life through pink colour glasses

My review of the movie Game (without having actually seen it)

2011-04-02T10:16:00.013+05:30

With great experience comes great astuteness. So while I'm no trained film critic, with dissertations in the cinema of postmodern Swedish filmmakers and their effect on the childbearing habits of chimpanzees or other apes, what I do have on my side is experience. For more than a decade now I have spent lakhs of rupees and more hours than I can put a price to in cinema halls in the hope of some entertainment. My success rate has been woefully low.
(Please click on chart for clearer view)

So as you can tell from my nifty pie chart, my movie entertainment experience leaves a lot to be desired. If I club the movies I truly enjoyed to those I enjoyed only because I was determined to, my success rate is still shockingly pathetic at a meager 23%. To put it simply, I have only sorta enjoyed 1 out of every 4 movies I've ever watched. So 75% of all the money and time I ever spent in a cinema hall was a complete waste! And to think that I could've spent all that time and money in a gym - it simply breaks my heart.

Which is why I've decided that from now I will do what we were taught never to do as kids - judge a movie by it's publicity stills. Fortunately, I have enough experience in crappy movie watching to be able to sniff out a stinker when I see one.

Movie name: Game
My verdict: Flop
Reasons: Given below

Reason 1: It has Kangana Ranaut playing what appears to be some sort of tough cop. Unless this movie is a brilliant farce, the idea of Ms Ranaut as anything but a north Indian village belle is ludicrous.

Reason 2: The poster has the movie's two leading ladies in a furious pouting competition with Abhishek Bachchan. Personally, I'm going to give this round to AB Jr., as he manages to make an impact despite the lack of lipstick.

Reason 3: Boman Irani's concern over what a bad decision he made by agreeing to be part of this movie was so great that he couldn't mask it even for the photo shoot.

Reason 4: This picture below

Reason 5: It has a scene where Sarah Jane Dias picks lice out of Abhishek Bachchan's hair.

Reason 6: It has dance moves that even my 7-year-old niece would not deem worthy of performing at her local building Bollywood dance class.

In conclusion, I can safely announce that the movie 'Game' that is fittingly been released on April 1st, will be a game nobody wished they ever played. And as I end my soothsaying for today, I would like to pose a question to Abhishek B. Abhishek, if I, a non film graduate whose only qualification is that she's spent too many hours watching crap cinema, can spot a turkey a mile away, why of why, can't you?

Update

2009-09-29T17:55:00.003+05:30

The first three days of Model Week have been an illustration of why Model Week had to be instated in the first place. They represent everything that is far from model about the participant's life.

Model Week has been deemed the stupidest idea discussed on this blog so far and we wish to apologise to our reader for wasting her time and raising her hopes of seeing some action.

Please note: As of Sept 30th 2009, life is officially being reverted to un-model. We wish to wish everybody all the best in their future endeavours. You may return to this space from tomorrow for the usual serving of nonsense you're used to.

Thanks and regards,
Secretary and Treasurer.

Sat, Sept 26 2009...

2009-09-27T17:09:00.007+05:30

...did not go as planned.

Nope, the model week is off to a very bad start indeed. Fortunately for me, old Willy wrote a play called "Alls well that ends well". And there's no caveat about starting off on a good note for the mission to be a success. So troops, even though we've lost our first battle, spirits are still high and victory shall ultimately be ours!

Battle cry!!!!

(That there was a little online pep talk I just gave myself. Moving on.)

I sort of stuck to point 1. Much against my wishes, some delicious red wine (Merlot, it was really good!) sneaked its way into my hand and into my mouth. :(

Sunday shall be wine free!!!

Points 2, 3, 4 and 6 were not even attempted. Bad show Pink! At least, think about those wrinkles.

On a positive note, I did very well indeed on point 5. That reminds me, I better go get a couple of Archies today. The market's closed tomorrow.

Point 7 is a bit of a grey area. Let's just say I did not make life miserable for my poor husband in my usual manner (it's amazing how I simply cannot refer to poor him without affixing 'poor' in front of his name).

Point 8 required me to wake up in the AM. Having gotten up at 11.30 am, I would say that was a success.

And finally I think I did rather well on points 9 and 10. Not only did I not crib about the weather, I also took my dog for a long walk in the park. He loves going there, but is a total nightmare in the car and it takes immense personal and physical strength to get through the 10 minute car ride to and fro. And you need to be VERY OK with being covered with doggie drool.

However, just seeing him so thrilled is worth it.

It was very hard to get a still picture of the nut case. And in the one or two I did manage to capture, notice how his tail is never still. He really loves going to the park. :)

Model Week

2009-09-26T02:08:00.004+05:30

I hate people who use the internet as an online journal. People who feel compelled to broadcast their every thought, action and feeling.

'Blah Blah had her second mojito and is feelin gr8.'
10 minutes ago.

'Blah Blah just ordered another mojito. OMG! It's going 2 B a crazzzzzy night! :)'
7 minutes ago.

'Blah Blah is having such a blast time with her friends. I luv u guyzzzz!!!!!!!!'
3 minutes ago.

'Blah Blah thinks there's nothing like the company of good friends and a cocktail on a warm evening. but i'm going to be soooo hungover tom!'
20 seconds ago.

Oh Blah Blah, please! For your real and virtual friends' sake and your mojito's sake and your thumb's sake, put down that blackberry and try actually just living the moment, and not typing it out for the world to read.
(And if you absolutely insist on telecasting every minute of your existence, I implore you, for the sake of my eyes and survival of my brain cells, use FULL words. If you can put 37 Zs at the end of a word that should ideally not contain even one, I'm sure you don't need to save space by writing 'gr8' instead of 'great' (that's a saving of 2 characters) or 'luv' instead of 'love'. For the love (not luv) of everything that's right with this world, USE ORIGINAL SPELLINGS! You and your generation have taken it upon themselves to massacre the English language and I can't, simply cannot, abide by it anymore!!)

Phew! OK, had a little mini meltdown there. Deep breaths. I'm feeling better now. It's not a big deal but it had to be said. Feeling much better. Much better.

So like I was saying, I hate people who use the internet as an online journal. I mean, come on, people have better things to do than to read every excruciating detail of someone's day. And unless you're a spy with a double oh status or someone really important and special, like say George Clooney, nobody really cares if your boss is a prick or a dick. Everybody's boss is a dick or a prick, your own subordinates think you're one or the other, so stop yammering about it online.

And that's why I feel a little sheepish about what I'm about to do. It's a new venture of mine that I'm calling 'Model Week'. Truth be told, it's really nothing but an online journal. For a week. And no no, it does not involve models or anything glamorous like that, so if that's your scene, now would be a good time to stop reading any further.

Let me expand on the concept of Model Week. It's a whole week during which I will be at my best or model behaviour. It's a week of...yeah, that's pretty much the entire expansion. What constitutes model behaviour? you may ask. OK, starting Saturday, September 26, for a whole week, I shall:

Stick to my diet with a maniacal passion.
- I shall not pop in little bits of chocolate when no one's looking and pretend it doesn't count.
- When I want to indulge in a "handful" of peanuts as a healthy snack, the reference hand will be of average human proportions and not the size of baseball glove.
Go to the gym for at least 6 of the 7 days that make up the week. I shall also remember that simply turning up at the gym and standing in front of a mirror whilst looking disgustedly at my body does not qualify as a workout. I shall follow the exercise regimen created by the instructor and push myself to becoming leaner and stronger.
Write something everyday. Even if I don't post it, I have to HAVE TO get back to writing.
Trim the number of hours I waste on the internet. Watching How I Met Your Mother, reading Mad Men episode reviews and playing Scrabble on Facebook is NOT productive work.
Curb my addiction to Archie comics. Admonishing lecture to self: The guy at the lending library thinks you're a freak. You're a 30 year old woman who slathers sunblock on her face in order to walk to the market to in the middle of the afternoon because you have to have a Betty & Veronica Double Digest. It's inexplicable. And it must be stopped!
For the coming week, I shall not get more than 3 Archies. (But 3 double digests, the single ones are ridiculously thin.)
Sleep on my back. Apparently sleeping on your side can cause wrinkles!! I'm not making this up. Now I don't mean to promote excessive vanity or any such vice, but I don't want wrinkles just yet either.
Stop making life miserable for my poor husband. I will be the epitome of patience and goodness. After this week, I will most likely explode, but such are the demands of model week.
Sleep on time (before the sun comes up) and wake up on time (in the AM).
Not bitch about how it's-almost-October-and-still-so-fucking-hot more than once a day.
Generally be a happy, positive, Mother Teresa-esque character for the next 7 days.

I shall monitor my progress and update it on my blog so my two readers can share my model week with me. Everyday I will describe in excruciating detail my activities, my victories (if any), my failures (that's the section to watch out for) and my general mental health. Yup, I am becoming my most despised personality type - the online journal keeper. Why? I don't quite know.
Additional point # 11. I shall think about why I'm doing this and come up with an answer by the end of the week.

For now, I shall say toodles and catch up on the antics of Barney and Gang. After that, Model Week, here I come!!!!

I think a change would do you good

2009-09-21T11:12:00.013+05:30

That time of the year

It starts with your mom banning you from eating eggs and non-vegetarian food for the upcoming week or so. You protest loudly - how will not eating meat for 9 days make any difference to any God? and what about your protein requirements?? - but your mom is rigid and you finally just roll your eyes and give up. If there's one thing you've learnt in your thirty years on this planet, it's to know how to pick your battles.

Having lost your right to choose what you put in your mouth (ha ha!), you despondently switch on the television, hoping there's something on besides Friends. There is! Two young sardar boys are yammering on about what they did last year. Turns out, they don't remember a thing. Tch tch, early onset of Alzheimer's, you mutter sympathetically. All of a sudden, Coca Cola appears on screen and tells you that by having Coke this festive season, you'll remember every minute detail of your activities in the future. You frown to try and figure out a connection between memory loss and Coke. By now, the ad break is over and sigh, Friends has come on. That reminds you, stop frowning! You don't want permanent lines on your forehead just yet.

As you exercise your right thumb on the channel change button, you stop at a news channel showing a guy dressed in gaudy satin robes, a gold paper crown and a fake moustache. He looks like he could be part of some street play, you think. Wait a second, he is! This gentleman with the lopsided moustache and gold crown with matching earrings is playing the role Ram in a local Ram Leela. Cool!

Soon you lose interest in the woefully unimpressive Ram and consider going to the market to get something to read. It's still too warm during the days. But the evenings, you find, are becoming almost bearable. Could summer really be getting to ready to beat a retreat? Do you dare hope?

The market is buzzing a little more than usual. You find a huge crowd at the corner halwai's who's doing brisk business selling special Navratra thalis. A beauty salon close by flashes special festive packages. A little further, a hoarding featuring colourfully packed boxes of biscuits and chocolates invites you to celebrate the season with them. You overhear a teenage girl complain to her friend about her parents who're dragging her for a family vacation during the Dussehra break.

Yup, it is that time of the year. It's in the markets, in the streets, in the air and even on TV. The weather is changing and you feel a little thrill at the exciting promises of the upcoming season - festivals, weddings, big movie releases, card parties, sweets, winter clothes and then the New Year. It may have been a rough year, but change is right around the corner. You can feel it in the air.
On another note

So I was surfing through internet aimlessly as is my usual practice when I came across this.

Image courtesy: pinkvilla.com. For more stunning pictures, click here.

Ms Priyanka Chopra, I get it. You have a great body and you want everyone from here to Canada to see it. Maybe the next time you're out promoting a movie, you could just do it in a bikini. At least, we'd know what to call it. Unlike, this godawful contraption you've put together using what were obviously drapes from a 1970s movie set and that piece of protective cloth they put at the heads of airline seats.

Back after the break

2009-09-10T23:23:00.013+05:30

It was a day like any other. I was aimlessly surfing the net, looking for something interesting to catch my eye while the TV was on in the background. With my attention neither here nor there, my mind was in a semi-sleep and was only sporadically picking up the various words and sounds coming out of the television. I thought I heard the word "groin" a couple of times (which was unusual for NDTV) and that made me look up - yup, poor Gautam Gambhir had apparently injured himself in his groin and was coming back home. "Big blow for India", the newsreader said. "What an unfortunate part of the body to hurt yourself in", I thought.

Since my interest in cricket, Gambhir or any of his injuries ranged between nil to none, I promptly went back to the Internet to amuse me. Alas, the world wide web was not in a giving mood that afternoon and I was back to my uncommitted state of keeping one eye on the computer and one ear on the TV.

It was in this state of listlessness that I heard something that made me look up. It was an ad. For some sort of cream - probably a fairness cream, since absolutely no other kind is required or sold in our country. But it wasn't the various miracles the ad was promising that made me look up. It was a word they used. A word that's been used for every skin product every sold here before, but this is the first time I'd had this epiphany. The word was twacha. And my aha-moment thought was, "Who the hell in the real word ever uses that word?"

Now I'm as Hindi speaking as the next Punjabi girl partially raised in Delhi. I speak Hinglish with a flourish and with pride. I watch Hindi movies, argue in Hindi with anyone who wants to argue in Hindi with me and go to a neighbourhood beauty parlour where they do my thraiding and paddy-cure, all the while chatting in Hindi. But never, has the pushy beauty parlour girl asked me to get a facial because it'll be good for my twacha. Her usual pitch is "skin saaf ho jaayega aur aapka tan uttar jayega." (Despite my multiple attempts to explain to her that that "tan" is my actual skin colour, she persists in selling the facial to me and on some occasions I've even relented.)

But coming back to the point. Twacha, the Hindi word for skin is only amongst us today because a 100 years ago some copywriter in some advertising agency looked up an English-Hindi dictionary and decided that forever more every skin product in India would use it.

By now, I had completely abandoned my computer and started concentrating on the ads on TV. The more ads I saw, the more I realised what a repository for never-used-in-real-life-words they were. Here's a sprinkling of the words I picked up in just a few commercial breaks:

1. Prayojak: The desi version of "brought to you by", prayojak is a word that may just have been created by Doordarshan for this very purpose. Think about it. When in real life, would we ever use the word prayojak? Why would the word even exist in the Hindi dictionary? In the days of the Maharajas, were shows by popular nautch girls "brought to you by" someone? And how come, they found one neat little word that means exactly what a four-letter phrase in English means? Mind boggling questions? I would say so!

2. Kitaanoo: Or bacteria. This favourite of soap and toothpaste companies is thrown at us so many times a day that we may have started to believe that it's a perfectly ordianry word. They even have little kids talking about kitaanoo to their other kid friends. Give me a break! Unless you're a pure Hindi speaking biology professor who studies bacteria for a living, there's no way this word will ever utter a normal person's everyday parlance.

3. Sadan and masoode: While we're on the topic of toothpaste, how can i leave out sadan (which I guess means tooth decay) and masoode (a fancy word for gums)? Combine all these words together and what do you get? Use X toothpaste to avoid sadan paida karne wale kitanoo and make strong masoode.

4. Kudrati poshan: Yup, I can just remember my days as a little girl, getting ready to go to school in the morning and my mom asking me to eat some almonds. "Kyu mama?" (Why mama?) I might have inquired of her and she probably smiled beatifically at me and replied, "kyuki ismein hai kudrati poshan" (Because it has natural nourishment). At this point my entire family got up off the table, sang a jingle together and danced around our giant open kitchen with yellow curtains and sunset streaming in just right. Yeah, that's exactly what happened.

5. Chiknaayi: Ugh! I hate this word and I can only guess it's meaning - grease. That's because I've heard this word used a lot in dishwashing soap commercials (stop using so much oil in your cooking people! It's worse for you than it is for your dishes.) I've also heard the term used while selling creams that save your face from being oily. I don't know, it's all just too murky and for some reason really gives me the creeps.

6. Which brings us to keel muhase. This is the Hindi word for pimples, which is fine. My question is why do we use two words when clearly only one can do? I could agree that there might be some teenage girl out there complaining about her annoying muhase to her friend, but keel muhase? Really?

7. Nivarak: Oh, this is a good one! Nobody knows what it means and yet we've all said it (or at least sung it) sometime in our lives. Remember the jingle for Moov? Moov lagaiye Moov, dard nivarak Moov. It's a catchy jingle and an effective product. But I bet, if you asked 10 random people what that word meant without giving it a context, nobody would know the answer.

There are many, many such gems in our local advertising - words that were included into the advertising jargon years ago and have now found their permanent and only home there. Masoode! Ha!

The defence would like to make it's case

2009-09-09T02:14:00.003+05:30

The fact is that the world is made up of whiny complainers. And I’ve just about had it with the lot of them! You know that saying – “you can’t make all of the people happy all of the time”? Apparently what you can do is make all of the people unhappy all of the time. These days nothing is without it’s critics and praise is like the honest Indian politician – rare and even when you get it, it’s never a 100%. Magazines, papers and of course, the headquarters of the negativity movement – blogs, are full of people dissing on this, that and the other.

It’s like that game I used to play as a kid “spot the differences”. Only nowadays, we seem to be brought up on it’s evil twin, “spot the flaw and bitch about it”. Taj Mahal – too ostentatious. Mother Teresa – converter! Money – root of all evil. Austerity – too severe. North Indians – that nasty accent. South Indians – that ridiculous accent. Kareena – too thin. Ash – too fat. It’s an awful, frankly dangerous attitude to have and like I said, I’ve just about had it!

(Of course, this particular post is really pandering to the same negative outlook I have a problem with, but sometimes you need evil to deal with evil. And besides, it’s my blog and I’ll deride if I want to.)

Recently, it was a particular series of incidents that really got me so nettled about the whole “let’s bitch this thing out” take on things. New York Times did this article about people leaving Facebook. As luck would have it, around the same time someone sent me a link to another article about annoying personality types of Facebook (this one was pretty funny actually). Soon a friend announced that she was leaving Facebook. “It’s just too intrusive!” she declared. Suddenly, everywhere you looked, there were articles and posts complaining about Facebook and how it was the anti-Christ. I think even Oprah did a show about the general dangers lurking on the Internet and of course Facebook was on the list of major offenders.

Now listen. I’m not asking anyone to stay or not stay on Facebook. It’s your choice completely. I just think this Facebook bashing has gone a bit too far. The fact is that Facebook is simply a social networking site that allows you to create a network of friends and acquaintances and stay in touch with them. It can also be very helpful to put out a message to a group of people and to indulge in some virtual conversation. Most importantly, it is a very customisable tool that allows you to decide just how much information you want to put out and to whom.

Plus it has great games!

So today, in the spirit of being constructive and not simply finding problems, I have decided to address some common Facebook gripes.

I don’t want to share my shit with every Tom, Dick and Harry. Then don’t! Facebook has some really great security settings that allow you to decide just whom you want to share your information with. Create lists of friends/others and control who sees, reads and comments on what. That creepily quiet chappie from your first job you added to your list out of politeness does not need to know anything about you.
Also, you’re the one adding information about yourself. If you don’t want people to see that picture with your boobs hanging out, don’t put it up!

I hate adding people I don’t really know. Again, just don’t do it. If you ignore or block a friend, that person will never be notified. Just get over you need to please everyone and learn to bloody say no already!

I hate those never-ending feeds from that girl who takes quizzes all day. It’s a one click solution. Just hide her.

I’m sick of receiving feeds about my friend who puts up every picture of every moment in her life. I hear you. Hide hide hide!

I’m not comfortable knowing that anyone can put my picture up on the web. This is a serious issue. The thing is that even if you get off Facebook, people can still put your pictures up. The only thing you could do is untag yourself and request your friend to remove your picture. Other than that, I really think it’s more of a the-times-we-live-in sort of problem and not just restricted to Facebook.

My ex boss is not my friend and I don’t fancy calling him that. Let’s make our peace with it. “Friends” on Facebook does not mean what we usually take it to mean. It’s just a convenient heading they came up with for a list of people. What would you rather they called the list? “People I have known in some capacity or the other in my personal, professional and or academic life” might be a mouthful.

That status message box taunts me to write something witty everyday. Just plagiarise. Go to a quotations website and copy and paste.

I waste too much time on it. Hmmm… that might be true. You could stop by this blog instead. Or maybe you could see this as an opportunity to build up resistance to temptation?

Big brother is watching me. This might be a valid concern that I need to look a little more deeply into. Personally, I think I’m too much of a small fry for big brother to take an interest in me, but then you never know! And again, it may be more a function of the electronic age we live in. We must all be alert!

You see? Every problem has a solution. It’s just a matter of asking. And if you still want to get off Facebook ‘cause you’re bored of it/you’ve found all the friends you wanted to find/you just don’t like its layout, by all means, do it. Just quit bitching about it!

Better late than never?

2007-07-27T20:03:00.000+05:30

About a 100 years ago, Quicksilver tagged me with a fairly simply task.

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

Needless to say, I have acknowledged her as the Queen of the Universe, many times over. And today I finally decided it was time to take a break from my busy job as saviour of the universe and actually get on with the post. Also, I have this other tag waiting to be done and...well, you can read all about it in the following post.

8 random facts about me.

1. I can't start on some thing till I've finished what I had to do before that. So if I've bought a new shampoo I'm dying to try, I can't use till I've finished and chucked the earlier bottle. Which is why this growing heap of tags was giving me sleepless nights and I had to get down to them.

2. I'm obsessed with noses. There's a chance I may not notice the naked woman sitting next to me with bright orange paint on her body that screams "Look at me", but I'll definitely notice her nose. I'm constantly picking on the noses (ha ha! pun unintended) of people on TV and giving my opinion on who should or should not get a nose job. My taste in noses keeps changing and I really don't know what works for what face.
And no, in case you're wondering you nosy reader you, I don't really like my nose. That nose you see in my profile picture on the top left of the page is highly photoshopped.

3. My favourite cuss word is motherfucker. (What's yours?)

4. When I look back at myself as a child, I can't remember ever having a goal. I think my earliest memory of wanting to be something is when I was in the 7th and under extreme stress of questioning I said I want to grow up to be a fashion designer. I also clearly remember the girl whom I overheard this borrowed ambition from. I maybe the first goal-less child in history. The affliction continues...

5. I have been reading about some random new study that states "If your friends are fat, you'll get fat." I'm now living in mortal fear of getting 'you're fired' memos from most of my friends.

6. I don't really like music.

7. I'm fast running out of random facts to put about myself! I'm not a very multi-faceted person.

8. In general I find American movie English quite funny. Y'know, terms like "my bad" and their tendency to draw out sentences like saying things like, "I'm going to have to ask you to put down the weapon'. Why can't they just say "Put that gun down"? It's all very amusing and I love bitching about it. :)

Gosh that was tough to get through! This has been quite an eye opener and I've gotta say I'm really thankful I'm married cuz my shaadi.com profile box would've read rather dully, eh?
Now as far as tagging this tag further goes, I'll tell you how that works after a week. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban just started. That's my favourite of the HP movies. Cheerio then!

Here we go again

2007-06-05T00:09:00.000+05:30

Some people never learn. By ‘some people’, I’m referring of course, to myself.

