Ladies Only - A peek into the DMRC's women-only coach

A 20-minute trip in Delhi Metro’s Ladies Coach yesterday proved to be quite an enjoyable ride indeed. The occasion being Karwa Chauth, I even saw a couple of women blowing at their hands to dry the intricate henna some pavement artisan had no doubt painstakingly applied. The women looked happy - sharing anecdotes, sitting comfortably with one another, their oversized bags lying languidly on the coach floor.

All this looked a far cry from the scene twenty odd days ago – when they had to rub shoulders with the city’s mensfolk – and in the process, contend with constant staring, obnoxious lip-smacking sounds, eve-teasing, lascivious things murmured into ears, pinching of rears, and the occasional but very deliberate groping or ‘accidental’ brushing of an arm against their sensitive parts.

While the women enjoyed the controlled cooling in their allotted coach, the men from the adjoining coach cast looks at them – some woebegone, other envious, while some others cast looks of pure venom and red-faced fury. All the while jostling for space, the feeling akin to being a trussed-up sardine in a can with many others of its ilk.

An unsuspecting man strolled into the coach, only to be shooed away by the many women – who went up in collective peals of laughter when the alarmed man beat a hasty retreat, disappearing in a huff.

An elderly gentleman was however, immediately made to sit, bringing a smile to his weary eyes. As was a wide-eyed 8 year-old boy, who shyly stood behind his mother, his right hand trustingly in hers.

A couple of boisterous college-goers boarded the Metro, stepping in smartly into the all-ladies coach. Despite repeated protests from the womenfolk, they flippantly replied that they would be alighting at the next station. The next station didn’t prove to be that lucky for them though – as a pot-bellied, stern policeman marched them off to the side to perhaps collect the Rupees 200 penalty for riding in the women’s coach. I’m guessing they wouldn’t be repeating the same in a hurry.

Women of various ages, dressed in sarees, dapper business suits, comfortable kurtas and salwars, some in their tighter cousins – churidars, while yet some in jeans and skirts – made eye-contact with their fellow companions. Smiles were exchanged when one caught sight of an exquisite neck piece there, or a particularly pretty bangle.

Not a word was exchanged – and yet it was all too palpable – the collective feeling of contentment at their own private space.

With perhaps the additional joy of being among other lavender-talc-ed folks...

Delhi - post the Commonwealth Games

After the 12-day extravaganza that was the Commonwealth Games will come to an end today, do you think Delhi will relapse to its pre-Commonwealth days?

The changes in these last few months have been tremendous - from refurbished roads, lined with shrubs that miraculously appeared out of nowhere at all, to new flyovers, the Metro dotting more stations on its routes, the swanky T3 Terminal, facelifts to erstwhile monuments and areas of social interaction, besides the spruced-up stadiums and markets. Delhi now also boasts of a Delhi Eye, built on the lines of the London Eye and the Singapore Flyer – a state-of-the-art giant wheel that promises a panoramic view of Delhi’s monuments. There is also a palpable change in lathi-wielding policemen, cab and auto rickshaw drivers. I suppose the etiquette and conversation lessons paid off after all.

The opening ceremony – the last word in stunning grandeur, made the world sit up and notice India – only the third developing country to host the Commonwealth Games, after Malaysia and Jamaica. Hell, even the usually stiff-upper-lipped Prince Charles was seen smiling – which speaks a lot of the well-organized show.

However, after that splendid showcase of traditional diversity in a crisp, modern flavour, what remains to be seen now if Delhi will continue to be what it has been in the last few days – polished, cheery, clean, and not aversive to flouting rules.

Or do you think the days of traffic snarls, uncouth paan-stained-teethed traffic cops with bulging bellies, hurling abuses and blows with equal ease, (in)sane driving, surly auto drivers who charge astronomical sums, and littered roads, will be back with a vengeance?

Shera sure wouldn't be grinning at that, I'm guessing...

Another Reality Show. Yawn!

Another Indian reality show kicked off last Sunday. Well into its fourth season, this time the show boasts of a bratty Bollywood actor host, known equally for his antics off screen as on it.

14 inmates, ranging from an erstwhile woman dacoit, a former mastermind thief credited with numerous daring robberies, a cross-dressing TV chat who is a neighoring country’s answer to Oprah Winfrey, the tainted son of a leading movie director, a leading defense lawyer who found himself in the eye of the storm after he was appointed by the State to represent an ignominious agent of terror, an ex-squeeze of a neighboring cricketer involved in a matchfixing scandal, and a liberal sprinkling of star(let)s from the glamour world will all battle it out for 3 months in a house. They’ve come from various parts of the country, and beyond –while some seek to soak in their 15-minutes of fame, some could benefit from a boost to their sagging……careers, others are anxious to clear their names that are embroiled in controversy – there is also the added charm and chance of winning a sizeable amount of money, and the flood of opportunities that await the winner subsequently. The viewership would undoubtedly be tremendous – after all, tacky voyeurism tops the chart for entertainment mediums these days. And nope, lest you think this is one of my homilies, I’m guilty as charged too.

While reality shows are a dime a dozen these days, the earliest recollection I have of reality television was way back in the late ‘80’s (and I could be wrong about the year, which is why I’ve refrained from giving specifics). Candid cameras captured equally candid moments and reactions of people to pranks and ploys. Humorous situations, people’s startled expressions and sheer jumping out of their skins made for some very amusing videos.

Of course, reality shows have come a long way from the ‘80’s. And while I do like the occasional glamour, I’d still be reluctant to sign-up for participation in one of them reality shows. The reasons are multifarious:

1. Gravity-defying stunts are just not my game. While some people can get adrenaline-pumps, I can probably get those and a lot more with frequent retail-therapy sessions. In the same breath and line of thought - swimming in the ocean, picking honey-dipped insects with my mouth, getting a pack of angry hounds chasing me across a farm, slithering snakes giving me company in a cage, and regular explosions of cars and trucks – thanks but no thanks. And with this I end any chance of entering India’s answer to Fear Factor – Khatron Key Khiladey.

2. Now, I’m by no means a Celine Dion. The taps in the restroom will vouch for that. While my singing will not exactly crack the mirror, it will also not be considered for a Grammy. Gargling with lukewarm water won’t help, neither will frequent throat lozenges. My ‘crooning’ will probably be termed a haunting melody, and not in a good sense of way, may I add. Let’s just say that the stage is not ready for the new singing sensation – Me. I’ve made my peace with the fact that mics, late night record sessions, screaming fans, and super-dark Raybans are just not cut out for me. By Bye Indian Idol. Farewell Sa Re Ga Ma. I’m not the next singing sensation out to swoop on the world. Peace!

3. While my General Knowledge is better than average, I would definitely be clueless if I were to be asked which city is located in a country that does not border a country with a coast line on the Mediterranean Sea. Even the so-called Multiple choice answer options of Berlin, Warsaw, Lisbon and Vienna wouldn’t make my task any easier. I did pass my Class V, but maybe it’s just not my luck to sit atop a revolving bar stool opposite that imposing Bollywood icon with the booming baritone.

4. Let’s not even venture into my (lack of) dancing skills. Cursed with two left feet, dance instructors should be out there hopping over each other to get to me – to do a before and after piece. I’m perhaps best known for my robot impersonation dance – and that too will, on a good day, fetch an 8 out of 10. Max. So you really can’t expect me to get bothered or sweaty over popular dance reality shows, where participants would look condescendingly towards the likes of lesser mortals like me, who walk, instead of glide like them. And who pirouette when they win the glass dancing shoe trophy. Bah!

5. While I definitely have the height, my ‘evenly proportionate’ (Ahem Ahem) body would stand out like an eyesore among all the curvaceous, bootylicious ones. Sashaying down the ramp in stilettos is easy enough, but let’s just say that there are a bulge too many on what should have been a slinky washboard. Enuf said! So long Indian Supermodel Hunt!

6. Bikes are droolworthy. But are fun only if I’m drooling over them in large, glossy print ads (preferably with chiselled Adonis-look alikes driving them). Or seeing them Vroom on a superhighway. In other words – from a safe distance. God knows that if hubby were to someday buy a mean super machines on two wheels, I’d clap, cheer, whistle admiringly. But perhaps never drive. And for this, I’m sure he just pulled some air strings in glee. As for me, Roadies – thanks but no thanks...

