Dabble in some Babble

Barring the odd Kings and Queens of small talk, most of us fall into the latter category of people who are anything but adept at small talk.

There are the hugely-annoying sorts too though, who sniff you out, and then starts the barrage of queries, much to your chagrin. So Ms Nosy Parker sails into a lift, drowning you in a sea of cheap perfume – your ears are subsequently assailed by the volley of questions that she throws – thankfully not at you, but at the unfortunate colleague, who suddenly goes from atheist to a believer – never before has he probably sent up a prayer. But this time he does, crinkling his eyebrows, hoping that the lift would whoosh to the top floor.

Not really his lucky day – he has to answer several questions in the course of that interminable 3-minute elevator ride. By the end of it all, when the doors finally open, giving him some much-needed air, his co-passengers have all had their fill of gossip and dope about him, including a very very embarrassing personal problem that he would rather have remained an untouched-upon topic.

The others fall into that glorious classification of people who struggle to bring up ‘safe’ topics to discuss with people whom you’d term anything between acquaintances and friends of friends. Weather is probably the first dwelled-upon area, followed by what’s happening around the world or on the idiot box. The world of sports is the second runner-up, which politico put his foot into his mouth (yet again), followed closely by most people’s personal favorites (mine excluded) – ‘the country is going to the dogs’ dialogue. And mind you, a mighty animated debate follows.

I like to call myself a lousy conversationalist. Put me in a party, and chances are that I might smile fixedly at a few people, nod in acknowledgement at those who I recollect faintly, down a couple, and then head for the nearest exit. I understand that it is rude to not converse with others, but I’d rather disappear than make a polite effort to know about the other’s migraine, job, hobbies, family, or jilted love story.

Give me some good music, throw in a couple of ‘spirits,’ and I’m good.

No chattiness for me. Sometimes silence just is golden.

Amen!

'Picture' Perfect? Not quite!

A picture speaks a thousand words, someone said.

I’ll say it does two thousand! Phew!

There are two kinds of people in this world – those who like to splash their vacation pictures all over the sun and moon, and gush on and on in that nauseating monotone about the verdant mountains / scenic beach they visited for summer. Not to mention the cute ‘friend’ they hooked up with.

And those pesky sorts who will corner you over the phone, over social networking sites, at the gym, in the mall, at the neighborhood bistro, hell - right at your work desk, and demand to know (in that hugely-annoying sing-song falsetto) why you still haven’t mailed/ posted the url of the pics you took while you were on vacay.

Of course, there is a third set of people – which includes me.

Those who don’t care a rat’s ass about showing pics of their holiday snaps to people who for brevity’s sake, we’ll term somewhere between strangers and acquaintances.

And who are equally indifferent about being made to see yet another carefully-maintained album of some poor joker’s last trip to Waikiki. Frankly, I care two hoots about hearing some bozo’s account of how much fun they had on the sun-kissed beaches, languorous breakfasts overlooking the ocean and all, while I was working my rear off at the workplace. Doing my job. And probably his too!

My eyes glaze, my auditory senses take a backseat, and I wait impatiently for him to rattle off his rehearsed script.

And nope, the trinkets you bought at the flea market don’t exactly fascinate me. Those orange flip-flops are hideous, that floral dress would probably look better on a dead Jersey cow, those Chanel sunglasses scream ‘FAKE’ from a mile away, you were ripped by that ‘local’ who passed off a cheap bottle of port wine to you as Pinot Noir, you paid way too much for that straw hat (and to top it – it’s not exactly your color), and those beads – who do you think you are - a Zulu tribesman?

And please don’t bore me to death by showing me yet another ‘angle’ your ‘super-genius’ younger sibling took of you throwing pebbles like a retard into the rippling pool. He / she undoubtedly deserves a worthy mention in the Mensa International.

Good for him / her. Just spare me the details!

I also do not want to know about the glorious weather you enjoyed and how deep your lady luck runs, since the weather Gods were kind upon you, and rains did not disrupt all the canoodling you had planned.

I don't mind a couple of lines, or max, a paragraph, but Gawd - don't take my polite nodding as signs of encouragement to tell me about the coconut you kept in your room as a lucky charm!!! I'd appreciate brevity, not a full blow-by-blow account of those two wonderful weeks. Frankly, you'll either leave me gagging or frothing at the mouth. And believe me when I say I don't look appealing either way...