After admitting to unmentionable activities earlier, I’m back. To confess to some more highly shameful and extremely pleasurable pastimes.

Note to self: my next post has to be more self-laudatory. I sound like an ass on my own blog. What I need is to do something heroic and then write about it. If only spending hours on the net helped find a cure to cancer…

Oh well, until that happens, here come some more shameful secrets.

Guilty pleasure #2. Indulging in the arts.

It is of course, my parent’s fault. See, I come from a generation that was brought up on the whole “You can be anything. You are talented.” doctrine.

What.A.Load.Of.Crap.

I remember how when I was little, one day out of complete boredom I picked up our white cordless phone (remember those Panasonic ones? Everyone had one) and painted all over it with various nail polishes from my mom’s dressing table.
And instead of giving me the tight slap I so richly deserved my parents complimented me on my creativity and artistic inclinations. Thus began the great delusion – somewhere within me, I have an artistic streak.

Fortunately, the Indian school and college system managed to keep this streak well under control for the most part of my life. Then began work and entry into adulthood, also equally time consuming and creativity killing. Then I decided to take a break from work and that’s when all the trouble started.

On a quiet street in Langford Town is a store called The Colour Factory. It’s this cute little place where you can paint your own pottery. Just pick up an item of your choice, draw out your own design and start painting. They provide you with the paints and brushes and everything, and after you’re done, they glaze your item for you so you can take it home and show it to your friends and family with pride.

If you observe their website carefully, you’ll notice that they mostly have pictures of little kids doing all the painting. But the fear of humiliating myself in front of children was no deterrent. One evening I decided that keeping my inner artist repressed for 28 years was enough and marched into the store to start a new, colourful phase of my life.

My first piece was a vase I’d decided I’d gift my mom (for coming up with the whole artistic streak idea in the first place). I carefully chose the design, the exact shades of colours, the stencil…every last detail was pondered over and for hours later I laboured over the vase. The experience was supremely artistic and I even sang as I painted. This is fantastic, I thought. Finally I have an answer to the age-old question, “What’s your hobby?” And I’ll actually create something beautiful that can be used.

Four hours later, the result was this:

Now if I were 3 and mentally challenged (no offence to three year olds or the mentally challenged), my mom may have considered using this as a broken-pens or unused-spoons stand. But since I’m fairly certain I’m neither, gifting this to anyone was out of the question.

Clearly, what I needed to do was come up with a good story of where I got this unfortunate item and rethink the whole artistic streak bit.

On the former, I was successful. This? Oh, I bought this at the Blind School Mela. Done by actual blind, mentally challenged three year olds. The proceeds all go to charity. *Angelic halo glows.*

On the latter issue however, I was finding it hard to let go. Maybe I’m not as hopeless at it as I think. Maybe this piece was just defective. If I do another one, I’m sure I’ll do much better. And besides, this is so much fun!

Refusing to kill the streak in me without a good solid go, the next Sunday I again ventured into the Colour Factory. I’ll show them! I’ll create something fabulous and I’ll gift it to my mother-in-law. Let her also know what a gifted genius her son has married.

Behold:

If you’re wondering what the fuck this is, it’s supposed to be a fish platter. And that’s a fish in the middle.

And yeah, the same blind school story holds.

You’d think that by now I ought to have learnt my lesson. But remember, this is a piece about guilty pleasures. And they’re bloody addictive. And so I went back in. And came out with this.

Not bad huh?

Now look at the outside.

I'm proud to say I've completely unintentionally managed to create a bowl with a bad fungus infection. This piece is so hideous, hospitals have refused to take it as a bed pan (even the blind children story didn't melt their cold hearts).

But the worst part is that after continuously creating one monstrosity after another, I keep going back for more. I love sitting there and dipping my brush into the colours and paint while scowling at the other kids who tend to be less quiet than me. Each time I hope this piece will come out better than the last and it never ever does.

Ah well! I can't help it. It's the damn artistic streak in me. If you had one, you'd understand what I'm talking about.

Guilty Pleasures

2007-05-24T00:22:00.000+05:30

Everyone has secrets.

Some are the big-turn-your-world-upside-down kind – the child I’m carrying is not my husband’s, but really his best friend’s. I’ll just have to create a fictitious aunt to attribute its grey eyes to.

There are others that are equally big and while they may not lead to a divorce court, you’d rather they stay under wraps – the name of that weight loss program I went on is not really Weight Watchers but Liposuction. But I’m finally thinner than my best friend and I’ll be damned if I ever let her find out the truth.

Then there are the itsy-bitsy ones you wouldn’t really give your life to guard - that night you got drunk and sang, that cool space pen you stole from your boss’s desk – little stupid things you don’t really care that much about.

And then there is that other category of secrets. Things you do that are well within legal and moral guidelines and yet you’d rather die than have anyone find out about them. Little indulgences that give you so much happiness, but alas, come with a warning label: DO NOT TRY THIS IN FRONT OF PEOPLE. Little things you also refer to as guilty pleasures.

Fortunately for me, I have the shroud of anonymity; so discussing them here is really like confessing at church. And like all those do-gooders who come on Oprah and spill their guts in front of millions of voyeuristic viewers, I too am doing this for the betterment of mankind. Who’s to say, maybe some other miserable soul stuck in a similar prison will find solace in my company. And if that’s not a good deed, I don’t know what is.

Let the catharsis begin.

Guilty pleasure #1. Watching Colgate Maxfresh Antakshari on Star One.

I’m not a snob. I have nothing against film based singing competition with Anu Kapoor as a host. But if you’ve ever watched this particular film based singing competition with Anu Kapoor as a host you’ll understand why I always make sure to keep the drapes drawn and volume at a minimum while I watch it.

To begin with the teams are called North ki Shaan, East ki Aan, West ki Jaan and Central ka Maan. Cringe.
Then, there’s the matter of Anu Kapoor’s co-host. To be cruder, louder, uglier and more overbearing than Mr. Kapoor is theoretically impossible. And yet the good people at Colgate Maxfresh and Star One have managed to comb the nation and find a woman who fits all the above criteria. My brain has blocked her name out (I guess the human body has its own tools of dealing with trauma), but her face and costumes are tattooed in there forever. It’s possible that her god given features are tolerable but on Colgate Maxfresh Antakshari, it would be impossible to comment. On this show, she comes dressed as a swatch card for every kind, size and colour of sequins known to man. Sometimes her outfit will combine sequins with beads, feathers, ribbon and yards of velvet. My contact lenses have been known to mysteriously jump out of my eyes and not be found until the end of the show. Like I said, I guess the human body has its own defense system.

You force yourself to tear your eyes from the hosts, only to be thoroughly confused by the participants and audience. This show evidently gets its jollies by dividing the nation into four regions and pitting them against each other. In all of this, the south has been ignored. I suspect the south Indians had too much dignity and politely asked to be excluded. Because really, the rest of the country is just out there making a complete buffoon of itself. They sing, they dance (yes dance. On a singing competition. They do choreographed dances.), the cheer, they boo, they even ask for instant replays to make sure a competing team didn’t cheat. Criiinge. One time, the zone captain went up to her team to whisper a strategy into their ears. What strategy could you possible need to win at Antakshari?!? Either you know a song starting with the letter P or you don’t!

Although I must state that Colgate Maxfresh’s take on Antakshari is very different from the pastime the rest of the country indulges in on long train journeys. As far as I remember, there is no round where you start a song with the letter P, Q or R. This version is a complicated mix of recognising songs based on which actor’s mother was in a movie and the game taboo. It honestly is beyond my comprehension, which is fine since my method of watching it includes hiding behind and mutilating any cushion that had the misfortune of being in my vicinity.

If this show is as shitty as I make it out to be (and I promise you, it is), why do I watch it?

Because I enjoy it intently. I rub my hands in glee as I wait to see what “crude female co-host” will wear this time. And she’s so crude, I can’t believe someone put her on TV. Once they even staged an inter-host fight where one of them waked off the stage! I didn’t catch that episode and will never forgive myself for missing it.

I must also confess my awe for the sheer knowledge of the contestants. Do you know a song from a movie directed by Jaikishan Ludhianvi Sehgal’s brother-in-law’s daughter? Well, they do and they deserve to be on TV just for that.

If you’re as intrigued by Colgate Maxfresh Antakshari as I am, you can catch it on Star One. It’s on all the time and I recommend it as an excellent cringing past time. Do watch it, at least my poor maimed cushion and I will know, we’re not alone in this humiliating, but oh so pleasurable, guilty pleasure.

The rest of the guilty pleasures will be put up very shortly. I have to watch TV now. A favourite show of mine is about to start.

what Right to Information really means

2007-04-23T16:25:00.000+05:30

It’s a happy day for anyone who ever had a bone to pick with the media. Anyone ever stung by an undercover operation, caught taking a bribe on camera, allegedly accused of amoral activities, caught kissing a member of the opposite sex; anyone whose 15 minutes turned out to be more infamous than otherwise intended.

The Indian media has had a strange sort of evolution. After years of getting our news from Doordarshan newsreaders (remember the lady with the rose in her hair?), who actually read from sheets on their desk, days after the event had occurred, things changed overnight when cable TV entered our homes. Suddenly there were 4 news channels to every 1 newsworthy event, school children started to be recruited as correspondents and ‘everything’ was renamed ‘breaking news’.

Then one day it occurred to some highly educated smartie to capitalise on the whole saas-bahu soap opera craze that was sweeping the nation so news was now married to celebrity and watching a news channel became a one-stop entertainment stop. Politics. Check. Money woes. Check. Storms and dry spells. Check. Marriages, divorces, extra marital affairs, legitimate relationships, children, their weddings, their divorces… so on and so forth. CHECK CHECK CHECK.

As high drama entered our lives in the form of a ticker at the bottom of the screen, some people began raising some tentative questions; “Saif’s chest pains…news? Really?”

“Oh, you better believe its news!!” hollered back the media, “people want to know what’s happening with their heroes and reporting it is our job. People have a right to know. And people watch this stuff alright? It’s what the people want. It’s all about loving the people, OK?!”

Evidently, we the people had asked for it and so we’d better just shut the fuck up and watch what we wanted. Ungrateful wretches that we are. Grumble grumble.

Well, we did shut the fuck up and watched the endless shit we had personally written to channel heads and asked for. I clearly couldn’t get through another day without making sure that Shakti Kapoor got caught on camera as he propositioned a young woman. My cook refused to chop another onion until she’d watched Shilpa Shetty cry in the Big Brother house at least 25 times on the same channel on the same day. My dhobi lodged in his protest against Mallika Sherawat’s New Year outfit by refusing to iron mine.

But all this was child’s play as compared to the news story all of India had waited for since Independence. I swear, if Mahatma Gandhi were alive today he’d have announced a fast unto death to ensure that every citizen of the country got live streaming images of the story as it unfolded. This was beyond important. This was history in the making.

I’m referring, of course, to the Wedding of the Century: the holy union that’s made me realise just how inconsequential my own marriage is in comparison.

Aishwarya Rai weds Abhishek Bachchan and everyone else, please go fuck yourself.

The news channels instructed us that this was a wedding we could not ignore. No reason was given for the same but that’s what they told us and they must know what they’re talking about. They are after all the premier news channels of the country, with award winning reporters and shows and tie ups with international news agencies. These were not small tabloids that openly thrived on sensationalism and shallowness but responsible entities that echoed the voice of the people.

So right after the families of the betrothed requested the media to please give them some space to celebrate this very private event, the media went right ahead and did the opposite. And thus began the event titled, The Great Media Circus. Showcasing asses, monkeys, clowns and buffoons. Come one, come all, entry is free and entertainment is guaranteed.

And entertaining it was. Ha ha! Honestly, such things cannot be scripted. Who would ever thinking of getting a shrieking female reporter to climb a tree outside Aishwarya Rai’s residence to peek in and report on…I’m not sure what…live in front of a camera?
Or how about the other reporter who decided to run really fast down the road in the hope of crashing through the convoy of highly trained guards and solid metal gate and into one of the wedding functions?
Oh oh oh and let’s not forget the Abhishek Bachchan look-alike who was put in a fancy car and driven to his supposed fiancée’s residence. I suppose they figured Aishwarya’s family wouldn’t notice and get their daughter married to just any tallish guy with a beard.
There was also the usual flirting with guards, buttering up the band-walas, interviewing the bhangra dancers and making a complete ass of yourself that goes on when you’re reporting earth-shattering news.

The best part? All this tom foolery and stripping of one’s own dignity was diligently filmed and shown on television for the entire country to titter over. The irony is just too good! A channel puts time, money and manpower to pull its own chaddies off in public!! I’m telling you, these things just cannot be scripted!

A gloomier shade of blue

2007-04-09T02:10:00.000+05:30

You know it's been too long since you wrote when the blogger homepage has changed and accessing your own blog takes you a few minutes.

But what do you do when you haven't had one original or interesting thought in four months? It's not like there isn't enough happening in the world to write about. Since the last time I wrote seasons have changed, AB and AR have found love, the Indian cricket team has gone and returned from the Caribbean, the aliens landed and forgot Sanjaya Malakar behind, Anjelina Jolie has adopted her 34th child and I've changed my brand of moisturiser. So much fodder and not a single remark comes out of me. Can you imagine the agony?

I may as well accept it at then. At the not-quite-tender age of 28 my brain has completely dried up.

Tis most depressing.

Something New

2006-12-07T13:49:00.000+05:30

Tis December. The season to be jolly, start thinking about how to handle the whole New Year saga, attend three weddings a day if you’re in India and *gulp* reflect on what you’ve achieved in the past year. Usually, if the wedding food hasn’t killed you, the reflecting will make you wish it had. And before you know it, you’re pulling out that list you wrote your resolutions on, turning it over and writing a pithy little suicide note. I can’t okay!!! I give up.

This year, in order to save many an attempted suicide and to try and up the bloody “jolly” quotient, I propose an amendment to this whole New Year resolution ritual. A minor one I assure you, I’m hardly here to make a sweeping change or anything, I gave up on that resolution while I was still in my teens.

So without further ado, here’s presenting, New Year Resolutions, with a touch of pink. The basic principles will remain the same and in keeping with the whole spirit of new year, new beginnings and new hopes, you will still be required to make resolutions. Only this year you make these resolutions not for yourself, but for others.

Not impressed yet? That’s because you’re getting fooled by its simplicity. This is how it works: you make a nice healthy list of what you’d like improved in the world, your life, your neighbourhood park, whatever! And since you’re humble enough to realise your own shortcomings you float this list out into the public and anyone who thinks he or she can help can choose a resolution and start working on it.

The merits are many:
* You’re starting the New Year on a positive, progressive note.
* In keeping with the current trend, you’re harbouring dreams and aspirations and refusing to be satisfied with what you have.
* You have the option for making resolutions for others, making this the first truly selfless list of its kind.
* At the end of the year, when you compare the list with actual results you find that some of the resolutions have been carried out. At this point, you’ll feel a surge of joy and pride at coming up with the innovative idea and having the strength to let go of it and allow others to take a bash at it. There might be some items on your list that are left unresolved. Oh well, you shrug your shoulders and sigh, you did your bit. The others failed, they’re fallible, you’re fine.

Since its still early December, I’ve just about started working on my list. But I will share it with you just to give you an idea of what I’m talking about (in case that lengthy explanation above wasn’t enough), of what’s allowed (everything) and hopefully for someone to pick up an item off the list and start working on it right away.

Pink’s list of New Year Resolutions (for others) 2006-07

Invent 100% fat free chocolate, cheese and fat in general. A good example of how a resolution can benefit you as well as millions of other people around the world.

Governments are alarmed, doctors are worried, Oprah is concerned and Vandana Luthra has made too much money off us. I say enough is enough. This obesity epidemic must be stopped. And frankly, waiting around for people to develop the ability to say no to cookies or drag themselves out of bed to go jogging is getting us nowhere.

If we really care about the weight of the world, why not just go to the root of the problem? Instead of battling the fat, just remove it! Take it out of the confectionaries, the soft drinks, the mithai, the fried alloo tikkis, the cheesey pastas and let the people eat already! Imagine a world without people sweating and wheezing unattractively over a treadmill, a world without harassed moms running behind their kids with beans and carrots because chocolates are just too unhealthy. No more sauna belts and hideous before and after animations on TV.

Everyone will look better, be healthier, live longer and most importantly, they’ll be happier.

So while I understand the importance of cancer research and alternate sources of fuel, I propose a large chunk of research money be allocated towards this far more worthy and important cause. Starting 1st January 2007.

Invent odourless cigarettes. An unselfish resolution for a different demographic of people altogether.

This one’s for teenage kids who’ve taken up smoking and are still living at home. How long will they smoke in the loo with the exhaust fan on? How many bottles of perfume will they waste on trying to purify the air? How many mints can one teenager ingest to make sure all smells are eradicated? And how about the mental anguish of worrying about being found out? It’s not even possible to put a price on that…

Tobacco companies are making billions off their young customers and what have they given back? Pictures of a cowboy in the desert?! That’s just not going to cut it anymore. The kids want change, they want product development. They don’t care if you come out with mild or menthol or raspberry flavoured cigarretes. Give them a cigarette that doesn’t leave a tell-tale stink behind it and then you’ll really be making a difference.

Come out with a knee-length saree and make it fashionable. Very personal and dear to my heart.

I can’t. I’ve tried and it’s really really difficult. The saree is an impossibly hard-to-manage outfit to begin with, the availability of the safety pin notwithstanding. You have to make sure everything stays in the right place without slipping off, manipulate those tricky pleats, try and maintain a flat tummy if you really want to look good and to make sure it falls well; you have to wear it with high heels.

Last Sunday, at a wedding, I very nearly got my saree entangled in my heels while going up some stairs. Usually at such times I lift the saree up to my knees to make sure no such accidents occur but this was at the wedding and hitching it up all that distance would just not have been acceptable.

That’s when it occurred to me. If we can have innovative blouses and sometimes even no blouses, why can’t our designers develop the saree a little? If the Victorian dress evolved over the years to a micro mini, why can’t the saree also rise to the needs of clumsy folk like me?

This new year I want some big designer to design the mini saree and a bunch of trend setters and celebrities to wear it and make the outfit of the year.

Be more charitable towards not necessarily deserving people. This resolution is only for cash rich people, with a taste for something new.

Giving money to the needy is all very noble but there’s something fun about giving money towards the not-obviously-worthy.

For instance, I probably belong to the middle to slightly upper middle social strata. I make decent money, party at good clubs, shop at mid-level chains like Benetton, Esprit etc. But unfortunately, due to my good education, cable subscription and ability to travel I’m also very aware of what else is out there. When I go to five star hotels to use the loo I pass by the Louis Vuitton boutique and as much as I try I’m unable to avert my eyes. The budget hotels I stay at when travelling are usually heart-breakingly close to posh 7 stars. The Travel and Living Channel has brought into my bedroom a whole new world of wine and cheeses. And what can I say about VH1’s Fabulous Life? It just makes you realise how not fabulous your own life is and how it would be better to just end it.

At such a time, if a rich person with a quirky sense of humour decided to part over a small teeny tiny bit of his or health towards me, imagine my happiness! And if you can make even one person happy, isn’t it worth it?

So you’ve got a gist of what I’m talking about. Small desires, big dreams, your list can include anything. It’s about putting ideas out there, it’s about saying what’s in your heart, it’s about making a start.

I would also like to request everyone to maintain a few seconds of silence to grieve the loss of Max, George Clooney's pet pig. (Actually you probably have been silently reading all this time so it's alright then, you may talk.)

George, I'd like you to know that at this difficult time, I'm here for you and am willing to comfort you in any fashion you'd like. If you're feeling the loss of your dear pet, I'm willing to hang with you in your house and punctuate my conversation with an oink oink here and an oink oink there. I know its a little unorthodox, I'm just saying...

Also a special shout out for my friend Rocket, who's birthday it is today. Have a good one darling!!!!!

Removing the rose colour glasses.

2006-11-16T01:03:00.000+05:30

And the weary world traveller is back! Ok, to be honest, I don’t really qualify as a world traveller. Actually I barely qualify as traveller, unless you count alternating visits to Delhi and Goa as travel. And a three and a half hour flight to Thailand is definitely not what you’d call a major international flight. And nope, I’m not weary either, having pretty much lived in style in the Land of Smiles, as against our original plans of slumming it out and spending the money on shopping. (I say roughing it out only suits the adventurous white folk who’re eager to soak in the local culture and see a country for what it really is. For us Indians there’s nothing like a comfortable hotel room with a giant TV, tea/coffee maker and bathrooms with free shampoos, conditioners and lotions. Doesn’t matter how bad our currency conversion rate is.) So anyway, as anyone reading this may have guessed (that’s anyone who still visits here after my shamefully long leave of absence) my 6-day trip to Thailand is just an excuse for the aforementioned shamefully long leave of absence.

But because the world today is a terrible place full of war and bad reality TV shows (which if you think about it could really be the same thing…) we blog junkies have a responsibility to not be too harsh on each other and forgive and forget our erring friends.

So back to the trip to Thailand which was of course a great cultural experience! I certainly didn’t go only for the shopping and beaches or out of curiosity to see the famed go-go dancers. That would just make me an uncivilised boor! I made sure to include a half-day tour of a palace in our plans, much against the protests of my husband who’s sweet but not as culturally inclined as me, but that’s later.

First stop Pattaya, the Thai word for “Land of gross white men with young Thai girls on their arms”. Also the first time in my life I’ve ever experienced culture shock. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no puritan who judges people on their personal choices. I pride myself on being quite the opposite really. And I haven’t been living under a rock either. I knew about the sleaze in Thailand before I went there. But nothing quite prepares you for the scene you witness in Pattaya. For as far as the eye can see, all there is, is old/young/fat/skinny/poor/rich white guys roaming the streets with young Thai girls. You strain your eyes to see maybe one other couple that actually came in to the country together and speak the same language as each other but you can stop straining ‘cause you aren’t going to see any. From a McDonald’s to a local beer bar, every place was just full of these pairs, strangers who met just a few days ago and were now holding hands and sitting in silence. Neither speaks the other’s language (the lack of English speaking locals is surprisingly dismal for a country that thrives on tourism) and so the couples just sit and eat or drink or whatever in silence. Every one in a while, one of them will point at a funny looking ad or laugh over a hard to slice chicken piece and then its back to silent hand-holding.

Good manners were completely forgotten as I found myself staring at these strange couplings. I get the concept of paying for sex but I couldn’t understand why everyone here had to behave like a couple in love. This was strictly a monetary transaction with an expiry date, so what was with the lunches and the walks on the beach and the attempts at conversation? He was going to go back and next week she’d be going through the entire rigmarole with another guy. So what was the point?

The answer of course was obvious - every guy who came here came looking for more than just a night of paid for sex. He was looking for companionship and for the experience of being in a relationship, however short lived and fake he knew it was going to be. He wanted a tiny hand to hold as he walked down the pavement, someone to buy pretty things for, someone who’d stroke his hair and chide him for smoking too much.

