'Dream' On!

Most of us might have dreams.

(Barring perhaps stray cases like my best friend who swears that he does not dream while sleeping. But then, he has been known to stretch the truth sometimes, so uhmmm...)

To make it simpler, let's just say that a majority of people DO dream. Hell, some of us even daydream, don't we?

The ones blessed with acute memories recollect vivid details, some remember in bits and pieces, while the rest come up blank, having absolutely no recall of their dreams whatsoever.

That most people dream – that is a given.

However, there is a question that would probably make people split into two, hoarsely-shouting, on-the-warpath, clearly-demarcated groups.

Dreams. And which colour they appear to us in.

Now Calvin (from Calvin and Hobbes) - that precocious, sardonic, black-humoured, reality-shifting, time-travelling six-year old, describes his dreams and the monsters who appear in them, graphically to his stuffed tiger, Hobbes – with all the energy that only he can muster up. Most often than not, his dreams are in different shades of slime-green.

Then you have hubby darlin', who claims that he dreams purely in blacks, white and shades of grey.

And then you have me. Whose dreams vary from sprays of multi-colours to their faded green-greyish counterparts.

Despite my notoriously sad memory, I have an enormous affinity for recalling dreams.

Much to everyone’s amusement and / or astonishment.

And to the exasperation of all those who have to hear my faithful narration of that time when the tribals were busily stirring some herbs into a cauldron, above which they had trussed me like a sardine on two barbeque grills, smacking their lips thinking of the treat that lay ahead.

What about you?

As Sidney Sheldon says, 'Tell Me your Dreams.'

The Dr. Do-littles

It probably began when we were kids. Your neighborhood playmate was the same age as you - the ripe, impressionable age of 5. Vacay time, the sun was yet to give way to the moon; he / she came to you and piped-up, ‘What do you wanna play?’

To which you, bored stiff with playing with the regular dolls, kitchen sets, tanks, what say you, replied, ‘Doctor Doctor khelein?’ (Should we play Doctor Doctor?)

His / her nod was all the encouragement you needed.

Lo and Behold!

Your clean white bed sheet turned into a make-shift lab coat, your father’s or grandfather’s (as the case may be) spectacles were pinched from their brown case and perched loosely on your twitching-with-excitement nose, the plastic stethoscope made its way out from your toy medical kit, the mini-torch was wiped clean (so as to look deep down someone’s tonsils), ‘syringes’ and ‘injections’ were improvised, some eclairs came out as if by magic from pockets - to serve as 'medicines,' out came the pens and freshly-sharpened pencils, and of course the crucial writing pad, a la doctor’s prescription booklet.

The next few minutes were spent in ‘diagnosing’ the problem and checking the symptoms - thumping on your friend’s chest with gusto, trying to locate (and count) that elusive pulse, knitting your eyebrows in a half-frown, opening the notepad with a loud ‘Phew’ escaping your lips, a customary scribble on a page, tearing the page off, and handing it to a completely-in-the-act ‘patient,’ who for your 'services,' handed you some 'currency notes' (read Monopoly currency). He subsequent trots off to the ‘chemist’ – who turns out to be yet another of your under-7 aged pals, and if the situation is that of a ‘limited’ medical outfit – to your second ‘leading’ role / avatar (Talk about versatility).

Now while our childhood days crept away quite some time back, leaving us nostalgic but progressive; there are some who are yet to be weaned of their ‘doctor’ impulses.

They may be working as engineers, reporters, architects, designers, sales reps, bank officials, executives in backend offices, reporters – everything except in the field of medicine, and yet, their ingrained ‘aptitude’ continues.

So, if you are to mouth that you are suffering from X trouble of the stomach, several solutions will come your way, from these self-professed ‘doctors.’

It doesn’t just stop at recommending so-and-so doctor at such-and-such hospital.

Some (God bless these well-meaning souls) will spout names of OTC pills, urging you to pick them up on your way back home, or worse rummage in their bags / desk-drawers and hand a yellowed pill to you to swallow, much to your alarm / scepticism.

There are others who pour a eulogy into your ears about a ‘ka-zeen’ (cousin) who suffered from (boasted of?) a similar health problem, and was now in the pink of health, thanks to the ‘Godman’ they visited / the contortionistic, blessed with washboard-abs Yoga master on TV who could twist his body into unnatural, serpentine coils and who rid your relative of his ailments (Babaji ki Jai Ho!)

There are the ones who swear by home remedies. Take a twig of mint, put in some ‘tulsi,’ mix it with some turmeric, cloves, cinnamon powder, bay leaves, alovera, fenugreek seeds, add a little bit of curd, grind some ginger into paste, and glug this horrible concoction. And voila! You are brand new (That is if you don’t die by then, thanks to the horrid taste). That you will have dragon-breath for the next three days - now that's another story, innit? And obviously a small price to pay for your 'mint' condition.

