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.

Jaipur Jaunt

With the blistering heat wave hovering revoltingly over the heads of Delhiites, anyone who heard that we were going outstation for the weekend nodded in understanding.

Until they heard the destination we were headed for.

'Jaipur???' Hearing that was enough to raise perfectly-arched eyebrows, followed by ‘Are you feakin' kiddin?’ incredulous comments and accompanying eye-popping looks.

Now our middle names are ‘Determination’ and ‘Grit,’ and it is easier to shake off a leech stuck to your uhmm B_ _ (spoiler – rhymes with previous word) than to shake our resolve, so when Saturday morning dawned bright, clear, and sunny (Oh yes, sunniest), we set our for the Pink City.

Four hours later and after numerous toll-tax paying breaks, TOOMA and I drove into an otherwise beautiful city, had we been able to see it under all that dust, that is.

The wedding was beautiful though, and was probably the only consolation. Besides the picturesque highway, dotted with lazily ambling camels, cattle, and the odd elephant.

The riot of colors on prominent display, and the song-and-dance routine that is de-rigueur at Indian marriages, more than made up for the heat that had done its bit in roasting us, making us look like the BBBB (Badly Burnt Baked Beans) I am famous for tossing up.

But in retrospect, the trip was memorable.

After all, the first outstation road trip you share with your better half, always is...

(Image - The heritage haveli we stayed at)

Will 99 'strike' the right note?

The April impasse between Indian multiplex owners and Bollywood producers over sharing box office releases doesn’t look like it would dissolve in a hurry.

The better part of my last month was spent in wedding arrangements, zooming off for the honeymoon, relinquishing dates for quieter, at-home do's and settling into a new home and hearth.

However, there is no time like now to sink into a comfy seat in a theatre, lazily munch upon some popcorn, inhale the stale perfume of the couple sitting yonder, and sip some bitter coffee.

And of course, watch a movie, arms linked cosily with better half’s.

Fat chance!

The drought of flicks since the last five weeks makes sure that the above remains just that – a wistful dream.

The split between multiplex owners and producers just seems to be getting bigger, much to the chagrin of movie-buffs like me. Who swear by their fortnightly S-cube (Silver-Screen-Staring).

Multiplex owners are also in quasi panic, slashing rates of tickets, introducing too-good-to-be-passed-up-schemes, freebies, lucky draws – the works. All to make the audience make a beeline to the swish theatres, as they used to before.

All to no avail.

Theatres bear gloomy, deserted looks, people resorting instead to renting movies from the ever-grinning-perpetually-rubbing-his-hands-friendly neighbourhood DVD store-keeper, watching the IPL, or venturing into swanky malls, and returning with those ecstasy-inducing shopping bags.

It waits to be seen if the Bollywood flick ’99,’ which sees an independent release tomorrow, will be able to change the fortunes of the B.O.

I sure hope so.

Keep watching this space for more.

A Whale of a Job (Literally)

This January 12, the entire world went into a tizzy.

The reason – the Queensland State Tourism Department, in a marvellous stroke of sheer brilliance, ran full length advertisements of what it chose to describe the ‘Best job of the world.’

The vacancy in question – a six-month contract that involves spending six-months on Hamilton Island (a tropical Australian island in the Great Barrier Reef), in the capacity of caretaker.

In what could only be termed a blitzkrieg of advertisements, the job was everywhere – splashed in international newspapers, websites, glossies, radio, television – the works.

Understandably, the list of applicants was immense – scoring over 34,000 wishful aspirants.

And now, last week, the results for this coveted job came out.

A British Charity worker Ben Southall, trounced the lengthy list of candidates, to emerge victorious. He takes away with him a deal of a whopping $150,000, and starts his official duties this July.

As if that were not enough for us to envy him, you might just want to go through the list of his assigned tasks to turn that shade of emerald:

• Post a weekly blog
• Keep photo diaries
• Create video updates
• Sample luxury spa treatments
• Enjoy activities like snorkelling, kayaking, sailing, bungee-jumping, diving, Ostrich riding, and of course, tamer ones like picnics and bushwalking.