And the girls? Each one of them hoped that one of these days, one of these guys would fall in love with her for real. And they’d get married and move to his country and live in a big white house with a picket fence. And until that time, this might be the best way to make money.

As this realisation dawned upon me, so did a sense of disgust. What kind of a loser travels so many miles just to experience a fake relationship he’s paying for? That was just sad. I mean, lose some weight and get yourself a real girlfriend already!

But even as I was thinking that, I knew it was bullshit. Just who gave me the right to judge anyone else’s actions? Sure, he was paying for this act and he knew that none of these girls would give him a second look if it weren’t for his white skin and the promise of the dollars it represented. But all said and done, that right there, that hand holding and chicken sharing, was real. The conversation, however broken and funny it was, was a real connection between two people.

As for the girls and their choice of careers, I’m not even going to get into that. I have no idea why they got into it. Was it a wicked uncle who sold them to the brothel, Hindi movie style, or was it a conscious decision? As far as I can imagine, any woman would rather be doing anything else in the world than this. It’s dangerous and it can be deadly. But on the surface, these girls look happy enough, so who am I to go rescuing them?

I guess it’s true that money can’t buy you happiness and love. But it can buy you a few days of a lovely illusion. And well, that can’t really be so bad.

As far as I’m concerned, I’m never going there again. The guys are welcome to their make believe fantasies. I’m not gonna judge it, but I’d rather not watch it.

How advertising helped me improve my vocabulary.

2006-08-28T10:46:00.000+05:30

Countless derivatives of the F word, 24 words for male and female private parts and an exhaustive list of regional language curse words: the last 5 years of being a copywriter have been nothing if not educational.

If it wasn’t for this profession I would never have learned to use the built in Microsoft Word thesaurus with the ease and flamboyance I now possess. Only unlike most users I’ve been trained to look for smaller and easier words to substitute a standard quality word. This is done so the copy fits into the 2 mm space the art director has assigned it in his layout and also so that it’s understood by Mrs. Santosh Kaur in Bhatinda.

The above restrictions have also helped hone my editing skills. The written word might be my best friend but I should not be shy of killing it when required. Like when a commercial originally intended to be 45 seconds long needs to be packed into 10 seconds. Or when 70% of the space of a print ad is reserved for dealer addresses, phone numbers, email addresses and two sets of emergency helpline numbers (for BSNL and non BSNL users). What if, God forbid, there is a washing machine related emergency at 2 in the morning? An Emergency Helpline Number becomes all important.

There are also certain buzz words that I’ve picked up in my tenure here, “buzz words” being a prime example. We advertising types love using jargon and you’ll frequently hear us discussing “genres” (pronounced 45 different ways), “stylize”, “esoteric”, “out of the box” and a hot favourite, “a for apple”. I can’t get into explaining what that last one means, but I’m sure all young writers and art directors have had that thrown in their faces at some time or the other.

While the above skills have contributed to my overall development, the biggest input of advertising has been to my repertoire (nope, did not pick this up in this industry) of cuss words. In the advertising industry joy, sorrow, disappointment, disgust or even plain boredom are all spelt with an F. Sometimes a lone F word doesn’t quite communicate our true feelings and then we enlist the help of another series of F words. That’s F for a ‘Family Members’ and a combination of the two is usually fairly effective.

We also realise the importance of staying true to the local flavour of the country and hence the stress of learning regional language gaalis. Let no one ever say that advertising in India is elitist and catering only to the educated snobs.

Truly, “learning on the job” has never been truer than in the case of this (insert adjective here) industry. Join us and learn from the wisdom of your ancestors. And while it may not pay as much or be as satisfying as other jobs, when you’re having a fuck all day, at least you’ll be able to express yourself.

atTAGged!

2006-08-01T18:56:00.000+05:30

I’ve been tagged! And it’s a relatively free Tuesday afternoon and I can think of nothing original to write about so this seems like a good time to fulfill my obligation. (As mentioned in Section 34 of the Blogger’s Oath: Thou shalt write when tagged.) Actually doing this tag also helps me carry out Section 1 of the Blogger’s Oath: Thou shalt write.

So without further ado, let me start working on Vijayeta’s tag, which is rather vague but it’s something to do, so I shall not crib.

Here goes!

I am thinking about…
This bitch at Kaya Skin Clinic I met the other day who told me I should start using anti-aging skin products. After I slapped her for her impudence and flung her around the room a few times she proceeded to take out one of those magnifying mirrors and showed me frown lines that are apparently forming between my eyebrows. Of course I broke the mirror on her head (assuring her 13 years of bad luck) and marched out of the stupid place.
Only problem now is that I’ve developed this fear of frowning which used to be one of my favourite activities. So now instead of scowling and seething inwardly when someone cuts me off in traffic I just roll the window down and curse loudly.

I said...
Hello you fool, I love you!
No, I didn’t! I said a lot of things but nothing particularly noteworthy and worth putting down here.

I want to...
Write wonderful books that get published and make me money and I want to travel the world, especially rural France, and not be tied down to stupid jobs and I want to open a place for abandoned pets and I want to be myself always, no matter what.

I wish...
Everything wasn’t such a struggle. I know that that apparently makes you a better person and all but sometimes it’d be nice to just have things handed to you on a platter. I’m not even talking about material things…it would just be nice if plans and dreams unfolded into reality without too much effort. Just sometimes.

I hear...
This dog barking his head off every night. He’s someone’s pet dog and I need to figure who the owners are what the hell they’re doing to him for him to create such a racket every bloody night. This weekend, I’m going to do some snooping around my lane.

I wonder...
If Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie will stay together forever and continue creating beautiful babies or if their union will end like all hollywood unions. I also wonder and worry about what people will think of me now that they know what occupies my mind when I’m not busy.

I regret...
Eating fatty food that is not exquisitely delicious. I hate consuming calories when its not worth it so now I’m really regretting eating that stupid peda at lunch. Its not even one of my favourite desserts and this one was dry and dull andI popped the whole bloody thing just cuz it was there.

I am...
Incapable of answering that highly loaded question. I am OK, I guess!

I dance...
Better to songs I can sing along with. So even if the song is in Spanish you’ll find me making up the words and singing and dancing cuz its just more fun that way!

I sing...
That’s a lie. I don’t sing. I can’t. It’s a disease with no cure.

I cry...
Very rarely. I don’t like crying and it always gives me a headache so I avoid it as much as possible.

I am not always...
Saying what’s on my mind…

I make with my hands...
My bed. My hair. Sometimes I make scrapbooks. That’s the extent of my creativity.

I write...
Crappy advertising copy all of us love and appreciate so much. How dull our lives would be if I weren’t writing things like, “Special Offer-Just for You!” or “This Festive season, XYZ brands brings to you…”
Sob! I write crap!

I confuse...
Between its and it’s. I’ve been explained the rule a million times but for the life of me I’ll never get it. Now I just rely on Microsoft Word to correct it for me.

I need…
To figure out a new livelihood and get out of this job that’s just boring me to death! I can’t keep writing tea commercials aimed at middle class mothers anymore. I need something else! I need to sit down and think things out!

After this cathartic tag that’s taken me more than a whole day to complete, what with annoying work butting in from time to time, it’s time to pass the torch on. So Jenn, Cyber Swami, Vanessa, PinkBury, Indian Punkster, Essar and Shub, Knock Knock! You’ve been tagged!

Is it a bird? Is it a plane?

2006-07-18T08:16:00.000+05:30

No, it's me!!

Man, I’ve been away a long time! Not saving the world or even touring it or anything. Just been busy with the same old, same old.

Mostly I’d blame my absence on work which has been a complete bitch. Then there was that one month of football! How a complete non sportsperson like me (I can’t even play carom) got sucked into watching and following and betting on football matches that went late into the night is inexplicable. But it happened and it was fun and we drank a lot and I wish England had at least made it to the finals but Hurray for Italy anyway!

I’ve also, ahem, joined an aerobics class in an effort to become healthier. It’s actually kind of fun because of course our batch has got an instructor who’s a complete character! See, he thinks he’s Britney Spears. I swear, while the rest of us are huffing and puffing over lunges or stomach crunches or some other torturous work out, our instructor, his name is Chris, starts doing actual Britney Spears dance steps. He looks into the mirror, squints his eyes, pouts his lips and starts dancing. And the other day “Just Chill” from that Salman Khan movie was playing and Chris started dancing like Katrina Kaif! Complete with the head tilt and pouty smile. It’s bizarre!

Besides, it’s an aerobics class and if Chris wasn’t such a cartoon I’d still be laughing right through. All I have to do is look at the mirror and see myself working out and I burst into peals of laughter. A less graceless, unfit and gangly person than me does not exist! After seeing myself do dance-aerobics in a bloody room covered in mirrors, I’ve vowed never to dance in public again. I look like an orangutan.
And yesterday we had kick-boxing. Ha ha ha ha ha! I swear if I’m ever attacked by mugger, all I’ll need to do is get into my kick-boxing stance and the poor bugger will just die laughing. Self defence, that’s right!

So yeah, all in all, it’s been busy. But I’d neglected my sweet blog for too long and now I’m back and it won’t happen again. Thanks Grey Shades, Cyber Swami, Lemontree and MyPublicist for asking where I was. That was a real kick!

So see you'll soon!

Much love and kisses,
That Girl.

Wednesday Afternoon Ennui

2006-06-14T17:13:00.000+05:30

Ladies and Gentlemen, the truth is finally out.

If like me, you have spent many moments cringing upon hearing Himesh Reshamiyya’s angst ridden voice, this piece of information will, well it won’t reduce the cringing, but it might help you understand the root of all the madness.

Everyone agrees that Reshamiyya’s hair-raising, vomit-inducing, pull-music-system-out-of-socket-and-put-your-own-finger- there-instead causing guttural sound cannot be human. I was one of the many who spent hours plotting and planning on a slow and painful death for the bearded beast. I knew things had reached a head when I overheard a lady tell her infant, “Soja beta, nahi to Hinesh Reshamiyya aa jayega.”

That was until I heard a song of his playing on TV the other day. Suddenly everything was clear and I actually felt a pang of sympathy for the man. The reason for his pain (and ours), is of course steeped in sex. Freud would be so proud of me.

You see, Himesh Reshamiyya has never experienced an orgasm.

How do I know this? He says so in his song. If you’d ever accidentally listened to more than 2 seconds of the song without breaking the source of the music, you’d hear it too. So without further ado, I present to you Exhibit A:

The song: Jhalak Dikhlaja
For my int’l audience (that’s you Vanessa:)): Give me a glance

The lyrics:
Jhalak Dikhlaja,
Jhalak Dikhlaja.
Ek baar aaja,
Aaja,
Aaja,
Aaja,
Aaaaaja.

Translation:
Give me a glance,
Give me a glance.
Just once please come,
Please come,
Please come,
Please come,
Pleeeeeaaase come.

Need I say more?

Confessions of a Convertee

2006-06-01T00:08:00.000+05:30

For as long as I can remember I’ve had a not-so-secret dislike for kids. No, I wasn’t bitten by one when I was little, nor were there any incidents of my getting stuck in a lift with a child leading to long-term trauma. Although if that happened to me now, I know without doubt I’d prefer eating through the metal gates to spending 5 minutes in a closed space with a brat. (Oh! The thought of it makes my head spin.) No, my reasons for wanting to issue restraining orders on all kids are quite simple: they’re annoying - ratio of annoyingness usually inversely proportional to age; they run around which can lead to entanglement with legs, further leading to disastrous accidents; they shriek; they ask too many questions; and every child comes with a set of doting parents who think their child can do no wrong, which means while the little chump has the right to run all over my house like a hurricane all I get to do is sit back and slowly grit my entire set of teeth to a fine powder.

But lately, I’ve had a change of heart. Having had the opportunity to spend some time with some of them, I have actually begun to see that they’re not so bad. While all above disqualifications still stand, I am forced to concede that children do have some use. And I’m talking real live children here, not just the sleeping angels from Anne Geddes cards.

So the next time you’re in the vicinity of a child there’s no need to run in the opposite direction, (or if you belong to the child lover category –there’s no need to get your knees dirty and start talking baby-talk to the child who understands it as well as he understands Swahili.) Here are some solid, tried and tested and extremely useful ways you can make your time with a child work in your favour.

Children and their uses:

Children as entertainers: There comes a stage when all a child wants to do is dance. Put on the latest dance hit and the child’s body will automatically start moving to the music. Being small and plump they look rather funny (some call it cute) doing this and make for great entertainment when you’re completely bored.
Appendix: This stage tends to pass rather quickly (2 days) as they soon become “conscious” and will only dance at their own will. If you catch a child who’s still not crossed over to the conscious stage, I suggest you get your entertainment quick or there will be none to have.

Children as blame takers: He he he he! This one’s a gem! See, no one will ever be openly mad at a child who’s dropped ketchup on their lace tablecloth or broken their imported crystal. So the next time you inadvertently cause an accident just put on a sad smile and point to the nearest child. What are they gonna do, question the little angel? No way! And even if they do, it’s not like the child can defend itself. And if the child is a little extra smart and starts vehemently denying it, quickly jump in and offer to clean up the mess. Trouble averted, blame passed on, problem solved and the best part – you’re the hero who helped in clearing up!

Children as get away tools: Ever been at a really boring family friends type dinner? The kind you’d never go to unless there was serious parental or parental in law emotional blackmail. “Everyone is coming. Kinu and her husband have come down from the States and her mother said she was asking about you.” So anyway, this is what I do when I enter these potentially coma inducing parties. Volunteer to look after the kids! Which most often means I get to sit in a room with a big bed, a TV and a big bowl of chips. Sure I have to share the room with a gaggle of screaming bachchas but that’s infinitely preferable to listening to Kinu go on about her trip to Lake Tahoe in a half Punjabi, half American accent.

Children as ego-boosters: Sure kids today are smart and all, but the fact is that a 3 year old will always be dumber than you. So anytime you’re sick of hanging around people much smarter than yourself, strike up a conversation with a child. You’ll know bigger words, be able to do much tougher mental math and will always walk away feeling wiser. And therefore happier.
Appendix: This tenet is to be used only on children below the age of 6. After that there’s a possibility that the child will be smarter than you and could lead to results opposite to those intended.

Children as attractiveness increasers: Single? Looking to be noticed in a crowd of much better looking people? Borrow a niece or nephew and go to the mall. If you’re a guy, stand in a cinema ticket queue with the child and ask him or sweetly if he or she wants to see Ice Age 2 or Nanny McPhee (Later you can go ahead and buy tickets for Basic Instinct or whatever catches your fancy, this is just for effect.) Pretty girls standing nearby will ooh and aah over the child and think you’re sweetest for bringing it out.
If you’re a girl, let the child run loose for a couple of seconds in a Nike store. Encourage it to bump into cute guy trying on sneakers. Then you go over and apologise profusely, while constantly smiling. Eye contact achieved. Mission successful.

These are more or less the main uses one can derive from children. There are a couple of others - you can dump food you don’t like on their plates, eat food you like off theirs, feel like an artist by perfectly colouring between the lines in their colouring books…and what else…umm yeah I think that about covers it.

For any parents who might be reading this, please don’t be offended. Of course I wasn’t talking about your child! Your kid’s an angel.

A thing of beauty...

2006-05-29T17:50:00.000+05:30

...is hard to describe.

Sometimes a picture does not speak a thousand words. Sometimes even words aren’t all they’re built up to be.

For instance, how do I describe the beauty I’m surrounded by and the feelings I’m feeling? I could take a picture of the Gulmohur tree in bloom outside my window, resplendently red and shamelessly showing off its beauty to anyone who passes by. But a picture won’t capture the delightful rustle of its leaves each time a breeze passes by. I could take a picture of the cloudy grey sky, mocking any artist who wishes to paint it. But will that capture the little shiver from cold and happiness that goes through me as I stand under it?

Maybe that’s the difference between a writer and an artist. As I struggle to cross the great big line between the two, I think, to hell with it. Why am I sitting inside and attempting to describe a beautiful day to others, when I can just get out and enjoy it?

Ciao!

Oh, just remembered something where a picture will do just fine.

Got it this weekend. What do you think?

Tales of the Wild

2006-05-09T16:41:00.000+05:30

I hate starting posts with quotes and clichés. So I’m just going to hide this one in the third line instead. It’s a jungle out there. And anyone who’s worked in an office knows that offices are mini eco systems in themselves. Every species of the animal kingdom is represented and if you belong to the lower order, survival is an everyday task. Like in the wild, some species prefer to hide, while others like to make their presence felt and for that hanging around the watering hole at the right time with the right animals becomes imperative. Ultimately we’re all fighting for the best grazing spots, the most sheltered caves and a piece of the kill.

Having lived in more than my fair share of forests, I’ve come to realise that there are some animals that are present in every jungle, no matter where in the world it is. Some are carnivores, some appear to be herbivores when in reality they are the most vicious and some are simply made for a short life span that ends in a gruesome death. Maybe you’ll be able to recognise some of them. Maybe you’ll be able to add to the list. For now, here’s presenting some of the inhabitants of a typical office jungle.

The Lion. No prizes for guessing whom I’m referring to here. The Big Boss with the roomy cabin and the plush sofas. The Lion usually has disdain on his face and contempt in his heart for the rest of the lesser beings in his lair. Nevertheless, he will pad through the jungle at least once a day, ostensibly to see if all’s ok with the tribe. In reality he does so to roar a couple of times and put the fear of exile in the many quivering hearts around office.

Fixing a meeting with the lion is usually more difficult than actually sitting through it. That’s because guarding him at all times is the most deadly of all office beings, his secretary or The Lioness. Daunting, rude, temperamental and almost always of Anglo-Indian descent, the Lioness is the toughest animal to crack. Befriend her and you can be assured of a smooth stay in the jungle. Get on her wrong side and every late entry, every extra pen requisitioned and absolutely every wrong move is duly noted and stored as future ammunition.
I once did the English homework of the daughter of one such lioness. Although it went against one of my top 10 principles (You know, the popular ‘Thou shalt not to do others’ homework’ one), doing her homework gave me unimaginable clout, so much, that when I left, she made sure I got my settlement cheque within a day. There are people I know of who are still waiting for theirs.

The Elephant. This is one of the nicest creatures in the jungle and if you’re working under an Elephant, you’ll probably do well. Intelligent, graceful and well established, the elephant will let you do what you have to with just the right amount of guidance. There’s also this air of stability to the elephant that’s reassuring and you can be sure that it’ll never try to pull one over you, just for the glory.

The Fox. Wily, cunning and quick to take ownership of a job well done, the Fox is also lovingly called the Bitch. The speciality of this animal is in its ability to be everywhere at the same time. It sniffs out important projects and then sniffs up the asses of important people. A shiny coat or big bright eyes add to it’s attractiveness to the upper management. You may hate the Fox but it’s usually too quick for you to catch and is known to thrive well in the jungle.

The Squirrel. Quick hi, run down the stairs, quick how you doing, don’t wait for reply, rush into cubicle, talk fast, interrupt others, answer frenzied phone calls, gulp coffee, leave food uneaten, dash, rush. What the fuck are you in such a hurry for? Everyone knows you handle one client who comes alive once a year. Why don’t you just go to hell? And hurry!!

Where there’s the Squirrel, there’s The Sloth. Slow to the point of exasperation, this creature lives in a time zone of its own and no amount of screaming, begging or threatening will get it to move faster. Usually in charge of seemingly unimportant things like pasting or despatch, the sloth makes its importance felt by making you stay in office till 3 in the morning, while it pastes two ads onto some thick paper. Sometimes it becomes completely still and needs to be poked to check if it’s still alive. Unfortunately, it always is.

The Chimp. That’s the obnoxious melodramatic one who screams loudly; thumps his chest madly, bounds from one place to another and generally makes a nuisance of himself. He’s always the first to snatch your food when no one’s looking, bum endless cigarettes and at any office party, behaves like a total monkey. Sometimes good for some comic relief the chimp is mostly just a carrier of lice and dirt and is best kept at a very long arm’s distance.

The Jackal. Beware of this breed of scavengers. All day it does nothing but trail behind others and then feed off their hunt. It’s not very ambitious but has a strong survival instinct and will do anything to stay in the jungle. Jackals will find each other and bond quickly and then continue their foraging activities in packs. You’ll find this creature poking its nose where it has no business but before you can confront it, it slyly slinks away in search for its next meal.

The Migratory Bird. Some people just can’t stay in one place for too long. They come in with huge fanfare, stick around while the going’s good and take off as soon as greener pastures beckon.

The little birds, worms and other beasts. Every jungle has them, as does every office. Creatures whose jobs are important for the smooth functioning of the office, although nobody’s quite sure what exactly they do. They come in at 9 and leave at 5, and the kind of industry they belong to usually has no bearing on their work. Most offices have them in abundance but in times of a drought, they’re the first to go.

People in offices tend to stick with their kind. Be it a common language, an overseas boyfriend issue or a sense of snobbery towards others that binds them together, you will always find office folks in packs, twittering with each other in a language only they can understand. As for me, the newest animal to join this wild bunch, I’m still finding my place around here and wondering every now and then…did I have to step out into the wild or was I just better off as a lone eagle flying where I wanted to, no rules, no colleagues, just the freedom of the wide open sky.

An update and a theory

2006-04-27T00:20:00.000+05:30

Alright, so I’ve got a new job. It’s nothing exciting, just another boring old ad agency, with boring old clients and a pile of briefs that are, you guessed it, boring and old. It’s not the job I’d been dreaming of, you know, your standard columnist for the New Yorker - writing dry and wildly witty pieces about anything that caught my fancy, hobnobbing with a bunch of snooty cultural elite who throw words like “passive-aggressive” and “uber” ever so often in their conversations, watching foreign films and having endless discussions about the lighting, reviewing upcoming new writers and giving my opinion on what I thought was the sub-text of the books…you get my drift. Part of the reason I’m not living the dream might be that I never applied. Somehow, the opinions-of-a-married-woman-living-in-Bangalore pitch didn’t sound too exciting. Would my “journey to find the perfect weight loss system for a lazy person with no willpower” interest the New Yorker? How about my “acute observations of a person’s expressions as he or she drives in the opposite direction on a one-way road”? Yeah, I didn’t think so either.

So I’m back to doing what I can do with my eyes closed. Write ads convincing mothers of what’s best for their little darlings, coining Hinglish phrases (for my international readers, that’s a mix of Hindi and English, a godawful new language we advertising types are forced to communicate in), behaving like what I do actually makes a difference to anyone and when awards time comes about; trying to cure breast cancer through an ad. What I do is beyond lame and the only reason I’m doing it is because it’s something to do and then there’s the money thing.

The money is just okay; sure it’s better than what I was drawing at my last job but when you’re making peanuts for a living, peanuts with sprinkling of salt can hardly be considered a killing. The office is cute enough and my boss seems nice. Now I’m just waiting for my jinx to rub off and bring this place to the unavoidable ruin it’s destined for.

