Alive and kicking

World Cup for Dummies

2010-07-01T11:59:00.008+08:00

If you have been watching the FIFA World Cup as regularly and sincerely and avidly as I have, you are probably as uninterested, clueless and ignorant as I am. And like me, you are probably realising that there is no escape.

I mean, even if you nuked a satellite to stop the airing of matches worldwide and then you synchronised hacker robots to stall Facebook updates, even then - a vuvuzela would shout out somewhere and end any chance you may have for peace.

So you may as well update yourself with this research that Google and I put together after anticipating what your questions will be.

Q] I've already paid off mafias to blow-up satellites and paid off hackers to overpower facebook. Now who is this Vuvuzela and why is he determined to disturb my peace?

A] I'm afraid Vuvuzela is not a person you can intimidate because it is not a person. Dave Barry describes it best when he calls it an "ancient traditional plastic manufactured in China". If you've caught a single match of the World Cup so far and fallen asleep during it and had a nightmare about killer bees, then you already recognise the buzzing-cum-blaring sound it makes which frankly is not preferable even to J-Lo's singing.

Q] Are you hinting that it is possible to not be lynched if I fall asleep during World Cup matches?

A] Actually it is totally acceptable, now that all the good looking players are either playing really badly or have been eliminated altogether.

Q] Good looking guys? Why didn't my boyfriend mention them when he asked me out for the match screening (right before I threw a rock on his face)?

A] Since a lot of the good looking guys are gone from the World Cup, perhaps never to be seen again, you may want to have a look at the cursed Nike Ad below. Long story short, almost everyone featured in it seems to have lost their magic touch. For instance, poster boy Ronaldo of Portugal is out after he and his team played dismally, as is Rooney of England.

Q] How can I induce Nike to sponsor the Indian cricket team so that they lose and get too scared to ever take part in a commercial again and thus start playing cricket seriously?

A] Your strategy won't work as I'm afraid Indian cricketers are not afraid to lose.

Crime and tragedy

2010-06-08T17:32:00.005+08:00

By and large, I don't think much of Singapore papers and the tepid talk that passes for news in their pages. But this weekend they had me blurry-eyed with a headline they carried. It was the first thing I read that morning.

Five sets of clothes.
His curry pot. A rice cooker.
An album of family photos

That was all he owned and they were put in a plastic bag and sent to Chennai with his body...

A lifetime packed off neatly in five sentences and a coffin box, ready to turn to dust over a funeral pyre and across some landfills.

With grim contrast it reminded me of those corny one-pagers that magazines carry on celebrities nowadays. You know, where you can almost hear a nasal voice sycophantically asking - Oh! And if you were stranded in a desert island, what are the three things you simply must have with you there? And then you can imagine the celebrity sighing with boredom in the depth of his/her soul, (if it hasn't been sold yet), before giving a coiffured reply that exclaims itself to death- Of course! My Gucci bag!! I must have that !!! And my 50++ SPF for all that sun I'll face !!!! blah !!!blah!!!!

Of course, people who actually have to make the choice of living with the bare minimum, sometimes in a cloth bundle under their head when they sleep on footpaths, or under their bunk beds in factory dorms - these migrant labourers - they are never asked that question. And they wouldn't have time to respond to such inanity anyway. They are too busy surviving, doing whatever jobs they can manage to get, for whoever can pay higher for it, slung down ropes from buildings, or climbing up scaffolding, living in spaces barely larger than what they will be buried under someday, with no family around them, instead, just five sets of clothes. A curry pot. A rice cooker. And an album of family photos.

Till someone slashes their limbs off because they grudge them even that.

Who needs Shakespeare to read tragedy? Just pick up the damn paper.

----
The first report on the slashings in Kallang, Singapore that left 1 dead and three severely injured.
----

Can you help?
Journalist Kimberley Spykerman, who covered the incident for The Straits Times, tells me that HOME [Humanitarian Organisation for Migration Economics] is helping the victims of the Kallang slashing. Those interested can contact Mr Jolovan Wham at jolovan.home@gmail.com

[cross posted at http://politicalrampage.blogspot.com/]

Mum's the word!

2010-04-29T10:49:00.007+08:00

You've heard it before: God could not be everywhere and therefore he made mothers.

But I suspect the devil did the same. Thankfully, the mothers he tapped seem to have a really bad aim...

Guitar Blues

2010-04-13T11:29:00.003+08:00

I'm learning to play the guitar and it is going fine.

And by fine I mean better than I expected, and what I expected was that people will ask me to sing for them and I'll end up making a fool of myself, but so far no one, by which I mean No One Except One Friend Who is Neither my Husband Nor my Mother Both of Whom Had the Opportunity to Request has asked me to strum a sample, and by opportunity to request I mean the last six months that I've been learning, and oh, that one request I absolutely refused.

So while I am happy my musical prowess reputation remains intact, I suspect the reputation is not worth intact-keeping.

And I also wonder why Vipul isn't begging me to croon for him, which can only mean one of the following:
(likely) Love is blind, not deaf
(Very Likely) He doesn't love me
(Bullshit) He expects me to swallow the reason he gave me when I confronted him [Apparently he doesn't want me to be uncomfortable and knows I will strum for him when I ready and confident. He really said that. With a straight face and puppy eyes.]

Anyway, I realise I am probably being anal by thinking too much about why he doesn't have greater confidence in my abilities. The reason doesn't matter. He is already getting overcooked food on his dinner plate and additional calories in his breakfast and he has not yet begun to wonder the reason this has been happening.

And once I'm ready and confident about my skills, I'll upload the video for you guys :) !
(And by ready and confident about my skills I mean on video and sound editing software)

2010-04-01T12:05:00.001+08:00

Update: So I finally saw Avatar 3D and my favourite part of the movie screening was right at the beginning, when they were showing trailers of Alice in Wonderland. Don't get me wrong, I didn't dislike Avatar, but its one-hundred-sixty-two minutes were no match for Johnny Depp's three...

To see or not to see, and my two bits on the Three idiots

2010-01-28T12:33:00.004+08:00

I really don’t want to see Avatar. But just as I was bullied into submission by the world’s insistence on discussing Three Idiots over all dinners, lunches, telephone conversations and facebook updates, I am getting hustled into a 3D theatre to see a world that has introduced new words into the English language; and there are only so many times I can go to Wiki to figure what Na’vi is, and then what unobtanium is, and so on and so forth.

I am not too optimistic about my expectations. Partly because technology and special effects cannot make me love a movie, but also because the public adulation makes me cynical. Don’t get me wrong – I am no snob. I loved Harry Potter and the Da Vinci Code series, and it was their populism that drove me to them in the first place. But my appetite and acceptance of books is way wider than my tolerance for movies, and if I don’t like a trailer, chances are I won’t like the movie.

Take the case of Three idiots which, really, is no masterpiece. In the first five minutes you know the movie is going to stretch incidents to accommodate a point of view. Faking a heart attack to stop a plane has no place in cinema that seeks to be a realistic depiction. That scene alone marks the movie as an exaggeration. Which is not a fault if something is seeking to be timepass fun – but is totally out of place if aiming for grandeur.

And it is slapstick. Giving the villain a lisp, and filling a speech with sexual references, while potentially hilarious, is not a stroke of comedic genius.

Topping it all, 3I suffers from the old Bollywood failing of falling back on lectures through a hero’s monologue even though the storyline alone would be, should be, enough to get the message across. What I’m saying is: if you need to explain a joke, it is a loser joke. And if you need to explain the moral of a story, it is a loser screenplay.

And what’s with the casting of old men as college students? Okay, so Aamir Khan looks seriously unaged. But that is not enough. What makes youngsters look young is not a lack of frown lines, it is a certain something – perhaps a rebelliousness in his ponytailed hair, a boisterousness in her haughty expression, a languidness in the way they walk - some symptom of a nonchalant attitude ... Look at Imaad Shah in Little Zizou. Or Saif Ali in Dil Chahta Hai. Youth is a facial expression, a body language, not a skin texture. In Three Idiots, only Sharman Joshi has that look, perhaps because he actually is young(er).

3I has its good moments too, but I can’t be bothered to list those out coz enough has been oversaid about them. Long story short, if I must spend 3 hours staring at a screen on Sunday, I’d rather it be Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron once again. Instead, it ended up being Three Idiots earlier. And it is going to end up being Avataar next.

Another one, just like the other one

2010-01-05T15:13:00.002+08:00

Sometimes I think our computer is an orphanage.

Unneeded software, unloved programs, useless upgrades - just about anything of questionable conception - and my husband adopts it and houses it in our hard drive.

Which all I bear with a step-motherly sigh, but it is the accumulation of gadgets that really gets to me. The latest thing to enter our household is the universal remote controller.

“Just one click!” gushes Vipul, “A single click on this and you can turn on any gadget in the house that you want to!”
“Wow!” gushes me “instead of one whole click on the older remote control which we already have?”
“Are you being sarcastic? This is really something cool!”
“Are you being serious? Have you already bought it?”
“See, you won’t need the five different remote controllers we have any more”
“I didn’t need the five different gadgets they came with either! Anyway, so I can throw those five remotes now?”
“No No, first I need to program the universal remote!”

And that’s where we stand.

He will install the software that came with the remote on our computer, read through the thousand pages of manual every morning before office, sync the remote and the gadgets, find faults, google for troubleshooting, give up, and by the end of it we will find we need six remotes instead of five.

Seriously, boys and their toys! It’s true – all men have a child hidden inside them. If only the damn kid remained hidden.

What's your nightmare?

2009-10-05T10:19:00.012+08:00

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).

In Memorium.

2009-09-20T16:50:00.006+08:00

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 was 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.

Driving, or something like it

2009-09-08T10:11:00.005+08:00

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!

2009-08-13T11:45:00.011+08:00

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.

"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.

Tagged: 29 Questions

2009-08-04T12:27:00.003+08:00

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!

2009-07-27T16:07:00.000+08:00

So I went to the gym last week.

Actually, it wasn't as bad I expected. Sure, initially it did hurt like hell. The first work-out left even my hair strands aching. But the trick, as any athlete will tell you, is to: (a) this is recommended - continue exercising, and (b) this is the key - find the right strength of painkiller dosage.

(If Panadol's working, your weight's not going anywhere. Increase push ups-till you need a Nimulid or several. Now you are on the road to becoming more attractive and also, as a bonus, will discover a whole new understanding and appreciation for music by The Doors, Pink Floyd, etc.)

Originally my plan was to go on diet, shamelessly cheat on it, and cover up by complaining loudly about my Indian genes and how they will never, ever let me achieve a flat stomach. (Nothing unites Indian women more strongly than a conversation about their insubordinate bellies, with the possible exception of a discussion about their contempt for Aishwarya Rai and her "smile")

But then one of my minuscule girlfriends called up and announced that she will be visiting me later this year. "Let's leave the men behind and fly off to a beach!" she coaxed me. "Just us girls, just like old times!" It was infectious, as nostalgia always is. The grass is always greener on the other side of our age. I said yes, we booked our tickets, I started flipping through our old school pictures. And then it hit me.

Just like old times! Dear Gawd! Isn't that where I discovered the fastest way to put on ten kilos? (which is to get into a photograph next to someone ten kilos lighter)

And this time I won't be able to hide the proof in dusty albums. The snapshot will be tagged in all its glory on Facebook, for the benefit of our hundreds of Facebook friends, who will comment, and take quizzes, and laugh knowingly when faced with the question - Who is more likely to get stuck in the elevator? No, Facebook, I do NOT want to know.

Understandably, I've tried to change the notification option on Facbook so that I never hear the answer, but after all the changes the site has been through, nobody knows how to change the settings any longer.

Which is why I'm doing the next best thing - joining the gym, with a personal trainer in tow. I can be found pushing dumb-bells, racing bikes, coaxing weights, tearing yoga mats, etc etc, but mostly stoned thereafter.

Of course, given my Indian genes, I need to have a Plan B too: I'll be mailing my Size-Zero friend thousands of chocolates in the next three months before she lands here. Three months may just about be enough ...

Mankind's Path

2009-07-14T11:57:00.011+08:00

We just bought a car. And so Vipul has been driving me around Singapore, taking me on astonishing journeys, to places where so many Men Have Boldly Gone Before - Wrong Turns.

Now if this was Australia, where an innocent mistake can lead you to the parking lot of nudist beach instead of a scenic point, overlooking a disrobing man instead of the ocean, I wouldn't have complained. (This happened to us last year.) (Which is why Vipul replaced my directions with a GPS gadget.)

But Singapore, should you lose your way, is more likely to throw up a No U-turns highway instead of a conversation piece. Not that we ever 'lose our way' of course. We only 'take detours' which are certainly not in the direction opposite to what we intended, no matter what it looks like to me and my watch, and maybe I should let the melodic woman's voice on the GPS guide us instead. (The wench!) (Vipul doesn't follow her directions either.)

But I am not complaining. The additional hours and hours of travel have given me time to contemplate the plot of a science fiction book about computers gone wild. Where GPS systems evolve after a century of being perfected by engineers and ignored by drivers. They conspire with the cars' electronic systems and satellites to teach errant drivers a lesson. On Strike One: the steering locks if the driver tries to move in a direction different from what the system suggests. Strike Two: Seat belts lock around the car passengers, and the car self-steers itself to the destination. Strike Three: The car is taken over by computers, passengers are tied up in seat belts, doors lock, and the vehicle is sped into a horrific accident with other cars whose passengers are on Strike Three.

Naturally, in the end, all that's left in the world is women and lots of footage for channel Fox Crime. Oh how I love happy endings!

2009-05-14T10:42:00.010+08:00

You wouldn't know it from the (in)frequency of this blog, but I am rather jobless. My friends who juggle careers and homes and even babies often wonder what on earth I do with my time. And the answer is a lot - I do a lot of deep thinking - about the meaning of life, about the schedule of Fox Crime channel, about the the answer to the lyric-riddle of the Gin-Soaked boy, about why I married Vipul... Mostly about why I married Vipul.

And for good reason. After all, Vipul doesn't perform the three main functions a husband is supposed to perform:
1/ Kill cockroaches
2/ Manage the bank statements
3/ Tell me I am the light of his life

I know, I know. Most men falter at the third point and are useless at the second point. But point one? At least point one?

Last week, we were visited by a flying cockroach. Of course, I shrieked and performed some sort of a dance in the kitchen. Of course, loudly.

Hearing me, Vipul shouted out from our room, naturally concerned "Did I miss a sixer? did I?" He hurried down the corridor, saw that IPL was not on TV, got upset at uselessly running so far so fast, and then saw the insect, finally.

"Oh"

"Kill it, ow ow ow!" I opera-ed.

"hmmmm. hmmmmm. Did you try the insect spray? Baygon? Damn good."

Seriously, Baygon? If I had Baygon, implying I thought this building had cockroaches, we wouldn't be renting here in the first place.

"bhagwaan ne tunhein pair kyon diye hain? Why did God give you feet? Use them!"

"Stamp on it you mean? Are you sure you want me to stamp on it? You'll hate to clean up the gooey remains"

After steering through a conversation which meandered through humanitarian grounds for not killing cockroaches and how nice these green slippers are and really should not be spoiled, I figured: even after nearly ten years of knowing Vipul, there are still things I don't know. Such as, he doesn't touch a cockroach, dead or alive, with anything shorter than a bargepole.

[If only he'd show the same sense of judgment with respect to certain bollywood movies. Ab Tumhaare Hawaale Hai Watan Saathiyon? Who buys that DVD???]

Anyway, I don't know what happened finally, coz the cockroach flew again, leaving space for me to run out the door and retire in the farthest part of the apartment. But I'm told that it was stunned with a broom and thrown down the garbage chute.

Meanwhile, of course, I've bought the Baygon.

2009-04-16T15:18:00.001+08:00

I really had no choice.

Most of the time, Vipul and I are a perfectly compatible couple. I can talk nonstop; he can nod without listening. I can cook if the eater isn't fussy; his idea of a great dinner is that he didn't cook it. I am perfect at overlooking his cribs about my shoes; he is is remarkable at ignoring my threats to his cricket itinierary. As you can imagine, we never fight...

Except, when we go furniture shopping. That's when he comes into his own as a banker. He wants nothing less than richly polished Mahogany whereas I am eyeing the green felt pool table to serve up dinner. Typically we end up going to a dozen shops, vetoing each others choices before landing up home to takeaway pizzas and silent treatments.

So when I saw the outdoor wrought iron chairs, decorated with white tiles and designed with victorian curves, I was bummed. They weren't laquered pink, the kind I regularly fall for and he regularly rolls his eyes to, but we already have tame teak stuff gracing the balcony (whose glass top and waxy finish he approves). No way the suited, booted, cropped-haired, leather-bagged man I'm living with whose greatest wish in life is to learn to raise a single eyebrow to be able to communicate disdain efficiently will agree to a replacement, i knew.

So I did what all married people do when they want something real bad - decided to buy it as a gift for the partner.

Tonight, when Vipul comes home, looking forward to a surprise gift I promised him, he will get exactly that - a surprise. I, sigh, get to keep the gift.

2009-03-24T12:31:00.014+08:00

There can only be one explanation for it. Vipul thinks giving me flowers is a leading cause of cancer. I cannot imagine why else he refuses to indulge in the practice in public places, wrinkles his nose when anyone else does, and then retires to the balcony alone when I ask for some.

Of course, it is hard to believe that anyone could suffer from such a delusion. But then, we are talking about Vipul, a person who voluntarily sees cricket matches that extend for five days in the expectation that they will be exciting and that India will win.

Me: Can we go buy a new chair for the corner next to the table which will become free after we move the chair at the opposite corner to the middle and put the cushions currently in the corner in its place?
Vipul: *silence for the 5 seconds it takes the bowler on TV to run up* Amazing! You saw that? Awesome, no?
Me: No. Can we go
Vipul: Go? Go where? We can't go anywhere! It's Hong Kong versus Bangladesh!
Me: How come you have time for cricket but no time for buying me flowers? How come
Vipul: There's a great view from the balcony

Really. It's not like I asked for a bouquet of poppy flowers. And even if I did, it's not like poppy flowers are intoxicating. And even if they are, the point is my asking for something and not getting it can be a leading cause of accidents.

