I can't believe I'm saying this, but "What's your Rashee" is not the worst movie I've ever seen.
It certainly comes close, given that its 14 songs stretch across a length of film that would have been less painful if I had strangled myself with it and positively delightful if I had strangled Harman Baweja with it. That insipid man needs a personality, a haircut, some lip synching lessons and most importantly, a new profession.
And I need friends who don't bully me into seeing his movies.
Anyway, misery needs sharing. So please bear this story...
It all begins with a family who is told by an astrologer that the day their younger son gets married (in fact, precisely at the fourth turn around the wedding fire), will be the day he becomes amazingly rich. This revelation brings them a much needed respite - because their older son has a pregnant wife, a gambling habit, an utter disregard for fiscal responsibilities, and owing to the last, a chance of getting jailed.
So naturally our NRI hero flies down from the DJ-ing nightlife of Chicago to the Gujarati accent of Mumbai. We find out he is hardworking, loving, intelligent, dutiful and a thousand other good adjectives. He is willing to get married in a jiffy for the benefit of his family and the script-writer.
Indeed his only fault - and this is nit-picking really - is his unexplainable interest in bad literature such as bedtime reading of a book called "What's your Rashee". After which our hero gets over his jet-lag and falls asleep, but our nightmare begins because the book gives him the insight that there are twelve types of girls in this world. And thanks to this, he insists that twelve girls - all Priyanka Chopras with a unique star-sign, wardrobe and make-up assigned to themselves- are shortlisted as prospective candidates.
As it turns out:
One is not a virgin. Another has no intentions of remaining one.
One wants to be a superstar model. Another is already a celebrity of sorts.
One wants to marry him to emigrate. Another wants him to stay behind.
One is too young to be legally married. Another is too immature to be married at all.
One pretends to be insane. Another pretends to be modern.
One thinks they were destined to be married. Another thinks she is destined to marry another.
All of them sing awful songs.
None of them can dance.
How the four paragraphs I have written above got translated into a mind-boggling four-hours of screen-time is a mystery I am not prepared to unravel. But if you do wish to see the movie anyway... you bloody Guantanamo Bay torture items collectors! We liberals will hunt you down and make you see Sholay Part II and Shortcut! (Yah, those are the two worst movies I've ever seen).
Monday, October 05, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
In Memorium.
The ceramic cups. I don’t know why I remember those beige ceramic cups, or the navy blue tin tray they were set to match with. But as I sit back today to think of the times I spent with my grandfather, somehow it is their image that flickers in my mind.
Which is bizarre because there is so much more to choose from, now that I must choose what to remember him by.
Every second Sunday of my life in Delhi was spent at my grandfather’s place in Faridabad. We would typically land at his doorstep in the blazing afternoon sun, trooping in with large vessels full of lunch my mom had prepared. By ritual, we were invariably late, which was invariably my father’s fault, so my mom would invariably be scolding him at the end of the journey. But the moment we entered his airy bungalow, all would be calm respite.
At his long dining table, we’d load our plates and my sister and I would eat double our usual appetites. The food always tasted better at his place, even if it was cooked in ours. Plus, there was at least one dish on the platter which wasn’t made by my mom – the dhal –something my grandfather insisted on preparing for the potluck.
And after lunch when my mom went for a short nap, and my father pretended to read the paper but was napping sitting instead, our grandfather was ours.
My sister and I would lie on our stomachs on his bed, our faces propped over our elbow and hands [a posture which evolved to just hanging around his room when we got older] while he would sit ramrod straight in his half-sleeve shirt and white pyjamas [a posture that never changed till after he touched his 90s]. And then the story telling began.
Not fairy tales nor folklore, but real life adventures that my grandfather had lived through. He had worked for British Railways as it trespassed through Kenyan jungles owned by man-eating lions and affronted tribes and everything he narrated held an exotic attraction. He would pick an episode at random, speaking in a matter of fact manner, which made the narrative all the more real. He would talk of when he decided the leave the police force after seeing his colleagues rob a civilian. Of how tribal natives blew up rail tracks with explosives to bring trains to a standstill. Of why construction crews were terrorised when one amongst them started disappearing every night… His index of events was inexhaustible, as was our wonder.
