tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154380972024-03-13T19:49:19.325+08:00Alive and kickingAnujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.comBlogger128125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-22276647222240991062010-07-01T11:59:00.008+08:002010-07-01T13:26:20.347+08:00World Cup for DummiesIf you have been watching the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2010_FIFA_World_Cup">FIFA World Cup</a> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />So you may as well update yourself with this research that Google and I put together after anticipating what your questions will be.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />A] I'm afraid Vuvuzela is not a person you can intimidate because it is not a person. <a href="http://www.miamiherald.com/2010/06/21/1693072/dave-barry-blowing-the-vuvuzela.html">Dave Barry</a> 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.<br /><br />Q] Are you hinting that it is possible to not be lynched if I fall asleep during World Cup matches?<br /><br />A] Actually it is totally acceptable, now that all the good looking players are either playing really badly or have been eliminated altogether.<br /><br />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)?<br /><br />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 <a href="http://unprofessionalfoul.com/2010/06/30/beware-the-nike-commercial-curse/">seems to have lost their magic touch</a>. For instance, poster boy Ronaldo of Portugal is out after he and his team played dismally, as is Rooney of England.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />A] Your strategy won't work as I'm afraid Indian cricketers are not afraid to lose.<br /><br /><br /><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/idLG6jh23yE&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/idLG6jh23yE&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="640"></embed></object>Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-58602950647670632052010-06-08T17:32:00.005+08:002010-06-08T17:42:01.869+08:00Crime and tragedyBy 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.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 204, 51);font-size:130%;" >Five sets of clothes.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">His curry pot. A rice cooker.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 153, 51);">An album of family photos</span><br /><br />That was all he owned and they were put in a plastic bag and sent to Chennai with his body...<br /></div></blockquote><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">must</span> have that !!! And my 50++ SPF for all that sun I'll face !!!! blah !!!blah!!!!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Till someone slashes their limbs off because they grudge them even that.<br /><br />Who needs Shakespeare to read tragedy? Just pick up the damn paper.<br /><br />----<br /><a href="http://www.straitstimes.com/BreakingNews/Singapore/Story/STIStory_533889.html">The first report on the slashings in Kallang, Singapore that left 1 dead and three severely injured. </a><br />----<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Can you help?</span><br />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<br /><br />[cross posted at <a href="http://politicalrampage.blogspot.com/2010/06/crime.html">http://politicalrampage.blogspot.com/</a>]Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-47526990370534389482010-04-29T10:49:00.007+08:002010-05-03T12:13:00.734+08:00Mum's the word!You've heard it before: God could not be everywhere and therefore he made mothers.<br /><br />But I suspect the devil did the same. Thankfully, the mothers he tapped seem to have a really bad aim... <br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4S8cNrIR5ac&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4S8cNrIR5ac&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-2131663352716239132010-04-13T11:29:00.003+08:002010-04-30T16:51:37.316+08:00Guitar BluesI'm learning to play the guitar and it is going fine. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />So while I am happy my musical prowess reputation remains intact, I suspect the reputation is not worth intact-keeping.<br /><br />And I also wonder why Vipul isn't begging me to croon for him, which can only mean one of the following:<br />(likely) Love is blind, not deaf<br />(Very Likely) He doesn't love me<br />(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.]<br /><br />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. <br /><br />And once I'm ready and confident about my skills, I'll upload the video for you guys :) ! <br />(And by ready and confident about my skills I mean on video and sound editing software)Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-36935880284125463462010-04-01T12:05:00.001+08:002010-04-13T12:09:01.373+08:00Update: 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...Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-11809104907826307852010-01-28T12:33:00.004+08:002010-01-28T12:42:05.955+08:00To see or not to see, and my two bits on the Three idiotsI really don’t want to see <span style="font-style: italic;">Avatar</span>. But just as I was bullied into submission by the world’s insistence on discussing <span style="font-style: italic;">Three Idiots</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Take the case of <span style="font-style: italic;">Three idiots</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic;"> Little Zizou</span>. Or Saif Ali in <span style="font-style: italic;">Dil Chahta Hai</span>. Youth is a facial expression, a body language, not a skin texture. In <span style="font-style: italic;">Three Idiots</span>, only Sharman Joshi has that look, perhaps because he actually is young(er).<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron</span> once again. Instead, it ended up being <span style="font-style: italic;">Three Idiots</span> earlier. And it is going to end up being <span style="font-style: italic;">Avataar</span> next.Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-25253222125824907762010-01-05T15:13:00.002+08:002010-02-12T10:55:55.344+08:00Another one, just like the other oneSometimes I think our computer is an orphanage.<br /><br />Unneeded software, unloved programs, useless upgrades - just about anything of questionable conception - and my husband adopts it and houses it in our hard drive. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Just one click!” gushes Vipul, “A single click on this and you can turn on any gadget in the house that you want to!”<br />“Wow!” gushes me “instead of one whole click on the older remote control which we already have?”<br />“Are you being sarcastic? This is really something cool!”<br />“Are you being serious? Have you already bought it?”<br />“See, you won’t need the five different remote controllers we have any more”<br />“I didn’t need the five different gadgets they came with either! Anyway, so I can throw those five remotes now?”<br />“No No, first I need to program the universal remote!”<br /><br />And that’s where we stand.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Seriously, boys and their toys! It’s true – all men have a child hidden inside them. If only the damn kid remained hidden.Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-36720778694625192962009-10-05T10:19:00.012+08:002009-10-05T12:17:04.705+08:00What's your nightmare?I can't believe I'm saying this, but "What's your <span style="font-style: italic;">Rashee</span>" is not the worst movie I've ever seen.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />And I need friends who don't bully me into seeing his movies.<br /><br />Anyway, misery needs sharing. So please bear this story...<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Rashee</span>". 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.<br /><br />As it turns out:<br />One is not a virgin. Another has no intentions of remaining one.<br />One wants to be a superstar model. Another is already a celebrity of sorts.<br />One wants to marry him to emigrate. Another wants him to stay behind.<br />One is too young to be legally married. Another is too immature to be married at all.<br />One pretends to be insane. Another pretends to be modern.<br />One thinks they were destined to be married. Another thinks she is destined to marry another.<br />All of them sing awful songs.<br />None of them can dance.<br /><br />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).Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-39376857945218979562009-09-20T16:50:00.006+08:002010-11-01T15:02:52.818+08:00In Memorium.The ceramic cups. I don’t know why I remember those beige ceramic cups, or the navy blue tin tray they were set to match with. But as I sit back today to think of the times I spent with my grandfather, somehow it is their image that flickers in my mind.<br /><br />Which is bizarre because there is so much more to choose from, now that I must choose what to remember him by.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />At the end of the exciting day, we would emerge all cob-webbed and dirty feet. And grinning.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I guess that is why I remember those tea cups.<br /><br />It is time to say good bye.Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-84383567774675996632009-09-08T10:11:00.005+08:002009-10-05T10:19:02.715+08:00Driving, or something like itI 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?<br /><br />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.]<br /><br />Likewise, my dad's been living in Delhi for donkey's years, and finds it a welcome prospect that I will wreck his car [<a href="http://anujaanuja.blogspot.com/2008/05/apparently-it-is-time-for-me-to-learn.html">something he's been trying to achieve since exactly donkey's years</a>].