The only pictures I like to see are those of dogs, not because I am one myself (ahem ahem), but ‘cos I love them. Don’t make an exception to this rule and try to sneak upon me some pictures of friends / cousins / kids, because if you ask me how they look, you’d better be prepared to hear my no-holds-barred chili-laced commentary.

You shouldn't even get me started on the pictures of the red-eyed retards, asses hanging out of their pyjamas, groping hands at all the wrong places, puking all the cheap alcohol they had managed to lay their paws on. I’m a democrat – so let me tell you that there are three places for such snaps –
the fireplace,
the deep sea,
or
six feet under the ground.

The same goes for pictures of men lying half-naked in hammocks, scratching their you-know-what beneath those red Santa knickers. George Clooney can’t carry off that look, pecs notwithstanding. What makes you think you can?

And since we are on the subject – perhaps it would be best to altogether skip that pic of the ten of you eyeing the complimentary buffet like a pack of hungry wolves.

Numerous interactions with people like the ones have wisened me, and now instead of an open, ‘Hey, how was your vacay,’ I leave nothing to chance, and instead put a closed ‘Bet your vacay was fun, eh!’ When the intended recipient of the question nods or replies with a ‘Yes,’ or a ‘you betcha!’ I give a high-five or slap him on the back, and move on with an enthusiastic ‘Way to Go, man!’

My ears don’t hurt, and he gets a nice sorta feeling at being asked...

Works all the time...

Go on - try it. You can't go wrong with that one.

And remember, you heard it here!

A Fate to Fade...

Barring that illegible doctor’s scrawl in the prescription, I can’t think of too many handwritings I get to see these days.

Save perhaps my Mum’s printed handwriting in one of her letters.

Or hastily scribbled forms.

Or neatly signed cheques.

But such cases are less and far in between.

Of course there was the much-publicized hand-written letter by Barrack Obama in May this year, to the openly gayelle army soldier in Missouri, pledging the repeal of the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT) law. But then, such letters fall again in the category of exception than the general rule.

After all, who does handwrite letters anymore today, you’d think?

Some years back though, the scene was quite different. At any given moment of time, when a person would be stepping out of his house, his mental check-list would have looked somewhat like this:

Home keys – check
Car keys – check
Phone (if he had one) – check
Wallet – check
Pen – check

As compared to now, where the last item invariably sees an unceremonious knock-off.

Even kids these days, would possibly raise their eyebrows questioningly in a ‘you-don’t-really-mean-that, do-you?’ stare if you were to even suggest a module in cursive writing.

In all fairness, I don’t blame them - writing could indeed be messy and time-consuming, as compared to the easier texting on a mobile phone or shooting off a few sentences in a snap of a finger (for which we have the World Wide Web to thank)). No smudging, no dipping fountain-pen-in-ink routine, no looking for pencil sharpeners / erasers, heck - not even rummaging the drawer for a refill!

And now with technologies like fingerless gloves and electrical pattern-recognized algorithms being discussed as future realities, the art of handwriting looks set to fizzle out completely.

It is poignant – this ebbing, fading trend, a trend on its way to a definite extinction…

Especially for the school / college same girl who would use pens of all makes and colors to pen down her thoughts in her distinctive, loopy handwriting, doing-up her ‘i’s’ in fancy little circles, and who has now resorted to the more ‘convenient,’ no-fuss texting in getting a thought across as quickly as possible...

As usual practicality prevails over the channel adopted…

In Memoriam: Nani Ma (1924 - 04 September 2009)

One look at my petite grandmother, and it would have perhaps been difficult to imagine that her fragile structure once housed a remarkable, razor mind, but which life had debilitated.

And now, fate has taken her away.

Nani Ma, as we fondly referred to her – ensured that on our annual winter vacations, my brother and I were sunny-tempered children – a stark contrast to the grumpy / bratty sorts back home in Dehradun. She was the reason why a certain steel chest beneath her queen-sized bed, provided the only means to quieten us down / soothe our ruffled feathers. We never saw her deposit anything – yet it housed all that our young hearts desired – toys, sticky sugar-boiled sweets, imitation mint-sugar cigarettes, comics by the dozen, chocolates, fizzy drinks, crayons and colouring material etc. Sometimes, the ‘resourceful’ twit I was, I would will my cheeks to get drenched with streaming tears – just so that she would dip into the chest and hand me a delightful treat (much to the irritation of those cousins whose lachrymal glands were sorely out of their control).

