Breathing down your neck

Akin to a dragon who is spewing orangey-ginger flames, almost singing your hair – such feels the breath of people who breathe down your neck. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

And boy! Isn’t it wildly annoying?!

Irrelevant of whether a boss does it to you, making you feel like the most-wanted-criminal-who-just-got-caught-and-must-now-be-escorted-to-the-gallows; or a nosy Parker who edges closer to you at a party to look down your ermm…twin assets; to the person elbowing you exasperatingly while you stand in line at a relatively-uncrowded multiplex to purchase tickets to the new flick that is playing – most of us have been there, i.e. been at the receiving end of such excruciating torture, an inordinate urge to skin, or better still, strangle the life out of that creep.

But we don’t.

Instead we shuffle our feet awkwardly, hoping the infuriating dolt gets the hint. Or give a sheepish, watery smile, and take two paces backwards, hoping he would follow suit. Fat chance! Even if you do move two spaces rearward, he would walk two spaces – FORWARD.

Making you grit your teeth in sheer frustration.

Quite some time back, I ticked-off a woman at work who would stand too close for comfort, almost breathing down my neck – making me feel extremely uncomfortable, and crotchety. Not only did she invade my personal space but she also brought me within arm’s length (pun intended) to that demon who can read one’s soul. So while she would talk to me with a soul-stare, I would shuffle my feet awkwardly, invoking all the Gods from above to bring the blessed conversation to an end.

The ticking-off went off worse than anticipated. She was clueless about the existence of such a phrase as ‘personal space.’ Accused me of being a mean, icy-hearted woman. And topped it all off with a teary-eyed outburst.

I ran as fast as my feet could.

It goes without saying that that was the last day she talked to me (and Thank God for that).

Wish life were as simple as ticking off a person.

At the unrivalled way I can tell off people, my life would definitely be the least bumpy.

Accidental Husbands?

Bred on a healthy diet of Mills & Boons, TV soaps, glossy magazines, what you will – women, despite being privy to the completely transformative nature of marriage, were only too happy to trade-in their shopping bags for ones stuffed with groceries. And their designer togs for kiddie-stuff.

The same did not hold true for men though.

They would raise eyebrows at the very mention of matrimony (which they said sorta rhymed with monotony), and cited a zillion reasons about how they would rather cut off their third left finger than sport that tell-tale band, or a sparkling diamond around it (designed as a conspiracy no doubt by them darned Tiffany's, Cartiers, and Harry Winstons – to invite sniggering looks and barely-concealed gleeful chuckles and nudges).

You had to give it to them – their reasons ranged from:

a) The logical – I wanna earn my own pair of wheels, a fat bank balance, and own apartment before I decide to get hitched)
b) The crude - to-get-a-pail-of-milk-why-should-you-buy-the-whole-cow theory
c) The (un)realistic – I'm (sigh) still looking for that (elusive) Miss Right. Till then lemme make do with all the Miss Right-Nows
d) The Nostradamus-sorts – Marriages lead to divorce. And expensive alimony. And yet more expensive child support. So avoid Step 1 – marriage. At all costs
e) The carefree – I'm a social butterfly. Plus I have no social / familial pressure to get married (knock on the wooden-wine-cork). You want me to give up all this, and don those rings, that (shudder) look to me like miniature handcuffs (and not the naughty ones. The kinds they use at Scotland Yard). You kidding, righto? No? (sheeesh)
f) The rigid and / or fearful – I can't change. I can't compromise. Marriage will force me to change. And compromise. That is not acceptable to me. So tht means, marriage is not acceptable to me. Well, at least, not right now. But yes, if Angelina Jolie / Catherine Zeta Jones were to ever split from Pitt / Douglas, they should keep our numbers on speed dial. We'll pick at the first 'ring' (pun intended)
g) The career-driven ambitious sorts - I'm very involved in my career right now. Cracking deals. Forging associations and contacts. Making bullet-proof strategies. Blah Blah Blah. It wouldn't be fair of me to marry. I wouldn't be able to give undivided attention to my wife. She would be resentful of the other woman in my life - my Blackberry. So let me step-up the corporate ladder first. And then maybe I can take steps towards marriage.

Lies. All the above.

The only reason that men shied away from marriage is that they want to enjoy single life. Each moment of it. As long as they can. Till some ambitious woman drags him, maybe by issuing an ultimatum, to that most-dreaded place – the aisle.

Where the next day, after the effects of the reception alcohol has worn off, he sits in the loo, a dazed look on his face giving way to a much-horrified one, staring sullenly at the tell-tale band on his third finger.

And the previous day's ceremonies come flashing by his mind, in blurred, and then, vivid sparks.

And the enormity of his step dawns upon the just-coming-to-his-senses guy.

Not any more.

A role reversal is very evidently in place, with today’s men hankering after commitment. Marriage. Grocery shopping. Mother-in-laws. Kids. Pesky relatives. The works.

They are ready to give all the above a shot.

While their female counterparts, hitherto the vulnerable lot, have taken it upon themselves to postpone their wedding diaries, pooh-poohing those who drop meaningful, sarcasm-dripping comments along the lines of the biological clock ticking away, yada yada.

Face it - today’s women are a fussier lot. I am one. I should know.

However, what happened to the erstwhile lot of men who believed truly in doing the I-stick-my-tongue-at-those-who-point-out-I-should-marry routine?

What I don’t know however is why today’s men so unashamedly admit, unlike some years back, that they NOW want to trade-in their beers, TV remotes, sports channels and tirade-laced car chases with the donkey up front for something so mundane like holding Merlot (if they are lucky, that is, or perhaps just wallow in self pity, what with the drab glass of orange juice staring them in the face), holding diapers and rattles, looking agitatedly at mind-numbing TV soaps (ok ok, I’m painting it too bad), and driving without uttering any colorful phrase.