Yup, I am the original l’il jinx when it comes to jobs. Every place I’ve ever worked for sees the lowest time in its financial life soon after I join. When I started work six years ago, the agency I was at was doing so well they bought us all new computers and took us to holiday at posh resorts in the hills. By the time I quit a year and a half later they had put a limit on the number of cups of coffee we could have in a day. Every other place has seen a similar fate. They lose existing clients for the most peculiar reasons, they fail to gain new ones because clients refuse to join an agency with such few existing clients. It’s all a bizarre bizarre phenomena that cannot be attributed to anything logical. After bringing numerous ad agencies to the brink of shutting down, I’ve concluded that it has to be me. I’m not being self indulgent or wallowing in self-pity; I’m just going by statistics. I happen to be the medium through which bad luck touches business enterprises.

Today I can proudly say that if I joined Microsoft it would start posting losses by the next quarter. If I joined an oil rig, it would dry up. If I became Pamela Lee’s secretary, her boobs would shrivel up and turn to squeezed lemons. Frankly, I think it’s a gift. I’d make an amazing weapon to use against a competitor. Just slip me into the system and I guarantee its doom within 2 years or less. Or your money back.

So you see, that’s why I’m not so upset about joining this crappy job that bores me to tears. I work here for a bit, make my money, shut the place down and I’m off on my Europe trip. When you’ve got a plan that solid, why despair?

Sign o' the times

2006-04-20T16:54:00.000+05:30

“You’re not ready yet!”

She looked up from her game of Su-doku with an expression of ‘huh?’

“Payal’s party. Remember? She just sent me a message asking me to confirm that we’ll be there.”

“Payal…” Man, she was good at this game! “Remind me again, who’s Payal?”

“Baby, you’ve met her so many times. Remember she went to Bombay to become an actress. She came back a couple of years ago.”

“Oh! Payal, yeah yeah yeah I remember her”, she said, her face vaguely coming to mind. “Again, why did she come back?”

“She said na, the whole casting couch thing was too much for her,” He mumbled, his body partially inside his cupboard, “and she just couldn’t take it.”

“Oh Payal!! Oh yeah, I remember her,” realisation finally dawning, “She didn’t make it cuz she’s ugly.

45 minutes later she stood preening at herself in front of the mirror. White pants, silvery blue tube top, new wedge heels, light summer make up, plenty of lip gloss and silver ear rings that complemented her top just right. Lovely. Dressing for a private party was always tricky. One couldn’t go over the top bling, one couldn’t dress too casually either. It had to be that perfect balance in between, one that screamed, “I’m just naturally stylish and could wear a sack and look gorgeous.” It just usually took an hour and a half to achieve this look. 45 minutes was a proud achievement.

She yelled out to him to for a final thumbs up. Not like I care what he thinks. Guys haven’t a clue what makes a woman attractive.

“Well?” she enquired.

“You look very cute,” he said coming toward her to give her a kiss.

“Cute?”

“Pretty…really pretty. You hair is very shiny,” he ventured. Damn, they should teach you this stuff in college.

“Ok listen,” she said, neatly offering her cheek for the kiss. All that lip-gloss wasn’t going to be used up before they even left. “Now I plan to breathe only once every 3 minutes tonight. Cuz my tummy looks a little bad if I exhale. I’ll need some help from you.”

“Sure, I’ll save the oxygen suppliers number on my speed dial.”

“Oh you’re so funny. Why don’t you send that joke to Reader’s Digest ‘Life’s Like That’?” she retorted, flashing him a scathing look, “Ok seriously, if sometime in between I forget to hold my breath in give me a sign that I need to suck my paunch back in.”

“Okaaay…”

“Alright, so the sign is, you round your lips as if you’re going to whistle. Don’t actually whistle. Just lip synch it.”

“Cool. Should we go now?”

“Yup. Baby, you’re sure I don’t look fat na? Be honest cuz I feel I look a little fat.”

“No, you don’t look fat at all.” This answer he knew well.

“Cool!” Thank God she’d taught him this answer well.

“All that’s important is that you feel comfortable.”

“What?”

Dammit! Why did he have to add his two bit? Why couldn’t he just stick to what he’d been taught?

Half an hour later they were finally in the car. The Rolling Stones were lamenting their lack of satisfaction on the music system and the irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

She looked at him and decided it was time to go over the designated signs again, “Ok, there has to be an amendment to our sign language for the night. This halter-top that I’m wearing tends to go a little deep at the back. So I need you to keep checking my back from time to time to see if my bra strap is showing. If it is, just tap your right shoulder twice and I’ll know I need to fix it.”

“Gotcha!”

“And you remember all the other signs right? What if I have a piece of food stuck in my teeth?”

“I...um tap my teeth three times?”

“No!! You have to be subtle. You run you hand over your mouth lightly.” Prices of every car in all four major cities he remembers, this he forgets in five minutes!

She tried testing him again, “What if I’m sitting and my pants are too low rise?”

“I know this! I yell Butt Crack Alert!” he burst out laughing; butt cracks always cracked him. ‘Cracked him up’! He laughed harder at his own private joke.

From her seat she saw a grown man in peals of laughter over a posterior joke. She would take the high road, she decided, and love him for the imbecile he was. Through it all, she would continue to try and polish him till a diamond of her specifications emerged. He was her mission in life, why she’d been put on this earth.

Unable to ignore the constant stare coming from his left, he sobered up and tried to pacify her, “Ok Ok ask me more sign related questions. I promise I won’t fool around.”

She started off with a difficult one, “What does it mean if I tap my glass with my fingers?”

“You’re bored with whoever you are and immediately need rescuing.”

Not bad. “What if I lift my glass up?”

“Your drink needs a refill.”

“What if I shake my head twice from side to side?”

“Your feet are hurting and we need to find a place to sit!”

“And if I nod my head twice?”

“You’re bored of the party and want to get out pronto!”

Smiling from ear to ear she leaned over and gave him a giant hug. Still no kiss, lip-gloss could never be forgotten, even in the most euphoric moments. “Great baby! We’re all set for the party, huh?”

He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up sign.

“What does that stand for?” she asked, frantically flipping through her mental sign book.

“It’s a thumbs up,” he frowned.

Huh?

“It means…yes,” he frowned harder.

“Oh! When did we come up with that one?”

“We didn’t. It’s been around for decades.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

They were now approaching the venue when she suddenly remembered something, “I forget Payal's husband's name.”

“Vivek. You've met him a hundred times!”

“I remember him. Just forgot his name. I don't know why parents give their children such common names that are so easy to forget. When we have kids we're naming them Vanishikha, Zoya and Tatiana.”

“We're having three kids?”

“Uh huh. Didn't you know that?”

He takes in a deep breath, “And they're all girls?”

“Yeah, India's sex ratio is so bad I feel we owe it to the country to fix it.”

“And we don't owe it to the country to reduce the population problem?”

She checked her lip-gloss in the rear view mirror one last time before it was time to get out, “Well, you gotta pick your battles.”

He looked out of the window with a resigned expression on his brow and a hand going helplessly through his hair. The man on the bike next to him saw it. And knew exactly what the sign meant.

...

2006-04-11T00:51:00.000+05:30

There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here. On this wonderful place we call Earth. From sandy deserts to humid rainforests, rosy mountain folk to tan beach bums, thorny cacti to plump tulips, diamonds to platinum, it’s amazing how much just one medium size planet has to offer. And of all of nature’s abundances and phenomena the one I’m most in awe of is its weather system.

Thanks to the wonderful cycle of seasons you can experience four different worlds without having to budge from one place. Year after year you can experience new beginnings with spring, experience the glory of the sun in summer, get a live demo of gravity during fall and enjoying cuddling with a loved one when it gets cold and dark in the winter months. Ah, the wonder of seasons. Good for faith in the creator, great for fashion and its creators. Four different worlds, for your pleasure, right at your doorstep.

Although, that’s not true for India, is it?

For most of us, barring those (lucky bastards) who stay in the mountains, the Indian weather pretty much comprises of two seasons. Hot and unbelievably, mercury-soaringly, record-breakingly, energy-sappingly scorching! Depending on the moods of the rain gods, we may or not may not see a few drops of rain once or twice in a year, and even then the temperature doesn’t go down that much. Sometimes as a joke it becomes really cold for all of 48 hours in a year. News channels frenetically cover the anomaly; Lux Cozi sells thermal underwear by the kilo and then before you can say “Hot Cocoa”, the temperatures are back where they belong: way up near the ‘Groan, this is a going to be a tough summer’ mark. End of season sales start in February and we start pulling out our skimpy cotton tops even as relatives abroad are sending pictures of blizzards they’re surviving daily.
Clearly, when assigning seasons to India, Mother Earth was going through PMS.

Down south, in the we-don’t-need-no-infrastructure capital of the world, Bangalore, summer comes in even earlier than the rest of the country. The sun beats down ferociously and most of us would rather perform knee surgery on ourselves than step out during the day. Lethargy envelops all of God’s children as even the mosquitoes become decidedly slower. I killed three on my arm yesterday. They were so sluggish they didn’t even attempt to fly off and opted for a lazy death instead.

We try to beat the heat by guzzling gallons of alcohol but the strict 11:30 shutdown law cuts that down to a minimum. With no other source of entertainment Bangaloreans flock to malls and the surge of humanity becomes too much even for those giant heavy-duty air conditioners. Every place smells of heat and restlessness. How did Bangalore ever get so hot is the question on everybody’s lips. Wasn’t this known as the air conditioned city? When is it going to rain? Has the government managed to fuck the weather up too?

Suddenly office seems welcome because at least you’re assured of air conditioning uninterrupted by power cuts. For a now freelance writer like me (Anyone need any writing jobs done? Do mail!), my modus operandi involves cooping myself up in my bedroom and refusing to step out till sun down. It’s got an AC, a TV and a stylish bedside lamp to read to my heart’s content. As far as getting through the summer goes, I’m set. (That is until the electricity goes off. Then I take to my balcony and wait for superman to come and rescue me from this city on fire.)

Television is always entertaining, especially with the 5 million news channels on air. I do so love watching Rajdeep Sardesai and team yell and scream on CNN-IBN. At this point I would like to make a pitch for an increase in Mr. Sardesai’s pay. Whatever they’re paying that man is undoubtedly not enough. He hosts every program, is on location of every breaking story and if nothing else, he should get a bonus just for being the most excitable newscaster on air. I implore him to take some time off and get in some rest and relaxation. It’ll do all of us a lot of good.

New reservation quotas, cancelled matches, badly stitched fashion wear, there’s enough to keep me glued to the TV. But then the good comes with the bad and when they start devoting hours to a controversy over cricket caps (?) and Upen Patel’s debut in Hindi movies (??!!) one is forced to switch off the idiot box and take to entertainment that is usually more consistent. Books.

I’ve been reading all sorts of stuff the last couple of months. From Shantaram to Lipstick Jungle to Love in the Time of Cholera to Beloved to good ole’ William whenever everything else gets too intellectual or too ditzy for me. Don’t worry; I’m not going to bore you with a review of every book. I would however, like to share a thought that has been forming in my mind for some time now.

Now, when it comes to a truly great romance one of the most necessary ingredients, I believe, is a hot, sweltering summer. (This theory is based purely on all the books that I’ve ever read in my life and that number is pitifully small. Besides, there are exceptions to every rule so there’s always room for a romance set during an expedition in Antarctica.)

I find that nothing depicts longing quite like the oppressive heat of a tropical land. Consider these familiar descriptions of an unspoken love: tiny sweat beads on a young girl’s forehead, indicative of so much more than just the temperature; an old ceiling fan, whirring dully in the background as the melancholy lover ponders over his sad fate; a tall glass of iced tea on a hot afternoon, held against the neck by the beautiful and delicate plantation owner’s wife; lovers meeting secretively under the stars on a warm and starry night.

The soaring mercury not only plays cupid, but also makes it easier for the author to suggest to us the extent of attraction between the two protagonists. It’s also a good excuse for the nubile young girl to be undressed and have the strapping young man inadvertently see her, only to be followed by a good old fashioned roll in the hay. (Er, here I think I might have crossed into Mills & Boon or cheap 80s Hindi movies territory...)

Pick up A Suitable Boy, or The Thorn Birds, or Love in the Time of Cholera, or Lolita or any of Maugham’s love stories set in the Far East, or countless other love stories the names of which I can’t remember now. All set in the hot months from May through August.

Now, in case anyone has started to wonder what I’m rambling about allow me to present my case.
India: Hot Country.
Summer: Breeds Lust.
India: Huge population problem.

Do you get what I’m saying here? While the rest of the world has only one fourth of a year to get frisky, we are procreating all year round. The cause of our population problem is not lack of education, no no oh no, it’s the weather. Warm and grimy all year round, perfect for all kinds of romances.

Obviously the government has quite a task at hand. Providing free birth control is so much easier than handing out Air Conditioners. Our only hope? A complete change in world weather. With ice caps melting and trees being cut down, very possibly India could soon be Canada. As it is, we have almost as many Punjabis as they do, so we’re already halfway there.

So all of you who say “save the environment”, I say go crazy with your sprays and your non-pollution checked vehicles. And then who knows, the next post I write about might just be a bitch session about the wind-chill factor!

Did someone ask about the perfect lover?

2006-03-07T12:36:00.000+05:30

Dear George,

George George George! My dear sweet George. First of all, congratulations on the Oscar. I forget what you won it for but even if you haven’t acted in a single movie in ten years you deserved it. You deserve more than an Oscar. You make people happy. You give us a reason to live for. You make the world a better place. And for that you deserve a Nobel Prize.

Now for the bad news. George, we have a problem. See, all of us mortals had been brought up to believe that nobody in this world was perfect. We may dream of a certain somebody we want to spend our lives with, write out long lists of his attributes, imagine frolicking through sun kissed apple orchards with him, but deep inside, we all know he doesn’t exist. We all knew there were compromises to be made and we’d made our peace with that.

And then you came along.

You look like a God. You act. You direct. You give delightful Oscar acceptance speeches. You’re witty, yet sensitive. Intelligent yet goofy. You are serious about your craft, yet are able to crack jokes at bad movie choices in the past (In my opinion you have never made a bad movie. Every role you ever played deserved an Oscar. If you ever come to India get in touch with me. I’ll make sure you get at least 8-10 top Indian Cine awards.) You make having a pet pig seem normal. You dress well, act your age, never make an ass of yourself and own a friggin villa in Italy for God’s sake!

Do you see what you’ve done Georgie? You’ve given every woman (and many men) a glimpse at a dream. A peek into something we never thought possible. You’ve shown us perfection and now we’re all screwed.

What’s gonna happen the next time a girl is not sure about committing to a guy because his ears are too big? The usual persuasive arguments of “nobody’s perfect” are not going to cut it, are they? Oh no! Because now we’ve all seen you and the secret’s out. Some men are perfect and we’re not going to settle for anything less.

George Clooney, you’ve really upset the apple cart. You who refuse to settle down are making sure nobody else has a chance at it either.

My only consolation right now is that you’re single. You obviously haven’t found anyone to match your level of perfect-ness. I would point you in the right direction but I think you’re smart enough to figure that out yourself. Ahem.

So I end this missive as I started it. With many warm wishes on your recent victory. Here’s to many more in the future.

Good luck and kisses,
x x x

Ad Nausea

2006-02-24T00:44:00.000+05:30

It’s said that those who don’t make it in their chosen fields become critics. I guess the same stands true of out of work copywriters.

Lately, between sleeping, reading, rearranging the furniture in my drawing room and attempting to figure out what I want to do with my life I’ve also been watching a lot of TV. And since all the channels I watch have conspired to time their ad breaks with each other, I’m forced to watch the ads as well. Now, as an avid, if somewhat reluctant, ads watcher; I believe I have a right to give my opinion on what I want to see. Well, what I really want to see is no more ads. But since that option is impossible and highly self detrimental I’ll just stick with bitching, oops! critiquing, the ads currently on Indian television.

The following is a list of some specific commercials that make me want to issue death threats, as well as some general categories of commercials that I’d like banned.

# The ICICI 12 hour banking commercial – If there ever was a woman who made violence towards women acceptable and somewhat necessary, she’s the one! From the beginning to the end of the ad, she does nothing but sulk and bitch. There are just so many things about her that make me want to sock her in her grumpy face. From the way she keeps saying “babuji babuji” to her pissed off expression to her body language to her stupid face…man, I wanna slap her! No wonder her husband works late. If I were married to her I’d stay in office late too. And when no one was looking I’d stick my finger into an electrical socket and kill myself.

# Loreal Hair Colour and Mascara – Someone save me, I’m dying of an Aishwarya Rai overdose. Sure she’s gorgeous and a thing of beauty is a joy forever and all that but enough already. I’ll buy the damn hair colour if it’s purple and yes yes we are shocked by the scaffolding effect of the mascara, just please go off air now. Or at least reduce your frequency to a slight more reasonable once in 15 seconds. Seriously, how many mascaras do they plan to sell to ever make up for all that media spend?

# McDowells No. 1 – Ironic isn’t it? An ad with the word “life” in it 85 times makes you want to take your own. Does anyone know what that ad means? In all honesty I can’t even say I hate it ‘cause frankly, I just don’t get it. The finger, the glow, the song, the professor…what’s going on here? Somewhere, there’s a Martian watching that ad and asking, “Earth pe intelligent life hai professor?”

# Maggi Soups – Stupid idiotic bunch of nimrods fussing over a stupid idiotic soup. Wholesome goodness my ass! Stop getting excited over a soup you’re too lazy to make from scratch yourself, and get a life!

# Airtel lifetime free ad – Hats off to Shahrukh Khan, he managed to fool us into thinking he could act for quite a long time. His masquerade as an actor should go down in the hall of fame of the greatest hoaxes ever. But now, the gig is up. In the Airtel ad he proves that he can act about as well as I can grow a penis.
Shahrukh baby, you should be called King Con. Take my advice, add a few more rooms to your mansion, put together a buffet menu and you’ll have yourself a thriving lodging and restaurant business. You can even make little clay statuettes of yourself bended on one knee, with arms outstretched and eyebrows in a puzzled expression. Call the statuette “My Career” and give one free to every customer.

# Ads with the word “twacha” in it – Excuse me, I just threw up a little typing that word. Seriously, every time I hear that word on TV (that would be every other second), my skin visibly crawls (no pun intended). Let’s face it, some people are just born with luminous skin and some of us have run out of excuses for mysterious break outs they promised would stop with adulthood. Watching women balance loving husbands, singing children and hectic careers while keeping their twachas looking perfect just doesn’t cut it for me anymore. Quit selling us creams with vitamins B5 and Z9, we all know about the 10 hours of make up and airbrushing the models go through.

# The promise of “salon like” hair – This set of ads really insults my intelligence. What the hell is salon like hair anyway? Is it like when you sit in a salon and three women descend on your head with hair dryers, irons, curlers and tons of hair product? Are they saying that washing my hair with their shampoo will magically make my hair curl at the bottom in large raphaeleque curls? Arrrgghh!! I get so wild when I see these ads that my hair starts curling just with anger. Maybe that’s what they were getting at in the first place…

# Happy families who sing – Who in their lives have ever gotten up after a meal and broken out into a song praising the masala the food was cooked in? Or had a family theme song to sing each time they showered with a particular brand of soap? Who started this urban myth and why has it been allowed to perpetuate? I thought popular culture was a mirror to reality. Whose reality is this?

Ah! The list is long. And frankly, quite painful. I guess ads are a necessary evil and if nothing else, at least they provide employment. And for that we should all be thankful. And when they get too much to bear we always have pirated DVDs to turn to. No ads, no trailers, just the satisfaction of watching something before it’s officially out. (That’s right Z café and Star World; we’ve all seen Friends Season 10 so quit advertising about it and get some new shows already. At least that’ll make the exercise of watching all those ads somewhat more fruitful.)

All that's pink is not rosy

2006-02-09T11:06:00.000+05:30

Raise your hands all those who, like me, have at one time or the other hated the name your parents saddled you with. Don’t get me wrong, after 27 years of being me, I’ve accepted my name and sometimes even answer to it but on the whole I do think it’s a tad insipid. See, I was born at a time where every child was named Rahul, Neha, Akshay or Shweta. And in keeping with the trend I too got a double syllable name with a vague meaning, low recall and no sex appeal. Now had I been named Tatiana or Zoya or Rapunzel I would’ve been introducing myself to every stranger on the street but under the current circumstances I tend to be a little more discerning.

So when I got the chance to christen myself on blogger you can imagine how excited I was. It was like going back to that fateful day in 1978 when my family was naming me. Only this time I could talk. And I wasn’t going to come up with some lame-ass Dinku name. No siree, this was an opportunity and I was going to grab it. So I thought hard and I thought creative and I came up with the perfect name. Bursting with pride at my own brilliance and dreams of a bright future ahead with my new moniker I keyed it into the registration form. And blogger told me it was already taken. So I thought some more and blogger rejected me once again. Finally after umpteen rejections and on the verge of naming myself Shweta I found inspiration in the colour of my tee shirt. And thus That Girl in Pink was born.

Although not my first choice That Girl in Pink was at least in my top 500 and I kinda like it. Sure it was a bit ‘girly’ and rather ‘pink’ but it was unique and managed to convey at least one level of my personality. (I’m still trying to discover deeper levels and until such time as I find an undiscovered love for Goth it’ll hold me in good stead.) Most importantly, it wasn’t a name I was embarrassed by. I could hold my head up high as I signed my name on other blogs’ comments page. I even dared dream of a click or two and some new traffic to my blog. But all that changed about a week ago.

The culprit of my humiliation? None other than a dead saint who went by name of Valentine. As far as I’m know no other saint has caused as much chaos as this one. For centuries, this man has single handedly managed to make every human being miserable for one whole month. The unattached mope about their single status and couples fret about what the hell to do with this day apparently dedicated to love (yech!) He is the reason for the existence of an entire disgusting industry of oddly shaped dust attractors called soft toys (double yech!) Centuries after his death he is responsible for “Everlasting Love Songs, Volume 4 million”. He’s the reason radio has a whole week dedicated to finding “Bangalore’s Sweethearts”. But as far as I’m concerned his biggest crime to date is the association of his name with the colour pink.

This awful realisation hit me a few days back when I went into Barista for a smoothie. As I was placing my order and gearing up to saying no to whipped cream, ice cream, chocolate sprinkles or pieces of brownie the guy behind the counter asked me if I’d like to try their Valentine’s Special. In response to the quizzical look on my face he pointed me to a bunch of posters around the place. That’s when I noticed that the usual warm browns of Barista one is used to had been brutally attacked and taken over by pink. And not just a hint either. There were giant pink paper hearts, milkshakes with pink strawberries and pink heart shaped pastries all over the place. Every table I looked at had humungous pink tent cards asking us to give into the spirit of love. I bolted out of the coffee shop in horror, only to be assaulted by the colour outside. Suddenly my eyes were like inversed guided missiles, searching out pink and getting destroyed in the process. Stores, malls, restaurants, newspapers, even the Internet…the pink valentine invasion was widespread. It was enough to make me sick. And the greatest irony of it all – I am That Girl in Pink. I can run but I will only be taking the dreaded enemy with me.

