New Year Resolutions

It’s that time of the year again when there are only two annoying questions on the tips of most people’s tongues.

Pesky Question # 1 – What are you doing for New Year’s Eve?

Pesky Question # 2 – What are your New Year Resolutions?

Since tomorrow will be the last day of the year, it is a blessed relief to know that as soon as the sun’s ray decide to peep out on January 01, the first exasperating question will be flushed down with the previous night’s spirits and finger foods. Burp!

Which brings us to the second issue, which promises, like a leading telephone service provider, to follow you around, like a faithful puppy. Except in this case, the pug in question turns out to be a maddening greyhound, insisting on leaping at your throat at regular intervals, and causing you to choke and splutter, see red, and purse your lips, lest the foam and froth decide to trickle down your mouth – not a pretty sight at all.

So when your brother’s friend’s aunt’s son’s pal poses the same question to you, as did the fifty-fourth person before him, I can’t blame you for wanting to:

a) bang your head on the nearby white wall
b) ask to be taken to a clinic with white walls, so that your frazzled nerves can be healed under constant medical care
c) kill the person asking the offending person
d) all of the above

There are some people who take the annoyance to new level altogether. To your nonchalant answer that you repeat year after year, and which goes to the tune of, “Oh me? My New Year Resolution is to not make any resolutions,” prepare to be subjected to an incredulous look from the enquirer, who has obviously perfected the look one gives upon being told that the other has just returned from the Himalayas, after a brief stay with a Yeti. Some sympathetic clucks may follow. And unless you are one of those who are adept at running away, be prepared to be assaulted by not a bird’s eye view, but an in-depth, blow by blow, twenty-page report of his resolutions.

After what seems to you like hours, you realize that you have a faraway, glazed look in your eyes, your neck has somewhat of a crick, what with the constant nodding, and what were two feet, feel like they have been anesthetized, or worse – amputated. Your pointed looks at your wrist do nothing to desist the eager resolution-taker-and-speaker from sharing his precious resolutions, and he’s not even half-way through.
Your excuses sound contrived even to you, and you beat that hasty retreat, but not without that dull, ringing sensation whirring constantly in your ears, which you realize, with a shudder, is the aftereffect of that annoyance’s droning.

Tired and more than a tad exasperated, you make your way back home. A relaxed shower, and your mood is already lifting. Thoughts of the evening with that special someone fill your mind, and the edges of your mouth are almost creasing into a smile.

And then it happens. One ring. You pick your phone. It is that nauseating friend from college whom you would rather not speak with, for reasons best left unspoken and unnamed. Maybe it won’t be all that bad – boy! are you optimistic. Sighing, you pick the phone. Just as you feel that the conversation is not steering to irksome topics, bang! It comes.

“Hey, made any New Year Resolutions? You know what I’m gonna do…..?”

No wonder that smile curled up into a sneer!

Birthday Bumps - Lars Ulrich

Co-founder of Metallica, and drummer unparalleled, Lars Ulrich, celebrates his birthday today.

Who would have thought that a budding tennis player, would trade-in his tennis racquet for Tama Drums…

Not that we are complaining;-)

Tennis’ loss is heavy metal’s gain.

So I’ll lissen to his amazing pounding in Enter Sandman yet again, and wish that he bangs many more birthdays.

Happy Birthday…

12 Days of Indian Christmas

Though it’s a little early for Christmas, I couldn’t help but include this hilarious video about this guy’s 12 days of Indian Christmas. He looks like a mix between Elvis the Pelvis, and our very own Rajnikanth.

Go on, laff a while. Especially at the 10-minute yoga and the Lotus. LOL

Merry X'Mas in advance...

The (un)common cold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Atishoooooooooo. There he goes YET again.

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

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

Blech!

