Who'd make the best Bond?

‘Shaken, not stirred’ – a smooth voice booms in the watering hole.
You don’t need to scratch your head. God knows that you’ve heard the catchphrase long enough times to know that the world’s most celebrated spy is standing right behind you. You can visualize him clearly – suave, dressed in an impeccable Saville-Row suit, an Omega Seamaster adorning his wrist, and an Aston Martin waiting for his touch outside, and of course a bevy of admiring glances from both men and women alike. This British Secret Service agent has a license to kill, and takes it to a new level – a License to thrill.

For over five decades, James Bond has been scorching the scenes. It’s not hard to see why - adrenaline-thumping chase scenes, futuristic gadgets that do his bidding at the flick of a finger, a bevy of tantalizing beauties, his stock of ready one-liners in that much-perfected baritone – all do their job in making him a Box Office darling, raking in the moolah and making all those associated with the Bond banner go laughing all the way to the bank.

Sean Connery, Roger Moore, George Lazenby, Roger Moore, Timothy Dalton, Pierce Brosnan and now Daniel Craig – all have assayed the role of the world’s most famous secret agent, with varying degrees of success. And while I think 4 of them absolutely breathed life in their portrayal, I wouldn’t mind the following actors getting into 007’s skin and give that iconic introduction –

The names Bond...James Bond.

1. George Clooney – at the top of my list, most definitely. He oozes charm, can smooth talk his way through any situation, has that mischievous glint in his eyes, is a pro at wink-your-eye flirtiness, and has that slightly wicked-naughty streak. Oh and did I mention that he’s easy on the eyes and has been known to make millions of women worldwide go weak in the knees. With so much as a look...It’s been Intolerable Cruelty that he hasn’t been cast till now. EON Productions should absolutely Burn After Reading this!

2. Hugh Jackman – with his rugged-looks, this Aussie actor can pack a mean punch, thus bringing much-needed realism to the Bond movies. And of course, that baritone isn’t too bad either. It’ll be nice to see him trade his Wolverine three moon claws for a lethal Walther PPK. Will be great Prestige for this Leopold, I’m sure...

3. Gerard Butler – from a humble cameo as a crew member in 1997’s Tomorrow Never Dies to the actual her Majesty's agent, it would be RocknRolla good to see the valiant King Leonidas exchange his steely armor for a suave tuxedo.

4. Jason Statham – This Mean Machine is one helluva Transporter. Plus he looks good in a tux. Plus he’s an acclaimed Martial artiste. He’ll have to work on his voice though – that rasp couldn’t possibly pass off for Bond’s, hough the accent will be his redeeming point for sure.

5. Christian Bale – This stylish Welsh actor has proved his mettle time and again – as Batman, John Connor in the fourth of the Terminator series, as a serial killer in American Psycho. A veritable Treasure Island, he looks good in almost everything (or nothing, as the case may be). He can quip, wield a gun effortlessly, And we’d be delighted to see him reprise the role of Bond. Thank you very much!

6. Clive Owen – This Brit is as Inside Man as it gets and can easily Vroom away in the iconic black Aston Martin. He’s got it all – the looks, that genteel air, the talent – and is bound to leave in his wake millions of people panting for more...

7. Jude Law – He’s among the youngest in this section, but there’s nothing lacking in him in the looks, talent or charm department. We would Love, Honour and Obey this Talented Mr. Ripley if he were to shake his martini, curl his lip in mock-amusement and stroll into a packed-room with that debonair charm, knowing all too well that all eyes are upon him.

8. Ethan Hawke – quite a lady killer this – after all he managed to sweep Uma Thurman off her feet and also put a ring on her finger. Too bad the pair fell through, but one thing’s sure, if this Hamlet were to take on Bond’s role, it would be for keeps.

9. Colin Farrell – Fellow Irishman Pierce Brosnan once famously said that Colin Farrell would probably fit the best in Bond’s sleek shoes. This bad boy gadabout Alexander could be the real thing. After all, he knows a thing or two about strutting his stuff (both onstage and offstage), can arch his eyebrows in mock-amusement like Bond, can mix a mean drink, is not averse to kicking some bu**, is a Daredevil, a pro at driving fast cars, and is known for making women swoon.

10. Eric Bana – another Aussie on this list, this 40-something holds his own against heavyweights (remember him in that fight sequence with Brad Pitt in Troy). On top of that, he’s ruggedly handsome and that smile can make the toughest of hearts melt. ‘Nuff said!


So who do you think could set the BO on fire as Bond? While I’ve had my share of talking, it’s only fair that I turn it over to you.

Who do you think could best whip the likes of Le Chiffre, Goldfinger and Blofeld to pulp?

Of pink eyes and dark sunglasses...

My particularly vengeful bout of conjunctivitis could put the cheesy Red-eyed Terminator to shame, what with the redness in my eyes clearly surpassing its inset LED.

But the similarity ends here - while the cyborg was on an unstoppable mission to 'terminate' a certain Sarah Connor, I on the other hand, long for normal un-blurry vision - when newspapers, television and the silver screen could see my active viewership again.

It really is no fun sitting near the idior box and looking like an idiot in the other direction, wondering whether the booming voice that emanated from it belongs to Brendan Fraser or Hugh Jackman. More pity if it is the latter and you are denied a look at that awesome Aussie.

And lest I have to make another trip to the ophthalmologist for yet more bottles of eye-drops, I think it is in order to bring a halt to this otherwise small post (by my standards), and give some much-needed rest to my laptop.

Sigh!