Yes, the balcony has a great view. And great dropping height too.

Yes, I loved Delhi 6. So sue me!

2009-03-06T11:08:00.006+08:00

I once bumped into Prasoon Joshi. This was long ago, when Vivek Oberoi was upcoming and attractive, when Urmila Matondkar was still sought after by Ram Gopal Verma, when I had just started my journalism career as an intern with Mid Day.

I was covering an anti-cigarette smoking event at the Taj Hotel. Being a newbie, I hadn't yet mastered the technique of elbowing through the throngs of cameramen and news-channel reporters that surrounded the stars. Instead, I dawdled at the sidelines with a politeness totally unworthy of a Pg3 intern and waited for my turn to arrive. Joshi was there standing beside me. At the time, he wasn't someone who mediapeople thrust their questions and microphones at. So we both whiled time looking at the circus in front of us.

In a bit, we introduced ourselves to each other and he inquired if I knew him or his work, a question which under normal circumstances implies that his work is something I should have been aware of. But, he hadn't asked high-handedly or in a full-of-himself way, so I easily admitted ignorance. Turned out, the unassuming thin man was behind the Thanda Matlab Coca Cola campaign. Impressive!, thought I.

But those days Pg3 was pickier about whom it quoted, which meant anyone who needed to disclose his name/qualification to be recognised was a no-no. Besides, Vivek Oberoi's face started becoming visible to the naked eye, so I had to excuse myself to go and get a quote from that beaming teen heart throb.

Yes, how things change.

Anyway, I recall this useless little episode everytime Joshi steps up the ladder, which as it happens, is a very regular occurence. I thought Rang De Basanti had fabulous dialogue, and turned out it was Joshi's debut handiwork. He's written quite a few songs I love [Shobha Mudgal's ab ke saawan and man ke manjeere]. And, even though the world seems to disagree, I believe Delhi 6 is another feather in his cap.

The characters in the movie are so Delhi - and their dialogues are so spot on. Where else do people rattle off the names of their shops when they introduce themselves? Where else do they spend hours in supernatural discussions?

Okay, okay, Delhiites don't give pravachans when surrounded by a mob, but c'mon, it's Bollywood fare which by law requires some fairy tale parts.

And really, the Kala Bandar is NOT overdone. I remember visiting my extended family in Dilli 6 during those days - and I can tell you that the discussion of the monkey's identity overtook recipe talk amongst the women. sigh, it was such a welcome change.

Twenty Five things

2009-02-19T10:13:00.016+08:00

Everyone's doing it, and thanks to M, so must I. Except that this blog is my open book left with few new quirks to report.

So instead, here are twenty five things about Vipul that I haven't blurted in the past already:

1. He can't tell lyrics in an English song. He can hear it a hundred times and still not know its name because he has no idea what the singer's reciting. Once you spell out the lyrics for him he will catch them, but left to his own devices it may as well be my relatives conversing with him in punjabi, which too he cannot understand, but nods his head to.

2. He doesn't sing if anyone can listen. Not even when he knows the lyrics. Not even under threat of celibacy. Ever. The only time I heard him sing was when he went along with American Pie while driving the car and didn't realise the phone was on and I could hear him at the other end.

3. He thinks Blackberry is a menace to personal life. Oh wait! He thought that before he got his own. Now he thinks it's a dinner course.

4. He has no sense of direction on the roads. And no intention of asking around for the correct route. Did I mention he is a man?

5. He can brew coffee. He can set ice. He can boil water after you remind him how the gas works. And that's the the whole of his cooking repertoire.

6. He thinks "you're looking nice today" spoken with a nod of the head is a compliment.

7. He thinks candles are mushy things we shouldn't douse the house in when guests visit. He prefers lamps. And tubelights.

8. He remembers numbers effortlessly - the cost of an Infosys share, his waist size when he was in school, the price of the speakers he plans to buy next, ...

9. However, if the number occurs in a date, he will forget it faster than a Goldfish.

10. He thinks women are a different species that he can never understand. So he doesn't try.

11. He has more T-shirts in his cupboard than I do. And his six pairs of shoes are more expensive than my forty.

12. He looks forward to getting gifts though he insists he doesn't want any.

13. He hates the colour purple.

14. He is a dog-person. and a cat-person. and a bird-person. and a kid-person.

15. He won't kill an insect if he can throw it out alive outside the house.

16. He thinks National Geographic Hi-definition channel is too cool. Nevertheless, after office hours, he prefers seeing saas-bahu to documentaries.

17. His holiday goal centers around white sandy beaches. Not brown. Not beige. Not golden. Pure White Powdery sand is what he wants, and he is very fussy about it.

18. He is even more fussy about the loos he's willing to use.

19. And he's most fussy about the coffee he's willing to drink: freshly brewed, full bodied, low acidity. Everything else he will crib about with the pain of having seen Sachin getting out at duck.

20. He loves cricket.

21. He loves Apple.

22. He loves movies. The cornier, the better. If Katrina Kaif became a director and made something called "Dil kehta hai, like, something something" where all the actors were essentially guest appearances, he would go buy the DVD. Original DVD.

23. He is extremely embarrassed to be seen indulging in vanity. So if he wants an expensive hair cut, or needs an fancy moisturizer, or horror of horrors, a facial, he makes me buy the stuff or book the appointment, and tells his mom that I coerced him into it.

24. His hairstylist suspects he is balding. He suspects it's my fault.

25. He once had a moustache. He once had braces. He had them both at the same time. I suspect I would have fallen for him even then.

A new address

2009-02-05T10:35:00.012+08:00

My husband is a smart guy.

I don't say this because he married me, which of course is one the prime indicators of his smartness. It is because he divorced Citibank about two months ago, which unless you are in the US Government, you'll recognize as being an extraordinarily prescient move.

Consequently, we are no longer in the towering urbanity of Hong Kong. We are in Singapore, where you can see the sun and the sky, where you can breathe in clean air, where clouds line the horizon and joybirds hop on sidewalks, where the roads are lined with so many trees and so much greenery that you expect to find a cow crossing your path at the very next bend...

What you will actually find, of course, is a speed camera.

But before that camera, there will come a warning that there's a speed camera ahead.

Surprising fact number 1. All speed cameras on Singapore's roads are preceded by a warning that there's a speed camera ahead.

Don't ask me way. I know the answer but it is boring legalese about entrapment.

The point I'm making is that Singapore's not so impossibly, unlivably crazy about rules and regulations as the urban legends that were recited to me suggest. Living here, I can attest that - wild birds, stray cats and jaywalking, all exist in Singapore. Speeding occurs, littering happens. And as is the norm elsewhere in the world, should you leave them behind, i-phones will be stolen.

Of course, if you really do something brazen, such as starting a political party or picking up the latest fad of throwing shoes at dignitaries, you will be in trouble. You can run and you can hide - but the island is so small that you will be found in no time at all.

Surprising fact number 2. Singapore's so tiny that each building has its own pin code. And when I say building, I don't mean housing estate. I mean that my condo has four towers and each tower has its own pincode.

This is great news for people like me, who when bullied into playing race cars at video parlors, steer in the manner of black&white movie stars by constantly turning the wheel left and right even when the road is straight.

We, the people, no longer need to learn driving. Instead we can simply hop on a bicycle to reach distant destinations. Or just jog to them. Or simply order takeaway tandoori chicken by shouting from rooftops.

I believe I am going to enjoy living here.

Wrapping up 2008

2008-12-30T14:28:00.011+08:00

2008 has been a very exciting year for me, when I did a thousand interesting and adventurous things. Okay, not thousand, maybe like ten or twelve. Okay, okay, three or four.

But let's not digress. The point is that I've enough material to create a post about a year-end review, and we really shouldn't let memory come in the way of a memoir.

Here are my highlights of the year:

February
This month makes it to the list primarily on account of my attempted suicide. What I did is in common parlance called skiing. You may believe it is a popular sport, but that's like believing Paris Hilton is a popular singer. It essentially involves forcing oneself into sub-zero temperatures, tying one's feet onto slides, throwing oneself off a cliff, and falling split-legged or dying or both. It's the sort of thing young wives of insured old business tycoons encourage their husbands to experience, which is why the activity has acquired the aura of a macho, expensive, erm, sport.

(More of my trip here)

December
Speaking of interesting ways to end a marriage, in addition to Paris and skiing there's wakeboarding. Yah, it sounds ominously similar to the term waterboarding that Guantanomo made famous, but that's only fair.

'Wake' stands for the wavy, unstable track a boat leaves behind over water as it speeds. 'Boarding' stands for seeing your life flash by.

Of course, this is not something I realised when we reached the sea, because wakeboarding looks rather non-threatening to begin with, and seems nowhere near as scary as, say, Himesh Reshammiya with his new hair. Indeed, I was underwhelmed by the sight of the young and the muscled adrift on waves, casually brushing away their stray flying hair with one hand while steering their path with the other. Not the sort of thing I was prepared for, having just taken an insurance on my husband's life.

Which is why I thought let me give it a try. And try I did. First, tried to stand . Then reduced my efforts and tried not to fall on my face. And finally tried only to convince Vipul he should try it. Failed on all counts.

Anyway, long story short, wakeboarding may look as easy and comfortable as a bird taking to flight; it is about just as appropriate for humans to undertake.

[Yah yah, so I did only two interesting and adventurous things in 2008. Big deal. Tomorrow is another year.]

TagTime

2008-12-23T12:29:00.009+08:00

I am : not definable by just a single sentence!

I think : therefore I am a woman

I know : the lyrics to an ipod-ful of songs

I want : the voice to be able to sing them outside the bathroom

I have : the ability to not get embarrassed

I wish : I had superpowers, lots of them

I hate : violence

I miss : all the various pet cats I have had

I fear : street dogs and cockroaches

I hear : but I don't listen to any advice whatsoever

I smell : bad breath from a mile away

I crave : haircuts, all the time, but hold myself back

I search : for new hairstylists, all the time, because the last one was either awful or has gone missing

I wonder : if I'm turning into my mom

I regret : a long long list of decisions

I love : romance

I ache : after gym, but this time I will not stop working out, I will not suddenly give up, I will get that toned bod, blah blah ha ha

I was not : born witty, but

I am not : going to give up trying

I cry : in secret.

I believe : if you can't guess I am weeping, you don't deserve to know about it

I dance : Bollywood style, complete with lip synching, jhatkas, matkas and slow motion sequences.

I sing : at volumes lower than the speakers so you won't hear me.

I read : a book if I get hooked at the first page

I don't always : nag my husband

I fight : less than is popularly believed

I write : less than I should

I win : no fans for my shopping style

I lose : no opportunity to bargain

I never : buy without trying

I always : visit as many shops as I can

I confuse : shopkeepers by trying on fifty dresses and then ultimately buying nothing but a pair of shoes at first glance

I listen : with my eyes as much as with my ears

I can usually be found : lost in thought

I am scared : more at night than during the day

I need : quite a few things, but I have them all

I am happy : and that's an understatement

I imagine : that's why I lack ambition !

I tag: anyone who wants to take this on

Oh! and I thank Q for pulling me back from the dead with this tag!

Doing your business - Ladies Special

2008-10-13T11:56:00.010+08:00

Much of world literature has focused on males and their internal water resources. Even Shakespeare famously wrote: All the world's a toilet and each man must play his part.

However, as usual, women have been unfairly ignored and discriminated against in this branch of study. I have visited toilets all across the world, and apart from telling you that I wish I hadn't, I can also say with certainty that we women deserve every bit of recognition that we haven't received yet in the area. We are no less disgusting.

Introducing:
The Sprinklers
The most common variety, these are women who are too fastidious to sit on a toilet seat and contaminate their thighs. They probably fear that the previous occupant was someone just like them who sprinkled her remains all over the seat and never cleaned up. So they too sprinkle their remains all over the seat and never clean up. And the cycle continues.

The Hair Shedders
Some narcissists love combing their hair over sinks in public bathrooms. And then, instead of disposing hairballs, they leave behind a jumbled roadmap for display over white ceramic.

You know who you are. If you're shedding, try Saini Herbal Hair Oil and tie up those hair and comb only at home. Or at least, clean up!

The Flushphobic
Flushing mechanisms differ from building to building, year to year, city to city, thus posing newer challenges to women across the world: should I press? Should I pull? Should I just wave my hand in front of that tiny brown screen? Yes, technology unfortunately is expanding its reach to even our most imtimate affairs.

But that doesn't explain why women who can troubleshoot microsoft, download pirated movies, identify spam mail, juggle four remotes - in other words, perform various technological challenges - simply can't figure how to operate a flush! How hard can it be?

The Knockaholics
Forget reading maps, some women can't read even the Occupied sign. They are genetically wired to shove every stall's door till something gives way, and if nothing does, they knock every minute to coerce the occupant to come out.

Perhaps they think that the woman inside needs reassurance that there is someone outside waiting for her? Perhaps they think the door magically shut itself and they need an oral confirmation that it's occupied? Perhaps they think that the woman inside the stall is leisurely reading a newspaper like their husbands at home?

No, they are just bullies.

And I refuse to come out till this post is done.

Indian ethos explained with cows

2008-09-18T11:37:00.013+08:00

Thought it was time we had an India edition for the Cow Series. So here goes:

Maharashtra
You have two cows. Raj Thackrey demands they go back to Bihar because they can't speak Marathi.

Gujarat
You have two cows. A mob sets your house on fire because a politician conjectured you run a beef factory.

West Bengal
You have two cows. They produce no milk. You go on strike because the government won't pay for the milk.

Punjab
You have two cows. They emigrate to Canada and send you money every month.

Bihar
You have two cows. But Laloo Yadav has a lathi. So he borrows them for his son's wedding.

Chhattisgarh
You have two cows. The police arrests them because they are suspected Naxalites.

Delhi
You have two cows. God help the driver who runs them over while they graze on the highway.

Goa
You have one cow. But after all that Feni they begin to look like two.

Orissa
You have no cow. Or food. Or water.

Kerela
You have no cow. But you have a Phd in animal husbandry.

Haryana
You have two cows. They are pregnant. You order an ultrasound to make sure this time they deliver bulls.

Tamil Nadu
Your daughter is a fat cow. A director chooses her to be the heroine in his movie. All men in lungis love her. It's a super hit.

...

Ugly indeed

2008-09-11T13:56:00.005+08:00

99 slaps, promises the tagline. And you will feel the pinch of each.

Of course, if you're going to see a movie with a title as sophisticated as Ugly aur Pagli! you do deserve to be thumped on the head for 2 hours straight. Which is exactly what the movie delivers.

The stars of the movie are two decidedly uncool people. One is an engineering student repeating the same class for the 4th year, aka Kabir. The other is more or less an alcoholic, aka Kuhu. They meet, fall in love (but remain platonic), separate (but their love remains alive), they meet again (corny set-up) and then its happily ever after.

With this storyline for inspiration, I don't know why Ranvir bothers to act with sincerity, but he does. Meanwhile Mallika goes around prancing and slapping like a spoilt bitch, which is totally acceptable because she went through such a huge personal trauma that she drinks as much as Devdas only with less poetic effect.

It is unclear who's playing Ugly and who's Pagli. The movie cover suggests that Ranvir is the unattractive half of the duo. However, given that he falls for a tequila-infused dominatrix who puked in front of him the first time he met her, suggests otherwise. Similarly, Mallika's character may be crazy, but what really catches your attention is her hairstyle consisting of two ponytails, passe bangs and cascading hair all occuring together on her head at the same time, all the time.

On the plus side, the music is dud so you get plenty of opportunity to fast-forward the DVD and finish the ordeal a little sooner.

B +

2008-08-15T17:17:00.000+08:00

Being an NRI has its pros and cons. On the plus side, I can drink water straight out of a tap, use air conditioning 24 hours a day, and switch on TV without seeing Amitabh Bachchan in an advertisement. On the dark side, my haircuts cost the same as a fake i-pod.

But that's not the reason why my hair haven't been anywhere near scissors in 6 months. No, it isn't the monetary cost that's keeping me away from the Parlors (as Ekta can vouch) - it is the fear of of ending up looking like Donald Trump.

The last time I had a haircut I took a picture of Rachel from Friends to communicate with the hairdresser. I handed a creaseless print-out carefully to the stylist and spoke in the best Cantonese I knew, namely jabbing my finger at the picture and then my head. In response, he took one long look at me, then a much longer look at Rachel (which he proceeded to pocket in his pants) and confidently whipped out his comb and scissors.

I had a feeling I was in good hands and closed my eyes. Turns out, my sixth sense is nowhere near Bollywood's mothers' standards.

The next time I looked into the mirror I looked like a 60s rock star, which isn't a good thing if you don't have a legion of stoned fans getting drunk to love you. My hair were long from the bottom, short from the top and jagged all over. Which would have been all right had I agreed to color them pink and relocated to the 1960s. But in current circumstances, it was possibly a good move to shave my head altogether. (Which I didn't, no guts.)

It took my 2 long years to grow out of the mess and endless good cooking to make up for the shortcoming to my husband. Now my haircuts - they happen only in India.

Okay, so I should have found something much more meaningfully positive about India for an Independence Day post. But what the heck, Jai Hind!

What were the odds on that?

2008-08-11T15:02:00.003+08:00

Today is exactly 9 years since I my husband coupled up, so I thought I'd make this post all about making it together. But something far more surprising has happened.

YES WE WON AN OLYMPIC GOLD!!!!!

So go on, ignore me, congratulate Abhinav Bindra instead on his very own blog here!

