Giving off a message...

While stuck in a traffic snarl, I often do one of the following activities to keep myself amused / occupied -
a)yap incessantly into my phone
b)look at my nails to see if one of them has grown overnight (they never do. Bah!)
c)try to guess what people in the loco pulled alongside are conversing about (pretty boring actually, as one can never know whether the guesses are right or otherwise)
d)counting cows on the roads (there are quite a few you see), and so on…

Another time pass, especially on a long long highway, is reading the messages emblazoned vividly on the backs of trucks. Yes, those smoke-puffing horrors that are driven by sadists / perverts who look straight out of some D-grade Punjabi flick, have quite a few amusing, some downright side-splitting messages.

Seems like that there is more to those colorfully decorated trucks than just their lame attempts at jinx-proofings(read the ubiquitous slipper / green-chili / lemon strung on a string) after all.

And each truck has a different story to unfurl...

That you can read these messages only when their drivers are NOT doing the Michael Schumacher / Fernando Alonso (drool drool) impersonation is a different story altogether.

Besides the "Hum do, Hamare Do" (We two, our two) message that spreads its social-awareness bit, and appeals for small-sized families, there are others that range from the Oh-my-Gosh-what-in-goodness-gracious-is-that to the wickedly funny.

I’ve never been able to understand why trucks (and there are many of these) that cheerfully proclaim, "Horn OK Please." Some people are lactose-intolerant, some are saccharine-intolerant - I’m horn-intolerant. Why anyone in his right mind would invite aural trouble upon himself, and encourage people to toot their obnoxious horns, completely beats me. You do have weirdos everywhere, I guess.

Then you have one of the eternal-favorites “OK Tata Phir Milengey”(OK, Bye, We’ll meet again), that borders on the persistently-optimistic.

A classic-cult movie (in the news again for its shoddy remake by one of our most talented film-makers), has spawned an entire legacy in truck literature, the most common one being, “Chal, Meri Dhanno,” (in honor of an equestrian in the flick). Other spin-offs include, “Chal meri Raam Dulaari / Pyaari.”

Upping the patriotic fervor, you have the much-used-to-death, “Mera Bharat Mahaan” (My India is great).

Keeping with a “nasal,” capped singer’s “singing”prowess in mind, is another hot-favorite, “Tera Mera Saat” (13-mera-7), meaning "Your and my comradeship". Not to be crooned, let me add hastily. Not to be left behind, another numerically-inclined message proffers itself - “Ek saat teen teen” ( 1-7-3-3), which can be loosely interpreted as the randy “three simultaneously, ” an expression, I must admit, put my guy into bursts of rapturous sighing, and longing “If onlys…” And causing me to repent instantly my penchant for putting my foot into my mouth.

There are the occasional ones in verse too.

Sample this:

“Chalti hain gaadi,
Udti hain dhool,
Jaltey hain dushman,
Khiltey hain phool.”

(Uhmm, lemme try the translation here: the truck moves, the dust billows; enemies are envious, while flowers bloom).

Yet another of those rhyming ones:

“Amiron ki zindagi biscuit aur cake par
Driver ki zindagi clutch aur brake par”
(Loosely translated into: The wealthy thrive on their biscuits and cakes; the driver thrives on the clutch and brake).

Some sensible ones also decide to show-up, common among them being the stoic “Use Dipper at Night” ones, and extending to the slightly exaggerated but nevertheless well-meaning advice, “Babuji, dheerey chalna,” (Hey Mister, go slow), probably “inspired” by a popular yesteryear’s silver screen song.

Another fairly frequent one is the one where the driver’s / owner’s name is liberally splashed in vivid hues. Causing you to know their names, from miles away.

Some border on the droll:

“Shaam hotey hi yeh dil udaas hota hain,
Tootey khwabon ke siwa kuch na pass hota hain,
Tumhari yaad aise waqt bahut aati hain,
Bandar jab koi aas-paas hota hain.”
(Dusk falls, and this heart feels glum, it has nothing but broken dreams with it. It misses you immensely at such times, when a monkey is nearby.) No, don’t glare at me – I didn’t make this up myself. And another N-O – don’t even ask me what in the world is it supposed to mean!

Then,there are the ones that leave you at a loss for words.

“Ladki ko mat chhed, paap hoga,
Ek din tu bhi kisi ladki ka baap hoga”
(Don’t eve-tease the girl, one day you shall yourself be the father of a daughter).

Enough said.

I rest my case.

OK Tata Phir Milengey…

My cup of love goes to....

As you take that bending slope on your way to a hill station, taking pleasure in the wind puffing lightly on your face, you are inclined to let the accelerator slide.

It is then that you see that hoarding looking up at you authoritatively, compelling you to stop.

And stop you do.

You have to.

There’s no two ways about it.

That is N, at least for me.

His full-throated laughter was what first drew me to him.

I didn’t admit it to him then, but it was I who had asked someone to ask him to come and share a ciggie with us. Since I was too proud to go up to someone myself and ask to share a smoke.

(When I eventually made a clean breast, I heard no end from him, and had to contend with endless leg-pulling…)

An entire fortnight passed, and good sense didn’t prevail upon us to exchange numbers, and use Graham Bell’s invention.

When I look back, I go, “Gosh! Could it get any more lame than that?”

The smokes soon extended to exchanging mints, coffee dates, and the occasional beer.
The phone conversations grew longer in duration…

My scowls would give way to sunny Cheshire cat grins when I would hear his reassuring voice (which I must admit, sounds downright hot as hell in the mornings).

Eat your hearts out – his number aint coming your way. Anytime soon.

Ok, make that, Never!

Add chocolate brown liquid eyes, an absolutely mischievous grin, and you get the complete picture, right?

Ohh, and I forgot to mention that he always smells divine (blame that potent bottle of Polo for that)…

I’ve re-christened him time and again. He’s countered, and my monikers have ranged from rustic Rajasthani ones, to the occasional eye-popping Haryanvis, to the positively funny Bihari ones.

He’s gallantly fed me forkfuls between his own bites, held doors (and my heart) for me.

The most mundane of topics become super-interesting when I’m discussing them with him.

Though some (especially the kinds where two girl-colleges are pitted with each other) can lead to sour tempers and tongues…

His jokes are like double-edges swords – while they can usually make you go into hoots of hysterical laughter, every now and then, they can also make you want to pull out all your hair.

And ohhh, the times I’ve goofed up with him.

I remember how on one occasion, I thought that the mole a lil above his eyebrows was some black mark, and I tried to scratch it off, much to his bewilderment, and later visible vexation.

I’ve driven him up the wall on more occasions that I would want to recall, on account of my atrocious memory. I marvel at his patience, and when I do marvel too much, that is the time he decides to alternate between sighing resignation and a slight outburst.

I’ve also done my bit in driving him crazy with my incessant questions-popping, a habit, I am happy to say, I am not gonna nurture.

A self-confessed lover of Yo-China, he is also not averse to his share of popcorn and Corona.

Playing pool with his best bud is a highlight for him; almost as much as it is for me to look longingly at the calendar and count the days till he touches home-turf.

Quite the Nostradamus, he has the uncanny ability to analyze any situation at hand, cut through the mire to its very essence, and give me a candid bird’s eye view and the future prospects of any situ. However, me, the mule that I frequently am, gleefully refuse to lissen to him then.

But the next day or week, with red face smarting, I have to bite my lower lip and come clean that his verdict / solution was the one that mattered, held true, and was the best one.

Eat crow is what I do then. Humbly...

I like the ease with which he connects with all – though he hardly calls himself congenial / affable, I’d like to think he is.

I also admire the way he can set the ball rolling, and bring any situ towards its intended accomplishment.

I think of myself as lackadaisical sometimes; he galvanizes me snap into action on account of his infectious commitment and passion that he displays and which goes into whatever he chooses to do at that moment.