7. Sure, I can make people roll their eyes in amusement sometimes. But to keep them from falling off their seats in utter merriment, for 10 minutes at a stretch – now that’s stretching my amusement quotient a tad too much. While there are those days when I have been known to make people clutch their tummies ‘cos of hysterical laughter, I’ve never been declared resident clown or laugh-riot expert. Add to that – I don’t respond too well to 1,2,3s of getting on stage and instructions to have the audience in splits. Which is the reason for my hasty exit from Laughter Challenges.

8. Familiar question pointed at brazen me – ‘Do you cook?’ My usual brash answer – ‘Stories? Yeah.’ The entire world and its neighbour knows that I can’t cook – not a simple serving of lentils and rice, leave alone much grander cuisine. Instant noodles, the odd tea and coffee, and warming bread for the dog don’t count. So any chances of donning a chef’s cap and doling out fingerlicking pies and curries to an appreciative star judge crew just went up in smoke. Pun intended!


Which leaves me introspecting – I can’t sing to save my life, my dance would be termed amusing monkey antics, even if I would have been single – I’d be rather dead than sign up as a prospective empty-top-floored bride in a glorified matchmaking endeavour. There must be something I must be good at. Hmmmm...*Scratching head vigorously*

Ahh yes, if there were to someday be a reality show where they would be crowning the Queen of satire and sarcasm, guess who’ll be walking away with top honors?

Look who’s laffing now...(Wink Wink)

The Story of a Shoe

Stoically, the school kid marches in his shining black shoes

Brushed vigorously by a doting maid the previous night

He sees a puddle, side-steps it smartly, groans -

Wishing his new shoes weren’t so tight



The old beggar spots the waiting car

He shuffles towards it, begging bowl in hand

One brown, one grey shoe shod on each foot

He stops a while to shake out some sand



The demure girl wraps her shawl tightly around her

Shivering and exhaling sharply after taking off her dainty heels

The marble stairs of the temple are as cold as they could be

Upon reaching the idols, she bows her head and kneels



The new employee walks into the swanky office sheepishly

Aware that all eyes were upon his ‘formal’ threadbare shoes

He stumbles, grunts an apology to no one in particular

Walks as if on a tightrope, keeping his ears open for any boos



The waif-thin model looked disdainfully at her muddy feet

The dreadful rains had wreaked havoc in the city,

Her car pulled over, she had to sprint to her swish apartment

Mentally making a note to diss the pricey stilettos – what a pity!



The ‘holy’ man - forehead smeared with vermilion, walked barefooted

Chanting trance-like, surrounded by a devoted crowd

The stone floor felt coarse against the soles of his feet,

He counted the minutes till he retired to his room, where unbeknownst to all - shoes were allowed



The soldier glided with his fellow comrades, a soft song on his lips

He clasped his rifle closer to his chest, the enemy border was in plain sight

He cast a grateful look at his hardy black combat boots

Invincible they were. but the next day they were torn by a bullet, and made for a gory sight



He dropped to his knees - blood gushing freely from the raw wound

Realization hit him - the contract of military boots had made the coffers of a procurement minister full

The shoes, once invincible, were no longer so, and as he knelt, another bullet ripped his chest

He breathed his last - nothing could save him - not his wife's memory, nor his child's pull


The shoe wept at its sore misery

His words I recount – a mere emissary



He said – ‘We are guardians - we keep you clean and warm

We are also fighters, keep you dry, and protect you from bodily harm

Despite that, not one word of gratitude does anyone mutter

Much as we’d want to, outside every temple, we’re discarded like items from the gutter.


While all these hurt, all these grouses we will happily lay to rest

If our patience weren’t so put to the test

Being hurled at lowly ministers is the most demeaning for us

Have a heart - keep us away from them - we deserve some much-needed rest


We can do without this demeaning, this insult - we don't need any thanks

Pray - stop hurling us at politicians - stop treating us like common skanks'...

Of doctored visits and more

I have a deep-rooted fascination for doctors’ tables, chairs, and medical devices and / or tools. It all started when I was a child, and while on visits to family chemists or doctors, would ask for those little notepads, one-rupee Stic pens, and keychains – a staple of pharmaceutical companies. Hell hath no fury than me separated from my “booty”, so much so that glistening tears would well up in my eyes, lower lip trembling and pouting, and there would be all the trappings for a round of shrieking waterworks, minus the tantrums (the latter reserved for a larger audience) - if someone dared to flick any from my chunk, hidden in my treasure chest at home…

Next in line were the dozens of Strepsils, Vicks, Halls, and other cough lozenges, that I would religiously stock up on, just in case a national throat emergency would strike, and all my countrymen decided to visit me - to seek therapy, blessings, and lozenges. In that order.

Band-Aids were another hot favorite, and anyone within the radius of one kilometer was bound to be asked the staple question as to whether he / she were in need of a Band-Aid. Sometimes, when I would be out of “patients,” as I liked to call them, I would decide to “heal” myself, and stick bright Mickey-Mouse or Handyplast Band-Aids on random spots on my body, mostly my forehead and hands - much to my mom’s annoyance, and visible admiring glances from classmates. A quick pull from my brother would result in the Band-Aid peeling off, and my fake injury instantaneously discovered. Next would be a mad chase for the ‘offender” – my brother. A minor scuffle would ensue, and Bang! There might just be reason enough to bring out the Band-Aid once more, this time for real. Ouch! Regular shinning (and falling from) trees also caused a fair share of the Band-Aids getting into use.

Then there were the syringes. Having been bitten twice by canines and the same number of times by monkeys (Hold your smirk. Nope, I don’t bark. Ditto for biting!@#$ %^&*), and having those hypodermic needles pricked into me on a lot of tetanus moments too, I can safely say that I was a doctor’s delight, and parents’ nightmare. Every time those dratted injections would come near me, my furrowed forehead would give stiff competition to any agitated grown-up. I'd act nonchalant for a few moments, but that nonchalance would be soon replaced by ear-splitting howls that would make any neighborhood dog proud. However, once the doc would be through with the torture, a sunny smile would soon dispel the glistening tears from my cheeks, and pat – my hands would outstretch, awaiting their reward. New docs would hastily look around for an éclair or a chocolate to give me; my Dad would then intervene, and tell him that my “prize” was the empty syringe, and not some sugar-boiled confectionery. Armed with the syringe, I would make my way home, praying for an audience (in the form of any guest who may have called upon us), so as to display my “trophy,” and act out my well rehearsed injured warrior / survivor role to perfection.

Since I was a relatively illness-free child (illness-free, mind you, not accident-free), I would often wish I were sick, in order to make those distant twice-a-year visit(s) to the home physician a more regular feature. A mildly hot forehead was enough to send me into a tizzy, and lo and behold! Shoed and stockinged me would make an appearance in front of utterly bemused folks, and demand to be taken to the doc, hinting that my end was near, in case I were “cruelly” kept away from my “rightful” and “due” visit. Melodramatic – yep, that's the word you would have used for me then...(the emphasis is on the 'then.' Ahem!)

Syringes, stethoscopes, hypodermic needles, medical gloves, tweezers, scalpels, curettes (of course I didn’t know many of these words then) – anything that I would chance to espy on the doctor’s table, would be given the two-minute intense look from me. Given the chance, I would often try to touch them, after asking for permission, of course (my manners were impeccable – Oh yes), and such was my charm, that on most occasions, the doctors would relent, and hand them to me themselves, much to bouncing-up-and-down-in-the-chair-happiness-personified-me.