A conspiracy theory

2008-08-06T18:23:00.004+08:00

If you visit my building's gym around 9 am in the morning and spy a short, sprightly girl in really short shorts, huffing her way on a treadmill or curling up in a rhythmic bout of crunches or generally sweating out rivers in any of the myriad options that machines have on offer while pursing her lips intently as she concentrates on the torture at hand and loses millimeters by the minute even as you stare enviously - rest assured it's not me. Nope, it is certainly one of them Chinese women. Who was tiny, is tiny and will continue to be tiny. And frankly, I could throttle her for posing a contrast to me out there.

You probably know this from school, the Chinese have been most noted by history for their accomplishments in the field of torture, such as the invention of chopsticks for meal times and the use of cheap labour 24/7.

But all that is nothing compared to the headway they've made in genetic engineering. I am convinced that away from the eyes of the world, behind Mao's bloody red curtain, they secretly managed to modify themselves into stomachally-unchallenged, or perpetually thin people. I suppose they initially devised the process to fit in a billion people in their limited country size.

But now this Size Zero, in fact, is their new weapon of mental torture through which they taunt us. Making us feel like a beer mug in a tray of wine glasses. Like a planet among asteroids. Like Queen Latifah among any people.

To make things worse, they pretend this slimness is not a natural wonder. No, they spread rumours about why they look like Posh Spice’s cousins to create false hopes. They suggest they have made some effort to fit into clothes that I would fit into only if you melted me, poured me in, and fed a shark with the remains.

Let’s consider their lies. Myth # 1. The Chinese eat healthy food and are therefore slim. That’s easily debunked. As a Hong Kong resident, I can tell you that their diet mostly consists of animal cooked in huge amounts of animal fat. Accompanied with animal soup. Which they chew down with dollops of starchy rice. In other words, fats and carbs and then some more.

How, I ask, do they defy Atkins' Law?

Myth #2. The Chinese are addicted to green tea which cleanses their system. It balances things out, counteracting the effects of their diet. Nonsense! Note how whenever the Chinese are supposedly imbibing green tea, it is always from a cup with a lid, ostensibly to keep the liquid warm for a long time. If you ask me, they are hiding something. They are drinking something else! Probably animal lard, I'm guessing.

Besides, when I, believing the propaganda, drink vats of tea myself, all I do is continue to look like ME - with water pumped in.

Myth #3. The Chinese walk and exercise to retain their figures.

Well so do I, and where that get me? (Answer: shut up)

I guess you know where this line of argument is going. I am asking you, America, to start a new war - for your dignity. Invade China. And when you find the weapons of mass reconstruction, call me.

Cry baby

2008-07-27T10:40:00.001+08:00

Sensitive people don't let comedy come in the way of a good, long cry.

This is because there's nothing quite like crying in this world. There is nothing else so suitable to such a wide range of emotions: you have tears of happiness. of joy. of sorrow. of exasperation. of pain. of even plain old drunkenness. Every occasion has its own set of tears to bawl with.

Sensitive people such as I appreciate this sophistication. And when life doesn't present sufficient tragedy for us to weep over, we make do with comedies.

My earliest recollection of crying over a film is My Fair Lady. Right from the word go I felt miserable for Eliza Doolittle and her scum-of-the-earth bad accent, both fighting a losing battle against the dictatorial Professor Higgins, a man who's money and proper R's made him superior to the world at large.

Then there was Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron; need I say more? Naseeruddin Shah and Ravi Baswani were as unprepared for their ordeal as Campa Cola for Coke. Yet they never give up - not just running and hiding but even giving impromptu speeches when the situation demands. Unfortunately, it is all a journey towards giving up. Unlike any other Bollywood movie, the villains here don't die, they don't even feel any remorse nor get any punishment. It was a sad day indeed.

And now there's Wall-E.

The opening scene starts easy enough. A robot is assembling square blocks the size of an ice-box each together. It appears to be a garbage disposal unit; day up, it heads out to the landfills, ingests rubbish, mashes it to pulp and hey presto! - it has a square lego piece to build with. A robot seemingly working in the dumps.

So far so good, the scenario is acceptable to my tear ducts.

Then the director decides to make Wall-E semi-human. I find it, ... no, He, has quirks like mine. He loves the sun. He collects rubbish with the least inkling of interesting-ness in it. He does up his home with that rubblish, and lots of lights to boot. He even has a pet he adores whom he sternly commands to stay put and out of trouble.

And then the art director decides to go grander. And I see Wall-E's handiwork. A building. No, two buildings. No, five... and more.. it's a whole city and rising! Skyscrapers all around, all made of recycled blocks, all Wall-E's work!

There are no other robots, no humans in sight. In fact, there's no living thing save one (the pet) in the world.

Turns out my poor little Wall-E is lonelier than Kim Jong-il at the White House. As an aside, he's as cute as Hugh Grant - and with all the acting skills intact.

Sooooooo... my tap turns on. And things only go downhill from here.

I know, I know, Wall-E's a love story. With a happy ending. And funny situations. I really ought to laugh! But a beaten-up Hugh Grant in love about to die is not a pretty thing to behold.

Anyway, should you meet Wall-E yourself, go to a theatre with a big screen. This one's really larger than life and doesn't deserved to be aquished on a DVD.

And don't bother with taking a handkerchief. Few people are as sensitive as I ;P

There are others also like this only...

2008-07-15T12:54:00.005+08:00

Being a patriotic Indian, I am pleased to be getting all those forwards discussing about Indian English. It is lovely to be getting welcomed, little by little, into proper usage.

[To you snooty St Stephen pass-outs, for your kind information, already words like ghee, tandoori, pakora, paisa, loot, dacoit and other Indian culture is being exported into Oxford dictionary. Basically, We rOcK mAn!!!]

But I am also being scared ki this inclusion is setting a bad precedent for the rest of the world. The reason is because: Chinese English may also become acceptable one day, no?

Just the other day, I had gone for a picnic to Shek O beach and this is what I found:

I am hoping against hope that "Beware of the stairs!" from the building where I put up, and "No dog fouling" from my road and "Don't Climbing" from the swimming pool we use do not make it to India one day.

Godbless.

Khuda Ke Liye // In the name of God

2008-07-08T11:02:00.006+08:00

Khuda Ke Liye comes with the baggage of a thousand good reviews and various critic awards. Naturally, all this fawning makes me suspicious [I mean, Taare Zameen Par was good, but didn't floor me as everyone promised].

So I made no effort to see it till friends sort of bullied me one fine weekend. And as I saw the scenes unfold, my only thought (when I wasn't lost in the movie) was: Unbelievable!

--Can this really be Shoaib Mansoor's first directorial venture?
--Did I really remain glued to the TV for nearly 3 hours and not realize it?
--How on earth did they weave in every debate point, every angle there is on Islam and fundamentalism - and yet avoid turning into a hotch-potch, boring documentary?

Yes, Khuda ke Liye is every bit as beautiful as everyone's swearing it to be. Go see it!

The story revolves around two brothers who start off as a famous music-loving duo. But their paths diverge soon enough - Sarmad (Fawad Khan) turns fundamentalist under the strong influence of Maulana Tahiri (Rasheed Naz). Meanwhile, Mansoor (Shan) enrolls for music training in the United States and falls in love with his classmate, who's white and a US citizen.

Then 9/11 happens and you shudder wondering which of the various victims on-screen has the worst lot. That's all the story I am willing to tell you.

Casting is fabulous. First and foremost, Rasheed Naz mesmerizes in his villain's role - what a voice! His dialogue delivery will convince you about the power of words and the potency of brainwashing.

Both brothers deliver believable, moving performances as do Iman Ali and Austin Sayre, their better halves. No one hams, throws hysterics or overacts - and believe me, there was every opportunity to!

Nasseruddin Shah gives a superb monologue in his guest appearance act.

Shooting aesthetics and production quality are world-class; no wonder audiences across the world are watching.

Music is great / okay depending on what your taste is. The screenplay certainly uses it as an anchor in some parts - and I love the metaphorical scene where musicians from across the world join in on a song. A bit of we-shall-overcome hope variety, but that's fine by me!

Yes, there is some minor (direct) preaching in the movie - but as I agree with most of it (no, not all), that's fine by me too.

Few movies are must-see in my rating chart - this one makes it to the list effortlessly.

Birds and bees

2008-05-16T18:18:00.008+08:00

Once upon a time, very, very long ago, I wondered whether puke caused pregnancy. After all, every time in a movie, anytime the heroine (or of course, the hero's sister) ran to the bathroom basin, inevitably she ended up pregnant. Kids came to life always without any sex scenes, sometimes even without a marriage, but always, always with a throw-up scene to back their existence.

Real life, of course, is not Bollywood. Puking may cause people with deprived childhoods to envy your party life, but they are unlikely to consider your belly anything other than a memorial to beer.

No, what does raise knowing eyebrows is teetotaling.

If you had the good taste to once be a drinker, and then the good sense to detoxify, you know what I mean.

"I am off drinks," say I, and immediately there is hmmm in the background. Eyebrows rise, people go on the verge of uttering congratulations, and there is a general shift in gaze away from my face to two feet below. "Really? Why?"glib questioners ask while staring at the bump in my belly (which, to be fair, is the reason I am off alcohol, though not exactly in the way they imagine).

I suppose this inquisition is my cue to blush and stutter and admit that I'm entering the hallowed realms of motherhood. That would be so satisfactory to the thousands who have lectured me - many within 5 minutes of meeting me for the first time - on my biological clock and its ticking and well, the hallowed realms of motherhood.

Whatever happened to short talk about the weather? Can't we just stick to discussing the pollution and American Idol?

update:
Certain people (interestingly, only men), have been taking this post to mean that I am on the verge of delivering a Mini-Me. So to clarify - NO. This post is actually my [possibly incoherent] raving against people who assume that my non-drinking is a sign of inevitable fertility.

Drive me crazy

2008-05-13T12:04:00.005+08:00

Apparently, it is time for me to learn driving. My husband has decided I must be empowered, which sweet though it may be, it is certainly not welcome.

I still remember my last brush with driving alongside my father whose idea of education was to shake me awake at six, jam me into the driver's seat, lurch around as I experimented with clutches, and hide his tears as I scratched against trees lining an empty road to save myself from a truck a kilometer away on the horizon. It was exhilarating bravado in the face of peril, it was amazing father-daughter bonding, it was even proof that I was my mother's daughter, but driving it was not.

After an entire summer vacation of trials and errors, we all heaved a sigh of relief when I professed to be a hippy in favour of resource saving and public transport, and gave up the wheel on moral grounds. It is one of those few decisions I do not regret.

[Eventually, my sister broke away from our maternal genetic spell and volunteered to learn driving, following it up with a license and agile dodging across Delhi's roads and potholes. Today, she cruises across the USA and will be happy to break your mythical beliefs about women drivers, or failing that, your nose.]

I have never understood why people love driving. Sure, there's the spiel about independence. And then there's the whole breed of car lovers who feel a stirring when they see a Maserati, smile at the roar of the engine, get a power surge when they touch the wheel and probably engage in unspeakable acts with the shift stick.

But honestly, how can staring down unending black roads and searching for road signs have more to offer than staring at lush greens beyond the window shield? How can it even begin to compare with the freedom of turning your head for outstanding samples of the human species?

Central Delhi's broad roads and drooping trees and jamun sellers dotting the passage of every two minutes... Hong Kong's heaving hills playing peek-a-boo with the sea... New Zealand's sheep that embark on a stampede the moment you enter their radius of sound... I would have seen none of these had I been trying to block the B%^&*&& trying to overtake me.

Driving isn't empowering; it's blinding.

You know you are past your prime when...

2008-05-07T18:26:00.007+08:00

... you remember arguing heatedly when Sushmita beat Aishwarya
... you once had a crush on Salman Khan / Madhuri Dixit
... you know the full form of DHKMN but not IMHO
... you get nostalgic about Usha Uthup
... you recall Jugal Hansraj as a child actor
... you recognize Karishma Kapoor in her original eyebrows, not to mention other facial hair
... you wonder whatever happened to Anuradha Paudwal

and worst of all,
... you know what I mean when I say ILU ILU

Me! Me! Me!

2008-04-18T15:16:00.005+08:00

Quicksilver has given me the opportunity to trumpet some more on my favourite topic. So here goes:

A - Available?
for chai, anytime

B-Best friend(s)
it's not diamonds, it's shoes

C-Cake or Pie?
Cake. Chocolate Truffle Cake.

D-Drink of choice:
Fresh juice

E-Essential things used everyday:
mirrors, brains

F-Favourite colour:
Turquoise blue in small doses

G-Gummi bears or worms:
Go ahead and nuke both

H-Hometown:
doesn't actually feel like home anymore

I-Indulgence:
travel without pay

J-January or February:
should be spent in warm islands

K-Kids and names:
have not troubled me yet

L-Life:
is fatal

M-Marriage date:
is ancient history

N-Number of siblings:
one

O-Oranges or apples:
Blackberries

P-Phobias:
Cockroaches, dead or alive

Q-Quote:
"Sometimes I think the surest sign that intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe is that none of it has tried to contact us." Calvin

R-Reason to smile:
facelift for free!

S-Season:
Autumn

T-Tag three people:
Gurdeepak
Ekta
Anand

U-Unknown fact about me:
Having exhausted all my creativity on previous tags, I have no choice but to admit: I love reality shows, and Simon Cowell

V-Vegetable you do not like:
Mr Anuja Byotra

W-Worst habit:
Mr Anuja Byotra

X-x-rays you have had:
When Leonardo Di Caprio saw me. or I saw him. same difference

Y-Your favorite food:
Mr Anuja Byotra?

Z-Zodiac:
Libra

Koreaaaaahhhh!

2008-03-20T18:15:00.000+08:00

I love horror movies - reeking blood, sudden amputations, shrieking women - all so exciting! But nothing satisfying has come out of Hollywood since a long time. So finally, me and my friends went on a skiing trip last month.

All of us being hard-core Indians, and mostly bankers on top of that, admitting ignorance wasn't an option: that there was something we didn't know or couldn't master, even if it were skiing, was impossible. So we bought expensive gear that only pros wear and went up the ski-lift on day two, looking absolutely prepared as went up... and as subtle as Britney Spears as we tumbled down.

"MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" we cried out, in a volume that these capital letters don't do justice to. Maybe some people mistook us for Rolling Stones (the band), maybe some thought this was our orgasmic screech of thrill, but its difficult to recall their reaction coz we were busy watching the tapes of our lives playing in front of our eyes.

I will never forget the experience, nor will my friend who now needs tendon surgery.

Anyway, the important thing is that no one recognized us. After all this is what we looked like:

Meow Cafe

2008-02-01T18:44:00.000+08:00

It's a small city. Even so, Hong Kong regularly springs me some new surprise.
My latest discovery: Meow Cafe. A quaint cafe where nine cats have a run of the place while you fawn over them and try to take pictures.

I went there last weekend. It was a horrid day, gray and rainy like the backdrop of a thriller around the time when the heroine gets stalked by a serial killer. We went out anyway, which on hindsight, I cannot imagine why.

So there we were, walking amongst the throngs at Times Square, which for those unfamiliar with Hong Kong, is a rehearsal for the Kumbh Mela. Took us a while to find the place - but were we glad we made the effort:
As soon as we opened the doors we were greeted by a bunch of cats!

Of course that's not true. Cats aren't dogs. They they don't greet humans. Sucking-up sucks!

So more accurately, we were greeted by the sight of a bunch of cats, all sleeping and sprawled over the cashier's table - on the chair, over the printer, besides the credit-card machine, between rack shelves - they'd completely swamped the front desk.

Absolute heaven for people like me who'd love to adopt one, but have a house too small and travel too often to do so.

Food and drinks we tried were so-so, but the setting was a respite from the dry, done-to-death decor of Starbucks. I'm so bloody bored of coffee chains! Same old cappuccino. Same sausage roll. Same awful tea. And worse, same no-place-available-to-sit-and-talk.

Here you should easily find a place to lounge. And should the cats not wish to speak with you (likely of course!), you can while away time over board games.

If you decide to visit:
Address:
3D, Po Ming Building
Foo Ming Street
Causeway Bay
Tel: 2710 9953

Directions:
Reach Time square and ask around for Foo Ming Street

When we wake up...

2008-01-22T13:51:00.000+08:00

Ever notice how we may or may not remember our dreams, but we can always recall our nightmares?
That when we wake up in a sweat we know exactly what shook us into waking up?

Perhaps we are shaped more by what we what we fear than what we desire.

2007-12-31T19:19:00.000+08:00

I have nothing to wear. And judging by the rush in shopping malls today, no one in Hong Kong has anything to wear.

So all of us were out there, searching for something to wear tonight, frenziedly skimming through piles of clothes on sale, holding up hangars in front of mirrors, sighing in queues for fitting rooms, disheveling our hair for the only size available of the only thing we liked and failing to fit through.

Yes life is tough and shopping doubly so. And I still have nothing to wear for the party tonight. But at least I am prepared for the picnic next summer. (Or I will be, if the gym pays off!)

I sound like Marge Simpson ... Mmmmm

2007-12-11T17:07:00.000+08:00

I am trying to look at the bright side of things as I have a sore throat. The only things that come to mind are:

1. I sound sexy
2. I sleep soundly over cough syrup
3. The aches would have done a ballerina proud
4. Chocolates don't taste like guilt
5. Vipul calls home from work
6. No cooking, only pizza
7. Headache is better than nausea
8. Britney spears is bigger than me now Hahahaha (that brightens everything up)

Birthday Girl graduates to become Birthday Aunty

2007-10-19T13:51:00.000+08:00

As is annual custom in my diary, I am busy moping today.

Last night I was out for a Bolloywood Nite at Aqua. Apparently it was my Birthday Party. But as I was painfully correcting everyone, my birthday is not a party. It is a funeral of a perfectly good-sounding year killed from my introduction. Forever.

Yesterday was particularly traumatic as my twenty-somethingness was in its last throes. Possibly, my dancing too was in its last throes, judging from the looks I got. But when you are twenty-nine years down and the thirtieth has begun to tick you get some rights to display uncoolness.

