which it will be moved to a yet-undisclosed location.

Of course, a night-out there doesn’t come cheap.

The Four Star cube-shaped hotel, which can comfortably lodge a couple, comprises a deluxe rest room, a king-sized bed, and a lounge; and would set you back by €333 for a weekday, and €444 if you choose a weekend night.

The hotel staff urges you to steal the golden embroidered bath towels as a souvenir.

Online bookings can be made at the Hotel’s website.

This one is sure one well-traveled hotel (pun intended).

Frozen in one's tracks...

The dictionary describes a flash mob as “a group of people who organize on the Internet and then quickly assemble in a public place, do something bizarre, and disperse; also called inexplicable mob.”

With the US and Canada, having a more than fair share of their fun (read - a surprise pillow fight flash mob right in the middle of a bustling-with-activity street, an orchestrated string of applause by 200-odd people in a reputed hotel, and an “invasion” into a plush shoe boutique), other countries are following in hot pursuit too.

(I can only just imagine the surprised looks on the faces of the pedestrians, hotel-staff, and shoe-store employees who were subjected to those utterly-baffling two-five minutes. I bet that when those who pulled off the above acts made a disappearance, these same people would have blinked, and pinched each other in return, wondering if the incidents really happened, or they were just their taxed minds at their hallucinating best, on an overdrive spree.

Now in the midst of a flash mob, there are bound to be three totally-identifiable groups:
a) A bewildered lot
b) Those who participate in it
c) Those who are loath to feel left out, but are unsure what to do, hobble their feet, look awkwardly around themselves, and when they are unable to make sense of it, shuffle off, muttering about a strange, strange world.

In Beijing, around 100 people, and in Brussels, quite a few too, pulled off a flash mob stunt, where they stood as if frozen in time. Those in Beijing “froze” for three minutes. Their counterparts in Belgium, on the other hand, stood still for five minutes, spaced out with a quick break, redid it for five minutes, and then ambled off, to their respective destinations.

They couldn’t have chosen a more apt day – April 01, 2008.
Word of mouth and a prominent website had notified the participants, some of whom stood locked in embrace, some “spirited” sorts clutching their poison, while some pretended to be inter-locked in a mock-fight.

While many pedestrians looked on, flabbergasted, quite a few chose to step in, agreeing with the others that it was a great stress-buster.
Now if only there could be flash mobs in India…

In a country where people are bound to surround me, agog looks plastered on their faces, trying to see what I, on one of my mad moods, would be trying my best to spot in the bright sky, flash mobs are sure going to be quite a crowd-puller.
The same horde that would excitedly peer into the sky, where I would be pointing a well-jabbed index finger an imaginary saucer-shaped-fluffy-blob, after having used the proverbial best-seller UFO argument, would increase sizably if one of “em flash mobs were to occur.

Though I’m not too sure if they would just stand and stare, agape, or join in the fun…

An "Escalated" Fear

For close to ten years, I have been petrified of….alright, quit smirking, ESCALATORS!

Every time I would see one, I would get a sinking feeling in my chest, and get an inordinate urge to run…in the opposite direction.

The embarrassment was crucifying.

To cover up for my sore loss of face each time I would be within a mile of one, my mind would roll into auto-mode, thinking of alternatives – all to keep from stepping up or down those frightening monstrous creatures.

It’s not that I didn’t try.

Family, friends, colleagues, juniors – all tried, on some level or the other, to trick me into getting onto one of them, all to no avail though.

It was an oft-repeated scene, the aftermath of which would leave me pink-cheeked, face a deep crimson hue, and maybe some exasperated expressions of people accompanying me.

Oh, and yes – how can I forget the amused looks that some people wore.

So while my mind would freeze upon seeing one of those moving machines, people of all ages would effortlessly step on them, and go about doing what they were doing - laughing, talking, holding hands and packets…

This, when I would marvel at their “guts” to get onto one of those mean machines, the ones which scare(d) the bejesus outta me, and which caused me to break out into a cold sweat. The alternatives were two - huff and puff my way up flights of stairs, or become a sniffer dog, on the lookout for the nearest blessing – an elevator.

The predominant fear at the back of my mind was always twofold, and never pleasant:

a) I would fall into an abyss of metal, and be maimed for life, or worse, pulverized beyond recognition
b) I would be sucked into the machine into a black chasm, with no hope of ever being with those I love

Those days were indeed blessed when the escalators at a mall or theater were turned off, making me give a wild Whoopee of joy, and bound across it, the very picture of confidence.