Oh, and did I mention that he gets to stay in one of possibly the loveliest sea-facing villas on the island...with his partner?

Do I hear you sigh yet?

Who made all the rules about post-marriage mores?

In a world where marriages are the defining point in your life (and I don’t disagree with that), some people definitely get carried away with its very concept.

I speak with authority.

I am a bride of just over a fortnight.

Married to my beau of over two years, I take great pride in him and his family, who accept me the way I am – a spunky, light-hearted, twinkle-eyed, cheery bride, who still swears by her faded jeans, and who, even when she is in one of her many giggling spells, does not goof up her etiquette norms.

However the hunky-dory picture is marred by comments by acquaintances, sometimes colleagues, all of who have taken it as a matter of my personal impudence and effrontery by not following what they term ‘tradition.’

So I can just barely keep from biting their heads off when I hear comments to the tune of:

Where is your Mangalsutra*? You have one, right? Why don’t you wear it?

You should have at least worn the ‘Chudaa’** for a month. You took it off after a day!! Tut tut (incredulous stare)

Gawd! Doesn’t your husband object? Doesn’t he ASK you to wear them? I’m sure he WANTS you to.

Oooh. How do you step out of your house without Sindoor*** in your parting? (Horrified look)

And one of the most despicable–

You were born in the wrong country. Our country is still traditional (there you go, you have the word again), you know. Why are you such a rebel?

For someone who believes in keeping to herself, far, far away from the public eye; getting thrown pell-mell into the limelight (and not in a good way at that), these days are certainly not the most pleasant ones for her.

I fail to comprehend how people think that I love him less as compared to the average ‘Pati-vrata’**** new wifey who diligently goes out to her regular kitty-parties, bedecked in jewellery, flaunting all the ‘trappings’ of a married woman.

Add to that the aghast looks I get when I proclaim that stories are the only things I can cook, as compared to the more ‘traditional’ cooked fare, and you have all the trappings of my very own personal episode of ‘The Bad Bad Bride’ – Series 1.

Of course, it doesn’t help either that I am surgically inseparable from my (before marriage) garb. So you have the team of people who try to cajole me into wearing ethnic Indian attire to work. The pachyderm that I am, I snub them, refusing to give people the opportunity to double up with unrestrained glee at my expense, by dolling myself up like a previous year’s Christmas tree.

Too bad they wouldn’t get to see me attired in an atrociously-garish, Swarovski-laden something which closely resembles something the goldsmith would only be too happy to display in his stall at the jewellery souk.

Too bad that I can grin merrily, instead of barely being able to smile, for fear of creasing a pan-caked face - a face which has seen all the make-up items in my vanity case being made abundant use of. (Now my face is not sans-makeup, but at least you can see my skin...)

Too bad that instead of whispering coyly and shuffling feet in awkwardness, eyes down, I smirk and stare at them insolently.

Bring it on folks.

See if care!

* An auspicious thread or cord, usually made of a string of black beads on a gold chain
** A set of red and white bangles
*** Red powder (vermilion) applied at the beginning or completely along the parting-line of a married woman’s hair
**** A woman staunchly loyal to her husband

New trends in Indian voting

My black and orange phone beeps gently.

I blink, then smile, my hand reaching out to cocoon the phone.

What I had thought to be a welcome message from one of my many friends who were only too glad to have me back in town, turned out to be a random contestant in the upcoming elections, citing close to seven reasons why I should exercise my franchise in his favour.

The message is not in isolation.

Sure enough, others soon follow, declaring their party manifestos, pitting themselves like matadors against their adversaries, kicking up the dirt on them, singing paeans about their own political party…you get the drift, don’t you?

And all and sundry can stand for elections – you do know that, don’t you? What else would explain a tennis player banking upon his sports popularity by standing in the local elections? Not his flashy, pearly smile, I’m sure.

The last 2-3 years saw political parties cashing in on the digital media bandwagon to connect with voters. So conventional door-to-door campaigning got an overhaul, stepping back to make way for tripping-over-each-other social networking sites like Twitter, Facebook, Myspace and Orkut that ran huger than huge online campaigns, videos, audios – you name it.

