Awesome Amritsar

So seven of us girls decided that Amritsar could do with some girl power over the weekend.

Which is why we paid a visit there this weekend.

After a six hour train journey, pouring rain and an army jeep welcomed us at the small Amritsar station.

Sights and smells beckoned us from all angles; however, journey fatigue persuaded us to do otherwise and head for the army guest house, which was to be our residence for the next two days.

Braving the rain, we ran towards the vehicle, hopping pell-mell into its open warmth.

Our prayers to the Rain Gods did not go in vain, and soon enough, the clouds gave way to clear blue skies, and a merry wind which decided to ruffle our hairthroughout the rest of the day.

After a hearty meal, the Wagah border was our intended destination, where with much fanfare and national fervour, we, accompanied by over a thousand people had decided to see the beating retreat between Indian and Pakistani soldiers.

Slogans reverberated in the air, cameras saw some of their busiest action till date,
throats went hoarse, flags were brandished with gay abandon, inhibitions were dropped and there were some very enthusiastic dancing to the pulsating music that boomed from the loudspeakers…the works

After two hours of shouting ourselves hoarse, we made our way to a roadside dhaba, where we thankfully gulped down piping hot tea

The evening sped by, and the next morning dawned too soon

Soon it was time to see the breathtakingly beautiful Golden Temple – where a multitude of approximately 70,000 devotees braved it out on the hot, humid day, in a queue that could only best be described as moving at a snail's pace

The next stop was Jallianwala Bagh – where we sobered up, the bullet-ridden walls that bore testimony to that sad day making us walk right into the books of our school history books.

Ambling down the busy streets, we wove our way to the most famous dhaba in all of Amritsar, where an hour later, we emerged like trussed-up turkeys.

Except that thankfully no Christmas knife lay ready to carve us for the dinner table.

And then it was time to catch the train back home.

The journey back was the exact opposite of the previous day's, in which we had riotously kept all our co-passengers awake, what with our endless chatter, and leg-pulling routine.

Within minutes of the train starting on its return journey, seven heads plopped to
sleep, exhaustion writ in bold letters on their faces

And to think that we didn't even do our gender proud by what we are second best at – shop, I can only say that the trip was too short…

Oh well, maybe another trip to Amritsar (this time with TOOMA) might materialise sometime…

A girl can dream, can't she?

Amritsar Ahoy!

After an extremely eventful, nope, actually call it blissful last week, this week looks pretty much mundane...no TOOMA, all five days of work, no holidays making their presence felt on my desk calendar, not even nice weather to give me company.

The only thing that is keeping me going however, is my trip with six gal pals to Amritsar this weekend.

Promises to be loads of fun...

After all, what else can you expect when you have seven women, jabbering nineteen-to-the-dozen, out on a trip, where they get to see the border of the country, complete with the Beating Retreat Ceremony and smartly-dressed soldiers, proudly marching with their boots held high?

That we will we staying in the army area only adds to the fun...

Smiles ahead of the trip

Atta Gurls!!

Hic Hic Hooray!

After what seems like ages, though the nagging calendar on my desk begs to differ, pointing out stubbornly that it is only 8 weeks (Ha! What does the foolish thing know how long that is), it is time for me to bring out the champagne chutes....

The delight is writ large over my face, more so, when I look now at my watch, and see it is only 7 more hours to go...

Celebrations are in order.

And why not!

I get to be reunited with my sweetheart tomorrow, after his longish trip (work-related, let me add)

The champagne bubbles are definitely getting a run for their money from me :-)

08-08-'08 - Olympics

I made an exception to my usual I-don’t-watch-television routine today…

After all, it’s not everyday that reads as 08-08-’08.

Besides being one of top dates this year for couples to get 'knotty,' it also kicks-off the 16 day Olympics in China.

So, after surfing sundry news channels, which were all falling over each other with repeats of the opening ceremony, I finally arrived at my preferred one.

The view at Beijing’s state-of-the-art National stadium, was breathtaking, to say the least.

At exactly the eighth moment of 8 o’clock, the extravaganza had commenced for a spell-bound audience.

Approximately 91,000 people sweated it out to watch the dazzling display, which cost China a staggering $43, beating Athens’ record of $15 billion in the 2004 Olympics, by a more than fair margin.

Now I have seen my fair share of fireworks, considering that they are de-rigueur at Indian weddings, the Indian festival of lights – Diwali, when the country beats its arch-rival and neighboring country at a match of cricket, and other equally pyrotechnical moments.

However, the fireworks at this ceremony were a showstopper and completely jaw-dropping.

To add to them, were hundreds of thundering drums, strobe lights, acrobats who performed gravity-defying stunts, contortionists, martial arts performers, you name it…

I'm putting my money on the fact that quite a few people from amongst the audience will be numb in the ears for sometime at least.

But I also bet that the experience must be totally worth it...

Birthday Bliss

BFF (Best Female Friend) gifted me a spa experience yesterday on my birthday

Oh boy! Was it invigorating!

The two hours that we spent there, slipped by wayyyyyy too soon, leaving us glaring at our watches and the clock that tick-tocked its existence on the wooden wall. The experience definitely 'clocked' its one-of-those-defining-moments-one though......

So after trotting into the visually appealing building, we were led to a tastefully done up reception area. BFF had done her homework, and after the friendly receptionist checked our appointment time, we were ushered into a subtly-lit room, our trademark heels having been traded for the more appropriate heavily-padded carpet slippers.

Lounge chairs were neatly arranged for us. After the two-minute foot cleansing and drying ritual, two lovely metal flat basins appeared as if by magic, full almost to the brim with water, rose and lotus petals floating lazily on the surface.

And when we dipped our feet into that water that was at just the right temperature, a delicious toe-curling moment it was. Sheer bliss…

What followed next is what would have made TOOMA* go into raptures.

We were led into another wood-paneled, wood-floored area where two comfy barcaloungers were spread invitingly for us. BFF and I needed no second bidding.

Ohhh heaven! No wonder Joey and Chandler (of F*R*I*E*N*D*S* fame) were so attached to their respective recliners. The barcaloungers spelled comfort with a Capital ‘C.’ I’m definitely getting one of those one day, but that is another story…

The foot massage started – all physical strain looked set to evaporate, what with the heady dose of massage, the smell of jasmine joss sticks wafting towards us, the soporific air conditioning (just right again), and the pleasing-to-the-ear Oriental instrumental music

After an hour of one of the most stress-relieving foot massages I had ever received, it was time to change and make our way to the massage room.

Shiatsu was what followed next – the traditional Japanese hands-on acupressure therapy cum massage. An indescribable sense of calm prevailed in the air, and BFF and I were almost lulled into sleep. Our two Oriental masseuse’s fingers deftly wove our pressure spots, releasing the strain within, and leaving in its trail a most exquisite feeling of serenity…

The hour passed too soon, and we were loath to open our eyes, and wake up after that…

However, wake up we had to, and had to also make our way outside, where it was raining pitter-patter…

Oh unfair world!

And damn those clocks and watches that make lovely hours like these pass so soon…

*TOOMA: The Object of My Affection

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

The swirling sands of Jaisalmer

After incessant questions from people who thought we were plain dotty to tour the desert in the month of July or that we were both on lookouts for exotic places to get married(no no, not to each other, stooopid), my friend, Radhika (let’s call her R) and I valiantly set out for our much-awaited trip to the Golden City, Jaisalmer.

And might I say, we were not disappointed.