All right people, Say Cheese

At my brother’s wedding last week, I realized the major role that photographers play. The cheerful lad, upon whom rested the onus of making people look good while getting their pics clicked, lay hidden behind the huge lens, for most part of the wedding. The only words he would mouth at regular intervals were, Say cheese,” which he would use to orchestrate the retinue to all count simultaneously, and utter a perfectly-synchronized “Cheese.”

A random question to my father as to why people say “cheese” while getting snapped, when the alternative “whiskey” would do equally well, and also force the face into a smile, brought about a predictable frown from him.

Hushed temporarily, I couldn’t help but think as to how people, even if they were fighting, would crease their faces into uncharacteristic, bordering-on-fake smiles – and all to get that elusive happy face on that Polaroid.

My mother is an exception to this rule of blinding-smile-while-getting-clicked. She will smile for a picture only if she genuinely feels like. All pleas to her to flash one of them elusive smiles(only during clicking sessions), fall upon deaf ears, and the photographer will be rewarded with a grin, only if he catches her in a good mood. Otherwise, an au naturel look is all that he will get. Besides the polite “Thank you,” that is.

I, on the other hand, am her exact opposite. Every time a camera makes an appearance near me within the vicinity of half a kilometer, my eyes light up and crinkle, and there – all my pearlies are on full display, ready to be immortalized in yet another pic with the exact glazed, happy (but fake) smile, that you can see, in photo upon yet another photo. Shameless I am, when it comes to getting clicked. Some of my goofy smiles have been compared to Garfield's, when he sees a piping-hot plate of lasagna. Burppppp!

Some, like my entire family, believe in a half-smile, showing a few teeth. There are others who consider a full smile, without any display of teeth, their most flattering self. Some like me, believe in going all the way, and flashing brilliant, sunny smiles.

For the rest, there is always the option of the brown paper bag tied tightly around the neck…;-)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Salad, anyone? ;-)

The Magic Trick You'll Never Figure Out

Even skeptical / sticking-out-her-tongue-at magic-me was stunned when I stumbled upon this magic display by American magician, Kevin James.

He performed this trick at June 2007's semi-final episode of America's Got Talent, leaving the judges, notably David Hasselhoff (remember Knight Rider? No? Baywatch? Aha, now you know wink wink), Sharon Osbourne (Ozzy Osbourne's wife), and Piers Morgan.

glumbert - The Magic Trick You'll Never Figure Out

My mouth dropped when I first saw it.

I wish I would also "stumble" upon a video of PC Sarkar, India's foremost magicians, making the Taj Mahal vanish. That was mindboggling too.

And if you know how he did it, drop me a line.

I sure would like to know...

Wedding Singers

The roads have never looked more crowded.

Wherever your eyes may roam, you are bound to see one of these on the roads – a white mare, groups of band men with musical instruments in tow, gaily-dressed, bejeweled women dancing with full glee and abandon with their equally resplendently dressed male counterparts, thick smoke thanks to the brilliant fireworks in the skies, and of course, the ubiquitous string of cars and other vehicles.

The wedding season has begun. And how!

Any shopkeeper worth his Kanjeevarams, chooris, sherwaanis, and motichur laddoos will vouch that the big fat Indian wedding season is right upon us, causing him to grin all the way to the bank, pockets jangling.

The snooty mall owner will also assure you that yes, indeed, the shopping bags have never gone home more overflowing. And nope, he ain’t grumbling, smile perfectly plastered over his smug face. There he goes to light yet another expensive incense-stick in front of the benevolent deity’s figurine.

Decorators are full choc-a-bloc, with many booked for the next two months straight.

Ditto for salons, spas, and the like. Because as they say, what good is a bride if she does not look straight out of the pages of a glossy?

With the spate of customized weddings on the rise, one is spoilt for choice. If you have the means, just lie back in that comfortable couch, and leave all arrangements to be made by companies, who will tailor-make the wedding, as per all your specifications, right down to the last coconut needed for the shaadi ka mandap.

Family, relatives, friends, neighbors, colleagues, acquaintances – it’s one long party.

And everyone’s invited.