This year even mobile phones saw exploitation.

Which explains that beep on your phone, and the longish rant by a party rep about the so-called ‘atrocities’ that opponents have unleashed on today’s aam aadmi (common man).

Even Internet companies like Yahoo and Google are not far behind, collaborating with national dailies to launch election sites, where voters, besides creating their login ids, can dabble in debates with like-minded voters, 'expressing' their views about their concerns and the way out too.

And then you have parties running up humongous bills to get exclusive rights to Oscar-winning tracks, their renditions done by sexy, nubile singers who go into raptures while mouthing heaps of praise on the said party in question.

Gamers need not feel left out. Enterprising companies like 7Seas Technologies pay full heed to their unique demands, developing riveting games where politicians aimatedly pummel their adversaries black and blue, throw mean karate chops, hurl abuses,stick their tongues out cheekily, shout loud Whoopees, and kick some politico's ass.

All’s fair in love and war, they say.

And this is definitely war.

At its best.

Now whether the wired generation are wooed by these 70 year-old+ candidates in these General elections, and actually DO vote.

Or openly flaunt their (unmarked) middle fingers to the world, snorting derisively at the so-called 'fair' elections.

Now that is something which waits to be seen.

The honeymoon's not over yet...

The last few days have been a whirlwind for me literally.

Dream marriage followed by a dream honeymoon.

When the entire rigmarole of marriage ceremonies was over, and TOOMA and I had some breathing time finally, it was soon time to zoom off to that city of lovers – Paris.

And boy! Were we not disappointed!

Stylish women dressed to the nines, blowing ringlets of smoke, hailed cabs with perfectly manicured hands, their Hermes scarves fluttering in the wind, like sails of a ship. Their chic chignons were the last you saw of them as they stepped in gracefully in one fluid movement. Oh, and did I mention the surfeit of sky-high Jimmy Choos and Diors that made their way into my line of vision.

It’s a wonder I am back to my regular skin tone from the emerald shade I was.

They don’t call Paris the fashion capital of the world for nothing.

While the men there experimented with various zany hairstyles, carpenter jeans and ochre / fuschia loafers and Surprise Surprise managed to look good after them all, the women were the ones who caught my attention and TOOMA’s. For entirely different reasons, I may add.

Let me limit myself to a single word that summed up their modish garb – WOW!

Bolero jackets, Daisy Dukes, cashmeres that whispered to be touched, ponchos, bodices, knickerbockers, capes, mantles, smocks, jumpers, kilts, minijupes with fishnet stockings – you name it, and it could be seen on the streets.

The garb bought on a shoe-string budget kept neck to neck to their snootier, dressier designer labels counterparts. So while I gaped at them openly, the wearers walked regally past me, their Jimmy Choos clicking smartly, canines of different breeds keeping pace with their long strides.

The Parisian breakfast that we treated ourselves to the next day, deserve a worthy note of mention.

Brioches, Croissants of all kinds, raisin pecan bread (TOOMA’s favorite), whipped-cream and cheese baguettes, choquettes. Washed down with freshly squeezed orange juice, or as was the case with TOOMA, the bottle of Chardonnay / Chianti / Chablis that beckoned to him invitingly.

The list of places that we visited there, in no particular order:

1. The Eiffel Tower. But obviously!
2. Champs Elysees – and oh boy! Was I blinded by the overdose of fashion houses that stood tall and majestic there
3. Montmartre / Basilique du Sacre-Coeur and the tiny market on the mountain which many artists had made their hub – offering sketches@Euro 20-30 per sketch
4. Fragonard Le Musee du Parfum – the Museum of Perfumes, Einstein
5. The closely resembling our very own Gateway of India - the Arc De Triomphe
6. While the Da Vinci Code went a long way in acquaintig millions with the Louvre, our abbreviated tour of the Louvre and the Mona Lisa in person went far ahead.
7. Moulin Rouge
8. The Lido
9. Hard Rock Café and its amazing memorabilia. Va-Va-Voom!
10. The Le Mur Des Je T’Aime Wall
11. Notre-Dame Cathedral
12. The Statue of Liberty replica in the middle of the River Seine
13. The Flame of Liberty
14. The tunnel where Princess Diana expired with beau, Dodi Al-Fayed, in the horrendous car crash that fateful August 1997

The evening cruise on one of the beautiful Bateaux Mouches the River Seine was by far the most romantic, affording us spectacular views of the illuminated Eiffel Tower, the Assemblee Nationale, Louvre, Notre-Dame Cathedral, Palais Royal, Les Invalides, Alexander III Bridge, Orsay Museum.