What I need to learn from him is his ability to not get affected or changed by the obvious inconsistency or frivolous judgment of others. (He’s still light years ahead of me, and I have SOME catching up to do…)

I take pride in the way he races on the tracks even when the last spectator has left and the last light has been dimmed because he keeps personal scorecards and the race isn’t over till his heart says so.

What I like a lot about him is that he never convinces anyone that he is right – that is probably the most miserable way to start a discussion. Consensus is not the end, conciliation is.

Even if I try to do the occasional Houdini, he uncannily figures the state of my mind.

He’s crooned numerous karaokes – be it in his car, or a watering hole; joined quite a few times by me. The reluctant singer, who is fast blossoming :)

I took it to another level altogether, going live on a popular radio channel, dedicating the over-one-hour show to him.

I’m not sure what feelings he went through at that point of time, but I’m guessing, they were any / or all of these: surprise, bashfulness, embarrassment, amusement, and maybe the odd touched feeling….

The tea that he makes is one of the most divine I have ever tasted – and it is not an acquired taste – it is absolutely flavorsome. The flavor remains the same, however many times he may make it, much to my wonder, and his amusement…

My very own Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung rolled into one, he gives me some of the most soul-baring, and bang-on advice.

We have laughed over inane jokes, read each others’ horoscopes, pulled each others’ legs randomly, played assorted (cartoon) games online (at which he always comes sunny side up, however hard I try). But I’m not complaining – I give in to him with a goofy-look-plastered-all-over-my-face.

Coffee is not just a beverage for me when I am with it – it’s a bond…

His rendition of Joey (of F*R*I*E*N*D*S fame) will dispel the clouds for you, even on the most murky of days.

When I rest my head on his shoulders, all my fretting peter out..….

Lastly, there is something about the way he can hold a cigarette, and speak with you earnestly.

Bowling you over.

I should know...(sheepish grin).

They say, smoking is injurious.

In my case, it was positively of assistance - it introduced me to the guy whom I love to distraction……

Woodstock recreated....?

If word is to be believed, Jackie Shroff, he of the sexy baritone (second only to someone’s super-hot voice early mornings), and moustached “splendor,” plans to hold a rock / other genres of music festival in Goa. Reminiscent of the original Woodstock festival of 1969, the festival, if it happens, will be huge.

I mean, how wrong can you go with the following list of tentative names that have been drawn up:
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Starship
Jethro Tull
Fleetwood Mac
Queen (Paul Rodgers)
Ravi Shankar
Iron Butterfly
Aerosmith
Santana
Rolling Stones
Fat Boy Slim
Norah Jones
Prodigy
Black Eyed Peas
Paul McCartney

Whoop! That’s quite a mouthful, don’t you think?

Now if only Jaggu dada is able to pull it off, it'll be a virtual treat for music aficianados like me, and countless others.

Meanwhile, let me see if I can coax / cajole / persuade / convince / wheedle / sweet-talk a certain someone to go with me to the sun-kissed Goan beaches.

For I'd be most loath to miss this festival, if it happens.

Amen!

In the Blues...

Halle Berry

Britney Spears

Del Synnott

Besides being your average list of Hollywood’s beautiful people, the above names have done more than sparked off interest in their luck-kissed lives. They have quite a few things in common – having lent their names to million-dollar brand endorsements, flashed those pearlies, arm-in-arm with other beautiful people at red-carpet and other gala events, and graced numerous magazines and newspapers.

Additionally - they all, have some time or the other, attempted suicide.

Owen Wilson, he of the 13-times broken nose, twinkling eyes, and lopsided grin, considered Hugh Grant’s American equivalent of the archetypical romantic actor, decided to join the unenviable list above. Thankfully, he lives to tell his tale.

Three days back, he fell prey to a broken spirit three days back, ODed on sleeping pills, and slashed his wrists. Speculation is rife over the reasons that led him to take such an extreme action. The most prominent rumor doing the rounds is that he was suffering prolonged bouts of the blues, following his much-splashed-in-the-tabloids, very very public breakup with a popular blonde actress.

Which brings me to the all-important question. Why do such people, seemingly living lives that others would kill for, try to take their own lives? What led a prominent singer like Jerry Hadley to shoot himself in the head last month, an act that claimed his life?

Seems like the black feelings of rejection, gloom, separation and isolation spare no one from their fangs, doing Octopus numbers on all.

Get a (Second) Life

When I was in first year college (which seems like so far far away now), I read Sidney Sheldon’s “Tell Me Your Dream.” The story, revolving around a woman and her two alter-egos, stayed in my memory for quite a bit. And I often mused what it would be like to have an alter ego. Not violent, psychopathic ones that we get to see aplenty in movies like Sybil, Psycho, Primal Fear, X-Men etc. But just as an innocuous variation from humdrum lives.

Now before you shake your head, and give me up as a probable case of another person suffering from a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde syndrome / an MPD patient in the making, let me hastily assure you that being cited as suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder is hardly appealing to anyone, not even quirky me, but hmmmm, it definitely would be interesting, to say the least.

For those who have wondered how it would all be, a website, Second Life, promises to deliver all that. Registration is relatively hassle-free, and lo and behold! You are a “Resident,” who can create motional avatars, hob-nob with other Residents, own property (virtual, of course), create buildings (now is the best time for you to build your very own private skyscraper dazzling in the azure sky), buy / sell an island (using Second Life’s own currency, termed Linden Dollars - L$- with 270 L$ = 270 USD).

Sounds neat, right?

Though parodies of the site are aplenty, and criticism / singgering rife, the site has managed to get more than 8.9 million people, oops, Residents, excited enough to sign up.

Besides finding a loyal fan in my niece, who is thrilled to bits since the time she heard about it from me.

I’m guessing she’ll buy an entire island to safely stack her army of Mattel blonde dolls, far far away from her elder brother who has a penchant for smashing all things even vaguely “girlie” to smithereens.

Go on, become a Resident here.

Quite Some Monkey Business This

There’s quite a lot you can hide from view under a hat.

Must be what some airport officials must be repeating to each other, and rolling their eyes in disbelief in the bargain.

Seems like an enterprising passenger, flying from Peru to the US, managed to conveniently smuggle a monkey under his hat.

I don’t blame you – I also shook my head in a) incredulity, and b) mirth when I first heard the news.

So coming back to the passenger in question, he smoothly walked past customs in Peru, reached Florida, and boarded another plane to New York. Quite a cool, unruffled, cucumber, I must say.

I'm certain he didn’t tip his hat off in respect to anyone. Or give a wobbly curtsy.

The monkey business wouldn’t have been found out, had it not been for the simian making up its mind to take a peep from under its hideaway, in teh middle of the flight, much to the other passengers’ astonishment, replaced soon by alarm.

I would have been startled too if I would have suddenly set my eyes upon my co-passenger, and seen another pair of glittering eyes peeping out from under his hat, when he had a perfectly normal pair perched on his face...

Understandably, all hell broke loose on the flight, and harried crew-members tried their utmost to hold down the hysterical passengers.

The errant passenger held the monkey in his hands throughout the rest of the flight.
It was only when the flight reached its destination – New York’s Guardia Airport, and the Police Department escorted the passenger and the monkey off the craft, that the others heaved a collective sigh of relief.

I’m sure the situ must have been grim for the answerable officials in Peru and Florida who, despite the snazziest of gadgets and stringent security methods, had failed to detect the grinning ape. One humble pie lesson that sure it would have been.

Me – I would have loved being on that flight.

It sure would have been more funny than a barrel of monkeys (pun intended);-)

She's got the Look...

I’m not in the business of deciding right and wrong, cos that’s not me.