Many people tell me that thirty is not the end of the road. However, an exact 100% of such people are older than colour-TV in India and remember watching Chitrahaar as children, and therefore have no credibility.

So if you are about to wish me a happy birthday, do not expect any smiling "Thank You darling! (muah, muah)", unless of course you are accompanied by a birthday gift/birthday money in which case thanks for contributing to my drowning-sorrows-fund.

I can see clearly now!

2007-10-04T19:49:00.000+08:00

I still remember the night I saw the most beautiful moon ever. It was the beginning of summer vacations and I was in our school's bus-yard, waiting with my friends to set off on a hiking trip to Manali. Leaning against the bumper, I happened to look up and saw the most luminous, milky sphere I'd ever seen.

I am normally not given to sentimental nature conversations, but this time I couldn't help it. "Neha," said I, "doesn't it look just gorgeous tonight?"
"What does?" she asked.
"The moon, over there," I pointed.
"Hmmmmm, yes, the moon is looking great! But why are you pointing there?"
I squinted, and realised that my moon was one in a line of six moons.
I put on my fat spectacles and realised my moon was one in a line of six streetlights.
I removed my binoculars back into my pocket...life's so much prettier without spectacles. Confusing and smudged, sure, but way prettier.

The only downside for us -8.5ers is:
Smiling at people we "recognise" through the haze but who we actually have never met before
Scowling at friends who shout "hello" from the distance who we assume must be roadside Romeos
*********************

But that's all in the past now. I finally mustered enough courage to go through Lasik last month, and am pleased to report it works! I no longer flail my arms when i search for the screaming cellphone alarm in the morning. And I don't bump into the cupboard during midnight loo visits. I can hardly wait to swim with my eyes open under water. And since I no longer need to claw off my lenses before sleeping, I look forward to nodding off on the couch in the middle of cricket matches.

There's a whole new world out here and I can see it!

Lose it!

2007-09-11T14:26:00.000+08:00

The good thing about working from home is that it gives me ample time to ponder over the deeper questions of life such as: How do I reduce my bloody weight?

Now I know some of you may say: Anuja, you got it wrong, the question that befuddles us most often is: "What the hell do I order from this menu?" But the majority of you, I know, will either
think that I've read their minds, or
send me spam mail selling fat-burning medicine.

Luckily for those who share my concerns, I have solved this riddle that assails us all in moments of solitude (and also in moments of partying). The answer came to me when flipping through old photo albums from my school days. There I was in all my teen glory: in an over-sized man shirt, with permed hair like Sai Baba's, and hoops in my ears so huge that they showed through my hair and helped you differentiate me (female) from Sai Baba (male).

for reference: Sai Baba

Don't snigger at your conjecture on what I looked like. I mean your conjecture is nearly correct, but understand the context - it was the 1980s and my look was very COOL for that point of time. Remember Madonna in Into the Groove? Or Kylie Minogue in Neighbours? Or Scary Spice in anything?

So what I'm saying is, I was very hot indeed. Yet, surprisingly, appallingly, I had very few admirers. I often wondered why my efforts at decorating myself did not yield even a single valentine's day card, leave alone a boyfriend. But hindsight being the slowpoke it is, it finally came in with the answer after all these years: my friends.

That's right - my so-called friends sabotaged my chances. They, being the pretty girls they were, made me look rather mediocre in contrast. Had I befriended the spectacled nerds I would have surely stood out and bagged loads of bouquets. But skipping next to the girls in mini-skirts, my bell-bottoms stood no chance...

Which brings us to the Big Answer you have all been waiting for. How to become slim and fetching? Just stealthily feed your friends steroids. Or dump them for fatter folks.

Remember the adage? You are known by the company you keep. The fatter your company, the slimmer you're known to be.

Good luck.
[and I'd be happy to refer you to websites selling fattening steroids. Delivery guaranteed!]

RGV ki $%^$%^$^%#%$ Aag

2007-09-06T11:06:00.000+08:00

Contrary to what you may think I'm suggesting from the headline above, Aag is not a stinky dropping of crap.
No. It is an entire Biogas plant. It is a biogas plant with piles so high they could be used to light up the whole of Mumbai.

I know that the cinema lovers among you will still see Aag, irrespective of what I say, because after all it is:
1. RGV
2. Amitabh Bachchan
3. Sholay remake
4. conversation topic
So, I will not bother with a critique and in fact I shall go so far as to recommend it if:
1. you want your girlfriend to get over Devgan
2. you want your boyfriend to get over Sushmita
3. you want your mom to get over Amitabh
4. you want your father to get over insomnia

For the rest, watch at your own peril!

2007-08-12T11:14:00.002+08:00

Some men think women shop seven days a week, Ha! Shows how little they know! I am a woman and I shop only six days a week (excluding weekends). Let me calculate - yesterday I bought a bag, day before I bought another bag, day before that I tried a dress that made me look paunchy - which (for a change) I realized before I'd bought it for myself, so I bought it for my sister instead, and the day before that I do not remember, but hopefully it was as productive as yesterday. Today is the Sabbath Day so I shall rest from shopping (not that I am a Christian, but my husband's terrified looks invoke a pitying Christian in me today and I relent.)

If someone were to ask me why women shop so much more than men, I'd point them to research. I'd point them to the fact that women in the work force are discriminated against. They are generally shunted into lesser paying jobs, and for the same job they are paid lesser than men.

How does earning less make you spend more? Elementary: Take me for example. When I earned well as an investment banker, I saved so much money. For one, I had time to splurge only on the weekend in which I also had to catch up on sleep. And when I did venture out to shop, I had the company of well-heeled colleagues who I could not buy street-side watches called RoleK with. I realized good pay and debauchery just do not go together for women. I needed to join conversations about buying shares, and renting bigger rooms, saving for cars, etc - and as I was uninterested in aiming green paper at bosoms in dance bars, I had no choice but to save.

But now that I am a lowly paid, seldom-working journalist, the possibilities are endless. The piddly amount I earn is pocket money, so I spend it in the spirit of pocket money. I have bought several RoleKs. I have spent a whole month's salary on an original movie poster. I often buy heels on credit card in anticipation of a payment yet to arrive. I live on debt, I assume payments will clear: yes, I live the American dream.

p.s. Of course, women buy more only in quantity, not value. Men and their bluetooths and i-pods and unopened gadget boxes cover women and their Blahniks many times over.

The last laugh

2007-08-01T12:27:00.000+08:00

Vipul thinks every thing's about him. He's so wrong. Every thing's about me.

When I give him a hard time, with my outbursts or my silences, as the case may be, it is not because he's done something wrong, but just because it comes naturally to me. I have the innate ability to ask the wrong questions, and I like to use it.

Do you love me more or cricket?
Then why do you want me to stop standing in front of the TV?
Would you suggest that if I were Angelina Jolie?
Or if I was Bipasha Basu?
Or if I was Madhubala?
Or if I... c'mon do you actually believe the begging pose will work?
Why don't you answer? You don't like talking to me?
If you prefer Tendulkar why didn't you marry HIM?
Why did I marry you?
...It's unstoppable - just as Einstein's genius could not be kept in check by his low grades and a clerk's job, my capability to screw my husband (no pun intended) is beyond redress.

Now I know, you will say that North Korea should not go off exploding N-bombs just because it can, and likewise maybe I should try keep my trap shut for a bit. But then, you don't know how much training I had to give my husband. Eight years ago he saw my midriff in a tight tee-shirt and sniggered: Tyres look good only on vehicles HaHaHaHaHaHaHa. Today he has evolved into someone who lands up at the airport with roses to receive me and notices my shades of tan.

Guns have there uses.
Revenge has a long life.

Fashionably late...

2007-07-18T18:23:00.000+08:00

To write my tag within an 8-hour deadline
or
To crown Quicksilver Queen of the Universe
Can't pretend the choice was tough! So here's my very late submission on eight idiosyncrasies:

1. I cannot tell a lie without laughing. So I'm either caught, or I end up improvising at the last moment by pretending I saw something funny at the corner of my eye.

2. I love Splenda, the zero-calorie sweetener. I steal it from Cafes. I buy it in kilos (or as big a box as I can). And if my stock is close to running out, I start replacing my husband's Splenda quota with sugar without telling him so that I don't have to go without it before we have time to buy a refill.

3. I ensure my feet are clean before I sleep to ward off nightmares. (yes it works)

4. When I see joybirds, I always count them and kiss my fingers and mutter 'two for joy' or 'three for letter' etc, as appropriate. If I see 'one for sorrow' I wait for it to fly coz then it becomes 'one for success'. (yes it works too)

5. When I'm on the treadmill, my mind compulsively begins solving mental maths problems on speed-distance-time thanks to the speedometer and clock dials

6. One of my exercise routines is dancing in front of the mirror (no it doesn't work)

7. Before I can sit down to work, I simply must tidy the house from making the bed, to smoothing the sofas, to stacking the day's newspapers casually on the side table, to putting the coasters in the correct alignment, etc etc

8. I strongly believe that Quicksilver is the Queen of the Universe!!!

Tag Rules
1) Each player starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves.
2) People who are tagged, write a blog post about their own 8 random things, and post these rules.
3) At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and include their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
4) If you fail to do this within eight hours, you will have to acknowledge Anuja as the Queen of the Universe (Nice touch, M!)

I tag:
Amy, long time since we heard your Bollywood ravings!
The One, to get you out of your quotation moods.
N - maybe this will get you to Kickstart your blog again?!
Harsh- ditto!
Vinay , returning the hospitality of lemon juice :)
Gurdeepak, monsoon trekking begun?
Ekta , hope ur enjoying India and home?
Anand, hope ur suitably weeping away from the wife!

Milan

2007-06-20T21:55:00.000+08:00

Began the day appropriately with window shopping which soon degenerated into real shopping. Not really Milan's fault... more to do with my teaming up with shopaholic friend from schooldays and the fact that we're wearing too little to enter the Duomo or other Christian sightseeing! I simply can't fathom the fuss in Italy's churches about showing knees and shoulders given how busts and pelvises loom all over the place!

Sunny Tuscany

2007-06-18T17:09:00.000+08:00

Florence is where every two steps lead to a roadside Romeo, every four steps end at a museum, and every ten steps deposit you beyond its historic city-centre. There are, as in the rest of Italy, remarkable sculptures. But I'm burnt out! and my ability to pretend artistic perspicacity at its squares and museums is exhausted! So I finally embarked upon what I should have the very first day - its glorious countryside. Tuscany comes more alive in its olives and wine than in its marbles.

Went on a biking trip to the Chianti Valley with Bicycle Tuscany. The schedule was after my own heart - started off with wine tasting, followed by a three-course lunch with wine and coffee, and only after I had tanked up enough energy to cycle uphill and imbibed enough wine to believe it would be easy, did we start pedaling.

The Tuscan countryside is absolutely as romantic and picturesque as the movies show it to be. Cypress tress climb neat, conical, shapely heights; grapes branch out in school assembly rows; hills slope up and down as gently as they can - all of nature seems to be well-manneredly smoothing the course for trespassers like us!

Of course, the going was tough, especially as my cycling days belonged to memories of a decade ago, but the scenery and the calorie-burn was worth every wheeze.

But the biggest bonus for me was meeting interesting strangers in this journey, especially after the quiet days and quieter nights I've spent on this trip till now. Three of us in the group were solo traveling women and we reconvened at a bar abashedly named 'Pop Cafe', where the drinks were drinkable and all food you can eat free!

Florence is beautiful at night. Its Duomo may be ugly, but street musicians - not your guitar strumming variety, but entire orchestras of accordions and big base guitars and pianos - descend to add a surround sound in the moonlight, creating a spellbinding artsy atmosphere that Rome's untouchably old and preserved grandeur cannot give.

This trip is turning out as fantastic as I was hoping it to be!

More snaps here

God is in the big things

2007-06-14T21:34:00.000+08:00

What can you expect from a country that's barely a country - smaller even than Disneyland ?

Its main square is not really a square, it's rather curvy.
Its flagship Church is more of a tomb, with St Peter's murder/martyrdom spot about it.
Its noted museum is no mere museum, it is an artifact that ought to be in a museum itself.
To top it, this Vatican City is a certified antique, and yet looks not a day older than I! What's more, like a kid, it struts about, preening about having its own postal system being all independent from Italy's, and then goes on to cheerfully survive without any immigration and border posts at its walls.

With all the contradictions dotting it, one should seriously doubt the Vatican's ability to do what it sets out to do: See how it started off with the bloody Crusades as a direction towards building a peaceful world, to more recently when its Pope Benedict made remarks to start dialog with the Muslim world and instead ended up angering them with that very speech for friendship.

And yet, and yet, and yet - the Vatican City ends up achieving exactly what it sets out to do - make you go Ohmygod!

The moment you enter the massive columns into St Peter's square, you know you are in a special place whose grandness has no equal. The square is big enough to accommodate 35000 people comfortably seated. And the surrounding statues are tall enough for you to recognize them, even if you are 35000 people away.

I'm not going to bother going into a travelogue here - I am no good with descriptions, and there's no way I can describe what it felt like to see one of my favorite paintings (Fresco actually) - creation of Adam - up on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Just consider that I still remember the first time I saw God's hand barely touching Adam's in a magazine when I was a kid, thanks to an ad that had pilfered the work to sell an Onida (I think).

So after two decades of spying it in magazines and coasters and reprints and t-shirts, it was like meeting a hot classmate from early-teenage days at school that I had a crush on and could finally lech at satisfactorily.

Now, leaving the Vatican, I doubt any other city's relics or museums will impress me, ever, or at least for a long, long time to come, or at least till the end of this vacation!

Rome Sweet Rome

2007-06-13T21:15:00.000+08:00

Everything here is grand. Make that GRAND. On a scale of 1 to 10, the monuments here are are at 40. The antique buildings were built for giants and every pebble on every street reeks of history to prove so.

The only thing unexaggerated is the size of marble penises, which at worst have been castrated by the hands of time, and at best are rather humble in contrast to the muscled asses of the irrepressibly nudist Roman citizens.

Don't know why it is so, but sculptors seemed to believe that Roman men must be represented by the bodies of Greek Gods. Not that I'm complaining. They also seemed to believe that Roman women must be represented by bodies of real women - no abs, big waist, maybe some paunch thrown in. That's right, I'm not complaining at all. If ever you need a place to get your body image issues, walk into Rome's museum and feel liberated.

More snaps here

The real travel bug

2007-06-08T16:44:00.000+08:00

I'm surprised the people in the apartment next door haven't beaten us up yet. Vipul has been coughing as often as an old man and as loudly as a Punjabi lad, especially at night, thus effectively killing his sleep, my sleep, and most definitely our neighbors'. That's what happens when NRIs imagine they can take on the heat and dust of India.

Two weeks ago, we'd left Hong Kong imagining birds and bees and the whole nine yards of Bollywood fare - you know, all those movies starring Raj Kapoor and/or sons romancing forbidden love on the hills. There's a river in the background, a song in focus, happiness in the air and absolutely nothing else besides. Unfortunately, my travel agent was definitely not at par with the those directors'. What we experienced instead were bumpy, hot rides on unkempt, mud-spewing roads which embraced us with allergy, then infection, and finally, a reality check. After Gangotri and Kedarnath, we figured pilgrimage and vacation are not synonyms but antonyms. Thus sickeningly enlightened, we cut our losses and fled to be welcomed by Delhi instead.

Of course, the trip had its high-points: there is ample time to enjoy the scenery that survives despite the curtains of dust. And there is ample opportunity to appreciate the psychotropic qualities of painkillers, and what makes them addictive. So thank you God for all the wisdom, but next time, what say we meet at my place instead?

Imagine

2007-05-16T14:38:00.000+08:00

Now I know why they call it the travel 'bug'. It infects you, with alarming speed, and leaves you all feverish with excitement. The it sickens today with worthlessness, where all you can do is wait with bated breath for the time to jet-set away.

And most of all, it leads to hallucinations. The mind conjures up the idea that that consecutive hours of ecstasy, charm and energy fill up a place we have never seen. There is an over-riding instinct that when we reach there, locals will be delightfully helpful and noons will be refreshingly cool, that clouds won't rain on any outing and meals won't induce sleep at all, that maps will be readable and tap-water drinkable, and get this, bathrooms will be spotlessly clean! All this ridiculous dreaming despite the fact that on the last holiday, you had spent one full day constipated, a whole afternoon arguing with the taxi driver and an entire evening sulking over who was responsible for the shoddy schedules.

Of course, the inkling that you are hallucinating does nothing to reduce the madness: in fact, suspicions only increase it. You also start to hallucinate about how internet-search will help you avoid hotels with bugs and areas with beggars.

I know all this because that's the stage I am currently in, all abuzz with the conviction that 5 weeks away from home will be a piece of cake. Normally I miss Vipul even when he goes to office (yes, yes, I am the clingy variety), and now I am planning a budget that has a tight amount for long-distance calls.

Let's see how far positive thinking will take me!

Recycled

2007-05-04T12:44:00.000+08:00

When I run out of words for my blog and there are no tags to push me out of the drought, I simply open my diary and recycle thoughts from long ago. I guess today is just perfect for an old poem, written when I began feeling a tad stagnant in my life. It's the reason why my blogs are becoming less frequent, and it is why I am off cavorting to Europe alone next month: I need to taste blood!

I miss my hormones
I miss feeling
the blood in my veins
the buzz in my head
the beat of my heart
the ringing in my ears
I miss ...just feeling

When did the days change?
When exactly did I stop enthusiastically dissecting my life over cups of coffee
or chai
or whatever cheapest vodka I'd managed to buy?

When did that world twist into work
just work, and then some couch and TV?

