Why I'll Never Be Rich

Dear Direct Marketing Representative,

First, I’d like to thank you for thinking so kindly about my future prospects and informing me that I could earn so much money by just signing up with the marketing network you are part of.
Thank you for wanting to be my mentor in the noble business of moneymaking and showing me how to butter my bread lavishly without having to spend much on butter. In fact, simply by sitting at home and bullying my friends to sign up with the network.
There’s only one small problem. I would love to earn money but I get tongue-tied when I have to convince other people to help me do that. Blame it on me being an ex-print journalist. Money is an alien concept to us, asking for it more so.
And there’s one more thing. You see, I do love having friends and I’m very scared that once I start calling people in my ‘friend and confidant’ tone and telling them that I want to discuss a business idea which is the next best thing after Maggi Noodles, I’ll have no friends left. Yes, even if I said I was horribly broke because I can’t hide the husband and they all know he is still working and we still own a car.
You’ve given me a booklet and a lecture which says I must not ‘prejudge anyone.’ Now the problem is that being the extremely stuck up variety, (I’m very honest about my faults, as you’ll see) I’m likely to. I’ll look at Friend No. 1 and say, ‘Nah, they’re both doctors. What do they need extra money for?’ and I’ll dismiss Friend No. 2 on the grounds that she has twins and asking her to do anything else is being cruel to her. I know, I know, this is just the kind of mindset that your booklet warns me against but what to do? I simply don’t have the ‘think out of the box’ brain.
A suicide threat is perhaps the only way I can convince my friends to part with their hard earned cash (Pls. note the perhaps), sign a contract, become part of the world’s foremost ‘multi-level-marketing system’ (to quote you respectfully) and hand in hand proceed towards becoming millionaires.
Ok, maybe millionaire is a long shot but you did say that just by signing up (and continuing the chain) I could earn at least Rs 8,000 a month first, then Rs 50,000 and then more than a lakh!
Yes my pupils did dilate and my eyes did pop and you thought I was finally coming to my senses and getting hooked. But let me be honest. That was on account of the numbers. You see, having been a lifestyle journalist for the larger part of my working life, I go a bit blank when the talk is about anything else but clothes and lipsticks. Also blame it on me being Bong. Bissness is not in awaar blaad. I’m also not very good with household work and fear I’ll horribly muck up when I show them the advantages of your cleaning concentrate as opposed to Surf Excel, Ariel, Nirma, etc.
So with due respect and profound thanks, I shall ask you to stop wasting your precious time as I simply won’t sign up. I know by doing this I’m losing out on the chance to display my inherent leadership skills (as spotted by you) and retire by the age of 35 with enough time to spend with my children and enough money to ski at St. Moritz every year. But what to do? You’ve got the wrong girl here. She’s lazy, tongue-tied and simply doesn’t have vision. And she’s also stupidly stubborn.

So goodbye. Don’t ring my bell again or I’ll display more character faults.

Warm Regards,
Rash

Nine Months

Warning: Baby Talk.

In less than a month (old hands say in less than 3 weeks) there'll be a baby in our lives, unless it's lazy and refuses to meet the parents on time :-)

I've never held a newborn. Seriously. Never. Not while their heads were wobbly anyway.
However when I muttered this aloud at the Antenatal Class, two voices echoed the same thing too, so I'm probably not the odd one out here. I'm a bit freaked out. But in a good way. In a very good and happy way.

The belly has developed a life of its own. It jiggles, squirms, pokes out, gets kicked and oh yes, does it increase! It continues to be a source of entertainment to all my near and dear ones. Have never been in such entertainer mode before. The other day the baby poked some body part (a toe?) through the belly. P was so entertained, since then he's been trying to poke it back to get baby to respond in similar fashion. We don't need TV anymore, we have Ze Belly.

Nothing fits me anymore. Not even large size capri pants from Fabindia's very small-sized maternity section. And I used to wear XS size from Fabindia. Nothing I've bought in the earlier months of pregnancy fit, except a tunic and magic pants from Motherware. The pants have a funny pouch to hold the belly, which rules out sexy short tops. But thank you MW. At least they fit. I largely survive on trackpants, which I keep buying at scary rate as the belly keeps rejecting them soon enough.

Friends who are parents are trying to be wonderful by sharing with us their birth stories. These usually go on the lines of 'the lift was out of order so we had to climb down 10 floors after her water broke' and 'there was no room available at the maternity ward so we had to wait 18 hours' or sinister stuff like that. And they're all predicting it'll be anytime now. Since I do not believe in predictions unless done by Marjorie Orr, I'm sure baby won't arrive before time.

P is charting out alternative routes to the hospital. To his great frustration, all of these involve the unavoidable Bangalore traffic, unless our child is kind and sends us to the hospital sometime past midnight.

And I'm trying to walk, work, cook, clean, read books and blogs and do things as usual. And waiting to see my toes again while standing straight.