Though the train journey of around 20 hours dampened our initial enthusiasm, books, those best friends, kept us sane. Add to that, incessant cups of tea, entertaining tourists in our coach, chattering, standing at the foot of the train step (guaranteed to give my Mom an acute case of alarming hiccups), and you get the picture, dontcha…

The next day, we descended at Jaisalmer station - a picturesque fort-looking structure (on our way to the hotel, we soon gathered that most official buildings, banks, post offices etc were shaped like forts, and it was difficult to distinguish one building from the other – thanks to the same sandstone used).

The hotel turned out to be a lovely haveli which had been converted into a boutique hotel. We were whisked to see our room, and discovered that every room was done up in a particular vivid shade. After ensconcing ourselves in the lavender colored room, we grinned at each other. We had made it to Jaisalmer. All those days of looking forward to the place could not equal the satisfaction we felt when we peeped out from behind the lavender curtains in the hotel room, and caught yet another breathtaking view of the Jaisalmer fort. Perched on a hillock, it looked fantastic, to say the least.

Bargain shopping was fun. But the most fun was going to where the Thar desert began by an open-roof jeep, and then getting onto camels. Yes, the desert safari was indeed something. While the camels gallantly plodded through the sand, we couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the vast expanse of vacant land around us. Seeing the forts, temples, lake, and havelis in the morning, had made us feel as if we had been thrown back into time. However, now in the midst of the desert, where not even a bird fluttered, and a shrub bravely put up its head from amongst the sand, we felt in the middle of nowhere.

The sight from the top of the sand dunes was breathtaking, to say the least. The orange sun which was slowly setting, made for a sight that I won’t forget in a hurry. And when the camp people proceeded to break off some twigs, and make some fresh tea for us, the aroma that wafted towards us was lip-smacking. The sandstorm the previous day had ensured that the day was pleasant, with the sun not beating upon us mercilessly, but graciously giving way to a gentle drizzle.

The over one hour drive back from the desert was peppered with excited chatter, but after a while, we drifted off into an exhausted slumber land. The trip was rapidly coming to an end, and we knew it. Yet the eyes could scarcely stay open.

The next morning dawned with a fierce sun, which seemed intent to show us what a desert actually was. Slathering ourselves with triple layers of sun block, we made our way one last time to the market and fort, soaking in more than the sun – soaking in memories, before we made our way back home.

My only regret – I wish I had made the trip with him…Walking among the sand dunes barefeet, I was engulfed by an inordinate yearning for his footprints matching mine in the sand…

Who says exercising is fun??

So yours truly joined an aerobics batch a couple of days back.

Though she has been trying her best to keep up her cheerful demeanour, she only knows the many aches that can scarcely keep from escaping her tightly pursed lips.
Muscles that she barely knew existed, are making it a point to get their hours of fame - throbbing, and getting more than their fair share of sore acknowledgement.
The feeling is akin to that of an iron camping bed, creaking at all joints – not a very happy feeling at any cost.

Thank God the batch members more than make up for the pain she is undergoing by sheer variation of their vivacity, and general camaraderie.

So when she goes One-Two-Three-Four, in tune with the pulsating music, the encouraging smiles of her fellow-sufferers is the only thing that helps her keep up with the steps, and stop her from frowning when stern instructor belts out a command to not hog the air conditioning unit.

Drat all those endless Highball glasses of Old Monk she irresponsibly consumed, thanks to which she now has to sweat it out at the gym…

No Hic Hic for her for quite some time now.

"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!!

ADD and me

It’s official.

I am a certified sufferer from ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder).

So while I am in the midst of discussing the dynamics of an important project at work, I have been known to screw my nose, look quizzically around, and ask if anyone other than me could smell someone wearing Ralph Lauren Polo Sport.

Obviously, the only thing I get to see are some blank stares, and an exasperated sigh from my favorite colleague, let’s call her ‘N,’ and a nudge that signifies see-I-told-you-she-was-weird-didn’t-I?

At some other point of time, my eyes will glaze, hearing someone drone about the same crib (yet again), and then suddenly light up of their own accord. The reason – I just realized that the weekend was near, and i could indulge in some retail therapy – my absolute favorite…

Of course, fidgeting, looking into vacant spaces, pulling out my lower lip – all when someone is trying to strike a conversation with me, are fairly common features.
Now this is not to mean that I want the conversation to center on me. Nope, far from it.

Just that a feeling of inordinate restlessness slides over me, and that I get distracted a tad too soon, an annoying feature to everyone, I am sure.

So while I work upon it, and promise that I will not toss my hair around while you continue with your monologue on the rising cost of gas, it is only fair that you glance at the pretty butterfly that just glided over to those sunflowers, and also see that guy over yonder with the crooked nose…

When will my horrid fever break?

With a five-day fever that refuses to leave, yours truly has truly been under the weather.

Add to that sales galore and she unable to lift a pretty foot to step outside home to do justice to them. Quite a sad state of affairs, I must say.

So while the rest of the world enjoys savories in the rain outside, she has to stay cooped up at home, with only endless cups of tea to keep her company, and the odd stack of magazines that, despite their multi-colored hue, do little to add cheer to her life.

Then, there are the medicines that have to be popped into her unwilling mouth ever so often. Medicines which try to disguise their bitter, poisonous taste by their gaily-colored appearance, but which fail miserably. And the ever-smiling doctor who pats your feverish hand, trying to feed you a whole lot of jazz about how it is a seasonal fever, and how by the next day, you would be hopping like a tadpole - happy, sickness-free, sans the croaking voice. And who, smilingly, adds a couple more of those horrid medicines, while merrily pocketing your hard-earned money.

Of course, the last nail on the coffin is that TOOMA is not even in the country, which is understandably making her fret more.

The only silver lining is her trip to the colorful city of Jaisalmer, scheduled on July 26.

But even that is a fortnight away.

Till then, let her use Graham Bell’s invention, and act the role of whiny woman to perfection….

Rainy days

Schools in the capital opened to grey clouds and rain pitter-pattering on the brick structures.

The children were only too happy to be the receiving end of the inclement weather, drawing up detailed plans of the fun they would have post-school (read playing in the slush, dancing on the roads with their satchels on their heads for cover, smiles plastered on their cherubic faces, sludgy football etc).

The three guard dogs who faithfully walk me from my house to the colony gate where my cab comes to pick me, were also in a particularly frisky mood. While they followed me at heel, the way they faithfully do on al weekdays, they stopped to see an interesting frog that went hoppity-hop into the nearby park. With cocked-up ears, the three black dogs eagerly dashed to give something to the frog to run about.

Face pressed against my cab window, I saw the rain droplets trickle down silently.

As silently as my tears that streamed invisibly across my cheeks, marking yet more days of his not being here…

Shades of grey

If I had to think of the most depressing or boring color, there are no contenders for the blah grey.

I mean, have you ever seen a grey flower?

Grey for me, stands for all that is plain – grey clouds that wreak havoc on crops, the skeptical greys, grey for the hardened, the first grey strand, grey for the rigid, grey for the wallflower, grey for the rocks, grey owls, grey for ash.

Besides of course, being the color of solitude.

Movie Review: Made of Honor

Notwithstanding the uncanny resemblance to my Best Friend’s Wedding, Made of Honor does have its own spurts of radiance, where you smile in spite of yourself, similarities be damned.

So you have Patrick Dempsey (swoon yum dreamy delicacy) essaying the role of Tom, the eternal Casanova, who when he is not leading willing blondes, brunettes, you name it, into bed, is tagging along with his only platonic friend, best friend Hannah (Michelle Monaghan), a director of acquisitions at the metropolitan Museum of Art.

Their friendship goes back ten years, when Tom, masked as Bill Clinton, is looking for his Monica at a Halloween bash, and mistakenly jumps into bed with her roommate, Hannah, only to have perfume sprayed into his eyes. The two strike up an unusual friendship, discussing flavors of cakes, petting random canines on the way, and walking along the breathtaking New York streets.