The dentist’s high-chair was an endless source of merriment for me. With a mother whose middle name is chocolates, occasions to visit the friendly dentist were many and not al all infrequent. My mouth would open in one long-drawn out, admiring “Ohhhh,” when she would sit across the dentist, and he, in his starchy-white medical coat, would inspect her teeth, and cluck his head disapprovingly, every two minutes. God – I loved the tiny torch-around-a-huge-band-thingy he wore around his head, with whose help he would peer at people’s teeth. After giving a stern warning to my mom about cutting down her intake of cocoa, chocolates, and rosogullas, he would turn to me, who had been waiting for this very moment. One fluid movement, and I would spring into his chair, waiting for that exquisite moment when he would lower himself to adjust the lever, and I would be up almost next to the ceiling, staying there till my Mom’s indulgent look would change to one of okie-enough-you’ve-had-your-fun-now-come-down, causing me to try my various sorrowful looks on her, all of which failing whatsoever, and I would be back on the ground, sighing, already looking forward to my next visit…

Such was my fondness for medical equipment and other such tools, that my parents were led to believe that a long, chequered career in medicine awaited me.

One fine day, some family friends had come visiting, and had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I can still see my dad’s chest pumping in proud anticipation at what I would say.

Knitting my eyebrows together, I proudly announced that I was confused as to what I wanted to be – and would decide in the next few years if I wanted to be an usher and show people their way to their seats in glitzy theaters, or become a newspaper delivery girl.

Trust me to always be the one responsible for the anti-climax...
(Let's just say I was the only one amused in that room).

The Curious Case of the Accented Crowd

The other day, I happened to be in the restroom of a plush South Delhi hotel where a known Emcee was speaking with a couple of her friends. They were like any other giggling, late-twenty somethings - sharing some light moments, powdering their noses, exchanging notes about the new salon in town, making plans for the upcoming weekend etc. Nothing singular in that.

So far, so good.

Which is why, it came as a surprise, when outside the hotel, when she was approached by a ‘Zoom’in channel for a quick byte, she drawled her reply in a noticeably fake, nasal American accent.

Leaving me and the others very startled at the sudden accent-switch.

Now I am all for accents. I quite like some of them - the clipped Brit accent, the soft Scottish and the laidback Aussie accent (even though they do eat most of their syllables).

However, the key to liking all of them is the same - authenticity.

Which was not the case with the above Emcee in question. Dressed in her vintage Chanel dress, red-soled CLs, an LV bag in tow, and an Omega Constellation (yes I do notice these details), she hardly seemed to be in want of confidence – which is why it was harder to put down her accent as a case of one of those low self-esteem days.

Which led me to wonder – why do some people imitate accents? And do a bad job at that?

Madonna couldn’t carry off her weirdly-pronounced Brit accent either, drawing many mocking jeers and stifled chortles from those who heard her. Closer home, Bollywood’s brat – SK – and his ex-flame, the ethereally beautiful Miss World – AR (or is it ARB now), are known, albeit infamously, for their nasal accents. Mid-life crises, anyone?

The nerdy Ross from the American sitcom F*R*I*E*N*D*S, also tried his hand at a British accent, but only managed a hint of an Aussie one. But full marks for effort - he after all, did manage to have the viewers in splits.

It’s plain amusing to ask someone where they picked a Texan accent, and hear that they ‘can’t help it,’ ‘it’s au naturale’ (they were raised all their lives in some North-Indian town) or because they studied overseas - for a semester, no less! Ahem!

Some people do it subconsciously – speaking with their friends in their ‘regular’ English, and as soon as they are approached by a blonde tourist at let’s say, a watering hole, embark on a put-on accent. The kind that makes their friends eyes pop out, faces distorted with barely-conceled hilarity, waiting for their chance to hoot at their accented friend.

Is it some deeply-entrenched inferiority complex that makes these people break out into an American twang / Irish accent?

Do they want to blend in and adapt with the accent of the listener?

Do they think they make the cut and sound cute / hip / hot?

Do they love being the obnoxious jackass that everyone listens to carefully, only to be made the butt of severely-unkind remarks behind their backs?

Do they suffer from a tragic case of low self esteem and image?

Do they think an accent elevates their status?

Let’s hear your thoughts...

'Bet' it's a long story...

Lagi shart?

(Wanna bet?)

This seemingly innocuous question has led many a person to lay a wager. On the most trivial of issues.

Ranging from money to treats at the expense of the loser, such bets are known to cause glee / grief to quite a few who indulge in them.

I am no exception, and on more occasion than one, have had to to shell out bucks for a coffee treat, or on those rare occasions, clapped my hands in utter joy, upon “winning” a box of my favorite After Eights. With my recent luck though, I've just been doling out crisp hundred-rupee notes to a jubilant hubby, which probably explains my long-facedness...Bah!

For some people, laying a bet is almost a ritual.

The stakes get higher, and money is regulary seen exchanging hands, willingly or, as is pretty much the rule (in the case of the loser), reluctantly.

And here I thought people lay bets only in casinos, during matches, and on horses!

Seems that I couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

Wagers seem to be doing the rounds pretty regularly, from seemingly meaningless bets.

Despite most people knowing very well that gambling doesn’t pay on average, they gladly gamble away.

It’s akin to a person knowing that it is next to impossible to hit that aggressive deadline, knowing all the factors that are out of control, yet being overtly optimistic.

Call it illusion of control.

Or whatever you will.

They do it for a variety of reasons – money, just for fun, to make their day more exciting, or just to assert their knowledge.

There are different kinds of people who lay bets.

You have the cocksure ones.

You have the diffident ones, who place bets the way you put your foot gingerly into an ice-cold pool.

There are the ones who place wagers consciously.

There are also the ones, who are led into placing bets under the influence of spirits, when their judgment is clouded.

Then you have the ones who have done their homework thoroughly (and smile smugly).

While you have also those who haven’t quite checked the odds. The ones who often face the most disillusionment, and emerge cynical and bitter from their speculative experiences.

Whatever section they may be from, betters are your average you and me.

Are you rolling your eyes in skepticism?

Chances are, in the next fortnight, you will probably put a wager on something or the other.

Wanna bet on that?

Flying without Wings...

It was heartening to see the numerous kites that dotted the sky the entire day this Sunday. Even some of those people, the ones who call themselves uber-busy, took time out to fly those gaily-colored creations, and were joined as one in one ritualistic celebration of our country’s Independence Day.

While the evening looked overcast and not very conducive to kite flying, the multitude of accommodating clouds showered promptly, leaving souls like hubby and me raring to jump onto the infectious bandwagon.

The necessary purchases had already been done the same afternoon, and after the mandatory medical tapes on our right thumbs and index fingers, we were ready to roll.

Out came our first warrior – a kite bearing the three colours of the Indian Tiranga. The wind languorously built up, as if indirectly cheering us to give kite-flying a shot.

And gave it a shot we did indeed.

In a span of less than an hour – we passed through various emotions…

Delight when the kite first rose in the air – not like a skillful eagle soaring smugly in the azure skies, but more like a staggering fledgling, trying to take wing.

Some teething problems, but soon our kite, tail firmly in place, was rubbing shoulders with the best of them all - the Chinese lantern ones, the butterfly-hued ones, the bow kites, the ostentatious ones - you name it...

The initial euphoria soon gave way to nail-biting apprehension when other kites steered dangerously towards ours.

Relief spread over our expectant faces when we were able to veer away from the treacherously close kites.

A collective sigh of cheer went up again and triumphant / gloating looks and hurrays arose in unison upon our kite getting the better of another kite, and that kite slowly making its descent towards the earth.

Disappointment set in and we sucked in groans of distress when a neighbor’s kite got the better of ours, and our ‘conquered’ kite descended in spiraling slow-mo towards the ground.


However a mutual feeling of joy was also somewhere in the horizon, for having tried and flown, and given wings to those kites, even if only for a short while.

Cos’ that’s what kites are meant for – to fly.

As we are meant for - to take a shot at everything...even if after trying, we return bruised and battered, to familiar territory - terra firma.

Who'd make the best Bond?

‘Shaken, not stirred’ – a smooth voice booms in the watering hole.
You don’t need to scratch your head. God knows that you’ve heard the catchphrase long enough times to know that the world’s most celebrated spy is standing right behind you. You can visualize him clearly – suave, dressed in an impeccable Saville-Row suit, an Omega Seamaster adorning his wrist, and an Aston Martin waiting for his touch outside, and of course a bevy of admiring glances from both men and women alike. This British Secret Service agent has a license to kill, and takes it to a new level – a License to thrill.