Miracle? I think not.

Curious – I certainly am.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth

So the other day, after an excruciating 9 hour-something stretch of work, even the bumpy ride home in my office cab couldn’t keep me from putting my head back on the seat and (wobbly ride notwithstanding) trying to grab some much-needed shut-eye.

So when, a little over an hour later, the vehicle dropped bleary-eyed me to my residence, I could scarcely keep myself from closing my eyes. After the pain-in-the-rear ascending the stairs (which I managed to totter through like a tipsy gypsy), a quick dinner, some sweet-nothings on the phone with TOOMA - and I was ready to call it a day.

The bed beckoned invitingly, and sure enough, I was off to sleep in a trice.

Holy Cow!!!!

What in the name of all that is merciful, WAS that!?

As I woke up with a start, I couldn’t help but grit my teeth and spout unpublishable-names for my second-floor neighbours, who had taken it upon themselves to do a dummy run of their undoubtedly new idiot box / sound system.

And boy! Could the darn thing screech!

As I rubbed my knees and invoked the names of all the names of the deities I could recollect to calm myself down, and try to return to slumberland, some stray thoughts of revenge did cross my mind. After all, midnight is hardly a time to sound out your new woofers.

And it’s not that it was the first time. So forgiveness was really not on the cards. This was unpardonable.

To cut matters short, I hiked the blanket over my ears, muttered some more cussing remarks which included doing some unmentionable acts with one’s sister, and slept with both ears plugged.

The very next morning, a throbbing headache announced its arrival, and bore stark testimony to the unforgivable act perpetrated by them pesky neighbours below.

I sought refuge in the arms of one of my most dependable friends – the World Wide Web. And guess, what I found?

Aptly named, ‘Revenge CD,’ this $8 CD is bound to make your pesky neighbours sit up, and take notice.

Besides rue about the day they disturbed your sleep. Cos they would get none now.

The 20 tracks on the CD are bound to haunt and distress them to the very core. And serve the pests right.

The manufacturers have even included a pair of handy earplugs, so that, when your neighbours are squealing in despair / horror / disgust / irritation / what have you, and hunting you to throttle and / or shoot you, you can just sit back, with your feet up, and enjoy languorous sips from your trusty hip-flask.

Just in case this kind of vendetta is just up your street (I read you right - you DO have that streak of sadism in you - full marks to me), let me tickle you some more by telling you what these annoying 20 tracks are.

In no particular order, here they are: Drill, House Party, Orgasm, Train, Drum, High Heels, Cat in Heat, Doors Banging, Towering Rage, Unhappy Dog, Violin Practice, Traffic Jam, Garbage Truck, New Born, Phone Ringing, Ball Game, Pigeons, Spring Cleaning,Cock-A-Doodle-Doo.

Ohh, did I forget to perhaps mention Inhuman Screams?

Pure genius, I tell you *(Devil grin)*

Get it here.

Your neighbours wouldn't forget you in a hurry.

Testing times

While next month is a happy one for me, it couldn’t be more far from the truth for some. And I guess I speak for quite a few students who will be writing their school / college examinations.

Examinations. Arghhhh. That dreaded word that was the sole reason I couldn’t finish my novels and Cosmopolitan (the magazine, silly) at the time I would have liked to. Many were the occasions when I had to unwillingly drag my eyes from the beckoning, glossy pages, to those that promised a worthy mention on the report card / mark sheet.

And when the morning would dawn bright and clear, worried, creasing foreheads would emerge out of rooms that had not been slept in, the previous night, and bleary-eyed students would march, some with sheepish, apologetic faces, to the examination hall.
While some would make their way straight to their designated roll-numbered-chalked-desks, there would be others who would stand outside, looking at the multitude of fellow-students, some of whom were identical in terms of preparation and anxiety levels.

Off the top of my head, the follow are some marvels you are bound to see in / near an examination hall:

• The cool as a cucumber sorts – handing around mints or gum to all who came near, these were the ones who put the ‘C’ in confident. Whether they were prepared for the writing war that lay ahead, or were just doing a darn neat job of imitating – that was ambiguous. To make matters worse, they had even taken out time to brush their glossy manes, apply some gloss, slap on moisturiser (and perhaps even an SPF 30 sunscreen), and remembered to spritz perfume. These are the ones most looked upon at with envy by their classmates

• The-I-have-nails-will-bite-them category – gloomy-faced, these anxious souls chewed whatever was left of their gnawed-nails. Besides kissing the sacred black thread a million times.
Ditto for the evil-eye bracelet.
And the picture of the ‘good luck’ deity
And the little figurine of the Goddess of learning
Needless to say, their confidence level was at their bottom, and any word you might put to them could be the cause of them dissolving into heart-rending tears

• The ashen face ones – looking the mix of a wet puppy and a child whose candy had been snatched, these sorts make you feel almost sorry for them. So much so that you are tempted to hand them a rag cloth. Or maybe some chocolate

• The hearts-aflutter kinds – one look at these constantly gulping sorts, and a giggle is bound to escape from you. They look as if they have swallowed a frog, and obviously, do not like the lingering taste in their mouths. Forever edgy, they look at you out of striking, startled eyes, while for the life of them trying to fathom why you could be so cheerful

• The smug bug sorts – easily the most hated of the lot, these ones have a constantly scornful smile plastered over their sardonic faces. If you look a little closer, what you actually make out to be a thin smile playing along their lips, is actually a half-smirk lurking in the background. A smirk which you would love to club to death – the little twit deserves a hard spanking (and not in the naughty sense of way)