But even I was surprised last weekend, when on my way out of an upscale coffee house with my guy, I chanced to settle my eyes on a PYT (Pretty Young Thing, for you uninitiated people), who, incidentally, had also decided to cast a look at me.
Difference was – mine was one of those nonchalant looks you bestow upon people, when you are thinking of other matters, and are seeing (or rather unseeing them). That may lead the person to actually think that you are looking at them, though is someone may ask, you may have even missed that David Beckham / Gisele Bunndchen look-alike, sitting in your clear range of vision.

She, on the other hand, was definitely casting more than one of those offhand, casual looks.

In fact, I was flabbergasted when I realized that the look she was giving me was one of pure venom.

Completely knocked for a six, I could scarcely fathom what the look was for.

Out of the coffee home, I couldn’t help but remember the unmistakable poison-stare that the red-lipped-pouting girl had decided to cast upon me.

Strange is the world.

Stranger are its people, I guess.

Since I am talking of looks that people cast on others, I was just thinking of some looks that we are familiar with:

The look which a person, asking for alms, gives you when you reach out for your wallet.

The look your pet gives you when you open the front door and walk home.

The look you give to the waiter who runs behind you to return the wallet that you had absent-mindedly left behind in the restaurant that you were dining at.

The look your subordinate gives you when you cover-up for his goof-up.

The look your friends give you when you reach out for that sinful tiramisu.
Calories: 1000000000. Taste: Pure bliss.

The look your friendly neighborhood store-owner gives you when you forget to carry the exact change yet again.

The look your dad gives you when you are glued to the idiot-box when you should be in your room, finishing that pending task.

The look your five-year old niece / nephew give you when you whip out that gaily-wrapped present from your duffel bag.

The look your best friend bestows at you when you pass your favorite store, and see bold-red lettering, screaming, S-A-L-E.

The look your beloved has when he / she sets eyes upon you you, though you might have had met the day before…..

Dash in a flash....

The other day a guy friend told me about the vanities of the female sex.

And about the more than ample time on their prettily-manicured hands to pander to these vanities.

Point in question – St. Petersburg hosted a run for women wearing...

Hold your horses, all you pervs out there.

The participants had to wear stilettos, with a minimum height of 9 cms (3.5 inches).

And if you thought that most would turn up their pretty noses at the event, think again.

More than a hundred Russian women turned up, to sweat it out for this 100-meter High-Heel Race.

What were they all running for, you might ask?

The prize was a $2,000 shopping-spree.

Not bad, eh?

Now if only they would hold such stuff here in India, I’m sure quite a few of my friends would sprint it out...

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.

It was a "raw" morning today...

It happened finally…

What I’d been dreading all these last few months decided to come true today morning.

When I went to my third-floor balcony in the morning to pick my newspaper, I was greeted by a sharp “thwaccck” on my nose.

My newspaper vendor, responsible for my day after day quota of news, should be lauded for his impeccable hurling of the rolled-up daily. Each day for me begins with bleary-eyed me, making my way to the balcony to fetch the broadsheet, which lies on the floor, willing to be picked-up by me, and glanced-over / scanned by me – depending on my mood. Today seemed no different, except that when I stepped out, there were no signs of my morning-read.

Sighing, I guessed that I was up earlier than most days, and was about of retrace my steps inside, when by some unfortunate last-minute dilly-dallying, finally decided to stand there for a couple of minutes, and enjoy the tingly morning breeze. After all, when you stay in a place like Delhi where you are more often than not welcomed even on early mornings by a ruthless sun, such days as these are less and far between.

So I stayed back, smiling at no one in particular, reminiscing about my last two days, made inordinately happy by someone’s return from foreign shores.

That’s when it happened.

My face, enjoying the invigorating breeze, suddenly started smarting. Ouch!

“Thwacck” – the rolled-up newspaper had arrived.

On my nose.

Leaving me with a sore feeling, both literally and metaphorically.

Jesus Christ, the guy was an absolutely fantastic pitcher. I mean, I’m sure any soccer team would have been proud of his pitch, and shelled out eye-popping amounts in Euros for signing him on.

Despite the throbbing pain, I couldn’t help but manage a feeble smile.

Thank God the guy only tossed one paper onto my balcony.

Or it would have been a more “raw” story.

Are you guilty? Confession is good for the soul...

Those traditional confession-both scenes you see in the movies (and probably hear about from elderly Christians) might soon be a thing of the past.

Since many of us spend more than a share of our time on the Internet, it was only natural that an online confession site came to the front.

That is exactly what some enterprising people in Florida have done.

The Flamingo Road Church, under the auspices of its Pastor, Pastor Gramling, has come up with a new path to salvation.

This year, on April 08, Easter, the Pastor and several other church members, floated a website, ivescrewedup.com, wherein one can log in and confess one’s sins online.

Cynics, who pooh-poohed at the “virtual confession” idea, had to virtually eat humble pie, for over 1000 people have registered and confessed in the three months since the website went up.

The modus operandi is simple enough – one registers, and posts one’s confessions. All are kept anonymous.

The Church does not respond, believing that if one is truly repentant while confessing, God does listen.

And forgive.

Mea culpa? Make your confessions here.

New Seven Wonders of the World: Results.

The results are out.

The New 7 Wonders campaign is out with the new Seven Wonders of the World. The results were announced at a star-studded, glittering ceremony in Lisbon, Portugal.

Out of the 21 finalists, the 7 that emerged winners are:

1. Our very own Taj Mahal, a symbol of love and passion.
2. Chichen Itza (Yucatan, Mexico) - symbol of worship, knowledge.
3. Great Wall (China) – a symbol of perseverance, persistence.
4. Machu Picchu (Cuzco, Peru) – a symbol of community, dedication.
5. Petra (Jordan) – symbol of engineering, protection.
6. Christ the Redeemer (Rio de Janeiro) – symbol of welcoming, openness.
7. Roman Colosseum (Rome, Italy) – symbol of joy, suffering.

From the original seven wonders of the ancient world, only the Great Pyramids of Giza retained their status in addition to the new seven.

The campaign, launched in 1999 by Swiss film producer, author, and aviator, Bernard Weber, is the first ever global voting campaign, and garnered a staggering response. Over 100 million votes were cast by people globally.

I remember when I first wrote about this global voting here, five months back, the Taj was lagging at the tenth spot. Within a surprisingly short time, people swung into action – phone calls were made, e-mails were shot, messages were texted, the works…

The results are for all to see.

Wah Taj, Wah!

Movie Review: The Queen

After having missed it last weekend, I was more than a little anxious that I did not miss Stephen Frears’ tour de force, The Queen. So this weekend, I set out with an old friend, to watch it – she was keen to watch it too. And might I add, both of us were not disappointed.

At a time when Tony Blair has, in real-life, made way for Gordon Brown as the new UK PM, The Queen ensures that his (Blair’s) politically populist, media-savvy campaigns and views do not fade into oblivion. Michael Sheen gives a notable performance as the newly-sworn in Prime Minister.

But the movie belongs to Helen Mirren, who delivers a stellar performance as the enigmatic, guarded, stoic, wary of the PM who is intent to “modernize” Britain, class-conscious monarch. A stalwart HRH, her dry humor and ability to bring down people a peg or two, be it her nutty husband, Prince Phillip (played by James Cromwell), her spineless, whining son – the Prince of Wales, Prince Charles (Alex Jennings), the “brash” pro-modernist Blair, or his “middle-class” and outspoken anti-royalist wife, Cherie Blair (played by Helen Mccrory), as also her private secretary Robin Janvrin(Roger Allam), is par excellence.

Most of the movie is based on the time right after the People’s Princess, Princess Diana’s death in August 1997, and the complex relationship between the traditionally restrained Queen and the bursting-with-ideas Blair, barely three months into his role as PM after a landslide Labor win. Post news of Diana’s death, the Queen retains the monarchical stiff upper lip, refusing to let the Union Jack fly at half mast over Buckingham Palace, rebuffing a public mourning, and declining to address the nation live about Diana’s legacy. The reason – Diana was separated from Charles, and technically did not “deserve” a royal funeral, especially after her escapades with Dodi Al Fayed were lapped up by yellow journalists and / or the paparazzi.