For over five decades, James Bond has been scorching the scenes. It’s not hard to see why - adrenaline-thumping chase scenes, futuristic gadgets that do his bidding at the flick of a finger, a bevy of tantalizing beauties, his stock of ready one-liners in that much-perfected baritone – all do their job in making him a Box Office darling, raking in the moolah and making all those associated with the Bond banner go laughing all the way to the bank.

Sean Connery, Roger Moore, George Lazenby, Roger Moore, Timothy Dalton, Pierce Brosnan and now Daniel Craig – all have assayed the role of the world’s most famous secret agent, with varying degrees of success. And while I think 4 of them absolutely breathed life in their portrayal, I wouldn’t mind the following actors getting into 007’s skin and give that iconic introduction –

The names Bond...James Bond.

1. George Clooney – at the top of my list, most definitely. He oozes charm, can smooth talk his way through any situation, has that mischievous glint in his eyes, is a pro at wink-your-eye flirtiness, and has that slightly wicked-naughty streak. Oh and did I mention that he’s easy on the eyes and has been known to make millions of women worldwide go weak in the knees. With so much as a look...It’s been Intolerable Cruelty that he hasn’t been cast till now. EON Productions should absolutely Burn After Reading this!

2. Hugh Jackman – with his rugged-looks, this Aussie actor can pack a mean punch, thus bringing much-needed realism to the Bond movies. And of course, that baritone isn’t too bad either. It’ll be nice to see him trade his Wolverine three moon claws for a lethal Walther PPK. Will be great Prestige for this Leopold, I’m sure...

3. Gerard Butler – from a humble cameo as a crew member in 1997’s Tomorrow Never Dies to the actual her Majesty's agent, it would be RocknRolla good to see the valiant King Leonidas exchange his steely armor for a suave tuxedo.

4. Jason Statham – This Mean Machine is one helluva Transporter. Plus he looks good in a tux. Plus he’s an acclaimed Martial artiste. He’ll have to work on his voice though – that rasp couldn’t possibly pass off for Bond’s, hough the accent will be his redeeming point for sure.

5. Christian Bale – This stylish Welsh actor has proved his mettle time and again – as Batman, John Connor in the fourth of the Terminator series, as a serial killer in American Psycho. A veritable Treasure Island, he looks good in almost everything (or nothing, as the case may be). He can quip, wield a gun effortlessly, And we’d be delighted to see him reprise the role of Bond. Thank you very much!

6. Clive Owen – This Brit is as Inside Man as it gets and can easily Vroom away in the iconic black Aston Martin. He’s got it all – the looks, that genteel air, the talent – and is bound to leave in his wake millions of people panting for more...

7. Jude Law – He’s among the youngest in this section, but there’s nothing lacking in him in the looks, talent or charm department. We would Love, Honour and Obey this Talented Mr. Ripley if he were to shake his martini, curl his lip in mock-amusement and stroll into a packed-room with that debonair charm, knowing all too well that all eyes are upon him.

8. Ethan Hawke – quite a lady killer this – after all he managed to sweep Uma Thurman off her feet and also put a ring on her finger. Too bad the pair fell through, but one thing’s sure, if this Hamlet were to take on Bond’s role, it would be for keeps.

9. Colin Farrell – Fellow Irishman Pierce Brosnan once famously said that Colin Farrell would probably fit the best in Bond’s sleek shoes. This bad boy gadabout Alexander could be the real thing. After all, he knows a thing or two about strutting his stuff (both onstage and offstage), can arch his eyebrows in mock-amusement like Bond, can mix a mean drink, is not averse to kicking some bu**, is a Daredevil, a pro at driving fast cars, and is known for making women swoon.

10. Eric Bana – another Aussie on this list, this 40-something holds his own against heavyweights (remember him in that fight sequence with Brad Pitt in Troy). On top of that, he’s ruggedly handsome and that smile can make the toughest of hearts melt. ‘Nuff said!


So who do you think could set the BO on fire as Bond? While I’ve had my share of talking, it’s only fair that I turn it over to you.

Who do you think could best whip the likes of Le Chiffre, Goldfinger and Blofeld to pulp?

The boy who sold books at the traffic intersection

The flashy red car screeched to a halt, the 20-something college student pursing his lips in resentment at having missed the 60-second green pass at the traffic signal below the flyover. It was a scorching June evening, and despite the effective air-conditioning in his car, he would have to wait an 'agonizing' 180 seconds before he could take a speedy right turn and zoom towards his waiting-at-home-iced cola.

A blue car pulled up next to the first – albeit slowly, the middle-aged man driving it fishing out his phone to return that unattended call...

The cab of riotous young corporates sidled up next – clearly having the time of their lives by singing at the top of their voices – it was a Friday and they looked forward to a well-deserved weekend with family and friends...

A pretty young thing sat in the passenger seat of the sleek 30-lac plus pair of wheels that had purred alongside the cab. She looked at what appeared to be a chipped nail from an otherwise perfect manicure, a plaintive look writ large over her subtly made-up face.

The couple in the adjacent car had erupted into another fight, the hapless guy wringing his hands uneasily – his beau had issued yet another ultimatum to him, perhaps.

A motorcyclist doffed his bulky helmet, relishing what could only be described as a gust of blasting-hot wind. He then proceeds to give equal attention between the quarrelling couple and the pretty young thing.

And then everyone saw him.

A boy of barely 14 staggered-up to the stationary vehicles. At first glance, it appeared as if a stack of books were trudging valiantly to the waiting motorists. Of course that was highly improbable and a closer look revealed a spindly-thin boy who huffed-and-puffed his steps towards these people.

Self help books, potboilers, best sellers, science fiction, biographies, memoirs, travelogues, romances, anthologies, horror – he had them all. He wiped his dripping-with-perspiration face, and ventures to the first car.

The still-checking-out-her-chipped-nail girl glanced at him, dismissing him with a condescending eye.

The college-goer with the flashy red car displays all his pearlies to the boy, shaking his head vigorously from side to side. Whether it was to discourage the boy from making a customer out of him or to keep sync with the music that blared from the music-player, it had the desired effect – the boy nodded, happy to have seen one cheerful, friendly face, and moves on.

Next is the motorcyclist who scratches his head, clucks his tongue in annoyance, growling at the boy to leave him in peace.

The middle-aged man too, in the midst of an earnest conversation, frowns at him. The boy, not to be brushed aside so easily, proceeds with jabbing at one particular novel, murmuring how it was the latest bestseller. The man, clearly in no mood for purchasing the latest Jeffrey Archer, rolls down his window and rebukes – ‘Samajh main nahi aata – nahi chahiyey?(Don’t you understand – I don’t want?’)

The boy flinches, an alarmed look on his face, and plods to the office cab.

The noisy corporates jeer at him, composing songs about people who read books and died sad, lonely deaths.

Recoiling from their attack, the puzzled boy shuffles to the squabbling couple who looked close to exchanging blows and inflicting some serious physical damage on each other. The girl pauses to catch her breath from her nagging, cribbing bout, and the same second espies the young bookseller. She rolls down the car window and rattles off the names of a couple of books. The boy nods, checks with her if she would pay the quoted price, and when she replies in the affirmative, leaves all his books trustingly on the pavement below the flyover, dashing off to the next traffic intersection. Within less than a minute, he had returned with one of the two titles that the girl had asked for, and clasps the hundred-rupee note victoriously that she held out.

The run was worth it, and he caresses the currency note, smoothening out its creases, pocketing it, and returning to the pavement where he had placed his books.

The light turned green, and it was time for him to move to the next traffic signal.

With a spring in his step, despite the blazing heat, he wipes the perspiration from his forehead yet again, hums a tuneless song, and lumbers to the next batch of waiting motorists.

After all, even after he paid his daily quota to his owner, he could buy a humble meal for his mother and himself.

Maybe he would also pretend to read to her from one of the many books he sold – she would smile with great pride that her son could ‘Angrezi’ (English), not knowing that he usually created stories for her based on the many people he came across everyday at the traffic signals he frequented…

It was a good day and he looked up at the sky in gratitude...