• The crammer – He is the one who religiously attended classes, the obsessive notes-taker, his pen furiously scribbling in a secret handwriting only he could discern. Such was his dedication to attendance that he would even make a prompt appearance on the days when all had decided to mass-bunk (to catch the movie-of-the-year). Needless to say, he would be the butt of ridicule and scorn for the rest of the year. But who cares. He will take some extra credit from the Prof, earning yet more murderous stares from his mates. This kind is also the one to fill page-upon page of continuation sheets, oblivious to the abusive mutters of those who can barely fill-in the first four sheets

• The loo-natic – With a bladder that threatens to burst every five minutes or so (courtesy their interminable uneasness), these sorts are easily distinguishable by their proneness to stand next to the nearest wash room. Their proximity to a washroom is directly proportional to when they have to answer nature’s call (urge within 2 minutes = five paces, urge within 5 minutes = 12 paces, you get the drift, right). Hugging their tummies, standing on one leg, à la cranes, they are top contenders for participating in the 100-metre dash. Heck, they even stand a chance of winning

• The born-with-a-joke-in-his-mouth – a radically different sorts, he fancies himself a mix between Birbal (from Akbar’s court) and Touchstone (from Shakespeare’s As You Like It. Except that his jokes fall flat on these days, his (usual) audience resembles a trickling number, and instead of the mandatory applause and chuckles, has to make-do with snarls, unkind shoves, and loud ‘Oh-shut-up-please’ rebukes
No points for guessing, I would be the one standing outside, looking at the above specimens.

Which category did you / do you fall in?

And which kind do you think I was? Besides being the one with the alternating-between-amusement-and-resentment facce?

(Un)happy hours

The world’s largest democracy was dealt a disgraceful slap, when just two days before its 60th Republic Day, a self-appointed moral brigade roughed up some patrons at a popular watering hole in Mangalore.

The audacity of the attack! Only women patrons were targeted.

So, besides henna, kohl, and bindis, Indian women were ‘blessed’ with another ornamental piece – the black-eye.

The group of 40 attackers, who claim affiliation to a fundamentalist, right-wing Hindu group, Sri Ram Sena, asserted that they had received complaints from the public, and were only protecting their ‘mothers and daughters,’ insisting that those beaten up, richly deserved so, indulging as they were in depraved activities, and going against our ‘rich heritage and culture.’

I belong to the same culture, and I’d like to know which of the Holy Scriptures instructs these so-called ‘God-men’ to mishandle woman and outrage their modesty.

Calling themselves keepers of religion and culture, these hooligans took the law into their hands, punching and pulling the hair of the unfortunate women. Emboldened by the fear that surrounds the victims, some of whom have received threatening calls, and playing upon the psyche of thousands others, they have also issued ultimatums for the approaching Valentine’s Day.

Quite a few glowing testimonials, you'd agree, won't you?

Misbehaviour is not unfamiliar with the Sena, which, last year, vandalised an exhibition of M.F. Husain’s paintings in New Delhi, besides targeting fashion shows, and ransacking and damaging the central office of a political party.

All the while, religion becomes a politicised issue, yet again. And politicians, they of the glib tongues, folded hands and handcrafted clothes, shake their heads in mock-disbelief, promising that the perpetrators would be seriously dealt with.

However, the next day will dawn bright and clear, and the very same politicos will fold their hands yet again, ascending the steps to another jet that will fly them into the welcome, beckoning arms of an alluring, foreign nation – one where they can ‘afford’ (at our expense) to forget all these trifling troubles.

My blood is boiling.

Mehendi Monday / Holiday Henna

Coming from a person who couldn’t agree more that the ultimate turn off was the sight of henna-ed hands (or that mop of carroty-red unruly hair atop any person’s head), yours truly has gone ahead with a complete mindset re-programming.

So all other times - five instances (to be precise), I have surrendered to henna on my hands, but not without first putting up my best show at aversion.

But a couple of days back, I got a moss-green blob of henna applied to the centre of my left palm.

The green concoction.
The grassy smell (that have always abhorred)
The henna cone working its way merrily on my palm
And surprise...

I did not even utter a squeak. Let alone squawk.

After about three hours, I even went a step ahead, applying a well known cold-salve onto it (guaranteed to make the colour turn a richer shade of gingery-orange). Talk about a role reversal at its best (or worst)?

Though I admit I did generously spritz my most preferred EDP on my palm, it’s still a long way for me to have come.

Next step – applying henna to my hair in ten years?

Nahh. I think not.

And thank God for small mercies. Amen.

Tequila - a girl's new best friend

While I didn’t exactly go on vacation, my mind has been ‘out of office’ literally.

I snap back to reality, to stay true to at least one of my Resolutions (to write this blog).

Seems like I may have just bumped into my true calling in life.

Drinking.

And getting paid for it.

Ha!

I bet your face turned that unappealing shade of emerald, didn’t it?

Well, don’t quite furrow your forehead yet. There is still some time to go. Before people like me manage to pull it off.

From the country that gave us chocolate (God bless 'em), Santana, Salma Hayek (lemme hand out a tissue to TOOMA to wipe the drool off his mouth), hammocks, sombreros, guitars, and the salsa, here’s another first.

Scientists at a University in Mexico are waking up to the charms of Mexico’s most famous liquor besides Tepache – tequila! No kidding!

The spirit that calls the ‘shots’ in just about any party, just got a stamp. Of approval.

From those hard-to-be-pleased-specimens, no less - women! (I should know. I am one).

The reason is clear.

Tequila contains hydrogen, oxygen, and carbon in the exact proportion required...to form diamonds.