Egosurfing at its best

I’m a successful real estate agent. Apparently I round up gullible clients and take them on twenty-kilometre-drives through the dusty by lanes of the city. I then charm my way through their pockets, making them pay through their nose for just about average apartments.
It also appears that I moonlight as a Post-doctoral researcher, glasses perched over my nose.
I often test my vocal chords (and patience) as a college lecturer at a suburban college.
When I am not busy expanding my training business, I reach out for my favourite sketching pencil and start work on the next wedding gown design - after all, I am counted among the city’s leading wedding dresses designers.
I slogged for last year’s civil services examinations. That I didn’t clear is another story.
Safety is my middle name - I am a Fire Engineer.
I launch educational programmes for expectant mothers – sure is a lovely sight - me sitting around with women with bulging bellies.
I churn out career advice to students.
And the coolest - I accept applications for an International Mental School in Australia.

None of the above are me, I should add.

I’m coming clean on this one...

Some would call me an ego surfer. Some would tut-tut and shake their heads in pity.

People are divided in their opinions – while some indulgently overlook it, there are also those who would condemn me to eternal perdition for being, as they would term it, ‘swollen with pride.’ Social acceptance stills seems a long, long way ahead.

My sin?

I occasionally Google myself.

And quite a few fun things pop out when I do. I have more namesakes than I can count on my fingers. And the hangover of this eavesdropping on oneself in the cyberworld is delicious, to say the least...

Is this that bad? Is it that awful to have an urge to know whether you are digitally distinct or not? And in a virtual world where I might come across a person who may know everything about me, I’d rather know what he’s been reading about me online. So there comes the handy Google tool. Thank you very much.

When Homer Simpson did it, he was called funny. Yet if I do it, appellations like 'weird' and 'unnatural' freely do the rounds. Wonder why the disconnect!

It’s not altogether uncommon. But there are of course those souls who are in constant denial. They might actually peep surreptitiously on the Google main page, filling in names of friends, ex-es, bosses, sworn enemies, and while they are at it – type in theirs too. Just for a lark sometimes. Yet they feign ignorance whenever a mention comes up of what they do(n’t) carry out clandestinely.

Is it such a sad, sad thing to do?

I think not.

There are benefits to this vanity-searching – self-Googling lets you know if any joker out there has posted something embarrassing, inaccurate or downright malignant about you. But of course, if you are on the addictive path, it could lead to what is now called Googlitis.

And if this ego-surfing cheers me up on a gloomy, rainy day, I’d say it’s worth the raised eyebrows...

What do the rest say?

Talking over the cell while in the loo - a 'bunch of crap'

You are at your workplace. Bladder bursting, you trot to the restroom on your floor. Alas! Both are occupied. You wait (im)patiently, tapping your foot to distract yourself from that all those waves of pressure that are hitting you. Causing your toe to curl, and you to cast woebegone looks at the doors. Your bladder threatens to embarrass you any second now, and you wish you had a couch where you could at least plonk and cross your legs, never mind the drama.

And then you stop dead in your tracks. There it was. No, not the warm sensation of you losing control in little short spurts in your pants. Phew!

But a smothered chortle from the closed door on the left.

And a muffled stream of conversation from the door on your right.

You purse your lips, wondering if there was a secret hole between the two adjacent washrooms, which enabled both people inside to exchange niceties while they did their business.

And then it dawns upon you. They were both talking, not to each other (TGFSM), but over their respective phones. This is also the precise moment when your nightmarish time begins - your sphincter warning you not to take the call of Mother Nature lightly while two exasperating people speak animatedly into their mobiles.

Several thoughts cross you mind as you contend with violent cramps...

Would it be rude to rap your knuckles at the locked doors?
Did you want to warrant a kick with your spanking new leather shoes?
Would clearing your throat give a hint to the two inside to step out?

You decide for the last option, clearing your throat in an aggrieved fashion that would have sounded more appropriate in the chambers of a seasoned laryngitis specialist.

Silence.

You wait to hear the welcome flushing sound to trickle into your ears. Some shuffling of feet and a brisk zipping sound of the fly being done up...

No such luck. After 10-seconds, the conversation(s) inside resume(s) from where it / they had been left off – at your all-too-evident and unmistakable throat-clearing. Darn!

You groan – clutching your sides, the call of nature hot on your tail. The last time you had clutched them so tightly was when you had stitches in your side from laughing uncontrollably during a particularly funny episode of your favourite sitcom. Except that that last time had been a pleasurable sensation, as compared to the dreadful one presently that looked intent on making you do what your 6-year old nephew was scolded for – pant-wetting.

After what seems like an eternity, you finally hear the flush. You almost make the exiting individual topple over in your haste to lock the door behind you and sit on the john. Forgetting to give him / her the much-perfected scowl which you thought he / she truly deserved. The startled, still-talking-into-the-mobile dude sails out, talking pointedly about people who could do with some impatience-management. At any other point, you would have stood your ground and retaliated with a seething answer. But today you were just thankful to enter and take that much-needed leak.

Leaving you with the big question...

Why? Why? Why? Why a toilet? For God’s sake? Weren’t there any other places to yap? Had the workplace run out of places where you could ring up people?

I’ve seen people talking over phones and carrying them nonchalantly into the restroom, continuing their conversation and taking care of their business at the same time. Leaving me horrified. Do they even wash up after that? I don't even want to go into that (unwashed) territory...

Just the other day, I was in a theatre, and had to attend to some urgent short business. Right before I could relieve myself, I heard some strains of the latest Bollywood number, and then the sound of a lady answering the ringing phone from the stall adjacent to mine. Now, the call was no emergency I could tell - I overheard Ms Pisser tell another Pisser about the pissing day she had had – in loud and dulcet tones. Well she truly deserved the ‘crappy’ day, pardon the pun, I almost wanted to holler. Especially since after she let out relieved 'ahhs' regularly after each soft but unmistakable 'plop plop,' and passed wind brazenly, the malodour of which caused me to retch and gag, such was the sound and smell show! Blech!

Too bad for her that I flushed noisily when she was about to mouth the second ‘I-lurrrrrve’you’ into her mouthpiece...*evil grin*

I came out repulsed – wondering what was more unacceptable – talking in the loo or talking during a movie?

Don’t people realize know it’s rude? Besides being unhygienic? And gross? All rolled into one.