A Fantastic Childhood?

Can you imagine a childhood spent without having read a single fantasy novel or fairy tale? I can't. Which is why I had such an incredulous expression on my face when I met Mrs Alternative and her six-year-old boy at a puppetry workshop conducted by my friend recently.

Mrs Alt was very charming and friendly and we got talking soon. It inevitably started with bump talk (how many months, weight gain, diet, etc) and somehow moved on to books and theatre, the latter also being Mrs Alt's line of work. When my friend joined we ended up talking about children's books and Mrs Alt revealed that she was not 'in favour of fairy tales and fantasy fiction.'

We were intrigued and asked her the reason to which she said she and her husband did not believe in them. Fantasy did not give children any idea of reality and created the impression of a false world. At this point the expression on my face got too obvious and my tongue started to loosen up, which is why I stayed mum and prefered listening to her.

While my friend and Mrs Alt had a civilized but heated discussion, I thought of the time in childhood when I first read 'The Borrowers' and spent quite a long time imagining an entire colony of people living under the floor tiles. Or of the long summer vacation afternoons at my aunt's house when an old wardrobe was the object of my imagination.

I wish I could say to each her own after hearing out Mrs Alt. We are all welcome to stick to our individual decisions, principles, beliefs etc, because we are adults with a mind of our own and the ability (hopefulyl) to discern between what we think is right or wrong. But is it fair to impose it on children without giving them a chance to explore, experiment and see what they really like and dislike? What they really believe in or are indifferent to? By forcing our ideas and our beliefs on an impressionable mind, aren't we then creating only half a world for the child?

It's Better In Goa

Whatta happy coincidence. Two days after I spot Frank Simoes' Goa at a local bookstore and leave it behind for later as I'm not carrying enough cash, not even my overused credit card, I get a gift from Kahini and guess what it is?

The very same book, which she spotted while on a crazy book buying spree at Reader's Bookshop, Santacruz.

Before it was reissued in its current avatar, this book used to called Glad Seasons In Goa, a better name than the current one. We were unaware of its existence untill Kahini discovered a dog-eared copy that belonged to her brother in law, read it at one go, regretted not having read it before she met Frank Simoes (lucky girl) and passed it on to moi.

Like her, I loved it instantly. If you love Goa (like most of us do), this book is a must-read. In fact, you probably have it on your bookshelf already. Nothing else gives a better picture of a life that seems to be spent building a wonderful house, tackling the Goan monsoon, meeting people like Aloysius the master carpenter and Barty and Bostao, sampling great prwan balchao, rowing friendly fishermen to St Anthony's Bar in Baga, drinking three fingers of various spirited stuff and living it up to the hilt.

Of course, the late advertising legend did much, much more with his life but we're glad he also took time off to write this book, probably sitting on the balcony of Rockheart, with the whisky and the typewriter.

Unrelated Updates

Watched Legends of The Fall on TV this evening. I have no idea who the programming brains at Star Movies are but would someone please tell me why gems like this film are slotted for 6.30 on a weekday evening? That's when people are usually at work or stuck in traffic or cooking dinner or simply occupied with other stuff to put their feet up and enjoy a good film.

Sometime after the film, I was having a TV dinner and channelsurfing when I came across FTV and guess what were their programming brains showing? A strip show! Complete with bustiers coming off to reveal what lies beneath. At 10 pm. When all the kids and preteens across the nation have definitely gone off to sleep. And we make a fuss about poor Khushboo's comments on pre-marital sex. What a country we are!

Prams and strollers aren't the way they used to be. Yeah I know if you are a parent you must be smirking at my ignorance but this is for the uninitiated. They're now called all-terrain pushchairs and travel systems and can look somewhat like this. The man is so excited it almost seems like he is buying a car.



















Going by the newspapers, Bangalore is full of techies and rowdies. No other category stands out more. Every other day I read about techies being 'assaulted' or 'robbed' or 'awarded' or about 'one rowdy beaten up.' Wondering if Delhi papers have any special categories like these. Can only think of 'Businessman robbed.' Too boring. Kahini tells me Calcutta papers specialise in 'goons.' Still, you can't beat the rowdies and techies.