At a time when the British public were anxious to hear condolence messaged from the Queen, she instead seeks refuge at Balmoral Castle in Scotland, surrounded by her dogs, jeeps, kilt-wearing husband, son, and grand-children, more concerned with stag-hunting than the humongous public grief that had built up. Her single arched-eyebrow speaks volumes, and she is appalled by the publicity Diana’s death has generated.

This is where the slick Blair steps in, carefully steering the much-vilified-by-the-fourth-estate Queen in the right direction. She makes a public appearance, addresses the nation live, and does damage-control for her appallingly aloof English reaction. HRH – the aristocratic, acid-talking, class-driven Royal, bound by protocol, has the perfect antidote in the savvy, politically-driven, smooth-operator, modernist, Blair.

Helen Mirren fittingly deserved the Academy she marshaled for the vivid role she essays with such consummate ease.

The movie is a no-nonsense intimate human drama of manners, where each person is shown battling his / her own private battles with an aching vulnerability.

Miss it at your own risk.

Get a Bear Hug...

With the frenetic speed with which technology is dashing, is it any surprise that textiles were to be left behind?

After smart phones, flameless candles, flame and heat-resistant microwave mitts, biometric fingerprint keypad locks, video doorphone systems, the latest to join the bandwagon are hug shirts.

And pray, what are those, you might ask.

Sample this:

Scenario (A) – A lone soldier, stationed at a glacial base, last met his wife seven months back. Although he is grateful that his trusty mobile enables him to chat with wifey dear off and on, the physical warmth of a hug is sorely missed. Enter the Hug Shirt. One text message, and our soldier is able to send a hug or a squeeze to his better half.

Cynics / skeptics may point out that the market for such a product is minimal, and that there is no substitute for the real thing; others like me, might argue that in a state like that of the soldier in question, the hug shirt could very well be like Manna from heaven, and more than a blessed relief.

Scenario (B) (And this may strike a chord with quite a few) – Your beloved is on foreign shores. And you would give anything to exchange that squeeze that you both adore. Your hug shirt proves handy here, and lo and behold, though you may not be able to hold him / her in that tight bear-hug, you do get more a physical sensation akin to a hug, which is so much better than one of those virtual hugs handed over e-mail by nauseously-pink teddy bears.

The novel technology is a brainchild of Francesca Rosella and Ryan Genz, co-founders of the 2004 established Interactive Design and Wearable Technology company – CuteCircuit.

The soft lycra shirt, which recreates the sensation of a hug over distance, has sensors capable of measuring the “strength of touch, skin warmth, and the heart rate of the sender. Actuators that are capable of recreating the sensation of touch and warmth are also embedded in the shirt. Both actuators and sensors are placed in a kind of “technology sandwich” which can be removed, making the shirt washable. During the testing of the shirts, major intensity points wer identified on upper arms, on the upper back part during a condolatory hug, around the waistline, neck, shoulders, and hips.”

Have I got you animated? These are all you need to send / receive hugs to / from your loved ones:
a) A Hug Shirt (but actually)
b) Bluetooth and Java-enabled mobile phone with a Hug Me” software running on it
c) A sender / recipient with the same equipment

I guess there might be a fair share of people out there, willing to spend for the Hug Shirt, due to be released mid-2007 (aren’t we almost there).

And no, it isn’t gonna be that expensive. Expect to shell out the same as you would for an iPod Nano:-)

See the podcast here.

Wake up and smell the coffee

It is not just Central Perk, focal point of many episodes of the hugely successful F*R*I*E*N*D*S, that started the coffee addict season.

Since the past many decades, whenever a guy has asked a girl out, or( as is increasingly becoming the case these days – hallelujah) the girl doing the asking, it is usually these words which mark an entry, “Would you like to go out for coffee sometime?”

Now, I have nothing against the beverage. In fact, I am more than partial to the heady smell of coffee (latte, cappuccino, espresso, frappe, mocha, caramel, or java chip – whichever, you name it), with the delicious aroma of some blueberry / walnut-choc muffins. Mmmmmm.

But the only question that has been “frothing” (pardon the pun) in my mind is, why is it that it is usually coffee that finds a mention when it comes to a first date. Why not tea? Why not a formal dinner?

Did a lil asking around – seems like different people have different sound bytes (but naturally).

While some say that coffee places / cafes are a dime a dozen, and found in almost every nook and corner of every urbane settlement (I mean, how many cha bars do you actually have, if we look at Delhi itself), there are others who opine that the “Westernness” of coffee scores over the more oriental tea.

Pshawww, the others butt-in. Coffee is the best social lubricant known to man. More so than a formal sit-down seven course meal can ever be. And coffee is like a boon on first dates. Imagine if the following happens to you:
a) you enter the pre-decided meeting place for that first date you have been looking forward to
b) order a meal
c) within five minutes, you size up the person sitting opposite you
d) you don’t like what you see / you don’t hit it off too well
e) you look around longingly at the people sitting around, offering a silent prayer to any of them to come to your rescue
f) no such luck. Nobody even gives you a second glance. Dismayed you thinks of other escape channels. You obviously can’t decide to do a marathon, and rush out before your date’s bewildered eyes.
g) The music is something that would make your teenage younger sister go what-in-the-friggin-world-is-that????
h) To make things worse, you’ve ordered a full meal.

What do you do then?

Slurp your soup noisily, wolf down the hors de oeuvres, stuff yourself with the cheesy steak, before looking pointedly at your Tissot, and then making a beeline for the exit point? Even that would take a good half-hour at least. To top it, you are probably at a swanky restaurant, and after that one particular incident, would be more than loath to make a repeat appearance to book a table there.

On the other hand, a coffee date, which goes awry, can be manageable. See how.

a) Enter coffee place
b) Meet date in question
c) Order coffee and a waffle / croissant
d) Size person up – don’t like what you see

Chances are, you can do a damn neat job in hastily gulping the caffeined beverage without scalding your tongue, (it may take longer than my saying Jack Robinson, but what the heck, you are getting there). You bite into the waffle / croissant, think of a believable excuse, and voila! Hasta luego to your date. No questions asked. No ruffled feathers. Wotsay?

In the eventuality of the date getting there to be a success, there are lots of things to add-on to the experience: the informal and aesthetically-pleasing setting, where like-minded people hang out and sip their coffee (and maybe chamomile tea), not to mention read books, solve the daily crossword, strum a guitar in a corner, catch up with gossip, fine-tune plans, and play a round of chess.

All the above ensure that coffee houses remain bustling centers.

And coffee will find a way to creep into those (un)forgettable dates…

Do you bear a grudge?

No, nothing's wrong with your vision. You needn't schedule that appointment with that affable optometrist.

Neither have you had a drink too many.

The blue and red banner actually does announce for sale a particular species of omnivorous mammals. Instead of their more "spirited" counterparts.

What is probably an innocuous spelling error, could fuel a lot of Animal Rights activists getting up in arms.

A friend clicked this snap a week back, when he went for an idyllic trip to Shimla.

I bet all the Baloos, Yogi Bears, Winnie the Poohs, Humphrey Bears, Crispy Bears, and Rupert Bears, would hardly be amused, and would be scurrying for cover.

As would be the PETA and the SPCA, who are gonna be loath to grin and "bear" it.

Set the ball rolling with Zorbing.

You’ve obviously heard of astronauts.

You probably harbored a secret ambition to be one yourself.

Ever heard of a zorbonaut, though?

Before you roll your eyes expressively, and put it down to another of my moniker-generating days, let me stop you right there.

And assert that there are actually people out there called zorbonauts.