And who can forget the ones who shake their heads gravely, look at you miserably as if you are accursed with the dreaded plague, and then expound that this was nature’s way of ‘cur(s)ing’ the sinners. And as you look at him in horror, he clucks his tongue sympathetically, muttering something about how the average life-span is dipping, and those who don’t embrace Homeopathy, are doomed. And dropping those ominous words, he shuffles away, leaving you a little dazed, but alarmed nevertheless).

It gets better.

Though we might have nodded our heads in consent to knowing specimens like the ones above, we ourselves are not averse to dabbling a little in it too.

Sample this:

Have a headache and fever, do you?

Hey, try this medicine called 'Nice.'

(Sigh) Old habits seldom die.

I'd be lying through my teeth if I said I didn't have a lil (failed) doc too inside me.

Do you too?

Who's Bad?

They could probably put Michael Jackson and his moon walking out of business, the way they can immortalize those words, ‘I’m Bad.’

The Joker. Voldemort. Hannibal Lecter. Darth Vader. Count Dracula. Agent Smith. The Terminator. Goldfinger.

Closer home – Gabbar Singh, Mogambo, Langda Tyagi, Dr. Dang, Shakaal, Kesariya Vilayti, Prem (ironically).

The list is endless.

They make viewers sit up - wide-eyed and quivering - despite the still-warm bucket of popcorn sitting snug in your lap.

Their cold stealth, bizarre acts of creepiness, ominous facial expressions, and the sinister, dastardly acts they perpetrate upon their victims, frankly sicken you to the very stomach. You recoil and shiver, despite the scorching heat outside. Mean, murderous – they smirk, rubbing their hands and smacking their lips in pure glee when they find that yet another opponent is out of the villainous path they tread unheedingly.

Scarcely an hour into the move, you want to get hold of your new soccer shoes, and make them scream – but not in sadistic delight as is their wont. But in agonized terror, as they richly deserve.

They lay gruesome traps, wield (and use) shiny revolvers / chainsaws / butcher knives / ninja blades – you name it - to unleash a trail of terror, stomp on victims – diabolical grin in place, and sneer contemptuously when a potential victim flinches in alarm.

However said than done – I think villains have more fun than heroes. While you may not exactly find the idea of cosying up to them particularly appealing, they often are more intriguing than their living-by-the-straight-and-narrow, tightrope-routined counterparts (read ‘heroes.’)

After all, how interesting can it be to play yet another role of the perfect (read ‘boring’) hero when you can create mayhem with a few quick bullets? And talk about identifying – it’s been more than a few times that I haven’t been able to identify a shred with the so-called ‘hero.’

Which probably explains why many A-listers are turning to purely-evil, villainous, malevolent roles – and all at the peak of their careers.

Who am I to complain – with hotties like Jude Law, Christian Bale, and Matt Damon, doing a volte-face and turning into baddies, I daresay it doesn’t hurt one wee bit.

Does it?

The Battle of the 'Arch'-rivals

The eternal love triangle looks all set to give away one of its corners.

Archie Andrews, he of the trademark carrot-hair and ample freckles dotting his impish face, is all prepped to pop the question. And it’s gonna happen as soon as this August / September.

While he has long dithered from doing so, keeping his readers guessing for over 60 years, this time the iconic teen cartoon feels he is ready to go down on his knees, complete with a rock.

The last time there was such sensationalism in these Bob Montana creations, was when in the ‘90s, the comely, auburn-haired Cheryl Blossom pipped rivals-in-love Veronica and Betty, and was picked by Archie as his lady love, much to the chagrin of the two sometimes-best-friends-sometimes-sworn-foes gurls. .

However, the affair was short-lived. Living for even shorter in the memory of readers.

This time though, there’s no looking back for our hero, who, after years of speculation, waltzing, pondering with his best friend - the partial-to-his-hamburger Jughead, and weighing the odds, has decided that he wants the raven-haired heiress, Veronica Lodge, to ride into the sunset in his weather-beaten, (un)trusty flaming red jalopy.

People are up in arms, claiming this piece of news as yet another evidence of how good girls finish last (the reference being obviously to sunny-tempered, of-modest-means, Betty Cooper – who has always shone a candle to Archie). While people take up cudgels for this girl-next-door, calling Archie myopic and a fool (in that order), and screaming from the rooftops that the swollen-deaded Veronica had her match in the equally conceited Reggie Mantle, there are those who subscribe to the other side.

They call Betty the archetypal, lamenting dumb blonde, who makes both gooey marshmallow for and gooey eyes at Archie with equal elan, but is a total rookie when it comes to making Archie eating out of her hands – a fact not altogether lost on her more vivavious, if vixenish Veronica. They say that in the dating jungle, all’s fair in love and war.

Betty’s squeaky-clean image goes against her - it is probably her bland Humpty-Dumptyish, Plain-Janish, Miss-goody-too-shoes act that makes the more assertive, I-want-and-I-will-go-out-and-get-what-I-want Veronica more appealing and desirable in Archie’s eyes.