Today I look back and wonder why I couldn’t have been wearing some other colour during my naming ceremony. There’s no way That Girl in Off-white could’ve come to bite me in the ass. Damn you St. Valentine! I don’t know whether you were hung or you died rotting in jail but whatever it was, you deserved it! Grr!!

While on the topic of love, I have been tagged by my friend Lemontree. The rules are:

1. The tagged victim has to come up with 8 different points of their perfect lover.
2. You have to mention the sex of the target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game & leave a comment on their comments saying they've been tagged.
4. If tagged the 2nd time, there's no need to post again.

So here goes:

The Perfect Lover – 8-point program

Sex: Male

1. Should love to laugh. My agenda for life is to laugh and smile and have as good a time as I possibly can. My lover should be the same. A sense of humour, the ability to see the lighter side of things and a complete aversion to moping and sulking are indispensable.

2. Should be intelligent. There are times when we will not be laughing and tittering over nonsense and I need to be able to have intelligent conversations/debates with depth, knowledge and passion.

3. Should be good-looking. I’m shallow, so sue me!

4. Should know what he’s doing; be giving and open to new things. (If you know what I’m saying.)

5. Should be honest. I can’t stand liars and I need to respect my perfect lover. This means he should be honest not just with me but also in his daily proceedings. No bribers will be welcome.

6. Should get along with my friends. Don’t you just hate it when your best friend finds a boyfriend who only talks to her and has nothing but disdain for all her friends? Well, my friends are a huge part of my life and my perfect lover needs to be able to talk to them.

7. Should pamper me. Part of the purpose of taking a lover (lol!) is so you can feel good about yourself. I need to be made to feel like the queen I actually am and from time to time I need some of my whims to be fulfilled.

8. Should just know. There are times when I need to be left alone and times when I need some mollycoddling. There are times when I’m saying it as it is and times when I’m fibbing. There are times when I want Chinese food and times when I want to have Top Ramen noodles. My perfect lover should know when I want what without me having to spell it out.

So that’s my list and I’m sticking by it. By the way, this might induce some gagging for some but I have to say, I’ve actually found someone who has at least 6 of the above qualities. So yeah, I’m feeling a bit smug.

I now wish to pass the baton on to 8 more bloggers. Sonya, Dee, Goldennib, Shub, Velvetgunther, Sinusoidally, Pyxie Queen and Spider Girl. Go on. Play God!

Mi Familia

2006-01-16T14:54:00.000+05:30

Driving down Residency Road a few days back I saw a giant hoarding for a movie called Family. Like every Hindi movie ever made in the last 18 months, it had Amitabh Bachchan. He seemed to be sporting some kind of underworld don type of look. I didn’t get a very good look but I’m pretty sure it’s the same wig he wore for Sarkar. And like Sarkar or Waqt or any of the other crap he’s appeared in there is no way I am watching Family. Haven’t these filmmakers heard of a little thing called branding? You can’t name a movie “Family-Ties of Blood” (Yech!!) and then act surprised if it flops miserably. I don’t know when the bloody movie’s releasing but I can bet anything it’s going to vanish without a trace. Family! Puhleeaze!!

Anyway, after scowling and cursing at the poor innocent hoarding, my thoughts started straying towards my own family. The one I was born into and that comes with seven aunts, two uncles and seventeen first cousins! These statistics include both my parents’ sides, but you’ve got to admit, it’s an impressive number. And it’s an impressive family. Close, loving and like I found out a couple of years ago, unlike any other family out there.

The thing with families is that the only one you really know is the one you’ve always lived with. And naively you think that that’s pretty much how all other families must be. Give or take some traits the basic characters should be the same, right? There’s the fun aunt, the strict aunt, the aunt settled in America, the drama-queen aunt, the talkative aunt, the favourite aunt…the list goes on. And each of these aunts comes with a spouse, with equally distinctive adjectives to describe them. The smiley one, the sulky one, the generous one, the golfer, the bookworm, the henpecked one (whom we all feel sad for, even though his wife is the actual blood relative). In the midst of the ladies are the uncles who come with their wives and they make up the entire motley crew..

And then there are the cousins. Ah the cousins! Cousins are like a bunch of kids, who’re about your age, and who you’ve been instructed to love and get along with. That you’re a kid with your own taste means nothing to your parents. “They’re your cousins! Now go spend an entire summer with them.” Some cousins you actually do love. There are some you barely tolerate and some you outright deny any relationship with. But all your life you will keep up the façade of getting along, as will they. You’ll buy expensive air tickets to make it for their engagements in time, rehearse Hindi dance hits to humiliate yourself by performing at their weddings and buy nice gifts whenever you go on phoren vacations. And though you all fall from the same tree, each one’s a character by him/her self and yeah well, I guess just for that, you gotta love ‘em.

Although we come in so many shapes and sizes there’s a lot that binds us together. And again, naively I thought that these qualities abound in every family. But two years ago when I got married and started to get to know my husband’s family, I realised just how wrong I was.

(Mine) Family of gun throats: Let there be known, there is no distance or inappropriate environment that can ever be a deterrent to our communication skills. When we have something to say, we believe in saying it loudly and with our heads held high. We shout from one end of the house to the other, across big stores, in five star hotel lobbies, whilst talking on the phone, at the airport, across the street, wherever, whenever. Technically there are no family secrets because every neighbour has heard them being discussed. If there are four people in the car, all four of us will yap on our cell phones at exactly the same time, at competing volumes. During vacations and weddings our voices touch all-time highs. We are the obnoxious family who ruined the peace and quiet you were hoping to get at your vacation. Free speech is a right we take very seriously and if we have an opinion (and we always do), we will express it.

(His): There are times when I can be sitting in his house, with his entire khaandaan there and not even know it. Each one is in his or her room quietly doing their thing and only when everyone congregates in the living room is their some quantity of noise.

(Mine) Brutally Honest: So you come home for a vacation and meet everyone at a family dinner. As you enter the room full of family members an aunt spots you from a distance. Delighted to see you after almost six months she smiles and gushes, “Hi fatty! You’ve become nice and roly poly in Bangalore!” Inwardly cringing at the use of the F word you smile and step forward to hug her. Just as you’re planning a quick exit, she gushes further, “Your hair is looking lovely! When did you get it coloured?” Ah well, maybe you’ll stay for a little while longer after all.

(His): Maybe it’s too early for everyone to start saying exactly what he or she thinks. As of now, it’s all smiles and thank yous and compliments. And I’m not complaining.

(Mine) Gossip unlimited: We discuss everything about everyone. Gossip is oxygen to us and the rule is, there are no rules. Swearing someone to silence means nothing. If it’s mildly interesting and comment worthy we will talk about it. We will then discuss the comments that were given at the last gossip session. My cousin and I were once actually asked to shut up in a train cuz we were gossiping while other passengers were trying to sleep. We decided to follow the whole I’ve-paid-for-this-ticket-and-I-can-do-what-I-want path and continued chatting. When one is the target of gossip he or she might choose to sulk for sometime. But that’s only till the next interesting tit-bit comes along and then we’re friends again. I suspect, that besides that big noses and identical hair types, gossip might just be the glue that holds the family together.

(His): I think because we have taken gossiping to new levels nobody else matches up. When I’m with my husband’s family we’d have to be really bored at some family friend’s reception to maybe make a remark about the bride’s lehenga. This is immediately succeeded by a statement of what a nice person she actually is and all my follow up remarks about her hair, make up and jewellery are left unsaid.

(Mine) The non-singers: One might think that in a family as large as ours every kind of talent should be available. And yeah, we do have the painters and the dancers, and the sportsmen/women and the great chefs, and the seamstresses and the knowledge databanks, but in this whole motley mix there isn’t one person with any kind of singing talent. Fresh blood has been introduced into the gene pool in hope of infiltration of some musical DNA but it has never been known to survive. At weddings we try and sing in the hope of passing our voices of as rustic Punjabi sounds but sooner or later the DJ is always called upon to rescue us. That’s when we gamely give up the microphone, hit the dance floor and join in loudly at the shava-shava part of the song.

(His): They sing, they dance, they know how to play instruments, they even know the words of their traditional UP songs. Who knows, maybe my kids will acquire some of that musical talent. One can only hope.

(Mine) Irritability: It’s the age we live in. Everyone’s just so busy and has so much to do in such little time that we tend to say it like we feel it sometimes. Most times. When waiting for someone in the car, in less than two minutes we start honking madly. If we don’t get our way the first time, we immediately resort to screaming. That usually pisses the other person off and a full on battle ensues. By the end of it everyone’s exhausted and forgotten what the fight was about in the first place. You never do anything you don’t want to and if cajoled/blackmailed by a parent into doing it you sulk and make your displeasure apparent. Nobody else gives a fuck about your sulking so very soon you give that up and just try and have a good time.

(His): Politest family in the world. Being kept waiting for two hours is met with a smile and I have never ever heard anyone screaming. All disputes are handled reasonably and while it’s all very ideal it also freaks me out at times. How do they take out their day’s frustrations? Don’t tell me yelling at cell phone and bank customer care personnel is enough!

(Mine) Mithai ka dabba: Whenever anybody comes from or goes anywhere, my nani has to give them a mithai ka dabba. Any protests from “I’m on a diet” to “I think I’m diabetic” to “If a drop of sugar enters my blood stream I will die” will fall on deaf ears. At the most, you will be asked your preference and then the maid is sent to the market. Mithai ka dabbas have been sent throughout the country and even sneaked into the US. This habit has seeped down to the offspring, and although the younger generation prefers to say it with chocolates, the sentiment is the same.

(His): Thank God no such rules dictate their household. The fridge is free for you to raid and if you want something you just need to ask.

There are many other differences in our families from the way we speak to the importance of food (it’s of absolutely no consequence to my family and like a religion to his) to relationship dynamics. At first it’s weird and then sort of amusing. And at the end of the day, I think there is some truth to “blood is thicker than water” adage. Maybe it’s the 27 years of getting used to I’ve had or maybe they’re just cooler! All said and done, my family rocks!

9/1/2006

2006-01-09T13:32:00.000+05:30

Happy New Year, my fellow blogoholics!! One week after the predictably disastrous New Year’s Eve party I had, I’m now sufficiently recovered to venture back into this wonderful and weird blog world we all inhabit.

This time I have no New Year Resolutions. (The old list I drew up about five years ago will do just fine, so why bother?) But I do have some Old Year Lessons.

Lesson 1: New Year’s Eve always sucks. Most over hyped, high pressure, expensive waste of an evening one can ever have.

Lesson 2: I will never learn. By the end of 2006, I would’ve forgotten all my vows of bringing in the New Year by myself in my warm bed, and will be fretting about which dress to freeze in and which stiletto heels to torture my ankles with.

Actually, it wasn’t all bad. For about two happy hours, my friends and I found ourselves completely rocking the party we were at. Until one of them got sick and things started to go downhill. From then on it was endless hours of driving, co-ordinating between friends, and one really stupid accident involving an aspiring actor and a flight attendant with surprisingly generous tear ducts. I hate to be pessimistic, but starting your year pretending to care about two drunken nitwits in a stupid hospital really doesn’t seem too promising. Or maybe it’s too early to crib. There are still twelve whole months for many more calamities to unfold. Looking forward to it!

One week into 2006 and I’m still unemployed. No surprise there, considering I’ve made pretty much no efforts to find work. What’s scary is that I’m not really missing having a job, just the money. Otherwise, my new adopted lifestyle of sleeping when I want and for how long I want suits me just fine. In fact, being unemployed has actually lead to some pretty life altering changes.

For instance, it’s shaved 10 years of my age. That’s right, I’m 17 again. The signs are all there. I’ve got two new pimples and I’m obsessed with teen TV shows. I watch The OC on Zee Café and in case I miss it there, on Star World. I call my friend to discuss my views on the actors; I can’t figure out what the big deal about that Ryan dude is, with his whole intense shy Di look. Whenever I can I make sure I catch Life as we know it, That’s So Raven and raunchy teen comedy films. Yeah, life can get really complicated for a teen in America and I totally empathise.

Also, I have a new No. 1 in “My Cares and Concerns of Life.” I have become a celebrity junkie. The warning signs were always there but this time I have really teetered over the line and gotten addicted. From E news (giving us news we need to know) to Top 100 celebrity oops and scoops, I can’t get enough. My views on celebrities are as strong as the pope’s religious beliefs. I know that I hate the god-awful Simpson sisters, am anxious to know how George Clooney’s love life will pan out hope that Britney throws out that good for nothing Kevin Federline (K-Fed to those in the know) out soon.

Yeah, so basically I’m living the life all parents dream of for their kids. An out of work TV addict who’s biggest challenge come in the form of Su-doku. God, I disgust myself. But there is no time for introspection now, Oprah’s about to start.

quickie

2005-12-28T20:03:00.000+05:30

hey all!

thanks for all the answers. (especially the hurricane naming thing - who knew there actually was a method to the madness!)

am still not convinced about AB junior's appeal! one of the many unsolved mysteries of my life.

the electrical appliances thing is a good one! we can safely blame that on murphy with all his stupid laws.

i have one more question: hollywood stars get to make out, be naked and pretty much do everything but have sex with their co-stars in movies. why then, do they keep cheating on their partners?

Random Ruminations

2005-12-18T23:10:00.000+05:30

There are times when one is forced to think. Like when you're sitting in a doctor's waiting room and there are no magazines to flip through. Or when you forget to take a book to the loo and every shampoo label has already been read. Or like in my case, when you're unempolyed; on vacation; and have absolutely nothing better to do. So yeah, I've been thinking and I have some questions.

I want to know:

who's in charge of naming hurricanes?

Is there a guy somewhere who's been hired specifically for his ability to name hurricanes? If yes, who is Katrina? An ex girlfriend who flooded his life with grief or maybe it was his mother. A large booming woman who insisted on giving him particularly violent baths. What did the employment ad read when they were hiring this person? Wanted: hurricane namer with history of destructive (mostly) women and (some) men.

Also, how do you get that job?
why my hair looks its best when I'm all by myself?

Is hair smarter than we give it credit for? Maybe it's not a bunch of dead cells after all. Maybe it's a bunch of highly intelligent cells that get smarter with age. Hence, the grey hair.

Is it some kind extremely loyal pet that will perform only for the owner and insist on completely misbehaving as soon as the owner has company? Maybe like all pets it dislikes being cleaned and pinned and caged in rubber bands and punishes us later for that.

How do you trick hair into behaving itself when there are other people around?
where Garnier gets its micro fruit oils from?

So there's this product called Body Cocoon that Garnier keeps advertising for. It's some kind of skin moisturising thing, just like many other skin moisturising things available in the market. But Garnier insists it's better for me because it has micro fruit oils.

So that got me thinking, what are these micro fruits they get this miracle oils from? Are they really tiny fruits? Like tiny berries or raisins. (Actually I don't think raisin is a fruit...)

Or are they hybrid fruits that have been grown to be really small. Does Garnier have a little orchard at some secret location where they're growing one inch bananas and pebble sized oranges?

And why are oils from micro fruits better for me that regular fruit oils?
who the hbo guy is running from?

If you've ever seen the beginning of an HBO movie, you'll know who I'm talking about. There's this guy who's always running at top speed from something really scary. We don't know what he's done and why his chaser is so angry but the expression on the guy's face shows he's really bloody scared. He usually falls down a manhole or into a river and as the camera zooms out we see a giant HBO.

Who's the guy? What did he do? Who's chasing him? Does the scene represent some kind of veiled threat to all rival networks? What happens to the guy after he falls into the river?

These are questions that have kept me up for nights and I want answers.
if I'll still be girl in pink after 20 years.

I know it's a highly unlikely scenario but it's not impossible. The internet will probably be completely different from what it is now and there's every chance I would've died from pollution or some world war. But what if I make it and I'm still writing this blog 20 years later?

I'll be 47. Hopefully I'd be fabulous and thin and the envy of every 35 year old around and I'm sure i"ll be wearing some sort of pink but I'd still be 47. Would I have to change my name to middle aged woman in pink? Or pushing 50 in pink?

Or can I be a 47 year old girl in pink?
why Abhishek Bachchan is such a phenomenon.

Ok, I know I'm probably incurring the wrath of every female who crosses this blog, but I genuinely wanna know. Why is everyone so crazy about the guy? We all agree he's not "conventionally" handsome. Well, more power to the unconventional, I say. But there's gotta be something about a guy that makes him attractive na?!? And I just don't see it. He's really not much of an actor. And yeah he's got the whole "dus bahane" dance steps down perfectly but man can't be attractive on that alone, can he? He's embarassingly bad in the Ford Fiesta ad but somehow the world just can't get over the junior Bachchan.

Now, I'm not cocky enough to think that the whole nation's got it wrong. I just wanna be let in on the secret. Why is AB so bloody hot?

Hmm...so such are the highly intellectual thoughts that fill my otherwise carefree days. Thoughts I'm sure trouble everyone but work and life probably keep them away from devoting too much time to them.

Anyone got any answers?

Delhi Diary II

2005-12-14T16:44:00.000+05:30

Delhi is a beautiful city. One the most beautiful in the world. It may not be the most liveable city in the world, but this December as I bask in the sunny afternoons and breathe in the cold night air, I can’t help but fall under its spell.

Is it the broad roads under the wide open sky that make me fall in love with it? A sky still relatively unencroached by steel and glass sky scrapers.

Or maybe it’s the beautiful architecture of all those big houses I swoon over on my way back from Lodhi Garden.
Maybe it’s Lodhi Garden itself, that wide open oasis of natural beauty and peace. A place where the clock stopped decades ago and no one remembered to wind it.

Is it the familiarity of my local market? With its flower shops and restaurants and grumpy store keepers who’ve been selling the same thing for years. And with its one shop that changes its tenant every six months because somehow whatever opens there never seems to take off.

Possibly, it’s the loud punju culture that I feel so at home with. That godawful accent that I understand well and pick up easily when I haggle for junk jewellery at Janpath.

Maybe it’s just the holiday mode I’m in that’s filling me with all this warmth. I don’t, after all, have to contend with traffic jams, nosy neighbours, lecherous qualis drivers and other encumbrances of everyday Delhi life.

But I know, as I sit here by the window and look out on the little girl studying for her exams on the terrace, I know that no dose of reality could fully take away the magic that is Delhi. It may have its flaws, but who doesn’t? There’s just something about Delhi…

Snapshots of Delhi

2005-12-14T16:16:00.000+05:30

Lodhi Tomb

Bridge at Lodhi Garden

Lodhi Garden

My neighbourhood market

Shot of Kotla Mubarakpur

Delhi Diary

2005-12-10T01:40:00.000+05:30

I hate kids. And today they drove me to tears...

...and it’s all my mom’s fault.

Ok, let me explain. See, my mom and some friends run this school for little kids at one of the friends’ farmhouse, somewhere deep in Haryana, beyond Gurgaon and everything. The students are children of construction workers from around the farmhouse. Now my mom and gang take this school running thing very seriously. The kids have uniforms, school bags, a dedicated teacher…it’s all very Swades inspired and I of course have zero interest in the whole project.

Around 10 this morning though, just as I was enjoying my bed tea and wondering which balcony would be best for some sun soaking, dog stroking and book reading, I hear my mom flapping. (I love being at home, by the way. I get tea in bed. With separate sugar, almonds that have been soaked overnight and biscuits of my choice. I’m telling you, it’s the only way to have your morning tea.)

So anyway, annoyed at my peaceful morning ritual being interrupted, I pottered out to ask what the problem was. Uno, my dog, annoyed at the sudden cessation of his mid-morning biscuits, also angrily walked out behind me and demanded an explanation. Apparently the driver hadn’t turned up and my mom absolutely had to go to the school (It’s called Gyan Shakti) today and there was no way she was going to drive all that way and she just didn’t know what to do!

Well, as I discovered today, heroes are borne out of a lack of ability to keep your mouth shut. There I was; unemployed, with no plans for the day, a nose that just doesn’t stay out of other people’s business and a driver’s license. My fate was sealed.

Two hours later, after traversing past 7 million incomplete flyovers, 3 million property dealer offices and hearing Kajra Re 6 million times on radio we were finally at the Aravalli Farmhouse Resorts something or the other. A gardener with a bandaged ear opened the gate and we entered Gyan Shakti School.

(Funny but absolutely true story about the gardener. Apparently a couple of days back, a friend of his was totally drunk and tottering and when the gardener went to help him, the drunken friend held him really tight and bit his ear off! He actually bit a piece of his ear off. And today the gardener hitched a ride back with us to a nearby doctor, with the bitten piece of ear wrapped in plastic. I know. I’m as stunned as you are. I mean this is really taking the whole influence of 'American culture on Indians thing' a bit too far, don’t you think?)

Ok, getting back to the main story. So we enter the farm house and I’m thinking, not bad at all. It’s kinda rustic and all close to nature and everything. And it’s such a lovely sunny day. While my mom finishes whatever work she has with the kids, maybe I can just laze around and play Su-doku or something. Glare from mom. Ok ok, first I’ll come and see where this great school is and see what these kids are up to.

So I reluctantly follow my mom behind this wall to see what the hullaballo is about. Well, whatever it was, I wasn’t prepared.

Near this covered shed/big hall sort of place are about 40 of the most enthusiastic, most beautiful little kids I have ever seen. Most were dressed in their school uniforms and some were getting their measurements taken by a tailor who’d been called from nearby. All the kids were facing a young lady school teacher who was teaching them something on one of those painting canvas type black boards. As soon as the kids saw my mom approach their faces lit up and I heard the loudest and happiest “Good morning Ma’am” echo through the farm.

These kids were of ages ranging from 6 to about 14 but none had the annoying traits that usually accompany the various age groups. The younger ones were bright eyed and smiley and the older ones respectful, eager and dignified. No child was crying or whining or whispering or being sullen. And when some snacks were passed around for the kids, none of them were pushy or impatient or afraid they might not get their share. They were just happy kids, happy to get their bit at their time and happy to munch on them in the sunny winter afternoon.

As I stood there, transfixed by the glow they were emanating, I started to think. These weren’t like the kids I’m usually subjected to. Kids who have an ‘attitude’ from age three, who remind you of the movie ‘Omen’ and who are usually very easy to be fed up of in less than 15 minutes. These kids actually had some of those mythical qualities people associate with children. Their eyes were actually shining, their smiles actually made you all fuzzy inside and was that…is that what they call ‘innocence’?

So mesmerised was I that I didn’t realise when someone asked the kids to say their morning prayers. It was of course 1:00 in the afternoon and I suspect all this was being done for effect. Well, effect it had. When the kids started singing “Aye Malik, tere bande hum” at the top of their voices, it was too much even for me. My heart filled with a million emotions I’m not sure I can identify and so did my eyes. Luckily, my sun glasses were close at hand and together we avoided what could’ve been a supremely embarrassing scene. (Now there’s an ad for Ray-Ban!)