Her lap was a fortress – if you were in it, nothing could touch you – no one’s temper (no matter how justified), no silly sibling’s slapping spree (Whoa – my alliteration sure is getting better by the day), no thunderstorm, not even Mum’s stern gaze for not finishing ‘em horrid green veggies or that acutely nauseating glass of milk.

Sometimes, the same lap was also our Godsend when we didn’t want to bathe.

A hug from her, and you would be enveloped in the same delicate fragrance as her – sandalwood / rose incense, Pond’s Cold Cream, betel nut leaves, and her patented lightly scented Keo Karpin.

Her ability to cause us to break into peals of laughter, was extraordinary, to say the least. And she didn’t even have to resort to tickling!

I remember our long walks inside tea estates – me clutching her index finger trustingly, trying to fog any shiny surface with the mist from my mouth. Sometimes I would loll my tongue out in mock-exhaustion, and the very next minute would find myself perched atop someone’s shoulders. Her story-telling half hour at bedtime was a ritual on those cold nights, and once back home, I would badger my parents to continue the practice, much to their exasperation.

I guess I am no different from other grandchildren who think their grandparents will live forever.

And in the next few years, get proven wrong.

R.I.P. Nani Ma.

Our world will not be the same without you.

My (Missing) Streak of Luck

A good friend won a spanking new car yesterday.

In a lucky draw, no less.

I, on the other hand, am the current promoter of the ‘I’ll-never-win-anything-at-the-lottery/raffle/lucky-draw-club.' Come to think of it, I probably will land up as chairing it too, considering my dry spell.

People try to console me that they haven’t won anything super-cool themselves. But what can explain this good friend in another city who has a home filled with consumer durables? So what, you may ask? Heck – all these durables are items she has won in raffles and lucky draws...

So while I religiously scribble out my digits onto some random form at some dim, red-lanterned Chinese restobar, glug the occasional ‘clear’ soft drink, or the lime and lemony variation, buy ice creams by the dozen, think where all I would roam if I were to win the sleek SUV they showed in the promos, look longingly at the fun destinations that are a slogan away, scratch my talons on some scratch card, the only thing I end up with are a hundred mini-explosions in my head – as my mind has roamed a tad too far.

I do have those two moments of living vicariously through some person who I feel, got cherry picked, for some serendipitous prize, or worse a fun getaway. But the feeling subsides all too soon, and gets replaced by a ‘Why-couldn’t-it-have-been-me’ melancholy. Of course, the very next lucky dip ‘draws’ me soon, and all is forgotten, giving way to a sense of perky euphoria.

There are some times when I do win the occasional Housie / Bingo, a couple of hundreds making their way into my pocket, but the greedy lil’ pig I am, I’d probably toss my hair and wrinkle up my nose at anything less than winning at the Vegas Wheel of Fortune slot machines.

That is me.

Willing to be proven otherwise that it is not my cosmic lot in life to be unlucky...

(P)ASSWORDS

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

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

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

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

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

(Pause)

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

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

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

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

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

Not upto 'Scratch'...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s worse!

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

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

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

Ba(n)g On!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sample these...

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

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

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

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

Body feeling feverish? The strip of paracetamol is handy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From all 'Walks' of Life

While I can’t really term myself a morning person, there are those days when I do have to venture out (and not with a jug of water into the nearby bushes, as you may suppose).

And these mornings are the time that afford me with a very compelling, entertaining glimpse (and sometimes a gawk), at the diverse set of people who have taken it upon their heads to ‘walk’ their way to good health.

Walk to your neighbourhood park to know what I mean…

We’ll start with the ones with the happy walk. They exude happiness; faces flushed, and often wave out a cheery ‘Hello,’ and are returned with the same salutation. Popular, undoubtedly! They walk hurriedly, some because of the daily cab they have to catch to make it to their workplace. They could be young executives – married and otherwise, college-goers, freshly-bathed housewives who will run back to attend to their chores, grandparents. These are easily the most common people in the walking circuit.

Then you have the smart military sorts – their saddled-with-grey moustaches twitching furiously as they make the 4-minute jog around the neighbourhood park within record time. You would think they would celebrate, considering their record was maintained. Heck no – they glance at the black chronograph on their wrists, ad set out…for yet another sprint.