Or am I missing a pee, oops wee bit here?

Watching spooky flicks - a 'ghost' of a chance for me...

I grew up on a regular diet of books. You could call me your regular bookworm. However, there was one stack of books I never did touch - my brother’s collection of horror novels (No he wasn’t a bookworm, he just kept them to keep me from fiddling in his shelf).

The only ghost I could see without scaring people half to death with my bloodcurdling scream, was Casper. And he didn’t really count – cute, white, slightly obese kid-ghost. That he stayed in a gravestone only added to his quirkiness…
So here I am - an incurable phasmophobe. In simpler words, I fear ghosts. Many might share my fear, I know. It gives me some solace that there are many others like me whose hearbeats increase rapidly, a feeling of dread descends, their mouths go dry - when they as much as hear a friend narrate a particularly spooky story in the middle of a night.

Best friend is a sucker for horror, spooky tales. And movies. If she’s watching one at home, chances are that it would be along the likes of The Exorcist, The Haunting, Poltergeist, Blair Witch Project, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the Evil Dead, or Ring. And to think that during the most scary parts, she calmly pops popcorn into her mouth. More recently – she’s been gushing about the home-video Paranormal Activity, a spooky flick about a young couple who have a demonic presence in their apartment. Even hubby dearest is partial to this very same movie. Argh!

Which brings me to that eternal question – why do people pay big bucks at theaters to get terrified?
Is it the thrill of getting to assess their threat levels?
Does it elicit some primal behavior?
Do they like the escapism factor?
Do they get an adrenaline rush akin to like going on a rollercoaster ride?
Do they like the idea of watching someone’s fear unfold in a controlled environment?
Or do they like to count their palpitating heart beats?

Beats me!

What's your say?

Presents at a Price?

There it was – nestled comfortably between the spangled saree and the paisley paperbag it came packed in. Nothing about it was inconspicuous – it stood out like a sore thumb.

Rupees 2800 only – it declared proudly in italicised letters.

This wasn’t the first time that some no-doubt ‘well-meaning’ friend / relative had done the unforgivable – left the price tag on a gift. Not only does it look tacky, but it also makes me feel as if they are weighing how much I mean to them monetarily by spending a said amount on me.
Oh him – let’s give him a 1500-rupee wallet.
Ohh she – let’s see – this 750 rupee shirt will do.
For him, uhmm – this 400 rupee folder is good enough.
And for added measure, let’s leave the price tags on.

Both those ladies – Miss Manners and Dame Etiquette will probably have fits. Not of laughter. But of spluttering indignation.

Now, I can understand leaving the store’s tag and bar / scan code on, if the recipient might want to exchange it. Stores nowadays have an exchange policy even if the price is obliterated or ripped off. I’ve been there, done that – to exchange for a better sized piece of clothing or a different colored item. Without a price tag, no less!

But heck no – the gift-giver refuses to part with the price tag. So before taking the fume out from its velvet case, you have to first deal with the annoying yellow label that sticks out prominently.

So even before the heavenly fragrance can reach my happy nose, the thought that I owe the giver a specified monetary value, takes away from what would have otherwise been a delightful moment. It’s almost as if the giver just rubbed it in my face how much he / she shelled out for a prezzie for me, initiating thoughts that I should reciprocate with an equivalent-valued gift. I’d rather do without that someone-spent-a-mini-fortune-upon-me gift, thank you very much.

A few weeks back, I chanced to overhear a fifty-something lady getting a gift packed at a swish mall. The attendant, while cutting the ribbons and wrapping paper, asked if he should put a piece of scotch-tape on where the price was and remove it. The lady smiled, shook her head, and went back to animatedly describing the gift she’d bought for a relative (and its cost) to somebody on the other end of her phone line. Brought up in a household where leaving the price tag on was frowned upon, I couldn’t help but cast a woeful look at the lady in question.

I’ve also seen people take the discount tag off from an item and keeping the original price tag on. What do the less harsh people have to say to that ‘act of forgetfulness?’ Ha!

It’s almost an insult. Like the gifter is blatantly flaunting his wealth / social prestige – ‘See, I bought you that Swarovski pendant for your birthday / anniversary, simply because I can afford to. Did any of your other other so-called friends get you a premium gift?’

Completely takes the thoughfulness out of the gift giving, don’t you think?

Or do you disagree?

Of chipped cups and manky mugs...

It's a grey, wintry day.

The sun has decided to go into hibernation behind the gloomy clouds.

And the steaming cup of hazelnut cappucino looks up at me invitingly, the aroma of greshly ground coffee beans wafting towards my happy nose.

I cup my hands around it, taking in its warmth, and then with one hand, lift it towards my soon-to-be-gratified mouth.

This is where I freeze, purse my lips, and glower at the frothing coffee.

Hubby dearest takes one look, senses what’s happening, and hands me his own cup.

I nod at him in silent gratitude. A quick examination and I take a sip. It wasn’t hazelnut, but I’d make-do with it.

That’s what chipped cups and crockery do to me – they make me break out into my surly-frown-pursed-lips routine.

For many people, crockery should be just functional. What is a mere chip or a crack here and there. Not to me. I’ve walked up in many a restaurant to get my chipped cup / plate exchanged for a non-chipped one. I’ve been known to squirm in my seat at people’s places – and asked them if they could possibly change my cup. Sometime, I’ve just made an excuse to drinking from one.

Some people keep chipped crockery at bay – ‘cos the chips can harbor bacteria. I keep those darn chipped items at bay – because I can’t stand the sight of them. I anyway don’t mind the odd germs, and am all for growing our immunity. Just give me an intact mug, and avoid making me go off my rocker. They look ugly with a capital ‘U.’ They can cut your lip. They look manky. Do you need more reasons? I don’t think so...

My bro, who’s more interested in whether the food’s cooked properly rather than a chip in the plate, calls me dotty. So does hubby dearest. They’ve both got their reasons, I’ve got mine. Fair and square...