On all other days, my carefully-guarded face would belie the enormous distress I experienced.

So yesterday, when TOOMA suggested, yet again, that I should be a brave gal (Ha! Fat chance!), and step onto those (un)safe moving flight, my reluctance was palpable for all to see. A try at putting my foot on the shifting mechanism seemed nothing less than Herculean.

I stepped back, tears of humiliation and utter mortification glistening in my eyes. Shame-faced, I made my way to the nearby elevator, waiting for it to come to my rescue, like a faithful puppy, as it had on so many other occasions.

And then it hit me.

The strong wave of self-scorn.

With an unnatural jerk and a long stride, I clasped TOOMA’s hand, much to his surprise.

Another trip back to the horrifying machine.

Heart in my mouth, I gingerly stepped onto it. Clutching TOOMA’s hand in a death-grip, we descended….

And stepped off at the foot.

Two minutes of silence.

Thumping heartbeats, a racing pulse, and a flushed face gave away the assortment of feelings I was running through.

The sense of achievement and exhilaration that followed thereafter though, totally made it worth it.

Let me keep the ascent on an escalator for another day.

Hopefully, that shouldn’t be too difficult…Touché.

And to all the mean people who laughed at me – go ahead! Eat crow!

(Though I still think that if I were to ever land up in Hong Kong, I would give their escalators-going-up-the-side-of-mountains-and-promising-a-breathtaking-view a miss...

Aww come on! Don’t scoff. I’m only a mortal…)

Of black cats, cracked mirrors, and Friday the 13...

We call each other perfectly rational beings, pride ourselves on our ability to call a spade a spade, deduce logical conclusions, and banish ignorance as one of the chief evils way into the past, where it rightfully belongs. However, despite all said and done, there are more than a few occasions when many give in to old wives’ tales, folklore, stories about supposed jinxes, hexes, and curses, and then do the unthinkable, sometimes bordering on the plainly absurd.

Like take for instance, the old notion of people going to great lengths to avoid walking / driving, if a black cat chooses to cross their path. Last weekend, I was surprised to see my neighborhood spry ladies huddled together in the park, bringing their evening walk to a standstill. When listening-to-music-me hastened to cross them, I couldn’t help but detect a look of pity on their faces, much to my bewilderment. It was only when a pair of greenish-blue eyes stared out at me from behind a hedge that I understood that I had dared to do what the others had stopped for. I had done the unthinkable – walked, when a feline had chosen to cross the path, and hence the tons of sympathetic looks that came my way. My day – considering that I had spent the most part of the day with my two best friends, I wouldn’t say my day went bad (chuckle).

Back in school, I would scoff each time one of my classmates / friends would burst into recitation, upon seeing magpies / sparrows. Seeing one of these birds was a sure-shot indication of ill-luck, though seeing a pair would often make the schoolgirls breakout into impromptu dances of ecstasy.

While leaving one’s place, if someone calls out to you, it is believed that whatever task you are setting out to do, will remain undone. Pshawwww, I say. However many times my brother would call out my name, I would still have to make my way to the dreaded dentist and his high chair, and return home, teary-eyed, jaws-swollen-with-anesthesia - the only silver lining being the soothing ice-cream that my Mom would lovingly feed me with.

Debt is long considered to be the bane of anyone’s lives. Understandably, there are quite a few superstitions about it. Moving your leg causes you to go into debt, as does rattling keys. Cutting your nails on bed at night is sure to get you robbed, they say. I’ve cut my share of nails, on the bed that too, but fortunately, haven’t ever been robbed. Touch wood. Tee hee.

Ever the sloppy one of the house, I have, on numerous occasions, spilled salt at the dinner table. They tell me now that I ought to have ”undone” the jinx by tossing it over my left shoulder for every time I was slipshod.

It is said that “time heals all wounds.” Some say that it originated from the superstition that breaking a mirror can bring you bad luck for 7 years. A mirror was considered to be the window to the viewer’s soul – if one broke it, it would take those many years for that “cracked” soul to heal.

Walking below a ladder is definitely a “stairway” to damnation. So is stepping on a crack in the sidewalk – something that even Leonardo DiCaprio is reluctant to be “departed” from.

When my Mom was pregnant with yours truly, she was advised not to go outside, lest I would be born with a facial birthmark. Stubborn she however, refused to relent, and did venture out…Some months later, a bonny child made a grand appearance in all her dimpled glory. And no, there was no mark on her face.