Of pink eyes and dark sunglasses...

My particularly vengeful bout of conjunctivitis could put the cheesy Red-eyed Terminator to shame, what with the redness in my eyes clearly surpassing its inset LED.

But the similarity ends here - while the cyborg was on an unstoppable mission to 'terminate' a certain Sarah Connor, I on the other hand, long for normal un-blurry vision - when newspapers, television and the silver screen could see my active viewership again.

It really is no fun sitting near the idior box and looking like an idiot in the other direction, wondering whether the booming voice that emanated from it belongs to Brendan Fraser or Hugh Jackman. More pity if it is the latter and you are denied a look at that awesome Aussie.

And lest I have to make another trip to the ophthalmologist for yet more bottles of eye-drops, I think it is in order to bring a halt to this otherwise small post (by my standards), and give some much-needed rest to my laptop.

Sigh!

Spinning my tunes at the radio station

Ahh, the sheer thrill of being on air.

A couple of weeks back, hubby and I pulled up outside our home, keeping the car lights out except the one that lit up the dial, turning down the radio knob, and willing the phone to ring.

It did, putting us live on a local radio station, where we matched our wits with the spunky Radio Jockey. After the thoroughly enjoyable 3-minute plus conversation, we were richer by a couple tickets to a special screening of a much-touted sci-fi action thriller, slated for an official release next week.

The incident brought back a spate of fond memories from the year 2007, when best pal accompanied me to the office of the radio station where I was to host a show. How I landed this honour requires a lengthy narration, probably best suited for another day...

And that’s how I was ushered to the sound-proof studio where the RJ sat – let’s call him P - a popular voice, sans face, who entertained thousands every evening. He effortlessly hosted an English show – a boon for avid music lovers who turned up the knob when they recognized the strains of their favourite English cult classic. There was of course no script, and he would pepper the show with his tongue-in-cheek humour, speaking with cheerful abandon with the many people who called in. He spoke with them all – the incessantly giggling sorts, the eternally gloomy, the crisp professional, the completely-in-awe of him chaps, the rude losers, and even those who’ve perhaps seen ‘Sleepless in Seattle’ more times than necessary…

I was to observe him for a few minutes, and once comfortable, take over from him – for the rest of the 45-50 minutes. As a bonus, I could play my favourite tracks, whether or not they were requested for by those who called-in.

It was my first time in a recording studio, and I was understandably curious, my eyes darting and taking in all of the room. A large console (board) bang in the middle of the room occupied most of the space. After cracking a joke for the listeners and cranking up the volume for a catchy ‘80s number, the RJ turned to me, and after a warm welcome, proceeded to give me a rapid intro to what was what…

The two screens on the console controlled the Radio station – this was the first bit of info that came my way. Second – the walls had special soundproofing. The digital system stored songs, promos and commercials on it. A couple of laptops were hidden from view by P’s large frame – they had various fancy-sounding software for editing phone calls, beeping any cussing sounds that may be used. What was probably most fascinating, besides the console where you could crank up the volume of a song, were the bright orange microphones with ‘wind-screens’ over them. Apparently even the sound of one’s breathing blowing into the microphone could make one sound as if trapped in the middle of a storm. There was also a handy list of several songs listings – including, much to my pleasure, many of my preferred tunes.

A variety of paraphernalia lay scattered in the brightly-lit room – the last slice of someone’s pepperoni pizza (P’s I guess), a guitar, cymbals, a tambourine, three mouth organs, and some other musical instruments I didn’t know the names of. Posters lined two of the walls. Several music CDs overflowed from a half-opened drawer.

The above was all within a span of 4-5 minutes, during which time, the air-conditioning had wiped out any traces of humidity from that Friday evening, and pretty soon, it was time for 3...2...1, and I was on my own. Well, almost...

Steering clear of the lame introduction that I had thought of in the previous five minutes, I plunged into the show. Light-hearted bantering between P and me on prime-time seemed to be going well, as I could gauge from my sternest critic – best buddy, who nodded his head after regular intervals. It was time for a song and I succeeded in bullying P to airing one of my favourite tunes – ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ All this while, my phone buzzed merrily with messages from friends who had been informed well in advance to block an hour of their time, and who were dutifully listening in.

I was more comfortable and ever – and volunteered to pick the next call, a feisty girl who wanted to chatter about all and sundry. Of course, she wanted to listen to that dying breed – boy bands. After her was a chap, a self-proclaimed culturally-rich sort, who was disdainful of today’s theatre performances. He had no music request, which meant I was free to play what I wanted, which in this case, meant Lynyrd Skynyrd. Hurray!

The next few minutes were interspersed by more bantering, some commercials, 3 (or was it 4) songs, and finally it was time to wrap-up, much to my gloom after my 45 minutes of fame. Apparently, as soon as the clock struck 10, it was time for the next programme, which would play back Bollywood numbers, and spilling time over from one programme to another was frowned upon.

But well, surprise surprise - I wasn’t complaining.

After all,
I’d spun some tunes,
Talked to complete strangers without hanging up,
Had a super chatter-away time,
Revelled in that heady rush of being live on air,
Now, how many people can claim that? At least the last one?*



*And there it is – my modesty - back in action in my swollen head...
Sometimes I wonder why I wasn’t spanked when I was a kid. Should have had. Would have done me some good...

Shove at First Sight

The other day, on my way to work, I saw a 20-something girl beating the daylights out of a similarly-aged boy. Though I was at a distance, I could easily fathom that what could have been a minor lovers’ tiff had done a volte-face, taking an ugly turn. The boy stood apologetically with hands folded, looking beseechingly at his lady love, who in turn, looked in no mood for any compassion. She stood erect, one hand holding what was perhaps the boy’s mobile (no doubt holding some telltale clue to the aggression on display). With the other hand, she pummelled his chest with all her might, hurling vitriolic abuses at him, her face contorted with blind fury.

There was of course an expected stream of curious bystanders. Some had even pulled up their vehicles to witness this tussle - commenting, giggling and cheering-on the two agitated parties.

This led me to wonder – while people and quarrelling are inseparable, what makes even busy people stop dead in their tracks to become onlookers at brawls?

We see it all the time – two neighbours are quarrelling loudly outside their homes – a bandwagon of people gather around them in the twinkling of an eye. The spectators get completely caught-up in the squawking, taking sides, shaking fists, doling out unsolicited advice that was bound to cause bodily harm to either or both of the two warring parties, and giving free wings to their repressed anger - in the form of unparliamentary language. All this while, they forget their own household chores that need attending to. More often than not, they are often unaware of what caused the commotion in the first place. Minutes later, when the two neighbours decide to call it a day, the crowd disperses, chattering excitedly, and taking steps back to their humdrum lives.

There is the oft-reported pub-scene where highly-'spirited' men exchange sneers over beers, moving on to risky whiskey, brandishing unsightly middle fingers in each other's faces, and finishing with kicks and blows after consuming a few more. They are egged on by the other patrons, till the fed-up owner of the lounge sends in a couple of beefy bouncers to extricate the two.

We also see the occasional scene when a speeding motorist rams into the car ahead of his. Bam! The owner of the first car steps out - fist clenched, a snarl all too evident on his frowning face, smoke billowing out of his ears. He dives into the driver’s open window of the second car, switching off the ignition and pocketing the car keys triumphantly. A push and an unkind shove are next, followed by rude vocabulary that involves doing unspeakable acts to the other’s mother or sister. A loud smack is often heard, leaving an audience of 20 stunned, waiting with bated breath for the next slap. ‘Witnesses’ who weren’t there in the first place, zoom up, stepping forward, adding to the drama as it unfolds, ensuring a trail of blows, ear-pulling, swearing, eye-poking and collar-grabbing. Name-dropping is at its most generous and phone calls to relatives or friends who are in the higher rungs of the police ladder, are lawyers, or goons, are made in quick succession.

It's just too bad if your car happens to be behind – as obviously the two parties have no qualms of stopping right in the middle of a busy flyover or crossing. You smack your forehead in annoyance, praying that the two sort out their differences before they come to blows and neutral police have to be called for assistance.