Call me wasteful. Call me queer – if I had my way, I’d drop all chipped crockery into the nearest landfill.

Or probably smash them into smithereens... And clap my hands gleefully...

And maybe, just maybe, I should start carrying my favorite mauve cup around. And earn more nicknames for myself like the weirdo who whips-out a mug from her bag !

Scenes from winter

Another freezing day set in.

While some drizzle the previous day had fueled thoughts about the fog clearing out and biting cold taking a beating, such thoughts couldn’t be more far from what lay ahead.

People, who would rub their hands only when it was accompanied by chuckles of pure glee, looked the exact opposite – glumly staring ahead,shivering despite the expensive woollens that adorned their shoulders, rubbing ther hands to restore some warmth to them.

Easier said than done!

Early office morning goers, their teeth chattering, send up silent prayers for the sun to the skies yonder. Sorely missing the weekends, when they could afford to slink deeper into the cosy warmth of their thick blankets, they curse the week for having begun. Some solace appeared in form of cups with piping hot tea that they stopped for at a roadside shack. What would have otherwise been a three-minute affair with the styrofoam cup has instead been relegated to an under-a-minute condensed form – thanks to the numbing cold which made even a steaming cup into its lukewarm version.

The young executive looks out smugly from the brand new pair of wheels he’s recently bought, admiring the anti-dazzle lights he’d had the good sense to get installed. Cutting through the fog seemed so much easy. The sound system played his favorite track from an ‘80s flick, and he increased both the volume as well as the automobile’s heating with one fluid stroke.

The two labourers shuffle towards their daily-wage earning area – the Metro construction, wrapping their hole-ridden shawls tightly around themselves. Thank God the sheer physicality of their work ensured that they wouldn’t remain cold much longer.

The newspaper vendor, eyes streaming with the cold, flings the correct newspapers into their intended readers’ homes. Cycling bored him, and to keep himself company he whistles loudly. As he turned a corner, he muttered an oath when an aged poodle barked shrilly upon seeng him.

The salesman, after staring long and hard at his weekly target, walks slowly to his motorcycle. Despite repeated kicks, it refused to start. Vigorous shaking of the bike ensued, and the engine then throbbed to life. Remembering to wear the heavy helmet, he sped off in a trail of dust, having forgotten his neatly foil-wrapped lunch – yet again.

The housewife pulls her warm dressing gown closer to herself, and walks out onto the balcony – to wave fondly to her husband who would drive twenty kilometers away to his workplace.

The 40-something CEO steps inside his spacious beauty on wheels. No words of gratitude escape his lips, as his smiling chauffeur closes the Merc’s door upon him. Oblivious to the cold around him, he settles into the leather seat, burying his nose into the day’s market figures. Not once does he look up from his treasure.

The retired gentleman decides to skip his morning walk, and instead talks animatedly to his grand-daughter, who has decided that winters were the best time for her to begin walking, and is on all fours on the tiled floor.

And far from it all - a lone dog looks longingly inside a warm coffee shop, hoping against hope that some kind soul would perhaps throw him the last piece of his morning sandwich...

Workstations and those who 'work' them around

While the verdict is yet to be decided by corporates as to whether employees decorating their workstations is a good or a not-so-good idea, many an employee does decorate, or pardon me, upgrade his workstation, so that dusty Dilli becomes some cool Caribben island – thanks to the aqua recycled wrapping sheet that abounds near him.

So while you have a Mister who prefers to line up his awards and honors – yep all 18 of ‘em right next to his laptop, there could also be the holiday junkie who insists the entire team sees her last trip to the Bahamas – through the countless pictures that dot her display board. If that isn’t distracting enough, she ensures anyone who is two arms away from her monitor does not feel left out – what with the blinking, rapidly-changing screensavers that show her in all types of (unflattering) clothes. Tres chic can totally take a hike, thank you very much! There are also the zillion images of her nieces and nephews, her canine pet, her human pet (sheesh), you name it…

They don’t call this dude’s workstation a temple for nothing – new employees have been known to stop to pay their tribute to the Gods that reside there and wait for the daily prasadam, until they figure out that the temple is a mile away.You can’t blame the new joinee – you’d stop and look closely too – scratching your head, when you find that all those idols and images of deities that belonged to a temple, were housed in his workstation. At least the incense stays unlit, in the packet – thank God for small mercies.

Then there’s the girl who drinks gallons of water and makes regular trips to
a) fill her bottle(s) of water
and
b) take a leak
She also insists that you keep a marked bottle near you, so as to gauge whether you’ve drank enough water throughout the day. While she glugs water faithfully, you wonder if she should perhaps keep a goldfish in all that water. Would be a nice touch indeed! Except that her daily monotone about how one should consume enough water throughout the day will cause the fish to get swollen bellies…

This guy’s middle name is nico-menthol-caffeine. Two coffee mugs, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a matchbox (for safety measure), some mints and a couple of throat lozenges decorate his workstation. A safety hazard is the first term that comes to your mind when you cross his workstation. It’s a wonder the water sprnkler doesn’t drench him from above…

Another chap’s workstation looks straight out of the ‘pages’ of a stationery shop – pens, highlighters, staplers and their pins, thumb tacks, colored post-its – you name it – it’s sitting prettily on his desk. It’s a wonder he manages to find something below that pile.

Then there is the ‘stressed’ guy – what else can explain the array of stress balls, foam rubber stress relievers, and both metallic and neon colored helical coil springs that lie scattered around his desk. I can imagine the conversation trail that could follow when his office extension phone rings:
Stressed guy: Allo
X – Hey, how goes it?
Stressed guy: Not really a great day. Just squeezing my balls.
X – Erm,, gotta go. Bye!
Hasn’t the guy heard of beer? And if that’s a little out of place in an office envronment, maybe he should try chocolate. Works every time, doesn’t it?