It would end all too soon once my mom awoke. The discussion would become more grown-up and staid. And always including him needing a new supply of jaggery for the nibbles box by his bedside. Nothing worth evesdropping over, so my sister and I would use the time to treasure hunt through the house.
The house was, and still is, really a bungalow. Built under the supervision of my grandfather, it has front and back gardens, a large terrace and several bedrooms (one with delightful spring beds whose elasticity we can attest to wholeheartedly). In other words, there were innumerable hiding places for play and limitless closet spaces for junk. The garage, for instance, had piles of dated Sputniks and Reader’ Digests we pored over many summers. It was also there that we discovered a wooden Chinese chequers board as large as ourselves, which had its set of coloured marbles to play with. (We got bored of the game very soon, but not before we managed to lose most of the marbles.) Then there was the exciting period when we figured the required acrobatics to reach the roof (we could never figure where the key to the terrace door lay), which had a very low ledge that we could bend over. It was a treasure trove, that house, all of which we trashed without ever getting scolded, and the only uninteresting item it housed was my grandfather’s bicycle which neither of us ever grew tall enough to ride on.
At the end of the exciting day, we would emerge all cob-webbed and dirty feet. And grinning.
And finally, before leaving we would have tea. It’s the only time during the week I would drink it, and I’d have the way it is supposed to – dripping with Marie Biscuits.
I guess that is why I remember those tea cups.
It is time to say good bye.
Which is bizarre because there is so much more to choose from, now that I must choose what to remember him by.
Every second Sunday of my life in Delhi was spent at my grandfather’s place in Faridabad. We would typically land at his doorstep in the blazing afternoon sun, trooping in with large vessels full of lunch my mom had prepared. By ritual, we were invariably late, which was invariably my father’s fault, so my mom would invariably be scolding him at the end of the journey. But the moment we entered his airy bungalow, all would be calm respite.
At his long dining table, we’d load our plates and my sister and I would eat double our usual appetites. The food always tasted better at his place, even if it was cooked in ours. Plus, there was at least one dish on the platter which wasn’t made by my mom – the dhal –something my grandfather insisted on preparing for the potluck.
And after lunch when my mom went for a short nap, and my father pretended to read the paper but was napping sitting instead, our grandfather was ours.
My sister and I would lie on our stomachs on his bed, our faces propped over our elbow and hands [a posture which evolved to just hanging around his room when we got older] while he would sit ramrod straight in his half-sleeve shirt and white pyjamas [a posture that never changed till after he touched his 90s]. And then the story telling began.
Not fairy tales nor folklore, but real life adventures that my grandfather had lived through. He had worked for British Railways as it trespassed through Kenyan jungles owned by man-eating lions and affronted tribes and everything he narrated held an exotic attraction. He would pick an episode at random, speaking in a matter of fact manner, which made the narrative all the more real. He would talk of when he decided the leave the police force after seeing his colleagues rob a civilian. Of how tribal natives blew up rail tracks with explosives to bring trains to a standstill. Of why construction crews were terrorised when one amongst them started disappearing every night… His index of events was inexhaustible, as was our wonder.
It would end all too soon once my mom awoke. The discussion would become more grown-up and staid. And always including him needing a new supply of jaggery for the nibbles box by his bedside. Nothing worth evesdropping over, so my sister and I would use the time to treasure hunt through the house.
The house was, and still is, really a bungalow. Built under the supervision of my grandfather, it has front and back gardens, a large terrace and several bedrooms (one with delightful spring beds whose elasticity we can attest to wholeheartedly). In other words, there were innumerable hiding places for play and limitless closet spaces for junk. The garage, for instance, had piles of dated Sputniks and Reader’ Digests we pored over many summers. It was also there that we discovered a wooden Chinese chequers board as large as ourselves, which had its set of coloured marbles to play with. (We got bored of the game very soon, but not before we managed to lose most of the marbles.) Then there was the exciting period when we figured the required acrobatics to reach the roof (we could never figure where the key to the terrace door lay), which had a very low ledge that we could bend over. It was a treasure trove, that house, all of which we trashed without ever getting scolded, and the only uninteresting item it housed was my grandfather’s bicycle which neither of us ever grew tall enough to ride on.
At the end of the exciting day, we would emerge all cob-webbed and dirty feet. And grinning.