I call the next sorts - the ‘Jigglers’ – they jiggle their bellies, their butts, or worse – their boobs. The increase in their gait is directly proportional to the intensity with which their aforementioned body parts wiggle. One-two-jiggle-one-two-jiggle-one-two-jiggle…and so on and so forth they waddle. They often take breaks and flop on the strategically put benches, huffing and puffing, and panting to catch their breaths. They are the ones who should be given an ‘E’ for ‘Effort.’

There are also the ‘Johnny-Heads-In-Air’ – their middle names are Attitude. They take heavy steps, head held high - nothing escapes their hawk eye, and their ached eyebrows speak more than a hundred words. If they were to be walking towards you, you would be wise to make way for them. Unless you want to be a recipient of their famous (notorious?) incredulous stare, which translates loosely into – ‘Did you really mean to do that?’ Point taken! Do not mess with them.

Next are the ladies who make their way in a group. They giggle, and cackle – nudging and stumbling over each other to ensure that not a careful whisper is lost from making its way to their eagerly-lapping-up ears. Shocked looks are all too evident on their faces - when Ms. Nosy Parker gives a blow by blow account of her neighbour’s steamy escapades with So-and-So. Tittering, they exchange horrified glances, and amble leisurely for yet another round of the park – this time to discuss tamer topics like children’s education, the weather, movies, jewellery trends, the upcoming raffle party at the Club and their designer chiffons.

You also have those who look as if they have just stepped out from a swanky salon. What else could explain their not-a-hair-out-of-place appearance. They never seem to walk – floating is more like it. They never have bad hair days, zits are an alien thing for them, those annoying beads of perspiration never seem to appear on their perfectly serene faces. Hell – only the halo round their heads are missing. Or maybe, you, with your permanent pact for entering hell, are unable to see it.

The next in line are the ones who scream – ‘Look at me! I have arrived.’ And they ARE quite an eyeful. Red sneakers and anklets shake you out of your sleep, neon-green shorts are dangerously high, and the Orange tee just makes you suddenly feel very thirsty for your orangeade. iPod headfones are a permanent fixture on the ears, and a bottle of perfume has clearly marinated them. Flashy would be an understatement for them. But attention score on a scale of 0-100 – any guesses? You got it – 100! It’s hard not to see why!

You next have the ones who have a sullen, dismal look on their faces. Sometimes pensive, they have a constantly bothered look around them. Almost as if their toes are getting pinched in a size-smaller shoes. Round after round of the park makes no change to their consistently gloomy expressions. Perhaps they should take a leaf out of a social butterfly’s life, whose sole aim in life is to flash those pearlies and get clicked.

And then you have me – the ambler, taking in all the sights before me, and committing them all to memory – and thereby reserving a place for myself in hell…

Off the beaten track

Travel – the very word conjures images of never-before seen places, the sun beaming its rays on scenic landscapes, exotic food, a vast array of local eateries, a diverse crowd, currency notes of different denominations, and maybe the odd map.

Whatever it may be, and whether you choose a comfy Boeing, a humbler bus, or that perennial fixture – the rail - the excitement that builds up while making preps to set on a journey (and I mean purely one for pleasure), is unparalleled. Even my otherwise preferred pursuit of retail therapy takes a beating when it comes to travel.

Right from choosing the suitcase in which you stash your favourite faded jeans and orange-tee, to checking that your wallet has ample currency, to setting the alarm for the next day, to making arrangements for your stopover, to checking that you’ve included your phone charger / iPod / cam charger into your knapsack - is thrilling, to say the least.

So, when I change my pace tomorrow, and get out of the daily grind, and fly to be re-united with TOOMA, it sure is gonna be an exquisite, extended weekend.

Now if only I could get paid to travel. That would solve my wanderlust and ennui with one shot.

Are STA Travel and Isango listening?

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

One thing is inevitable.

People will always grumble about the weather.

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

Cut to a few months later.

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

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

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

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

And these are the only four seasons of the year.

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

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

Aren’t we a strange lot?

Me, Myself and Irony

While nothing would normally work better at getting me out of bed on a lazy Saturday morning than an 8-hour voucher at a swish spa, there are aberrations to even this rule of thumb.