Names Builders Play

During our house hunting days in Gurgaon, the names of buildings never failed to amuse me. No matter who the builder was, going by the names you'd think they were selling space in Hampstead not Haryana. Unitech had Greenwood, Aspen Greens, Heritage City, The Palms and my ever-favourite, Deerwood Chase!
DLF went a step ahead with its courts, estates and towers — Hamilton, Windsor, Wellington, Carlton, Royalton, Princeton, Belvedere, etc. The names were grand, even if the buildings weren't.
Now I see this foreign-sounding naming trend reflected in Bangalore too. Purvankara, one of the builders here, has Belmont, Fairmont, Fountainsquare and Riviera. Prestige has Monte Carlo, St. John’s Wood and Clarke’s Ville!
Now, I’m really, really curious. Who names these apartments? The owner of the company? His wife? His London-return daughter? Do all builders have a naming department? Are these the result of a ‘name-our-latest-project’ competition among overworked employees dreaming of a holiday in Aspen?
I agree Riviera sounds better than Rao Tikaram Housing Society, but there are lovely names in Hindi and other Indian languages as well. What happened to those? Perhaps names are meant to conjure up lovely images that lure the buyer to part with his or her money. You’re supposed to hear Mantri Woodlands and go hmmm…must be surrounded by lush greenery and bougainvilleas. Like I always wanted to check out Deerwood Chase simply because of the name. Perhaps I pictured rolling meadows and bouncing bambis. Thankfully, the man had no imagination in these matters and we were saved.
I recently spotted a hoarding for Elita Promenade, luxury condos under-construction in JP Nagar. ‘We’ll help you settle abroad,’ said the ad. It showed trendy couple walking hand in hand in front of trendy apartment facing a huge blue lake! It also promised international style living spaces. So the name game is the beginning of a full scale promotion which is meant to make us believe that by investing in that 1350 sq. ft property in dusty Haryana or traffic-troubled JP Nagar, we’re buying a slice of hassle-free, ultra-modern, always enviable life in foreign?
I wonder if it works. It didn’t with us. At the end of the day, after searching through the towers, and courts, we ultimately invested in one of the 'estates.' Not because of what the ad promised but what pleased our eye and suited the pocket. And the name still makes me giggle.

Serves me right for fiddling too much with things I do not understand. I changed my blogger template, for no good reason except that I was bored and this new one looked calm and nice.

Then I republished my blog to save the changes and guess what? All my old Haloscan comments had disappeared. But naturally, as Blogger and Haloscan aren't linked, Blogger Help informed me. So I went to Haloscan and tried to tinker with scary looking html thingies to get those lovely ole comments back but no luck. Humph! If anyone knows how to do this please to tell me. Or else never mind. Life moves on. So do blogs and comments. But as I keep telling myself, should've got a bit tech savvy when I worked with those bright techie kids in those dotcom days. :((

The Great Rejection

Yesterday I think I committed a social solecism. Just when people were proudly swapping their US-return stories, I declared indifferently I was a US reject. Shame on moi!

We were invited for dinner at our new neighbour’s place — they’re a young couple, both in the IT industry. There were about 15 guests, a large number of them in the same industry and the conversation largely revolved around terms that went swoosh over my head. Someone started talking about a project he’d just completed in the US of A and the talk shifted to comparing work ethics there and here. Soon everyone was exchanging their Big Apple and Boston stories. Since I seemed to be the only person in the room who hadn’t been to any of these places, I kept silent and listened. The hostess wondered if I was bored but I assured her I was enjoying myself.

She asked me if I’d been there.
‘No. Never to the US. In fact the only time I planned a trip they rejected my visa.’
Suddenly silence happened all around and for a second I felt like I worked for Osama. And then came the barrage of questions: Why was it rejected? Did I have proper paperwork? Was I married then? Was I working? Did I tell them I was working? Did I have anyone to sponsor me and blah blah…
Since the incident happened more than three years ago and I haven’t given the matter much thought (except to wish a week of constipation on the embassy officer for being VERY RUDE) I was somewhat taken aback. As far as I was concerned, the downside of not being given a visa was missing out on having fun with two very close friends who lived there. It didn't affect my life as I wasn't planning to move or study there. I never bothered about what the implications would be if and when I apply next, etc. And I never felt very bad about it either. I’d applied for leave and planned a holiday so I went to Bombay instead and had as much fun.

But yesterday's concern showed me I should've been disheartened and very, very worried. Apparently one rejection stamp can keep me away from this hallowed land for ever. And silly me, I'd never even thought of that. Tut tut!

Recent Job Offers

Ghostwriter for CEO of cosmetic company planning to launch 'Beauty Book.'

Content editor for soon-to-be-launched religious portal (!!!)

Ghostwriter for cookbook by 'renowned cooking and food expert, very well known in Koramangla.' (Headhunter's exact words)

There has to be something wrong with my CV. On second thoughts, perhaps mentioning the willingness to work 'part-time/freelance' invariably brings in such offers.

Should think seriously about religious portal. My one shot at redemption.

9.30 pm

I can hear Amitabh Bachchan in the parents' room, asking phone-a-friend 'Ashokji' to help out his friend (I-have-missed-the-name-ji') the KBC contestant.

Can also hear father-in-law's disgusted 'no basic knowledge, such people shouldn't get a chance.'

Bachchan's baritone surpasses Rolling Stones' from our bedroom, where hubby is wallowing in misery at not having the TV all to himself.

In the apartment next door, the drilling machine that refuses to shut up is making our lives miserable. We've complained about the timing. In vain.