Who participate in an extreme adventure sport, called zorbing.

What in the world is that, you might ask.

I don’t blame you. I hadn’t heard of it too long ago myself.

A relatively “new” adventure sport, zorbing originated in that country that spawned bungee jumping.

Yep, I’m talking of the Kiwi country here - New Zealand.

For the adrenaline junkies, zorbing could offer that thrill.

The “zorb” is a PVC inflatable sphere, about three metres in height, and contains another smaller sphere, suspended into position by numerous nylon strands.

As many as three people can be comfortably ensconced in the air-cushioned zorb at one time.

And then, you set the ball rolling.

Now you might ask, wouldn’t I be extremely uncomfortable in the sphere?

Further, if I’m in the zorb with a couple of friends, wouldn’t we be all over each other.

The answer is N-O.

You (and your friends) will be pinned to the inside by a centrifugal force.

Sounds kinda neat, doesn’t it?

There are very few specifications for this sport.

The first is that there should be a gentle slope for the zorb to roll down.

A steep gradient, on the other hand, will have you:

a) Screaming like a banshee for Mamma Mia

b) Hurtling down at breakneck speed, as if there’s no tomorrow

The second is that you shouldn’t be anywhere inside the zorb on that full tummy. I mean, that’s elementary, folks.

I made a few inquiries, and found out that we have zorbing right here in the country too. In the Solang Valley, Himachal Pradesh, where you can do zorbing – at a reasonably priced Rs. 300 per person.

Almost makes me wanna take that ride to HP.

But then, I am not known to be the best of malingerers.

But for those of you who find the very idea of being strapped inside a bouncy ball stimulating, and right up your street, zorbing it is for you.

Check the original New Zealand Zorb site here.

And see the Youtube video below.

Movie Review: Shootout at Lokhandwala

Frankly speaking, when my date suggested that we watch Apoorva Lakhia’s new directorial venture, “Shooutout at Lokhandwala,” I had many misgivings in my mind. After all, what would you really expect from a guy who had previously delivered duds with an ex-Miss-India-looking-uncomfortably-gauche-in-cholis-but-with-a-fancy-accent-to-boot in “Mumbai Se Aaya Mera Dost” (shudder), and a badly hashed rendition of “Man on Fire,” rechristening it “Ek Ajnabee?”

Far out though.

The guy has evolved.

And how!

I expected it to be yet another potboiler, wherein the director had decided to cash-in on the topical surge of gangster movies that are “aggressively” being churned out in dozens.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Shootout at Lokhandwala is a fast-paced, chilling movie.

Based on “true rumors,” the movie is set in Mumbai, 1991, and explicitly depicts the infernal “encounter” on November 16 that year, between the Mumbai police unit, ATS (Anti-Terrorist Squad), led by Aftab Ahmad Khan, and five members of Dawood Ibrahim’s gang.

Some would find it a tad too gory, but heck, with a title like that, what else did you expect? Violins, roses, and actors lip-synching laughable lyrics in exotic Swiss locales?

Duh.

So we have the hard-as-nails Khan, played effortlessly by Sanjay Dutt, who I must remark is a pretty versatile actor, fitting the mould of lovable don with a heart of gold (Lage Raho Munnabhai), and steely-cop(Shootout…) with equal ease.

His ATS is based on the LAPD SWAT team, for which he enlists the best cops.

Two of his closest aides are “Inspector” Kaviraj Patil (Sunil / Suneil Shetty), who, when he is not spewing the choicest abuses, makes umpteen blank calls to his wife, to saving his marriage from dissolution, and Javed Sheikh (Arbaaz Khan), a caricaturized extended version, resembling a professor who has been unwillingly turned into a cop. Probably that explains his lofty homily on the “f” word, and consummate skill in spouting chaste Hindi.

Amitabh Bachan, as the chief Inspector turned private prosecutor, Dhingra, is the picture of subdued precision, although you do cringe when he unnecessarily thunders / bellows at Sheikh and Patil to keep their traps shut.

Moving on to the gangsters, Vivek Oberoi, playing the role of Maya Dolas, is perfect as the smirking, compassionless, henchman of the Dubai-based don. His four cronies, played by Tusshar Kapoor, Rohit Roy, Shabbir Ahluwalia, and Aditya Lakhia, deliver decent performances, though Tusshar Kapoor is ludicrous, when he, all of bulging-eyes and lean-frame avatar, threatens Sunil Shetty, almost double his size, in the gym scene. Awww, and come on, Tusshar, you hafta also quit shedding buckets in your movies, lest the viewers confuse you with a character from your sister’s K-serials.

The women are a let-down, except for Amrita Singh, who excels in her depiction of Maya's strong mother as a Marathi-rattling-pan-chewing figure.

Dia Mirza as a reporter fails to deliver. She probably didn’t get her homework right. After all, serious reporters pay more attention on getting the crisp-news factor right, than on getting their kohl-rimmed eyes to speak eloquently / expressively and / or mastering their histrionic capabilities.

Aarti Chhabria could have done better with a meatier script. Here she’s relegated to a couple of hip-gyrating-bosom-heaving-pelvic-thrusting-song-and-dance numbers, and some fancy waterworks.

Neha Dhupia, she of the long face and constant dead-pan look, should strictly limit herself to making an odd appearance at P3 parties, or at Pashmina shawl launches. What is the word I can think of for her? Wooden, that’s it. Enough said.

There are some scenes in the movie that were completely avoidable.

For instance, Abhishek Bachan, as a gun-toting, Ray-Ban-wearing biker cop, in his five minute role, before he is gunned-down, could have been given a miss.

As also for the very very quotable Ms. Rakhi Sawant in her blink-and-you’ll-miss-her-in-her-red-cleavage-baring-dress role.

Ditto for the totally incongruous bar songs.

A couple of questions too for the director.

In the last few minutes scene, where the gunpowder and pellets are free-flowing in the building housing the gangsters, the phone lines do not get jammed, even till the end. Probably the telecom department was sensitive enough to let the gangsters bid their final adieus to their near and dear ones, right?

Also, how come the police-force that came to wipe out the gangsters, didn’t wear bullet-proof jackets?

Nevertheless, the movie is worth seeing.

As my guy said, the movie is RAW.

You won’t even need popcorn to munch on.

It will keep you glued to your comfy theater seat.

Not recommended for the meek at heart though.

Topping it with icecream

Despite the third installment of Spidey being a damp squib, it hasn’t deterred companies from trying their best to cash in on Marvel Comics’ most recognized character.

The latest to join the bandwagon is the Californian ice-cream giant, Baskin Robbins.

Impervious to the washout that the red-and-blue-attired-superhero received at the hands of implacable critics, Baskin Robbins has launched the Superhero triple ice-cream range.

The names are conveniently “inspired” –
Web Slinger
Green Gobbler
Sandstorm

The only saving grace – free comics of the webbed wonder with every ice-cream you purchase.

No wonder the kiddies are lining up eagerly.

Leaving us adults thanking for small mercies that those “innovative” people out there didn’t come up with even more ludicrous names.

Sample this:

Symbiote Strawberry or Mary-Jane Mango soufflés anyone?

(Shudder)

When it rained

Some time back, it rained.

Delhi’s scorcher of a sun had been beating unpityingly upon all and sundry.

By afternoon, people had woebegone faces; many looked fit enough o cry buckets.

The steady droning of air conditioners was a welcome relief; however, the same didn’t hold true for many others open to the elements.

So when a sandstorm started in the evening, people cast expectant eyes at the azure skies, where fluffy clouds were beginning to form, unmistakably.

The clouds burst, and a drizzle soon made way to a steady shower.

From my office cafeteria, I espied brick-kiln workers smiling cheerily at each other, hailing the welcome rain with thankful eyes, and tired, open arms.

Everyone seemed happy.