<br /><br />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:<br /><br />1. Red lights are the signal for inching forward<br />2. Green lights signal that the race has begun<br />3. Orange lights are green lights in disguise<br />4. Speed limits are a challenge to be beaten<br />5. Using side mirrors is dangerous as they may get ripped off by cars overtaking you<br />6. Parking is a fundamental human right which can be exercised any where, any time, any how<br />7. Horning is not only a mandatory greeting but also responsible driving, alerting the obviously blind drivers on the road to your presence<br />8. Only losers give way<br />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<br />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!<br /><br />Happy driving!Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-92076034091880296262009-08-13T11:45:00.011+08:002009-08-27T09:18:50.090+08:00Just 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.<br /><blockquote>"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.</blockquote><br />Yes, you read it right.<br />I know,today's not the first of April.<br /><br />Above quote is a serious comment from a serious article expounding on the impotency of exercise for weight loss <a href="http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1914857-1,00.html">in the latest issue of The Times</a>.<br /><br />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 - <span style="font-style: italic;">heavier</span> - 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.<br /><br />Thankfully writer John Cloud had the guts to ask the question which most of us dare only throw out as a feeble joke.<br /><blockquote>Could exercise actually be keeping me from losing weight?</blockquote><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><blockquote>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.</blockquote>No wonder my gym doesn't come with a satisfaction guarantee money return policy.Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-91149724348382000292009-08-04T12:27:00.003+08:002009-08-27T09:20:41.903+08:00Tagged: 29 Questions1. What is your current obsession?<br />The same as my oldest obsession – trying to fit into my pants from college days that are saved and stored in my closet<br /><br />2. What is your weirdest obsession?<br />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???<br /><br />3. What are you wearing today?<br />A big smile to start with<br /><br />4. What are you listening to right now?<br />Radio and traffic<br /><br />5. What’s for dinner?<br />Anything but carbs, at least for the next 3 months<br /><br />6. What’s the last thing you bought?<br />Scented candles (on sale!) that will add to my collection of scented candles which will not be needed for at least another 6 months<br /><br />7. Which language do you want to learn?<br />Mandarin. So I can bargain better here where I stay<br /><br />8. If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?<br />Bora Bora<br /><br />9. If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?<br />Galapagos. Or Sossusvlei. Or Macchhu Pichhu<br /><br />10. If you had $100 now, what would you spend it on?<br />Nowhere, I’d save it for my travel budget<br /><br />11. What are your must-have pieces for summer?<br />Cotton dresses, strappy sandals, and lots of deo<br /><br />12. What is your favorite piece of clothing in your own closet?<br />The one that is most frayed, faded and overused – a certain cotton dress<br /><br />13. What do you do when you “have nothing to wear” (even though your closet’s packed)?<br />I tell Vipul it is all his fault. And wear a certain cotton dress again<br /><br />14. What do you consider a fashion faux pas?<br />Fur<br /><br />15. Give us three styling tips that always work for you.<br />It’s not the styling tips, it’s the confidence that works<br /><br />16. What’s your favorite quote?<br />'Whatever happens, look as if it were intended'<br /><br />17. Describe your personal style.<br />Understated. Underappreciated<br /><br />18. Who do you want to meet right now?<br />Dave Barry<br /><br />19. What is your favorite color?<br />Turquoise<br /><br />20. What is your dream job?<br />To be a Muse<br /><br />21. What’s your favorite magazine?<br />Used to be Target, before they contorted it out of recognition<br /><br />22. Which TV character can you simply not tolerate?<br />Tulsi. %$^&*(()*&^&^&<br /><br />23. Who are your style icons?<br />None. Though I do ogle at whatever Priyanka Chopra, Preity Zinta and Deepika Padukone are wearing on-screen nowadays<br /><br />24. What are you going to do after this?<br />Go swimming<br /><br />25. What are your favorite movies?<br />Too many to fit in a single post!<br /><br />26. What inspires you?<br />Music<br /><br />27. Coffee or tea?<br />Chai. Masala Chai<br /><br />28. Pet peeve?<br />Telemarketers<br /><br />29. What do you think about the person who tagged you?