Movie Review: Loins of Punjab Presents

With a title like that, Loins of Punjab Presents sure must have grabbed quite a few eyeballs. Which would however, soon crease into wide smiles and / or impish grins, depending on your affinity.

A perfect weekend watch, Loins of Punjab Presents (I won’t deny that I get a kick each time I say the title aloud) takes you through the quirks, anxieties, ambitions, delusions, and machinations of an Indian diaspora in New Jersey. Thrown together one weekend to win the $25,000 jackpot of a reality show called Desi Idol, seven contestants attempt to sweat it out for the moolah. The show is organized by the boorish Jameel Khan, who takes the word ‘crude” to an altogether new high.

A walk through the contestants almost makes you feel they are intensely familiar. So you have the conniving socialite, Rita Kapoor (a stunning Shabana Azmi), assaying the Machiavelli act to perfection, complete with arched eyebrows, secretive smirks, and glinting eyes. Her only aim is to outdo a certain rival, who happens to be a prominent media person / socialite / theater personality. So when the rival donates a raffle draw prize money in charity, our very own Ms. Azmi sets her heart upon doing the same, albeit on a grander, more ostentatious manner. And the best course of action she decides to take, is entering the talent show, trotting off with the prize money on designer heels, and donating it all in charity. This, while the blinding flashing cameras click away merrily, and eager photojournalists hang-on to, and hastily jot-down her well-rehearsed “noble” speeches. As far as competition is concerned, Pshaww. What do some ignorant buffoons pose to her Royalty herself? Out she comes with her social networks (carefully updated and maintained over the years, no doubt), and like a seasoned Grandmaster, she sets about removing all the barriers that lie between the jackpot and her. Too bad that in the end, her hubby dear decides to have a torrid affair with the rival.

Next is Preeti, one of the huge Patel family’s offspring, all of 17 years old, blessed with a divine voice, which however, she only uses to sing. The talking? Well, she leaves that to her Scrooge Gujju clan, who will go all out to ensure that she wins. Even if that means spouting malapropisms (Cock for Coke; snakes for snacks – you get the drift, right), or taking the very very openly gay judge to, hold your breath, an all-female strip club, leaving him gagging/ frothing at the mouth. Do watch out towards the end, when Preeti finally opens her mouth to take Shabana Azmi by total surprise.

Sania Rehman fits the bill of the ABCD (for the uninitiated, American Born Confused Desi) to the T. Conversant with only a smattering of Hindi, which she uses sparingly, she dreams of making it big in Bollywood as an actress. And for whom, the Desi Idol contest seems like Manna from heaven and the perfect launchpad…

Vikram Tejwani (Manish Acharya, who incidentally is also the writer and director of the movie) plays the statistics-mouthing Amitabh Bachan aficionado, who, with his job getting outsourced to India, decides to give a shot at the contest. Love blossoms between him and Sania Rehman…

Then you have the odd man out – Josh Cohen, an American contestant, who loves Indian music and his Indian girlfriend, a wasted Ayesha Dharker here. The earnestness with which he sings the only two Hindi pieces he know – the Indian National anthem, and Yeh Hain Bombay meri Jaan, tugs at your heartstrings…

The funniest are the two Bhangra rappers, who insist on using the effing-word in every sentence they mouth. One of them goes by the name of Turbanotorious B.D.G (Ajay Naidu), and even gets one of the judges, another fusion music artiste, to rap with him. The swear words might be a little harsh on your acoustic sense, but boy! Can he dance!!! I almost whistled aloud – he was that incredible.

The film, is packed into a nifty 90 minutes-something, and keeps you entertained with its rollicking dialogue-delivery, crisp story line, and inane characters. The last includes an elderly citizen, who borders on paranoia that terrorists are lurking in every nook and corner of New Jersey, and who often gives “helpful” tip-offs to the police about probable terrorists.

Loins in Punjab Presents made me wonder, why such a cavorting flick, didn’t come out much earlier.