To see the love that brings two people together who want to spend the rest of their lives together, for better or for worse.

Cheesy?

Nahhh! Kinda sweet.

Of preening parents and parroting children

I remember how, when I was a kid, it would take a horse-pulled cart to induce me to recite a nursery rhyme in front of an audience. Despite numerous fawning uncles and aunts, who expressed a keen desire to hear me do the parrot routine (read the Twinkle-twinkle, Baa Baa Black Sheep, and Little Miss Muffet rhymes), and who generously showered chocolates, candies, jujubes, and the like on eagerly-lapping-up-me, I would nevertheless refuse to spout the poetry, unless caught in one of my “exhibitionist” avatar days. On such days, I was unstoppable – yes. Otherwise, sunny-tempered me would disdainfully turn up her pretty nose, shake her flying curls obstinately in rapid left to right movements, and walk out of the room haughtily with pursed lips (and a secret smile), but not without first collecting my loot, and depositing it in my safe-box, away from my “usurper” elder bro.

So it was a heightened sense of déjà vu for me two days back, when a couple, accompanied by their three-year something daughter, traveling with me in the train, set about doing what most parents do – urging the tot to rattle off some verse. What started out as one poem, soon extended to more than half a dozen. Co-passengers, the very same ones who had earlier gushed praise for the preening child, soon settled back into their seats, their faces changing from glazed looks, to subsequent exasperated expressions.

The child, reveling in the attention of so many adults, soon realized that something was amiss, when the compliments became infrequent, and far in-between. The parents were not one of those who would give up so easily. An endless chatter ensued about their brilliant child, who was next to none, could put all the singers on various talent shows to shame, and for whom the word "prodigy" was an understatement. The poems soon changed their tempo into Hindi tracks from current Bollywood flicks. The parents kept pace with regular clapping, foot-tapping, and the odd shriek of appreciation. Next were regular impersonations by the child of the neighborhood postman, milkman, next-door uncle, aunt, watchman, and others of the ilk.

It must have taken the elderly lady, sitting with us, all her courage, to silence the parents and their reciting daughter, by a plea that she was suffering from migraine, and really needed to nod off.

Peace prevailed.

But not before many people gave silent looks of thanks to her, before she and most others drifted into happy happy slumberland.

Zzzzzzzz....

Who will don the first pullover?

The nip in the air is unmistakable.

Every morning, I stifle a yawn, and make my way, bleary-eyed, to the balcony, to pick my morning dose of news in the form of a leading national daily.

Today morning, I shivered, wrapping my light shawl tightly around myself, grabbed the newspaper, and ran all the way back to my piping-hot tea. Aaah, thank God for the small joys of life.

The sun soon popped out, dispelling the fog (or was it smog), and the day set in.

At office, I noticed that some people, despite the chill, had still not donned their gaily-colored woolens.

Some questions that I posed to them, didn’t raise too many answers.

And then some sunny rays of enlightenment dawned on me.

It takes folks, especially working in an office, to bring out their own woolens, only after they see somebody else pull ‘em on.

It’s almost as if a stamp of approval is needed for them all to be a sort of public herald that it was now ok to wear that crimson cape, maroon muffler, green gloves, cyan cardigan, purple pullover, jade jacket, and patent leather black boots. And obviously, chattering-teeth be damned, someone else better do the first donning.

Dunno if they believe strongly in herd mentality, or if they think that they might be singled out for ridicule / unwanted attention, but one thing is certain – regardless of no-sun days, the odd winter-rain spell, and blustery evenings / mornings, those woollies will make an appearance, only after someone else has displayed his, thereby setting the green signal on for a woollen mass-appearance in full throttle.

As for me, I’m carrying my shawl to work tomorrow.

Brrrrrrrr!!

The sounds and sights of Diwali

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

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

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

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

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

And cleaned the remnants the day after…sleepily.

Joined-at-the-hip couples

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

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

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

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

I mean, who doesn’t, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh heavens!!