Leaving TOOMA* (pleasantly) surprised and marveling at to how his generally materialistic and surgically-inoperable-from-retail-therapy wifey has a slightly altruistic side to her too.

The feeling is tough to put into words though.

After all, how is it that I get equal gratification in whipping out my wallet to make a big shopping purchase as in visiting the five orphanages and foster homes I have visited in the last 8 days?

While the two alter-egos do not wage a war inside of me, and are not necessarily representative of the characteristic good and evil that co-exist in an individual, they sure are differing, to say the least.

Most people are able to put a finger to what they term ‘philanthropy,’ or the cruder, ‘charity,’

To what is their purpose behind it.

I, for one can’t.

Maybe I’m trying to better myself.

Maybe I’m repaying a debt. An emotional one.

It’s not a financial contribution, so I can safely rule out ‘Tax breaks.’

Maybe I’m trying to impress myself.

Or make my resume look better.

Maybe I want to bring about some social change.

Spiritual practice? Nah – that’s not me! So that’s Strike Two.

Therapeutic – yeah - that's a possibility.

Maybe I feel guilty.

Or maybe I just want to stand and be counted. Whatever be the reasons, one thing is sure - espying the flagship Estee Lauder store in town that puts me into raptures, is equaled by the joy when I hold the warm, outstretched hand of an orphan.

The indescribable, exhaustive painting I draw in my mind of the zillion materialistic things I need to chase, is only paralleled by the joy I experience in seeing the colors come to life in the painstaking canvas that the afflicted-with-polio, seven-year old boy draws. His eyes are fixed on the target – at the wondrous scenery unfolding in front of him, rather than consuming his heart with pity when he looks down at his wasted legs.

And lastly, my dream of writing a column in a glamour glossy will afford me with the same contentment as will writing one on the disadvantaged, the destitute, the physically and intellectually-challenged, the browbeaten, the neglected, and the abandoned.

Dichotomous?

You bet!

Strange?

Maybe.

Credible?

You tell me.

Let's get one thing straight - they are not. So?

The recent verdict of the Delhi High Court to legalise homosexuality has opened up a veritable can of worms.

While it comes as a breather and a personal sense of triumph to gay activists, who hope it will trigger a fundamental sea of change in societal attitude towards gays, lesbians, and transgenders, and afford them a much-needed life of dignity and equal rights, all is not ‘consensual’ though.

That's hardly surprising - considering you cannot discount, disregard, and do-away with the pouring-over-with-resentment moral brigade - coughing and spitting with (un)mute indignation, their rage spilling over, making them froth at their mouths in a decidedly unseemly manner, and causing them to make statements to the tune of how these 'sick perverts' with ‘unnatural’ urges should be exiled in some faraway island which has a completely unpronounceable name.

The pride marches that were held country-wide last month –at about the same dates – must have sent the above group in a tizzy – who were probably aghast to see the week-long parades go by, without a single, untoward incident. Sniff Sniff.

Not one effigy was burnt, no saffron-robed politico’s henchmen disrupted the activists, no hate mails did the customary rounds in people's inboxes, no simmering-with-resentment flyers were seen strewn on the pavements, no venomous speeches were delivered by spluttering-with-fury ‘holy’ men. Even their erstwhile best friends – the police force – which had till now been avid opponents of such 'immoral activities,' turned a blind eye to the processions, and gave their regularly-wielded lathis some much needed rest.

And so the processions continued - some for well over a week - a few participants even doing away with the masks and colourful headgear altogether. And coming out, literally.

And now, to add insult to injury, the High Court has gone a step further, by vindicating their sworn enemies - the same, ‘unnatural’ sect, by upholding their rights and putting India as the 127th name in the list of countries that recognise homosexuality as legal.

So while some have it all 'straightened' out for them, let's just say that not all people are happy and 'gay' about the Delhi High Court's landmark verdict...

Now, isn't that a 'queer' piece of news?

Nose Dose - My Fatal Attraction

My love affair with perfumes has been around for many years now.

It all started when I, all of five / six, would sniff like an eager beaver at the exquisitely beautiful sea-green bottle of French perfume that sat prettily on my Mum’s dressing table. Evenings, when she would take her customary shower, she would sometimes spritz some of its divine contents onto her wrists, and since I would invariably be looking wistfully at her, she, the generous soul that she is, would spritz some on my wrists too. I would smile gloriously at her, the rush of the fumes reaching my nose in one long, magical moment.