Going through so many emotions in so little time can be taxing and so I decided to take a deep breath, settle down in a warm spot on the grass and just enjoy the afternoon. And the kids put up quite a show. Little Dinesh made the class recite after tables from 2 to 16. That really impressed me since my own knowledge extends to about 12. Well, if you really push it, I can manage till thirteen fives are sixty five. Beyond that, it’s all quick mental math and now with in built calculators on mobile phones, who even needs that?

I don’t understand why people want super smart kids. And by smart I mean smart-alecky smart. Why do parents boast that their 6 year old is conscious of her figure? Why are dads so happy when they their 10 year old boys talk back to them? That just makes these kids really short adults. And adults, as we all know are fucked up.

Maybe cable TV and city living are a bad idea. Maybe these damn malls and consumerism really are the devil. Maybe it’s time we all moved back to the farms?

Dinesh, the Math Wizard.

Prayer time.

Nov 22 - Dec 7

2005-12-08T14:35:00.000+05:30

It's been a busy two weeks. Spent mostly travelling. Starting with a fabulous trip to sunny Goa with the girls, an ultra quick stop over at my friend's beautiful apartment in sultry Mumbai, it's now all razais, oranges in the sun and endless cups of tea at wintry Delhi. If there was any justice in the world, I would be a frequent flyer gold card holder at the Cheap-and-Discounted-Apex-Fare Airline.

So much has been seen and done in the past two weeks. In Goa there was the bikini contest, where a guy entered and nearly won, and all the sea food and Bacardi Breezers I devoured (for the record: I usually think Breezers are for sissies and would under normal circumstances never be seen enjoying one, but this was Goa and the Breezers pretty much replaced water so this is never to be held against me, never ever.) and the lovely tan that I got and that bitch about publicly just to get people to notice it. (He he!)

Bombay was spent gushing over my friend's gorgeous new apartment, figuring out a Tata Indicom phone and using all my willpower not to spend my non-existent money.

Delhi till now has pretty much been a battle to look good while trying to stay warm. The more I try, the more I'm convinced the only way to achieve that is to get those Rs. 4,500 boots from Benetton. I do after all, come to Delhi at least once during the winter and for at least 10 days. Is it really unreasonable to want to spend a couple of month's salary on shoes, jackets and accessories? Those colourful mufflers look so cute!! And if I wore those super sexy boots with that Mango skirt, I know Lakme will beg me to participate as a solo act in their next fashion week. Sulk! I hate being poor. I think it might just be worse than being fat. Or maybe fat is worse. I don't know, they both suck equally.
And I'm both. (Hmm. Next blog: my suicide note)

So anyway, through all my exciting escapades (ahem), some things remain routinely mundane. The must-find-job-soon panic rises everyday but is squashed by an optimism that comes from hell knows where! Conversations on what to do for new years eve have started cropping up. (I of course, am more worried about finding something to squeeze into that doesn't make me look like Mrs. Santa Claus.) And there are my fortnightly visits to the bloody beauty salon.

Most people may not know this, but I hate going to salons. Unfortunately the natural shape of my eyebrows belongs perfectly in the movie 'Prem Qaidi' and it's only with some diligent threading that I'm rendered fit for human viewing. So there I was, last Friday, in the least comfortable chair ever designed, bright white halogen lights blazing through closed eyelids, one hand stretching my eyebrow from above, the other applying an equal and opposite force from below. While my poor skin was coming to terms with this paradox, Ms. Grumpy at the salon was busy drowning my eyebrow in a sea of talcum powder. Once sufficiently covered under the snowy mountain, Grumpy adjusted my head with a firm tug and started threading.

Ladies, you know the pain I'm talking about. And men, you'll have no idea right now but one day you'll pay for this. (That's why God invented hernia. That's his way for making up to us for eyebrows, waxing, period & childbirth pains)

As Grumpy plucked my eyebrows, one excrutiating strand at a time, I squirmed and writhed. You will not cry, I chided myself. It's been years now, get used to it. To add to the painful hair removal was the ridiculous chair I was seated on. Made for a 4 foot tall person, I had been adjusted on it with a couple of out of shape cushions hoisted under my neck. As I tried to be brave for all vain women around the world, Grumpy went for a particularly short eyebrow hair. Shorter hair is harder to trap between the thread and so Grumpy decided tough was the only way to go. She abandoned all gentleness and swooped on the hair with the determination of...I don't know, I think she set new examples of determination that day! Even with my eyes closed I could see her, frowning down on my brow, hell bent on winning this war against the little eyebrow hair. All that was going on in my head at the time was Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, owwwwwwww! Just when all Gods had been called upon, Grumpy suddenly stopped. With an irritated tch, she frowned at me and complained, madam, your hair is so thick!

I mean, is she friggin serious?!??!?

I sit there, in that chair from hell, in a goddman unisex salon of all places, going through this bi-monthly torture, being decent enough not to cry out, smack her on the head, break a few mirrors and run out and that ill-tempered shrew has the nerve to bitch about the quality of my eyebrow hair!

It's my hair, for crying out loud. What can I possibly do about it? Do I have the option of going back and changing parents so I get different genes? Is there a Hair-Thinning lotion available that I'm not aware of? Or do I just shave my eyebrows so Ms. Grumpinson can have the pleasure of drawing on eyebrows of her choice on me?

Enough was enough, I decided. Not only does she suck at her job, she is clearly a whiner and really not much of a team player. She's not getting away with this criticism of my hair. (Feel free to insert your, "Because I'm worth it" joke here.)

As I tersely ordered her to finish my mind started plotting revenge. I'd been screwed by salon girls too many times to let it pass. Somewhere, the downtrodden must rise. Do I complain about her to her boss? Or should I just hold back her tip?

As Grumpy handed over the little mirror to me for inspection, I stared deep into my soul (after quickly making sure the eyebrows were even). Everyone has seen your nice side, I thought, why not show them (and yourself) what you're really made of?

On the side of the mirror I could see Grumpy coming towards me, holding a big glass bottle of rose water and cotton, for that silly eyebrow massage they give you at the end. She started dabbing the cotton with the rose water and just then I swiveled around on the chair (it had finally shown some use, the piece of junk) and casually stretched my leg out, as if contemplating a pedicure.

Cut to: Grumpy falling heavily on the floor, rose water bottle flung on male customer and cotton swabs flying all over the salon. Just as the rose water bottle came crashing down on the floor, so did Grumpy and the fusion sound they produced together was pure magic to my ears.

Aw, be careful now, I said patronizingly and walked all over my enemy towards the billing counter.

I paid, waved and walked out and that day, for the first time I felt how a girl should feel after a visit to the salon, really bloody good.

an idea to change your life

2005-11-21T19:39:00.000+05:30

It is widely believed that one of the keys to a successful life is to set up goals for yourself. Friends’ Phoebe Buffay had a list of goals, which included among others, having the perfect kiss and meeting Portuguese people. There’s a movie called “10 things to do before you turn 30”. I haven’t seen it but I do have a contribution to the list. One I recommend highly for anyone, at any age. It’s simpler than climbing Mount Everest, although almost as nerve racking. It’ll change your perspective of some of the most mundane things of life and on the whole, it’s rather fun.
I suggest unemployment.

We may not realise this but most of us have been constantly busy with something or the other pretty much since the age of 3. With all respect to the “childhood is the best time of your life” view holders, we all know that school was no child’s play. Every summer vacation came with holiday homework and preparation for the next year. Having barely heaved a sigh of relief at finishing our board exams, it was time for us to start jostling our way into colleges. CAT, RAT, GMAT followed that and before we knew it we were eating tasteless catered food at our workplaces, while partaking in office gossip. It’s been a busy ride and stopping isn’t a thought that occurs to most people. I confess, being out of work wasn’t exactly a lifelong dream of mine either. But having stumbled into this blissful, shall we say, experience I feel compelled to urge everyone to take a shot at it.

Now enjoying unemployment is kinda like taking to caviar. It’s an acquired taste. (And also very expensive, but then all good things are.) The first week is rather hellish. You are so used to constantly running, and running late, that waking up to nothingness will be very disconcerting. At this time, I guarantee you, there will nothing to watch on TV, nothing interesting to read around the house and the electricity will go off for at least 4 hours at a stretch. You will pick up the phone to reconnect with old friends now that you have the time but guess what? They’re still busy and will have to call you back please! After half heartedly organising your socks drawer you’ll decide to catch up on all those lost zzzs and fall asleep. When you wake up, it’ll be dark outside and you’ll find yourself still in your pyjamas; unbathed and disoriented. Your friends will finally call you back and tell you about the crazy day they had at work and in return you’ll tell them about today’s Oprah. As you hang up the phone, a deep depression will start enveloping your heart and you’ll find your hand reaching out for that head hunter’s card.

STOP! These are just early obstacles designed to test if you’re strong enough to be an ‘unemployed person’. Like I said, it’s not all a bed of roses but if you survive the first week I promise, it will get better.

The feeling of joy starts creeping around the first weekend of your jobless life. Around Sunday evening, you’ll hear your friends saying no to another drink, instead groaning and moaning about the upcoming Monday. Hmm…you’ll think to yourself, what do I have lined up for Monday morning? Ah yes, I was going to organise my t-shirts by colour. And the deadline on that is…September 2010.
Yeah, I think I will have another drink. And maybe after that catch a late movie on TV. But I won’t make it too late. I must, after all get that very important job of washing my hair done tomorrow. Open planner. Things to do - Monday: Switch geyser on.

As your second week of wastefulness unfolds you’ll find yourself settling into a happy routine. Wake up around noon, potter around house, check mail, shower (or not. Unemployed life is very lenient when it comes to hygiene.) and step out for a bit of something.

In the past one week I have done things that a job just would not have afforded me time for.

I started with a refreshing facial. Oops, I’ve mentioned that already. Well, let’s just leave it at, I started with an interesting visit to the salon.

After that I caught a play. An Agatha Christie murder mystery it was, enacted rather amateurishly but at least something culturally driven in my otherwise shallow life.

I read Lolita by Vladimir Nabakov, a book so beautifully written that I felt too humbled for a long time to even write my little blog.

I went for a kalaripayattu dance class. That’s a beautiful but very vigorous style of Kerela martial arts. You don’t just stretch your body to crazy limits but also learn to smilingly lose all your dignity as professional dancers cartwheel around you (who’re learning how to kick one foot above the ground).

I went to see ‘Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire’. A thoroughly enjoyable film, which is apparently partially inspired by Bollywood! Watch out for the cutie who plays Cedric Diggory and a really creepy, really awesome Voldemort. Personally, I think ‘Prisoner of Azkaban’ is the best of the Harry Potter films, but this one was really good as well.

Through all this, I’ve played lots of Su-doku, tended to my plants, made a scrap book of my Pondicherry pictures, checked out a new night club, been to party that got raided by cops, caught up with some old girlfriends and forgotten a really really good friend’s birthday (NM: Happy Belated Birthday! Please forgive me for not calling. Believe me when I tell you I had totally lost track of time. Sorry :-( )

Now for any of you have even slightly bought into the great unemployed life concept, I do have some words of caution. As lovely as it is, it does come with an expiry date. I suggest you give it three weeks top. Either that or make sure you never check your bank balance. Cuz when you do, a sense of panic will start setting in. And you’ll start coming up with bizarre money making schemes in case you never get a job. So before I have to start putting any of these crazy ideas into practice, if you know of anyone who needs an advertising copywriter with 4 and something years of work ex, ask them to get in touch. Please.

Bachao!!!!!!!!!!!!

2005-11-15T22:52:00.000+05:30

I've downloaded the google bar, the msn and the yahoo bar! But those damn pop ups do not stop!!!! Everytime I settle down in my chair to read something on the net, up pops an offer for a loan, some new software or some ugly cow persuading me to marry her. I'm not a lesbian, I'm not unmarried and I'm not fucking interested so go away!!

And today when I was on my blog, trying to read the one lone comment I got (thanks V!), suddenly, the stupid pop-up blocker leapt into action and I had to press ctrl to read a comment on my own blog! Does the internet now have a sense of humour? Is it funny to see me curse out loud everytime I'm online?

Screw anti-terrorism laws, I need a really swift and really strict anti pop up law.

Anyone who lost their way on the great web highway and reached here and knows of a solution to the pop-up menace, please help me.

I'll download anything (as long as it doesn't cost me anything) and if it works you will be amply rewarded (as long as it doesn't cost me anything).

Please help.

The skinny on skin

2005-11-14T15:57:00.000+05:30

Coco Chanel allegedly once said, “All women are born beautiful. But only some know how to make them selves look pretty.”
(It’s ridiculous how I know all these trashy quotes by the least important people in history. Next time, I’ll be smarter, I’ll go to thinkexist.com, copy and paste.)

So anyway, on Saturday I decided it was time to let the inner beauty in me out and step one was by getting a facial. Actually, more than Ms. Chanel, it was my lack of employment that lead to this unwise decision. I hate spending time at the salon, it’s boring and I never find it relaxing but then there’s only so much reading and TV watching a girl can do. So I promptly roped in two of my girl friends and booked ourselves at one of the most expensive salons in the city. (One of the biggest ironies of life is being unemployed. You have all this time on your hands to do things but no money to do any of them. At such times I can only thank God for the thoughtfulness of credit card companies who let us live out our dreams for at least 30 days before slapping us in the face with reality.)

So off went the three of us, discussing what each one of us was going to get done, while listening to those Arabic-music-inspired Hindi songs on radio and bitching about how ugly that emraan hashmi dude is and how we wouldn’t hire him unless we were re-making ‘Planet of the Apes’. Our spirits were high as we cruised into the driveway of the hotel where the salon was. Which is when the valet nonchalantly directed us towards the parking lot to park the car ourselves. A little insulted by this brush off of our little 800 we cheered when we saw there were Corollas and Sonatas that were also being asked to park themselves. Maybe it’s not discrimination on the basis of size, we reasoned, maybe they’re just really tied up with something, maybe there’s some big conference happening, big 7 star hotels have conferences all the time…oh look, that Corolla and Sonata are chauffer driven and that City is being parked by a valet…oh.

Nonetheless, determined to enjoy our day of pampering (ha!) we sauntered into the salon and were each assigned to our rooms and robes. As I lay down on for my facial, Moni, the salon-girl assigned to me covered me with a warm blanket, turned off the bright lights and lit a scented candle for my pleasure. Hmm…I thought, maybe this won’t turn out to be a torturous experience after all. Maybe tonight I’ll be one of those people telling my friends what a lovely day at the salon I had and how a good facial always refreshes my skin and my senses, maybe I can really relax and even doze off for a bit…

*Blink*, a white light stolen either from the dentist or the police department came on and was focussed on my face and Moni started inspecting it in one of those firm yet gentle fashions becoming a hospital matron. Although I couldn’t see her face, I could feel her expression of disapproval burning through my skin. And sure enough, within seconds she asked me the mother of all dreaded questions, “When was the last time you had a facial?”

“Um, about 8 months or so…” I mumbled, hoping she would accept that as an explanation for a less than acceptable skin, drop the subject and quietly do her thing.

I was wrong. Moni was a tough cookie who obviously took her job very seriously and believed in telling it like it was, “8 months? That’s too long! You have to get one at least once a month otherwise it’ll have no effect on your skin. At this rate your skin will just shrivel up and die and the next time you might as well just book an appointment at the cosmetic surgeon’s!” OK, I made that last sentence up but you should’ve heard her, going on and on and on about the state of my skin, the size of my pores, the importance of clean ups, how my skin was really sensitive (read fucked beyond repair) and how I had to come back to her in 3 to 4 weeks or else…

That’s the thing that gets me about salons. Why is it that after you have gone to them for their stupid facials, they start lecturing you on how crappy your skin is? Damn you, I know its crappy. You don’t need to sell your services to me anymore. I’m already here, aren’t I? If I needed a self-deprecating talk, I have a mirror at home, thank you very much.

After calming Moni down with promises that I would visit her every month (now I have to set aside money every month for my EMIs and these torture sessions.) I decided to give relax-and-enjoy another shot. Those cucumber stuffed cotton pads on my eyes certainly felt nice. Cool and soothing. Ooh, quite cold actually. And that orange juice like thing she’s rubbed on my face is also cold. And kinda drippy…ok, I gotta pee now.

This always happens to me. Just when the lights have been turned off and there’s no one in the room and my face is covered with muck that would collapse if I even breathe too hard my bladder decides to speak up. And not in little whispers either. Nope, this is a gun throat variety of bladder. It screams so loud that you have answer the call immediately or risk some embarrassing one year old suited behaviour. Moni!! Where are you?

After what seemed like hours (Moni insists it was 5 minutes), Moni finally came in and freed me from my orange and cucumber prison. Before she could arrange for a towel for me to drape over that stupid strapless gown they give you, I’d already sprinted to the bathroom. Which of course had to be in the men’s section of the salon. Men getting facials-now that’s a sight that could damage you for life. Luckily for me, I hadn’t had the time to wear my glasses so it was all one blurry dash to the loo and back with a few suspicious looking scenes on the way.

Back again in my scented, women only sanctuary, Moni informed me she was going to give me a massage. Now of all salon related things I hate, a massage is on the top of the list. To begin with there’s the embarrassment of lying pretty much naked in front of a complete stranger. Then fate makes sure the masseur I get is either a karate expert or a part time butcher, someone who probably doesn’t even need a knife to get the job done. And then there was that incident in Bombay of the woman who’s hands went way beyond the neck and shoulder area while she was massaging me. I would trust Lalloo Prasad with my life’s savings more than I would a masseur and am always on high alert around the lot. I tersely told Moni to stick to the neck only please and left the sliding door of the room slightly open so I could scream in case of any untoward behaviour.

Now regular salon goers maybe aware of the usual fixtures in a salon. The mirrors, hair dryers, L’oreal shampoo bottles, make up stuff and the unpleasantly loud woman who talks non stop through the 5 hours she spends getting her self less-uglified. This is a breed that usually comes from money and always from no class. She has a latest hindi hit as her phone’s ring tone and it rings constantly. The volume of her voice is permanently stuck at ‘DEAFENING’ and when she’s not chattering with her friends on the phone, she yaps with all the salon girls and any customer who might make the mistake of looking at her. When absolutely nobody else will speak to her, she calls up her driver or Raju at home to find out the show timings for movie classics such as “No Entry” and “Shaadi No.1”. And when talking to her staff she will make sure her hindi is always broken, “Saab kaha ko gaya hai? Humko chaar bajje picture jaane ka hai, so tum baby ko birthday party pe chod ke humko pick up karega.” Aarrgh!!!! Being molested by Moni would’ve been infinitely better than having to hear Mrs. Non-Stop Shit outside but it was I who had left the door open and was now being justly punished for it.

The walloping session over, my skin refreshed and pores cleansed, Moni finally handed over my clothes after extracting a vow that I’d come back to her in a month. I dressed and came out of my cubby hole, eager to see my new improved skin in the big mirrors outside. That’s funny, there are no crimson lights here so why is my skin looking so red? And by red, I don’t mean I’m-blushing-on-seeing-my-beau-red, more of a hasn’t-this-lobster-been-cooking-too-long-red. Just as the red started deepening into maroon with anger, my friend who was admiring her newly ironed hair, rushed to me to confirm that the effects of a facial show only after 3 days. Come now, she said, we have to pay the bill.

2 hours, a hefty bill, continuous bitching from Moni, a stressed out bladder and one very loud, very annoying woman. Is it worth it to endure all this just for red skin which might hopefully subside to someday look like your old skin?

Maybe Coco Chanel is right, all women are born beautiful and only some know how to make themselves look pretty. And some are smart enough to realise that beautiful any day scores over pretty. So pretty girls, more power to you, but I’m just going to stick to being beautiful.

Pondicherry Post

2005-11-10T11:53:00.000+05:30

Last weekend, being a long one (and me being unemployed), we took a trip to Pondicherry. Lovely city, very warm people, over hyped ashrams, fabulous drive and an over all great experience. There was however one terribly odd thing about the city. Most hotels in the French quarters, while beautifully decorated, have this strange quirk about bathrooms with openings into the bedroom. Some bathrooms simply have no doors (just a gaping rectangular hole where the door should be), other have windows which cannot be shut, some have those half swing doors you see in a doctors clinic and then some have these holes cut out all over the wall dividing the bedroom and bathroom.

Finding this most peculiar, I decided to investigate. So one evening I had a chat with some locals (Mr. Smirnoff and Ms. Lime Cordial) and finally managed to get the story. Below is a report that might shed some light on the mystery of the “Door less bathrooms of Pondicherry.”

It was sometime in the 1600s when the French decided to set base at Pondicherry. Seeing that it would be a long voyage to India they decided to carry with them everything they could possibly need in this strange and unknown land. Fair enough, since the option of later calling mom and asking her to please courier “my black sling backs” wasn’t really there. So the ships were loaded. With high French beds, exotic cooking herbs, perfumes, powders, wigs, yards of fabric, riding boots, French windows, architects, sculptors, painters, stencils of French accent marks, pretty much everything most of us would like to take on a trip, if only it wasn’t for that damn 30 kg thing airlines limit us with.

Well prepared and in the high spirits that always warrant the invasion of a new land, the French set sail for the sultry shores of Pondicherry. After a long and interesting journey with some well deserved shopping breaks at Sri Lanka, they finally set foot on Pondicherry. Within days, development work began; existing villages were torn down and the locals were quickly designated to bearer and punkah swinging capacities.

It was while the new French buildings were coming up that a young engineer noticed something odd. Amongst all the material they had carried with them, one item was alarmingly low in numbers. The doors. Someone had grossly miscalculated the number of doors that would be required to make a complete house. L’enquirie commission was set up and it was found to be a case of miscommunication. You see, the French word for door is “porte” and when the orders were being placed, the supplies in-charge heard it as “potty”. Having once served in the ‘Light Brigade’, he decided it wasn’t his to reason why, but to simply do and so he packed half the number of “portes” and double the number of “potties”.

(This incident also explains the existence of the bidet. Since they were saddled with twice the number of commodes they could use, the French decided each bathroom should have two commodes, one to do your business in and the other solely for cleaning up.)

So anyway, here they were, in a new land with half the number of required doors and a lot of building work in progress. The French intelligentsia put their heads together to figure a way out of his door-less quandary. And suddenly, “A-ha!” said Pierre Dumefucke, “I have got it! Let’s not put any doors on our bathrooms!”

“It’s perfectly logical,” he continued, “The bedroom is where we carry out our amorous activities and the kitchen needs a door to protect our top secret recipes. The study has to have a door to prevent the illiterate Indians from reading our plans in French. That only leaves the bathroom!”

“I see, I see,” concurred Jaques Stupide, “I see your point. Besides, what happens in a bathroom that requires privacy anyway? We bathe twice a year and our other activities provide such sweet sound. A gurgling brook, a child throwing pebbles into the brook. I’m sure it’ll all be very pleasant to hear for the person in the bedroom outside.”