In the apartment above, our new neighbours are having a party and I'm straining my ears to catch a song I really like these days...'Woh lamhe, woh baatein, koi na jaane...'

...and struggling hard to stay awake by making furious noises on the keyboard.

Babymaking Basics

I’m having a baby. Sometime soon enough. And now that I’m this far into the pregnancy, I’m discovering some facts of life. Bear with me. Or skip this post.

Thou Shalt Hide Thy Belly: Britney Spears type tiny t-shirts are ok only in phoren lands. And look good only on Britney Spears. Or do they? In Apna modest Bharat an obvious display of the bump can get you quite rude stares especially from auntyjis. Trust me, one of them actually advised me to cover the bump with a dupatta! Rushing to invest in some voluminous Mysore silks now.

Thou Shalt Puke But Not Pee: Excuse that gross line. Couldn't resist. Put two pregnant women together, especially those in the earlier months of babymaking and the conversation is enough to make your stomach churn. They’ll discuss in painstaking detail how often in the day they threw up, what induced it and what made it stop. To me, this isn’t the worst part of being preggie. Rushing to the loo seven million times in a day is. Strangely, stating this aloud or complaining loudly that ‘you gotta go once again’ in polite circles isn’t quite the thing. You get rude stares. And this time even from fellow preggie women.

Thou Shalt Get Used To Being Felt Up: By the doctor, by the sonographer, by your friends, by your prenatal exercise lady, by your friends' children…By the time this baby comes out, I’m sure I’d shed my inhibitions enough to become a striptease artist or pole dancer. The only problem would be all that flab.

Thou Shalt Get Fat: Heaven bless you if you don’t. You’re bound to put on some extra kilos but the dictum of going down the diaper route is that those extra kilos have to SHOW. Otherwise you shall have aunt-in-law, friend’s grandmom, Mrs Murthy from the third floor, the maid, the ex-boss, all telling you how thin you look and how you ought to eat more and how many kilos their third cousin/youngest sister/brother’s wife, eldest daughter gained when they were preggie. Never mind what the doctor says.

Thou Shalt Not Display Ignorance Too Obviously: Especially in front of shop assistants when you go to buy hitherto unwanted and un-researched items like strollers and changing mats (there's a portable version, didja know?) and babybaths. The blank look on your face is enough to convince the shopgirl that you are a novice in such matters and therefore easy prey for fleecing.

Thou Shalt Not Discuss Labour With Other Women: Especially with women who’ve done the deed and now have a three-year-old tornado to show for it. Chasing after this in-house marathon runner is so exhausting that they’ve forgotten all about that 48 hour long pain session they’d to go through to get tornado in the first place. Question them thoroughly and they are bound to say: Well, you know…it was okay. Nothing much.

Thou Shalt Try and Find One Friend Who Does Not Drink: Or else suffer being surrounded by boisterous group of people (including husband) getting higher and higher and having just the kind of fun that you used to have, while you sit nursing your orange juice or virgin mary and dreaming of the day when you can pub hop again.

Family Feasts

We took the parents to MTR for a mega lunch yesterday. The hour-long wait, the system of seating people in batches according to the time, the food served from gleaming steel buckets and the generous helpings poured on the plate despite protests and a full stomach took me back to the wedding meals in the family years ago.
The largest room in the marriage hall would be converted into a dining area with at least four to five long rows of somewhat rickety wooden tables. Fresh banana leaves, sprinkled with water, would be laid out and the uncles and aunts in charge would decide how many people got to sit in which batch. Usually children would be given preference along with elderly people and ‘guests of honour’ like the bride’s ex-professor or the groom’s boss.
By the time we reached our teens, we'd refuse to be slotted with the ‘children.’ ‘We’d eat later, with the others,’ we would say importantly and ask an easily malleable uncle to let us serve. For inexplicable reasons, digging a mile long spoon into a steel bucket and serving steaming hot dal or fish curry seemed a very exciting prospect to us. However, it was always the older (and stronger) cousins who were entrusted with that exciting responsibility while we were indulgently given the lighter tasks. I remember being the perpetual ‘Poori’ server and Mims, my favourite cousin, was the water bearer, a task she would perform with grave importance. The atmosphere in the dining hall would be highly charged. Uncles would shout to each other across the room for more ‘bhajas’ (fried veggies, usually brinjal); officious aunts would pinch chubby cheeks and ask kids not to be shy and eat well. A sparse eater would have his or her plate heaped with food, whether wanted or not.
Serving protocol demanded you took ‘atithi devo bhava’ to the extreme and never listened to people. If they said one puri, you served them two. ‘Just a little dal, please’ meant a ladleful of the yellow stuff on the hapless soul’s banana leaf. And god forbid, if anyone refused the sweets!
We would follow this unsaid dining hall dictat with huge pleasure. Especially when it meant bullying grandparents to eat more, as it was usually the other way round. At some point during this noble ‘service ceremony’ the mothers would emerge and strictly ask us to take our place in the next batch and eat instead of fooling around, making us go back to being ‘children’ again.
I’m sure these exciting wedding feasts do happen but at least in my family, the last one I remember must’ve been more than 10 years back. Nowadays people employ catering services with waiters in crisp uniforms (either black and white or maroon with gold buttons) and very often it’s the buffet system. The professional service is probably more efficient and cleaner but hey, those old feasts were such fun!
In the rare case, when it’s an old-style feast, you find yourself among too many new faces to be as comfortable as your 13-year-old self. The grandparents are no more, cousins have married and moved away and you meet the extended family so rarely that you aren’t really all that familiar anymore.