Tom, fondly called “Fornicator,” by Hannah’s grandmother, has made millions by inventing the coffee paper-cup sleeve. His rule while carrying out his favorite pastime is singular – never do back-to-backs with the same girl (a la Joey from F*R*I*E*N*D*S*), and never call a date until a full day has passed.

Of course, he’s got competition – from his father (Sydney Pollack’s last role), who is a church and a divorce attorney’s dream customer – rolled into one. So while he is on his way to the altar to get “knotty” for the seventh time, the gorgeous bride and her lawyer are already negotiating the pre-nup settlement. So much for the sanctity of marriage.

Then Hannah announces that her work requires her to go to Scotland for six weeks, much to Tom’s petulance. The next six weeks are a trial for Tom, who realizes how much he misses Hannah, and makes up his mind to confess his love to her, but without offering matrimony.

His dreams are dashed short, ‘cos Hannah returns from Scotland, in love with Colin (the quintessential Scotsman, who in an almost Bronte style of romance, whisks her off her feet, on a white horse no less.

Tom, not to be outdone by some Scottish thief, decides to strategize. Things are made easier for him because Hannah, the typical, postfeminist, asks him to be her maid of honor (a situation that makes him the butt of some gay jokes).

Now Tom has to think, and think fast. So you have his basketballer guy friends pitching in, each stage-managing the mega plan of stealing the bride. There are magazines to be read on how to become the perfect maid of honor, videos to be watched, gifts to be wrapped, lingerie to be bought, trousseau to be decided upon, besides of course trying one’s level best to bring up the dirt on Colin, who reminds me a lot of Daniel Craig, sans the famous boxers scene. Here’s the kicker – Colin is squeaky clean, and has it all – a perfect family (he’s a Duke for God’s sake), perfect vineyards, perfect way to dunk the basketball, and during a locker room shower session, a view at his more than perfect “package,” which leaves Tom's friends goin "Whoa" and Tom more than a little snappish understandably.

Humor is freely interspersed – so you have appalling hairdos that would do bees proud, a grandma who takes a string of dayglo beads (Ahem Ahem) from a “lady” at a bachelorette party and puts them around her neck (Holy Moly), a more-than-plump maid of honor who survives on some indescribable liquid diet – all to fit into a size 8 dress, but which rips at the seams on the actual day, an obsessed woman who updates her blog on her favorite subject – Tom, amusing wedding customs and some more.

It takes a lip lock between Hannah and Tom, when she is exchanging kisses for change – a Scottish wedding tradition, which sets her thinking.

The rest is fairly predictable fare. But nevertheless makes for a sweet watch with your popcorn and cola.

Watch it for some smiles with your girlfriends.

Not bad at all.

Of cabs and cabmates...

It’s been over two years since cabs have featured regularly on my weekdays, taking me to that destination called the workplace.

This has put me in a more than capable position to pen my observations about the people who share them with me.

Quite a few specimens, they can be.

So you have the girl with large, soulful eyes, whose main joy in life is to whisper sweet-nothings into the ears of her (un)willing (?) beloved, who might just be cursing Graham Bell’s invention. Anyway, the motto for this lass is ‘till death do us apart,’ a motto she seems to take a tad too seriously.

Then you have the guy who, every five minutes or less, pats his carefully gelled hair,, and who is terribly partial to any shiny surface that even remotely resembles a mirror, and into which he can manage a peek at his shining crop. This guy is the easiest one to deal with – as you have to only touch his mane, which will make him shrilly scream for cover, and mutter to himself throughout the way, leaving you free to smirk all the way.

Then you have the bloke who believes in making everyone present fully aware that he suffers from ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder). Nothing else can explain why, within a spell of two minutes, he has to change the blessed radio station at least seven times. Just as soon you think you can settle down into a cosy doze with an oldie playing melodiously in the background, you are shattered out of your complacence by what can only be best described as a toad which has a severe case of the sinus, and has to make-do with a nasal, guttural rasp. At the end of five minutes, all that you can remember is a throbbing sound where your forehead used to be, and a heart that yells bloody murder.

Moving on, how can we forget the girl who makes everyone sit up and take note? And not because of the flaming lip colour she swears by. This is the girl who strongly believes in the phone syndrome – ‘Have mouth, will speak.’ And loudly, at that! So you can’t help but hear how so-and-so has bad breath or body odour. Or how the bespectacled person at work digs his nose in full view. Or what she had for dinner last Tuesday (with a running commentary of the recipe). Or to which doctor so-and-so had to go to sort out his little ‘problem.’ Ahem! Or where her family would be going on vacation in the next decade. Boy! This lady sure has some thoughts to share.

Next is the girl who is probably preparing for a chequered career in the secret services. How else can you explain the barrage of questions that come your way - How is your work? Do you have a boyfriend / girlfriend? What does he / she do? What, you don’t have one? Why not (look of unspeakable pity and horror write large on her painted face, and in her saucer-like eyes)? Some more digging around - have you never had one? Or did you decide to part ways? Why? Do you plan to stick to the job? Have you seen the new movie being aired at the theatres? What will you do for the weekend? Yada yada. She Till your eyes become glazed, your throat becomes parched, and you have to reach out for your phone to pick up an imaginary call.

Aha. Leaving out the self-proclaimed DJ would be a crime. With earphones perpetually stuck to his ears, and a mouth constantly chewing on gum, you can’t help but notice him. Or rather, hear him. So loud is the volume of the rock he is hearing that you are tempted to carry along your own set of headphones the next day onwards.

The above sometimes make way for new faces, notably the girl who can’t stop humming (and who makes you constantly look out for the mysterious bee inside the cab), the guy who can’t wait for the weather to get pleasant, so that he could request that the air conditioning be kept off (and he can conveniently puff smoke-spirals), the guy who constantly drums on the window panes (perfecting his hand at the bongos, no doubt), the constantly-rummaging-in-her-bag-for-something-or-the-other-girl etc.

There is always a constant though - the twinkling-eyed girl who has made it her business to observe them all, to pen her next blog post…

(Optional applause).

Stand back people. Let me give a sweeping bow.

Some more food for thought...

We Indians, oh boy! We share a deep-seated common passion for food.

While I will not put ourselves in the hedonist bracket, I will also not discount the fact that for us, all occasions (and there are really a lot of them), become a long procession of delicacies, sweetmeats, and savories which we religiously chomp our way through.

By the time we lick our fingers, and reach out for the strategically-placed box of tissues, we have already thought about our next mega meal.

Lest you think that the penchant is limited to prepubescents and / or children who coo in delight at the very mention of food, I’d say, try again. All drool equally.

With festivals and occasions a regular feature on our generally expansive calendars, I is hardly surprising that a lot of attention goes into deciding what makes a delicious entry or unceremonious exit from the menu.

So sweet-toothed Sandra is taken care of by three varieties of desserts (tiramisu, gulab jamuns, and the ubiquitous ice-cream). Greens-loving George is given due course of attention, and salads “sprout” on the menu. Jack who will eat anything that moves in his house (save his German shepherd, that is), is spoilt for choice, and the table shudders under the combined weight of steaks, kebabs, pork chops, rolls, etc. For the likes of vegan me, despair need not even cross their minds, a delightful spread winks at us invitingly.

The gastronomes that we are, we are also not averse to experimenting with new cuisines, generously indulging in them. So paneer tikkas rub shoulders with pasta and penne, while shorbas and sherbets are neck to neck with the shrimp and mulligatawny soups. Similarly, gajar ka halwa is reached out for, as are gelatos and guava soufflés. The pan-admired chicken tikka masala and flavorful Dal Makhani, ungrudgingly, share space with Hakka noodles, risottos, pizzas, and fish and chips.