After all, with the spate of reality / talent shows that have pervaded channels pan-geographically, a movie must have long been in the offing.

A must watch. Go grab your laffs.

Stuck with stuck-ups...

You see them everywhere.

In your social circuit.

At your workplace.

In glitzy malls.

At restaurants.

Heck, even on the road.

They’ll stare at you coldly; smirking is their most preferred occupation. They could be of either gender. Eyebrows arched, they will deign to look at you out of the corner of their eyes, almost as if you are some tadpole that has decided to hop into their sight, straight out of some algae-ridden pool.

Striking up a conversation with them sure is tricky, cos they put the “C” in cynical. Every comment that you utter is scrutinized, analyzed, dissected, and thrown back at you with a vengeance. Almost making you wonder if they moonlight as critics – since they are so adept with their scathing comments, which are not even remotely droll.

They always know that tad bit more than all the knowledge you possess, and you better not forget that in a hurry. The Lord help those who foolishly decide to cross them – that’s absolute Hara-kiri - as what they say is next to Gospel truth, irrefutable, and most importantly always one-up on what you, the twit that you are, could possibly come up with.

Every time an innocuous remark escapes your lips (and there will be a fare share of these definitely), their lips will curl in that half-smile-sneer that they have perfected, and which will probably set you back by an hour of patience, cause you to grit your teeth, clench your fist, and look around for the nearest gas chamber to shove them into.

They have the prerogative of always airing their freely-dispersed opinions, cos obviously, for us mere mortals, those should be the only ones that matter, and the sooner we realize that, the better for our general well-being.

Index-fingers always jamming in your face, they take it as their moral obligation to elucidate points to us, the imprudent earthlings that we are. Hell, we should be kissing the very ground they tread on – that is the least of the ways to show our eternal gratitude.

Proficient at that fine art of clucking their tongues in disapproval, they are also not averse to shaking their heads at all times, except when they are the ones from whom pearls of wisdom are flowing like freshly-opened packs of iodized salt, at which time it is considered most appropriate to nod your heads in:

a) silent approval
b) open admiration
c) both

Heavens help you, if you by some stroke of misfortune, decide to ask them about something. Within seconds, their hands will move animatedly, and chest puffed out, they will set about giving insightful monologues on anything from how the country to how the universe should be run. Intervals are rare, and any interruption will be severely glared upon, and shushed with one authoritative hand. After all, who dares interrupt when Royalty speaks? Pshawww.

Disagreed with them, did you? You gotta be kidding right?

Gosh, you actually did that? Prepare for some fireworks now. Extended periods of silence. Or maybe accusatory / are-you-out-of-your-orbit glares. Perhaps all of these. And some more…

And if you insist on cracking a feeble joke at this juncture, be prepared to receive some perfectly-honed withering looks.

The ones that can cause flowers to wilt. And cracks to appear on the walls.

There is only one way out then.

Pray hard.

Or make a beeline for the nearest exit point.

And your quirk is....?

“My daughter is about to give another of her Presidential speeches,” would be my Dad’s constant refrain, to no one in particular, each time I would clear my throat (a habit, which began during my school years, has continued with me over the years, and which seems in no hurry to depart).

Many many years later I realized that what I had shrugged off for so many years as just another of my quirks, had a name – Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (more commonly known as OCD). And I don’t have just one – I have quite a few – for instance, on a couple of occasions, when I spritzed a popular blue-bottled EDP with notes of aqua and citrus, I chanced to fight with TOOMA (The Object of my Affection), and decided that the offending fume was a jinx, and promptly banished it to the back of my closet. It doesn’t quite end there – I sometimes count the steps when I climb stairs, a quirk which I am glad to know, I share with Jennifer Love Hewitt.