While some assert that the best woman wins, and that Betty is a sore loser, someone who refuses to accept defeat gracefully; there are those who opine that Veronica must have hatched a devious plot to tempt Archie in moving up the social ladder by marrying her.

Petty Betty?
Or Ron the Con?

You decide.

Jaipur Jaunt

With the blistering heat wave hovering revoltingly over the heads of Delhiites, anyone who heard that we were going outstation for the weekend nodded in understanding.

Until they heard the destination we were headed for.

'Jaipur???' Hearing that was enough to raise perfectly-arched eyebrows, followed by ‘Are you feakin' kiddin?’ incredulous comments and accompanying eye-popping looks.

Now our middle names are ‘Determination’ and ‘Grit,’ and it is easier to shake off a leech stuck to your uhmm B_ _ (spoiler – rhymes with previous word) than to shake our resolve, so when Saturday morning dawned bright, clear, and sunny (Oh yes, sunniest), we set our for the Pink City.

Four hours later and after numerous toll-tax paying breaks, TOOMA and I drove into an otherwise beautiful city, had we been able to see it under all that dust, that is.

The wedding was beautiful though, and was probably the only consolation. Besides the picturesque highway, dotted with lazily ambling camels, cattle, and the odd elephant.

The riot of colors on prominent display, and the song-and-dance routine that is de-rigueur at Indian marriages, more than made up for the heat that had done its bit in roasting us, making us look like the BBBB (Badly Burnt Baked Beans) I am famous for tossing up.

But in retrospect, the trip was memorable.

After all, the first outstation road trip you share with your better half, always is...

(Image - The heritage haveli we stayed at)

Will 99 'strike' the right note?

The April impasse between Indian multiplex owners and Bollywood producers over sharing box office releases doesn’t look like it would dissolve in a hurry.

The better part of my last month was spent in wedding arrangements, zooming off for the honeymoon, relinquishing dates for quieter, at-home do's and settling into a new home and hearth.

However, there is no time like now to sink into a comfy seat in a theatre, lazily munch upon some popcorn, inhale the stale perfume of the couple sitting yonder, and sip some bitter coffee.

And of course, watch a movie, arms linked cosily with better half’s.

Fat chance!

The drought of flicks since the last five weeks makes sure that the above remains just that – a wistful dream.

The split between multiplex owners and producers just seems to be getting bigger, much to the chagrin of movie-buffs like me. Who swear by their fortnightly S-cube (Silver-Screen-Staring).

Multiplex owners are also in quasi panic, slashing rates of tickets, introducing too-good-to-be-passed-up-schemes, freebies, lucky draws – the works. All to make the audience make a beeline to the swish theatres, as they used to before.

All to no avail.

Theatres bear gloomy, deserted looks, people resorting instead to renting movies from the ever-grinning-perpetually-rubbing-his-hands-friendly neighbourhood DVD store-keeper, watching the IPL, or venturing into swanky malls, and returning with those ecstasy-inducing shopping bags.

It waits to be seen if the Bollywood flick ’99,’ which sees an independent release tomorrow, will be able to change the fortunes of the B.O.

I sure hope so.

Keep watching this space for more.

A Whale of a Job (Literally)

This January 12, the entire world went into a tizzy.

The reason – the Queensland State Tourism Department, in a marvellous stroke of sheer brilliance, ran full length advertisements of what it chose to describe the ‘Best job of the world.’

The vacancy in question – a six-month contract that involves spending six-months on Hamilton Island (a tropical Australian island in the Great Barrier Reef), in the capacity of caretaker.

In what could only be termed a blitzkrieg of advertisements, the job was everywhere – splashed in international newspapers, websites, glossies, radio, television – the works.

Understandably, the list of applicants was immense – scoring over 34,000 wishful aspirants.

And now, last week, the results for this coveted job came out.

A British Charity worker Ben Southall, trounced the lengthy list of candidates, to emerge victorious. He takes away with him a deal of a whopping $150,000, and starts his official duties this July.

As if that were not enough for us to envy him, you might just want to go through the list of his assigned tasks to turn that shade of emerald:

• Post a weekly blog
• Keep photo diaries
• Create video updates
• Sample luxury spa treatments
• Enjoy activities like snorkelling, kayaking, sailing, bungee-jumping, diving, Ostrich riding, and of course, tamer ones like picnics and bushwalking.

Oh, and did I mention that he gets to stay in one of possibly the loveliest sea-facing villas on the island...with his partner?

Do I hear you sigh yet?

Who made all the rules about post-marriage mores?

In a world where marriages are the defining point in your life (and I don’t disagree with that), some people definitely get carried away with its very concept.

I speak with authority.

I am a bride of just over a fortnight.

Married to my beau of over two years, I take great pride in him and his family, who accept me the way I am – a spunky, light-hearted, twinkle-eyed, cheery bride, who still swears by her faded jeans, and who, even when she is in one of her many giggling spells, does not goof up her etiquette norms.