Relatives, armed with gaily-wrapped sweetmeat boxes, (the wrapping next only to their sparkling, spangled dresses), arrive on our doorsteps, and after the customary round of back-slapping, pinching of cheeks (ohhh painful), and updated versions of who’s-doing-what and marrying-into-what, hurry back to their respective homes (and Thank God for small mercies). However, this deliverance is only after several rounds of snacks, (soft / hard) drinks, sweetmeats, and the odd lunch or dinner episode (depending upon what time they choose to land up on your doorstep) have made their appearance on the large table kept in the sitting room (kept for that very purpose perhaps?).

Whatever you will, food plays a pivotal role in the lives of us Indians. The concept of “Ghar ka khaana” (home-cooked food) is not wasted upon the likes of hose who stay away from their homes – students and people who work in place other than their own (TOMA and I being prime examples).

So when an invitation pops up from an ex-colleague, for a round of piping-hot-made-in-clarified-butter at his home on a Sunday morning, I’d be a fool to pass up such a brilliant offer, right?

Which is why, unlike other Sundays, this Sunday morning will see me showered, clothed, and perfumed , making my way to the colleague’s place, a song on my lips, a spring in my step, and an expectant hum in my belly.

Sunday, here I come….

"Penciling" it out

When I “upgraded” from pencils to pens in school, I couldn't be happier; infact, I felt a strange sense of deliverance.

After all, the sound of a pencil on paper is as disgusting to me as a person sucking snot out of his nose into his mouth may be for you.

While a lot of my classmates in school and college flinched when the teacher’s chalk, in a hasty spell of writing, produced a screeching sound where it met the blackboard, I was the only “whacko” who would cringe every time someone would hastily jot down something with a pencil.

It became worse in college, when my roommate (now my best friend), would study with me for the approaching exams. While m textbooks and notes looked like a rainbow, thanks to the multi-highlighter approach I was partial to, she would proceed with her studying by underlining (and boy! Could she underline) the text, much to my obvious vexation.

One look at my perfectly arched disapproving eyebrow, and she would promise not to use the displeasing pencil.

However, ever so softly, within minutes, she would be willfully underlining with the offensive pencil again.

Despite the next to no sound, my keen sense of sound would be in force, and after five seconds or so of keeping my ears pricked like a vigilant cocker-spaniel, I would spring up from the chair or bed, as the case may be, cast a look of pure venom at my now apologetic friend, and fling myself on either the courtyard bench or the corridor stairs, a decidedly scowling look evident on my face.

What else could you expect from someone, who, right in the middle of an entire year of debating, writing, sports, quizzing, and retail-therapy, was rudely awakened by the call of the annual monster – the examinations? And who, while in the midst of a chaotic time of notes-borrowing, cramming, studying with one sleepy and one half-awake eye, on a tummy which craved outside food, but which had to contend with hostel-food for the time-being, had to also cope with dreadful pencil-underlining sounds.

The scene was no better in the college common-room, where students from all three years, probably vied with unsaid competitions of who-will-underline-the-most-and-drive-Vandana-hopping-crazy, leaving me very very hot and bothered.
Till now, when someone picks up a pencil, I look alarmingly at the person, a look of don’t-tell-me-you-are-going-to-use-that-thing-are-you? on my very expressive face.

It is easy if the person is known and if I have a comfort level with him / her, because then I can playfully a) pass a pen into his / her hands (like when I do to TOOMA when he is penciling a writing task) or b) in the eventuality of no pen in hand, plead with him / her not to make use of the odious writing instrument, citing the virtues of oral communication or honing a razor-sharp memory instead.

However, the trouble arises if the person is not too well-known to me, or worse, if I, for obvious reasons, cannot risk myself be termed a weirdo by confiding about my unease at hearing a pencil sound. I have known people who, after hearing about my idiosyncrasy, have a look of disbelief and / or pity at my plight plainly plastered on their sometimes smug faces.

Needless to say, they don’t do wonders for me.

At all such times, I just squirm in my place, waiting for the abominable sound to stop.

Sighing with relief when the monstrous pencil is put down….

This is probably me at her quirky best!

It's Friday the 13th

Considering that today is this year's only Friday the 13th, it was hardly surprising people would be a tad jittery.

So I have an acquaintance who has decided not to venture out from her home today; there is yet another colleague who got his tickets to travel back home postponed from today to tomorrow.

While some cases border on the bizarre, one thing is for sure, alarm bells sure trigger off when it comes to Friday the 13th.

And I am speaking for quite a generous proportion here.

There are of course the exceptions, people who try and shatter the superstitious hex that seemingly surrounds this date. So you have our unconventional director, M. Night Shyamalan who releases his movie “The Happening” today. But then again, it falls in the horror genre, so I can't say I am surprised.

You also have Black Sabbath which released its debut album on the (un)lucky day as far back as 1970. Going by its sales, the album was anything but star-crossed.

And now, a new Dutch study says that Fridays the 13th, long considered to be ominous, are in actual fact, safer than average Fridays. It points out statistics to corroborate its findings, citing that there are fewer accidents, fires, and thefts on Fridays the 13th as compared to your average Friday. However, people who believe this are less and too far in between.

There are however those who swear by the hard luck that befalls people on such days.

Whatever the case may be, I sure hope no gloominess comes my way.

Lemme jus knock my chair twice though.

There! now what was I saying?

Getting "ant"-sy

I like looking at ants.....especially when they clamber onto a morsel of food, and then make away with it, akin to an army victoriously carrying off a struggling POW.

It's not uncommon to see them in my room, for which they seem to have a strange affinity for , much to my maid's visible annoyance. Week after week, they plod their way through the length and breadth of my room, sometimes carrying a piece of chocolate that has eluded my choc-loving roomie, or some breadcrumbs (my now-regular clumsiness culpable here).

I can't help but be surprised by their quick turnaround - a piece of cookie falls; a string of ants collects there within no time at all. Their industriousness is worthy of emulation.

Similarities can be found to their human counterparts, who also sweat it out, teamwork and competition aside, what with unrealistic deadlines that need to be met, gargantuan tasks that need attending to...what you will.

And finally, they can literally move mountains.

Quite a few lessons these humble insects can teach us.

Review: Sex and the City: The Movie

With Sarah Jessica Parker playing the role of now household name Carrie Bradshaw, it was naturally expected that women of all shapes and kinds would come out in hordes to watch the movie adaptation of the hugely popular Sex and the City (SATC) series.


And oh! They did come out in numbers. Accompanied by their ever-accommodating guy friends, boyfriends, fiancés, and husbands.

So we have Carrie, sassy writer for a New York newspaper, and show fetishist, who is all set to give up her single status for one of matrimony to Big a.k.a. John Preston (Chris Noth), her companion of ten years, much to the delight of her clique. The clique consists of Miranda Hobbes (Cynthia Nixon), a successful lawyer, who, while toiling at her work, grows distant with her husband, who meanwhile cheats upon her, and later confesses his adultery, much to her utter misery. There is also Charlotte York (Kristin Davis), the eternal sunshine girl, who is trying her best to conceive.


And oh of course! How can you forget Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall), the predator who candidly confesses her love for all things male, and who takes her love for sushi to new, bare levels (pun intended).


Their lives are all thrown asunder when Big develops cold feet on the day of the wedding, and decides not to go along with the wedding, leaving Carrie devastated. The four friends decide to go along on the already paid-for honeymoon for Carrie and Big, to Mexico, where they try to collect themselves.


Carrie returns to her New York job, hiring an assistant, Louise (Jennifer Hudson of Dreamgirls fame) to manage her administration.