Cleopatra herself had fallen victim to this addictive, heady rush.

How can you blame me, a mere child?

Now I no longer am one – a child, I mean. And the undeniable charm of stepping into a fragrance boutique is too good to defy - the heady scent enveloping me in that fatal embrace – I stall all resistance – hold out my wrists – let the whiff that came out from the glass stopper settle down, and then purse my lips into a defeated smile.

The rest is all a blur - before you can say ‘Jack Robinson’ - out come the currency notes or the plastic, in goes the sleek bottle into the bag. Once home, a grinning me promptly displays it on my already groaning-from-the-weight-of-twenty-bottles-and-still-counting dressing table. Leaving TOOMA in a state of mild despair / exasperation - his hand clapped to his forehead.

The prices are a dampener though, this flamboyant passion is anything but cheap - a good fume setting you back by a few grand, but ensuring you smell like a dream.

You'd think the cost would deter me?

Ha! Fat chance!

Certainly not me, for whom it sure is one ‘Happy’ day, full of ‘Joy,’ call it ‘Euphoria’ or ‘Rapture,’ and ‘Intense Pleasure’ when she gets a ‘Chance’ to espy a ‘Lovely,’ ‘Very Irresistible’ ‘Bright Crystal,’ bottle with maybe a ‘Touch of Pink’ to it. The feeling is akin to being at the receiving end of some very potent ‘Hypnotic Poison,’ while downing some exquisitely wonderful ‘Champagne’ in the deep throes of passionate ‘Romance,’ and it would be a ‘Miracle’ if I were to pass it up like an ‘Addict’ who is off ‘Opium,’ ‘cos frankly fumes have become a bit of an ‘Obsession,’ for me and their ‘Magnetism’ is overpowering.

Of course, that you are the ‘Envy’ when you enter a room, is enough of a headrush too!

Doesn't hurt one wee bit...

In Memoriam: Michael Jackson (August 29, 1958 - June 25, 2009)

Since the time he burst on the music scene, he had people tapping to his chartbusters, trying to replicate his inimitable moonwalking and robot technique, doing a karaoke to his high-pitched tenor.

His popularity index spanned generations – I should know – my Mum and I would both karaoke with equal gusto to his tenor (I must confess that my Mum was better).

Last night, Michael Jackson – virtuoso unparalleled, breathed his last in LA because of a fatal cardiac arrest. All attempts to resuscitate him failed.

While people loved and loathed him in equal measure, his death has no doubt dealt a crippling blow to the music industry, more so, since millions of fans were eagerly awaiting his 50 concert performances – a musical extravaganza called This Is It, scheduled to begin from July 13, '09, continuing well into March 2010, at London’s hip O2 arena.

Many called him Jacko the Wacko, troubled crooner, bizarre, creepy paedophilic, one who was at constant loggerheads with his roots (many cosmetic surgeons from LA would vouch for this), and a celebrated ‘success’ at ‘failed’ marriages and relationships.

While opinions may vary, one fact remains though - Michael Jackson was, and will remain forever - the undisputed King of Pop.

R.I.P.

We will mss you.

Kissing a much-loved TGI Friday's Good-Bye

My first memories of TGIF are of my skipping along Connaught Place’s Inner Circle, playing with the columns, and standing to stare outside a bar (at that time, we were unfamiliar with the words pub / watering holes / lounge), painted in red and white stripes.

Music wafted from the inside, as did a delicious aroma of what were probably potatoes in melted cheese. Slurrrrrrp! A steady stream of tourists kept stepping in, affording me a better look into the interiors – a fascinating place with wooden floors, red and white table cloths, bartenders with cocky hats taking orders merrily, colourful posters on the walls and very exciting-looking drinks.

The notice outside the bar which stated sternly that minors weren’t allowed, and the admonishments by my parents to get my nose (which was pressed against the bar’s tinted windows) away, were two primary reasons that accounted for my melancholic face, a face that continued to droop till the time we entered the more ‘tame’ Nirulas, and the pull of the Hot Chocolate Fudge took over, overruling my initial resentment at being whisked away from the object of my Peeping Tom-ism.

However, I didn’t forget TGIF.

Not for once.