However the hunky-dory picture is marred by comments by acquaintances, sometimes colleagues, all of who have taken it as a matter of my personal impudence and effrontery by not following what they term ‘tradition.’

So I can just barely keep from biting their heads off when I hear comments to the tune of:

Where is your Mangalsutra*? You have one, right? Why don’t you wear it?

You should have at least worn the ‘Chudaa’** for a month. You took it off after a day!! Tut tut (incredulous stare)

Gawd! Doesn’t your husband object? Doesn’t he ASK you to wear them? I’m sure he WANTS you to.

Oooh. How do you step out of your house without Sindoor*** in your parting? (Horrified look)

And one of the most despicable–

You were born in the wrong country. Our country is still traditional (there you go, you have the word again), you know. Why are you such a rebel?

For someone who believes in keeping to herself, far, far away from the public eye; getting thrown pell-mell into the limelight (and not in a good way at that), these days are certainly not the most pleasant ones for her.

I fail to comprehend how people think that I love him less as compared to the average ‘Pati-vrata’**** new wifey who diligently goes out to her regular kitty-parties, bedecked in jewellery, flaunting all the ‘trappings’ of a married woman.

Add to that the aghast looks I get when I proclaim that stories are the only things I can cook, as compared to the more ‘traditional’ cooked fare, and you have all the trappings of my very own personal episode of ‘The Bad Bad Bride’ – Series 1.

Of course, it doesn’t help either that I am surgically inseparable from my (before marriage) garb. So you have the team of people who try to cajole me into wearing ethnic Indian attire to work. The pachyderm that I am, I snub them, refusing to give people the opportunity to double up with unrestrained glee at my expense, by dolling myself up like a previous year’s Christmas tree.

Too bad they wouldn’t get to see me attired in an atrociously-garish, Swarovski-laden something which closely resembles something the goldsmith would only be too happy to display in his stall at the jewellery souk.

Too bad that I can grin merrily, instead of barely being able to smile, for fear of creasing a pan-caked face - a face which has seen all the make-up items in my vanity case being made abundant use of. (Now my face is not sans-makeup, but at least you can see my skin...)

Too bad that instead of whispering coyly and shuffling feet in awkwardness, eyes down, I smirk and stare at them insolently.

Bring it on folks.

See if care!

* An auspicious thread or cord, usually made of a string of black beads on a gold chain
** A set of red and white bangles
*** Red powder (vermilion) applied at the beginning or completely along the parting-line of a married woman’s hair
**** A woman staunchly loyal to her husband

New trends in Indian voting

My black and orange phone beeps gently.

I blink, then smile, my hand reaching out to cocoon the phone.

What I had thought to be a welcome message from one of my many friends who were only too glad to have me back in town, turned out to be a random contestant in the upcoming elections, citing close to seven reasons why I should exercise my franchise in his favour.

The message is not in isolation.

Sure enough, others soon follow, declaring their party manifestos, pitting themselves like matadors against their adversaries, kicking up the dirt on them, singing paeans about their own political party…you get the drift, don’t you?

And all and sundry can stand for elections – you do know that, don’t you? What else would explain a tennis player banking upon his sports popularity by standing in the local elections? Not his flashy, pearly smile, I’m sure.

The last 2-3 years saw political parties cashing in on the digital media bandwagon to connect with voters. So conventional door-to-door campaigning got an overhaul, stepping back to make way for tripping-over-each-other social networking sites like Twitter, Facebook, Myspace and Orkut that ran huger than huge online campaigns, videos, audios – you name it.

This year even mobile phones saw exploitation.

Which explains that beep on your phone, and the longish rant by a party rep about the so-called ‘atrocities’ that opponents have unleashed on today’s aam aadmi (common man).

Even Internet companies like Yahoo and Google are not far behind, collaborating with national dailies to launch election sites, where voters, besides creating their login ids, can dabble in debates with like-minded voters, 'expressing' their views about their concerns and the way out too.

And then you have parties running up humongous bills to get exclusive rights to Oscar-winning tracks, their renditions done by sexy, nubile singers who go into raptures while mouthing heaps of praise on the said party in question.

Gamers need not feel left out. Enterprising companies like 7Seas Technologies pay full heed to their unique demands, developing riveting games where politicians aimatedly pummel their adversaries black and blue, throw mean karate chops, hurl abuses,stick their tongues out cheekily, shout loud Whoopees, and kick some politico's ass.

All’s fair in love and war, they say.

And this is definitely war.

At its best.

Now whether the wired generation are wooed by these 70 year-old+ candidates in these General elections, and actually DO vote.

Or openly flaunt their (unmarked) middle fingers to the world, snorting derisively at the so-called 'fair' elections.

Now that is something which waits to be seen.

The honeymoon's not over yet...

The last few days have been a whirlwind for me literally.