In between the generous doses of Manolo Blahniks, Jimmy Choos, Louis Vuittons, Chanels, Givenchys, Moschinos, Vera Wangs, Jean Paul Gaultiers, Balenciagas, Roberto Cavallis, Fensis, Marc Jacobs, Versaces, Guccis, and Christian Louboutins, a sensitive, witty story of four friends emerges, twirling everyone in its wake.


So while you have the four girls sipping Cosmopolitans and martinis and getting sloshed, you also have the cheeky conversations about that taboo three letter word, all the while wearing the most wow of clothes and footwear, much to best friend and my agony and barely-contained gritting-teeth envy.


A much watch for every woman worth her Dior, SATC is two hours and a few minutes of pure, unadulterated fashion heaven. Though I’m sure that the men may hold a contrary opinion.


I couldn't help but hear the occasional yawning / gentle snoring spells by the men folk who had gallantly shown up.


God bless these noble souls!


And to more silver-screen adaptations of SATC, a huge Amen from all the womenfolk...

Daffodils - William Wordsworth

Never has yellow looked so alluring to me, as in this poem below by Wordsworth. The last six lines have stayed fresh in my otherwise lousy memory, no mean feat let me assure you.

Each time I read it, I think about the host of unforgettable memories that will stay with me forever. Touche!

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Of cars and their drivers

Depending upon the number of zeroes the car in front costs, the car right behind it keeps its distance – safe or with its nose right up the first car’s bumper.

Just one of my many observations, on one of my many spells of lack of any occupation (I can almost see many heads nod in unison - !@#$%^&).

Now that I have let off steam with those therapeutic words (ahem ahem - and I hope my Mom never reads this post), let me come right back to the topic.

The other day, I asked my cab diver why he was moving along at a snail’s pace behind the sleek black car (that must have cost its owner a tidy sum) in front. His answer was classic – “Madame, uss gaadi ka ek tyre meri poori gaadi se zyaada mehenga hoga shaayad,” loosely translated in English as: “Madame, probably one tyre of that car will cost more than my entire car.”

This set me thinking. Staying in Delhi, I have had seen more than my share of traffic snarls on the road. I’ve seen it all – roadside vendors selling anything at traffic jams - from tender coconuts, magazines, wilted roses, balloons, toys, pens, you name it (I wouldn’t be surprised one day if you are waiting for the traffic light to turn green, and you can choose from the cans the vendor proffers: Budweiser, Carlsberg, Heineken, Corona, closer home – Kingfisher, Haywards, and some other fizzies).

Being a frequent user of the three-wheeled green and yellow CNG auto rickshaws, I have to also contend with urchins who shove their palms right under your nose, moving away only when you drop a shiny coin or a note in it, and sometimes, the odd snake-charmer out to make you reach out for your wallet in fright, thanks to the lazy python that twists around its master’s neck and peeps at you with one glittering eye (Oh horror!), and the joss sick seller who sells fragrant incense-sticks, one of my favorites. Till last fortnight, I had a neat stack of packs of incense-sticks, so I am in a pretty good position to comment upon this particular subject.

But as is my wont, I have again rambled. Sigh. I could do with some focus, really!

Many people, who drive, have a strange predilection for inching their cars as close as is humanly possible to the car right in front. A frog would be the only animal that would be able to escape from between where the bumper of the first car and the bonnet of the second car looked as if they were leaning in for a passionate embrace, and that too only because it would go hoppity-hop.

The second car right behind looks akin to a schoolteacher who has notions about a possibility of cheating by an errant schoolboy, and is therefore, extra cautious, breathing down the student’s neck, who all the while, tries his best to remember what he has rote-learned the day before, and is hastily scribbling it all on his examination sheet.

All this changes if the car in front happens to be from the luxury car segment.

In which case, the car behind suddenly decides to make slow-and-steady its new road-mantra, keeping a safe distance, almost like a reverential devotee standing hands-folded, head bowed, in front of a deity’s icon.

Honking, that favorite pastime of many drivers, enough to make even the sanest crazy, is also done away with. Welcome PEACE. Obligatory applause.

It is also a sight for sore eyes when two cars come right on towards each other.

Rule # 1 – the guy in the small car is always expected to back off, even if he is on the right of way. I keep wondering who created this Rule.

The Golden Rule – remember this – Have Vocal chords. Will Scream. (Enuff said).

Rule # 2 – When in any confusion, refer to the Golden Rule. Always works. Use your voice, Mistah!

However, if a single metal scrape between the luxury car and an average car were to happen, you may bid adieu to all the peace you were reveling in.

And it is highly recommended that reach out for your iPod, adjusting it to full blast.

Next / Sometime else: The scrape that results in DOP (Destruction of Peace).

Unsightly "spitting"-images

So the other day I was waitin on the railway platform, waiting for my train to chug-chug me to Momie and Dadie dearest.

The people around me were varied - a young couple, armed with the latest who-dun-it, four-year something kid in tow; the old lady who alternated between looking at her cane basket and her gold wrist-watch; the two girls who looked as if they had just completed their annual college exams and were happily headed home; the young executive who stood pompously with his laptop (office-given?), shaking his head regularly, and clucking to himself; the three army jawans who were enjoying steaming hot cups of tea in the cool, summery night; and yours truly looking intently at them all (when she was not cooing sweet nothings into the phone to TOOMA).

It was then that the couple’s kid decided to whine.

Very characteristically loudly at that.

Shaking me out of my observing spell.

Many pairs of eyes, mine included, peered at the loud child, who seemed to be thoroughly annoyed with someone or something.

The offending thing turned out to be a sticky piece of chewing gum which some inconsiderate so-and-so had spat out, and which had, in turn, stuck to the back of the bench upon which the unfortunate child had chosen to play jumping-jack on.

The more the kid tried to remove the mucky piece of gum, the more it stuck to him. A shrill whimper escaped from his lips, making his parents leave their books upon their luggage, and rush to his rescue.

While they took turns to get the mess off him, I couldn’t help but wonder what makes people spit out chewing gum onto pavements, backs of chairs and tables, walls, public transport etc. While many crib about the odd cigarette butt that you may espy on the road, it is not too uncommon to find a stray chewing gum making its way to the sole of your brand-new Adidas,’ much to your visible exasperation.

So many aesthetically-designed, peeper-pleasing buildings and campuses turn to eye-sores this way. Seeing chewing gum on the road is as disgusting as seeing a giant blob of “gob” which some thoughtless person has spat. In a country where people make their way regularly through mouthfuls of orange-colored betel nut leaves and other forms of tobacco, it is not rare to see these visibly tell-tale orange blobs on the pavements, and many a time, even bang in the middle of the street.

Unsightly-sights them all.

Makes me want to go over personally to the houses of these wayward “spitters” and do a good job of spewing out some of my own onto their carefully arranged carpets, rugs, mats, etc. Blech!

Alternatively, a one-way ticket to Singapore is what I would recommend to such people. And of course they need to be armed with cartons of chewing gums of all shapes and kinds.

Thank God they make top-notch whips out there.

I’m no liberal bleeding-heart, I know.

And I also know I’m definitely going to hell;-)

Weather Woes

“It’s sooooo hot. I’m so gonna melt any minute now. My prickly heat will put a porcupine to shame!"(Long drawn out “Phew” with the obligatory forehead mopping).

"Gosh! Damn this freezing cold. I can barely feel my rear." Or something equally laugh-inducing.

"If it rains one more day, I swear I’ll take a one-way ticket to Florida. And buy some shoes before I go. The dratted showers have ruined “em all!"

"Whooooooooo! If it gets any drier, I could offer myself my abrasive self as sandpaper. And at least make some money out of it."

"Why can’t it rain? I don’t even remember what color rainfall is. At least my Labrador can loll his tongue out. Lucky him. If I do the same, I would be called a drooling pervert!"