There are also the ones whose chocolate wrappers envelope their workstation. Munch-Munch-Munch-they go like pine sawyers. There is the girl who swears by all things organic - jute boxes, some potpourri, green notepads, a khadi bag - all lie strewn around where she works. There is also the guy who has calendars galore – one from the NGO he supports, one a personalised one, one with a deity, one with a so-called holy man’s image atop, and another from a random greeting cards giant. One calendar is enough for most – but not for him. For others like me, the calendar on my phone is more than enough. Thank you very much!

Others also find their way on this list – the guy who hero-worships any death / goth / hard rock band. Bizarre pictures of pink-haired punks with panda eyes, air strumming, attired in what can only be termed a designer’s nightmare (read ripped jeans, stringy tees), adorn this guy’s workstation. Any moment, you expect throbbing drum strains to reach your ears. The Fen Shui expert is another model sample – the laughing Buddha looks you over, ‘lucky’ animals – a dragon, a money frog, a tortoise and a pair of lions – are parked near her seat, as is a ‘lucky’ bamboo, some pieces of pointed crystal, and what looks like an ancient coin. Too bad she forgot the wind chimes at home!

Lastly, there is the girl who takes her being blessed with green fingers theory a step further. It’s difficult for you to spot her petite self behind all that flora – a potted bonsai, a cactus, and a mini-shrub with a blooming damask rose. What’s gonna be next – people flocking to see her garden instead of the President’s?

As for me – some sheets of paper, a pen that writes intermittently, and a dog-eared notepad are all that site near me at the workplace.

What about you?

Airtel Delhi Half Marathon 2009

November announced itself with a bang this Sunday. Quite literally!

Bringing with it an unmistakable nip, and of course the arrival of the Delhi Half Marathon - an event I had signed up for like a true zealot. To seal the deal, in case I did decide to look the other way, and sleep through the deliciously cool Sunday morning, I had also registered Daddy Dearest - an avid runner.

There really was no looking back.

Saturday noon – the day I collected the marathon goodie bag from a swish mall - was the day when it really dawned upon me that I would be joining the likes of 20,000 other runners by rubbing shoulders with them the next day.

TOOMA scoffed (quite a bit), did the Santa Ho Ho Ho chuckle, much to my indignation, and put it this way that I was running merely to scratch off at least one item off from my (very long and dismay-inducing) list of New Year Resolutions. Uhmm, maybe...But then, sitting 45 hours every week in a controlled work environment doesn't really let me know what physical endurance I am capable of, so there - I DO have another less-harsh reason for having run it...

I know for one that Daddy Dearest ran, not because of the sense of accomplishment it elicits, but because he wanted to assess his level of fitness. He needn't have worried - he crossed the 7-km line within an enviable 30 minutes, beating his own daughter, yours truly, rather hollow (shamefaced grin)...

Each runner probably has a different reason for running a marathon...

So while some people run for a cause, some do it for the smug 'Oh-yes,-I-ran-in-the-Marathon' routine, some for the adrenaline pumping, pushing oneself against limits that it entails.

Of course - there are also those who claim it is a change from their otherwise dreary, monotonous routine, those in the throes of midlife crises, those battling personal / professional strife, and then there are those who, instead of exercising their limbs at the run, exercise their vocal chords instead and scream their lungs out as soon as they spot their favorite celebrity who has flown in to show a thumbs-up sign at them.

Which was the case with many participants who set their eyes on the reigning superstar of the country - a recent convert to six pack abs and a walking mannequin of Armani suits. They stopped right in their tracks (pun intended), shouting his name in crescendo, while the State Chief Minister and the white-clothing favourer talk show lady host – our very own answer to Oprah Winfrey - looked on, half-amused expressions all too obvious at the blatant adulation on mass display. Chaos was rampant – and the star had to be handed a mic to remind and urge the people that they were there to run, and promising them that he would be there to greet, meet and treat them at the finish line.

I, on the other hand, was happy to have spoken with the not-so tall former rugby union player turned actor, known for his penchant for offbeat films and dedication for charitable work.

And then – it was time to run...a la Forrest Gump...

All around me, people ran enthusiastically, slowing down to hear the two bands belting out popular soft rock and pop numbers at strategic corners. All around me – feet pounded into the asphalt road. Even those people who would normally have driven to a 500-meter away grocery store – ran. Running shoes of all makes and kinds were united in one long sprint. Volunteers handed out bottled water to the avid runners. While for some it was a struggle to run, and who were clearly out of breath, the more energetic ones chanted peppy slogans, jingles and anthems. Smiles and names were exchanged, high-fives did the rounds especially from those wearing quirky headgears and neon wigs. Associating charity partners and corporates, complete with banners, flags and posters, ran hand in hand.

While some did not make it to the finish line, opting out after the survival shuffle failed them, others were luckier. Tired but victorious smiles were exchanged, and I guess most of them went back with a sense of accomplishment, pride, participation and oneness.

While some like me, hobble painfully - even two days after - swollen footed, a permanent grimace on their face, dipping their feet in bath salts added hot water at every opportunity they get...

Born to Run – Bruce Springsteen crooned.

Let’s put it this way – it definitely isn’t my favourite number for right now!

(P)ASSWORDS

Considering the number of passwords I struggle to remember, it’s a wonder that the three odd grey strands of hair on my recently-turned 29 year-old crop of hair, haven’t multiplied by now.

And since I haven’t started colouring them, I can’t even attribute them to some ‘because-you’re-worth-it’ snooty hair colour brand that so many whom I know, are patrons of.

Of course, there are those who never forget any password, and wrinkle up their noses in disdain at me. This article is clearly not for those condescending sorts. But for people like me for whom wading through several passwords is nothing short of a miracle- almost like an inept child trying to swim the Atlantic, that useful link on most webpages – ‘Forgot your password? Click here,’ is a Godsend.

For how else are you supposed to commit to memory at least 30-40 passwords, some alpha-numeric, some in capitals, and some with both upper and lower case. And just when you think you have finally stored your office PC’s password, Bang! It’s time for you to change it.