Dream marriage followed by a dream honeymoon.

When the entire rigmarole of marriage ceremonies was over, and TOOMA and I had some breathing time finally, it was soon time to zoom off to that city of lovers – Paris.

And boy! Were we not disappointed!

Stylish women dressed to the nines, blowing ringlets of smoke, hailed cabs with perfectly manicured hands, their Hermes scarves fluttering in the wind, like sails of a ship. Their chic chignons were the last you saw of them as they stepped in gracefully in one fluid movement. Oh, and did I mention the surfeit of sky-high Jimmy Choos and Diors that made their way into my line of vision.

It’s a wonder I am back to my regular skin tone from the emerald shade I was.

They don’t call Paris the fashion capital of the world for nothing.

While the men there experimented with various zany hairstyles, carpenter jeans and ochre / fuschia loafers and Surprise Surprise managed to look good after them all, the women were the ones who caught my attention and TOOMA’s. For entirely different reasons, I may add.

Let me limit myself to a single word that summed up their modish garb – WOW!

Bolero jackets, Daisy Dukes, cashmeres that whispered to be touched, ponchos, bodices, knickerbockers, capes, mantles, smocks, jumpers, kilts, minijupes with fishnet stockings – you name it, and it could be seen on the streets.

The garb bought on a shoe-string budget kept neck to neck to their snootier, dressier designer labels counterparts. So while I gaped at them openly, the wearers walked regally past me, their Jimmy Choos clicking smartly, canines of different breeds keeping pace with their long strides.

The Parisian breakfast that we treated ourselves to the next day, deserve a worthy note of mention.

Brioches, Croissants of all kinds, raisin pecan bread (TOOMA’s favorite), whipped-cream and cheese baguettes, choquettes. Washed down with freshly squeezed orange juice, or as was the case with TOOMA, the bottle of Chardonnay / Chianti / Chablis that beckoned to him invitingly.

The list of places that we visited there, in no particular order:

1. The Eiffel Tower. But obviously!
2. Champs Elysees – and oh boy! Was I blinded by the overdose of fashion houses that stood tall and majestic there
3. Montmartre / Basilique du Sacre-Coeur and the tiny market on the mountain which many artists had made their hub – offering sketches@Euro 20-30 per sketch
4. Fragonard Le Musee du Parfum – the Museum of Perfumes, Einstein
5. The closely resembling our very own Gateway of India - the Arc De Triomphe
6. While the Da Vinci Code went a long way in acquaintig millions with the Louvre, our abbreviated tour of the Louvre and the Mona Lisa in person went far ahead.
7. Moulin Rouge
8. The Lido
9. Hard Rock Café and its amazing memorabilia. Va-Va-Voom!
10. The Le Mur Des Je T’Aime Wall
11. Notre-Dame Cathedral
12. The Statue of Liberty replica in the middle of the River Seine
13. The Flame of Liberty
14. The tunnel where Princess Diana expired with beau, Dodi Al-Fayed, in the horrendous car crash that fateful August 1997

The evening cruise on one of the beautiful Bateaux Mouches the River Seine was by far the most romantic, affording us spectacular views of the illuminated Eiffel Tower, the Assemblee Nationale, Louvre, Notre-Dame Cathedral, Palais Royal, Les Invalides, Alexander III Bridge, Orsay Museum.

The City of Lights made more than a pretty picture. It was one of the prettiest pictures I have ever seen.

To add to the romantic air were the mandatory kisses under every bridge(and I stopped counting after 12), much to my glee and TOOMA’s evident discomfiture. Tee hee.

And how can I forget – the duty-free shopping at Dubai that did wonders to bring out my Colgate-white pearlies on full display.

What else can a girl ask for?

Right from the time we stepped out from the aircraft into the Parisian nippy evening air, to the time we boarded our flight back, it was one long party.

And thankfully, everybody wasn’t invited.

J’adore Paris!

'Break'ing News

Lest my loyal readers think that I have sworn off blogging, or am practising my neglecting act to a ‘T,’ I should sit up straight, try a blushing-bride-shy-smile routine, fail miserably at it, and then try something else.

So here it goes.

With my wedding scheduled for this month for April 17, I wouldn’t be able to do justice to my blog, much as I would like to.

I know that you would understand that there would be oodles of wholly important stuff I shall be busy with, like:

a) Nodding off at every opportunity I get
b) Thinking up ways to scratch some unmentionable parts when both my hands are covered in henna (oh horror!) or worse, an inability to visit the washroom despite a threatening-to-burst bladder
c) Blinking at and trying to recognise relatives I haven’t seen since the time I was in diapers
d) Wondering how I would balance a 20-something kg ‘lehenga’s drape on my beehive hairdo
e) Frowningly staring at people stuffing their faces while my tummy makes indignant, rumbling sounds, and
f) All the while keeping a serene / coy smile, when all I can do is to keep from bursting into tears

I know that doing all the above warrants some sympathetic tongue-clicking and / or a standing ovation.