It’s always the same ol’ story.

We can never be happy with the weather. I guess that like the government, weather too is like an easy target.

Or maybe we all take a leaf out of Goldilocks' book, in love with the idea of wanting everything our way, just the way we fancy.

I’m sure that even the people of Florida crib about its gorgeous climate, probably citing that it doesn’t change enough there, or ruing the risk of skin cancer.
Sigh! We are a hard lot to please, ain’t we?

Me – let’s just say that the rains, despite their wreaking havoc on my hair, are still something that make me croon in delight. There's nothing like the pitter-patter of rain on the window panes. Snug pillow, a warm bed, a steaming cup of tea, and a novel to curl up - optional but very well appreciated.

Sucker for the rains.

Oh totally, I’d say!

It's raining cats and dogs

The dusty green leaves looked faded, crying out for rain.


The cattle on the road sat listlessly, their tails flapping to ward off pesky flies.


People from all walks of life looked up expectantly at the clear skies, hoping against hope that the fluffy white clouds would pave the way for their grey counterparts.


Their prayers were answered sooner than they thought...


A single, fat drop fell from the skies. Disbelievingly, I brushed it off as probably a figment of my imagination. Maybe it was a droplet of perspiration that had trickled down from my forehead.


The drops soon increased, till they were falling in a constant drizzling. This was no imagination – the rains had actually arrived.


Thunder and lightning, not to be outdone, also decided to make their presence felt; so there were the customary flashes and rumbling in the skies, which had within minutes, changed from a beautiful blue to an even more gorgeous grey. The afternoon looked straight form the pages of an English novel, set in their famed bleak winters.

After about ten minutes of a heavy downpour, the rains decided to go in for a more consistent drizzle. The umbrellas were all out by now in all their multi-hued splendor. Animals scuttered for cover, cars being their favored shelter. While some preferred to walk in the rains jauntily, heads held high, getting drenched like Boy Scouts out on an adventure trail, there were also the ones who walked sedately, turning up their noses at those who splashed water with their boots. These were yet some others who hung on for dear life to their umbrellas that had decided to play the role of disobedient children to the T, eagerly bent upon flying away or turning inside out thanks to the gusts that lazily moved towards them.


The divine earthy smell, coupled with the sight of children playing slushy games on the road, made me almost pine for home, where the rain Gods particularly play favorite, and visit often, much to yours truly's delight.


This rain baby can’t wait to go home...


Thank God next weekend doesn’t seem that far!

A Spicy Treat

While on a shopping spree a couple of days back, I was suddenly aware of a lip-smacking smell that wafted dreamily towards my eager nostrils.

Turning my head to the right, I saw a bunch of people, drooling not over the red-lingeried mannequin in the display window over yonder, but over some square bits of potatoes frying merrily in a huge cauldron as also tikkis doing their round swimming dance in the “tava. It was the people who stood around the man dishing out gol-guppas however, who caught my eye.

And they couldn't be more dissimilar: the panting middle-aged lady clutching her sequinned bag, the preening pubescent staring at her perfectly manicured talons shining in all their scarlet splendor, the young woman dressed in office-attire who had stopped over for a tasty bite enroute home from a long day at work, the two giggling 20-year somethings pointing at a cute tourist’s shorts (don’t ask what they were pointing at – go figure), the doting boyfriend who looked upon with affection at his gurl who had stuffed her mouth with one huge gol-guppa, another guy who looked around awkwardly to see how many eyes were upon him as he shuffled his feet, while all the while fidgeting and looking at his gurl who seemed oblivious to his unease and instead concentrated on the task at hand – viz., popping one gol-guppa after another into her mouth. A couple of guy friends also seemed to be enjoying the sweet-sour savories, tissues ready in hand to wipe their streaming noses that were definitely on fire thanks to the spicy nature of “em gol-guppas.

And then two more prettily-smiling girls queued up to taste a few, right hands outstretched to hold the leaf-saucers the gol-guppa maker proffered them.

No points for guessing, one of them was me.

Five minutes later we made our way towards what we had essentially set out for – shopping.

The red-eyes gave us away.

As also our grinning faces and lip smacking with the flavor.

Movie Review: Speed Racer

Slotted in the live action anime film category, Speed Racer had generated more than a fair amount of interest even before its release. It therefore came as no surprise to me that it was showing to packed theaters.

The Racer family first tastes sorrow with the death of the elder son, Rex, while participating in the grandest of all races – the Casa Cristo. Pops (played by John Goodman) and Mom (Susan Sarandon) are naturally protective about their second son, Speed Racer (Emile Hirsche) racing the family Mach 5 to the doomed race. Throw in a darned younger brother, Spritle (Paulie Litt) and an exasperating family chimpanzee, Chim-Chim, and you have the entire happy family. And oh! You have the luscious Christina Ricci, playing Speed’s girlfriend, Trixie.

Though why on heaven’s she agreed to sporting the hideous bangs and pixie cut is something I totally failed to understand.

Moving forth with the plot, there is trouble in paradise. Speed is determined to throw all cautions to the wind, and participate. The owner of Royalton Industries, played by a balding Roger Allam, makes a money-spinning deal with Speed, who turns it down, inviting his fury against him. The 2 hour 15 mins flick also has a race-fixing angle thrown in, a Japanese brother-sister duo keen on rescuing their family business, and Speed’s rival, Racer X (Matthew Fox), who bears an uncanny resemblance to Speed’s deceased brother, Rex Racer.

And now coming to the special effects.

Mind-blowing to say the least. I’m not really a gaming aficionado, but I must say I was impressed by the sheer magnetism of the super-flashy cars that seemed to defy all forces of gravity and physics.

Though there were more than a share of scenes that seemed to be laughing upright at logic, I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the sheer magnificence of it all. The cars hurtle, dash, plunge, and teeter, reel, swerve, careen – they look born to rule.

The slapstick humor is a little out of place in this otherwise lithe movie, but what the heck, all’s fair when there are so many flashy beauties on wheels involved. Vroooooooom!

The kiss between the two protagonists just at the end of the movie is the sorts that makes you go Awwww.

I should know.

"Cos I did...

My verdict is out - Cancellation isn't all that bad a word

The word “cancelled” has acquired a new meaning altogether for me. A very pleasurable one at that, let me add. (Mandatory cheeky grin, and wink).

Imagine saying good bye to the one you love, with a heavy heart (although you are trying your best strong face). I should know. I bid adieu to TOOMA* like that every time he leaves the city. Leaves even generally stoic me with a heavy heart. And a face which is way longer than the river Nile. But a face which would leave no one in any doubt about the cheerfulness of the face-bearer. Talk about irony. Sigh...

But the very next moment, when your beau calls, albeit not to bid a fond farewell, but to inform you that his flight back has been cancelled, several emotions are bound to cross your mind.

As they did with me.

Happiness, an indescribable sense of relief, a grateful look at the sky above, a silent prayer of Thanks to He who looks after all of us and indulgently gives in to our whims on more occasions than we can count, delayed gratification (cos I get to see him not now, but within a couple of hours), an inordinate urge to clap in sheer delight, break out into a delirious jig, and a Cheshire cat grin – all of these, and a couple of others crept pleasantly into me. Leaving me warm all over, the feeling akin to sitting inside a toasted blanket, sipping a steaming caffeine-kicked cuppa, while it is freezing, and coldly unhospitable outside.

Christmas sure came early this year for me;-)

And then it all dawned upon me.

The realization that I could spend some more time with him, at the sight of whom my heart does its own sweet little Karaoke number, and with whom I would love to have all my dances with...

** Yay! Yay! Yay! ** (Mad, gleeful song and dance show on full display).

* TOOMA – The Object Of My Affection.