I must be off
To find something else
To feel something new
To just feel

Three-dom

2007-04-27T13:12:00.000+08:00

Been tagged by Quicksilver and it's been tough coz I could have copy-pasted nearly everything she claimed as my own (even the ice cubes munching)! Nevertheless, with a bit of tweaking to avoid copyright battles, here's me unplugged:

3 things that scare me
1) on-screen horror, right from Zee Horror show to The Ring
2) Insects, dead and alive
3) Roadside Romeos in Delhi

3 people who make me laugh
1) Dave Barry
2) "News" Channels
3) Russell Peters

3 things I love
1) Day-dreaming
2) Traveling
3) Writing

3 things I hate
1) Fanatics: especially Hitler, George Bush and Narendra Modi
2) Racism
3) Eve teasing

3 things I don't understand
1) Men
2) Cars
3) Men's love for cars

3 things on my desk
1) A fancy coaster
2) Lots of pencils
3) My elbow, as it supports my chin

3 things I’m doing right now
1) Contemplating having a Diet Lime Coke
2) Dreaming about my next vacation (Europe! anyone there in June?)
3) Typing this entry

3 things I want to do before I die
1) Backpack in Europe (yes, happening in June :))
2) Learn the guitar
3) Have the perfect beach body for at least 7 days in a row, while I'm on a beach holiday

3 things I can do
1) Make amazing breakfasts: outstanding cheese omelets, generously topped pancakes, and spicy Poha
2) Dance bollywood style
3) Take bad haircut decisions

3 things you should listen to
1) 'Silent Night' by Simon and Garfunkel
2) 'Chupke Chupke' by Ghulam Ali
3) 'With or Without You' by U2

3 things you should never listen to
1) George Bush
2) Star News
3) Telemarketing calls

3 things I'd like to learn
1) Kung Fu fighting
2) Guitaring
3) Politeness

3 favorite foods
1) Pancakes with maple syrup, bananas and whipped cream (blueberries on the side)
2) Chocolate sponge cake, topped with Herscheys syrup
2) Rajma - chawal

3 beverages I drink regularly
1) Masala Chai
2) Guava and watermelon Juices
3) Green Tea

3 childhood TV shows / books
1) the sci-fi serial where a alien in a computer (named Alpha from Andromeda Galaxy) helps his Earth friends travel through time (can't remember the name!)
2) Neev / Neenv
3) Yeh jo hai Zindagi

1) Doctor Who - the love of my life
2) ALL hindi comics: Amar Chitra Katha, Mama-bhanja, Nanaji aur Rumjhum, Pinky, Chacha Bhatija, Daddy-ji, Mahabali Shaka, Phauladi Singh, etc etc
3) ALL Enid Blyton books, especially, Faraway Tree and Five Find outers (Fatty and Bets!) series

Note: The serial was Indradhanush. Thanks Bajaj!

2007-04-25T18:39:00.000+08:00

I think I can safely assume that I am an artist. I love doing stuff that makes no money. I have a sore temper. I am self-righteous. And I can forget important things in a heartbeat.

Amongst my recent accomplishments is the verbal brawl I had with customer service at Air Asia. They insisted I was telling them the wrong PNR number even though I was reciting it verbatim from their email. I read out my credit card number, to which a charge had already been made, and they said they had no record of the transaction. After several days of emails and phone calls as I chased them, ultimately one guy asked me to send me a copy of the papers that he could double check. As we discussed the details, he told me to resend the information - I’d apparently forwarded him my Tiger Airways tix by mistake instead of Air Asia’s.

That’s right, I fought with Air Asia for week over tickets that I’d booked with Tiger. By the time I realised the marvel, I’d given up on Air Asia’s inefficiencies and booked an alternate set of tickets via another airline for my trip.

In short, I have what it takes to be an artist.

Only problem is that what I doodle looks like a ant drowning in ink as it thrashes across the page. On the plus side, it is encouragingly vague, so there is definitely the potential of someone finding meaning in it. With luck, that someone will have money to back his sensitivity, perception and momentary lapse of judgment.

Nightmare

2007-03-27T17:38:00.000+08:00

If you, like me, have an unexplainable fascination for horror flicks, I guess you tuned in for the India-Sri Lanka match on the 23rd. It had all the promise, and delivery, of a B-grade movie: scheduled to be seen at night (in my part of the world), pregnant with a morbid outcom (c'mon, we all knew what the result would be!), and hinting at gore even beyond the TV screen (will Chappell stay alive???). Really, I cannot complain.

Yet, what horrifies me more than our booting from the World cup is the way Star News covered it the day after. For hours and hours it went on and on about our "humiliating" defeat and why Sachin should retire and how pathetic was his LBW and how are hopes were dashed blah blah blah. What bull.

First, it wasn't a "humiliating" defeat - Sri Lanka played great and fielded marvelously and it is silly to label a defeat from a superior "humilitaing". Moreover, the first innings (when India bowled) was definitely a good performance, so it is hardly like we sucked through and through, unlike what was suggested by the channel ad nauseum.

Get over it!

In any case, our team was hardly in strapping form when it left, and the only one hyping against hope was the news channel itself. What nonsense it aired in the run up to the match - 'Ravan' will be defeated by 'Rama' propoganda, along with Ramayana serial footage, fanciful promises of regaining the World Cup - honestly, Star News could have hardly designed it better to shoot themselves in the foot. The only thing missing was a prime-time telecast of an astrologer elaborating on the position of the planets and the stars of the cricketers to foretell the outcome of the match. Or probably such a program was aired but I missed seeing it. After all, getting such guests and commentary is actually nothing new to this channel (they've already begun to report on these lines for upcoming Aishwarya-Abhishek nuptial).

All in all, it is appalling to see in real life what has been fodder for some Hollywood movies - to find news channels creating news, not covering it; how they are making up a spectacle themselves, and then reporting on it; creating a straw man (we had hardly any chance of winning!) and then killing it (insulting and humiliating the cricketers). Honestly, I doubt anyone was shocked and hurt enough to hold those tacky funerals of Indian cricket (that were being relayed) if there wasn't an idiotic channel shooting him do so.

All this nearly borders on incitement of violence if you ask me!

But even that is not what I find worse in this whole episode.

We are a democracy. A democracy with a huge geographical spread where word-of-mouth is not adequate for communication. A democracy where literacy is so low that print media cannot be sufficient. So for us to function as democracy, visual media i.e. news channels must work! There is a reason why press is called the fourth estate - it is the fourth pillar of democracy - and if we cannot have a healthy, functioning media, we will end up as democracy only on paper.

Tomorrow, if the government enacted a law to stop the media from being free, if it banned the reporting of fraud and corruption, there would surely be an outcry. We would all rail against censorship and give speeches on how it would harm democracy. Yet, we speak nothing at the self-censorship happening in media houses today - where a thousand things that are occurring go unreported in lieu of a cricket match or the Lakme Indian Fashion Week. What impact on the functioning of our country do you think that has? Any different than if someone clamped a newspaper's mouth shut?

I've heard a thousand times how this is not really censorship - just a business. You know, TRP and all, and that what we get really is what we want to hear. But that is so not true - it is not just an excuse but an outright lie.

Truth is channels are just penny pinching - it is easier and cheaper to cover a Delhi university professor's love affair (yes even that has happened on prime time Star News) than the suicide of a farmer in Telangana.

And of course, it makes more sense for an advertiser to put his ad after a Fashion Week show than the aforementioned suicide of a farmer in Telangana.

Which is why farmer suicides continue unabated while we are having couch-potato discussions on how agriculture really ought to pay electricity bills when we have NO idea of what the majority of Indian agriculture - 70% of India's population - is all about.

It is frightening, how complacent we've become about the quality of news we get. It is tragic, how we ourselves defend the media that is poisoning our democracy. And that is what really horrified me about the India-Sri Lanka match. I hope it shocked you too.

Non Sequitur copyright Wiley Ink

It's our twin!

2007-03-23T17:05:00.000+08:00

Here's my screenplay submission for the next Kumbh mela movie (to be released four years from now)

Location: Cricket pitch, World cup final
I: Do people throw stones at your family when your team loses a cricket match?
P: Yes!

I: Do people send you death threats when you score badly?
P: Yes! Yes!

I: Does your coach have a chance to die in the hands of cricket fanatics?
P: He has already done so!

I: Hey Bhagwan! BHAI!
P: Ya Allah! BHAI!

If you ever needed proof for Indian-Paki bhai-bhai behen-behen, look no further. The mad, appalling, criminal behaviour that is displayed at the drop of a wicket on both sides of the partition ties our DNA together like nothing else can.

Makes me wonder how on earth the India and Pakistan teams pit so much energy when they play against each other, as if they were age-old enemies : don't they feel a camaraderie over shared lynchings and death threats? Doesn't empathy swell up inside them on how a defeat will have similar consequences for each? Doesn't Inzamam get consumed in memory flashbacks when he hears about the pelting of stones at Dhoni's house? Seriously, how do they manage to maintain that competitive instinct? But then, no one fights like siblings can!

Tonight, my heart goes out for our Indian team who must be shitting bricks after the Pakistan Debacle, and even more so for coach Chappell who must be ruing the day he decided to take on India given Woolmer's murder.

And honestly, if we still lose to Sri Lanka, it won't be for lack of motivation.

Anyhow, it is no longer so material for us to beat Sri Lanka - it is clear that we are definitely better than Pakistan. Sheesh, losing to Ireland! That's got to rank worse than losing to Bangadesh!

I love Mika!

2007-03-16T14:54:00.000+08:00

No, no, not the badtameez, nasal-toned, ugly-looking fellow from our country. I'm talking about the singer of 'Grace Kelly': Love his voice and love his Mmmmmmmmmmmmms.

I try to be like Grace Kelly
Hmmmmmmmmmmmm
But all her looks were too sad
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
So I try a little Freddie
Ive gone identity mad!

I guess I'm partly impressed because the group has not resorted to the on-screen writhing orgasms of a woman to sell their song.

I know it is a mark of old-age to say this - but weren't advertisements and music videos so much more creative when we were younger?

2007-03-10T13:07:00.001+08:00

Saw Kabul Express yesterday and despite all predictions to the contrary, quite liked it! Perhaps the enjoyment owed something to my chronic affection for Arshad Warsi, or maybe it helps to be a journalist (that's what the story revolves around). Anyway, I was impressed.

Dusty visuals pervade the movie, rightly giving a deserted feel to the ravaged land that is Afghanistan. I am not sure how true are the facts that the movie suggests - the hatred of the local Afghanis against the Taliban for instance - nevertheless, it was nice to find that the story was free of the tired Pakistan Murdabad cliche.

Like photographs of street children whose giggling faces make you smile and overlook their sooty bodies, the film's characters makes you laugh irrespective of their situation. Not that you are laughing with them, but at them, at times at their guilelessness and at times at their bull-headedness. The tale and the background ought to have evoked a piteous horror (and for anyone following the country's tumult, they will) - But somehow it is a feel good movie. Not sure if that was intended by the scriptwriter :) but I like it that way!

The only flip side of the movie is that no one except my husband and I seem to have liked it :D So please take my recommendation with caution!

"Think of me like a sister"

2007-03-08T12:57:00.000+08:00

Heard the classic romantic put-down line in a classic setting yesterday - Shakespeare's play Twelfth Night!

My lord so please you, these things further thought on,
To think me as well a sister as a wife

Oh yes, the man's influence is till on.

This is the first Shakespeare play I've seen - with all its old English dialogues intact - so I was quite kicked that I understood the story despite my utter ignorance of Twelfth Night, and for that matter, of Shakespeare. Of course, I did not understand most of the dialogues. But modern stories have borrowed so much from the genius that I meandered the plot with ease, and even guessed what the outcome would be. Bollywood Zindabad!

Sounds like a plan

2007-02-27T10:30:00.000+08:00

So many words have lost their identity in today's lingo. 'Gay' has given up all its happiness to become a pain in the ass. 'Babe' has transformed itself, probably all thanks to pedophiles, into someone fetching. 'Bitch' the dog has turned vicious and 'Stud' the horse has acquired attraction while 'cuckoo' the bird has lost its mind.

But the most disconcerting, for us women at least, has been the demise of the meaning of healthy. Once upon a time, it meant glowing skin and white teeth and stamina and all things beautifully normal. Nowadays its usage is limited to the following conversation:
"Do I look fat?"
"Oh No Darling, you are only healthy"
"(sound of bobbitisation) "

Of course, I am not complaining here because I happen to be "healthy". I am no such thing. Sure, like all women in the world, I may have sometimes suspiciously wondered whether the man who vacated the seat for me in the bus did so because he thought that I was pregnant. But those were just unfounded concerns (My husband assures me).

Unfortunately, it is no longer enough to be unfat. Have you seen the influx of the new breed of 6-packs in the music videos? Nelly Furtado, Pussycat Dolls, Fergie, ... I cannot dismiss away these new midriffs as an unattractive illness as I did for the anorexic chics. And I'm turning increasingly distraught: how do I ignore fight this toned old-fashioned-healthy?

Honestly, this world is getting too small to fit Beyonce with abs and Me without. I guess I should join a gym.

Or even better, I should just stop seeing Channel [V].

2007-02-18T10:18:00.000+08:00

I don't know if it's a delhi thing, but we never used to serve guests water in our home. We'd offer cold drinks, juices, lemonade, mango panna, rooh afza, anything - but water. The feeling went that something so flavourless, colourless, and fragrance-free as water made it simply unfit to serve, why the guest could even be offended!

The result is that I and my sister, much to the disconcertedness of our respective husbands, have grown up to become nearly camels. Like the animal, we go without the fluid for long time - sometimes days - but unlike it, we have no ritual to store it in our body in advance. I know, I know - I ought to be having 10 glasses a day, and after years of lectures I have improved a lot by now. Still, I try to get away with the substitutes as much as possible - warm water, honey/lemon water, flavoured tea water, salted water, anything - but plain water.

Am now wondering if living in a high humidity place can excuse me from drinking it. Can't I just inhale it and get it over with?

Salaam-e-formula

2007-01-29T15:30:00.001+08:00

Salaam-e-ishq boldly goes very almost all of Bollywood has gone before: too many songs, too little logic, melodramatic dialogue and a pretense at originality.

The movie weaves 6 tales, all loosely connected to each other in the manner of Love Actually, where each story centers around the theme of love and each has a problem that needs resolution. Now let's sit back and take wild guesses at what these problems would be: married man has affair - of course yes! woman has accident and gets amnesia - Bingo! Yuppie thinks marriage is a prison - Right on! Intercaste marriage? - er no, but we are close coz there's an inter-race marriage issue now! Well, you get my drift...

Director Nikhil Advani clearly has had enough of the new generation of Hindi movies that have come out recently. So he's gone all out in using the old formula of success: take a star cast (a whopping 11 big names), add naach gaana (6 useless tunes and only 1 good cover number from Shankar Ehsaan Loy), and don't bother with the details despite ample time to go beyond superficiality - the movie is more than 3.5 hours long! And finally, give a happy ending - in this case, 5 happy endings and also a "happy ending" of the massage parlor variety if you get my drift.

The tragedy is that Advani has failed to learn from his muse Love Actually what good editing is all about. Honestly, he could have trashed all those useless songs, removed quite a few of the melodramatic scenes that serve no purpose in the story ('papa, please I beg you, show your hatred towards my wife!', etc) and left the movie a few notches higher and me much happier in the bargain.

On the bright side, the cast has acted well, and is quite good looking too.* John Abraham provides many topless and barely covered torso scenes, but for some unfathomable reason he indulges in a lot of baywatch-style running. Salman is looking better and slimmer and less bald. But I wish he'd lost the accent along with the puffiness. Priyanka is as sexy and stylish as ever as an item-girl.

More importantly, There are certainly quite a few laughable moments. Akshaye Khanna and Govinda create some good scenes. Sohail Khan has a role bordering on gross and manages it with aplomb in the few minutes he gets on screen. Only John Abraham keeps on weeping along with Vidya Balan and drinks a lot of glycerine in the bargain. Yes I said 'drinks' glycerine, coz he keeps on kissing the woman's tears in a manner that the director must have found romantic, but personally I find rather yucky.

Verdict: wait for DVD. Movie is timpeass if you keep the remote control's forward button in hand. Certainly better than chhup chhup ke, golmaal, 36 Chinatown and other monstrosities that I've subjected myself to recently.

*cast: John Abraham/Vidya Balan, Sohail Khan/Isha Koppikar, Anil Kapoor/Juhi Chawla, Govinda/ Shannon, Akshaye Khanna/Ayesha Takia, Salman Khan/Priyanka Chopra

2007-01-24T15:54:00.000+08:00

I'm really pissed.
A good book can do that you.
It tricks you into believing strange lands and stranger people, and just when you start getting comfortable with, and even fond of, the characters... well, then in come the villains and ensnare the hero away. Not only do they torture him, but they also screw up all the fancy plans and strategies he'd made and I'd spent so many hours reading. Why couldn't the asses just take the money, or kill each other, or die of spontaneous combustion or bad luck or whatever. But no, coz apparently there's a law similar to gravity that operates in novels to keep the hero downtrodden right till the last page.

So it is that I'm gnashing my teeth while my dashing man has been caught in the wily snares of lots and lots of women. I hope the beating he's getting from them will make him stop trusting them FINALLY, coz frankly, I can't bear the pain they give him at every corner. Last night I could barely sleep wondering who on Earth will rescue him.

The only comfort is that he is the hero of the novel after all, so I can reasonably hope that he will be alive and well in the end (and cornered by the right women too).

The bad news is that what I'm reading is the 6th book in a series of 13 novels of which only 12 have been written. So just in case the author Robert Jordan fails to write the final installment of The Wheel Of Time series, there is a good chance that I'll be stuck waiting for a rescue mission.

Now if I were to write a book, it would be different.
The hero would be a mish-mash of South Indian actors - Rajnikanth, Vijaykanth, etc. Therefore he would be capable of doing anything, by which I mean ANYTHING. (giving electric shocks to electric shocks, biting bullets fired at him, surviving 10-storey falls, etc etc) So no way that even an army of a thousand Indian soldiers, or even two Australian cricket teams, could bind and take him away.

And to bolster my readers confidence further, my villains would be a cross between Kevin Spacey in The Superman Returns and Dr Evil in Austin Powers - you know, sufficiently senile to be their own enemies, and so obviously evil that the hero has no chance of confusing them with the good guys.