Except me, who wished I could be with him. Smiling when the rain streamed down my cheeks.

Instead of the tears that were pouring.

My best buddy

The first time I spoke with her, I didn’t really take a shine to her.
In fact, it would be more correct to say that I hated her on sight.
And decided that she would never be in my clique.
Whenever I would pass her in the corridors of our college hostel, I would glower at her, while she would smile me her sunniest beam, much to my vexation.
Too bad – out I would come with my most disgusted scowl, roll my eyes, and go clip-clopping on my patented stilettos.
And then, as luck would have it – by some inexplicable hand of fate, we were thrown as room-mates.
Gosh! Why-did-she-have-to-be-my-roomie! Was my first reaction when the news was delivered to me by my as-cool-as-a-cucumber warden. But all my cringing was in vain, as did all my pleas to get a new roomie fall on my warden’s deaf ears.
Resigned to my fate, I made my way to the room assigned to me. And to her.
Within five minutes, I had sized her up. She loved dance. Her younger sis. Clothes. Talking. Was in love. In the truest sense.
I also knew that I was going to hate her. A lot!
There were lots of heated quarrels, taunts, tears, baseless accusations, misunderstandings, misquotes, bruised egos, and more swollen eyes.
But then, somewhere along the way, a friendship blossomed between us.
Reluctantly from my side, I admit.
But which grew from strength to strength.
So much so that now, a life without her, my best pal, Chinky, is inconceivable for me.
She’s been with me through thick and thin, literally and metaphorically.
We laugh at the most inane of jokes. We don’t just laugh – we positively roll on the ground in mirth.
She can look through my most carefully-disguised of emotions. Try as I might, she knows what’s cooking.
We’ve raided each others wardrobes.
Talked endlessly over the phone.
Watched endless re-runs of F*R*I*E*N*D*S.
She’s eaten the drenched-in-ghee parathas I once made, on one of my once-in-the-rarest-of-blue-moon days, without wincing.
As I did the half-cooked potatoes she decided to cook for me the next day. (Before she rips me apart, let me hastily assure you that now she is a superlative cook, and all her culinary experiments are nothing short of a gastronome’s delight). Hear! Hear!
Last year, post a ‘spirited’ evening, I puked all over all her prized brand-new phone.
We’ve been through more than our share of zany stuff.
She’s been my closest confidante; I’ve rested my head on her petite shoulders for as long as I remember.
She’s been brutally honest and given me more than an ample piece of her mind (and acerbic tongue) when I have acted mulishly (and I’ve done that more times than I would like to remember).
Professional and personal advice has come from her in ample measure, and she has this uncanny ability to be bang-on.
Quite a talisman for me, I insist on dragging her for any interview I may have.
She’s never let me down.
We've hunted for that perfect Cinderella pair of shoes.
Helped smear the paint on each other for a party.
Almost as well as smearing gooey-chocolate cake on each other at birthdays.
Tried our hands at smoking perfect-eights.
Gobbled dimsums and pani-puri, with equally abandoned glee.
And then counted calories, with equally dejected expressions.
I’ve marveled at her ability to make a meal out of ice cream. I remember her hauling me to fetch ice-cream, on a particularly scorching Sunday afternoon, much to my visible annoyance.
Almost like the countless number of times to my fave coffee lounge, much to her exasperation. No surprise then that I was saddest, and she the diametrical opposite, when the MCD decided to close the place for good.
She’s nagged me no end about my spilling-over collection of footwear.
We’ve pored over the same magazines simultaneously – without me, the grumpy one, getting crabby.
I’ve understood that when we are on the dance floor, all eyes are on her. So I’ve learnt to step aside gracefully, and watch her, in her twinkle-toed-mouth-open avatar, without a single chip on my shoulder.
She’s freaked me out many a time with her uncanny predictions, and ability to remember the exact place where things are, much to my bewilderment, and gradually, grudging admiration.
Too bad she still freaks me out by going, “ooooooh aaaaah” over those furry, soft-toys. (Monsters!)
Almost as much as when she decides to do the possessed / spooky act with me, leaving me screaming for cover.
Next year we celebrate a decade of friendship.
That reminds me, I should probably tell her keep the flute glasses handy and dust-free.
But I guess, with her OCD for cleanliness, that should be the last of my concerns.
Cheers to you babe.
You rock! Big time.

Just Rambling

Yesterday is history.

Tomorrow is a mystery.

And today?

An imperfect truth

Ironical, how we as women, pooh pooh the very idea of attractiveness thrust upon our reluctant faces (blame the wicked idiot box and all those commercials on air / the glossies / diva-esque Hollywood / Bollywood celebs), and yet, we try our best to conform to what is our ideal of perfection / winsomeness / attractiveness.

We agree that not every girl is cover girl material, a femme fatale, a vision, a knockout, or a looker.

We agree that God didn’t create equals. (Even Archer concurs.

And yet, we crib.

We gripe.

We grumble audibly.

About ourselves.

We are plump.

We are anorexic.

Our hair is too limp / dry / frizzy / curly / voluminous / sparse.

Our skin is too oily / dry / patchy.

We have wrinkles, crow’s feet, stretch marks, ungainly cellulite, blemishes.

Our legs are too long, too short, too thin, too flabby.

We slather lotions and potions from the Dead Sea to closer home, from the Shahnaz’s to the Blossom’s.

We burn holes in our pretty pockets.

Though not masochists, we give pain to ourselves – what else would you call those fortnightly visits to that uber-steep salon?

We powder. We preen. We paint.

And fight our imperfections almost on a daily basis.

A friend moans each time I meet her, always about the same thing – her zits refuse to go, despite her having tried every acne-diminishing cream available in the market.

Another will groan each time she comes even half a mile close to the weighing-scales, but reaches out for that tiramisu in a trice.

I’d groan too.

Each time I’d see my two scars.

Testimony to a naughty-childhood.

Except that, till some time back, I would whimper and call myself “Scarface,” much to my mom’s annoyance, and visible displeasure.

Now I understand their importance.

They may not be beautiful in my eyes still; but they aren’t ugly too.

And assert a past that I do not want to forget.

Three words – Acceptance. Overcoming. Survival.

The scriptures say, “Love thy neighbor.”

I’d say, “Start with yourself.”

Sleepyhead is not a word I can use to describe myself

Yesterday night: 11.55 p.m. – happie happie "high-spirited" me. Hic.

Just a little after midnight – Wishing I were groggy. No luck though! Am still as fresh as a daisy. Espied the newspaper – reached out for it lackadaisically - but, the crackling of the pages woke me even more. Oh bother!

1 am – Time to talk to Mommie; we talk about the uneventful day.

1.30 am – am out of all excuses – need to sleep, but it seems to be evading me, almost like a convict dodging another run in the penitentiary.

2 am – Hurray! A yawn. Yet another. Gosh – I don’t believe this – another one. I switch off the lights. And I’m wide awake again. Oh horror! Despite the room being comfortably cool, and the AC humming reassuringly, slumberland still seems a long, long away.

2.30 am – try counting sheep. But guess the allegory stands true only in yellowed-dog-eared-pages of ancient tomes.

3.15 am – Drifting into sleep. Touch wood.

At last, sleep descended over me. And enveloped me in its welcoming lap. Wish the boy from Metallica's Enter Sandman fares better than me. See the Youtube video here.

Strange how the most effortless things become the most convoluted.

Take life, for instance.

Or for that matter, another four letter word which shares the same first initial.

Movie Review: Spiderman 3

Friday late night, bleary-eyed me set out, despite a hectic day at work, to catch Spidey in action once again.

Pretty ambitious, I must say.

Turned out to be quite a bad choice though.

Umpteen cups of coffee / buttery popcorn at its best / nachos with cheese or salsa dips / corn-on-the cobs – all will fail to keep you in your seats to watch the third installment of your favorite Marvel comics’ superhero, Spiderman 3.