So you apply the requisite amount of extreme heat (I’m talking over 800 degrees C/1400 degrees F) till the liquor vaporises, cooling the particles, settling them upon trays in an even layer...and voila! You have those sparklies.

Not very big ones for jewellery purposes. But sparklies all the same.

Neat, innit?

Now if only that University is taking in applications.

You do know who’s registering, don’t you?

Though I'm not too sure if I prefer diamonds over hic-hic sessions.

Read the full story here.

Cheers to more Tequila Sunrises. Hic!

What's your vacation breaking-news style?

The idea of a vacation is a sure-shot way to get someone to smile. Maybe even clap.

The people at work are no exceptions...

While some do their individual versions of Cheshire-cat grins when they leaf through the travel glossies, there are quite a few variants too...

So you have the ones who will do the Heyy-I-have-a-spring-under-my-rear jump rendition the minute they book their tickets online or when their travel agent hands them the ticket to their preferred destination.

You also have the ones who will air-guitar in triumph when the Bog B (the Boss) gives them the highly-awaited go-ahead green signal for that long leave...

Then you have the ones who will do the Brett-Lee fist-paroxysm-of-joy, made famous by that absolutely dishy, impish Australian bowler.

Some have been known to take out the ancient war-cry of a long forgotten African tribe which heralds its victory over another.

There are yet others who sigh in relief, and look around with that tired I-richly-deserved-a-break look (These ones annoy the shit out of me, and serve the same purpose as a laxative, proving themselves as strong competitors to the Isabgols and Phosposodas of the world).

Next are those who will make full use of the company phone, and holler into the unsuspecting ears of every friend they can manage to get on the phone, about how the blue-green waters of the resort pool they were going to visit, reminded them so much of the favourite pair of contact lenses the friend favored. Under such circumstances, can you blame it if the phone network jams all of a sudden, and after the phone getting disconnected, it is impossible to get through to the same number again?

You also have those who take a printout of a countdown calendar, and place it strategically near themselves. Making it a point to fish out their red felt-tipped sketch pens and neatly cross out that day’s date. And all this is done only you pass by their desk. After crossing out the date, they will then deign to confer their total attention on you. By then, your face is one shade short of freshly-picked spinach. And to make matters worse, you’ve forgotten why you had walked up to him in the first place. Leaving you green, hot, and very very flustered.

Next in line are those who are about to embark on their dream vacays. However, you wouldn’t know that. ‘Cos they will tell you all about Greek baklava and babes only when they return from Greece. And all this while you were commiserating that probably he was recuperating from a bout of some serious ailment. While the son of a gun was busy frolicking on the sun-kissed beaches...

Lastly, you have me, who goes into vacay mode the minute she:

o Opens her ‘Out of Office’ window
o Types in those ecstasy-inducing-in-her words about her upcoming absence at work
o Flutters her eyelashes at the monitor, air-kissing it in relief, and
o Sails out, a free bird….For her much-awaited trip.

S-W-E-E-T

At the back of my mind

The heart is always at the heart of attention, the face facing an acceptable due on most days, hands clap and call out unashamedly for attention, shoulders have shouldered a fair amount of importance-quotient, the chest heaves with a singular life of its own, heck, face it – even the legs have legged it out on the popularity charts...

Leaving us to turn our backs on one of the most neglected parts of the human anatomy – the back.

Unless of course you are cursed with a weak back thanks to some injury, and do not want to aggravate the pain further, in which case you are confined to a life of back strengthening exercises and fingers pressing at the point where the groans come most from...

While the back is one of the hottest parts of a person’s body, it is relegated colloquially, denoting a less than positive connotation – be it in terms of turning one’s back on someone, stabbing someone in the back, backing off, delivering a back-handed compliment, have your back against the wall, like water off a duck’s back. My weight is like a monkey on my back. And by not giving it some serious thinking-over, I am just making a rod for my own back. And if I someday, I make my way into a glitzy mall and fail to find clothes my side, well, what can I say – that it will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

And no, TOOMA* is certainly not going to give me a pat on my back…he is magnanimous with me, but he would also certainly not give me the shirt off his back...

The beauty industry - that sparkling, glittering, dazzling industry – has also taken a back seat with the back. So while you have pretty models paid mini-fortunes to do the rub-a-dub-dub routine by way of cleansing-toning-moisturizing, in various print and on-air commercials, the same sadly cannot be said about the back, which currently seems to be on the back burner.

We do need more celebs along the lines of Rihanna, Angelina Jolie, Megan Foxx, Christina Ricci, who are celebrated for their backs, besides the obvious, and bands like 50 Cents that have bought Sexy Back (Sorry Timberlake).

In all these years, not that I am a fan of the idiot box, I don’t recall a single advert which celebrate the back...

Maybe it’s high time they did.

Are Estee Lauder, Shiseido, Chambor, Ann Sui, Elizabeth Arden sitting up and taking note?

Closer home, is Lakme listening?

*TOOMA - The Object Of My Affection

Wishes for a warm 2009

Amidst much fanfare and high spirits (literally), the New Year finally descended upon TOOMA and me.

While I sleepwalked the first few hours in a drunken stupor, I couldn’t help but remember what someone has told me many many years back –what you do on the first day of the year, you do for the most of the remaining year.

I sure hope not.

As the biting chill cut across to my very bone, I shivered inspite of the warm black hood shirt that enveloped me protectively. A spinning head and a dull, throbbing ache, bore sharp testimony to the incessant liquid that ran through my veins, instead of the usual crimson blood.

Hitting the dance floor non-stop certainly hadn’t helped either.