The City of Lights made more than a pretty picture. It was one of the prettiest pictures I have ever seen.

To add to the romantic air were the mandatory kisses under every bridge(and I stopped counting after 12), much to my glee and TOOMA’s evident discomfiture. Tee hee.

And how can I forget – the duty-free shopping at Dubai that did wonders to bring out my Colgate-white pearlies on full display.

What else can a girl ask for?

Right from the time we stepped out from the aircraft into the Parisian nippy evening air, to the time we boarded our flight back, it was one long party.

And thankfully, everybody wasn’t invited.

J’adore Paris!

'Break'ing News

Lest my loyal readers think that I have sworn off blogging, or am practising my neglecting act to a ‘T,’ I should sit up straight, try a blushing-bride-shy-smile routine, fail miserably at it, and then try something else.

So here it goes.

With my wedding scheduled for this month for April 17, I wouldn’t be able to do justice to my blog, much as I would like to.

I know that you would understand that there would be oodles of wholly important stuff I shall be busy with, like:

a) Nodding off at every opportunity I get
b) Thinking up ways to scratch some unmentionable parts when both my hands are covered in henna (oh horror!) or worse, an inability to visit the washroom despite a threatening-to-burst bladder
c) Blinking at and trying to recognise relatives I haven’t seen since the time I was in diapers
d) Wondering how I would balance a 20-something kg ‘lehenga’s drape on my beehive hairdo
e) Frowningly staring at people stuffing their faces while my tummy makes indignant, rumbling sounds, and
f) All the while keeping a serene / coy smile, when all I can do is to keep from bursting into tears

I know that doing all the above warrants some sympathetic tongue-clicking and / or a standing ovation.

Ohh, thank you. You needn’t have!

I understand what a gaping hole the next 25 days would be for you.

But, I promise to return with a BANG! Literally!

Around the first week of May.

And if I get an opportunity to dash off something in between too, I would definitely do that too.

Wish me luck.

As I bring in yet another phase of my (eventful) life.

My 'ALTARED' state of mind

Most people would have sat on a rollercoaster.

Or at least stared at one, as it speeds dizzyingly, eliciting screams from those who
are riding it.

I feel I am ON a rollercoaster. An emotional one at that.

The oscillating, heart-in-my-mouth-dry-throated feeling is frequent, to say the least.

So you have my deliriously happy spells, interspersed with gleeful spiel by close friends, all conjuring merry pictures of conjugal bliss. (The glossy magazines sure do their work well).

On the flip side, there are also those moments when I sit with my face cupped in my palms, glumness writ large over my face – such are the images that some paint for me.

Some questions / comments that are guaranteed to make me do a volte-face from cool, collected chica to an anxiety-attacked, shitting bricks woman:

Uhmm, you are such a party animal. Have you kissed ‘em parties Goodbye?
You do know you wouldn’t have the freedom to travel when you want to, don’t you?
But you don’t know how to cook (anything except stories) (Incredulous expression)? How would you manage?
How would you buy your (insert appropriate number) pair of sandals? Wouldn’t you guys fight over it?
I’m really happy for you. But Aha! Giving up the joys of being single, are you? (Sigh) Good luck, dude!

And the worst –

Oh super!!! You getting hitched. Thinking of a Valentine baby?

Aaaaargh!

Stop. Just stop.

Thank God it just takes a conversation with TOOMA to soothe my ruffled feathers.

And make me jump out of my blues and swing back, with renewed vigor, into my idyllic state.