There are cute little utilities like the Apple Keychain, which saves all your passwords, leaving you free to remember other details of your life. But I do not own a Mac, and will therefore just pause to do the customary shaking-head-in-pity-for-myself schedule.

(Pause)

And now, since the above is also out of the way, the time is now right for me to give you a better idea of how my life is one long swim through passwords.

Giving you an idea of the various areas where I have to wade through. Sample the following areas where I need to remember my ‘unique’ password:

1) Blog password
2) Email account
3) Official email account
4) Internet Banking account (The more accounts, the better? Says who?)
5) Internet broadband password
6) Internet bill password
7) PC password
8) Laptop password
9) Social networking password
10) Blog password
11) Cellfone bill password
12) Cellfone password
13) Credit / Debitcard password
14) Online shopping password
15) Photo editing password
16) Job portals passwords
17) Insurance password
18) Railway booking password
19) Airlines and hotel booking website password
20) NGOs passwords
21) IT returns password
22) Electricity bill password
23) Business Networking password
24) Online cakes and florist website password
25) Clustrmaps password
26) Movie booking site password
27) Onlne book purchasing store password
28) Onlne survey conducting tool password
29) Pet password (yes, believe it or not, our labrador has a membership to a social networking site too)
30) CISCO Phone login password
31) College alumni password
32) Wikipeda editing password

....And the list goes on.....

Too bad Arnold’s ‘Total Recall’ never figured in my lists of favorites.

Not upto 'Scratch'...

Agreed that there is probably no better pleasure in scratching that part of your body which is itching like crazy (next perhaps only to releasing your full bladder).

Which probably explains why so many people can be seen holding a magazine over their ahem…and getting down to business. You also have the ones who refuse to take ‘refuge’ behind the pages of some glossy, and scratch furiously in full sight of everyone who chances to look their way. And by the time you get that much-perfected disdainful expression on your face, you see that after their Michael Jackson crotch-holding impersonation, they bring up their fingers to sniff at them, or worse – delve into a frankfurter.

Of course we all suffer from the – ‘Have-an-itch-will-scratch’ syndrome. The degree and subtlety of the action differs from person to person. It would be a generalisation to say that all men do it (I have seen enough women scratching their cameltoes in my life).

But there are those who scratch as f there’s no tomorrow. If you were to hand them a back loofah, they would probably cast you a look of pure venom, and proceed to do the deed with their claws / nails / talons – what you will. The sound is agonizingly annoying.

It’s not like chalk scratching upon the classroom blackboard.

It’s not like the sound when a DJ moves a vinyl record back and forth over a turntable.

It’s not even faintly like the sound which a hooligan makes while scratching someone’s car by taking a key around it.

It’s not like the scratching sound made by a mongrel who is offering from an acute case of ticks / lice.

It’s not even like the sound made by the 10-year old girl scratching her head, and making the dry skin / dandruff fall off in flakes.

Neither is it like the scratching sound which you make while you are hurriedly jotting the number of the insurance agent.

It’s not like the sound made by your filer over your nails in a D-I-Y session.

It’s not like the sound when you push the brake pedal all the way down.

It’s worse!

Scratch-scratch-scratch-scratch – they go vigorously! Making you cringe, and almost making your hands go up by themselves to cup your ears.

Agreed we descended from apes – must we ape them so in this regard too?

Then perhaps, we should also go Ga-Ga over bananas, swing from branches, and bare our teeth at the very thought of shinning an orange tree...?

Ba(n)g On!

Why women need bags (and big ones at that) is beyond the comprehension of most men.
I don’t blame them for their unawareness - simple, uncomplicated people that they are.

On a typical day, your average guy leaves with three things – his wallet, phone and keys. And maybe a handkerchief. That's all they need, and they cant go wrong with them.

Women on the other hand, need their emergency survival gear. So besides the customary wallets-phone-keys-pens-gloss-kohl-fume-sunglasses-keys-tissues-tampons, a lot of other items also make their way merrily into those bags.

Like dogs for instance. Blonde heiresses place their pocket dogs into their plush croc-leather bags, and sway happily into their much-frequented swish malls.

Bags are the first thing one reaches out when one is in dire need of a tissue and feels the urge to cry / sneeze / cough / dissolve into guffaws.

Of course, the constantly-replenished contents of the bag have other uses too...

Sample these...

Loverboy feeling hungry? Out come a half-nibbled bar of chocolate, some chewies, a pack of spearmint, an energy snack, and a couple of toffees.

Need to get yourself clicked for an ID at work? – Just reach out for your bag – those Polaroid pics are literally begging to be taken out.

Sister’s hands look like a dry and bumpy road in a desert? – help is at hand – just hand her that tube of silky-soft hand lotion to squeeze out and smoothen on.

Cousin’s throat feeling scratched? Lozenges appear as if by magic, in both the flavours he likes.

Body feeling feverish? The strip of paracetamol is handy.

Colleague’s got a chipped nail – hand over the filer to an eternally-grateful her (and be rest assured that next time you need some help with the goddamned presentation you are trying to create, she is sure to ‘chip in.’)

Best friend had a chicken nugget too many? The satchet of Alka-Seltzer is waved cheerily into his / her face.

College mate needs to jot down the digits of the gorgeous stranger at the party? And is scribbling them on the palm of his hand? – Sheeesh! Hand the joker those yellow sticky pads instead.

Stalker following you yet again? The hammer and the rolling pin could do with some airing (and use)(ok ok – I admit, I got carried away)…

Of course, there are those occasions when I consider my bag to be some dark abyss which constantly keeps swallowing the contents. What else can explain the zillion pens, nail filers, clips, lipsticks and miniature perfumes that have gone into it, and vanished nto the cosmos from it?