“Oui oui!” exclaimed Philippe P’Brain, “and do not give any thought to the smells that might emit from a door less bathroom. After all, what is the French perfume industry for?”

At this, they all laughed happily, clinked their glasses of wine together and the verdict was passed.
“All French houses will be made without bathroom doors.”
By order of the Pondicherry-French planning committee.

(Some French claim that this is the origin behind the open-door policy but that is yet to be validated.)

In 1954, the French handed Pondicherry back to the Indian government. While bidding farewell to his beloved Pondicherry the teary eyed French governor took the head of the Indian union aside and asked a promise of him, “for old times sake.” (Like when we ruled over you and treated as slaves…good days!)

“Promise me, you will continue the tradition of the open bathrooms in Pondicherry. So that every time some one goes to take le crap he gets constipation due to embarrassment and his friend outside is forced to stuff his ears and nose with cotton. Let open defecating be the legacy the French leave behind in India.”

Sob.

“Au Revoir!”

Light up!

2005-10-31T09:51:00.000+05:30

Hey all! Thanks for the comments. Guess somewhere I needed to know that my decision of quitting my job was right. I really wasnt enjoying myself. Now the question looms large: What next?

But i'll think about that after diwali.

Happy diwali everyone! Indulge, shop, eat...do whatever your heart desires.

Someone commented that my blog is becoming more skewed to the colour 'blue' than 'pink'. Dammit! That girl in pink will not stand for such shifts on the colour spectrum. So the shade of the season is a loud, bright bubble gum pink. Have a bright pink one everyone!!

p.s. Was gonna title this post, "having a blast", but in light of the horrible bomb blasts in Delhi I decided not to. And I just wanna go on record as saying that I hate those bastards for doing this to innocent people trying to have a little fun before diwali. I'm sick of this constant terror looming large over all our head and I hope these shits get caught and get the worst punishment of their lives. Peace talks be damned, this has got to stop.

hey you

2005-10-26T16:29:00.000+05:30

You were a tiny little thing in pigtails when you were first asked about it. You’ve been thinking about it ever since. You wrote essays and made crayon drawings of what it would be like. You studied hard and passed exams in preparation for it. You took up after-school courses to add to those preparations.

You slogged, you fretted, you pulled strings, you gave up on love and friendships and you were jubilant when you finally got it.

It’s where you made some of the most lasting relationships of your life. It’s where your will power and strength of character got tested to the extreme. It’s where you had some of your life’s proudest moments. It’s where you’ve cried (albeit secretly, crying publicly is frowned upon). It’s where you discovered your greatest assets and worked on improving on your liabilities. It’s where, on an average, you spend 10 hours a day (that’s about 65% of your waking time).

Then how come, when things don’t go well and you want to cry in despair, people tell you, “Forget it. It’s just a job.”

On the fence

2005-10-15T12:53:00.000+05:30

In life, I’ve found that people respect people with a strong opinion. Or at least strong leanings. The opinion a person holds helps us form an opinion of that person.

Question: What kind of music do you listen to?
Answer: Trance, a lot of underground.
Opinion: Junkie.

Question: So what are your views on abortion?
Answer: I think its wrong, its taking a life and amounts to murder.
Opinion: Virgin.

It’s important you have a point of view, a clear like for one thing and a strong dislike for the opposite. It’s what you believe in after all, and can pretty much be what defines you.

But what if you don’t have such extreme views on everything? What if you like the colour black as well as pink and life for you mostly operates in grey? What if you like trance and alternative? What if you can enjoy sub-titled European cinema and slapstick American comedies? What if you make up the great ‘middle’ class when it comes to choices? What if you’re me?

Let me illustrate with the help of an example. (Real life is so helpful when it comes to writing blogs!) So it was 2003 and I was getting ready for my wedding. One of the most important, expensive and wasteful events of a punju wedding is the purchase of the wedding lehenga. You spend thousands on an outfit that you’ll wear once in your entire life. A wedding lehenga is like the Taj Mahal. An obscene amount of money spent in the name of love. Practicality: zero.

But it’s an important event in a girl’s life and the guilt of spending your parents money lasts all of 4 seconds so there we were; my mom, I and fat punju salesman surrounded by heaps of silk, satin and gold embroidery.

The lehengas had been coming and I had been rejecting. Somewhere along the way I realised it was rude to keep turning up my nose at the ugly shit he was showing us (oh and it was ugly!) and I tried a new, politer approach at rejection. “Um, it’s nice but I don’t think that colour suits me.”

When I said it all I was going for was an attempt at civility. But instead it sparked off what became a raging debate between my mother and fat punju salesman.
“Hmm…actually for her skintone maybe mauve will work.”
“No no, mauve works only for very fair skin.”
“Yes, but she’s not dark.”
“That’s true, but she’s not very fair either.”
“That’s true, but she’s not dusky.”
“No no, not at all dusky but not wheatish either.”
“Yes she’s fair-ish but not white. Not dark but not fair either”

I think that conversation became the defining moment of my life. I, apparently do not even have a skin tone that can be defined. How is such a person ever supposed to be able to have definitive views on anything?

I am one of those people who constantly operate in the twilight zone. Asking me to choose between two places to eat could mean you end up with 4 new choices. Here I am, still battling with choosing a template for my blog. God help me when I have to make bigger decisions in life. I envy people who know exactly what they like.

Sigh! I can just imagine what my obituary would read like when I die:

“We are sorta sad to announce the demise of That Girl In Pink. She was kind of fair, kind of dark, sometimes liked, sometimes not. She’s definitely dead but we can’t be sure where she’s headed. Maybe heaven, maybe hell…aah, with her, who knows?”

A little bit of this, a little bit of that.

2005-10-08T19:55:00.000+05:30

What a week it’s been! Work is in going on at top speed, have taken my 376th vow to quit, another roadie has been kicked off the show, brad and jen’s divorce finally came through, friends from out of town have dropped by, I helped a friend get freelance and then there have been the birthdays! Those storks must work their asses off in October!

Do you think parents purposely plan for their babies to be born around Mahatma Gandhi’s birthday, hoping some of his greatness rubs off on their kids? Either that or there must be something really special about the January air that gets so many couples working on producing a baby. Actually I like Librans, I just never seem to remember the exact date to be able to wish them and show how much I like them.

There is one birthday, however, I do remember and that is of my nephew Aryan. (God, it feels grown up admitting to the world you have a nephew. I’m an aunt! Aunty Pink. Pinky Aunty…oh horrors! What have I created here?!) So anyway, this morning I sent a birthday wish to Aryan via an e-mail to his mom’s i.d. It said, ‘Dear Aryan, Happy 1st Birthday. Have a great day etc…’ Now for some reason, my cousin (his uncle) was very tickled by the idea of addressing the mail to one year old Aryan. And he asked me to write a blog on how to wish a one year old.

That got me thinking as to what a birthday means to a one year old. Tried to tap back into my one year old brain but it’ll take some serious hypnosis to jog my memory back that far. All I remember about turning one is from the pictures we have of my first birthday party. And thank God the cake has a big one shaped candle on it to confirm that it was, after all my first birthday. I look three. Or maybe a very healthy two.

So that gets me back to the question, do one year olds even know it’s their birthday, a very special day? Since attention is showered on them in bucket loads by everybody everyday (you’ll be right in sensing some envy here.) I don’t think it’s even possible to make them feel extra important on their birthday.

Maybe putting party hats on their heads is a good indicator that something special is happening? Nah, I don’t think so. They wear cartoon-animal printed diapers and suck on pink and blue pacifiers (or like we Indians like to call them-nipples. Tee hee!) on a daily basis. I don’t think a colourful party hat is gonna be much of a conversation piece for a bunch of one year olds.

The excessive picture taking then? Hmm…after having their first step, first potty, first spit bubble, first sip on water, first hug, first time wearing winnie-the-pooh blue jumper, first time wearing pokemon green jumper, first smile while lying down, first smile while standing, first smile while sitting and facing right being photographed and kept for posterity I really doubt a camera clicking is going to flash too much of a light bulb in their little heads.

I think it’s time to change the rules. I think it’s time we started celebrating 1st delivery-day. The first anniversary of the day the mom, who carried and cared for the baby for 9 months, got together all her physical, mental and spiritual energy and gave birth to a healthy baby who brings joy to so many people.

So RJ, since I’ve already wished little Aryan on turning one, this one’s for you. Happy first birth-day to you.

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On a more athletic note, who has seen the new Hutch-Delhi half marathon commercial? I love it!! I love the way they’ve shown Delhi (meri dilli!), I love the narration and I absolutely, totally, completely adore Rajpal Yadav’s (Mungeri Lal, remember?) voice. Lovely lovely lovely! Can’t gush enough…

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One last question. Why is it that when we reach home from anywhere, the first thing we have to do is pee? Even if we went to the bathroom just before leaving the place we came from? Even if we have, cross-our-heart-hope-to-die swear, not touched a drink of water or any other beverage on the way? Even if it’s not too rainy or too cold? Why then, do we rush to the loo as soon as we get home?

Of Vikings and Teutons

2005-10-05T23:42:00.000+05:30

Today I was surfing the net, looking for some information on Vikings. Fun as this may sound, let me tell you, it wasn’t. It was for a ghastly project involving conceptualising and naming a children’s clothing store.

I cannot roll my eyes and snort enough to express how I feel for the species. And I assure you; children today are a different species from us. Seriously, I think, those crop circles may not be a hoax, some aliens have actually slyly infiltrated the earth’s population and sowed their seed amongst us. The fruit of that interaction is what you see in the form of today’s kids. They may look, and occasionally behave like us, but inside they’re a whole different species.

I’ve got statistics to prove it.
Apparently 5 year olds do not like “cute”. They like everything to have an attitude and they’re not interested in impressing anyone.
There are actual existing schools today that include in their prospectuses their policy on boys and earrings: one earring is ok, two are not.
Today no child (of any age) will be caught dead enjoying Enid Blytons and Disney Cartoons. Apparently they’re too kiddish. So said a child of 6. I’m sure you can understand my horror.

So anyway today I was online, looking for information on the Vikings. (Just realised I digressed quite a bit from what I actually wanted to write about.) While going through various sites I somehow stumbled upon some information on the ‘Teutons’. Now usually I’m not one for wasting time on stuff I’m not interested in. But lately something has happened that makes me stop, read, process and memorise every bit of trivia I might see. (In case anyone’s curious, the Teutons is the cultural hearth out of which all the various Germanic peoples emerged.)

That something is KBC 2. Or like Amitabh Bachchan likes to call it, “Kaun Banega Crorepati, dviteeeeeeeeeeeye.” I’m convinced that’ll be my redemption.

Ever since KBC 2 was announced I have been hoping to get called for the show. I know my chances are 1 in a trillion but like I tell myself, someone has to get selected. It may just be me!

So I’ve started answering KBC entry questions everyday via SMS@Rs 6/message. It has contributed healthily to my phone bill but optimism always wins over logic. What’s the loss of a few hundred rupees when I’m going to win lakhs, maybe crores?

I’ve started reading the paper (the whole paper, not just Bangalore Times) and watching hitherto undiscovered channels like NDTV, CNBC and Star News. Now when I watch African lionesses attack and kill their prey on Discovery I’m not just imagining my branch head as the deer but also noticing neighbouring vegetation, time of day and the lioness’s chosen tree to hide and carry out the ambush from. You just never know what Computerji might ask you on KBC 2.

I also have a ready list of people I’m going to call in case I need to use the phone-a-friend lifeline. I personally think that’s a pretty useless lifeline cuz usually your friend is not only as dumb as you but also unluckier than you with his answers. After all you got called to KBC 2, not he.

But it’s a lifeline and Mr. Bachchan says, “woh humein zyada se zyada dhan rashi deke ghar bhejna chahte hai” so we must make the most of it. Which is why I have categorised people according to subjects. For instance if it’s a question on sports I’ll call my husband (unless its expressly on Sachin Tendulkar. In that case, I call my brother in law.) If it’s a question on history my dad is the best person to call and if it’s a question on movies I’ll call my DVD library guy. See, if you plan in advance even a seemingly useless lifeline can save the day.

I have of course, completely worked out how I’m going to dress for the show. Going to wear my new Esprit pants and black FCUK top. Black is slimming and that’s crucial because the camera supposedly adds 10 pounds. Toe nails are painted to glimmer through my black open toe sandals and finger nails are cut short so as to provide speed and agility in the Fastest Fingers First round.

(Just had a thought. What if I play so well that I don’t get thrown out in one episode and have to carry on to the next episode? I’ll need a whole new look for the next day.
Note to self: Must keep 3 wardrobe back ups in case of good luck/mumbai floods ruining clothes/clothes getting stolen/coffee-spilling incident (most likely).)

My behaviour on the show will be calm yet charming. I will shake hands with Mr. Bachchan, say something intelligent and proceed to win my booty and get out. Still undecided who to take with me to the show. Nobody else seems to share either my interest or absolute certainty that KBC 2 is the answer to my problems, the only way I’ll be able to finally go to my boss and say, “Take your job and shove it! You call this an agency? You call yourself pada-likha? Grrr!!!!”

Basically I’m as ready as I can ever be. I know who the Teutons are, I know names of Peruvian dictators, I feel I can add some glamour to the show (the coloured hair, the lip gloss-its gotta be good for ratings) and unlike most other people who go to the show, I really deserve the money. So come one Mr. Bachchan, what you waiting for? Just get your people to pick up the phone and call me to Kaun Banega Crorepati, dviteeeeeeeeeeeeeeye.

The Genius of Miss Marple

2005-09-29T18:37:00.000+05:30

Being a detective, I believe, is a job best done by women. And not just because they’re smarter, have the gift of female intuition and can ask sensitive questions with, well, sensitivity. Men, I’ve observed, suffer from a startling lack of curiosity. A quality I’m sure is essential when it comes to detecting.

Take this exchange between my husband (will refer to him as H for the sake of laziness) and me for instance.

H (uninterestedly): Remember Bunty? Bunty and Babli are getting a divorce.

Me (leap out of my seat with concerned excitement. I have after all met Bunty once, never met Babli and had no idea they were married. There’s a lot to catch up on.) : What?? How come? What happened?

H (studiously changing channels on TV): Well, they weren’t getting along.

Me (with all the patience I can conjure, it’s too early in the conversation to start screaming.): Obviously they weren’t getting along. But what happened? How long were they married?

H (clucking in disappointment at the lack of good television shows): Not sure…probably the same as us.

Me (delighted with this piece of information, vague as it is.): My god! Were they staying with his parents? Was that the problem?

H (sees a ray of hope on Discovery Travel and Living’s ‘American Choppers’): No. His parents are in the States I think. Or Siliguri. Anyway, they’re not here.

Me (realising I’ll have to use this method of elimination to reach the root of this marital discord): So has she moved out?

H (damn. He’s seen this episode before): I don’t know.

Me (dying to grab that remote from his hand): Didn’t you ask him? You guys didn’t get much time to talk eh?

H (ah! That gladiator movie he’s seen 85 times is coming.): Actually we had lunch together.

Me (slowly counting to 10): So I guess you guys aren’t too close. You didn’t want to ask him personal stuff.

H (settling into a comfortable TV watching position, whilst continuing firm grip on remote): Oh! We’ve been friends since class 4. He’s one of my closest friends.

Me (grab cushion so I can scream into it.): Muffled aaarrrgghhh!

Such an abysmal lack of information is appalling and inexcusable. Now don’t think I’m nosy but I promise you, had I been given half an hour with Babli, I would’ve found out exactly what had gone wrong between the two of them, who was to blame, given sound advice and participated in some healthy name calling.

Men however don’t seem to feel the need to ask questions. H and Bunty probably discussed sports, property prices in various parts of the city and how the Swift isn’t that great a car actually. And all this while one of them is going through a major personal crisis. Like I said before, inexcusable.

This lack of thirst for knowledge is not the only reason men make lousy detectives. Another thing they’re severely missing is imagination. And we all know part of detecting is to imagining different possibilities of what could’ve happened. Women on the other hand have the skill to read between the lines, to process information in order to find out what it really means. Since we never say what we really mean, it goes to reason nobody else does either.

Another example to illustrate what I mean:

Sunday is my cook’s day off. And since we ordered in the night before and will be eating out at night, I figure I’ll give cooking lunch a shot. After giving it many minutes of thought I decide rice and chicken curry is a tasty and not-so-cumbersome way to go.

So around noon I drag myself out of bed (Sunday is my only day off, by the way. Just so everyone understands the supreme sacrifice I’m making.) and waltz into the kitchen. Throw the rice into the rice cooker and pull out my handy pack of Kitchens of India chicken curry paste. Clean chicken, add it along with the curry paste to the cooker and set a 20-minute alarm on my cell phone. Twiddle my thumbs for 20 minutes and sharp at 1:30 a delicious home-made lunch is served.

Scene at dining table:

Me: So what do you think?

H: It’s really good. Thanks baby.

It’s really good? That’s it? On television men make much grander gestures when their wives cook them good meals. Where are the undying protestations of love and how I make him happier beyond anything else? Where’s the offer to take me shopping so I can buy anything my heart desires? Why isn’t he even kissing the hands that have made him this gourmet meal? Obviously this means he doesn’t like the food. He thinks I suck as a wife. Marrying me was the biggest mistake he ever made. Just two years and already the love has gone from our marriage!

At this point I sulk, leave my food and walk off from the table, leaving H to grudgingly leave his lunch and the Amitabh movie on TV and come after me to figure what he did now.

Which man would ever be able to reach such perceptive conclusions on the basis of one sentence?

Clearly there are some essential qualities missing from men that render them completely inept at the cerebral art of detecting. And if you’re thinking of a certain Belgian with a head shaped like an egg, don’t forget, his creator was female.

Some people...

2005-09-26T16:39:00.000+05:30

Some of us grow up with this rather naïve belief that people are essentially good. Strip away at their gruff/rude/obnoxious surface and deep inside is a heart that beats with pretty much the same values as the rest of us: kindness, the desire to be happy, the desire not to hurt others and the general want of peace and love in the world.

Not true. There are people who’ve been spawned by the devil himself and stripping away at their surface only will reveal a black heart that desires the worst for everyone. And all these offspring of Satan currently carry out their dastardly acts based from my workplace. I’m getting out of here soon but if you ever head this way, make sure you carry a crucifix and some sharp stakes with you. Just in case.

A word on advice

2005-09-24T00:44:00.000+05:30

The problem with meeting with people, as against only interacting with your dog and the television remote, is that people tend to give unsolicited advice. I’m sure I’m one of them but on this blog I’m perfect and faults are only observed in others.

So anyway, like I was saying, advice. You’re sweating it out at the gym and slim do-gooder from the cross trainer comes and starts advising you on good sports bras. You’re sitting in a restaurant waiting for your friend to arrive and some random woman will come and tell you to about this salon that gives a great facial. I mean, what the *&$#? I really don’t remember ordering for an obnoxious woman. Waiter, I would like my salad now please!! (Secret: It’s actually never salad, usually a steak or something with cheese. Refer previous post.)

Unknown people you can growl at and ignore. Harder to get past are acquaintances, friends and family. Advice pores from this lot by the bucketful and sometimes you’re stupid enough to actually take it. Below are the top 5 “pieces of advice” taken and consequences thereafter.

Advice: Drink 3 litres of water a day.
Expected benefit: Your skin will glow like a 300-watt bulb and you will lose weight .
What actually happened: For years I lugged around a bottle of water with me everywhere I went. The only thing I lost were many rolls of toilet paper and my dignity when I had to pee behind trees and bushes. And as I write this I have a pimple on my left cheek which mocks me and says, “Yeh paani shaani se kuch nahi hone wala. Just go and buy some good foundation and learn cover up tactics.”

Advice: Oil your hair once a week.
Expected benefit: Shiny hair to match your svelte figure and glowing skin.
What actually happened: Oil stinks! Literally, it does. And it stains my pillow covers. And each time I wash my hair after oiling it, my bathroom floor turns black, brown, blonde and red (I'm very experimentative with hair colours) with all the hair that falls. And my husband refuses to come near me with my greasy scalp. It’s just not worth it, especially since the shiny effect can be easily achieved with a visit to your closest hair salon.

Advice: Finish dinner by 7:30 in the evening.
Expected benefit: Tons of weight loss. (I get a lot of advice on how to lose weight.)
What actually happened: Well, actually it never happened. Not once in my life have I been able to finish anything by 7:30. In fact, each time I resolve to eat early I end up working late and only eat by 11:30-12:00. So technically the 7:30 dinner thing is un-followed advice. Maybe one day I’ll try it and tell you how it worked out.

Advice: Start learning to cook by making simple dals, rice etc.
Expected benefit: In a few weeks I'd be Tarla Dalal, making 7 course gourmet meals and writing books on the joy of cooking.
What actually happened: There's no better way to get someone off cooking forever than by making him or her make dal. It's boring, the cooker never works properly, strange liquids gush out of it, you wait forever for some damn whistle which never blows and by the time you serve it, it's a salt-less yellow paste, fit only for babies with undeveloped taste buds.

Advice: Let's go to so and so's party.
Expected benefit: This is more of a suggestion rather than advice actually, that's been made and taken too many times. The ultimate aim of course is a fun-filled evening.
What actually happened: The greatest thing that happened is that I didn't strangle the person making this shitty suggestion. I cannot even count the number of evenings that have been wasted going to frightfully boring so-called parties, all for the accomplishment of one person in the group's agenda. That agenda of course always involves a member of the opposite sex and more often than not does get accomplished. What does get accomplished is a live demo of your most boring nightmare. Spending the night in high heels, with a styrofoam glass in your hand, while trying to ignore DJ Sami's latest rendition of a 60s hindi film number. I cringe at the thought!

Having had all this experience I've concluded it's best to do what you think is right. That way things not going the desired way can be termed as 'a learning experience'.

My advise? Don't take any advice. Although you should take this one.

Query of the day

2005-09-23T14:01:00.000+05:30

What makes 'Friends' such an exceedingly watchable show? Most of us have seen every episode of it ever and still we watch reruns everyday? (I watch it twice a day, on two different channels. And if nothing else is coming on TV I can even watch the week-that-was on the weeked!) We even laugh everytime. Sometimes at their jokes or sometimes just in anticipation of a joke that's coming up. What is it about 'Friends' that we can't get enough of it?

Comments are welcome.

The Higher Purpose

2005-09-20T15:51:00.000+05:30

There comes a time in everyone’s life when we start questioning why we were put on this earth. This question has been poking me for a few years now and as I approach my 27th year of existence it’s become more of a hard nudge. There’s got to be more to life than just breathing and existing. Jesus had his cross to bear, Gandhi had the country to free, Hitler had a few hundred murders to carry out, Dharmendra had bizarre dance steps to develop…everyone has had a higher purpose. So what’s mine?