As flashbacks of my antics with perfect strangers painfully crossed my mind, numbing me into a near-state of horror / disbelief / utter mortification / remorse, I silently gave the thumbs down to any plans of ever mixing spirits, nixing them in favour of showing steadfast loyalty to one, or at a max, two preferred brands.

On that guilty-as-charged note, let me wish you all a ‘spirited,’ warm, joyous and prosperous 2009.

Hic hic.

Actions speak louder than words: New Year Resolutions - 2009

With 2008 speeding away, I thought I would do a volte-face.

So this time, instead of sticking up at nose at New Year Resolutions, I decided to make a few to hold on to in the coming year.

Only time would tell if I have set myself up for failure. Or if success does come in my stride...

In no particular order (or implementation due date), hear them out.

In 2009, I will:

 Not roll my eyes or look condescendingly when people don’t understand a joke that I just cracked
 Stop wearing too much makeup. Only some gloss, mascara, and maybe a liner, and I should be ready to roll
 Learn how to drive. And cook. A car and food respectively. Instead of driving people up the wall and cooking sarcastic comments
 Get a French Connection. And not by ordering French bread. Learn the language
 Eat less junk food. And exercise. And get into a couple of sizes smaller jeans(Difficulty level – Highest. Multiplied by 10)
 Not song binge. Instead of listening to the same song over and over again, I will change the track. Or the CD
 Keep my room clean. Instead of it looking like a mix between a pigsty and something the rats broke into
 Participate in this year’s marathon
 Stop eating Maggi for dinner. On a regular basis. Smack my lips and gulp down some dal instead
 Stop buying yet more facewashes that I don’t use. Or creams. Or clips. Or nail enamels. Or mints. Or chewing gums. Or wet face tissues...
 Not cuss loudly when some bugger’s cell phone blares the latest Bollywood track in the theatre. Will just prettily show him the middle finger. Or cast a murderous look. Might work better
 Stop being a scrapdealer and give away old magazines, clothes, makeup, and footwear I have hoarded over time
 Not burst into laughter when I see a person walk by me, wearing something in neon green. Or anything that has all the colours of the rainbow. Or who looks like a bejewelled Christmas tree
 Improve my memory. And not forget people’s names. It’s embarrassing
 Write more letters to my Mother
 Watch at least some TV. So that when people discuss what’s playing on air, I can throw in a word or two. Instead of blinking rapidly / scratching my head / smiling blankly. Or worse – moving away from them to a corner
 Not become a shrieking idiot even when anyone says that my college may not be the absolute best, contrary to what I think
 Be open to criticism. Instead of pretending that it’s alright, but sulk later in my room
 Make more trips. Physical ones. Not ego trips
 Look TOOMA straight in the eyes, cup his face in my palms, and utter those three words on a more regular basis. And see him melt…
 Buy a white T-shirt. Instead of yet another black one
 Watch Godfather. And Rambo. And Rocky. And Pirates of the Caribbean. And Lord of the Rings. Bourne series. All parts
 Whiten my teeth
 Take more leaves from work. And sleep at home
 Learn to accept that not every lustworthy shoe / bag / perfume is for me
 Watch all movies starring George Clooney. Mmmmmm....
 Not wear un-ironed clothes and look like a ragpicker. Will pick up the darn steam-iron, and iron them
 Not average more than one perfume in 3 months. And stick to it
 Read more
 Not fight with people close to me
 Learn a new language (optional). Other than monkey-speak, that is
 Text less over the phone. Ditto for mindless yapping (Difficulty Level – High)
 Wear the two Levis caps I bought. And sock any of my friends who giggle when I do
 Not tell the same stories at get-togethers. Or the same stale jokes
 Buy a camera. And shoot the world
 Not show all my pearlies by breaking into a Cheshire cat grin everytime someone clicks my pic. It’s perfectly alright not to show all 32 of them in every pic
 Not bite my nails. Long nails look classier. Besides looking pretty when painted. Period
 Be less bitchy. And less superficial
 Get regular trims. Instead of cribbing about split ends
 Kill every mosquito that buzzes near me
 Not leave a job unless I complete at least a year and a half there. Which means that this year I am not changing my job
 I will not pet every dog who wags his tail at me
 Shed weight. And keep it off
 Save money
 Stick to my having kicked the butt
 Drink less alcohol
 Not wait till 4 o’clock on weekends to take a shower
 Not pretend to listen to boring stories when I can barely keep my eyes open. Will yawn and snore. Or politely move away
 Learn Excel and PowerPoint. And learn them Goddamned well
And lastly,
 Keep blogging

Saving the best for the last...

Yesterday, as I sat with a friend at a warm Pizza Hut, the only tell-tale things that bore testimony to the quick meal we had just wolfed through, were dregs of mushroom soup in two bowls, and an odd olive from the salad.

Oh yes, and a full cheese tortilla slice.

Both of us eyed it, asking the other if she felt like it. Both answered in the negative.

Eventually, I broke it into two, proffering one part to her.

End of story?

Not quite.

How many times have we sat across a table with friends, measuring how that last scrumptious piece of pie will melt in your mouth, but for general courtesy’s sake, refrained from reaching out for it?

On more occasion than one, for me at least.

As the last finger-smacking kebab piece cries loudly to be picked and placed on your plate, you look around, hoping someone would offer the same for you.

You are in luck.

Someone suggests just that, and after feigning the correct amount of reluctance (read: I’m-so-full-I-couldn’t-possibly-eat-another-morsel routine), you shake your head, daintily using the fork to deposit the nibble onto your filled-with-onions-and-mint-dip plate.

You pause – and then place the savoury appetizer on the tip of your tantalised tongue.

Pure bliss.