Ohh, thank you. You needn’t have!

I understand what a gaping hole the next 25 days would be for you.

But, I promise to return with a BANG! Literally!

Around the first week of May.

And if I get an opportunity to dash off something in between too, I would definitely do that too.

Wish me luck.

As I bring in yet another phase of my (eventful) life.

My 'ALTARED' state of mind

Most people would have sat on a rollercoaster.

Or at least stared at one, as it speeds dizzyingly, eliciting screams from those who
are riding it.

I feel I am ON a rollercoaster. An emotional one at that.

The oscillating, heart-in-my-mouth-dry-throated feeling is frequent, to say the least.

So you have my deliriously happy spells, interspersed with gleeful spiel by close friends, all conjuring merry pictures of conjugal bliss. (The glossy magazines sure do their work well).

On the flip side, there are also those moments when I sit with my face cupped in my palms, glumness writ large over my face – such are the images that some paint for me.

Some questions / comments that are guaranteed to make me do a volte-face from cool, collected chica to an anxiety-attacked, shitting bricks woman:

Uhmm, you are such a party animal. Have you kissed ‘em parties Goodbye?
You do know you wouldn’t have the freedom to travel when you want to, don’t you?
But you don’t know how to cook (anything except stories) (Incredulous expression)? How would you manage?
How would you buy your (insert appropriate number) pair of sandals? Wouldn’t you guys fight over it?
I’m really happy for you. But Aha! Giving up the joys of being single, are you? (Sigh) Good luck, dude!

And the worst –

Oh super!!! You getting hitched. Thinking of a Valentine baby?

Aaaaargh!

Stop. Just stop.

Thank God it just takes a conversation with TOOMA to soothe my ruffled feathers.

And make me jump out of my blues and swing back, with renewed vigor, into my idyllic state.

Of Dear Beer and No Deal Meals

With this weekend being our last single weekend, TOOMA and I decided to live it up in style.

So Saturday night, when all roads led to some or the other watering hole, we trotted smartly to Sevilla, an upscale Mediterranean restaurant at a centrally located luxury Hotel. A friend had only the highest praise and very positive feedback about it, which only bolstered our resolve to make it the venue for our last single rendezvous.

We drove into the long, winding, graveled driveway, stepping out to let a smartly-liveried valet to assume full responsibility for parking our pair of wheels.

The view that awaited us was breathtaking, to say the least.

It was almost like stepping into an ethereal wonderland.

The similarity to what you see as you turn the glossy pages of glossy fairytales, was unmistakable.

Tastefully decorated tree houses with private seating areas, complete with white drapes, fire marshals, the backdrop of a serene waterfall as it gushed peacefully nearby – all added to the classy, magical ambience.

A waiter stood unobtrusively in the background, waiting for you to usher him towards you.

Tasteful ambience – tick.
Soothing strains of music – tick.
Waiters who didn’t hover over your head like bloodsucking mosquitoes – tick.
Comfortable, low couches that begged to be seated upon – tick.

And that’s when the ‘Ouches’ started.

What started as an innocuously declared, ‘Sir, we do not serve regular water H-E-R-E,’ by a disdainfully-expressioned waiter, didn’t just end with that…

After handing you two heavily-embossed menus - one with a select menu, comprising chiefly of Spanish, Asian and Italian cuisine, and the other promising a ‘heady’ session, he slinks away.

Our breaths were collectively taken away once again – though this time the feeling was anything but pleasurable, thanks to the exorbitant rates that spelled themselves out in bold, italicized lettering.

The steeply-priced Heineken didn’t help much to digest what was brought to our table in the name of Arabic goat chevre (cheese), and it was only with restraint that we kept ourselves from choking and spluttering.

No kidding – the miniscule portion had five slices of tomatoes spread carefully over what looked like an abundance of some exotic herbs. Three eye-shaped cheese pieces stared at us quizzically from between the tomatoes.

Upon my indignant questioning to the attendant as to whether he had forgotten to put the remaining three-fourths of the cheese into the portion, I received a cheeky reply that it was but a starter.

For whom, pray? Fairies? I wanted to ask.

Thank God the ambience was faultless, which sort of made up for the way too exorbitant prices the diners were expected to cough up.

What is it with ridiculously overpriced restaurants, main dishes that resemble appetizers, side dishes that would do a frugal saint proud, and starters that would barely suffice even for a chronically anorexic individual?

Some food for thought this…

'Two' good to be true

While I don’t exactly fancy a heated spat with any frowning, strait-jacketed soul about the ethical, legal and social challenges of cloning, what I wouldn’t mind at all would be getting a clone.