<br />After all the tags <a href="http://diemos.blogspot.com/2009/07/tagging-along-yet-again.html">Quicksilver </a>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!<br /><br />**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.<br /><br />I tag any reader who'd like to take it on!Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-3899543125672021202009-07-27T16:07:00.000+08:002009-07-27T16:35:24.643+08:00So I went to the gym last week. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />(If Panadol's working, your weight's not going anywhere. Increase push ups-till you need a Nimulid or several. <i> Now </i> 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.)<br /><br />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")<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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) <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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 ...Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-1443400045153405522009-07-14T11:57:00.011+08:002009-07-14T14:58:38.254+08:00Mankind's PathWe 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. <br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-82189822783741676362009-05-14T10:42:00.010+08:002009-07-14T14:59:44.843+08:00You 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.<br /><br />And for good reason. After all, Vipul doesn't perform the three main functions a husband is supposed to perform:<br />1/ Kill cockroaches<br />2/ Manage the bank statements<br />3/ Tell me I am the light of his life<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />"Oh"<br /><br />"Kill it, ow ow ow!" I opera-ed.<br /><br />"hmmmm. hmmmmm. Did you try the insect spray? Baygon? Damn good."<br /><br />Seriously, Baygon? If I had Baygon, implying I thought this building had cockroaches, we wouldn't be renting here in the first place. <br /><br />"<span style="font-style:italic;">bhagwaan ne tunhein pair kyon diye hain?</span> Why did God give you feet? Use them!"<br /><br />"Stamp on it you mean? Are you sure you want me to stamp on it? You'll hate to clean up the gooey remains" <br /><br />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. <br /><br />[If only he'd show the same sense of judgment with respect to certain bollywood movies. <span style="font-style:italic;">Ab Tumhaare Hawaale Hai Watan Saathiyon</span>? Who buys that DVD???]<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Meanwhile, of course, I've bought the Baygon.Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-22623826486042844572009-04-16T15:18:00.001+08:002009-04-16T15:20:21.903+08:00I really had no choice.<br /><br />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...<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />So I did what all married people do when they want something real bad - decided to buy it as a gift for the partner.<br /><br />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.Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-83034922288011538672009-03-24T12:31:00.014+08:002009-03-30T11:31:40.384+08:00There 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br />Vipul: *silence for the 5 seconds it takes the bowler on TV to run up* Amazing! You saw that? Awesome, no?<br />Me: No. Can we go<br />Vipul: Go? Go where? We can't go anywhere! It's Hong Kong versus Bangladesh!<br />Me: How come you have time for cricket but no time for buying me flowers? How come<br />Vipul: There's a great view from the balcony<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">can</span> be a leading cause of accidents.<br /><br />Yes, the balcony has a great view. And great dropping height too.Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-76517598624953193322009-03-06T11:08:00.006+08:002009-03-10T18:22:51.377+08:00Yes, I loved Delhi 6. So sue me!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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Thanda Matlab Coca Cola</span> campaign. Impressive!, thought I. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />Yes, how things change.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">ab ke saawan</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">man ke manjeere</span>]. And, even though the world seems to disagree, I believe Delhi 6 is another feather in his cap.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />Okay, okay, Delhiites don't give <span style="font-style: italic;">pravachans</span> when surrounded by a mob, but c'mon, it's Bollywood fare which by law requires some fairy tale parts.<br /><br />And really, the <span style="font-style: italic;">Kala Bandar</span> 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.Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-34057879905194477212009-02-19T10:13:00.016+08:002009-06-11T11:33:12.906+08:00Twenty Five thingsEveryone's doing it, and thanks to <a href="http://diemos.blogspot.com/2009/02/tagging-along-randomly.html">M</a>, so must I. Except that this blog is my open book left with few new quirks to report.