Reaching out for that last delectable McDonald's French fry is not about gluttony.
For me, it’s sometimes saving-the-best-for-the-last mindset that makes me wanna reach out, but on almost all occasions, I desist from doing so.

What transpires in the heads of people when they want to help themselves to the last serving, but don’t?

Is it embarrassment? Awkwardness? A nagging fear of ridicule? Fear of being branded a human version of the Hungry Hippo?

What’s your take?

Drop me a line...

For crying out 'loud'

Since when is it ok to shout over your phone?

Continuing upon my (extensive) list of pet peeves is yet another – obnoxious people who will insist upon you hearing every gory detail about the lame-assed manager they have been cursed with, that erm..little problem that is affecting someone in THAT area, what they ate for dinner the previous night, what conversation they had with the hot neighbour, what you will. No matter how much you want to ignore them, you can't.

Their louder than louder voices ensure that each bit of their conversation faithfully breezes into your reluctant ears.

Leaving you looking like a mix between a flaming tomato and the exact crimson shade of the Persian rug that sits prettily in your aunt's sitting room. Smoke drifts out from your ears and nose, and you have woken up to the thrills of snorting like the stout buffalo from the Spanish matador's nightmare.

You decide that being a murderer is just not your style, and instead just concentrate on perfecting that that unbecoming scowl on your face.

You can't help but grin you teeth in annoyance when random people holler into their phones as if it is one of two cans held with a string, the kinds that children play with.

I wince each time they increase their decibel, wishing there was a tank or a pond nearby into which I could drown their phone, or better still, they.

While I am tempted to repeat their conversation word for word as they are in the middle of it, my gumption encourages me not to work upon that original plan. Instead I clear my throat impatiently, an abrupt cough rising to the occasion, raise my perfectly-arched eyebrow and give them a death-stare, the kind that always works well.

Except in this case, sometimes it doesn't, and those people who should probably have had silencers fitted into their throats in the first place, also need to invest in a pair of hearing-aids, since they are seemingly oblivious to my (loud) exaggerated cough / clearing my throat.

Which leaves me with the last option…

Now where did I leave my sturdy mahogany cane?

Biting the bullet (literally)!

Of course, it's a fact that everyone wants to wreck their car(s).

Want to sabotage yours?

Simple. Take your home keys, and drag it across the sides, ensuring that the entire front to back gets equally scraped. Then step back, wipe the perspiration off your brow, and enjoy the admirable vandalism you have committed.

Too extreme for you? Chicken, eh?

Then look no further than decal vinyl stickers, all the rage these days, and freely available at stores worldwide.

Taking the world of customising cars by storm. To a new high altogether.

Of course, this is what every car owner wants – giving the impression that he is a badass gangster whose 4 x 4 has been riddled by bullets from a .50 or a .20, isn't it?

And oh boy! Is this fad popular! You bet! How else in the world would you explain the 4 cars that zipped past me last week, their exteriors proudly emblazoned with these 100% vinyl stickers, the hot wheels looking as if they have had more than their share of gunshots?

They look so real that unless you touch them, you wouldn't be able to tell them apart from, let's say, the real deal at the unfortunate Jallianwala Bagh wall.

Ingenious? No other word comes close to it...

Psst – can't locate a store? Fear not. Place an order online. There are a horde of websites who will only be too happy to assist you in making you look like a lame Alphaghetto. Go ahead – it isn't tacky or lame at all - Bullet1, Bullet Hole Decals, oh come on, even Prank Place has them.

Now admit it - isn't that exactly the kind of uniqueness and trendy fashion you were looking for in the first place? (Cheshire cat grin)

TOOMA* was visibly horrified to see a Safari whizzing past his own plain vanilla Accent, rolling his eyes at what he claimed was an 'eyesore.' Being his ever-wise gurl, I woke him up to the entire 'chic fashion statment' theory, exlaining that this was exactly what I called flaunting the 'right' 'With-It,' and with that, we let the subject drift to other light topics.

An enterprising poll on one such site asks readers to adjudge if applying decals that look like Bullet Holes to their cars, sends across a bad message promoting violence, or if it's cool? I voted for the former (as did 23.5% who agreed with me), but the remaining whopping 76.3% stated it looked cool and was for fun.

I mean, Foolish ol’ me! I should have had gone along with the safety in numbers theory. Duh!

That the website is dedicated in remembrance of the 9/11 attack could only be a mere coincidence, isn't it?

These guys are pure genius, I tell you.

As are those who buy these oh-so-in-vogue stickers.

Want to order some stickers for your bike / pair of wheels? Go right ahead.

My admiring glance is sure to follow you even seconds after you whiz by...


*TOOMA - The Object Of My Affection

The School of Hard Knocks

The chirpy face of the ruddy-cheeked, pre-school tot belies those of his parents.

While he grins and lightly pulls the pig-tails of his elder sister who screams and runs after him for a mock fight, his parents, who would otherwise have smiled at this engaging picture of family life, look the very pictures of worry.

They are not alone in their anxiety.

Several other parents across the country are losing sleep over the fact that highly sought-after schools do not have much to offer in the name of admissions for pre-primary.

With today being the day when quite a few schools put up their glossy prospectuses up for grabs(which don't come cheap by the way) as also their admission forms, parents are tripping over one another to get their hands on these, their teeth clenched in determination.

The last few days of teaching their wards various colours of the rainbow, names of fruits and vegetables, counting upto 100, the months of the year, and reciting letters of the alphabet in an endearing manner - look as if they might not pay off at all.

Infact the situation is so grim that some reputed schools have decided not to offer any seats in the coming academic year.

Leaving yet more parents high and dry.