Govinda Govinda!

Just when bad press about PILs vs PROs was threatening to cause him more damage than his recent string of flops, the media has realised its mistake and is going all out to express their heartfelt sympathy for actor-turned-MP Govinda's recent loss.
Some channel, Star News I think, even updated us on the Govinda-Sunita 'bachpan ka pyaar' angle after thursting the mike in the face of his injured son and asking him 'bahut dard ho raha hai?'. The poor kid managed a reply. Probably had instructions from dad to do so.
Well I may be heartless and highly insensitive but I still can't figure out why an accident that injured Govinda's family has to be in the news for the last couple of days. Govinda is a bygone success and a criticised MP by all means thanks to his recent no-show during the Mumbai floods. How important is he in the scheme of newsy things? Why are we subjected to info on how often Sunita visits religious shrines? The death of his assistant Rishabh Jha is sad indeed as are the injuries on his wife and two children. But does it require such primetime coverage?

Travel on my mind

Pangong Tso, Ladakh.

That jewel of a lake in a fascinating place that mesmerised us completely around this time last year.

This year, all my travelling has been done from the straightback chair in front of the computer. Despite the fact that for the last three months, I've been on a break from work.

There are some Kerala plans for September but the man is in a new job so the plans are very uncertain.

My friends are taking off.

The brother is trekking somewhere in the Himachal.

My friend M is trekking somewhere in Coorg.

Subs is out there in Africa.

Two lucky people in Germany have just come back from a picture-postcard trek.

Inky will be off to my favourite faraway land soon.

Bips is back to work but she did have a Himalayan odyssey before that.

So K, what are you and I doing staying put where we are?

PS: Just read Parmanu. Rolling on floor and throwing five year old type tantrum now. I WANT TO TRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAVEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tee Vee Ki Bimari

Have been watching too much television. Mainly due to an uninterrupted control over the remote thanks to a busy husband. If you are female and married you’ll understand what I mean. Especially if you are someone who doesn’t watch much TV and definitely not in the conventional ‘womanly’ hours like morning, afternoon, etc. Someone whose favourite show, in the rare occasion when she wishes to watch it, always clashes with a cricket rerun on Ten Sports or ESPN or a particularly mind-numbing Van Damme movie that hubby has suddenly decided to stick to.
Last week was one such exhilarating time of uninterrupted telewatch. Triggered largely by the fact that soon the in-laws would arrive and the remote would be possessed by a man who a) I cannot yell at unless I want to be slotted a bahu from Bagbaan and b) a man who would be home the whole day.

This is how TV watching went. I took one look at Amitabh Bachchan’s golden hair and gave KBC a miss. Why can’t his stylists or Abu Jani and Sandeep Khosla or whoever decides his look, let him look his age. Which, despite the goldilocks, he does.

Watched The Great Indian Comedy Show and was thoroughly disappointed to see that Shekhar ‘motormouth’ Suman has taken over a large part of the show from all those talented actors who hosted it earlier. Especially Vinay Pathak. Loved his Mahesh Bhatt act. The other reason I used to like The Great Indian Comedy Show was because of Kkukurmati Ki Kahani, which started as a laughable take off on all Ektaa Kapoor’s K serials. Sadly, while K serials seem to be going strong, Kkukurmati seems to have lost its punch.

Talking of serials, I actually sat through 15 minutes of one called Millee that seemed to feature a super-rich Indian household with mini-skirted maids. Going by the girls’ costumes, the director’s original idea must’ve been to base the story on cheerleaders. But the lack of a suitable ‘Amrikan-looking’ stadium and an easily available bungalow (discarded by ‘K’ Kapoor) would have made him/her change his mind.

If serials are getting worse could news be far behind? During the Great Mumbai Deluge, Star News showed us ‘photographs and videos taken by their viewers.’ Yesterday they went a step further and subjected us to a song on the state of Mumbai, ‘penned by a viewer’ and possibly sung by that misguided gentleman. How sweet no? Failed poets and singers need not despair anymore.