<br /><br />So instead, here are twenty five things about Vipul that I haven't blurted in the past already:<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />6. He thinks "you're looking nice today" spoken with a nod of the head is a compliment.<br /><br />7. He thinks candles are mushy things we shouldn't douse the house in when guests visit. He prefers lamps. And tubelights.<br /><br />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, ...<br /><br />9. However, if the number occurs in a date, he will forget it faster than a Goldfish.<br /><br />10. He thinks women are a different species that he can never understand. So he doesn't try.<br /><br />11. He has more T-shirts in his cupboard than I do. And his six pairs of shoes are more expensive than my forty.<br /><br />12. He looks forward to getting gifts though he insists he doesn't want any.<br /><br />13. He hates the colour purple.<br /><br />14. He is a dog-person. and a cat-person. and a bird-person. and a kid-person.<br /><br />15. He won't kill an insect if he can throw it out alive outside the house.<br /><br />16. He thinks National Geographic Hi-definition channel is too cool. Nevertheless, after office hours, he prefers seeing saas-bahu to documentaries.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />18. He is even more fussy about the loos he's willing to use.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />20. He loves cricket.<br /><br />21. He loves Apple.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />24. His hairstylist suspects he is balding. He suspects it's my fault.<br /><br />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.Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-61851915443745996632009-02-05T10:35:00.012+08:002009-02-05T12:24:57.374+08:00A new addressMy husband is a smart guy.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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...<br /><br />What you will actually find, of course, is a speed camera.<br /><br />But before that camera, there will come a warning that there's a speed camera ahead.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Surprising fact number 1.</span> All speed cameras on Singapore's roads are preceded by a warning that there's a speed camera ahead.<br /><br />Don't ask me way. I know the answer but it is boring legalese about entrapment.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Surprising fact number 2</span>. 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">each</span> tower has its own pincode.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I believe I am going to enjoy living here.Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-85280580029610624972008-12-30T14:28:00.011+08:002009-01-30T15:26:18.182+08:00Wrapping up 20082008 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Here are my highlights of the year:<br /><br />February<br />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.<br /><br />(More of my trip <a href="http://anujaanuja.blogspot.com/2008/02/koreaaaaahhhh.html">here</a>)<br /><br />December<br />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.<br /><br />'Wake' stands for the wavy, unstable track a boat leaves behind over water as it speeds. 'Boarding' stands for seeing your life flash by.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />[Yah yah, so I did only two interesting and adventurous things in 2008. Big deal. Tomorrow is another year.]<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-26144283126410807082008-12-23T12:29:00.009+08:002008-12-23T16:13:08.940+08:00TagTime<strong>I am :</strong> not definable by just a single sentence!<br /><br /><strong>I think :</strong> therefore I am a woman<br /><br /><strong>I know :</strong> the lyrics to an ipod-ful of songs<br /><br /><strong>I want :</strong> the voice to be able to sing them outside the bathroom<br /><br /><strong>I have :</strong> the ability to not get embarrassed<br /><br /><strong>I wish :</strong> I had superpowers, lots of them<br /><br /><strong>I hate :</strong> violence<br /><br /><strong>I miss :</strong> all the various pet cats I have had<br /><br /><strong>I fear :</strong> street dogs and cockroaches<br /><br /><strong>I hear :</strong> but I don't listen to any advice whatsoever<br /><br /><strong>I smell :</strong> bad breath from a mile away<br /><br /><strong>I crave :</strong> haircuts, all the time, but hold myself back<br /><br /><strong>I search :</strong> for new hairstylists, all the time, because the last one was either awful or has gone missing<br /><br /><strong>I wonder :</strong> if I'm turning into my mom<br /><br /><strong>I regret :</strong> a long long list of decisions<br /><br /><strong>I love :</strong> romance<br /><br /><strong>I ache :</strong> 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<br /><br /><strong>I was not :</strong> born witty, but<br /><br /><strong>I am not :</strong> going to give up trying<br /><br /><strong>I cry :</strong> in secret.