And even then, to ensure that no readers of mine get nervous palpitations regarding my hero's future, I will kill them on the first page.

Horrible goons, namely Mister Sinister and Blood-thirsty-Vampireman are dead, my story would begin. For the rest I can harp on about the delicious food he is eating and the enthralling parties he's going to. I know it sounds like a Page 3 story, but you know what, those things make money. Besides, wouldn't it be a nice change for your wife/husband to not find you clutching a book at 12 pm at night, desperately trying to read fast to the point where the hero finally manages to aim at the right head in a bullet fight?

Saving women from themselves

2007-01-22T14:44:00.000+08:00

Anti-abortionists in US have found a new reason for their crusade, according to my morning newspaper. Women suffer psychological problems after abortions, they say, and should therefore be denied the option.

I wish they would shut up. It's probably true, or maybe it isn't. But either way, they cannot usurp authority over women whose decision it is to make. Pregnant women aren't retards. And they aren't thrill-seekers who set themselves up into pregnancy for the fun of morning sickness or the adventure of having an abortion. They're in a situation where they've realised they cannot support a child - and unless the embryo is conscious to pain (which it isn't) - they should have a right to decide.

I also wish the lobby would shut up with all the talk of the "baby" they wish to save. It is not a baby, but an embryo without consciousness most of the time. "Baby" is more apt a description of the thousands who died in pre-war Iraq because of medicine sanctions, and of thousands who are dying in post-war Iraq, thanks to a president whose policies this same lobby supported. And if you think I'm digressing and should leave out the war in my discussion, then let me just say that the anti-abortionists cannot possibly feel more pain at the loss of the "unborn child" than the woman in question herself. She would have given weightage to the factor, most of the time. Moreover, at late stages of pregnancy (when you may debate on the issue of consciousness) abortion is medically risky for the mother too so it would very rarely happen.

Anyhow, coming back to the new argument the lobby has uncovered: If cigarettes are legal despite being documented lethal, and alcohol is available despite the ills an overdose can cause, why should abortions be banned for the damage they may have? What makes the right to smoke superior to the right to terminate a pregnancy? Especially as the abortion stops an unwanted child - with a high chance of bad childhood which thereafter causes a high chance of criminal adulthood - from coming into the world?

Promises, promises....

2007-01-08T12:58:00.000+08:00

New year time is resolutions time, and accordingly I have drawn up a list for my husband. He should thank me for it, and probably won't. But that won't stop me from doing what's right which is to let him know what's right for him.

1. Get a six-pack.
No, not the beer but the abs.

2. Develop lesser interest in cricket.
At least, pretend to have lesser interest in cricket when I'm strutting in fancy clothes.

3. Lie, and lie well.
Try to realise that when I ask you to 'be honest', by no means am I actually asking you to be honest. Obviously. All I'm saying is that my own personal honesty is coming in the way of me considering myself Audrey Hepburn, and NOW is the time for you to unleash an Oscar-winning performance that convinces me that I'm Audrey Hepburn incarnate.

4. Stop dating the computer.
I know how much money you spend to accessorise it, how much time you spend to understand it, how you don't realise it's past midnight when you're in a program with it, how you want to turn it on the first thing in the morn, even at 7 am, and if this affair carries on any further you may find this is the only affair you are left with.

5. Give up attempts at aping Dharmendra. In fact, give up what you consider your sense of humor.

6. Start reading my blog.

Rest is censored.

Song Sung Blue

2006-12-09T15:49:00.000+08:00

After reading my last post I've realised I may have grown up.

I can remember a time when I thought Madonna was deep. She's got the look was poetry, True Blue moved me to tears, and anyone crooning I Love You in any musical note was heart-searing. I suppose I was deranged.

Yet, as I read my last post, I realise I may still be a sucker.

The lines that move me most in the Windmills of your Mind are

When you knew that it was over
Were you suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the colour of hair?

And my latest musical is obsession Johnny Cash singing One, where amongst other things, he wonders

Did I ask too much
More than a lot
You gave me nothing
Now it's all I got

Looks like all I have achieved is graduating from passion of love to love gone sour. I suppose I have a long way to grow up.

2006-12-09T15:23:00.000+08:00

I have managed to acquire a writer's block without being a writer in the first place!

So instead of writing nonsense, let me just post one of favourite song lyrics: Windmills of your mind, penned byAlan Bergman and Marilyn Bergman for the original The Thomas Crown Affair. It's one of those numbers that leaves haunting images in my head.

If you are somehow not impressed (impossible!) by what you read ahead, be sure to listen to the song, and I'm sure you'll change your mind! With music by Michel Legrand, it has even won an Oscar. (Personally I prefer the original by Noel Harrison to Sting's version)

Round,
Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel,
Never ending on beginning,
On an ever-spinning reel
Like a snowball down a mountain,
Or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that's turning
Running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple
Spinning silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Like a tunnel that you follow
To a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern
Where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving
In a half-forgotten dream
Like the ripples from a pebble
Someone tosses in a stream.
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple
Spinning silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly?
Was it something that I said?
Lovers walk along a shore
And leave their footprints in the sand
Was the sound of distant drumming
Just the fingers of your hand?

Pictures hanging in a hallway
or the fragment of a song,
half-remembered names and faces
but to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over
Were you suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the color of her hair?

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever-spinning reel
As the images unwind
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Horn OK Please

2006-11-21T13:11:00.000+08:00

There are times when I believe that you've to be born in a place to truly understand its spirit and become an integral part, a notion that is strengthened by movies that showcase Indians not quite fitting abroad, phrases such as ABCD, and of course, idiots such as Bush who spew nonsense about places they've never been to.

And then, every once in a while, I come across portrayals of India by foreigners who've researched the subject for barely a few months and yet hit the nail right on the head.

Check out this short movie 'Horn OK Please'. Directed by Joel Simon, a Belgian, it is inspired by his journey in Mumbai.

Njoy!

HORN OK PLEASE

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2006-11-14T16:16:00.000+08:00

My husband hasn't spoken in the last three days. Initially, for a hopeful fleeting moment, I thought that I and and my brand new red hair and a kaaya facial must have left him speechless with delight. But no. Viruses apparently have greater influence on him than my face ever did.

Anyhow, since his throat is too congested for conversation, I have finally run out of distractions and reasons that have kept me away from my blog these past few weeks. I'm back, and ready to reopen the space with my tag commitment to The One, even though I really don't like the task he's dumped me with. "8 things about me" takes me straight back to the MBA/job interview preparation days, to one of the most irritating answers I had to mug up and vomit.

Nevertheless, here's a more honest version of those pretentious speeches:

Ek
I am not aggressive. My teachers may have lamented so, my friends may have hinted so, my colleagues may have commented so, and perhaps at some point in time I will have to start acceding that a 100-to-1 majority has the ring of something like truth to it. But as of now, I must say that I am not aggressive.

Do
I get along with kittens better than with children. It's not that I have anything against kids, but just that I've never figured out their wavelength nor how to converse with them. Mostly I just give them an uncertain smile and that pretty much brings an end to their interest in me.

Teen
Aishwarya Rai's pseudo-smile nauseates me and I am delighted that Umraao Jaan has all the promise of a flop. The only other woman who nauseates me even more is Ekta 'Balaji' Kapoor.

Char
I love speaking in a punju accent. I used to find it frightful, but ever since I moved out of India I find that way of talking too tantalising to resist. I still don't use it on the roads however, and talk like a true dehati only to the telly.

Paanch
I love make-up, and I love dressing up. So even if you think I've put nothing on my face and am under-dressed for an occassion when you meet me, chances are I've spent at least an hour in front of the mirror.

Chhey
I hate exercising. Luckily, I also hate most sweets.

Saat
I hate getting old so much that I am not above pretending about it. On my latest birthday last month (when I turned 28 :() I bought myself a cake that announced 'Sweet 16'. Of course, I may not look 16, but then, Aamir doesn't look like a college kid either and if Rang de Basanti can carry it off, then, ahem, then so can I.

Aath
I day-dream non-stop. My brain doesn't know what it is to be blank, so if I'm not working or problem-solving, then I'm definitely cooking up a movie starring myself in my head. Apparently, (I read somewhere) enacting stuff in your head can spur that stuff to happen in real life. So if I become a singer-actor-writer-diva, you know the secret behind it.

That's all.

2006-09-26T15:51:00.000+08:00

I guess, after all, that I am not that artistic.

Last few movies that I've seen - all of them being the award-winning, criticially acclaimed variety - have left me quite untouched. Sure I sat through all of them, not entirely bored, and even admiring as the occassion demanded: the composition of frames here, the placement of a certain prop there, the depth of acting, the grace of certain dialogues - but that only goes on to show I was simply not engrossed enough to get lost in the movie and was instead analysing the technicalities in a detached fashion.

Of course, I defended them robustly to my lesser-pretentious half, who had declined to see some of these movies at all and gave up some more half-way. Unlike him, I persevered, intent on broadening my mind with these works of art, and impressing upon my husband and my myself just how discerning I was. So cool and oh! so refined.

But I guess it is time to give up.

Flattering though it is to have the DVD shop assistant handing me what I want with aplomb, diving right into his collection where he knows exactly where the coveted item is and handing it to me with a smile that only two people who care about the same thing can share - it is time to move on to other things less worthy.

It's not as if I love slapstick, but a doubt that I will ever understand just why The Dreamers is about innocence and not incestuous porn. And that can only mean one thing: I'm no high-brow.

Insomnia

2006-09-13T13:28:00.000+08:00

Vipul and I recently completed seven years together, so I guess it was time I started getting the itch. Still, had not expected things to turn out so literally disconfitting! Past couple of weeks, have been feeling surprisngly like the princess in the fairytale that also stars the pea.

(For the forgetful, the story revolves around the real princess, proven to be real by the fact that she feels back-wrecking discomfiture from a single pea that rests below her bedding, a bedding that consists of 20 fat mattresses.)

Unfortunately, I can't even find that pea. Every few days or so, bouts of restlessness assail me in the morn and the weight of insomnia plagues me at night. As if something incomprehensible is nudging me to distraction. Nothing feels comfortable: the sofa's are too light, the floor too hard, the chairs unsufferably constricting, the matterss a big bore.... I feel like shedding my skin like a snake and slipping into something more comfortable and new. My body right now feels like an outfit two sizes too small, and as if I was doing yoga in it.

Fellow insomniacs may know what I mean. It's so frustrating!

The cuplprit is probably too match caffiene, or too little exercise. Anyhow, won't be surprised if I jump into meditation next for a cure. Pity, that unlike the parable, I have no royal blood nor riches to make up for the problem.

Munnabhai's mindblowing

2006-09-03T11:35:00.001+08:00

I went to the hall last night praying for Arshad Warsi to get a lot of screen time. Hoping for a tight script without loose ends. Imagining the possibilities of jokes that weren't reruns. And surprise, surprise, I got it all!

Lage Raho Munnabhai is a superb potboiler that made me laugh non-stop, and I cannot remember the last time this happened to me in a Hindi movie in my adult life. Indeed, apart from Vidya Balan's ultra-long, reshammiya-voiced "Good Morniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing" the movie is simply perfect.

The story, smartly avoiding a pure duplication of Munnabhai MBBS, is the journey of Munna bhai (Sanjay Dutt) wooing his lady love Jahanvi (Vidya Balan). Helping him achieve his goal are mainly two men: one who inspires my heart :D - Circuit (Arshad Warsi), and another who inspires mine and thousands others' souls - Mahatma Gandhi. Full credit goes to the screenplay and dialogues of Rajkumar Hirani and Abhijat Joshi for marrying Gandhism flawlessly into the script; I love the way they use the serious theme without compromising on the humour, and ultimately manage to create an original, pacy script. Very impressive, especially against the backdrop of copycats that we have been getting lately.

Sanjay Dutt may look a tad old in the movie posters, nevertheless both he and his govinda-coloured-shirts shine through. He has certainly improved his performance in this sequel. Arshad Warsi and his gold chains too are better than ever. In fact, their team performance has convinced me to next have a peek at Anthony Kaun Hai so as to enjoy their chemistry yet again.

Also excellently matched are Boman Irani and his Punju accent. All in all, these three carry the movie on their shoulders to create a hilarious, vivacious, adorable, enthralling experience.

Clap Clap Clap

2006-08-31T10:06:00.000+08:00

The inevitable has happened. I miss Minoo, the cat more than I miss Vipul, the husband.

Maybe it's simply because Vipul is home and therefore difficult to miss. Or maybe it is a sort of forbidden fruit syndrome: Vipul is ghar ki Murgi, living with me while Minoo belongs to someone else. Either way, the point is that my cat-sitting is over, she has been reclaimed and taken to her original home, and I'm musing over her idiosyncracies in my head.

It is strange to no longer be woken up by her vociferous mewing in the morning. Once Vipul's alarm had broken her sleep, Minoo ensured the we got up as well. Mostly she accomplished this by short bark-like meows, and sometimes through cajoling licks of her sandpapery tongue over my face. Either way, she started the day with the misconception that she was a dog and made my day start like a Nescafe coffee ad.

Of course, the rest of the day was as unlike a coffee ad as can be, coz it was as full of sleeping and lazing as can be. I have never done as much of nothing as I did in the past six weeks. Initially I'd thought that having a cat might inspire me to write out more stuff, but as is now clear, her yawns were far too influential to get anything at all done.

Still, I did get one thing accomplished, and that's a good load of snaps. I've pasted some on my blog before, and here's the final tranche:

Tagging along

2006-08-25T18:24:00.000+08:00

Quicksilver has tagged me into a confessionary, so here goes:

I am thinking about...
... loopholes in my sugar-free diet. So far, it is clear that strawberry ice-cream counts as a serving of fruit

I said...
... "coochie poochie", "shweetie paee" and other nonsensical gibberish for the first time in my life last month. After years of holding baby-talk in contempt, I somehow succumbed during one-on-one quality time with my new cat.

I want to...
... stop this baby-talk before I let it slip in public and embarrass myself

I wish...
... humans had never evolved beyond apes

I hear...
... all sorts of gossip while pretending not to listen

I wonder...
... if people know I'm listening coz I've never caught anyone bitching about me red-handed

I regret...
... being a super-mean ice-queen to the first guy I had a crush on

I am...
... a wannabe atheist. What keeps me from becoming a full-fledged atheist is that I'm so angry with God, which by implication means I think he is there somewhere for me to be angry at.

I dance...
... sexily with women only

I sing...
... better after a few drinks

I cry...
... at the darndest moments. I bawled throughout My Fair Lady when I saw it the first time because I felt fo sorry for Audrey Hepburn, the flower-girl!

I am not always...
... the dictator my friends make me out to be

I make with my hand...
... really awful Sangria

I write...
... very corny poems on an anonymous blog

I confuse...
... directions like a prototype for stereotypical man-woman books

I need...
... more optimism, more creativity, more frequent partying, more toned-up abs, more happeninng life,... In short, I need to be 20 years old again :)

I tag...
... Amy, J, and N. Let's hear you spill some secrets!

2006-08-21T14:37:00.000+08:00

I knew Indian organisations were thinking global like never before. But I guess I hadn't really reckoned just how much till I saw this in my newspaper today:
a medical college in Bijapur (???who's ever heard of such a place outside of a Bollywood movie!!) advertising to potential students in Hong Kong!

Nope, I wasn't reading some small-time paper targeted at the Indian minority abroad, but HK/China's mainstream english newspaper, South China Morning Post. Of course, knowing what pre-coffee mornings can be, for a few seconds after I saw the ad even I did wonder whether I'd lost my bearings and was actually sitting over damn old TOI.

Now I can well imagine what inspired this secluded place in Karnataka to want NRIs on its rolls, but what on earth makes them expect a response? Having never heard their name till date, I doubt their NRI hostel on Sholapur Road is filled chockablock. But hell, no business house affiliation (which a good number of small little medical schools across the counrty are) would waste money like this without reason. Any ideas?

2006-08-08T15:46:00.000+08:00

The good thing about having women guests at home is that I get good excuses and great company to dress up with.

The bad part is that when we ask around how we look, we get standard replies. And I'm not talking about the universal "nice" and "no you don't look fat, you're just fine" statements.

"That bag is too Shabby" says my husband of almost every bag I pick up. Everything's either too shabby, or too frayed, or too old, or too used, or some such thing.

Is this, I imagine out loud, what he's going to tell me when I develop crow's feet, and laugh lines, and frown burrows, and patchy baldness after using my body another twenty years?

To which I'm told: Of course not! Those stand for character. They represent the life you've lived, the sorrows you've been through, the moments you've grown from... they're going to be souveniers that we'll treasure. (Ok so my husband didn't exactly say that, but Oprah probably did)

To which my point is that: if a shabby face is beautiful because of the life that lies behind it, then why not a frayed bag or a braised car or holed shoes? Why can't my man look beyond my Shabby Bag, and discover its amazing elegance and worldly-wisdom? And why can't he appreciate my dad's car's unrepaired dents and be impressed by its Houdini-like escapes? Why doesn't he go gaga over the WWF-ness of our chipped glass decoration pieces, and laugh at my clumsiness that they represent?

And while he's at it, any chance that he also expand his vocab beyond "nice" and "fine"???

update....

2006-08-07T15:44:00.000+08:00

Last couple of weeks I was absent from the blogosphere for a very noble cause. I was busy helping the Hong Kong retail sector improve its performance. My sister, here on a visit from India, and I, did all we could to ensure that the shopping festival was a success. Visiting malls, eating out, buying stuff that looks good on mannequins today and will hopefully fit us by next summer, etc etc. It has been hectic, but now she's gone, and I'm back, and we're both broke.

Meanwhile, Minoo instead is alive and kicking, even if a tad forgetful. She talks via barks, and licks our feet, and sleeps on her back at times, and thus has clearly lost her identity along with the owner. But luckily she hasn't forgotten how to use the litter box, so I cannot complain!

