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!

Do you "knuckle" under too?

The cracking, popping sound is unmistakable.

I crane my neck to see who it is.

It is the middle-aged, pot-bellied colleague this time. And he insists on doing an encore (Groannnnn)!

As I turn my head away, I can’t help but remember how people, at some time or the other, have indulged in some (harmless) knuckle-cracking. Leaving some, like me, frothing at the mouth!

The first recollection I had of it was of my brother cracking his knuckles as close to my ears as possible, to get his back on me for having scratched my nails on some muslin / silk – something which made him feel as squeamish as the average person feels when he hears the sound of screeching chalk on a blackboard. The anguished look on my face was totally complemented by the gleeful one writ largely on his. Of course a loud fight, complete with bloodcurdling screams, was in order, much to my Mom’s despair.

You can obviously discern that I never was a fan of knuckle-cracking.

Then you had those at school who insisted on cracking their knuckles at each class test, half yearlies, and annual examinations. My reaction all those times remained the same – a glowering look at the “offender,” complete with furrowed forehead, and knitted eyebrows, or sometimes, just for a change, an arched eyebrow, reminiscent of a well-known Bollywood vamp.

Most times I’m sunny, and yet there are those odd occasions when the only thing that comes to my mind when I hear habitual knuckle-crackers, is to hook my right index finger, walk straight up to them, and rap them smartly on their heads. Of course, social propriety ensures that I desist from carrying out my designs...

In college, when we sat around with each other over cups of steaming tea / coffee, the common room resembled a theater full of eager youngsters, gathered to catch tickets to a screening of their favorite movie idol. The only difference was that here everyone had assembled to catch last minute scribbles / notes that would take them from that shamefully low-score to a barely-sidestepping-borderline-one. With all that palpable tension rife in the air, it was but natural that the distasteful sound would “pop” (pun intended), causing many people’s heartbeats to race just that little bit faster, and fetch quite a few funny looks for the knuckle-cracker.

For some, it was that time again to dole out that much-perfected scowl. All the more at people, who after having tormented you with their incessant knuckle-cracking, proceeded to crack their wrists, and necks – leaving you with no option than to leave the room, but not before giving them a pretty unhealthy dose of murderous looks.

With my history of practical jokes, wisecracks, general goofiness, and loony tales to back me up, you couldn’t blame me for people not believing a word when I would, solemn wise face and all, spout how cracking knuckles could lead to arthritis. The disbelieving faces are still etched in my otherwise awful memory.

As are the loud cracking sounds that reminded me of the box of untouched Rice crispies at home…

Wonder what knuckle-crackers will do next…probably come up with a dedicated website, complete with forum and chat.

Oh wait, they already have that…

Dunno what’s next then.

Maybe I really should get “cracking” and consult a chiropractor…

A thing of beauty is a joy forever - Taj Mahal

It is said that familiarity breeds contempt.

I respectfully disagree.

Even if I were residing in Agra, and were to walk past the Taj Mahal every day of my life, I am certain that even a fleeting glimpse of the towering white-marbled structure would be enough to take my breath away.

Upon my mother’s insistence on a girlie trip to the most romantic structure in the country, she and I made our way last weekend, bleary-eyed to the station, where a languorous locomotive would chug-chug to life, and speed us away to our intended destination. So a little over a couple of hours later, we embarked at the city that houses the spectacularly gorgeous masterpiece.

Another half hour and we stood in front of the lofty domed mausoleum. Even though it was only a little over a year since I had last seen it, I couldn’t help but stare at it, stunned the same way as I had on the previous two occasions I had seen it.
Mom was agape. Pure silence followed for the next two minutes.

The early morning sun, which had decided to beam relentlessly upon all men, was duly forgotten by us. As we walked past the impeccably-tended lawns and fountains, we couldn’t help but be staggered by the very beauty of the structure that loomed before us.

Truly a place worth visiting, it is small wonder that this universally acclaimed structure of eternal love sees a steady throng of tourists, who flock to it from all parts of the globe.

After a day well-spent in Agra, we made our way back.

I couldn’t help but think about when I would see it again...

Guess I can't get enough of it :-)

Wanna spread some color in your life?

The grip and the hurl are unmistakably accurate.

Splashhhhhhhhhhhh.

And if you are lucky to escape the deftly-tossed balloon the first time, don’t clap your hands merrily and shake in glee. It might be a tad too soon. The very next moment, who knows, you may be shaking your pretty head because of the water-filled balloon that hits you smack, bang on target. That you shake with the utter chill of it all, with simultaneous teeth-chattering, and a frayed temper to boot – well, what can I say except that boy! You sure sound like one nifty multitasker. Tee hee.

These words come from someone who’s been at the receiving end…of well-pitched balloons. Someone who’s flared her nostrils, hitched her sleeves symbolic of confrontation, gritted her teeth and bitten her lips to keep from hurling a string of abuses that would make the ears of a sailor / fisherman turn beetroot red, put her hands on her hips – and all because of a well-aimed balloon that she forgot to duck, and which hit her BANG!. Much to her visible annoyance. !@#$%^&*

And the balloon-tossing starts well in advance. So say, a cool twenty-days before Holi, the Indian festival of colors, a balloon, flung in a way which can only be comparable to a participant in the Olympic javelin throw competition, lands on the intended target – YOU. Leaving you wet, cross, and cussing.

As the festival approaches, the days only get worse. Even nights don’t offer any relief, giving the aimers the added advantage of pitch darkness ensuring that their faces remain anonymous.

It’s open warfare then. Buckets, pichkaris, water pistols, mugfuls, and the odd tomato / egg make an appearance. And how!

Hapless victims run pell-mell in colonies. Little Johnny head in air would be wise to keep an eye as well in front, cos if he’s only keeping it on the second-floor devils armed with water-gear, he would soon get some tell-tale wet marks on his tummy, back or nape. Besides hoots of well-audible guffaws at his expense.