Prepared to even pay through their noses for securing their wards' admission into one of the snooty / 'with-it' / elite schools, these parents are at a loss what with the Department of Education (DOE) doing nothing to allay their fears and misgivings.

Besides prepping themselves for the informal interview, bracing themselves for the grilling they could be subjected to, countering questions on anything from their religious levels to status in society to the moolah they rake in every month. Phew!

And if things don't go as planned, that done-to-death, heart-tugging scene in which a teary-eyed child refuses to let-go of his mother's finger as she leaves him at his first day of school, she walking back to the supportive, reassuring-shouldered husband in the car – could very well be reversed.

With the tot gleefully going back home in the gleaming pair of wheels, and the parents comforting each other through their tears.

Not all role reversals are happy. Or even welcome, for that matter.

NEW! Guns and Roses - Chinese Democracy

The wait is over.

15 years after their last album, the highly successful The Spaghetti Incident, Guns and Roses are all set to officially release their sixth studio album, Chinese Democracy. TOMORROW!

While the title track was released last month on the 22nd, the second single, Better, was released just seven days back.

Axl Rose, has never been in better form, they say.

I hope so.

He has had 15 years to cure himself of his stage-rage…

The solitude of a remote beach

Sometimes all that I can think of is a beach.

Today is one of those days when I have an aching desire to be on one.

Not one of those teeming with people, the women half sucking n their breaths to keep from bursting in a constricting, smaller size bikini / tankini, while doing a 360 degree overview of all those they survey from their gender - taking-in everything from the the snazzy Dior / YSL sunglasses they sport to whether they are partial to slathering Bullfrog or Neutrogena suntan lotion generously upon their toned (or not so toned) bodies...

While the men suck in their breaths or gasp for entirely different reasons...

I want to escape to a solitary beach right now...

What I would like to do most right now is to toss some gaily-colored skirts / sarongs (which I would have to purchase) into an oversized straw bag, fish out the dark grey sunglasses I have discarded (and which lie somewhere beneath all that is heaped on my table), rack my memory hard for where I last put the hat I bought while on my desert trip to Jaisalmer, borrow the lime-green pair of flip-flops from a college friend, pack the couple of books I am simultaneously trying to get-through, throw in my Banana Boat sunscreen tube, check that I have enough cash on me, keep some spirits and a pack of ciggies, and catch the next flight to the nearest beach (which happens to be Mumbai in my case, but I'd rather choose Goa over it anyday).

And while sipping a cool beer, take a stroll...

Alone.

This is what peace means to me right now.

Me.
Alone on a beach.
The waves lapping up at my barefeet, the azure ocean spread silently till as far as the eyes can discern; the beach crabs also ensuring that they leave me to myself. A yard further, there is a shack with a cane chair, an icebox, a hammock tied to two palm trees nearby, and a chaise-lounge - all beckoning to me invitingly, lest my body and peds desire some rest.
Pure bliss!

Something which no Rs-4500-an-hour-spa can give me. No matter how much they try to convince me

Will someone please take down these Diwali fairy lights? Like Now!

So the other day I heard the following conversation on a leading radio channel, in which a guy kept delivering to another, a chain of Diwali (the Indian festival of lights) greetings, each one longer than the previous one rendered.

The effusiveness only kept getting onto one's nerves.

After replying the first two times, albeit a tad half-heartedly, the other man finally lost his cool demeanour, visibly vexed by the wishes, and especially since the eagerly-circled-Diwali-holiday had long sped by from his Hindu calendar.

A fortnight back, to be exact.

In a huff, he asked why the other dude was insistent on doing the utterly irksome season's greetings bit. To this, guy # 1 replied that the other still had Diwali fairy lights (commonly called ladiyaas) up on his walls, and lit them every night religiously.

Obviously his Diwali was not yet over.

Hence the Diwali greetings.

Point noted.

The same runs true in many other colonies too.

Pretty fairy-lights, rows upon rows of them, make for a sparkling visual treat at night – when the festival season descends upon us.

They sometimes make an appearance a full fortnight before Diwali day, or even before that (in some cases). Strings of lights garland most houses, the owners of some sworn to keeping them on for close to a month perhaps.

Now are these people foolish?

Or do they simply think that they are the guiding light of some people's lives?

You decide.

Movie Review: Quantum of Solace

Bond is back.

He of the blue eyes, clipped Brit accent, steely resolve, wry sense of humor, impeccable Savile Row suits, black Aston Martin, cool handling of martinis, and gasp-inducing, stomach-churning, sucking-breath, death-defying stunts.

All the above are there in the 22nd James Bond flick, Quantum of Solace, where Daniel Craig reprises second innings as the legendary 007 super spy.

And in a first, he arrives in India a full week before his scheduled November 14 date.

Sunday afternoon had all the trappings of a very pleasant time for me - lunch with great friend from college, window-shooping (I've sworn off shopping for a while - touche), and the new 007 flick. All in all, it promised to be a very pleasurable afternoon.

However, that was not to be. While the former two went off rather well, I was miffed, cheated, and sorely disappointed with Quantum of Solace.

Daniel Craig, instead of looking suaveness personified, looks more like a sneering, ruthless trigger-happy street-fighter agent-cum-boxer, with a constantly contemptuous look on his face.

The perpetually snarling, curled upper-lip doesn’t help much to redeem him either.

While Marc Forster (of Monster’s Ball, Finding Neverland fame) deserves full marks for directing Ian Fleming’s most famous spy, the story leaves you a little cold and disenchanted.