If all that wasn’t enough, the History Channel showed us a Biography of Brad Pitt (Yes. I watched it. Stop reading now.) where he was still happily married to Jennifer Aniston. I switched in desperation to Discovery Travel and Living which was repeating Ian Wright’s trip to some part of China for the 517th time.

This explains why I’m highly relieved at having the in-laws around. Between her serials and his cricket, her afternoon movies and his Aaj Tak debates, it saves me from television. Completely.

Choking

Here's why

http://in.rediff.com/movies/2005/aug/03look.htm

She has recently moved into one of the apartments on the floor below us. She seems to be in her early 40s, is mom to a very pretty teenager and wife of a much mentioned but yet unseen (by me of course) ‘as-he-is-so-busy’ husband.

Both of us are devoid of any other neighbours on our respective floors and she came up for a chat the day after she shifted, mainly to find out about the maid system, aquaguard service, etc. When I heard that half her luggage was yet to arrive and her house was still a mess, I invited her and the daughter over for lunch.

‘How nice of you. Don’t make anything special haan. Informal.’

We had sambar rice for lunch and since I feared it may not be sufficient for the three of us, I made a quick potato sabji with the traditional South Indian tempering of mustard seeds, curry leaves and dals, to go with the sambar.

‘Are you South Indian?’ she asked after checking what was on offer.

‘No. I’m a Bengali.’

‘Oh I thought because you made sambar...then you must be making very good fish!’

‘Well, not really. Cooking was far from my mind while I stayed with my parents and I only learnt to cook after I got married. And since I was living in a North Indian Jain family, fish wasn’t part of the menu.’

‘Oh so you don’t eat non veg. How can a Bengali not eat non veg?’

I rushed with explanations to set the matter straight. Anyone assuming I do not eat non veg is more than I can take. So I went into the long drawn explanation that well…I did start cooking non veg after me and hubby moved into our own place in Delhi and though am no expert cook, I can make fish, though rarely have I cooked it the traditional Bengali way.

‘But why?’ she asked, much distressed by what she thought was a lack of interest in my own cuisine.

‘I go by cookbooks, so if the recipe sounds easy and interesting, whether it’s Bengali or Parsi or Gujrati, you’ll find me making it, whether it turns out the way it’s meant to be or not.’

This was early last week. I didn’t meet her again for a while but we chatted a fair bit on the phone, mainly for numbers of home delivery services, laundry, vegetable man, etc.

This morning she came over around 9 to ask me if my maid would be able to work at her place for a week as her own maid had taken ill.

I was making tea and asked her to come in for a cuppa.

‘So what else are you making?’ she asked, surveying the kitchen.

‘Uttapams,’ I said, hoping she will not linger to watch my uttapam making skills, which are non-existent. Am pretty bad at any pancake type stuff, from pancakes to cheelas to dosas to yes, uttapams. These usually turn out round and somewhat decent only after several failed attempts.

‘Arre! Again South Indian!’ She was extremely bemused. ‘Don’t you ever make anything North Indian? At least for your husband?’

I know it's raining more than it has in the last 100 years out there.

I know most people are spending the nights wherever they are, be in at work, in their car or even, in my all time pet hate — crowded, squalid Dadar station.

I know it isn't much fun to have to walk through knee-deep or waist-deep water, which isn't exactly of five star swimming pool quality.

So will you consider me a complete nut if I say, despite all these, despite the fact that I will never get a decent-sized three bedroom apartment with lovely city view for the price I pay here in that submerged suburbia, I would still jump and pack my bags and take the first flight out, if only I got a chance to move to Bombay?

Don't get me wrong. I'm not cribbing. This is wishful thinking part II.

I did not like Delhi. Warmed up to bits of it by the time I left. I miss Khan Market. Ok not the whole of it. Only Cafe Turtle and Empire Stores. And now that I'm not working, it would have been fun to have gone pottering around Dilli Haat and Priya (Ok. Fact & Fiction) and when I felt obscenely rich, at least in my imagination, even Santushti and Hauz Khas Village. Though given the heat I doubt I'd have stepped out of home voluntarily. And would've been working had I been in Delhi I guess.

Sorry. Diversion happened there. So Delhi, by the end of my five year stay, was grudgingly passable. I quite like Bangalore. It's green, people take care of trees and the weather makes me smile and it has some nice places to hang around.

It's just that I like Bombay much, much better.

Wishful Thinking

After partying nonstop for for six days and five nights, I am dropping dead. Literally. The house looked terribly empty this morning without our mad friends and the ensuing chaos...

...And it struck me hard that after a point, you continue making good friends. The kind you can comfortably party with on weekends and go on treks and drives. But none that can read your pulse as well as the old ones can.

So for once, after a long, long time, I wished, really wished that I was back in Bombay. The city where I made at least half a dozen friends-for-life.