It is said that one should refrain from using the same match to light three cigarettes. God knows the reason behind it.

The last one is a classic – eat something green and leafy on New Year’s Day. That will ensure that you never have to worry about paying your bills, and will bring your riches and happiness throughout the year.

Salad, anyone? ;-)

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.

What's Going on?

No, I'm not talking of the namesake hit number by Marvin Gaye.

I am talking instead of the more than one piece of bizarre news that were reported this month.

Sample the following:

* Several turkeys who probably didn’t want to end up on any dinner table(today being Thanksgiving), were seen standing on a New Jersey railway platform a couple of days back, looking as if they were keen on catching the first train out of town.

* Reminiscent of our ex-PM H.D. Deve Gowda, Prince Charles sure seemed to have taken a cue from him. The Prince slumped to sleep at a Royal Armistice Day tribute, much to his mother, Queen Elizabeth's shock(and displeasure).

* Some donkey business this. Fancy Amitabh Bachan and the Khan brigade, but clueless how to reach Bollywood? Seems to be the case with some others too, who, in a novel way of paying tribute to their favorite silver screen stars, have named their donkeys (gasp) after them. Don’t believe me? Well then, make your way to Ujjain (Madhya Pradesh), where the five-day Gardhabraj Mela is being held.

* A Dutch woman, her will in tow, happened to go to her family cemetery. She’d already “booked” a grave where she wanted to be buried, right next to her husband’s grave. Her wish came sooner than she wished probably, because she suffered a cardiac arrest and dropped down dead next to her pre-chosen grave.

* So you bought that hot pair of wheels to keep up with the Joneses, right? At the rate we use the Joneses in our expressions; it was only fair they gathered for a jamboree of entertainment. 2000 people who shared the Joneses surname turned up at the decided venue, Cardiff. Their efforts might not go waste after all—they could fetch an entry in the Guinness Book of World Records.

* Closer home, a 3 month-old infant in that dreaded of states, Bihar, was arrested for looting a bus, but later released. TI guess that even the he authorities figured in the end that it was a tad too unrealistic an allegation.

* And lastly, a man who has been dead for 26 years now, has been summoned by the Shimla high Court, in connection with a case.

Dead Man Walking, anyone?!

The Case of the Blind (and Bribable) "Bar"

Just as I was rejoicing that Santosh Kumar Singh had been awarded a just death penalty by the city’s High Court, another piece of news reached my ears, and shook my wobbly faith in our country’s judicial system.
One of our country’s foremost liars, oops lawyers, in the glare of publicity for defending a certain former minister’s errant son, who is alleged to have shot dead a model at a watering hole for refusing him intoxicating liquid, has come up with a startling claim.
According to him, a Sikh shot dead the model that fateful night at a "designer" watering hole, and not the ex-politico’s son. He states that he would be revealing the identity of this Sikh.
With this revelation, this 7-year long case, with its hostile and/or tight-lipped witnesses, just got another twist.
The octogenarian lawyer, considered a role model by many lawyers, was in the line of fire when he first stated his intentions of becoming the defense counsel for the accused. Now he is right in the middle of a flaming controversy.
Let’s wait and watch what other lies crop up in this long disputed case.
Or is it going to be another well-heeled cold-blooded murderer giggling his way out.
I hope not.
I also want to see what the President decides as Mohammad Afzal’s fate.
Will it be amnesty or a noose?

A "Deathly" Passion

What do Edgar Allen Poe and Stephen King have in common?
Besides being American authors whose stories send shivers down your spine, they had another similar hobby—that of visiting cemeteries.(Stephen king still does)
Heck, they’ve even given a name to this macabre hobby—cemetery (or tombstone) tourism.
Seems like France’s Père Lachaise Cemetery, considered the most-visited cemetery in the world, has competition.
Our country too, has also woken up to this new form of tourism.
With 2007 marking the 150th year of the First War of Indian Independence or Revolt of 1857, premium tours are booked in advance by people who are interested in visiting the “mutiny route,” starting from Meerut, the place where the two-year mutiny started.
Long considered to be a morbid hobby, and an aphrodisiac for necrophilia, cemetery tourism looks all set to draw people, who are willing to spend a few thousands to visit, photograph, and observe graves, mausoleums, tombs, cemeteries, headstones, and crypts.
Sort of creeps you out, doesn’t it?