Circa – first year of college -1998. Four girls walked jauntily into TGIF, CP, well remembering to carry their college IDs lest the bartenders or the management wanted to check their eligibility to enter the pub. Smart move! As they did check. Thankfully, all of us had already celebrated our respective 18th birthdays. And we weren't turned away, as was the similar-aged group which tried to enter around the same time, but their lack of IDs turned out to be the dampener. Too bad for 'em!

As we took in the interiors and the customary hats and boots, wide-eyed, one thing caught our eye – the shiny, whacky buttons that the bartenders wore on their uniforms. The friendly bartender guessed it was our first time there - we looked the average college-goers who didn't have too much money to spare, and for him we were probably just a group of hood-rich teenagers.

He very kindly suggested we wouldn’t be disappointed if we tried the Mozzarella Sticks. We weren’t. And I also suspect he put in a few extra pieces for us (God bless his soul), as the bloke who ordered for the same at the next table, got a smaller serving than us. Our very first Screwdrivers didn't let us down either, though they did reinstate our having scraped our pocket allowances to be able to afford our treat’ there.

From that day, we were hooked!

Of course the regular visits began only when we started earning, and didn’t have to pinch pennies to down a drink there.

The memories are the sorts that one cannot forget in a hurry.

Like the time I celebrated a birthday there once, and it became lovelier, thanks to the FREE FREE FREE finger-licous chocolate cake by the management (they did check my ID to verify it really was my birthday). And the merry song-and-dance routine by the bartenders that accompanied the cake.

Or the time when a totally-sloshed me, knelt in front of a hugely-embarrassed bartender at TGIF, Basant Lok, begging him for one of his badges. (I’d like to think it was my persistence that paid off, as he handed me not one, but two of ‘em – my friends begged to disagree though, citing various reasons for his having done so, the most frequently-cited one being his unwillingness to grapple with a half-crazed, high-on-energy (read drowned in Long Island Iced Tea) chick.

Or the time when a friend, much to my horror, spilled the last of the ‘Buy-One-Ger-One-Free’ Happy Hours tequilas, and we couldn’t spend on more. Fingers were pointed, scowls were exchanged, and the management – taking pity on us, gave us a free one.

Or the time when yet another friend decided to notch up his experimenting quotient by ditching his customary scotch on the rocks for an Everclear cocktail, a move that let’s just say, ended on a sour note, my clothes being soaked in puke that would make a skunk proud. Oh, and did I mention that fine detail that it was winter?

Or the time when a good friend, very very partial to her Strawberry Daiquiri, kept giggling throughout the course of our hour-and-a-half time there, much to the curiosity (and then amusement) of the patrons sitting nearby.

Or the time when my friends and I would wait outside patiently for the clock to strike 5pm, and then step inside to be able to get one-on-one Mojitos. Hey, we are smart, not cheap! Grrrr!

And now, I hear that the TGIF in Basant Lok looks ready to follow in the footsteps of the CP one, which closed sometime back. It is downing its shutters this Monday - June 22, to reopen in one of ‘em dime-a-dozen malls in Vasant Kunj.

While this may not exactly be in the nature of a national calamity or bring the roof crashing down on my head, it does move me.

Quite a bit.

Since I associate TGIF, especially the one in Basant Lok, with very very fond, sloshed memories.

So while many people, including hubby dear, call it a commercially-hyped establishment, one where there is no VFM (Value For Money), where the red and white stripes only induce a dizzying effect (and the dim lights don’t help much either), and flagging a bartender makes flagging a cab down in a congested area a cakewalk – I still remain a staunch loyalist.

After all, how can I forget, among other things, it was TGIF that invented the Long Island Iced Tea and Loaded Potato Skins.

Besides coining that word which brings a smile to our lips – ‘Happy Hours!’

'Dream' On!

Most of us might have dreams.

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

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

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

That most people dream – that is a given.

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

Dreams. And which colour they appear to us in.

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

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

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

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

Much to everyone’s amusement and / or astonishment.

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

What about you?

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

The Dr. Do-littles

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

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

His / her nod was all the encouragement you needed.

Lo and Behold!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It gets better.

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

Sample this:

Have a headache and fever, do you?

Hey, try this medicine called 'Nice.'

(Sigh) Old habits seldom die.

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

Do you too?

Who's Bad?

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

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

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

The list is endless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does it?

The Battle of the 'Arch'-rivals

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Petty Betty?
Or Ron the Con?

You decide.