What is with people, we included, that makes us stop all that we are doing, to see one guy pounding the cr*p out of another?

Are we all proving something to ourselves?

Or is watching a fight equivalent to making up for something lacking in us?

Does seeing someone nailing a punch on someone and making him kiss mother earth equate to a primal instinct in us to fight?

Does it take us back to our youth, when a resounding slap and a stern mouth said it all?

Does our latent sporting talent get a resuscitation when we see a chap do some good footwork on another?

Is it the sheer adrenaline pump of watching an action flick unfold right in front of us?

Does it stem from one of our oldest urges of curiosity?

Does it unleash our dormant sociopathic streak?

Is it our gut feeling of betting and waiting to see who emerges winner?

Or do we think that violence is the solution to everything?

Any other lame reason for doing so?

You tell me...

Liar Liar, Pants on Fire!

Pinocchio has some stiff competition...

We’ve all heard a few, or in some cases, more than a fair share of classic white-lies. Hell, we’ve perhaps also indulged in spouting quite a few, haven't we?

See if the following sound familiar:

‘Hey, what a freakish coincidence – I was just gonna call you.’
(When you are clenching your fist and berating yourself for not knowing the fine difference between picking a call and letting it go unattended)

‘Hey, this is just what I had been meaning to get. Thanks so much. I loooooove it'.(Bright smile at its fakest best).
(Upon receiving an itchy, fluorescent green cardigan for your birthday – the kind that would be stashed forever in your wardrobe, and never get to see the light of day)

‘Are you sure? I never DID receive any email from you!’
(To a friend whose email had long been sitting in your mailbox, begging to be replied to, but lazybones you had never attended to)

‘I would have loved to, but I’ll be busy with my volunteering at the local Blind School.,’
(To someone’s who’s been insisting on dragging you to a lousy flick)

'Yeah, I am working, but that's ok. Go ahead, tell me.'(Taking tired eyes away from your laptop)
(To that pesky co-worker who wants to narrate yet another mindnumbingly stupid anecdote, when the only thing you've been 'working' upon is your virtual soccer-team's score)

‘Oh no, you don’t look fat. You look like you’ve lost a few kgs since the time I saw you last.’
(To a BIG colleague who’s resumed office after delivering a bonny girl)

(Clapping hard). ‘Wow, that was some song.’
(To your boss at work whose vocal chords could
i. Ahem. Put a donkey to shame
ii. Ahem Ahem. Make the dead rise)

‘I played basketball for my school and college teams. Won quite a few matches too.’
(When the only game that you’ve played was that of cat-and-mouse – with your school and college sports instructor – for refusing to participate in anything that remotely involved running in a field, after hours)

Back during my school days, I was amongst the star performers.
(When the nearest you could be to ‘star’ would have been while removing the first letter from it, what with red underlines making your progress report very colourful indeed)

‘I really enjoyed the food – you’re a wonderful cook. Thanks for inviting me over.’
(To a ‘kind’ hostess whose ‘wonderful’ cooking required you to gag every now and then, and make frequent trips to the washroom to flush your system. Gawd knows that you cook better – and that's speaking quite a lot.’

‘I absolutely love your individualistic style of dressing!’
(To your brother’s best friend who looks as if he is getting ready to hit the town at night - to fetch clients)

‘Gosh, you still look the same like you were in college.’
(To a college mate at an alumni meet, who looks like she ate half of a continent, patted her well-fed tummy, and was considering beginning on the next one)

‘Fabulous hairstyle! Which salon did you go to?’
(To a neighbour whose hair made her look like your aunt’s squawking parakeet – on the days it decided to ruffle its head feathers. You also mentally make a note to never visit the salon that DID that to her (Shudder)

There are also the online lies – the herald that claims you are the sole nominee for a recently-deceased Arab Sheikh who’s left you a legacy of a hundred oil wells somewhere in the Middle East. Or the ones that congratulate you for being the 1,00,000th visitor to a website, asking you to click somewhere to claim your FREE FREE FREE prize.

Some people’s education in white lies - those attractively-packaged omissions of truth, begin from as early as childhood. What else can explain the wide-eyed obedience of an otherwise impish 6-year old who’s been told by his parents that a certain white-bearded, generous saint rewards only ‘good’ children with gifts on Christmas? Or the 4-year old girl who was warned by her imaginative mother not to squint or cross her eyes, lest they remained that way? Or the terrified kid who comes running to his grandma, tears streaming down his face – he had swallowed a pellet of chewing gum and now his insides were sure to stick together? And the petrified-of-dentists girl, who had a tooth extracted, all the while maintaining a stoic face, her mind busy thinking of the next day, when the tooth fair was sure to leave a prezzie under her pillow.

While parents tell white lies to children to teach them to be tractable and obedient, these same children go on to recount their own tall tales, white lies and fibs - bettering with the years.

The reasons why they grow up into adults who are not averse to speaking the occasional half-truth, may be varied – from a considerate ‘tactful comment’ that doesn’t hurt the listener, an avowal of the Ignorance is bliss module that maintains what they don’t know doesn’t hurt them or spreading an ever continuing charade of sunshine, peace and contentment. It also goes beyond – to the protector instinct which shields the listener from the not-so-bright side of life, and the trying one’s best to blend with peers by seeking acceptance and approval by agreeing with what is more commonly referred to as, pardon my language, Bullshit.

Whatever be the reasons – white lies are here to stay. Admit it – you’ve been there, done that too.

And for those who shake their heads furiously, let me toggle your memory – remember last month when you literally slept through your superior’s presentation at work, shook your watch a zillion times, doodled in your notebook kept for such precise moments, looked at the other sufferers in mute helplessness, and then at the end of it all - applauded it as ‘path breaking?’

Didn’t so much as blink, did you?

Jolly-good June

In a country famed for its festival-dotted calendar, June stands out as something of an anomaly, affording no relief from the drudgery of five-(or in some cases, six) day working weeks. This of course translates into a grumpy state of mind for me, known otherwise as a sunny-tempered soul.

So, it was after a lot of arm-twisting by a goof, oops, good friend – KB, that I rubbed my eyes and woke up to the happy times that June ushers.

Vacations. See the hordes of smiling-from-ear-to-ear children to know what I mean.

Picnics. And overflowing picnic baskets.

Long drives away from the hustle and bustle of the cityscape.

Renewal of swimming pool memberships. Splashing, smashing times guaranteed. Besides some treats for sore eyes if you are lucky – bronzed bodies, taut muscles – you get the drift, don’t you...

Fruits fiesta – luscious mangoes, tangy cherries, plump jamuns (Indian blackberries), thirst-quenching watermelons, ripe peaches, and of course, the staple – succulent litchees.

Traditional June-chillers – Aam Panna, Lassi and Chaach (buttermilk), Jaljeera, Shikanji or Nimboo Paani (Lemonades) and the ubiquitous mango shake. Besides of course, the perennial summer quenchers – beer, chardonnay and Sangria.

Cheerful, betel-nut chewing women selling corn-on-the-cobs, roasted golden-brown to perfection that beg you to sink your teeth into them.

June is also the month for celebrating the first man in everyone’s lives – Fathers. An exclusive day for Fathers on the third Sunday in June.

You also have the World Doughnut Day. A chomping-heartily day for sugar-lovahs...

And the less-known 'Take your Dog to Work Day,' which I wish my Organization would decide to celebrate. And which would surely delight my Labrador, Buzo, causing him to thump his tail wildly at the very thought of that adventure – the same tail that has been known to turn tables. Literally!

And now, lest you think that this post is sponsored by greeting giants, Archies and Hallmark, let me dwell-upon elsewhere...

The iconic Apple is all slated to launch yet another marvel. All technophiles and gizmo-crazed enthusiast are bound to go into a tizzy, setting up collecting sighs, drooling over the wonder that will be the iPhone 4G and red-letter that much-awaited date - 24. Now it remains to be seen when it hits the shores amd stores here, and how much it will make people pay through their noses...