So while the clone would sit poker-faced at my workstation, busily sending out official communiqués one after the other, the ‘original’ me would be out:

1. Finishing pending shopping tasks for the wedding. And boy! Are there quite a few left!
2. Watching new releases at my preferred theatre. And at home, curl up with a decaf and a season from F*R*I*E*N*D*S*
3. Going on the last few naughty dates with TOOMA before our ‘knotty’ day
4. Scouting around for bargains with best friend. And follow the motto to the ‘T’ - Shop till we both drop
5. Pampering myself to spas and other luxuriating experiences
6. Getting that long overdue haircut and start looking like my usual self. Instead of resembling a long-lost aborigine from NZ
7. Reading all the books I have bought these last few months, but never got around to reading beyond the first few pages
8. Working out at the gym. Twice. Daily. And not collapse after that
9. Getting my teeth cleaned. And flash that dazzling, pearly smile even at those people who sorely test my patience and / or are in dire need of a shrink
10. And lastly, stopping to get a breather, and smell the flowers along the way…

But here I am. Minus a clone. Holding the fort as a sole warrior.

Is there any fairness in this world?

The apple of her father's (roving) eye

The little girl looked up adoringly at her father, as he hoisted her up onto his broad shoulders to afford her a better view of a marriage procession that trotted in accompaniment to the loud beats of a drum.

She stared wonder-eyed at all the beautifully-dressed people, as they danced gaily, with full abandon, on the streets.

A stray firecracker caused her to shudder involuntarily and blink rapidly. And even when the father gently put her down onto the ground, she clutched at his warm hand for reassurance, looking out trustingly at him from her doe-shaped eyes.

Just when you think this is going to be one of those misty-eyed-leaving- father-daughter-happy stories, a vile twist changes it all.

The father who wouldn’t probably have dreamt of hurting his princess, does the unthinkable.

The same hands that held her hands protectively, paw her private parts.

The same mouth that had mouthed bedtime stories to her, ravages her frail body.

The little girl, who would utter screams of delight when in the company of her father, now whimpers at the very sight of the monster, as he gratifies his insatiable lust with her as she, a reluctant tool, shudders while being drilled into by him. Pleasure is writ large over his crazed-by-perversion face.

The girl’s eyes that had once looked up trustingly into the man’s she once called father, looked with contemptuous pain, rage and shock, as he openly leered at her young body.

The trauma goes on.

Day after day.

In some places, the mother is a mute spectator (as in the Mumbai case), silenced by a so-called Man of God, who claims that the incestuous relationship would assure prosperity to the family, and in the bargain, got a fair share of plundering the little girl when the father was sated, over and done with her (till the next time he came to bed her); in other cases the mother was dead, or as in the Austrian dungeon case, had come to terms with her ‘missing daughter,’ oblivious to the fact that her traumatized daughter lay hidden, for over 24 years, in a basement in the family home itself. Where other kids of her age were playing with doll houses, she was being preyed upon by her biological father.

Who fathered seven children with her. Illegitimate children who would't know how to come to terms with their salacious father / grandfather who brought them into the world, and would be more than willing to chop him into little pieces and feed to the dogs.

What comes upon such men to do such dastardly, violating, puke-inducing, twisted, unforgivable acts?

And is there even a fitting punishment for such sick bastards?

A 'Shred' of truth perhaps?

My cluttered desk at work had long been crying for attention.

So a caving-in me decided to clean up my (desk) act today.

Taking a deep breath, I made a half-hearted dive into the large pile of paper that had accumulated over the better part of the last two months, and which had clearly been shrieking their lungs out at me.

Several minutes later, at first dazed by the volume of paper that stood accusingly in front of me, I had bundled them all neatly into three piles – important, not so important (but still to be retained), and to-be-shredded. Depositing the first two piles safely in my commodious work-drawer, I heaved the last to the gleaming white shredder that still hummed happily on account of a colleague’s presentation that had to be re-worded to suit a manager's whimsical mood.

I inserted a part of my bundle into it; the machine greedily sucked in the paper. Its appetite was insatiable – lapping up paper after paper gleefully.

The analogy to some people with insatiable appetites was unmistakable.

Ironically, the machine that was invented with the intention to protect one’s privacy, resembles those people most who love to intrude into yours. Your privacy, I mean. You answer one irreverent question with an equally irreverent answer, hoping it would shut them up. Fat chance! By some twisted, dim-witted logic, they take your answering for encouragement – and then follows that grueling episode of being subjected to the Scotland-Yard-meets-NYPD rigorous cross-questioning round. The string of questions that these Nosy Parkers pose even infringes into your time with your loved ones – leaving you sore, frowning, crotchety, and not really the sunniest sunflower in the garden.

There are those who, like shredders, insist on ‘destroying’ all around them – such souls destroy all sanity, sanctity, felicity in their relationships, making the sorry bum who’s in a relationship with them, look up at the star-studded sky, hoping to wish upon a shooting star…

Sometimes the humming sound of a shredder is almost like that of that person who whines (to you) in that utterly-wretched bleat about the meaninglessness of his /her life, and who insists on your complete, undivided attention while narrating sotto voce about the many troubles that plague them.