Movie Review: Tashan

What do you get when you have a debut director who insists on calling the shots with an uber colorful star cast, but forgets to weave them all together seamlessly, and instead has an insipid, threadbare plot to boot?

Three hours of torture, I’d say.

That yours truly inflicted upon herself.

And that too on the first day of the week, no less.

So you have a Bhojpuri don, Bhaiyyaji, played by Anil Kapoor (who is getting to be a fixture in almost every second movie these days), who is yet to wake up to a world of banks, and instead believes in the virtues of stuffing wads of Gandhi printed notes in large aluminum trucks, hauled (pun intended) by the now-as-light-as-a-feather Kareena Kapoor, playing the character of pretty girl-next-door, Pooja Singh.

Bhaiyyaji, when he is not blinding people with his garish clothes, and even more loud mouth, harbors a dream – that of speaking English the way George Bush does. The petite Pooja, has other plans in her not –so-dainty-mind, and ropes in an English spouting call center executive, Jimmy Cliff (Saif Ali Khan), who falls hook, line, and sinker in love with her. After a customary song and dance routine, Jimmy, completely under the spell of Pooja’s fluttering eyelashes, helps her loot a handsome sum from Bhaiyyaji, all to “pay off her father’s debt,” and while Saif is still in la di la land, Pooja does a quick vanishing act, playing out her character of con woman par excellence, and is seen shaking a pretty leg and showing quite a bit of skin in a lime colored bikini (that’s one up for the guys) in some exotic locales of Mauritius.

So far so good. Except that Jimmy, who is on the path of smelling sweet roses and love, has to contend with smelling gunpowder and looking straight into the barrel of Bhaiyyaji’s gun. Enter Bachan Pande (Akshay Kumar), a bumbling henchman, who, when he is not scratching his unmentionables (toolbox, if you will Ahem), keeps naively showing a gummy smile, and rattling off quotes of his allegiance to Bhaiyyaji. He and Jimmy go in search of Pooja, who’s done the disappearing act, and enjoying all that loot somewhere.

The rest is, as they say, completely clichéd – retrieving the money, another fixed song and dance sequence, the obligatory exchange of hands and dishoom-dishoom, and some strange hand of fate linking all the characters together.

I’d say that the opening scene is one well-done though. A red Mercedes is vrooming on the highway, its music station getting changed randomly between “Highway to Hell” and “Kabhi Kabhi.” Amidst violent zig-zag motions, it teeters off the highway, plunging into the blue waters below.

As for the rest, it’s like an ill-tasting gloss, hollow of substance.

Spare your money.

Buy yourself a drink instead.

At least your head will not reel, as mine did.

Sample the lyrics of one song in the flick, wherein the three protagonists don ill-fitting, ludicrous blonde wigs, and dance to in gay abandon -

"White white face dekhey
Dilva beating fast, Sasura
Chance marey re
Very Happy in my heart
Dil Dance marey re"

Enough said. I rest my case.

PS - If the Director is lissening, here's a suggestion. He could have tried renaming "Tashan" (style / attitude) as "Nashta" (breakfast) - Kareena, who looks straight out of anorexia land, sure could do with some...

Music Video: Everywhere (Fleetwood Mac)

The ever dramatic soul I was (oops correction, that I still am), it was no surprise that I could often parrot-off prose and verse at various theater, extempore, and recitation dos at school. One poem, for which I received top honors, was The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.

At that time, love was an unfamiliar concept to me, one that I was inclined to scoff at.

Many many years later, I came across a song by Fleetwood Mac, which was picturized on the very same poem.

Both featured a highwayman, heads over heels in love with Bess, the local inn landlord’s daughter, who also reciprocated his passion. One night, as was his wont, he bid adieu to his love, asking her to wait for him till the time he returned with some rich loot. A jealous suitor plays Peeping Tom on the two lovers, and crazed by his own love and envy, tips off the King’s soldiers about the highwayman’s impending return.

The soldiers promptly make their way to the landlord’s inn, drink his ale, and bind and gag Bess to her bed, a rifle tied below her chest. Bess had more matters to be fearful of than the stone-cold muzzle – through her window she could see the road that the highwayman would take, perhaps for the last time.

Twisting and writhing her hands, she was finally able to reach the trigger with one finger. In the dead of the night, the unmistakable sound of a horse's hooves announce her lover approaching her window.

With one fluid stroke she releases the trigger, shattering the peace of the night....

With her death, she gave life to her highwayman, who turned Westward Ho, but who, with the coming of dawn, learnt who it was who warned him with her death.

Morbid? Or achingly sweet?

You decide what the song means to you.

As for me, let me just say that love is not all that unfamiliar an emotion to me now.....

See the video below:

A Room with a view...

Hate crowded hotels?

Guard your privacy jealously?

The very idea of hob-nobbing with the common herd in hotel lobbies, corridors, and elevators, makes you curl your upper lip in distaste?

Well then, look no further than the Everland Hotel.

Perched atop the Palais De Tokyo (Paris), this mobile hotel offers a direct view at the Eiffel Tower.

Ohh, and did I mention, it has only one room to let out to guests?

There,…. your privacy gets a solid tick.

The brainchild of Swiss artists Sabina Lang and Daniel Baumann, Hotel Everland was originally conceived for Expo 2002. It has been exhibited in Yverdon (Switerland), and Leipzig (Germany), and since last year October, it sits pretty atop the contemporary art museum, the Palais De Tokyo, overlooking the Eiffel Tower.

People can visit it during the day, or reserve it for the night, after the museum closes. You have uptil December 31, 2008 to book yourself there, after which it will be moved to a yet-undisclosed location.

Of course, a night-out there doesn’t come cheap.

The Four Star cube-shaped hotel, which can comfortably lodge a couple, comprises a deluxe rest room, a king-sized bed, and a lounge; and would set you back by €333 for a weekday, and €444 if you choose a weekend night.

The hotel staff urges you to steal the golden embroidered bath towels as a souvenir.

Online bookings can be made at the Hotel’s website.

This one is sure one well-traveled hotel (pun intended).

Movie Review: Shaurya

In an industry where army movies often border on jingoism, banshee screams, and mindless bloodshed, Shaurya strikes you with its different portrayal. There are no righteous speeches on justice, loyalty, and patriotism; instead you have characters battling their inner conflicts wih a quiet but touching dignity.

Two lawyer friends in the Indian army, Akash Kapoor (Javed Jaffery), and Siddhanth Chaudhary / Sid (Rahul Bose), who couldn’t be more dissimilar from each other than chalk from cheese, make their way to the beautiful climes of Kashmir. While Akash is the serious, brooding sorts (a far, far cry from Jaffery's usual slapstick comedy roles),Sid is nonchalance personified, impish smile firmly in place, without a care in the world ruffling his spiked hair.

Legally pitted against each other, Akash and Sid find themselves bang in the middle of a defense investigation, to probe the alleged murder of one Major Rathore by Captain Javed Khan (excellently portrayed by Deepak Dobriyal). Where Sid strikes you with his verbal diarrhea, Khan speaks volumes with his pained eyes, the very picture of a wronged soul. Minissha Lamba is the hard-as-nails local journalist, Kaavya, who is keen to spot her prize-winning story. Seema Biswas as Javed’s mother, gives a short but striking performance, which is but natural, given her proven acting prowess.

However, the show-stealer is undoubtedly Kay Kay Menon, who is par excellence as the high-strung hard-hitting-dialogue-spouting Brigadier Rudra Pratap Singh. He undeniably has the best dialogues, effortlessly delivering them. His thunderous court-room scene is applause-worthy.