This June, there are enough bigwigs lined up for the silver screen – and I have enough tick-in-the-boxes to do (with some leftover from alst month), what with SATC 2, Iron Man 2, Prince of Persia, Shutter Island, Karate Kid, Shrek Forever After, The A-Team, Knight and Day, and Robin Hood. Closer home – Kites, Rajneeti, Raavan, and It’s a Wonderful Afterlife.

While not all of them would be scorching hits at the BO, I’m hoping that not all of them would fall flat on their faces.

With the World Cup beginning in the next two days, hubby dearest has been scratching his head and recalling names of my long-lost friends, with whom he’s been suggesting I spend whole days with. Too bad that I called his bluff, and those ‘ Awww,I have such a considerate spouse’ choice of words have given way to the ‘Ohh, now I see’ glares.

And on a last note, as the heat starts to wane, it is time to look up at the skies, willing the fluffy, white clouds to do a volte-face, a complete make-over into grim, grey ones. The dry, scorching surroundings receive the welcome monsoon showers, a clean, fresh smell stemming from the till-recently parched, baked soil. The yellowing grass springs to a new lush-green life, causing many a person to kick-off his open-toed sandals and walk barefeet.

June sure is lovely!

And I’d sure enjoy it more if this horrid cast would come off!

Going on a free spree

Twenty years back, people would collect coins and stamps. Today, in a world where promotional campaigns hand you free sample stuff by the dozen, the average freebie lover couldn’t have asked for more.

There are however those who take this passion for giveaways to an altogether low, I mean – high. What else can explain a 40-something lady queuing-up for the gratis 30 ml bottle of shampoo which she will never use? Not even to bathe her pet canine. Or the average office-goer who makes his routine visit to the office stationery store, smacking his lips at the thought of all those collectibles he would bag that day.

Is it the unmistakable, hard-to-resist complimentary offer?
Is it an almost caveman-like instinct to accumulate?
Is it a junkaholic mindset?
Is it the practical ‘try before you buy’ logic?
Is it subliminal messaging that reaches out to that most primeval of emotions - greed?
Or does it go beyond?

There is the all too familiar episode from that much-loved sitcom F*R*I*E*N*D*S* - nerdy Ross and the constantly-unable-to-resist-blurting-his-tongue-in-cheek-humor Chandler decide that the best way to seek revenge on the Vermont hotel which does not believe in making refunds, is to pack their suitcases with the ‘free stuff’ that the hotel has on offer. Now, while we've really gotta cut Ross some slack – the poor guy was high on maple candy, you do get the drift, don’t you?

Before going any further, let me add that I am all for material things, lest you think that I’ve achieved some sort of zen-like detachment for spouting the above. I understand the lucrative nature of freebie marketing that propels such promotional marketing, what I fail to grasp is the rationale behind people stocking up on things that hold no value for them.

Some random examples -

- The blessed-with-glowing-skin college girl who eagerly stretches her hand for the promo pack of the anti-acne cream.
- The diabetic gentleman who happily waits his turn for the salesman who is handing out free chocolates and calorific potato wafers.
- The teetotaller who caresses his miniature liquor bottles lovingly.
- The corporate hotels employee who arranges yet another register among his ever-burgeoning stash at home.
- The middle-aged couple who wait every two years to visit the Auto Expo – so as to collect varieties of automobile calendars – both wall and desk ones, and the glossy magazines that their tired fingers would never leaf through.
- Another fairly common example is often seen in intercontinental flights where passengers ask cabin crew to hand them dental sets and promptly stow them in their oversized travel bags. (How they brush their teeth without the help of the dental set is something I wouldn’t bother to know).

The prize specimen called the buffet specialist is quite another story though – greed surpassing all other reasons that he may have, as he strides purposefully to the generous buffet on display. After all - breakfast was on the house. Several minutes later, you can hardly see him behind his heaped plate, though you can discern the chomp-chomp sounds that come from him. He devours the items as swiftly as he makes his ‘loot’ disapparate from the table - I’m talking coin-sized packets of peanut butter, jelly, marmalade, pats of butter, cheese cubes and slices – the works. It’s a wonder he leaves the kiwi fruit, though you do notice him looking forlornly at them…

Some people may deny the allegations in the couple of paragraphs above. Their defence is that they like ‘collecting’ stuff. Maybe they identify with pack rats. Well, some definitely need to look beyond this delusion, and kiss their junkaholic ‘Hoard and Clutter’ syndrome goodbye.

Whatever be the case, there really is some truth in that adage – One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.

The Agents of Disaster - Matchmakers

Put two perfectly independent standalone words together, and you have all the trappings for a potential debacle.

Case in question – the words ‘match’ and ‘make.’

Place them adjacently in a sentence, and the result is guaranteed to induce one or all these symptoms - unbridled squirming in the seat, characteristic awkwardness, cringing, and a flood of painful memories that make you wince each time you walk that path.

The matchmaking is usually done by well-meaning friends and relatives, with the latter of course, wrestling ahead by a clear, authoritative margin. Notwithstanding the high rate of divorce among couples who are clearly not meant to be with each other in the first place, these shining examples of frontrunners, committed to wipe out all traces of singledom from this world, trudge valiantly on this chosen humanitarian mission...

The results are disastrous, to say the least, much more perhaps than a recipe gone awry.

Leaving the matchmaker with guilt, sadness, a red face, and ears that have smoke billowing out of them – thanks to the unparliamentary language they have been subjected to. But the matchmaker in them intact – already spinning the next ‘knotty’ venture...

The quotient of matchmaking increases by leaps and bounds in social gatherings, with marriages topping the list. Almost every single guy or nubile girl who strolls into a marriage is sized up and down, and pounced upon in various degrees of swiftness by relatives - dowagers in particular. Parents are called for, heads are seen bowed together in hush-hush discussions, fingers are pointed innocently to the unsuspecting victim, and winks and grins are exchanged with gleeful abandon.

Those parents who are reluctant to go along with this matchmaking are slyly recounted horror stories about the dejected (and rejected) girl who wheeled in her twenty-fifth tea-trolley to a prospective groom’s family, only to be turned away yet again. Or the crestfallen 30-something guy who had disconsolately submitted to the arms of the friendly dancer with the heaving bosom at the cushy private lounge and the charms of the beckoning-invitingly bottle of heady spirit. The customary shudder post this narration is enough to make even the most assertive of parents think of the ‘no-harm’ clause that this matchmaking illustrates. And give a nod of approval, casting looks of pure gratefulness to the well-intentioned relative that God has bestowed upon them.

Big mistake.

Awkward coffee meetings and drives to the nearest mall are suggested. And worse, organized meticulously! The two disoriented victims are literally bundled into a car, nudges are freely doled-out, and as the car disappears around the bend in a cloud of dust, relatives and family go into a collective ‘Awwww.’ Hands clasped, these relatives go into an orgiastic overdrive about what a pretty picture the two make, predicting happy endings, exchange of wedding rings and garlands, and of course - a brood of healthy children. A few more discomfited meetings are arranged, under the loving eyes of family and friends. All seems to be going well. Just when the candyfloss romance and pink balloons look geared to become a reality, the drama begins –the victims proclaim irrevocable incompatibility, and absolutely refuse to step out for yet another drive. All hopes are dashed in one swift, fluid movement. And while the relatives scream ‘Foul’ in indignation, the victims breathe a little easy, and look up at the sky in gratitude.

Cut to another month – the marriage season is upon everyone again. ‘Pandits’ have red-lettered several days as being auspicious for nuptials. While relatives smack their lips in sheer ecstasy at the prospect of all that matchmaking, youngsters this time are smarter. As they say – once bitten, twice shy.

So while the guy – Victim #1 from last season, swears bitterly about the every-increasing truckload of work that has ‘suddenly’ descended upon his hapless neck, Victim #2, the girl with sparkling eyes who's partial to showing-off her ethnic drapes, makes a mental note to not arrive at any wedding unchaperoned. Help is at hand - in the form of her friend’s brother who (after his palms were greased with a much-sought-after invite-for-two to a hugely-hyped party in town),
performs the role of attentive beau, to perfection. That he just came out of the closet is information that only she is privy to, and she smiles at her very own private joke cum secret.

She’s ready for the wedding season – fabulously armed!