Sometimes, all I need is a .60 calibre.

Care to oblige me...?

The name is Raj...Raj Patel!

The hugely-popular freckled, red-haired, cheeky Archie has company.

In a first, Archies comics have introduced a character of Indian origin.

Seems like India is a hot favorite, what with the world swooning over Indian spicy curries, beauties wrapped in that nine-yard wonder – saree, outsourcing boom, henna, bindis, yoga, and spiritual odysseys. Obviously not in that order.

So after the Patil sisters made a fleeting appearance in the Harry Potter books, it is time now for another character to make an entry into that bastion of comics – Archies. And who else would do it better than a vivacious Gujarati Patel immigrant, Raj, who moves to that idyllic place, Riverdale, family in tow – a physician Dad (Ravi), a research scientist mother (Tina), and a sharp-as-nails younger sister, Tina, who though a year younger, is in the same class as Raj.

So where you have various characters who have some or the other fascination – Archies is fascinated by Veronica / Betty / anything in a skirt, a fascination he shares with smooth-operator Reggie, while Jughead drools over food, a habit he shares with his mutt, Top Dog – in similar fashion, Raj enjoys sci fi, art, and videotaping any and everything.

So while Raj, he of the flying hair, skateboards at Riverdale High (much to a visibly annoyed Mr. Weatherbee), we, the readers will eagerly lap up his antics...

One thing is for sure – we ain’t complaining.

PS – By the by, FX Labs of Hyderabad, is developing an Archies game.

Slated release - this month.

Yipppeeee!!!

It's Halloween

It’s that time of the year again.

When apples remind you of bobbing for apples (not that the game has caught on in our country; but you never know, some surprises might just leap out soon), and throwing of an apple, peeled in one strip, over one’s shoulder (a practice favored by many maidens to know the initial of their to-be spouse).

When candies are the most-preferred sweets.

When black and orange are the predominant colors for the day.

When shops offering costumes on sale/rent, see sky-high demands, often jostling with each other to offer you that too-good-to-refuse deal. Buy one vampire mask. Get the Frankenstein monster one FREE. Offer open till stocks last.

When pumpkins are carved (a tedious chore, let me tell you; as yours truly found one day, many years ago, and which I should add, was an utterly unsuccessful cum messy attempt, much to my disappointment, and Mom’s understandable relief). $%^&&*@!

It’s Halloween, folks.

Good friend, working at a company known for its creative ambience, made a call, asking if I would like to “grace” her official party, as a witch / vampire / ghoul / goblin / zombie / bat, no less. We shared some happy chuckles over how both of us needn’t even dress in witchy black robes or top-hats, and would yet be able to totally succeed with the impersonation.

However, good times were not to be, and I soon had to return to the dreary land of work and more work! All thoughts of Halloween banished into the background.

Well, almost…..

To be rekindled this time next year.

Now if only I could wield my trusty magic wand and set so many things right....

Abracadabra!

Dreadful dinner / lunch companions....

Many of my friends tell me anecdotes about dinner companions and luncheon dates. Some of which, I must add, leave you holding your aching sides, to keep from dropping off your chair in utter amusement.

I thought it would be good fun to compile some of these “gems” who could be seated across the table from you, causing you to squirm in your oh-so-comfy settee, while at the same time wishing that either you or them could drop dead that very moment. While my sense of humor might not hit yours bang on, I nevertheless, thought it was worth a try...

Let’s start with the slurpers.

So, the soup arrives. These people sure believe in sound being their strongest allies. The reason – sounds of all kinds – of the slurping, sucking, sloshing, and gulping category, make their way to your acutely delicate aural pair. Causing smoke to drift out from them. And making you grit your teeth, and clench your palms. The Hot and Sour Soup definitely makes you Hot and Dour!!

Then you have the sniffers.