And finally, before leaving we would have tea. It’s the only time during the week I would drink it, and I’d have the way it is supposed to – dripping with Marie Biscuits.
I guess that is why I remember those tea cups.
It is time to say good bye.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Driving, or something like it
I suspect my husband has taken out a huge life insurance policy in my name. I was in Delhi recently, and he just wouldn't let off insisting that I practice driving there. Seriously, what other purpose besides dying can driving in Delhi possibly serve?
Anyway, under the influence of the intoxicating chemicals in Delhi's air, I agreed to his idea. Delhi air can do that you. Consider what prolonged exposure has done to Delhiites: they actually believe what they do on roads with their cars can be labeled driving. [driving! seriously! Next they'll tell me what Rakhi Sawant does in movies is acting.]
Likewise, my dad's been living in Delhi for donkey's years, and finds it a welcome prospect that I will wreck his car [something he's been trying to achieve since exactly donkey's years].
Anyway, so it is that I ended up in a refresher driving course, to fortify my skills as someone who hasn't driven here in a while. And if you fall in the same category, here are the Golden Rules:
1. Red lights are the signal for inching forward
2. Green lights signal that the race has begun
3. Orange lights are green lights in disguise
4. Speed limits are a challenge to be beaten
5. Using side mirrors is dangerous as they may get ripped off by cars overtaking you
6. Parking is a fundamental human right which can be exercised any where, any time, any how
7. Horning is not only a mandatory greeting but also responsible driving, alerting the obviously blind drivers on the road to your presence
8. Only losers give way
9. One-way road signs need to be followed only by foreigners, learners and possibly women who cannot handle the pressure two-way traffic on a single lane road
10. You can drive on roads, footpaths, dirt tracks; you can drive forward, reverse, or laterally; but for God's sake, Don't even think about approaching the Naraina "soon to become flyover" highway or your corpse will rot waiting for the jam to clear!
Happy driving!
Anyway, under the influence of the intoxicating chemicals in Delhi's air, I agreed to his idea. Delhi air can do that you. Consider what prolonged exposure has done to Delhiites: they actually believe what they do on roads with their cars can be labeled driving. [driving! seriously! Next they'll tell me what Rakhi Sawant does in movies is acting.]
Likewise, my dad's been living in Delhi for donkey's years, and finds it a welcome prospect that I will wreck his car [something he's been trying to achieve since exactly donkey's years].
Anyway, so it is that I ended up in a refresher driving course, to fortify my skills as someone who hasn't driven here in a while. And if you fall in the same category, here are the Golden Rules:
1. Red lights are the signal for inching forward
2. Green lights signal that the race has begun
3. Orange lights are green lights in disguise
4. Speed limits are a challenge to be beaten
5. Using side mirrors is dangerous as they may get ripped off by cars overtaking you
6. Parking is a fundamental human right which can be exercised any where, any time, any how
7. Horning is not only a mandatory greeting but also responsible driving, alerting the obviously blind drivers on the road to your presence
8. Only losers give way
9. One-way road signs need to be followed only by foreigners, learners and possibly women who cannot handle the pressure two-way traffic on a single lane road
10. You can drive on roads, footpaths, dirt tracks; you can drive forward, reverse, or laterally; but for God's sake, Don't even think about approaching the Naraina "soon to become flyover" highway or your corpse will rot waiting for the jam to clear!
Happy driving!
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Just after I've signed in for a gym membership that costs more money than a liposuction and more effort than photoshopping my pictures online, turns out that exercising, to put it delicately, is F%^&*$# Crap at reducing weight.
Yes, you read it right.
I know,today's not the first of April.
Above quote is a serious comment from a serious article expounding on the impotency of exercise for weight loss in the latest issue of The Times.
Frankly I am not surprised. After my first month at the gym I certainly had started to gain some suspicions, not to mention some weight as well. Thanks to some new-age machine which measures composition of body mass, I found that a fortnight of workouts later, I was an extra pound heavier, that's right - heavier - not in promised muscle but plain good old fat. This, despite exercising at least thrice a week, with weights and cardio and teeth gnashing and a resolution to finish the twenty minute cycling setting even if it landed my trainer in jail for unintended manslaughter.