Looking gooey-eyed at her chaperone, she blows him a kiss (knowing that this will send the onlookers into a frenzy). It does! He does the much-practised and perfected sighing-grinning-from-ear-to-ear routine; she blushes, drapes her sequinned scarf tightly around her embellished attire, and walks with her fingers knitted trustingly in his.

Matchmakers be damned!

Another wedding.

Thankfully, not her own.

She sighs in relief.

Musings from the girl in the cast

Cooped-up at home courtesy a nasty leg fracture in Amsterdam, I have two unsolicited things to deal with - a lot of free time on my hands and a state of agonizing, seemingly-eternal immobility.

To say that I’m exasperated to the core, would be putting it a tad too mildly. To while away my time, I rely upon diligently leafing through newspapers, pamphlets, magazines, and the odd novel, hoping they would be useful anger tamers. No such luck though! Ample use has also been made of online shopping sites, the largess of family and friends (wink wink), mobile games, neighborhood stores that deliver treats right to my doorstep, half-an-hour pizza or Chinese deliveries, and guaranteed-to-induce-sympathy phone calls - though not necessarily in that order...

Also, how much can one get pampered, without feeling stifled like a mollycoddled pekingese pup? On days when I am at my grumpiest, snarling, most brooding, sulking (did I miss 'most unlovable?') best, it would take a daring person to touch me with a pole. To add to my hyperventilation, the weekly salon visits, that heady rush of entering a swanky mall or that much-favored little square market (as my Mum terms it) and exiting with multi-hued shopping bags that crunch happily together, the weekly ‘spirited’ lounge visits, the spa sessions – seem a thing of the distant past.

My hanging-in-gloom face is perhaps matched only by our dog’s long face, who is most aggrieved and puzzled by the infrequency of his regular thrice-a-week-if-not-more post-dinner drives.

To add to it all – the mercury rising by the day isn’t exactly doing much for the usual ‘sunniness’ of my disposition. While a splash of rain could do wonders to douse the fiery fury within me, the Met Department too looks hand-in-glove and has reported that the fickle monsoons still look a good 20 days or so away. I hope they are wrong!

The last straw was when the doc said today that the cast with which I have been hobbling painfully all this while (and which, may I add, makes me look and feel like a pale pixie lurching in exceedingly constricting stocking and pointy-shoes) – has to be worn for another three weeks.

Oh well – things aren’t really super-bright right now. But I’ll get by. Hopefully soon!

The Dream Chasers

Holed up in a tiny room in Ber Sarai, Ravi came to Delhi a year ago to prepare himself for the Civil Services exam. Along the same lines, Abhishek Kumar came to Delhi from Allahabad to groom himself for the civil services exam and that is when he picked up the habit of spending the evening at the square. After all, after spending twelve to thirteen hours cooped up in a constricting space, this gives him a chance to relax over some chai and catch up with friends.

There are three kinds of people in Ber Sarai—those who are nursing a dream, those who have realized it and those who have lost.

They all come.
They hope.
But they never leave...

For the IAS, CAT, JEE and a hundred other competitive exam hopefuls, Ber Sarai is almost a rite of passage. Almost as much as the mandatory prayer offering at the close at hand Ayyappa Temple.

For the thousands of students who pour in from the neighboring cities and towns, Ber Sarai and adjoining Katwariya Sarai serve as the base for the rigorous and often grueling time till the examinations.

Predictably, Ber Sarai abounds with book stores spilling over with text books and tomes on how to crack these tests and coaching centers. Any available space is immediately appropriated by advertisements for ‘100 percent and assured success in exams.’

However, the most obvious reason apart, the small square also serves as a breather from the long days. And longer nights.

Even on a hot, sultry summer evening, it is almost impossible to find an empty space to plop down on. Every inch of space in the square is lined with idle people. There are some who have finished the whole exam scene a long time back, but are still regulars there. There are also those who work nearby – in the swanky Capital Court Building, Yusuf Sarai, Vasant Vihar & Kunj, R.K. Puram – they too have become victims of coming there on most evening and staying till sundown. They have become compulsive people-watchers.

With JNU on one side and IIT on the other, Ber Sarai has turned into a students’ collective and Kerala Café and the Shri Ram Sweets Centre keep the endless cups of chai coming and conversation flowing.

And beyond the umpteen grainy green glasses, some make it over the threshold while most just dream a different dream.

(Picture Courtesy - The Web)

The Venice Voyagers

Many years back, I’d seen a legendary Bollywood actor croon sweet nothings to an actress (known for her famed portrayal of an embittered hippie), while on a Venetian gondola. The image stayed with me all these years, ensuring that Venice remained a much-dreamt-about locale for me.

So it was only expected that when hubby and I were short listing possible vacay spots to bring in one year of wedded bliss, Venice came up trumps.

The second week of April set in, bringing with it much excitement and fervor. After a brief stopover at Paris, we landed at Marco Polo airport, Venice’s main aeroporto.

From the minute we stepped on the cobbledstones, we were hooked by the allure and magic of this architectural masterpiece that is Venice. By far the singularly most appealing and charming thing about Venice is that it is an entire city built on water – to be precise, 118 islands, 117 canals and the most majestic of all – the Grand Canal, some 360 bridges, including the famous Rialto and the Bridge of Sighs. Add to this a place where you see no automobile in sight, and you have all the trappings of a charming, quaint place. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were also in Venice the same time as us, accompanied by their brood of children.

The water transport is incredible, to say the least – Gondolas, Vaporettos, Traghetti, and water taxis sail at various levels of speed across the length and breadth of this floating city. Even hubby, the staunch believer in the all-European-cities-look-alike-philosophy, had to take his words back, and admit that it was a place unlike any he’s seen before (and he has travelled a lot). Waterfront houses, palazzos, bistros and trattorias – all vie for space, their pictures doing no justice to their actual splendour.

Our home for the next few days was a charming B&B – Fujiyama, whose review I promptly posted on TripAdvisor here. After a hearty breakfast, we would set out for strolls, taking in the sights and smells. There were also the unforgettable Eurostar journey to Milan – a fashion paradise, the Murano island - famed for its exquisite glass, the equally gorgeous Burano island – known worldwide for its delicate lace, and the Lido island – home to the Venice Film Festival every September, when the likes of George Clooney and his other A-lister friends descend upon it, at his sprawling villa near the island.

But, coming back to Venice, the sights were many, the smells most appetizing. Each trattoria after another had tantalizing smells, and I can safely say that we have had some of our most delectable meals here – pizzas, ravioli, risotto, gelatos (favored most by me on account of my overtly sweet tooth), pasta, spaghetti, brioches, cannoli, Granitas, Tiramisu, Gnocchi – the works. The spirits were aplenty too – hubby and my personal favourites the Merlot, Campari and Bellinis. The concept of Aperitivo is a fantastic one – where, if you are buying cocktails at a bar, you can go through the buffet line as many times your tummy desires. And the spirits keep getting cheaper!

Burp! After that gastronomic’s delight above, perhaps I should also mention the repeatedly-etched-in-pictures-and-portraits – San Marco Church at St. Marks Square. Our online research capabilities proved very helpful, because we were able to beat a serpentine queue outside the Basilica, thanks to a free-fifteen minute pass we had looked up online. Near St. Marks Square, it was a wonder to see the likes of Chanel, Gucci, Armani, Salvatore Ferragamo, Valentino, Bvlgari, Prada, Fendi, Miu Miu, Max Mara, Versace etc hobnobbing with their humble streetside counterparts. Of course, the shopping paradise was Milan – with its quadrilatero d'oro (The Rectangle of Gold), where I stood agape for a few seconds, before hubby dearest reminded me gently that people had started looking.

So while I have ticked two out of the three fashion capitals of the world, it waits to be seen now when I do the third….

But till then, I will sing songs about Venice being the ultimate honeymooner’s paradise. A place for languorous strolls, lazy tides, delightful tratorrias, gondola rides, sparkling wine, and some quality time with your mate. It should top every honeymooner’s wishlist.

It wasn’t just a coincidence that it is Casanova’s land.

And while I still remain a Paris loyalist, I also proclaim - Ti Amo, Venezia!