A day before Holi, if you do not count yourself amongst the adventurous ones, it is best to lock yourself indoors. Because if you are to venture out, stern-look-on-face-firmly-in-place, chances are that you might just be engulfed in a bear-hug by someone who you may have never set eyes upon before, but who nevertheless envelopes you in his brawny arms, and proceeds to smear dry (or wet color – depending on your luck) all over your already-crimson face, hair, and neck. And before you can extricate yourself from this delicate position, you would be deafened by a “Holi Hain” chant, and then within seconds left alone on the lane, looking very very foolish with clean clothes, and a face that would compete with the best of ‘em Aztec warriors / Red Indian chiefs after a major victory. (Putting some feathers on your head would complete the picture, if you get the drift…)

Face smarting, some with fury, some with the color that has crept into your mouth, you spit your way back to home sweet home. A vigorous shower later, you emerge – clean-smelling and clean-feeling, utterly exhausted. After all, who would have known that the dratted color would make its way into your ears and entrench itself into your soft hair, which while lathering, would leave rainbow-colored rivers in its wake? With a face raw after several minutes of scrubbing, that too with that new pumice stone (tsk tsk), you either:

a) swear revenge
b) swear to go off Holi altogether

I proceeded from from point (a) to resigned (b).

No wonder, I’m getting all my door locks checked.

After all, next Saturday isn’t all that far away (Shudder)!

A Bags to Riches Story

A self-confessed bag lover, I have often been the butt of ridicule for my (not-so) strange obsession. My only point of defence is that I only have some ten bags, as compared to women who have closets spilling over with them, and are perpetually on the lookout for yet some more to add to the loot. Oh boy! Don’t I just turn a not-so-pretty emerald shade when I think of those closets, and how I would gladly give an arm and a leg to get my greedy hands on one of ‘em Vera Bradleys, Louis Vuittons, Mark Jacobs, Pradas, Fendis, Chanels, Guccis, Diors – Mmmmm.

And ohhh, it’s such a wondrous pleasure to walk into a shopping section, better still, a glitzy showroom, brimming over with bags, purses, clutches, totes, satchels, of all shapes and sizes, hues, patterns, fabrics – you name it – they probably have one that you wanna “bag.”

The average British woman slings a bag that weighs approximately 5.2 pounds. Into it, she probably dunks her mini-world (Read fume, emergency hair products, wet face tissues, keys, change, wallet, those monthly supplies, Oh, did I forget gloss, mascara, and other goop she applies on her face. Phew! Now what have I missed?).

Friends call my bag a Pandora’s box – dig into it, and you’ll probably find a half-eaten bar of chocolate. Dig even deeper, you might find gum, different kinds of stationery products; for those luckier, there could be everything from earrings to switch blades, mini lotions and the odd fruit face pack sachet.

Just as a woman’s moods change, so do her handbag. So just when you get used to the red monstrosity she insists on carrying with her everywhere (including the rest room), enter she does the next day, with a teeny-weeny white clutch, clasped in her left hand, leaving you wondering what she could carry in it, barring a lipper and a pair of keys. Thank God that the red eyesore was shelved – that’s your only refrain. However, your prayers were premature, cos the next time, she is armed with a huge (big would only be an understatement), straw bag, in a rich brinjal shade, leaving you cringing, and making you wonder if she carried a twenty pound bull-terrier in it – it is that bulging.

And boy! if she’s the sort to make you carry her bag when she’s tired, may the Gods be with you! Be prepared to receive smirks from passing strangers…

Coming back to the topic, going bag / shoe-shopping is one of the highlights for us women. Skimming the daily for half-price bag sales is a perpetual hobby. Even better if our favorite showrooms have them on discount. Entering one of these places is like getting a new high. An hour later, we emerge, clutching a coveted trophy victoriously. Men would never understand our bag-fetish. For them, one black / brown wallet is more than enough for an entire year.

No wonder they roll their eyes dramatically every time we utter those words – “honey, I’m going shopping for a bag.”

Their silent groans couldn’t be more audible…;-)

A Ride To Remember...

Duug Duug Duug Duug...

The roar of the mean machine is unmistakable, a distinctive chick magnet, guaranteed to garner that second glance.

And if you happen to be as lucky as me, to ride pillion behind the guy who makes your heart skip a beat, it would be one ride you’d not forget in a hurry.

So when TOOMA zipped to my doorstep on the shiny red mo’bike on his birthday, my heart went aflutter. After all, its not everyday that I get to act out one of my oft-repeated dreams...

I was akin to a delighted child, who had just been presented with a much-prayed-for present, and now that it was right in front, was unsure whether to:
a) Clap hands
b) Jump up and down
c) Give a whoooopeeee of pure, unadulterated glee
d) All the above

So I settled for a girlie hand over my mouth (lest my screams of ecstasy brought all the neighbors to see what all the fuss was all about), and hugged TOOMA more than my usual self.

After a complete five minutes - what with my staring at the beauty, and TOOMA's ciggie-marathon, it was time for the much-awaited ride.

I needed no second bidding.

Within a trice, I was sitting behind him. As soon as the engine started full throttle, I knew that the red beauty meant business.

Roaring like a roused tiger, it sprang into action, causing those on the road to make way for the royalty.

The wind in my hair, the warm sun shining on my face, a song in my heart, holding the guy I love, smelling his divine cologne - what more could a woman ask for.

Evening was even better. The cool evening wind did wonders for my cheeks – giving them a flushed, dewy-fresh, freshly-kissed, rouged look…

Would you blame me that I asked for a retry?

Vrooooooom! Till next month, my motto is:

I SHALT BE PATIENT...