At first I felt I’d hit my groove with shopping. It gave me immense personal satisfaction and I was also substantially contributing to the lives of businessmen all over. Clothes, bags, shoes, home furnishings, shoes, jewellery, food items, (did I mention shoes?), I was at the top of my game. And my shopping sprees were truly selfless. There have been times when I’ve bought stuff I’ve never even used. Fruits and vegetables have been bought only to rot and die due to non-usage (apparently there’s a limit to the days “Mummy ka Magic” chalta hai). Clothes few sizes too small have been bought, waiting for the day they go down my shoulders. 4-inch stiletto heels that cause my ankles to audibly scream in pain grace my shoe rack. Jewellery that is only appropriate to wear at your sister’s wedding (I’m an only child) sits in the locker. I can sincerely say that when it comes to shopping, I’ve done my bit.

But there was a slight hitch in my assumption that shopping was my calling. You see there are people with tons of more money than me who’re doing a far better job of it. While I have covered every local mall/store/tailor/boutique in garage, people have taken their craft internationally. Apparently Bobby Deol has sunglasses from every continent! Sigh! In the face of such obvious contributions I had to face the hard truth. I was nothing more than a mere drop in the ocean.

This setback put me on the path to self-discovery once more. I spent hours standing in front of the mirror, contemplating my reason of existence. I faced the mirror standing straight, slouched, sideways, upside down…and suddenly it hit me!

It’s what I’d been doing all my life. And am pretty sure will continue doing for the remainder too. I can speak about it for days, without a break. I have explored every aspect of it and am always abreast of any new developments in the field. It’s what I live with day in and day out. It’s my cause, my raison d'existence (throwing in a little French for some flavour). I was born to battle fat.

See, I’ve been overweight for as long as I can remember. Till my teens we lovingly called it puppy fat. As I grew older the puppy grew up to be a healthy St. Bernard. Then somewhere along the way I had some illness (the cause of much hilarity to my cousin Anju) and I was on steroids for a bit. Soon we started blaming the fat on them.

Miraculously as I entered the college the fat melted away and for three blissful years people saw the me that had been so well covered for so long. I thought the battle had finally been won but I was wrong. It was merely a short ceasefire and soon the fat came back to attack me with a new vengeance.

Obviously talks and agreements weren’t going to win this war and so I too began the offensive.

Gym memberships were taken, but it turns out merely paying your monthly fee isn’t going to cut it. You apparently have to go to the damn place and use those hideous machines. A deep analysis led me to believe that a diet should be my weapon of choice.

So I started eating healthy. But like every army has its moles, mine was my sweet tooth. Chocolates and ice creams managed to infiltrate my food and soon I realised that I wasn’t making any headway.

Then I read on the Internet that Bill Clinton had lost 14 kgs on a new diet called the “South Beach Diet”. Hell, if the ex president of the most powerful nation in the world is using it; it’s bound to work for me. So I zeroed in on ‘carbs’ as the new enemy and started eliminating them from my food.

It turns out carbs have a bit of a role to play in conducting basic bodily functions. Without going into gory details, I’ll just say that I welcomed carbs back into my life with open arms and a quiet apology.

Why not give gyms another try I thought? I’m older and wiser now and I’m sure I can make peace with the treadmill. I did, for a while. But then another problem came up. My ears and right arm started plotting against me! Every morning the alarm would ring and before my mind could process the sound my arm would turn it off. I’d finally wake up only to the sound of my maid violently ringing the door bell and by then I had just enough time to get dressed and make it to office within the grace period.

So I decided not to be a slave to gyms and their inflexible timings (how am I expected to make time in the short hours between 6 am and 10 pm?) I made my parents buy me a treadmill. Little foggy on what exactly happened there but somehow that treadmill has ended up at my aunt’s place. But don’t worry, it wasn’t a total waste. It’s used to hang towels and the like.

In my campaign against fat, the latest weapon of mass (mass like fat-mass...get it? he he!) destruction is a home exercise DVD. Its been used all of once as of now. But I’m not giving up on it as yet. It is after all my true calling and I have vowed to fight it all my life.

For all of you feeling some pity for me in my fight against fat, the joke’s really on you. At least I’ve found my higher purpose. What’s yours?

Bangalore, my love.

2005-09-18T11:47:00.000+05:30

Lately the city I live in has been under a lot of flak. And not unjustly so. Bangalore is like the brilliant child you had, whom you expected would grow up to be someone you could be immensely proud of. But instead of the IIT-IIM pass out you this child should’ve been, it grows up to be a good for nothing failure, unable to live up to hopes, and almost too broken to have any dreams.

For the uninitiated (read those living on another planet), Bangalore is the IT capital of India. It was supposed to be the city of tomorrow. The model city that would keep up with every successful city in the world. People flocked in thousands for the better life in Bangalore. Businesses grew and the worthy became rich. Its success lured more people and more business. Things were bloody good! And then somewhere along the way, things started spiralling downwards.

Today Bangalore is a mess. The word ‘infrastructure’ makes most people cry and some of the more jaded ones laugh. The government is a case study in everything that can go wrong in a democracy. Population has exploded, property prices are skyrocketing and life is nothing but one long traffic jam.

But it’s still your child and you still love it.

I’m a Bangalorean. I wasn’t born one but I chose to become one. The main reason it’s my home of course is because this is where my heart lies. My then boyfriend and now husband is a Banglorean. But that wasn’t the only reason I chose this city to be my home. I really loved this city. And although today I’m one of the loudest complainers of the problems that plague Bangalore I still love it. Bangalore baby, here's why you rock!

Open a window and you’ll still see nature in all its glory. No government can stop the mad variety of trees that line our streets and how they choose to flower at different times of the year so that whatever the season, there’s always a splash of colour to lift your spirits.

The sky still looks like it’s out of a children’s storybook. The perfect blue with lazily floating fluffy white clouds. And then suddenly, out of this picturesque blue, out emerge thunderous black storm clouds that pour all over the city, leaving everyone drenched and delighted.

Bangalore accepts me for who I am. Wholly and unconditionally. No one hates me cuz I’m north Indian (a dreaded quality in a place like Chennai), not rich (not acceptable in Delhi) and not too cool (you gotta be cool in Mumbai). I can go pubbing dressed like Paris Hilton or Pavithra Hanumanthapaiya, Bangalore really doesn’t give a damn. Whatever my avatar, I can always be assured a chilled glass of draught beer and some good old-fashioned masala peanuts.

There are roads with names like Serpentine Street, Bride Street and Murder Street in Bangalore. And they still have old villas (albeit slightly rundown) with a faded 1905 carved above the front door.

People still pick each other up from the airport in Bangalore. And if it gets too late and you don’t have a car, someone will drop you. To your house, and not a taxi stand.

Despite the throngs of people that walk up and down it, M.G. Road remains one of the prettiest roads in the country. With the beautiful (original) Vidhana Soudha at one end and the lovely tree lined pavement on its side, M.G. Road is a reminder of everything that was once right with the city.

Courtesy and politeness are still practiced in this once pensioner’s paradise. Even as you sit in a crazy traffic jam at 7:30 in the evening, cursing and tuning radio channels, a fiat will slow down and let you pass first. It happens rarely, but it happens.

Bangalore truly is a cosmopolitan city. I really can’t think of any one community that has an overwhelming majority here. Our multiplexes show movies in English, Hindi, Kannada, Tamil, Malayalam and Telegu.

The pubs, the people, the parks, the place…it all works for me. I love Bangalore and wouldn’t wanna leave it for any other city in India.

Now I’ve got to go. Got a distance of about 3 km to cover and only one hour to do it. I better get on it.

Satyajit Ray, eat this.

2005-09-16T17:08:00.000+05:30

There are some things in life that simply cannot be taught. I suppose they can be taught, but actually learning them can be quite impossible. Cooking a decent meal; saving money; reversing your car out of a narrow, winding road flanked by trees and other cars (my office); singing without homicidal side effects; sticking to a diet…you get my drift.

But fortunately there are a few seemingly difficult tasks that are really no big deal at all. Making a hit Hindi movie for instance. Bollywood (hate that word but it’s shorter than ‘Hindi film industry’ so am just going to use it for now) producers, take heed, this one’s for you.

Lesson 1: Casting.
Thin thin thin. The first thing you need to be looking at when casting for your film is what shape your leading actors are in. And no, round is not a shape. We want actors with minimal flesh covering their bones and the desire to flash all of it.

Must kiss clause. All of you who thought Indians were prudes can just kiss my ass! And if you don’t want to, I know plenty of actors who’ll do it. Nothing titillates the public more than uncomfortable, badly picturised kissing scenes. When casting, make sure your lead actors are willing to pucker up for the camera. It’ll not only sell tickets but will also put young, as yet inexperienced teenagers (are there any inexperienced teenagers?) off kissing. What better way is there to halt the growing immorality problem that sweeps our country?

Lesson 2: Costumes.

Should cover only basic body parts. God gave us limbs so we could flaunt them. So let’s not go against the will of the maker. It’s all very mathematical. 75% of the movie should have the male lead topless. When he does cover up, only sleeveless, strappy numbers will suffice.
Women can under no under circumstances not be showing at least 60% of their bodies. I don’t care if it’s snowing in the scene. She must be wearing strapless tops and shorts/mini skirts always.

Designer names only. Rule of thumb: Big bold branded names that can be seen by the viewer sitting in the last row of the theatre. Spend some time on your shots and figure out maximum spots where the designer’s name can be flaunted. Underwear straps, socks, belts, cell phone covers, nail polish remover…leave no spot untouched by a Gucci/Prada label. Your main protagonist maybe a radio jockey struggling to pay rent. That should in no way be reflected in her inability to buy only the top labels. This is a movie for God’s sake. Any resemblance to reality is to be strictly avoided.

Lesson 3: Storyline.

Love. There are enough problems in the world without movies adding to them. If you want a hit film, please make sure it revolves around the love life of the aforementioned flesh-challenged couple. And it must end with the twosome getting married or at least engaged. We have no time for relationships that don’t work out. Leave that to the real world please.

Comic relief. Over the top characters with outrageous dialogue are as essential to your film as a cameraman. Don’t fret if they don’t fit into the main construct of your film. There’s always place for bizarre best friends, landlords, doctors etc.

Foreign locations. See, we live in India and most of us can’t afford trips abroad. So make sure you set your film in an exotic foreign land. Of course every character in the film, from the taxi driver to restaurant owner to medical practioner, will be Indian but that’s totally believable. Like the saying goes, you can find a potato and an Indian in every corner of the world. (Or is that, a potato and a punju? I’m confused now…)

Morals. Pre-marital sex will lead to pregnancy. Dammit, we’re Indians and either we’re extra fertile before marriage or we always end up using defective condoms. Whatever it is, you have to make sure that if your loose moraled heroine allows for physical contact without the bond of holy matrimony she will damn well be punished for it.
And again, since she is Indian she will not stoop so low as to abort. In a successful Hindi movie, you do not need to be financially/mentally/spiritually ready to have a baby. Motherhood is the greatest gift you can get and must not be rejected at any cost.

Lesson 4: Miscellaneous.

Music. I’m sure I do not need to stress upon the importance of pointless songs after every twenty minutes of the movie. Whether you’re celebrating new found love, grieving a lost one or buying ice cream, why speak when you can sing?

National integration. Get as many characters from different parts of the country as you can. And make sure that even after living in a foreign land for most of their lives the do not lose their accents. After all, since we don’t get to hear these accents in real life, we may as well enjoy them on screen.

Inspiration. Don't forget to get inspired by an American movie and copy entire sequences from a succesful romantic comdey. If it worked for the yanks, it's got to work for us, right?

I think I have pretty much covered every aspect to the making of a successful film. With my entire thesis being based on a recent viewing of “Salaam Namaste” you can be assured I’m not just speaking through my hat. So go ahead and make you mark in Bollywood. Just excuse me if I don’t make it to the premiere.

The Importance of Packaging

2005-09-11T11:57:00.000+05:30

I have tried out every blog template offered by blogger.com. I started with the green dots, found it too cluttered so moved to some horrendous pink thing. It was too horrendous even for me so I moved to a simple blue top, white bottom sort of page. Not happy with the colours and layout I tried out a few more before finally settling on my current brown, blast-from-the-past template.

One may argue that it's what's written that really counts. That's like saying, its what's inside a person that’s important. We all know that’s not true! Let’s be honest here. Would you rather strike up a conversation with George Clooney/Julia Roberts or Bill Gates/Mother Teresa? Be honest now!! Actually Bill Gates has money so I suppose he does have a certain attractiveness quotient. And Mother Teresa is no longer with us so I guess they were both bad examples.

Ok quick. Would you rather chat up good-looking guy in marketing who works out thrice a week or dull, checked shirt wearing, lunch box carrying man from accounts? See, I’m telling you, packaging counts! Good-looking man from marketing may have the IQ of a chicken and our friend in accounts probably reads philosophy in his free time but unfortunately he is a victim of bad packaging and hence mr. marketing reigns.

My suggestion? Quit wasting time studying and getting degrees and developing yourself as a person. Some sort of mind development is bound to happen by merely existing in this world. Concentrate on what’s really important.

Join a gym, get a haircut that suits you, and spend money on essentials like designer clothes and accessories. (Don’t spend on food. Firstly it’s fattening, plus when you look that good people will want to take you out and foot your bill)
Spend time in front of the mirror and find an expression that’s flattering for your face. Learn it and keep it on all the time.
Understand colours and figure out which ones go with your skin tone.
Install warm yellow lighting around your house, it makes anyone look gorgeous.
Express concern about the state of the world in your conversations. Don’t worry, you won’t have to do anything. Just talking about it is enough.
Always have a copy of Freud or Gabriel García Márquez around you so you look like you’re intellectually gifted. Never mind if you can’t pronounce the name. People will be so intimated by your killer combination of good looks and intelligence that no one’s gonna ask anyway.

Follow all this and you my friend, are on the road to dizzying success. Guaranteed to succeed in any field, this is the formula for true happiness. And years later when you sit content with the deeply fulfilling life you’ve led, think back to the person who gave you these pearls of wisdom. Then put on your best expression and raise a toast. And make sure it’s wine ‘cause as we all know, hard liquor’s fattening.

Down with Music

2005-09-07T01:54:00.000+05:30

Recently saw a re-mixed, re-released video of Alanis' "Hand in my Pocket" on TV. Reminded me of college when she'd just burst on the scene. The song was so identifiable then. Especially the part that went:

And what it all boils down to
Is that no one's really got it figured out just yet
I've got one hand in my pocket
And the other one is doing something or the other depending on the verse she was belting...

Anyway, I was 17 then and it was cute to have not figured out what to do with your life. No one knew what they what they wanted to be be or do. Hell, those were the days when things like 'dedicate life to dogs' or 'be CEO of major MNC' were both battling to be No. 1 on probable future careers. Both equally vague and improbable but optimistic anyway. Yeah baby, I had one hand in my pocket and the other was busy making plans for the future.

I'm nearly 27 now. And I've barely got one hand in my pocket, (thanks to v. tight jeans) and the other's just scratching my head wondering what the hell to do with myself. I've done college, done a post graduation and put 4 years of my life into a career that I'm having very serious doubts about. And along the way, the only thing I've figured out is that of the 11, George Clooney is my favourite and that I definitely prefer pizza to burgers. But besides that, I'm still where I was when I was 17! Without the rosy glow of youth and with a car loan to repay.

Alanis, you wily cow, why did I ever believe you when you said, "everything's gonna be quite alright"? Nothing's alright. Grrr. I'm writing about adolescent issues in my late 20s. Serves me right actually, falling for the word of a noveau hippie with unkempt hair and a distorted sense of self (Really, who comes naked in a video with a body like that?!). What did Alanis know? Look at her, 10 years later and what's her big accomplishment? Remixing and re-releasing an old hit.

Colours of a Hurricane

2005-09-04T11:50:00.000+05:30

Go to any newsy website or news channel and hurricane Katrina is definitely one of the top three headlines. Read and see pictures of the poor calamity stricken citizens of New Orleans trying to get food, trying to escape disease and ravagers and looters. Read about the media's outrage at how not enough is being done. Read a local newspaper and see how the Indian media can't get over the fact that these are pictures of America. These are images we are used to seeing from Africa or India, not the world's richest and most powerful nation.

And it's not just the disaster struck city that resembles poor third world countries. Noticed how all these people are black? Amid outstretched hands hungry for food and forlorn faces mourning a lost loved one, there isn't a single white hand or face. There are no white people looting pharmacies and electronic stores. There are no white kids staring into the camera, wondering where their parents are.

It gets me wondering, do disasters not strike the white people of the world? Who ever heard of Europeans going on a looting rampage after a natural calamity struck? No, that's what happened in India when the earth quake struck Latur, all those years ago. Who ever heard of a disease outbreak after too much rainfall amongst white people? Nope, that again happened in Mumbai after the recent floods. Hundreds of fishermen and their families die in Orissa every year, either due to drought or flood. And yet every year, when there's a hurricane in Florida all one hears about is some property damage and maybe one or two people getting injured. And if someone dies, the white people of the city come together to pray amongst candles and flowers. It's all very civilized and rather beautiful actually.

So when finally nature directs its wrath towards a prosperous western nation, how come it's again the non-whites who suffer? Obviously there were white people in the city of New Orleans but somehow they all managed to get away. So are non-white races of the world really somehow not as good then? Bosnian refugees don't look as pitiable as the tragedy struck victims of New Orleans, and they've been going through war for a few years now!

Maybe it's not really a function of race. It is a function of your economic state. The people who are suffering and who got left behind are the poor of New Orleans.

So then how come all the poor in New Orleans are black?

And finally...

2005-09-01T22:02:00.000+05:30

Turns out there is a serious mental disorder doing the rounds called "Net Addiction".

Wait, if that wasn't funny enough, get this - those afflicted with the disorder can go for help to www.netaddiction.com Ha! If that wasn't the funniest thing I heard. An online site to help get you offline. Isn't that like asking an alcoholic to get help in a bar?

Just realised, this is my second post on the same day. Gasp! In making fun of it, have I fallen prey to the disorder?

a passing observation

2005-09-01T10:01:00.000+05:30

Sometimes I think life is nothing but a series of countdowns. I find myself reciting numbers in descending order all the time.

On the treadmill, I stare at the display, willing the seconds to reduce and come to zero so I can get off the damn thing and get on with my life.

At the traffic signal, I glare at the timer, hoping that will get it to move faster.

As a deadline inches closer I avoid looking at my watch, trying desperately to somehow stretch the minutes out longer.

Towards the end of a vacation, my heart starts sinking as I start thinking of just the few minutes I have left before I need to check out and go back to the mundane.

Whatever the situation, it's really never about enjoying the time one has, is it? Somehow it always seems to be about rushing through stuff in order to reach point zero.

Maybe that is what life is, eh?. A series of countdowns, all leading up that final one?

Breaking News

2005-08-30T17:40:00.000+05:30

I hate my job. Ok, its about as much breaking news as someone smoking 4 packs a day being diagnosed with lung cancer but, you know, it still comes as a surprise once the diagnosis is out. It's been brewing for a while now and it's oddly freeing now that it's out. You got cancer with all that cigarette smoking, so what's the first thing you should do? Quit! And that's excatly what I'm going to do. Quit this dump with all it's carcinogenic influences, AKA my colleagues. They all suck!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yeah yeah, I've had moments of "when the world seems wrong maybe you should question yourself and see if you're wrong." I questioned myself and the answer was a resounding, "You rock, they suck!"
Gotta listen to my inner voice. Not to mention that gnawing at my soul and that sinking of my heart.
Very soon, I'm getting out of here. Yoo hoo!!! I hate my job!!

Analysing serious diseases

2005-08-26T23:05:00.000+05:30

Alright class, today's topic of discussion is a common yet deadly disorder afflicting humankind since 1867. Well, we're not sure of the exact date but that's not what's important. What's important is that this disease has been creating havoc in people's lives for way too long and I suspect not enough research is going into finding a cure. Ok, I admit AIDS and cancer research might be a trifle more important but it would be wrong of us to belittle this dangerous disease. It can strike anytime, can be potentially fatal (I'm telling you its serious!) and most important of all, I seem to have a chronic case of it. The foot-in-the-mouth disease.

Why? Why why why? Why is it always the good people of the world who have the worst fate? I mean no one any harm. When I open my mouth the best I hope for is for something smart and witty and kind to come out. And at worst something marginally dull that my hapless listener can ignore. How is it then that my brain manages to string a bunch of words in the worst possible way to convey a meaning that would hurt, offend or really bloody piss off the person I'm talking to?

I'm just a normal person with an average IQ (well actually I'm near genius if tickle IQ quizzes were to be believed but that's a whole other blog) who's actually in the business of writing for a living. Give me a word file with built in spell check, thesaurus.com and something to write about and I'm OK. I may not be winning a booker anytime soon but then neither am I incurring the lifetime wrath of some poor sucker who happened to read my crap. Why then can't I maintain the same level of not-pissing-people off when I'm talking to them?

One of the most serious symptons of the dreaded foot-in-the-mouth is that it chooses it's victims. So i'm talking to the skinny chick with the awesome skin and cutting sense of humour and only the most doltish things come out of my mouth. Put me with my boss who's going to one day do my appraisal and decide my raise and things like, "I was wondering how someone with a BMW could know you" come out.

The funny thing is that while these deadly words are pouring out of my mouth a part of my brain is screaming for me to STOP! Don't speak any more! Put your cell phone in your mouth or eat your shoe or just do anything that'll get you to stop talking. But no, oh no. People with foot-in-the-mouth disease do not listen to good advice. Yet another symptom of this cruel sickness.

So anyway, having suffered from this serious serious disorder and having been completely unable to find any medication that helps I've decided to give 'not talking' a try. That's right. The next time you go out and see a girl sitting absolutely quiet and opening her mouth only to put booze or food into it you'll know it's me. Hey, there are other ways of communicating. Technology has given SMS and blogging. And i'm sure you can't screw up too much with sign language. So until those folks at all those fancy research centres give this disease its due importance and come up with a solid cure I am keeping my trap shut. And that means Mr. Blog, you will be seeing a lot more of me. And I know I can't tick you off. Cuz in the exciting world of blogging, there's always backspace and delete.

Dear Blog

2005-08-24T09:39:00.000+05:30

As luck would have it, I've been terribly busy at work ever since I started you, mr. blog. There's been no time for anything! I have no thoughts to think of and none to write. The only thing on my mind is the damn pitch we're working on and how to get another job so I can get out of this place I fondly call hell.

Just realised...this is a pubic blog...open to viewing...what if my boss sees it? Oh well, to hell with him. I hope he reads this and realises what an ass he is! Maybe this particular piece won't enlighten him but my future pieces will. Oh yes!! Boss thrashing and agency bitching is giong to be a hot topic here. He he he (evil laugh)

a-ha!

2005-08-22T11:37:00.000+05:30

So that's how a blog functions. This should be interesting. Thanks Shef, for getting me started.
And now the coconut has been broken, the ribbon has been cut and I'm good to go! Blog world, here i come!!