<br /><br /><strong>I believe :</strong> if you can't guess I am weeping, you don't deserve to know about it<br /><br /><strong>I dance : </strong>Bollywood style, complete with lip synching, <span style="font-style: italic;">jhatkas</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">matkas</span> and slow motion sequences.<br /><br /><strong>I sing :</strong> at volumes lower than the speakers so you won't hear me.<br /><br /><strong>I read :</strong> a book if I get hooked at the first page<br /><br /><strong>I don't always :</strong> nag my husband<br /><br /><strong>I fight : </strong> less than is popularly believed<br /><br /><strong>I write :</strong> less than I should<br /><br /><strong>I win :</strong> no fans for my shopping style<br /><br /><strong>I lose :</strong> no opportunity to bargain<br /><br /><strong>I never :</strong> buy without trying<br /><br /><strong>I always : </strong> visit as many shops as I can<br /><br /><strong>I confuse :</strong> shopkeepers by trying on fifty dresses and then ultimately buying nothing but a pair of shoes at first glance<br /><br /><strong>I listen :</strong> with my eyes as much as with my ears<br /><br /><strong>I can usually be found : </strong>lost in thought<br /><br /><strong>I am scared :</strong> more at night than during the day<br /><br /><strong>I need :</strong> quite a few things, but I have them all<br /><br /><strong>I am happy :</strong> and that's an understatement<br /><br /><strong>I imagine : </strong> that's why I lack ambition !<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I tag: </span>anyone who wants to take this on<br /><br /><br />Oh! and <span style="font-weight: bold;">I thank</span> Q for pulling me back from the dead with this tag!Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-31128223447484401312008-10-13T11:56:00.010+08:002008-12-23T12:41:27.639+08:00Doing your business - Ladies SpecialMuch 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Introducing:<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Sprinklers</span><br />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.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Hair Shedders</span><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Flushphobic</span><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Knockaholics</span><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />No, they are just bullies.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>And I refuse to come out till this post is done.Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-55416779526291817502008-09-18T11:37:00.013+08:002008-09-21T12:38:28.026+08:00Indian ethos explained with cowsThought it was time we had an India edition for the Cow Series. So here goes:<br /><br />Maharashtra<br />You have two cows. Raj Thackrey demands they go back to Bihar because they can't speak Marathi.<br /><br />Gujarat<br />You have two cows. A mob sets your house on fire because a politician conjectured you run a beef factory.<br /><br />West Bengal<br />You have two cows. They produce no milk. You go on strike because the government won't pay for the milk.<br /><br />Punjab<br />You have two cows. They emigrate to Canada and send you money every month.<br /><br />Bihar<br />You have two cows. But Laloo Yadav has a <span style="font-style: italic;">lathi</span>. So he borrows them for his son's wedding.<br /><br />Chhattisgarh<br />You have two cows. The police arrests them because they are suspected Naxalites.<br /><br />Delhi<br />You have two cows. God help the driver who runs them over while they graze on the highway.<br /><br />Goa<br />You have one cow. But after all that Feni they begin to look like two.<br /><br />Orissa<br />You have no cow. Or food. Or water.<br /><br />Kerela<br />You have no cow. But you have a Phd in animal husbandry.<br /><br />Haryana<br />You have two cows. They are pregnant. You order an ultrasound to make sure this time they deliver bulls.<br /><br />Tamil Nadu<br />Your daughter is a fat cow. A director chooses her to be the heroine in his movie. All men in <span style="font-style:italic;">lungis </span>love her. It's a super hit.<br /><br /><br />...Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15438097.post-52930633888735620962008-09-11T13:56:00.005+08:002008-09-11T16:27:36.801+08:00Ugly indeed99 slaps, promises the tagline. And you will feel the pinch of each.<br /><br />Of course, if you're going to see a movie with a title as sophisticated as<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Ugly aur Pagli!</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>you do deserve to be thumped on the head for 2 hours straight. Which is exactly what the movie delivers.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Anujahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01509431759596451596noreply@blogger.com2