Inside Hogwarts

Had booked an advanced copy at Crossword but was able to sit down with Harry only late last night as we had guests over the entire weekend. One of them even looked at the book with a slightly amused eye. Humph! Dear guest, go join AS Byatt. I'm glad to be a childish adult.*

Was at page 358 before I looked at the unearthly hour on the bedside clock and decided it wasn't worth reading with really droopy eyelids. Not to mention the head.

But the joys of not working can be wonderful! Shall dedicate rest of the day to Potter after checking mail (and blogging and reading about other Potter maniacs and wondering if Kahini is doing this too. We were both quite excited during the last book).

The weather is lovely and inviting enough to drag the bean bag into the balcony (not to mention a mug of hot chocolate) and race through the adventure which I think has a somewhat insipid start and an overall feeling of sadness despite the raging hormones. But makes a great read nevertheless.

Go back to work then, all you lovely people.

Ciao!

* Thank you for the link Parmanu. I don't agree with her views but they are interesting.

Arranged Adventures

My little cousin (he isn’t reading this, so I can call him that) is getting married sometime soon. At least he plans to. He’s barely 25. Has a great and well paying job and thinks it’s time he got hitched and settled down.

If this were a Suraj Barjatya movie, his parents would’ve been ecstatic and a Bhagyashree type bahu who loves peeling carrots in the kitchen would’ve made her entrance already but my cousin has to deal with a formidable mom. And a somewhat baffled dad.

Maami (maternal aunt) and mama (maternal uncle) met in school when they were 16. He fell for her. She being a good girl from a good Bong family kept her feelings to herself. Until she was barely 20 and her parents decided to get her married off to some rich Bong businessman, who according to maami, looked like a toad and smelt worse.

Maami rebelled and helped by her brother went off to study in a college and live in a hostel somewhat far from home. Sometime later, she came home during the Durga Puja holidays and in true Bong romantic fashion bumped into mama in a Puja pandal (the place where the idol of Goddess Durga is kept. Scene of much merry and matchmaking).

The rest as they say is history. They married four years later, both of them working to save up for the future as parental support wasn’t exactly forthcoming. I have no idea why the parents on either side were opposed to the match since from the time I’ve seen them, they seemed to be on very cordial terms, but the cousin grapevine puts it down to ego clashes.

To get back to our young man, this is where the problem comes in. His parents cannot understand why, at an age when he should be going and checking out the world (and girls) and has all the liberty to do so, should he want his parents to open the matrimonial section of Sunday TOI and Anandbazaar Patrika and check out a girl for him.

And what they or my parents (who didn’t face parental opposition but did not need their help to find each other) cannot understand is: An arranged marriage? When we have given the boy all the liberty to choose whoever he likes, caste, creed, colour, language not a hindrance (as long as it’s a girl, they aren’t that liberal yet) and whenever. No deadlines here, please.

The boy, who was in Bangalore for a day on work and dutifully met me, thinks arranged marriages are wonderful. Here’s his logic: I’m working. I don’t have the time to meet a girl and even if I do, I don’t know if I’ll be able to put in much time in getting to really know her, her background, etc. If it’s an arranged marriage my parents can do all that (Like date the girl and find out which books she likes, I suppose?) and once all these background issues are smoothened out, life is much easier.

Me and P sat silently, looking at each other throughout this self-assured dialogue delivery. Later P told me that some younger kids at his workplace thought the same way my cousin did. And I remembered a conversation with a friend long ago about how it’s mostly our generation (The 30 plus ones) who like taking risks, like waiting till the right one saunters along or deciding they don't need marriage to 'settle' altogether.
Is adventure no longer for the young?

Inky has sent me a book meme. Since I'm always confused when it comes to selecting favourite books etc, have been putting it off for a while but you never know about bad luck (or bad lux, as kid in my school would say). So here goes. Please skip if bored.

Number of Books owned:
Between 350-400? Haven't counted. Occupies one whole cupboard at the moment.

Books I recently brought:
Snobs: Julian Fellows. Same person who wrote Gosford Park, which I enjoyed quite a bit. Haven't started reading yet.

Black Friday: S Hussain Zaidi. Since P grabbed it before me, I started it last Thursday. Then switched on the television and heard about the London blasts. Eerie...

Skin: Margaret Mascarenhas. Bought it finally and re-read. I love this book. The incidents and characters are like peeling the layers of an onion.

Last book I read:
Well...finished Black Friday last night. So has to be that one.

One book that I couldn't finish:
Ha ha. The White Mughals by William Dalrymple. I did read the first, second, third, fourth, zzzz..., fifth, zzzz...and the last chapters and many of the pages in between but frankly, after a point I gave up. It was too heavy for bedtime reading anyway...

Five books I cherish:
This is a difficult one. There are so many of them. So just putting down the ones that randomly come to my mind.

Neither Here Nor There: Bill Bryson. Anytime I need a laugh.

84 Charing Cross Road: Helen Hanff. The one I have also has The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street, Hanff's London travelogue. I LOVE this book.