Now these people could probably give all those sniffer-dogs a run for their money. As soon as the sous chef arrives with the hors d'œuvres, and gingerly places them on the gleaming ivory table, your companion decides to inspect each entrée, sniffing deftly, and laying down each of them with a triumphant / orgasmic look / smile after its due course of inhaled inspection. Almost makes you want to gag.

Next in line are the dissectors.

Mathematics sure must have been their favorite subject in high school. Their precision in eating all kinds of food in “parts,” definitely deserves a worthy note of mention here. Given a chance, they would doubtless, even divide your regular peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich into sub-atomic particles, gingerly toy with them with their forks, before pushing them into their mouths.

You also have the “savor”-ers.

These are the ones who enjoy their food so much that you would be through with double rounds of the entire seven-course delectable meal, and they would still be on their bruschettas. And bear pleased-as-Punch looks on their face – as they are the ones who really relish their food. Pooh pooh to the quick eaters!

You also have the “hand”-y ones.

Cutlery was probably invented by a fool; nothing gives these people greater joy than attending even a black-tie affair, folding their shirt-sleeves till their elbows, and digging into the food gracing the table, at breakneck speed. Too bad one only has eight fingers and two thrumbs. Tsk tsk. Spectators be damned!

You also have the “saucy” ones (pardon the pun)…

The food arrives. Without even tasting a spoonful, these people will uncork the ketchup / salsa / hot sauce / mustard / Tabasco / cayenne / wasabi bottle. And squish….a semi-liquid river has just been poured generously. It is a marvel how they make their way through it, chomping bravely, smile firmly in place, though their eyes / cheeks could give away some redness, and some tell-tale sniffing is concealed with excuses about a cold.

Ohhh, how can you forget the breed of loud eaters / chewers with their mouths open?

Probably one of the most obnoxious sorts – these folks believe that your seeing the bolus in their mouths constitutes a pretty sight. So you try your best to continuously stir your coffee, knowing that if you were to look up, you wouldn’t help but notice the ricotta-corn-spinach sandwich being vigorously chewed in the mouth of the strapping joker sitting across you. With a pained look, you try to keep your eyes diverted, but sooner or later, you are bound to look their way, when they are garbling with food in their mouth, and then quickly look the other way again, when you see moving particles inside their mouth. Ugggh!

Another type are the shovelers.

They will order dumplings, fried rice, noodles, chopsuey, tofu, and soy egg, mix it all up, and then shovel it in. Leaving you aching to run back home, and reach out for that aspirin.

One of Joey’s (of F*R*I*E*N*D*S fame) pet peeves is people helping themselves to food from his plate.

Which brings us to the next category – the I-don’t-believe-in-asking category.

So you have those people who will not only take bites from your plate, but given a chance, polish it all off. Now, if they would only seek permission, maybe that frown would exit your face for another time…Getting your food stolen off your table, hurts even more, if you happen to be one of those who swear by the rule of “delayed gratification,” leaving the tastiest piece for the last, only to have it grabbed by one rogue of a dinner companion, right under your pretty nose.

You also have the swishers.

Sample scene – attendant arrives with fresh bottled water / wine / whatever you may. Uncorks bottle. Pours the sparkly / bubbly / water into tall glasses. Your companion takes a long sip, sighs contentedly, and swishes the beverage inside his mouth. Gargle. Glug. Swish. Transporting you to memories of your childhood bi-annual visits to the biggest bane of 'em all - the dentist. There the heartless dentist would poke strange tools into your mouth, peer inside, and make you consume poisonous tasting stuff, and make you swirl it in your mouth. When you would freeze him with a pained / furious look, and he knew you couldn’t take it much longer, he would nod his head, and allow you to spit it out, but not without making your ears burn with a homily on how the youth of the day lacked patience and endurance power, and making your palms itch with an inordinate desire to box his ears. You would leave the clinic, with memories of a sadistic dentist deeply entrenched in your mind (though only till the time you were presented with a yummy choco-chip ice-cream for your “courage”). Thoughts of the dreaded dentist would disappear, life would look rosy, but only till the next 6 months, when it would be time again for another visit. Aaaargh.