Nonetheless – the oversized, spilling-its-contents-bag does have its fair share of benefits (and loyalists). And I, the die-hard advocate that I am, cannot for the life of me comprehend how women can make-do with teeny-weeny ones. Totally beats me, that one!

And yet, I still have some who shake their heads disbelievingly when they look at my Mary Poppins bag. They nudge each other, point, tut-tut, click their tongues, roll their eyes, and ask me if thet should expect a genie to jump out of it any minute…

High time I started showing them all those heads I've chopped off and collected...

Summer, Winter, Spring and Autumn - All weather makes us touch rock bottom

One thing is inevitable.

People will always grumble about the weather.

So when you have beads of perspiration running down your eye brows / trickling down your cheeks, you arch those very same brows with displeasure, declaring how the darn heat makes you feel like melted cheese, minus the appealing image that conjures itself up from one of the restobar menus. Any moment, and you would probably pass out. After all, you ain’t a grasshopper / Katydid / locust that you would adore summer, and sing like they do in Ibiza. Ever had your thighs stick to plastic chairs? That’s summer. The time when beer gets hot all too soon, when your tongue hangs out – and not because you are in the company of a gorgeous member of the opposite sex. Summers are the time when for women, wearing a bra is unbearable; going without one is unthinkable. The time when you would want to tear off your clothes, and splash into the fountain in the park. If you were to strip, people would gawk and call you obscene. And you’d still be scorched! Aaaargh! Thank Gawd for Aircons. And you wish for a nice long spell of rain.

Cut to a few months later.

Your teeth are chattering, the thin rain that beats down against the windowpanes makes you draw your jacket closer around you to shut out the cold. You curse freely – cussing the usually loyal Old Monk that seems to have lost its magical warmth. Notwithstanding the central heating, you are seriously considering huddling to your same-gendered friend, but decide against it – as it may seem too gay. And once the drizzle halts, and you are outside in the frosty evening, you speculate if wearing ear muffs will make you the butt of all ridicule. You take the risk – and people stare at you, sucking their breaths in sharply to avoid guffawing in your face. And that’s the time you would kill to get some warmth, a la April afternoon. Of course, the frozen toes you have sheathed in two pairs of socks make you wonder if you went swimming in the Arctic perhaps. And don’t let’s start about trying to wake up on a wintry morning to leave your warm, cozy bed for a chore like let’s say – going to the office. You thank your stars that you don’t stay in England.

These days, the rains (when they do come that is), fare no better on the satisfaction index of people. Either it’s too less, and ‘splashed’ all over in the newspapers and channels. Or it is too much. And when it does rain, then ‘frizzy’ is the only word you can use to describe your hair. The once engaging, pitter-pattering sound gives way to drowning out all others. And the smell of rain which you once adored becomes musty and damp. Depression sets in – into the minds of many people. And when you are standing well at the side of the road, a car with a crazy animal comes towards you, and the puddle which you had so carefully sidestepped, gleefully splashes its muddy water onto you. Making you look like a scruffy street dog that was mauled by the neighborhood mongrels. And leaving you with a feeling of doing some serious internal damage to the irresponsible person behind the wheel. After that, just a look at the overcast sky above is enough to make you scurry indoors. And keep an umbrella at hand. Not to mention some cotton wool to stuff into your ears when the thunderstorm you loathe so much, decides to proclaim its arrival. You absolutely hate the rains. Especially when it halts what would have otherwise been a thrilling cricket match.

Autumn fares slightly better – until all that constant crunching-sound-of-leaves-under-shoes act gets to you.

You'd think spring would be slightly more appreciated, what with all that shit about flowers in bloom, and mellow days. Ha! Isn't that the time for all your allergies to come out with full abandon? Remember your annual tryst with hay fever? Forgotten that, hadn't you? I thought so!

And these are the only four seasons of the year.

Four very crib-bable (pardon my neologism) seasons.

I’m no saint and often chant the same tune.

Aren’t we a strange lot?

'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.'

Blast from the past

Today morning, while walking to my colony gate where the office cab comes to pick me up faithfully everyday, I saw a group of children, dressed in all their finery, gathered around a house.

With yesterday and today being days for Kanjak, the Puja wherein pre-pubescent girls are ceremoniously worshipped, their feet washed, and they are offered sweets, gifts, and money, I wasn’t too surprised at the sight.

Smiling at them, I walked on.

And then there was a booming sound.

I froze dead in my tracks, my mind racing to the slew of bomb blasts that had the length and breadth of the country shivering in mute terror.

My first thought was of the children who were chattering excitedly among themselves.

Hoping for the best, fear writ large over my face, I swung around.

Where I saw a boy, aged no more than 10 years, circled by the admiring group of children, beams resplendent on their rosy cheeks.

Apparently, he had lit a firecracker, much to the delight of his friends.

An innocuous firecracker had succeeded in driving fear into the innermost chamber of my heart.

With the festival of lights - Diwali, fast approaching, I can't help but shudder thinking of the times when a firecracker would fizzle and then burst, causing nearby people to freeze in whatever they were doing, the dread of blasts uppermost in everyone’s minds. Chaos is inevitable, a stampede more than a possibility.

Or worse, in the eventuality of an actual blast, people might continue milling around, carrying on with their routine chores, misconstruing it for a display of loud pyrotechnics. Putting themselves and others in grave danger.

Both cases chill me to the very core…

A scratchy affair

There are those people who wrinkle their noses when they take their petrol-guzzling pair of wheels to the gas station.

And then there are those like me who can scarcely wipe the delight writ large on her face when it is time for the trip to the one of ‘em gas stations.

This blog post, lest you may think is about gas (pun unintended), is not in the least about it. So before I go off into one of my favourite rambling sessions, let me launch into what this is all about.

Last week, on a Monday morning, while on my way to work, I chanced to see a car without scratches.

What’s the huge deal about it, you may ask.

Well, in a place like Delhi, where all cars, and I mean ALL cars, have at least half a dozen nicks, scrapes, and scratches, on their otherwise metallic frames, coming by a car without the proverbial graze is nothing short of a rarity.