Despite the big, fat budget (according to official budgets, Spiderman 3 cost producers a whopping $300 million. Jeeeeez), Sam Raimi goofs-up, leaving us more than a tad disappointed, especially since he did more than a commendable job directing the first two parts (as also giving us the creeps in Evil Dead 1 & 2).

Ahhh, expectations, expectations.

We had lots of them from this one.

Which unfortunately fell flat, after the super-stretched around 2.5 hours Spidey 3.

From the initial shot of Mary Jane Watson (MJ), played by a pokerfaced Kirsten Dunst, walking down the glittery stage in her aspiring Broadway actress avatar, right to the very end of the flick, I had the same deadpan look on my face. Don’t blame me – you’d probably have had the same expression too. Don't believe me? Go ahead, book yourself a ticket.

Taking the story forward, Spidey 3 opens with the world being Peter Parker / Spiderman’s (Tobey Maguire) oyster. After all, he’s the toast of the town, is comfortably placed as a photographer in the Daily Bugle, and is all energized to pop the question to MJ over champagne and music. The only nagging thought is his souring friendship with his once best pal, Harry Osborne (the utterly-delectable James Franco), who holds him responsible for his father’s death, and who, post an amnesiac spell and all, turns into the alternative iniquitous Green Goblin.

Things start getting terribly awry with the arrival of a black symbiote on the scene (Where? How? When? – you’ll ask. I asked the same too, to my date. He was as clueless as I was). Well, the black, gooey, symbiote very conveniently latches on to Spidey a’la Mary’s Little Lamb. And decides to attach itself to Spiderman’s red and blue costume, causing it to turn a wicked black. Pardon the pun.

As soon as our very own Spidey dons his now black costume, he finds his webbed powers enhanced, but also finds himself enmeshed in hitherto new emotions of pride, hatred, and vendetta.

So we see him planting a kiss on the luscious lips of Gwen Stacy (played by a very pregnant Bryce Dallas Howard, last seen in two forgettable flicks by M.Night Shyamalan), the blonde whose life he saves. We also see the usually reticent Spiderman gushing about his high rating on the NYC popularity meter. We see him trying his feet at dance, again with Gwen, and not the insecure-depressing MJ. Not all of them scenes we would have liked to see.

We also see him grappling with his inner turmoil. We gasp! see him sobbing, when his petite lady-love walks out on him.

Pretty reminiscent of the vulnerable James Bond we saw last year. And whom we liked pretty much.. which is more than what we can say about Maguire this time.
The story gets more entangled, what with an escaped-convict, Flint Marco (Thomas Haden Church), a.k.a. Sand Man, and Eddie Brock (Topher Grace), a Justin Timberlake-ish looking photographer, who, while praying for Spiderman’s death in a church, has the symbiote take over him, and finds himself as the newest villain on the block, Venom.
The only saving grace was the superbly executed duel between Parker and Harry, a whizzing combat set amidst the dizzying New York skyscrapers.

But then, you’d hardly go to watch that one splendidly done shot in the theaters, right? You need more, like everybody else, don't you?

But if you do decide to go for it, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

And yeah, don’t wait for the intermission to order that giant-popcorn-combo.

Do the honors right at the beginning of the movie.

You’ll be needing it to munch your way through the movie.

Or keep stifling yawns, the way I did!

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?

Fashion faux-pas by men

Came across a piece on how some snooty men, cocksure about their boardroom expertise, seem to think they can extend it to their fashion sense(or gasp – lack of it), and instead display, in ample measure, how they can go completely awry about such simple things like classy styles.

Here are the top ten fashion mistakes that even the most alpha of males commit. Tick to see that you ain’t committing any of these howlers, and making your colleagues stuff wads of tissues into their mouth to keep from guffawing every time you pass them by. Tsk tsk.

1. Rucksack / Backpack – What are you? A mountaineer, the newest Reinhold Messner on the block, out on an expedition to the Himalayas, in quest of that elusive yeti? Skip it immediately, and invest in a smart briefcase pronto. Anyway, with the wide array available at the mall in your vicinity, you are utterly spoilt for choice.

2. Color me (blind) – Well, well, well – I quite agree that wearing basic blacks, boring browns, blah blues, and gloomy greys can definitely get a tad dreary. But hey, that doesn’t mean that you would raid your wardrobe for each hue you can possibly remember(and name), and don it to your workplace. After all, you wouldn’t want to strike anyone blind with the OTT color mélange, and / or make them reach out for their pair of aviators, would you? Another blooper – combining two pale colors or two dark colors together. The word is matching, dude, not visually-jarring. Plus, drop those diagonal stripes. Now, now – not in the way you think (pervs). They are best left for that watering spot you wanna hit during the weekends, with your girl. Certainly not in the boardroom – and yup, that aching look which that female colleague has been “bestowing” upon you, is nothing to do with her heart. You are probably giving her an aching headache. Now, don’t let me start about socks. I’ll leave you to your own gumption.

3. Stained clothes - Now pizza may be one of your major weaknesses, but is it really required that you show off those bright yellow mustard spots / telling ketchup marks on your shirt? Ditto for discolored patches under armpits. Jeeeez – put that shirt right where it came from – the washing machine – you new best friend
:-)

4. Pants that aren’t the most flattering fit – Each step you take reveals those sparkling-white Lacoste socks you recently bought. That spring in your step might just be making people splutter in amusement. Pants too tight - definitely not a sight for sore eyes. Too baggy – what are you – a pubescent who’s pulled on his latest anti-fits? A word of advice – use those trial rooms they have in those showrooms. You’ll be wiser, and even have swanky, well-fitting lowers.

5. Ponytails – even Beckham doesn’t have a staple braid – he keeps those glorious tresses short too. So why must you differ? What were you thinking? That women would give an arm and a leg to run their fingers through what you count as your most-prized mane? And with summers in all their scorching fury these days, you’d be more than a little thick-headed to have one of those grimy, sweaty, ponytails. Admit it – they look so much better on your female counterparts, don’t they? (That they use Tony and Guy and you use the average Brylcreem could have a hand, me thinks).

6. Tie the knot – no no, I’m not suggesting that you get knotty, and get affianced in holy matrimony, that was just a lil quip on that ubiquitous tie, a staple on that harried employee, as well as his cool-as-a-cucumber Boss from hell. Avoid the colors that will put a peacock to shame. And stick to the classic three-and-a-quarter width – any less or more will earn you a mention in the Fashion Hall of Shame. The length is also of essence – any longer or shorter than the top of your belt buckle, and you are guaranteed to make the most grim person break out into a telltale chortle.

7. Too much (or no) cologne – now this one is quite a tough one. You don’t wanna reek of traffic / pollution / dust / perspiration (oh bummer). But conversely, you don’t also want to appear as if you doused yourself in that bottle of Hugo Boss. Don’t blame anyone if, as soon as you step out for that customary ciggie, all the bees, butterflies, and birds come humming, flying and chirping towards you. And dude, remember that a cologne that smells divine on your best friend, may not be all that flattering on you. So, use those coffee beans (and your olfactory sense) astutely the next time you go fume-shopping. Better still, take your mom / sister / gal pal along. And avoid the layering thingie – you don’t want people dropping dead around you as soon as you breeze into a room, right?

8. Facial hair – trim, trim, trim. The neat look always scores points, not the Neanderthal gorilla act. Enough said.

9. Jewelry – unless you moonlight as a rock star, after hours, you shouldn’t be caught dead with more than a classy watch, a wedding band, and a simple gold chain (if you really must). Leave the chunky bracelets, thumb rings, etc at home. Or with your ten-year old niece!