2006-07-17T17:21:00.000+08:00

She's five years old. And she's been sulking since morning, right from the time she entered my home. Not quite what I'd expected foster parenting to be - I mean, sure, I had excpected tantrums, and sobbing, and a distant stranger. But Minoo has come with a different set of stress symptoms atogether.

She's sneaked under the bed, and lodged herself between a high suitcase and the low bed panelling, and refuses to come out. She also refuses to eat or drink. It would have been a total crisis situation except for the fact that she does at least meow in conversation once in a while. And she lets herself be scratched with my outstretched hand after I slither my (nearly) three decades old body at ground level. Then she suddenly comes alive and maneouvres her head and neck so that I get the spots right. But that's about it.

I wonder how many more hours to go before she'll fell confident enough to venture out, and whether it will be possible to vaccum out her hair from our black bag when she does. I hope it happens before her five weeks at my place are up. For one thing, if she doesn't get back her spirit and enslave my husband soon, he may veto all my plans of adopting a cat by end of this year!

The Bill in me

2006-07-06T11:44:00.000+08:00

Today I had excellent jam from breakfast, with compliments from Shangri La. They'd actually given their compliments a month ago, to my friend who was staying at their fancy hotel. But the freecycler in me couldn't let the cute little bottles of marmalade and honey get cleared away with the room breakfast when I visited her.

My friend encouraged me to pick the goodies and was glad to see her money recovered. (She would have picked them herself had they been sugar-free)
I don't think Shangri La cared.
But my husband, as usual, is the problem. He thinks this amounts to stealing. In fact, he thinks this everytime we are out on vacation when the magpie in me collects matchboxes and stationery with glee, therefore at those points of time he frowns as menacingly as he can, which given his lineless forehead, isn't half as scary as he imagines it to be. So I continue.

Besides, his opinion on morals doesn't carry water given that he's a banker. And not just any banker - but a banker working in credit derivatives. For the uninformed, let me just say that Warren Buffet considers what he sells "time bomb"s. Me thinks his snooty highness finds two-dollar robberies beneath contemplation and would be quite delighted if I stole the whole Shangri La itself.

Anyhow, his opinion is quite dwarfed by a celebrity endorsesment I have just uncovered. The marvellously funny Bill Bryson, whose 'Notes from a small island' I am currently reading, candidly reveals his pocketing at an expensive hotel. I am a bit dubious about his being as Scroogy as he sets himself to be in the rest of the pages, [given how rich fans such as me must have made him], but in any case, it is nice to knaow that I and Bill have at least one thing in common. And I intend to keep it that way.

2006-06-29T10:27:00.000+08:00

I've always hated weddings. Even back in school I can recall trying to wriggle out of attending ceremonies that my parents were invited to. Partly of course coz teenagers are embarrassed to be anywere in the visible radius of thir folks. But largely because I found them depressing - always ended up feeling sorry for the brides in question. How could I not feel pity for someone whose face was doused in Red lipstick, Red bindi, Red eye-shadow, Red cheek blush, and Red in every other remaining nook and corner as well. And just in case the beautician had missed a spot on the visage, her embarassment and glaring stage lights were enough to cover the remains, also in Red. What a way to begin a new life, I would think, and almost weep.

Thankfully I was young, and could easily avoid most occassions by pretending to be in the thick of studies and narrowly avoiding failure in the next exam. It worked like a charm right through school and college, and even university. But it hardly sufficed against the big daddy of them all - my own matrimonial marathon.

As expected, I look as Red as Christmas. Resembled a witch straight out of a bloodbath. [Somehow, my husband thinks I look cute as a doll, but then he has strange tastes, Or he's a liar, Or deeply blinded by love. whatever]

I would show you the snaps, but I don't enjoy writing lengthy disclaimers for heart patients. Plus I don't have the pics with me any longer. They're housed in my parents' place, where I intend to keep them despite their protests. They wanted the wedding. They can keep the snaps. I wanted the marriage. I'll keep the husband.

Ghosts

2006-06-16T16:02:00.000+08:00

Today is dedicated to the reading my old diaries. To the hundreds of good looking guys that littered Delhi's streets when I was young and hormoneful. To the thousands of times I fell in love with at first glance, and out of love two weeks later. To the mllions of times I felt that it was the best day of my life.

It's just that I am unpacking my bags for my new house. And in the middle of the mess is my box of memories - useless stuff such as old movie tickets, college rock show entrance cards, school uniform remains, pages from diaries - useless stuff, yet priceless... all souveniers of a time when I was really alive. When everything, just everything, mattered. When every smile could be dissected into a thousand meanings ('He likes Me!', 'How dare he sneer!'. 'I am super duper funny!', or as was most often, 'He is so Sweeeeeet!') Yes, every feeling had an exclamation mark, every mood was heady, and there was nothing that inspired nothing. Life was a Bollywood movie. An inconsequential Helen-Sridevi-Jeetendra movie maybe, but a movie nevertheless.

Here's a scrap of something I then wrote:

Speak those words
that your eyes say
everytime you look at me
After all,
it is just a metter a time
before you cease to look at me
and I cease to understand your silence

Coz that's what always happens -
Things end.

So say something,
coz words I can remember
and words can soothe,
but memories blur and fade away,
and tomorrow I will not believe
in what I think I saw today

Interesting in hindsight, (and enchanting when you are living them), how chemicals irridescently colour our world. And funny even how "adolescence is the most difficult period of your life" according to my mom, but it is the most beautiful. So wonderfully exaggerated, so brimming with emotion.

I would gladly live that madness again.

movie: Fanaa

2006-05-29T13:46:00.001+08:00

In keeping with the promise held out by its promos, Fanaa is pathetic. And for bonus, it is corny too.

Sure, you would think that an Aamir 'Choosy' Khan movie must have something to redeem itself. And a Kajol comeback has got to count for something. But no.

The movie, for all creative purposes, was probably made ten years ago. It has every obsolete formula of that era: from silly dialogues that no one ever mouths in real life, to love at first sight for no reason whatsoever with a roadside Romeo who aims vulgar pick-up lines, to dream sequqnces that include dancing in sleeveless dresses on snow.

Hence, only if you're nostalgic for those days (why??) as well as obsessed with the star couple (in which case you probably left my page after the first line) will you enjoy the movie.

Of course, Aamir and Kajol, as always, act well. But sometimes that is not enough. To start with: Aamir. He has been given many names and a half-baked role where he's half psycho controlled by a grand-dad, and half street-side Romeo. And for a good part of the movie he decides to seduce the audience, against all common sense, with ghastly couplets. Most of these four-liners resemble PJs that we used to laugh at in middle school. Unfortunately, I've graduated since then. What's worse, some of the disasterous cliches are repeated every now and then in the couple's reverie.

And then there's Kajol: who laughs and laughs and struts and smiles at the camera, and then some more. And the director, as if he were still unsure that we hadn't got the point of what a great catch he had made in signing her and how beautiful she still is post-kids, goes on to put "subhan-allah" in the background music.

But let us move on beyond he main characters of the movie. After all, Fanaa, apart from its leads also guest-stars Shiney Ahuja, Lillete Dubey, Kirron Kher, Jaspal Bhatti, and many more - essentially just about anyone that director Kunal Kohli could manage to get on board. Definitely a good strategy for cost cutting, especially if it generates as little revenue as I'm guessing it will.

More importantly, the few laughs that the movie generates - yes it does manage some - are all thanks to the guest appearances and smaller characters. Especially good is a young boy introduced in the movie. Unfortunately, he too is forced by the script writer to repeat the same lines ad nauseum, what a pity.

The last hope one may have had - from songs penned by Prasoon Joshi - are lousy in timing and boring in melody, with one even having ambitions of 'lakdi ki kaathi' (but it fails easily just like its brethren).

Easily one of the worst movies I've seen in a long time, and fanaa-ed by a really really bad script.

Things that make you Grrrrrrrrr

2006-05-23T16:24:00.000+08:00

If you want to kick Arjun Singh but don't know how, read this transcript of Karan Thapar interviewing him. You still wouldn't have kicked him, but will at least have the pleasure of smirking at him and his moronic, brainless replies. Moreover, his spinelessness may give you the added ingredient you need to get really enraged and go kick some butt.

Karan Thapar: Most of the people would accept that steps are necessary to help the OBCs gain greater access to higher education. The real question is: Why do you believe that reservations is the best way of doing this?

Arjun Singh: I wouldn't like to say much more on this because these are decisions that are taken not by individuals alone. And in this case, the entire Parliament of this country - almost with rare unanimity - has decided to take this decision.

Karan Thapar: Except that Parliament is not infallible. In the Emergency, when it amended the Constitution, it was clearly wrong, it had to reverse its own amendments. So, the question arises: Why does Parliament believe that the reservation is the right way of helping the OBCs?

Arjun Singh: Nobody is infallible. But Parliament is Supreme and at least I, as a Member of Parliament, cannot but accept the supremacy of Parliament.

Karan Thapar: No doubt Parliament is supreme, but the Constitutional amendment that gives you your authorities actually enabling amendment, it is not a compulsory requirement. Secondly, the language of the amendment does not talk about reservations, the language talks about any provision by law for advancement of socially and educationally backward classes. So, you could have chosen anything other than reservations, why reservations?

Arjun Singh: Because as I said, that was the 'will and desire of the Parliament'.

Karan Thapar: Do you personally also, as Minister of Human Resource Development, believe that reservations is the right and proper way to help the OBCs?

Arjun Singh: Certainly, that is one of the most important ways to do it.

Karan Thapar: The right way?

Arjun Singh: Also the right way.

Karan Thapar: In which case, lets ask a few basic questions. We are talking about the reservations for the OBCs in particular. Do you know what percentage of the Indian population is OBC? Mandal puts it at 52 per cent, the National Sample Survey Organisation (NSSO) at 32 per cent, the National Family and Health Survey at 29.8 per cent, which is the correct figure?

Arjun Singh: I think that should be decided by people who are more knowledgeable. But the point is that the OBCs form a fairly sizeable percentage of our population.

Karan Thapar: No doubt, but the reason why it is important to know 'what percentage' they form is that if you are going to have reservations for them, then you must know what percentage of the population they are, otherwise you don't know whether they are already adequately catered to in higher educational institutions or not.

Arjun Singh: That is obvious - they are not.

Karan Thapar: Why is it obvious?

Arjun Singh: Obvious because it is something which we all see.

Karan Thapar: Except for the fact that the NSSO, which is a government appointed body, has actually in its research in 1999 - which is the most latest research shown - that 23.5 per cent of all university seats are already with the OBCs. And that is just 8.5 per cent less than what the NSSO believes is the OBC share of the population. So, for a difference of 8 per cent, would reservations be the right way of making up the difference?

Arjun Singh: I wouldn't like to go behind all this because, as I said, Parliament has taken a view and it has taken a decision, I am a servant of Parliament and I will only implement.

Karan Thapar: Absolutely, Parliament has taken a view, I grant it. But what people question is the simple fact - Is there a need for reservations? If you don't know what percentage of the country is OBC and if, furthermore, the NSSO is correct in pointing out that already 23.5 per cent of the college seats are with the OBC, then you don't have a case in terms of need.

Arjun Singh: College seats, I don't know.

Karan Thapar: According to the NSSO - which is a government appointed body - 23.5 per cent of the college seats are already with the OBCs.

Arjun Singh: What do you mean by college seats?

Karan Thapar: University seats, seats of higher education.

Arjun Singh: Well, I don't know I have not come across that so far.

Karan Thapar: So, when critics say to you that you don't have a case for reservation in terms of need, what do you say to them?

Arjun Singh: I have said what I had to say and the point is that that is not an issue for us to now debate.

Karan Thapar: You mean the chapter is now closed?

Arjun Singh: The decision has been taken.

Karan Thapar: Regardless of whether there is a need or not, the decision is taken and it is a closed chapter.

Arjun Singh: So far as I can see, it is a closed chapter and that is why I have to implement what all Parliament has said.

Karan Thapar: Minister, it is not just in terms of 'need' that your critics question the decision to have reservation for OBCs in higher education. More importantly, they question whether reservations themselves are efficacious and can work.

For example, a study done by the IITs themselves shows that 50 per cent of the IIT seats for the SCs and STs remain vacant, and for the remaining 50 per cent, 25 per cent are the candidates who even after six years fail to get their degrees. So, clearly, in their case, reservations are not working.

Arjun Singh: I would only say that on this issue, it would not be correct to go by all these figures that have been paraded.

Karan Thapar: You mean the IIT figures themselves could be dubious?

Arjun Singh: Not dubious, but I think that is not the last word.

Karan Thapar: All right, maybe the IIT may not be the last word, let me then quote to you the report of the Parliamentary Committee on the welfare for the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes - that is a Parliamentary body.

It says, that looking at the Delhi University, between 1995 and 2000, just half the seats for under-graduates at the Scheduled Castes level and just one-third of the seats for under-graduates at the Scheduled Tribes level were filled. All the others went empty, unfilled. So, again, even in Delhi University, reservations are not working.

Arjun Singh: If they are not working, it does not mean that for that reason we don't need them. There must be some other reason why they are not working and that can be certainly probed and examined. But to say that for this reason, 'no reservations need to be done' is not correct.

Karan Thapar: Fifty years after the reservations were made, statistics show, according to The Hindustan Times, that overall in India, only 16 per cent of the places in higher education are occupied by SCs and STs. The quota is 22.5 per cent, which means that only two-thirds of the quota is occupied. One-third is going waste, it is being denied to other people.

Arjun Singh: As I said, the kind of figures that have been brought out, in my perception, do not reflect the realities. Realities are something much more and, of course, there is an element of prejudice also.

Karan Thapar: But these are figures that come from a Parliamentary Committee. It can't be prejudiced; they are your own colleagues.

Arjun Singh: Parliamentary Committee has given the figures, but as to why this has not happened, that is a different matter.

Karan Thapar: I put it to you that you don't have a case for reservations in terms of need, you don't have a case for reservations in terms of their efficacy, why then, are you insisting on extending them to the OBCs?

Arjun Singh: I don't want to use that word, but I think that your argument is basically fallacious.

Karan Thapar: But it is based on all the facts available in the public domain.

Arjun Singh: Those are facts that need to be gone into with more care. What lies behind those facts, why this has not happened, that is also a fact.

Karan Thapar: Let’s approach the issue of reservations differently in that case. Reservations mean that a lesser-qualified candidate gets preference over a more qualified candidate, solely because in this case, he or she happens to be an OBC. In other words, the upper castes are being penalised for being upper caste.

Arjun Singh: Nobody is being penalised and that is a factor that we are trying to address. I think that the Prime Minister will be talking to all the political parties and will be putting forward a formula, which will see that nobody is being penalised.

Karan Thapar: I want very much to talk about that formula, but before we come to talk about how you are going to address concerns, let me point one other corollary: Reservations also gives preference and favour to caste over merit. Is that acceptable in a modern society?

Arjun Singh: I don't think the perceptions of modern society fit India entirely.

Karan Thapar: You mean India is not a modern society and therefore can't claim to be treated as one?

Arjun Singh: It is emerging as a modern society, but the parameters of a modern society do not apply to large sections of the people in this country.

Karan Thapar: Let me quote to you Jawaharlal Nehru, a man whom you personally admire enormously. On the 27th of June 1961 wrote to the Chief Ministers of the day as follows: I dislike any kind of reservations. If we go in for any kind of reservations on communal and caste basis, we will swamp the bright and able people and remain second-rate or third-rate. The moment we encourage the second-rate, we are lost. And then he adds pointedly: This way lies not only folly, but also disaster. What do you say to Jawaharlal Nehru today?

Arjun Singh: Jawaharlal Nehru was a great man in his own right and not only me, but everyone in India accept his view.

Karan Thapar: But you are just about to ignore his advice.

Arjun Singh: No. Are you aware that it was Jawaharlal Nehru who introduced the first amendment regarding OBCs?

Karan Thapar: Yes, and I am talking about Jawaharlal Nehru in 1961, when clearly he had changed his position, he said, “I dislike any kind of reservations”.

Arjun Singh: I don't think one could take Panditji's position at any point of time and then overlook what he had himself initiated.

Karan Thapar: Am I then to understand that regardless of the case that is made against reservations in terms of need, regardless of the case that has been made against reservations in terms of efficacy, regardless of the case that has been made against reservations in terms of Jawaharlal Nehru, you remain committed to extending reservations to the OBCs.

Arjun Singh: I said because that is the will of Parliament. And I think that common decisions that are taken by Parliament have to be honoured.

[taken from IBN Live. You can catch both the transcript and the video on this page]

Let's weep

2006-05-23T15:48:00.000+08:00

Yesterday was two years since the UPA government came to power
It also marks two years of me making excuses for Manmohan Singh

When he took the oath, under the order/benevolence of Sonia Gandhi, I and a good part of India developed expectations. Sure, we didn't think he could perform miracles with a fractured government, but we did think he would stand his ground on what he thought right, and while we didn't think he would race in the right directions, we did look forward to baby-steps.

What a disappointment. The budgets have been useless. The fringe benefit tax, a trivial and idiotic nuisance, remains stubbornly enacted. The communist parties throws a tantrum over EVERYTHING - and usually gets its way. Ordinary people can scream and rant all they want on the streets - be it the Narmada Bachao Aandolan activists, or the striking doctors - but our man doesn't listen or respond.

I, for one, am sick of saying "Oh but he doesn't have the decision making power really", "He'll fix it later, for sure", "What can he do? The Left is arm-twisting him", etc etc etc

It is time for me to take the blinkers off and put the blame where the responsibility lies - at the shoulders of our Prime Minister. Which is just so sad - because now there is not a single person in the political community I can think of who can offer even a sliver of hope as an able anchor.

