Tagged: 29 Questions

1. What is your current obsession?
The same as my oldest obsession – trying to fit into my pants from college days that are saved and stored in my closet

2. What is your weirdest obsession?
You mean weirder than a burning desire to fit into a high-waisted, bell-bottomed, faded, frayed piece of cloth that hasn’t been washed in eight years???

3. What are you wearing today?
A big smile to start with

4. What are you listening to right now?
Radio and traffic

5. What’s for dinner?
Anything but carbs, at least for the next 3 months

6. What’s the last thing you bought?
Scented candles (on sale!) that will add to my collection of scented candles which will not be needed for at least another 6 months

7. Which language do you want to learn?
Mandarin. So I can bargain better here where I stay

8. If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?
Bora Bora

9. If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
Galapagos. Or Sossusvlei. Or Macchhu Pichhu

10. If you had $100 now, what would you spend it on?
Nowhere, I’d save it for my travel budget

11. What are your must-have pieces for summer?
Cotton dresses, strappy sandals, and lots of deo

12. What is your favorite piece of clothing in your own closet?
The one that is most frayed, faded and overused – a certain cotton dress

13. What do you do when you “have nothing to wear” (even though your closet’s packed)?
I tell Vipul it is all his fault. And wear a certain cotton dress again

14. What do you consider a fashion faux pas?
Fur

15. Give us three styling tips that always work for you.
It’s not the styling tips, it’s the confidence that works

16. What’s your favorite quote?
'Whatever happens, look as if it were intended'

17. Describe your personal style.
Understated. Underappreciated

18. Who do you want to meet right now?
Dave Barry

19. What is your favorite color?
Turquoise

20. What is your dream job?
To be a Muse

21. What’s your favorite magazine?
Used to be Target, before they contorted it out of recognition

22. Which TV character can you simply not tolerate?
Tulsi. %$^&*(()*&^&^&

23. Who are your style icons?
None. Though I do ogle at whatever Priyanka Chopra, Preity Zinta and Deepika Padukone are wearing on-screen nowadays

24. What are you going to do after this?
Go swimming

25. What are your favorite movies?
Too many to fit in a single post!

26. What inspires you?
Music

27. Coffee or tea?
Chai. Masala Chai

28. Pet peeve?
Telemarketers

29. What do you think about the person who tagged you?
After all the tags Quicksilver has handed me down, I know we have loads in common, ranging from a love for Stephen King to a dissatisfaction with the frequency of my posts!

**The rules: Respond and rework – answer the questions on your own blog, replace one question that you dislike with a question of your own invention, and add one more question of your own. Then tag eight or ten other people.

I tag any reader who'd like to take it on!

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

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!

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.

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.

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!

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

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

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 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

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

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

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

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 +

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?

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

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

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...

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

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.