So you have a still nursing-a-broken-heart, embittered Craig chasing a sinister Dominic Greene (Mathieu Amalric) over three continents, and six countries, with some stunning images of Chile’s Atacama desert. Greene’s character is based on French President Nocolas Sarkozy and former English PM, Tony Blair. The smirking owner of an ecological Organization that he is, has more than the planet’s green resources in mind, and is all out to crack a deal which would make him the undisputed controller of Bolivia’s water resources. He is also a member of the mysterious shadow Organization, Quantum, which has tentacles everywhere.

Bond, in characteristic style, is determined to splash ‘water’ over and ruin Greene’s ambitious plans. Pun intended.

Besides mixing an unforgotten sense of vendetta for the death of Vesper Lynd, the only woman out of the flock he had seduced and been seduced by (see Casino Royale).

So you have adrenaline pumping fight scenes, where a brawny, rippling muscled Craig battles it out, often bare-handed, with nimble-footed, deft adversaries. There are speedboat and bike chases, skydiving stunts, pumping bullets that leave one dazed, jet fights, glass-crashing-into-smithereens moments, car crunchings – all leaving you sitting on the edge of your cushy seats, looking wide-eyed at the almost impossible-looking, gravity-defying stunts.

Veteran Dame Judi Dench returns as M for the sixth time, this time a tad disapproving and resentful of Bond’s trigger-happy ways, trying her best to restrain the unstoppable Bond's reckless movements and ruthless killing sprees. But eventually re-imposes her complete trust and faith in him.

Moving on to the women.

You have the achingly-lovely, luscious-lipped Olga Kurylenko playing Camille Montes, a Russian-Bolivian agent, who harbours a mission to destroy Greene. While the fake tan is a dead giveaway, the lilting accent is pleasing enough, and she holds her own with Craig as a tough-as-nails agent.

The guys will be pleased to know that Craig only shares a brief lip-lock with her at the end of the movie, and not any steamy between-the-sheets encounter. Agent Fields (played by freckled, red-wigged Gemma Arterton) however does have an amorous shot with Craig dropping kisses on her shivering bare back, though in the next scene she is found dead on the same bed, daubed in oil – a shuddering pre-present of what horrors lie ahead, from Quantum.

The only other saving grace of Quantum of Solace besides Olga – is its length. Running for a maximum of 106-odd minutes, it marks itself as the shortest Bond movie.

Go catch the associated video game instead, its namesake, which also marks a release this weekend. Read more about it here.

Maybe you wouldn’t be that disappointed.

Ohh, by the by, Bond wields a Sony phone.

I can almost see that wiping the grins off the faces of the Nokia suckers. Ha!

The Mystery of the Magic Wallet

Aladdin had a magic carpet which transported him, in the twinkling of an eye, across the swirling sands of the desert.

I saw an old couple sharing some magical moments with each other, while taking a walk into the evening sun.

Some entrepreneurs have a magical touch; whatever they touch turns to gold, making each venture more successful than the last.

When you are hurt (emotionally or physically), someone’s reassuring, soothing words work like magic.

Cinderella’s fairy Godmother had the magic wand which, with one wave, turned the sweet put plain cinder girl to centrefold gorgeousness personified.

For some, thankfully, the three magic words – ‘Please, sorry, thank you,’ still exist.

As for me, what magic do I have in my life?

I have a magic wallet.

Pray what is that, you might arch an eyebrow and ask curiously.

Well, to answer your query, I have a wallet, which no matter how much money you put into it, does one of the following:

A) makes the money disappear (one day its clearly there, the other day it vanishes)
B) changes the currency notes into receipts!!

Can you think of anything more magical!

I suspect the glitzy malls that have mushroomed in every nook and corner of the city, have something to do with the case of my perpetually drained-out wallet / purse.

These pesky shops pull me to them, extending their ritzy arms to me, waiting for me to reciprocate their warm embrace.

And once I do, everyone knows the story of the Venus trap, and how difficult, almost impossible it is, to escape from its clutches. It is akin to a flailing fish trying to escape from the tentacles to a triumphant octopus.

Anywhichways, yours truly’s wallet is usually the picture of a barren nation, quite a far picture from the ‘greenery’ she would like to see.

Sometimes, methinks it has an invisible suction cup attached to it, which cunningly siphons off all the hard-earned cash I religiously put into it. Drat!

Good friend from college, let’s call her by her initials – RS, also echoes my feelings, saying that her wallet too has this black hole which constantly makes trips to the friendly ATM to replenish it, almost a bi-weekly feature.

Those plastic shopping bags that produce such a pleasing, crunching sound are also to be blamed, as even when RS and I walk like two horses with blinkers, we inadvertently chance upon bargains that are too-hard-to-pass-up-and-go-by and no matter how hard we bite our lips, we can’t help but take a peek, and then…DISASTER strikes - wallets are whipped-out, payments are made, and those beguiling packets are handed us. Guilt often sets in, within 10-15 minutes of the shopping spree, depending upon the bill run-up.

To drown our sorrows, the strategically-placed bistro / lounge almost calls out to us in a sexy baritone, and we fall victim yet again – to yet another meal, where, for the amount we pay, the portions are surprisingly miniscule.

(The poor wallets scowl, muttering to no one in particular about how they like to be exclusive, and don't like making too frequent appearances, and how they wished their daft owners understood that).

Promises are made – that we would watch where our steps lead us(literally), that we would swear off the FDs (four devils, not the other acronym that my Dad would be proud of if I invested in them). These demons are, in descending order of costs – perfumes, bags, footwear, and clothes / accessories / makeup. Darn!

However, considering that a couple of days back, I made my way through an entire floor of a perfume-sniffer’s delight, without picking up a single bottle, does speak volumes of my turning over a new leaf.

Well, just maybe...