TOOMA sees his arm size pat every morning, something he admitted to me today. He also strokes his stubble when he is immersed in thought (a fact which he revealed over the phone, and which I have yet to confirm myself). Mom, best friend, and quite a few others share an OCD for cleanliness. Everything has to be in symmetry, so much so that if I chance to move a table at my place, Mom will instantly jump to re-arrange / re-align the “visually-offending” table, besides shooting a murderous glare at me. Ditto for best friend, who will wring her hands if I chance to “drop” a tissue on the floor, try her best to assume an unaffected / nonchalant look about her, and the minute I turn, spring to a) fling the tissue into the garbage can and b) give me a homily on my affinity for resembling a certain porcine creature (the latter designed to send me into peals of laughter, much to her ire)...

Even on the sets of “The Apprentice,” Donald Trump would arrive with a family-sized bottle of sanitizer, and desist from shaking hands with anyone. Such is his mysophobia( fear of contamination) that he washes his hands every half an hour or so, a la our very own Lady Macbeth. What guilt or long suppressed conscience is plaguing him is quite another story…

The closely-resembling a Greek God, David Beckham, has an OCD for symmetry. Something which has wreaked havoc upon his personal life, and caused his usually tight-lipped anorexic wife to speak out. He insists on lining-up his shirts hue-wise. Fair enough. Except that it doesn’t end there. His sprawling mansion houses three refrigerators – one for food, one for snacks, and one for drinks, all coordinated down either side. Wait, there’s more. If his fridge stocks three cans of some drink, he’d rather throw one than keep three – such is his penchant for even numbers (and abhorrence for their odd counterparts). A certain Ms. Gurinder Chadha should really have re-considered naming that delightful movie, “Align it like Beckham.” Tee hee

A close friend, I have observed, has this long-running pattern where she will twirl her hair constantly while conversing. While I find it amusing and indulgently overlook it, some may be annoyed. A friend back in college had to re-apply the war paint on her face every hour. Why she was addicted to the touching-up, when anyway most of it was intact, and more importantly smudge-proof, completely beat me.

A common scene is men adjusting their belts or pulling up their trousers / jeans every now and then. While this may be appropriate for those who swear by their anti-fit Levis, it does seem a tad ludicrous when middle-aged, office executives become the newest addicts. Then you have those who believe that trousers are the best shoe-brushes known to mankind. So there you are holding a serious conversation when all of a sudden, their right leg goes behind their left trouser leg, and lo and Behold! A vigorous shoe-shine has just been done, all within ten seconds. Shoe-shine boys be damned.

Another breed are the adjusters. They adjust anything and everything – their car rear-view mirrors, ties, spectacles, watch, caps you name it. There are those who straighten their ties countless times in a day, giving a whole new meaning to the term “tie-breaker” altogether!

Best guy friend recounted how one of his friends, a budding mathematician no doubt, had an unusual pastime while driving. He would read the numbers of licence plates on cars, and do the works with them – add, multiply, subtract, and divide them with each other. Once the car in front would slow down, or he would overtake it, his interest would wane – till he espied another licence plate. Then his interest would be reinstated.

I have come across more than a fair share of people who repeat words, many of which are often superfluous. Common examples are – like, basically, generally, usually, obviously, suffixing “no” after every sentence, sorry, etc, all of which certainly sound grating on one’s ears.

There are many who count poles or temples while traveling. While some of these eccentricities may be innocuous enough, there are some that border on the bizarre.

Billy Bob Thornton, known more for his failed marriage to Angelina Jolie, and the idiosyncratic marriage vows and rituals he shared with her, is also known for taking his mail out of the mailbox and putting it back repeatedly. Cameron Diaz, “destined” for a life of OCD, is committed to washing her hands incessantly, and for making it a point to open all doors with her elbows, thanks to her inordinate fear of germs. Leonardo Di Caprio takes superstition to a new level altogether, and is known to retrace his steps to avoid cracks on pavements.

There you are. I guess if you’d only analyze a bit, you’d find some of your own petty foibles. Now if you shake your head, and gloat that you have none, I’d just say that your analysis could do with some more depth.

While you go ponder over your own quirks, let me go and check one last time if the door is thoroughly locked, count my steps to the kitchen (they should be twelve and no more), pick my good luck green bottle, lay it on my right, and call it a day! Whew!

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.