But I guess I’m deviating from the topic.

So let’s move on to another group – the tappers.

Menus come. Orders are placed. Menus are removed. Food comes. Empty dishes are taken away. One thing is constant – that steady tap tap tap sound. These people believe that nothing makes a meal tastier and (un)forgettable than some steady soul-stirring music. And what could possibly be better than their own masterpieces. So their fingernails develop a life of their own, and constantly keep up the tap-tap-tap routine, causing you to make
a) umpteen visits to the loo
b) phone calls to all and sundry
c) pleadings to the offending owner of the tapping fingernails

But all in vain. The fingernails have suddenly found their calling. It’s a syndrome. It's called Have fingernails. Will tap. Period!

You also have the Questioners.

Hey waiter, what’s a combo? Is the fondue fresh? Are you sure the wine is from France? Can I get a free side-dish? And so on, and so forth. Soon, his questions drone on and on, causing you to switch your mind off completely, try to sleep with your eyes open, or cringe each time he utters a syllable. Since this guy’s middle name is “persistent,” you will be doing a lot of the above…

Then, there are the cheapsters.

Too cheap to order a drink or a beverage, they are the ones who are most likely to ask for chilled water. Take the lemons from the salad. Ask for some more. Wait for a couple of minutes. Ask for sugar, or better still, discreetly take out sugar cubes from pocket. Look furtively around. And Voila. In 5 minutes, they have their very own lemonade. Neat no?!!

Last, but definitely not the least – you have the scroungers.

“Hey, it’s my / my friend’s birthday. “(Grin. Wink. Wink. Fidget.). “Do you guys give any free stuff?” (Hopeful smile). “Like maybe a cake or dessert. A couple of drinks on the house?” “No?” (Shocked smile). “Gosh, what kind of restaurant / watering hole are you? I’m a patron…” (Head shaking).

Too bad, buddy. Happy birthday. And nope, tiramisu aint coming your way gratis. Go on, pay up.

And let the others eat in peace….

(I am sure I must have missed quite a few breeds of patrons at restaurants. Do fill me in / drop in a line. I’ll appreciate the help) :-)

Black Eyed Peas - Black Blue and You World Tour - Bangalore - October 16.

It’s official.

The Black Eyed Peas (BEP), who gave their India trip a skip eight months back, are going to be performing in Bangalore on October 16. The venue will be the same place which usually hosts such events – Bangalore Palace Grounds. The show will mark the mid-leg of their ‘Black Blue and You’ World Tour 2007, which commenced on September 13, wherein the band will perform in 13 countries, and also bring in the release of their latest album "E N D."

At a time when the band’s leading lady, Stacy “Fergie” “Dutchess” Ferguson is riding high on winning MTV’s Best Female Artist Award, their timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

Once again, another band gives the capital their version of a royal ignore. Save the thrash / death metal band, Sepultura, that is slated to perform on October 28, and the hip-hop rapper Akon who performed to a luke-warm reception early this month in Delhi (despite his voluble I-am-charmed-with-India-declarations), most bands have preferred to keep their performances for a more “receptive” audience in Bangalore, Mumbai, and Shillong.

Quite a bleak state for us poor people in Delhi, who would also like to shake their booty to foot-tapping numbers, and who keep getting blue in the face by shouting hoarse for bands to perform here. Sigh!

As for the people in Bangalore, I bet they are all chanting, “Let’s Get It Started,” in full gusto!

@#$%^&*!

The Big B's Birthday...

In a country where cricket and Bollywood are the two presiding religions, it comes as no surprise that its denizens would devote themselves utterly to worshipping their reigning deities. And when it happens to be the legendary Amitabh Bachan’s birthday, as is the case today, it becomes one huge jamboree.