Thankfully writer John Cloud had the guts to ask the question which most of us dare only throw out as a feeble joke.
The answer? Let me just say that the only way you will lose wait after exercising is if you are so sore that there is no way you'll take the long painful walk all the way to the fridge to eat something even if that something is covered all over Brad Pitt. or Johnny Depp. or Bruce Willis. Whatever works for you. Except that it won't work coz you'll be too tired to crawl to them. And they won't be there anyway. Unless you are Angelina Jolie, in which case you are not reading this nor do you need to lose a single nanometer.
Anyway, the point being that unless you stop eating, that weight is going nowhere. But after exercise, what is more likely is that you will be too sore to cook, yet not so sore that you can't call Dominoes for home delivery and instantly wipe out in a single bite all that you had perspired so hard to lose. In fact, leave alone Pizza, even a Gatorade can wash away the benefits of all the toil and sweat you worked up.
Worse, all the self-control you used to get on the treadmill means you have a lesser quota of will-power when faced with a choice between Truffle cake and soya beans. Don't believe me? Hear the experts.
"In general, for weight loss, exercise is pretty useless," says Eric Ravussin, chair in diabetes and metabolism at Louisiana State University and a prominent exercise researcher.
Yes, you read it right.
I know,today's not the first of April.
Above quote is a serious comment from a serious article expounding on the impotency of exercise for weight loss in the latest issue of The Times.
Frankly I am not surprised. After my first month at the gym I certainly had started to gain some suspicions, not to mention some weight as well. Thanks to some new-age machine which measures composition of body mass, I found that a fortnight of workouts later, I was an extra pound heavier, that's right - heavier - not in promised muscle but plain good old fat. This, despite exercising at least thrice a week, with weights and cardio and teeth gnashing and a resolution to finish the twenty minute cycling setting even if it landed my trainer in jail for unintended manslaughter.
Thankfully writer John Cloud had the guts to ask the question which most of us dare only throw out as a feeble joke.
Could exercise actually be keeping me from losing weight?
The answer? Let me just say that the only way you will lose wait after exercising is if you are so sore that there is no way you'll take the long painful walk all the way to the fridge to eat something even if that something is covered all over Brad Pitt. or Johnny Depp. or Bruce Willis. Whatever works for you. Except that it won't work coz you'll be too tired to crawl to them. And they won't be there anyway. Unless you are Angelina Jolie, in which case you are not reading this nor do you need to lose a single nanometer.
Anyway, the point being that unless you stop eating, that weight is going nowhere. But after exercise, what is more likely is that you will be too sore to cook, yet not so sore that you can't call Dominoes for home delivery and instantly wipe out in a single bite all that you had perspired so hard to lose. In fact, leave alone Pizza, even a Gatorade can wash away the benefits of all the toil and sweat you worked up.
Worse, all the self-control you used to get on the treadmill means you have a lesser quota of will-power when faced with a choice between Truffle cake and soya beans. Don't believe me? Hear the experts.
Self-control is like a muscle: it weakens each day after you use it. If you force yourself to jog for an hour, your self-regulatory capacity is proportionately enfeebled. Rather than lunching on a salad, you'll be more likely to opt for pizza.No wonder my gym doesn't come with a satisfaction guarantee money return policy.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Tagged: 29 Questions
1. What is your current obsession?
The same as my oldest obsession – trying to fit into my pants from college days that are saved and stored in my closet
2. What is your weirdest obsession?
You mean weirder than a burning desire to fit into a high-waisted, bell-bottomed, faded, frayed piece of cloth that hasn’t been washed in eight years???
3. What are you wearing today?
A big smile to start with
4. What are you listening to right now?
Radio and traffic
5. What’s for dinner?
Anything but carbs, at least for the next 3 months
6. What’s the last thing you bought?
Scented candles (on sale!) that will add to my collection of scented candles which will not be needed for at least another 6 months