Though it is “inspired” by A Few Good Men, Shaurya is pretty much watchable fare. Watch it for its brilliant cinematography, impactful story, above average direction.
Oops, did I miss out the crisp dialogue delivery…?

Thank God that in its “Indianized” version, the budding romance between Sid and Kaavya in Shaurya, was not closed in a holy matrimony / living-happily-ever-after-scene, as is wont in most Indian cinema.

Though obviously the director could not resist picturizing a small song on them.

But that’s ok, in the item number performed by Rosa Catalano in the movie, our very own Jaaved Jaffery could also not resist showing us some neat moves to set the dance floor ablaze… :-)

Frozen in one's tracks...

The dictionary describes a flash mob as “a group of people who organize on the Internet and then quickly assemble in a public place, do something bizarre, and disperse; also called inexplicable mob.”

With the US and Canada, having a more than fair share of their fun (read - a surprise pillow fight flash mob right in the middle of a bustling-with-activity street, an orchestrated string of applause by 200-odd people in a reputed hotel, and an “invasion” into a plush shoe boutique), other countries are following in hot pursuit too.

(I can only just imagine the surprised looks on the faces of the pedestrians, hotel-staff, and shoe-store employees who were subjected to those utterly-baffling two-five minutes. I bet that when those who pulled off the above acts made a disappearance, these same people would have blinked, and pinched each other in return, wondering if the incidents really happened, or they were just their taxed minds at their hallucinating best, on an overdrive spree.

Now in the midst of a flash mob, there are bound to be three totally-identifiable groups:
a) A bewildered lot
b) Those who participate in it
c) Those who are loath to feel left out, but are unsure what to do, hobble their feet, look awkwardly around themselves, and when they are unable to make sense of it, shuffle off, muttering about a strange, strange world.

In Beijing, around 100 people, and in Brussels, quite a few too, pulled off a flash mob stunt, where they stood as if frozen in time. Those in Beijing “froze” for three minutes. Their counterparts in Belgium, on the other hand, stood still for five minutes, spaced out with a quick break, redid it for five minutes, and then ambled off, to their respective destinations.

They couldn’t have chosen a more apt day – April 01, 2008.
Word of mouth and a prominent website had notified the participants, some of whom stood locked in embrace, some “spirited” sorts clutching their poison, while some pretended to be inter-locked in a mock-fight.

While many pedestrians looked on, flabbergasted, quite a few chose to step in, agreeing with the others that it was a great stress-buster.
Now if only there could be flash mobs in India…

In a country where people are bound to surround me, agog looks plastered on their faces, trying to see what I, on one of my mad moods, would be trying my best to spot in the bright sky, flash mobs are sure going to be quite a crowd-puller.
The same horde that would excitedly peer into the sky, where I would be pointing a well-jabbed index finger an imaginary saucer-shaped-fluffy-blob, after having used the proverbial best-seller UFO argument, would increase sizably if one of “em flash mobs were to occur.

Though I’m not too sure if they would just stand and stare, agape, or join in the fun…

Tapping away....

The only driving I do is driving people nuts.

So when I am with someone driving his / her set of wheels, I’m the one merrily looking out of the window, adjusting the AC duct onto myself to ensure that I remain as cool as a cucumber (literally), making little crooning noises to myself when the radio station decides to play a well-liked number, on daring days I might do a lil sing-along too, click my tongue disapprovingly when a not-the-most-liked song makes an entry on the charts, screw up my nose when the adverts are a lot and not well-spaced out...

And oh yes, see the way people tap on their steering wheels.

Now, some people steer with one hand.

Some hold the steering wheel right at the bottom.

There are others who hang on to the steering wheel for dear life. (I ascribe to this school, as pointed out by Daddy dearest last month, during one of the few driving lessons that solely tried his patience).

However way you may hold the steering, there are bound to have been instances when you tapped on it.

TOOMA* holds the steering lightly, sometimes tapping it to the rhythm of some peppy number playing in the background, besides delivering a relatively decent karaoke rendition on some days.

Dad does a particularly amusing thumb dance on the steering, which is usually accompanied by some (very loud) humming.

Brother leaves one hand free to rap me smartly on my pretty head repeatedly (a gesture he claims, is one of deep sibling love), which I know is a whole lot of BS. And when the turn signal is clicking, he will synchronize it with some merry tapping, leaving me free to do what he loathes the most – ruffling his hair. The priceless steely glare he gives is enough to throw my head back and give one of my throaty engine laughs, another f his pet peeves.

Best guy friend, when he is not making scary sounds at every sharp turn, taps relentlessly on the wheel, not missing a breath from his string of non-stoppable conversation.

Longtime gal pal from college, when she is not checking her reflection in the rearview mirror, concentrates on holding the steering lightly with her fingers, doing a little tap-dance every now and then, and grinning at me good-naturedly, eyes twinkling, chattering about the next shopping area that we would be gracing with our presence.

Another close friend, she of the many colorful moods, when she does not have a lit-up ciggie in her hand, does her own version of thumping, which closely resembles some merry horses trotting to the nearby pasture to get a full tummy.

Of course the delicate hands gesticulate wildly and the right one often ball ups, a particular finger showing prominently, to an errant driver who tries to swoop into the lane in front...

*TOOMA - The Object Of My Affection

Movie Review: 27 Dresses

I would be lying if I said that I went to watch 27 Dresses without any expectations. After all, what would you expect from the screenwriter who gave us the immensely entertaining and vividly resplendent The Devil Wears Prada (TDWP).

Katherine Heigl as the quirky but nevertheless perennial do-gooder Jane is a Manhattan singleton, in love with her boss (Ed Burns), who besides throwing in a good word and a pat on the back every now and then, is utterly oblivious of her adoration. With a best friend in the form of Judy Greer, she of the sourest of tongues, and the most vivid of expressions, Jane has some relief from her persistent Good Samaritan-ness.

Besides of course, a fascination for weddings...

Our leading lady, when she is not mooning over her boss, can be found shuttling between wedding receptions, sometimes two on the same night.

Dressed as a bridesmaid.

The perpetual bridesmaid, Jane has seen and done it all – she’s dressed in clothes, now stashed into her home closet, that can only be termed torture attire inflicted by the bride-to-be upon the bridesmaids so as to look better than them, lifted gowns of the bride-to-be so that the latter could fulfill answer nature’s call before taking the vows at the altar, danced with the families of both parties, you name it…
Ho-hum story, huh.

Enter Jane’s spoilt younger sister, the man-magnet, Tess (Malin Akerman), who waltzes straight into her life, and into the wide arms of Ed. Within a matter of days, Tess has Ed eating out of her hands, tied to her pinky, and even all set to walk down the aisle. And who else to arrange for the wedding, than dahlin elder sistah!

Respite comes to an unwilling Jane in the form of cynical wedding columnist Kevn (Va Va Voom, James Marsden – the dishy Cyclops from X-Men), who is keen to cover her for his breakthrough story for his reporting career.

A stinging slap from Judy, a deliberate presentation at Tess and Ed’s wedding rehearsal dinner, a very entertaining round of sloshed singing at a roadside bar, the predictable rain, the subsequent romp in the sack, and the morning-after misunderstanding – 27 Dresses has all the trappings of a movie to keep you suitably happy.

And smiling, in spite of its predictability.

A fun-filled Sunday afternoon watch with your gal pals, 27 Dresses is not as huge a stunner as TDWP, but somewhere along the line, the story strikes the right chord.
As for the men folk, for obvious reasons, they would cite severe health conditions and bolt for the door at the very mention of yet another chick flick.

I wouldn’t blame them...

What with all that taffeta, lace, and organza spread throughout the movie in ample measure, they are definite to go running helter-skelter into the open doors of the nearest watering hole, and grab a six-pack...

Hic Hic!