While the most-known face of Indian cinema spent a low-key birthday, things were not as quiet in his place of birth, Allahabad, where fans thronged the banks of the Ganges, to offer prayers and to perform rituals for his wellbeing. and continued success at the Box Office.

TOOMA* has been doing a great job the entire day, making me walk down memory lane, doing damn neat renditions of unforgettable dialogues spouted by tinsel town’s most famous icon, the towring one who boasts of his now signature booming baritone, and who ironically, before he embarked on his stupendously-successful silver-screen journey, was turned down by a radio channel for a news announcer. Bet they must be gnashing their teeth in dismay till today!!

Hearing those dialogues delivered by an adept-at-them TOOMA, transported me to many, many years back, when I would wait impatiently for countdown shows, Sunday cartoons, Street Hawk, Knight Rider, The World This Week, Oshin, and oh yes! – the blockbuster Amitabh-not-to-be-missed-for-words-homework-be-damned flick on Saturday nights, when all my Dad would do was pop his head into the room, and ask my bro and me when we would turn the blimey idiot box off, and call it a day, much to our chagrin and / or visible vexation!

The screen idol continues to rule the roost even today. Though a lot many people poke fun at him, calling him undiscerning on account of the spate of his movies that bombed at the BO, and his face peeping out from every hoarding on the highway, every advertisement on the boob tube from mouth fresheners to Marutis, and every magazine / newspaper across the globe, his popularity continues to soar, crowning him as the undisputed “Baadshah” of all there is to conquer, and making those very same scoffing / disdainful people bite their lower lips, duly humbled and chastened. Time has stood still for this ageless luminary (calling him a star would be an insult), who continues to enjoy the same adulation as 25 years ago, when the entire nation to a standstill upon his near-fatal accident while shooting for a movie, and who flocked in hordes to offer their prayers for his speedy convalescence. Hourly bulletins, a first for national channels, were flicked continuously. Hymns were chanted. Temples saw all-time high visits. His unabated fame and glory gives credence to the fact that stars may come and go. But legends go on forever.

Cheers to the not so young and not so angry silver-bearded man, as he smiles genially, gracefully turns 65 today. May he enjoy unabated endorsements, continued success at the Box Office, and an etched impression in the minds of all.

The last I’m dead sure about.

After all,

Don ko bhulaana mushkil hi nahin, naamumkin hai...

*TOOMA - The Object of My Affection

Movie Review: The Bourne Ultimatum

I’m no fan of action movies, choosing slapstick over this genre. But when best friend insisted that I should make an exception against my rule, I decided to relent. After all, what did I have to lose? If nothing else, it was bound to be an adrenaline-pumping, 120-minuute, tightly-paced flick. So I acquiesced.

And boy! Was I glad that I did go!!

Initially I was pretty skeptical about watching the third part of an action trilogy, without having watched the first two. Five minutes into the movie – and my skepticism had all flown out of the theater window. The movie is self-explanatory, and leaves you wishing you could heap buckets of acclamation on the worthy director.

The Bourne Ultimatum is a mind-blowing flick – one that leaves you with an incredible Oh-My-God-this-was-one-amazing-movie experience, when you walk out after the screening. Right from the beginning, you are hooked – from Jason Bourne’s (Matt Damon) death-defying escape from the Moscow police, right to the very end, which for obvious reasons I would refrain from recounting here - after all Ido fear that you might not move your sedentary rears to watch it.

Bourne, on an episode to unravel the hush-hush CIA black op called Blackbriar, does not have many leads to assist him. Save a London journalist Simon Ross (Paddy Considine), who has stumbled upon the classified operation. Ross makes his way through a stringent camera surveillance system, unerringly steered by an ingenious Bourne, until he (Ross) panics, and is shot by a hired gun.

The movie is shot at a gritty pace, amidst different locales worldwide. Never once does the able direction falter.A steely Pam Landy (Joan Allen), excels in her role as the upright CIA Deputy Director. Noah Vosen, as the smug, wily head of Operation Blackbriar is also laudable.