Such people moan, groan, drone.

The works.

That one time when you clicked your tongue in sympathy listening to the ‘plagued’ soul, now costs you aplenty, ‘cos he / she now adeptly downloads troubles into your (un)willing ears. The icing on the cake – by some cruel hand of fate, they could be from some quarter of someone dear to you. So while the ‘moaning’ experience is a cathartic one for them, you are plainly itching to do some serious acupuncture damage to some part of their body.

And when such people take on the form of creepy, lousy, thick-skinned and thick-headed, semi-educated, wannabe clones, who make you want to wish that you had taken that weekend course in anger management and / or how to cope with imbeciles, what can I say but…

Tie those shoelaces, and brace yourself for the 100-meter sprint.

A run with higher stakes.

'Cos at the end of it, it is not a ribboned medal that would be your prize.

But peace of mind.

Amen.

The Have-Nose-Will-Dig Syndrome

A couple of days back, while TOOMA* and I were (im)patiently waiting for the traffic signal to turn green, we chanced to espy the woman sitting at the wheel of the car on our left.

With one dexterous finger, she wove in and out of her nose like the way a seasoned archaeologist spades in an excavation ground, convinced that his quest to unearth the highly sought after treasure chest was about to come to an end.

Except that instead of the mandatory applause and admiring looks, the lady in question got an amused look from TOOMA who proceeded to mock-ape her shovelling act, and an extended ‘Ewwww’ from me.

Such was the reaction her activity elicited.

She is not alone - probably joined by thousands who have absolutely no qualms in digging out those boogers from within their nose, in full view of anyone looking in their direction.

Talk about having no inhibitions.

In the midst of a pondering spell, they carelessly take out some ‘booty,’ play with it, and with the same kind of nonchalance, toss it. Talking over the phone, they lovingly scrape their itching noses. While sitting in the bus, they unselfconsciously do some serious digging action.

Oblivious to the gagging sounds you are making, and your saucer eyes that threaten to pop from their sockets any minute.

Do they think that their greenish-brown boogers (okay okay – I get the drift, let me not get into specifics here) are loose cannon balls that need to be hurled into the vicinity of two meters?

Or do they harbour a fondness for playing with the aforementioned slimy glob between their index finger and thumb?

Eitherwhichways, a loud, consistent ‘Blech’ is all that they get from me.

Tapping into science, I found that the term for digging up that loot from your nose using your fingers, is called rhinotillexis - people who do so compulsively are called rhinotillexomaniacs. The next line is ickier - there are some who actually, take it out from their nose, and uhmmm...put it into their mouths – mucophagy they call it. Are you retching yet?

And then you have the Austrian Doctor, Friedrich Bischinger, who strongly campaigns for mucophagy in children, declaring that doing so helps them in fortifying their immunity. *wrinkling nose*

I wonder what’s next – a socially-acceptable talent round of very very public farting and belching?

Or perhaps sneezing / depositng phlegm from a choked throat into other people’s dinner plates at snooty restaurants?

*TOOMA-The Object Of My Affection

Post-mortem cosmetic surgery? Over my Dead Body!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beats me.

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

Spooky?
Eerie?
Quirky?
Or plain bizarre?

You decide.

Random images / pics / signs that caught my eye

1. Too many drunk morons cause mayhem on the roads. Making this sign a mandatory one on them roads might just discourage them from getting behind the wheels after having had a drink too many.

2. Tired of that twitching frown that makes an appearance on your face when that bimbo / jerk is around? Ahem ahem! 'Enuff said. *chortle*

3. A woman and her bag are inseparable. Unless of course you count surgery.

4. To all the people who drone and look like there's no stopping them, help is at hand!

5. Now who should I dedicate this 'touching' card to? I can think of at least three contenders...

A Tale of Two Teeth

That half the time models walk the ramp at Paris and Milan, and the other half peep at you from mascara-ed eyelashes and / or smoky eyes from overpriced fashion glossies, you’d think the least they could do was smile.

But no. A smirk is probably the best you can get. And that is good. Considering that their faces usually bear a condescending, supercilious mask, almost as if the very thought of genetically inferior ‘masses’ turning the pages of a fashion mag to ogle at them, is repulsive enough for that patronizing look to be plastered permanently on their chiselled features.

Sometimes on a good day, they pose with a half smile, lips slightly parted, two teeth visible, staring at you insolently, as you sigh envyingly, admiring the high cheekbones that have been bronzed to perfection.

That half smile only makes you more anxious about your own status and attitude, as you uneasily look at the clothes / accessories / makeup they model, and make a mental note to pick them or something to that effect the next time your happy feet hit the mall.

That all the plastic you used that month makes a re-appearance in the form of a tidy outstanding sum that you have to shell from your measly salary, is but obvious.

As is the scowl that doesn’t leave your face for the rest of the month.

I don’t think not reading the magazines is a solution.

But then, what else is?