Now, people do love their cars. In fact, some people love theirs more than they do their respective spouses. After all, there is nothing as liberating as getting behind the wheel, upping the surround system, rolling up the windows (depending on whether it is drizzling or not. In case of the former, the windows are rolled down), and settling out for a spin about town, the highway, the suburban mall, or what you will. Add to that, the car, not just a means of conveyance, has a striking personality of its own too.

So you have macho men who become gooey-eyed when they scrub their beauties on wheels, and stand back to look at their piece of art, covered with suds (the car I mean. Duh!). You also have the busy executive, who before settling down into his cushy sedan with his copy of the Economic Times, decides to take a step back and see the beauty he rides, caresses it lovingly, and then takes a step in.

You also have the girl who takes a look at herself in the rear-view mirror of the car she is paying EMIs for from her current job. Satisfied, she smiles, saying a silent prayer of thanks for the ability to drive down, come rain or shine, to any place that takes her fancy (read the mall, the salon, the grocery mart, the NGO for children etc).

Despite people guarding their cars with their life, the inevitable, ugly scratch rears its head, leaving behind distressed sighs from the owners.

And some exasperated / pained looks from the fathers who have shelled-out money from their pockets for these wheels.

If only….

Yakkety-yak people and their instruments of mass annoyance

If aliens from a planet yonder spend a good amount of time peering at mortals, and if one of them right at this moment is penciling a sketch of one of us, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was an outline of a person with a hand to his ear, holding that much (mis)used gadget – the mobile phone.

Cellphones – ahh. Where do I even start from?

Everyone seems to have one these days.

Which is perfectly fine by me.

Except when it starts grating on your senses, making you want to snatch it.

Like off the ear of the person sitting with you at the restaurant where it has been doggedly perched for the last ten minutes. Instead of enjoying his meal, and using the cutlery neatly arrenged in front of him, the bloke with you is more intent on keeping one of his arms leaning on the teak table, to support the darned thing that is glued to his ear.

It’s only that you have sworn off violence altogether that you are able to keep those murderous intentions at bay, and instead smile sweetly through your second glass of bubbly.

Any other time, and the bubbly would have fizzled out of your chute glass into the surprised face of your companion.

You have many who swear by their cells, probably carrying them to their washrooms too, lest a call / message escape their ever-vigilant eyes.

And if they forget to was their hands after doing their ermm..business, cos they are going yakkety-yak on their phones, what’s a little unhygiene after all. Righto?

Sheesh!

Yesterday, while watching a movie, there were quite a few samples who obviously espoused the have-cellphone-and-my-ringtone-is-by-far-the-loudest-and-don’t-you-forget-that-in-a-hurry syndrome. So right in the middle of a lachrymose dialogue being spouted by the leading lady on the silver screen, an ear-splitting, nasal song announced its esteemed presence.

Several tut-tuts from the people around, and the owner of the offending instrument silenced it. Several minutes passed, and once again the audience settled into some peaceful movie-watching.

Not for too long though.

An old Bollywood number, warning a babu to walk slowly and cautiously on the path to love, ridden with treachery, trilled its tune for all to listen. Gasps of annoyance escaped from the audience.

Oh hell!

Haven’t these people heard of vibrate / silent modes?

And to those insolent people who stare sullenly at me when I stick out my tongue and ball my fist menacingly at them upon hearing their shrieking ringtones, here’s what I have to say…

Bite me!

Bidding adieu to my sole(s)

Yesterday I cleaned my shoe rack. And boy! Was it therapeutic!

Now I claim to be no Imelda Marcos (though I would give an arm and a leg to be her. Well, actually, make that just one arm).

So sandals of all shades and styles spilled out from my two groaning racks, the same racks that take up quite a bit of space in my already-overflowing-room

There was even an aubergine pair of atrocious-looking footwear, which I had absolutely no recollection of ever purchasing

Though my heart was pained beyond imagination to part ways with my treasure trove, I had to give in sheepishly under my roommate’s stern arched eyebrow

So stilettos, boots, peep-toes, ballerinas, pumps, mules, wedges, kitten heels, and some flats were gradually piled up.

When I had painfully piled-high my collection of never-used / oft-neglected footwear,

The next part was the more painful one…

Handing over ‘em shoes to the utter delight of my maid..

With a heavy heart, I parted ways with those faithful pairs…

However, one look at my maid, who was only two steps away from dancing with glee at the very thought of ‘em shoes adorning her happy feet, made me also break out into a slow, and then full 100-wattage beam…

Plus, with my racks now a little free, there is always scope for more shopping..

And oh, by the way, my new satin peep-toes, barely three days old, have a new place to sit pretty

Tee hee

"Driving" a wedge between schoolchildren

A schoolboy in Chicago won the lottery from amongst 1,90,000 students – all of whom secured perfect attendance at school.

Brought me back memories of my own school days, where I would have probably been the contender for top honors for the same spot, thanks to parents who believed that rain or shin, a child’s rightful place was the school. A little fever notwithstanding.

So downpour or sultry morning, yours truly would drag herself out of her toasty / cool and inviting bed, shuffle to the loo to make faces at the mirror while brushing her teeth, inspecting her eyes, skin, anything that would give her a chance to pinpoint at it, and thus create an official excuse for not attending school.

No such luck, however.

My eyes would always be crystal white, skin a spotless shade of alabaster, pimples an unknown word, and forehead always the right degree of warm. Nothing more, nothing less.

And my parents an unrelenting shade of grey.

When I would reach school, a storm roaring outside, and looked around to see the rows of empty desks around me, a sense of annoyance would sweep over me.

Why couldn’t a little fever creep over me sometimes at least?

Talk about good health, duh!

And to think I would get a certificate and a book at the end of the year, while this 12 year old schoolboy walked away with a neat Dodge Caliber.

There is nothing like justice in this world, I daresay!!