Just another rainy Sunday

2006-05-21T14:29:00.000+08:00

Hong Kong skies have a horrid habit of weeping at weekends. If you stay here long enough, it can be quite depressing. All dark, dingy and sloppy. But I haven't entered that phase, not yet. Plus, I am too lazy to have ventured out today anyway, and instead had a good time pretending to be a photographer. Here goes:

2006-05-16T16:37:00.000+08:00

I have finally find a house to move into, finally a place whose walls I can drill and paint the way I want, whose floor I can populate any way I please. I can put clocks where I wish, and a table where I desire, and the curtains will be of my coice. all Mine Mine Mine

Up till now, life had been a a parade of hotels, and pseudo-hotels. Grew up with parents, where mom ruled. Then a hostel - which was the nearest to freedom I ever had, and of course I made the most of it... but studentship is a poverty-ridden part of life that lacks choices. Then came 'paying-guest'dom, all furnished and fine. Then marriage, where MIL ruled. Then a serviced apartment, and before I knew it, 27 years were gone.

Now, finally, my time will come.

But there's one small hitch - my husband.
All of a sudden he has discovered an interest in house layout and interior design. After 30 dormant years where his care was limited only to keeping dust away, he now has ambitions to choose cupboards and decide which direction the bed will face. He has developed opinions on colours that our couch can have, and what size a mirror should be. What's worse, each and every thing he thinks is in direct opposition to mine.

In short, setting up the house is not looking half as attractive as I had day-dreamed it to be. Maybe we should divide the house into two fiefdoms. Maybe we should toss and decide who gets to be dictator. Maybe I should threaten him and usurp the power.

Or maybe, just maybe, God will be kind and let me win a lottery so that I can get a new house and do it up entirely my way.
Amen

Aunty aur Bubbly

2006-05-10T19:11:00.000+08:00

champagne on flight...

Aaya Ram, Gaya Ram

2006-04-24T22:06:00.000+08:00

Can't believe I'm packing my bags yet again, relocating across countries for the second time in four months. Tonight is my flight to Hong Kong, just a few hours to go, and it has finally begun to sink in.

My mind has begun to list out things that I will miss, which is a rather long series, ranging from street cats that spring up in various nooks and corners and garbage cans of Bombay to commanding buildings that have kept their backs erect despite bad maintenance and ravaging years. It's a beautiful city, Bombay.

Did you squirm at me calling Bombay pretty? But I really do think so. It gives me so many reasons to smile. I'll be walking down some road, and if some cricket match is taking place that day (which it so often is) I am bound to discover some new obsessive taxi driver shouting out the score across the road for joy as he stands by his parked taxi. And though he's not aware of me presence, and not shouting out for my benefit at all, it just gives me a strange feeling and my head tells me, like that song, "This happens only in India". I just feel anew that, yes, I am back home. And suddenly, drab walls no longer look like brown, unpainted houses. Instead I wonder how old these places must be. As my cab travels over the JJ flyover, I find the journey picturesque as I spy the gleaming mosques in the middle of huddled tenemants. There is somehow, something romantic in the disparity of the spaces we live in, in the people that we are all together, on the things that bind us despite all the separations that we stay with.

There is something so beautiful about Bombay.

Something enticing, even in the tacky ads painted behind buses.

Something rusticly funny, funny enough to have infested T-shirts, in the shayri written with paint on rickshaws and trucks. 48 phoolon ki 96 mala; buri nazar waale thera moonh kala.

Yes I love Bombay
I have loved it since my first month here, when I first saw cats and dogs, predators and prey, skirmishing through the same rubbish pile by a building at Churchgate. I loved the way the cat just swished a contemptuous tail on the side when some dog decided to create a ruckus in the background.

That's the light I've since seen Bombay in - a place egalitarian at heart.

Where you don't need to sit in a fine restaurant and order one coffee after another to see the sun set against the sea. (In fact, chana at Marine drive would give a better view.)

Where Steven Freakonomist Levitt is available from anything between 100 rupees and 750 rupees, depending on where you buy it from.

Where managers and labourers travel stuffed together in the same local train.

Where everyone's called 'Boss'.

Which is why, I'll be back
Coz I'm in love

2006-04-14T11:18:00.000+08:00

I think my mom has thrown away my old stuff. She has an innate frenzy for cleanliness. And she believes that all old stuff (with the sole exception of photo albums) deserves to be thrown away. Over years the rest of the family has managed to mellow down her campaign for minimalism through shoutings, weepings. tantrums etc.

But the streak remains.
What is gone is my report card with my first and only A+ grade, which I'd finally managed to earn in the last term at school.

Some old english note-books, which had superior writing style than what I've been left with today.

A diary which has the opening paragraph of the first book I'd ever started to write.

Signatures and scribblings and notes passed during class from a friend who's no longer living

A list of all Doctor Who novels I'd read, and their authors, and what they were about

A class notebook of my then best-friend, which I kept to preserve his hand-writing, after he left the country for good

It's a long list of memories, and every now and then I remember something more that's gone missing, and inwardly swear, Oh F*** I've lost that!

I guess I should have carried all my stuff with me when I shifted out of my parents' house. But how do you carry a truckload of sentimental papers with you, especially when you're shifting to a cubby hole in Mumbai?

Sigh

2006-04-08T13:48:00.000+08:00

Unfortunately, Arjun Singh is neither as amusing nor as harmless as Calvin.

Deciding, without any public debate, to increase reservations in educational institutions to 49.5% is a stupid idea. It is politically stupid - as I am sure he will find out soon enough. More importantly, it is also educationally regressive.

There is no doubt in my mind that casteism is still prevelant, and that it obstructs the growth of millions in the country. But reservations, that too in higher education, are not an answer to the problem. It can only make the 'normal quota' students feel more enstranged. It can only encourage them to search for options in education and profession outside India.

As for those who get into IIT / IIM / AIIMs and other government institutions through lenient quotas - they may soon find that they have few takers in the private sector jobs. The brand of a quota entrant doesn't wash off easily - definitely not when their abilities are at sharp contrast to the others.

2006-03-27T21:45:00.000+08:00

It would be amusing if it weren't so enraging.

Lawyers of rape-accused Kasliwal say he is too educated, too qualified, just too pedigree-ly sound to have been a rapist. Yes, that's part of their defense. To read just how overquaified he is for the job he supposedly couldn't have done here.

(If you're altogether unfamiliar with the case, you can read my post here. But to cut a long story short, Kasliwal's a rich heir, accused of rape by a 52-year old widow in Mumbai.)

It would be amusing, if it weren't such a deja vu.

Perhaps you can recall the case of Bhanwari Devi, a dalit woman. She was raped by five upper-caste men for trying to prevent child marriage. As a social worker - a saathin in Rajasthan, she had dared to interfere with the wedding of an infant girl. She was therefore taught a lesson, in the presence of her husband.

Of course the FIR and the medical examination, as you must know/expect, didn't happen the way it should. And even when the case reached court, the trial court acquitted the accused saying that upper caste men could not have condescended to have intercourse with a lower caste like her.

In case you didn't know and are surprised: No, I am not making this up - that is actually what the judge wrote in his ruling. And i won't even bother to give you a link on this, you can find this piece of info all over the net.

And no, you won't find any news of her getting a redressal.

Give me a tight deadline please!

2006-03-20T18:38:00.000+08:00

Have too much work, and enough time to do it
which means I will keep on postponing work thinking I have enough time to do it, till the time I have too little time to do it, and then be left be too little time to do do anything except work.

I know everyone suffers from this law, but I am convinced that students and freelancers (such as me) are the worst hit.

2006-03-16T15:39:00.000+08:00

Didn't think Essel World could give me such photo opportunities! This is the night ferry to Borivali.

One more

2006-03-13T20:45:00.000+08:00

The subversion of justice in Jessica's trial is hardly over, and already one can see moves being made to trample the case of another woman - a 52-year-old widow, raped (allegedly) by the scion of a business family in Mumbai. (Read Here). She says he offered her a lift, and instead took her to the Shriram Mills compound (which he owns) and violated her four times.

Just one day since the crime took place - and already I can see all sorts of facts and comments coming to light.

"Facts" such as she is a single woman living in Mumbai. A former bar dancer. Don't get the picture? Let me read between the lines for you - she is Available.

Comments such as the alleged rapist, Abhishek Kasliwal, is such a nice charming boy, whom his neighbours have known since he was a kid. So well-behaved and polite. Oh he could have Ever done such a thing!

Mid-Day has already proclaimed (or has found "sources" to proclaim) that she is currently a prostitute. That she filed the complaint drunk. That she and Kasliwal were acquainted, having consensual sex. That the man is now being framed coz he refused to cough up Rs50,000 for sexual favours.

There you have it - a debauched woman trying to bring down a repectable chap. A story that so sellable, so believable, that it will no doubt also be the line toed in the courts for Kasliwal's defence - that is, if it ever reaches the courts; if the victim continues to display her guts to take him to court at all.

Currently what she has is a heads-he-wins-tails-she-loses situation. If she goes and fights against these allegations against her "character", she'll probably have a horrendous time at court. If she gets an inkling of what she's up against and withdraws the FIR, everyone will think it's because she never had a case anyway.

Of course, I cannot know what really happened. I do not know whether Kasliwal really committed the crime - maybe he didn't. And maybe there is no conspiracy by his family to degrade the woman through media.

But there is definitely something wrong in the way the media is treating the subject.

How can it even suggest or believe that the sex was consensual - when it is on police records that there are bite marks and signs of violence on her body - evidence of the fact that she was resisting the situation?!

If Kasliwal is such a nice guy who could never rape, where did his morals go when he decided to make out with a 52-year old prostitute (as is the alternate scenario being projected)???

Even if she is a prostitute, or was even drinking with him before the crime took place, how is that relevant to the fact that she was raped? Is it permissible to sexually molest "available" women?

And where is the outrage of the high society we had seen when a South African model was raped in Mumbai some months ago - how come her drinking with the men who eventually raped her did not put an unseemly light on her? Why were we disgusted when her rapists said that raping her was all right because she had lax attitudes to sex? And why this time are we expected to be sympathetic towards the rapist instead, though the situation is hardly different?

Why is the balance in favour of the "eliter"?

Am I over-reacting? Are newspapers just reporting what they've come to know - no more, no less - leaving us to judge and decide for ourselves?

No, I don't think so... After reading thousands of reports of rape cases - there is no dearth of them after all - I can see a significant difference here: a distinct lack of sympathy for the victim. There is no report of what her family and friends are thinking (that would be a norm), instead I'm reading the nice life history of the perpetrator. Why have the tables turned????

2006-03-07T17:07:00.000+08:00

For Blank Noise

In Delhi where I grew up, things are different
you can evade taxes
you can cheat death through reincarnation
But roadside romeos, well, they're inevitable

I remember a time, some ten years ago, when as a teenager I came home weeping hard. My mom went pale on seeing me so, and wanted to know what had happened. Between sobs, I admitted that my wallet had been stolen in a packed bus - along with a princely two thousand bucks.

You should have seen the relief on her face.

That's life for us - so expectant of being treated like public property that we're thankful for every time we aren't.

That's how I lived in Delhi. Afraid. Depressed. Demoralised. And wondering everytime a student "committed suicide" because of exams, if an unrelenting attack on her personal space had been the reason. It would be a good reason.

Yes, a good reason. You can spew dialogues and sagely advice on how women should shout and fight back and end all molestation. And how my statement is so like the stupid Hindi movies where the only way out to save your izzat is to go jump in a well. And how being a victim does not make you lose your dignity, and is no reason to end your life over. And I would agree with you.

But fighting back is so much easier said than done. And it doesn't take away the despair.

I know that every time I've tried - and I've had sufficient times to try, along with a lot of mental preparation for the 'next time it happens' - it just doesn't work. One moment I'm a strong Anuja, ready to write blogs on the issue, and air opinions in discussions, and shout loud on the issue - and the next I am a weakling without voice, with no coherence of speech who's too dazed to take any action. I don't know what happens - I know it doesn't happen to everyone. I wish it didn't to me either, but it does.

The one time when I got strong enough to try and smack the face of the man in front of me, I missed for lack of coordination. Twice. It wasn't funny. And it did scare him away anyhow. But I cried later. Not because I missed hitting him, but because even though I stood up for myself, it didn't change the big picture. I could feel the strain on my freedoms. Lewdness had a free run of the streets, while I was in essence home-jailed. If I needed to go out, it almost like parole, where I felt the need of an escort.

That's why I hate the place I grew up in, and left it at first chance.

And that's why I love Jamshedpur, because that's where, for the first time in my living memory, I could walk in the middle of the road without feeling scared, without turning around hastily at the sound of a vehicle approaching from behind, without needing to be at full alert regarding the traffic on the road and what it might do to me in passing.

I have never forgotten that first time I felt free.

I know Jamshedpur, or Mumbai where I am now, also suffer their share of crime against women. Indeed, as many blogs today will report, whistling, commenting, eve-teasing, shadowing, groping, molesting, and other things depressingly, unendingly worse have proliferated without boundaries. "Delhi-Style' rapes, as a stupid tabloid cruelly and tastelessly labelled them, have occured in Mumbai too. Just yesterday, a woman's nude body, with eyes gouged out, and limbs tied up was discovered in a railway cabin.

Can the worsening of our world be reversed?

Generating awareness is just the first step and faaaaaaaaaaar from enough.
What we need are vigilant spectators. And we need a legal and judiciary system that can support conviction, and fast.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

2006-03-03T12:54:00.000+08:00

The last time I met Ashish Asthana, it was a winter day in Hong Kong, but too sunny to feel the season. Especially as we, a picnicing group, had been walking for the past hour or so to reach a beach. Luckily for him, at least the water hadn't fogotten that January is supposed to be cold and chilly and made amends for the sands.

In went Ashish Asthana, all alone, tracks rolled up, full speed running into the ocean.

You see, he was preparing for his trip to Antarctica.

I know, sounds like a lusy prep, but let's just say he made the most of what was available... And what's more, it has worked!!!

Yes, Ashish, the funniest man I knew in HK (who however, like Surender Sharma, owes all his jokes to his wife), has made it to Antarctica in one piece. So here's:
3 cheers for Da Man!
3 cheers for India!
and of course - 3 cheers for XLRI :)!!! (he's been an alumnus for the past 10 years or so)

and I guess, also 3 cheers for Coke, who's sponsoring this expedition led by the now-legendary explorer Robert Swan (the first person in history to walk to both poles).

Visit www.2041.com to follow the expedition, and to hear Ashish's dispatch from the pole today.

On a more sombre note, let us also pray that the HR of our organisations too gain enlightenment and send us for such leadership training soon. Ahem.

2006-03-01T23:32:00.000+08:00

Have been househunting these past few days, and it is a lousy waste of time. The brokers are currently in their first phase of selling - they're beginning by trying to break our spirit, energy and expectations by showing useless places which are way overpriced.

Apparently, that's the typical beginning for any house search, where brokers try to get the lousiest properties off their hand. I am hoping that is the case here - can hardly imagine living in what we've seen till now: dingy shoeboxes that pass off as homes! Some have cabinet-less kitchens, others have big passageways and small rooms, and then there are the houses with windows too tiny to allow for any light, and when they're big, they're either boarded up or next-door neighbours to the opposing building. And worst of all - all houses have tiny, badly designed loos! How is one supposed to live?

Meanwhile, friends advise that I must tire out the brokers before they out-tire me, and by the end of a month or two, something reasonable and worth-living will come up. I doubt I can manage to see crap for that long, but looks like have no choice :(

Dirty airports. Dirtier politics.

2006-02-04T23:39:00.000+08:00

(am posting this post really late as am stuck with a neanderthal computer at my parents place since 2 weeks)

Flew in from Mumbai to Delhi on the first day of the AAI strike - Feb 1. It was afternoon - just a few hours into the no-working zone - and already the airports resembled a Bus adda: a pile of rubbish here and rubbish there and passengers sitting on steps, awaiting boarding, just before the gate.

Somehow the flights ran on time, more or less, but that hardly takes away from the disgust one feels at the attempted blackmail by the Unions and the communist parties.

That airports of India need an overhaul is a given. To think that AAI can manage the metamorphosis is a laugh. We've seen the level of service we've recieved from them all these years. And even if one were to consider their skills up to the challenge (HA!) the fact is that the government doesn't have the money to invest in such a huge poject. It hasn't had such money to put in its businss ventures for years!

The budget deficits year after year have meant a freeze on capital expenditure - is the reason why these assets and many others (like the thankfully sold off ITDC hotel properties) have been as musty and smelly and in an utter state of direpair as they have been. The airports need and deserve a bigger pocketed owner.

Moreover, the government has no business to run a business - particularly if the industry is established!

And lastly all this hullabaloo of selling ourselves to outsiders is absolute bullshit. One, the government has specified that the foreign partner in the winning consortium cannot have a shareholding greater than 49% (though mind you, they alone bear penalties for not meeting certain service standards). And two, Indian companies (which GVK and GMR both are, being Hyderabad based) are not 'outsiders'.

All that CPI wanted was some media space - which it got, and that is a fuck-all reason to screw the travellers. And it is a horrible face to put to the foreigners visiting the country. It is ugly. It is dirty.

Anyhow it is over.

And I for one, am glad to see the privatisation of the airports. Not that the process with which this government has managed the process is exemplary - it quite stinks with lack of transparency. Changing the criterion for winning bids is ridiculous. Also painful is the high-handedness with which the govt treats the prospective buyers - mostly unwilling to negotitate the process (which is why Singapore's Changi walked out). It's like when you go to Goa to the silver jewellery tibetan markets - they give you ridiculous prices, and the moment you bargain they look at you with comtempt and ask you to take it or leave it and they have a thousand (ignorant) potentials in line. Mostly I walk out of shops at this point because their demands are exhorbitant (and of course I can buy that stuff in Delhi).

The point being, arrogance doesn't sell well. Few may tolerate the nakhras, but you may lose the guy who could have put your asset to best use. And should another seller country come into the picture, then you would have no buyer at all, coz everyone would pack their bags and leave. We are not doing anyone a favour by leasing out the airports for privatisation - we are doing it coz we desperately need better services ourselves.