10. Comb-overs – tress-cahellenged? Don’t make it all the more evident by arranging them carefully, one by one. Doesn’t work for anyone, except pot-bellied principals, swarthy bank clerks, and officials with pince-nez perched on their nosy-noses. Go the bald way a la Vin Diesel / Bruce Willis, if you are a) adventurous and b) can totally carry it off with panache (not recommended for the meek and weak-hearted though).

There you are. A ready reckoner for all you guys out there.
Go ahead, put your best foot forward. And stun them with your individualistic style, not sniggering behind your back.
Atta guys!

Who Says Life is Beautiful

Have you ever felt that life is hunky-dory, and things couldn’t get better?

You wonder how life could be so rosy, and keep pinching yourself that it really wasn’t all a dream, that it ACTUALLY was your life unfolding in front of you.

Although you had that nagging feeling at the back of your mind that it was criminal to be that happy, you banished those vile thoughts, urging yourself that your E.S.P. was probably completely awry.

Smile firmly put into place, you continued to smell the flowers, and look up at the starry night.

And then it happened.

One minute you were beaming.

The next second, all traces of that smile were expunged from your face.

Utterly devastated, you feel you are falling into an abyss of despair.

Bah! How I hate this unfair life!

Times Global Village Noida: March 30 - April 30, 2007

So yesterday, we made a trip to a kaleidoscope of colors in the form of the Global Village festival, being held near Noida’s toll bridge. Braving the mercilessly scorching late-afternoon Sunday Delhi sun, we made our way to the venue, which can only best be described as an environmental disaster, what with a dry riverbed, the area choked with the populace from perhaps all the neighboring places, automobiles spewing out smoke in regularity, harried parking lot attendants (steep parking at rupees 50 per vehicle. Gosh!), and swirling clouds of dust (aggravating my already tormented throat).

By the by, was just wondering how environmentalists, who recently wielded cudgels, and rendered several slum-dwellers there homeless, allowed the area to host the month-long extravaganza. I can only shake my head and exclaim, “Strange are the ways of the world.”

The hoopla surrounding the Global Village was palpable. Hordes of people, having probably leafed through the pages of the leading national daily that had organized it, had all faithfully queued up to be a part of the event. Spread over 40 acres, out of which 20 acres are allocated for parking, the exposition boasts of national and international stalls, showcasing artifacts, handicrafts, clothes, footwear, etc. There are also food courts for your palate, street performers to amuse the kid in you, pyrotechnics, a funfair, rides, and interesting games like paintball. However, what really caught my eye were the replicas of architectural marvels like Taj Mahal, Burj Al Arab, the Great Wall of China, Eiffel Tower, the Roman Basilica, London Bridge etc that marked the entrance.

With people lining up to get their pics taken there, the entrance was nothing short of chaos. The stalls inside were also nothing spectacular, though they boasted participation from about 15 countries – China, Czech Republic, Egypt, Iran, Iraq, Kenya, Pakistan, Senegal, South-sub Sahara African countries, Thailand, Turkey, United Kingdom, UAE and Vietnam. Out of these, the UK stall was the biggest disappointment – with only mugs and bandannas on display. What a pity.

The prices were a tad too high. Bargaining was strictly a no-no. The Chinese lamps, woodwork, and hookahs were by far the best buys, while the price of crystal (though good), was enough to make me arch my eyebrows / roll my eyes.

The heat was getting to us. So we settled for an Indian food court, savoring tangy gol-guppas, jal-jeera, and corn. It had been over two hours, so after having our fill, and hearing some people getting panicky over what was later understood to be a bomb hoax, we made our way home, feet killing us. Whew.

Suggestion – go to the Times Global Village only if
a) A dusty walk is your idea of fun
b) You fancy seeing people dressed in their Sunday ‘sparkly” best (the kind that makes you cringe / reach out for your trusted sunglasses

Oh, and by the way, don’t even bother smoking, especially if you are a woman. You’d probably attract all the attention. Of the kind you’d rather do without.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

For bookings / more information, refer to the Global Village site here.

Movie Review: Bheja Fry

Bheja Fry is not your average Hindi comic-bordering-on-cheesy flick, as is the rule nowadays with the tacky comedies that Bollywood has been regularly churning out in hordes. Rather, the director, Sagar Ballary, does serve decent fare in his maiden project.

The only slip-up – the comic caper turns monotonous half way through the movie. And what had amused the audience in the first part, becomes a droning, dragging piece.

The movie does have its shining moments though. Especially in the form of a certain Mr. Pathak, who sails through the part of a bumpkin taxman, and an aspirant singer, with commendable ease. Ranvir Sheorey, another caricaturized tax-officer, also gets the obligatory number of laughs, though I wish he had more screen space t share with his VJ peer.

Rajat Kapoor, as the smug, pom-pomming music producer, seems to have perfected the suave-smooth-operator-meets-haughty act. Except that it starts getting under your skin, and you’d rather that he stop. And probably show some versatility in his next character portrayal. Puhleeeez - Mr. Kapoor, wait jus yet, before you accept yet another cheque for the same kinda character. Jeeeez. In the movie, his idea of an entertaining Friday night is to invite some buffoon, so that he and his other stuck-up friends can share some good old scotch and delicate hors-de-oeuvres, “harmlessly” laughing at the antics of the chosen idiot of the day. Sounds neat, no?

Sarika, his morally-righteous singer-wife, is a character whom the director probably forgot to draw finely. Her sketchy dialogues, mood-spells, bamboo-purses (I felt one of them had a snake coiled inside it), and badly-pronounced English almost wants you to pay for some diction (and theater) classes. (Isn't it surprising that she didn’t pick up any histrionics from her ex-hubby, Kamal Hasan?)

Milind Soman, he of the Star-Trek-ears-variety, tries to hide them under a month of stubble, and long hair. Pity that he also hides his acting skills, under limited screen space, woody dialogue-delivery, doubling up with laughter, and then gliding away on his superbly-crafted crocodile-leather moccasins, before you would even register that he had walked in, in the first place.

All in all, Bheja Fry is a movie strictly for those who have ample time to spare(and waste). Oh yes, also if you fancy singing along to some songs, that Vinay Pathak insists on singing in bursts and starts, in the entire breadth of the movie. I'm not too sure what would be your movie companion(s)' reaction though. Psssst - it could waver between amusement and ire. As an audience to my friend's crooning, I fell in the former category. :-)

Heard that it is a remake of a French movie - Le Diner De Cons (The Dinner Game).

Haven’t seen it. Don’t think I want to either.

Do you?

The case of the frequent missed calls

Everybody around you is doing it.

Your cook, the naighborhood grocery dealer, scrap seller, the kids next door, your colleagues, friends, acquaintances, the maid-who-comes-in-daily, you name him, he's doing so.

Now before you embark on a vivid flight of your fanciful imagination, I'm afraid I'd have to tell you to rein those horses.

I am referring to the spate of hard-to-miss-in-your-face missed calls, that are making their presence felt, all with a couple of even rings.

Your friends have come to pick you up from your place, for a spin around town. Five minutes away from your place, a missed call proudly announces their nearing.

Post-lunch cigarette with that cute colleague? A missed call is all it takes for him / her to know your nicotine-craving time, and join you.

Not quite sure if your amnesiac friend will remember that chore you asked him to do? Fear not, a missed call is your best bet.

Feeling lazy to write that loooong message? Take out your cell in a trice, and place a missed call. Chances are, the other person might return your call.

Missed calls also come to your rescue, when your cell phone balance is precariously low, and you still desire to hear the other person's voice.

A friend who has free outgoing will naturally find himself being bombarded with missed calls by the dozen. Nightmare or heaven, you decide.

It's not always so rosy though.

For instance, when your miser cousin / so-called friend, makes it a regular feature to pester you with missed calls, a smile is the last thing on your mind. (Cussing highly recommended)

But I guess you'll agree that the redeeming features are more than their evils.

After all, they are convenient. Completely no-fuss.

Best of all, they don't cost a penny.