One of the best scenes in the movie is when Bourne, after leading the CIA officials on a blind goose chase, calls Vosen on his phone, querying about his whereabouts. When Vosen chooses a white lie, saying he is in his office, Bourne expresses disbelief, remarking if that had indeed been the case, the conversation between the two would have been in the flesh, rather than a telephonic one. While Vosen had been on the lookout for Bourne, an obvious red-herring, he (Bourne) had broken into his office, made away with the top secret Blackbriar documents, and deposited them with Landy. A visibly chasetened / beaten / frenzied Vosen is shown next upfront...

Words wouldn’t do justice to this Paul Greengrass movie.

Miss it at your own risk.

Just another game of chess...

Seems like there is more to Russia than Glasnost, Perestroika, a certain leggy blonde tennis player, that drink most often sipped with orange juice – vodka, caviar, space programs, and Faberge eggs. Whoa! Looking back, that was quite a list.

But I’m afraid, I am deviating from the main story.

Three days back, Russian Former World Chess champion, Garry Kasparov, was elected as a Presidential candidate, slated to run for Russian President in March 2008.

Discussion with TOOMA* last night brought up interesting revelations. He likened the game of chess to a long-drawn out political battle, where one opponent goes all out to overwhelm the other. I liked the analogy.

With Kasparov having played chess since the age of 6, this 44-year old sure is one seasoned “player.” Despite not having been in the political arena for long (he joined in 2005), his entry does bring back memories of how, in the 1980s, he was considered to have the “gall” to play opposite the undisputed chess champion, Anatoly Karpov, and more importantly, making him (Karpov) relinquish his much-coveted title. All the while making it seem like a piece of cake.

Now it’s time for us to wait and watch if Kasparov plays a neat round of checkmating Putin, whom he refers to as a “dictator.”

I just hope it doesn’t end in a stalemate.

* TOOMA : The Object of My Affection.

Movie Review: No Reservations

I often go overboard, I have been told.

Which is why, after weeks of no theater-visit, I saw two flicks last weekend.

The first was this riotous Indo-American comedy that left me in splits.

The second was No Reservations, which I must say without any reservations, tugged at my heartstrings. Oh well, quite a few times.

Catherine Zeta Jones is in top form after a two-year sabbatical. She plays Kate Armstrong, a standoffish, work-obsessed chef in Manhattan, whose regimented life is utterly thrown into disarray upon the death of her sister, leaving her in custody of her niece, Zoe (Abigail Breslin), last seen in a splendid performance in Little Miss Sunshine.

Jones is caught in a crisis – what with her 9-year old niece who will touch none of the exotic meals she whips up, a restaurant owner, Paula (Patricia Clarkson) who insists that she go for weekly visits to an octogenarian shrink (Bob Belaban), and a maverick “rival chef” , Nick (Aaron Eckhart) who insists on playing opera in the kitchen. It is small wonder that she (Jones) gives way to the occasional outburst with a customer who complains about her less then perfect foie gras or steak, and she is fit to throw the pretty toque that she has donned on her pretty head throughout the movie.

Aaron Eckhart disappoints though. As the Good Samaritan who is totally smitten by both Jones’ culinary skills, and erm… ______ skills, he paints too good a picture. Seen last year as another Nick – a hard-nosed tobacco lobbyist in Thank You for Smoking, who will stop at nothing to increase smoking amongst the public, Eckhart is unconvincing as the do-gooder, who will continue with his good act, despite Jones barbs.

The movie has its pluses though. For a self-confessed foodie like me, it was a veritable delight. Tantalizing, sumptuous feasts are elaborately arranged on immaculate tables, akin to a Sidney Sheldon description, causing my tummy to rumble, grumble, and growl throughout the movie. Too bad that I had to contend with coffee and corn while arrays of delectable pies, appetizers, aperitifs, and finger foods constantly made their appearance.

All in all, however, the movie was decent.

Not recommended for those who like mush though…