7. Which language do you want to learn?
Mandarin. So I can bargain better here where I stay
8. If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?
Bora Bora
9. If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
Galapagos. Or Sossusvlei. Or Macchhu Pichhu
10. If you had $100 now, what would you spend it on?
Nowhere, I’d save it for my travel budget
11. What are your must-have pieces for summer?
Cotton dresses, strappy sandals, and lots of deo
12. What is your favorite piece of clothing in your own closet?
The one that is most frayed, faded and overused – a certain cotton dress
13. What do you do when you “have nothing to wear” (even though your closet’s packed)?
I tell Vipul it is all his fault. And wear a certain cotton dress again
14. What do you consider a fashion faux pas?
Fur
15. Give us three styling tips that always work for you.
It’s not the styling tips, it’s the confidence that works
16. What’s your favorite quote?
'Whatever happens, look as if it were intended'
17. Describe your personal style.
Understated. Underappreciated
18. Who do you want to meet right now?
Dave Barry
19. What is your favorite color?
Turquoise
20. What is your dream job?
To be a Muse
21. What’s your favorite magazine?
Used to be Target, before they contorted it out of recognition
22. Which TV character can you simply not tolerate?
Tulsi. %$^&*(()*&^&^&
23. Who are your style icons?
None. Though I do ogle at whatever Priyanka Chopra, Preity Zinta and Deepika Padukone are wearing on-screen nowadays
24. What are you going to do after this?
Go swimming
25. What are your favorite movies?
Too many to fit in a single post!
26. What inspires you?
Music
27. Coffee or tea?
Chai. Masala Chai
28. Pet peeve?
Telemarketers
29. What do you think about the person who tagged you?
After all the tags Quicksilver has handed me down, I know we have loads in common, ranging from a love for Stephen King to a dissatisfaction with the frequency of my posts!
**The rules: Respond and rework – answer the questions on your own blog, replace one question that you dislike with a question of your own invention, and add one more question of your own. Then tag eight or ten other people.
I tag any reader who'd like to take it on!
The same as my oldest obsession – trying to fit into my pants from college days that are saved and stored in my closet
2. What is your weirdest obsession?
You mean weirder than a burning desire to fit into a high-waisted, bell-bottomed, faded, frayed piece of cloth that hasn’t been washed in eight years???
3. What are you wearing today?
A big smile to start with
4. What are you listening to right now?
Radio and traffic
5. What’s for dinner?
Anything but carbs, at least for the next 3 months
6. What’s the last thing you bought?
Scented candles (on sale!) that will add to my collection of scented candles which will not be needed for at least another 6 months
7. Which language do you want to learn?
Mandarin. So I can bargain better here where I stay
8. If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?
Bora Bora
9. If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
Galapagos. Or Sossusvlei. Or Macchhu Pichhu
10. If you had $100 now, what would you spend it on?
Nowhere, I’d save it for my travel budget
11. What are your must-have pieces for summer?
Cotton dresses, strappy sandals, and lots of deo
12. What is your favorite piece of clothing in your own closet?
The one that is most frayed, faded and overused – a certain cotton dress
13. What do you do when you “have nothing to wear” (even though your closet’s packed)?
I tell Vipul it is all his fault. And wear a certain cotton dress again
14. What do you consider a fashion faux pas?
Fur
15. Give us three styling tips that always work for you.
It’s not the styling tips, it’s the confidence that works
16. What’s your favorite quote?
'Whatever happens, look as if it were intended'
17. Describe your personal style.
Understated. Underappreciated
18. Who do you want to meet right now?
Dave Barry
19. What is your favorite color?
Turquoise
20. What is your dream job?
To be a Muse
21. What’s your favorite magazine?
Used to be Target, before they contorted it out of recognition
22. Which TV character can you simply not tolerate?
Tulsi. %$^&*(()*&^&^&
23. Who are your style icons?
None. Though I do ogle at whatever Priyanka Chopra, Preity Zinta and Deepika Padukone are wearing on-screen nowadays
24. What are you going to do after this?
Go swimming
25. What are your favorite movies?
Too many to fit in a single post!
26. What inspires you?
Music
27. Coffee or tea?
Chai. Masala Chai
28. Pet peeve?
Telemarketers
29. What do you think about the person who tagged you?
After all the tags Quicksilver has handed me down, I know we have loads in common, ranging from a love for Stephen King to a dissatisfaction with the frequency of my posts!
**The rules: Respond and rework – answer the questions on your own blog, replace one question that you dislike with a question of your own invention, and add one more question of your own. Then tag eight or ten other people.
I tag any reader who'd like to take it on!
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