Fried Green Tomatoes At The Whistle Stop Cafe: Fannie Flagg. There's something about this one. It's a look into a different kind of life altogether.

Bridget Jones' Diary: Helen Fielding. I even like the film. Purely because of the two men in it, actually.

Comfort Me With Apples: Ruth Reichl. If you like reading about food, love, travel and finally finding your feet, read this one.

Now who shall I pass this on to:

Kahini (who introduced me to three of those cherished books and many more, at different points in life.), Subs and Colours.

Had to bug you girls, even if you've been tagged before.

*wicked laugh*

The July 2nd Indian Express had an interesting page one photograph. I tried looking it up on the express site so that I could post it here but it's not available.

It showed Ahmedabad's Joint Commissioner of Police, K Kumara Swamy, being carried by (possibly) a constable through a flooded street in the city.

this is no humour in uniform,' said the caption.

I wish it was. Because the joint commissioner's legs seemed perfectly capable of wading through the waterlogged street. Despite that he had chosen another human being, his junior by many many ranks, as his mode of transport.

Why?

Well, simply because his car had broken down! How could a senior officer of his stature dip his precious feet, not to mention his sturdy, well polished boots through all that dirty water. Never mind that there's probably a lackey waiting at home to clean those precious boots.

I do hope the Jt. Commissioner took this step because of some physical problem. Arthritis perhaps. Or maybe a wound that's taking days to heal.

But if this is the way he moves around, whenever there's a bit of muck, who says we've moved away from the days of the Raj?

Do I know these people?

I don't use yahoo mail any more as paranoid ex-office had included it in its strange list of banned websites (Dear employees, surf porn by all means but no going on yahoo, rediff and DEFINITELY NOT HINDUSTAN TIMES!).

So I checked my yahoo address book after ages and have made interesting discoveries.

The number one name in the address book belongs to the former regional editor of the newspaper I worked for. In fact I have not one but two email IDs for a man who positively disliked me and whose feelings I reciprocated. When did I this ID down? Also I was acquainted with him in those pre-email days, so still wondering how...

I have email IDs of several people whose existence I seem to have forgotten. One of them is interestingly called silky followed by a number. The other calls herself/himself teekhimirchi.
There is one called Sujata but she isn't one of the two Sujatas I know. Who on earth are these people??!!!!

Discovery of the afternoon: email IDs of two ex-crushes. Hatching evil plan. Hehe

There are four alternative IDs for one certain person who was part of the alcoholics network masquerading as the features team at one point. Shows the strength of our friendship in those days I suspect, though I can't seem to remember much of it.

Strange are the ways of the world and the internet.

I’ve always hated being asked this question.

‘What’s your caste?’ Aap logon ka caste kya hai?

I see no reason why someone needs to know such intimate details of my background within 15 minutes of being introduced to me. And I’m always at loss to understand what they mean by the word ‘caste.’

Very often, in my experience, people mean community when they wrongly say caste. Though some never-say-die types also want to know what your caste (now meant correctly) is after they’ve figured out the community.

Among friends, we do make jokes about each other’s community and we do at times want to know what they do similarly or differently from us but what I don’t understand is when people plunge into the question almost right away.

Believe it or not, leaving aside other instances, I’ve heard this question from a teenager in Delhi (yes, she wanted to know what my friend’s caste was) and yesterday from a reasonably young mother in the neighbourhood during my evening walk, which is a lovely thing people who stay at home can do, though not when strange questions are coming their way.

Well why do people need to know? Are they going to further their interaction with you based on your answer? Or is it plain curiosity, sheer habit or perhaps mummy papa didn't tell them it wasn't an important thing to ask?

When I lived in Bombay I never once had to face the caste question. At most, people asked where you were from as it was apparent you lived on your own. Thankfully, I never had a landlady who brought such things up either.

But I inhabited a different world in those days. We made friends easily and how far it would go was based on that person’s capacity to work, laugh, party and imbibe first day first shows rather than on personal details they had no control over.

Rainsong

Now that it's raining in Mumbai and newspapers and TV channels can't get enough of the waves splashing on Worli Seaface and Marine Drive, am getting very nostalgic. True my memories of Mumbai rains include many that involve a lot of muck but nostalgia always excludes those ones.

I loved getting soaked by the waves on Marine Drive during the rains but my two absolute favourite rainspots were Bandra Bandstand where the wind could carry you off and the grotto with the curving srairway opposite Mount Mary church. You couldn't feel the waves there but you could keep standing there, sometimes alone for hours, get soaked and watch the sea merge into the blue grey sky.

That place was my zone of peace. Went there when I was feeling happy, sad, strange or nothing at all. And during the rains.

Going To KV

Subs’ comment about some parents not sending their kids to a middle class school got me writing this one. WARNING: LONG RANT. HAVE POSSIBLY RANTED ON THIS BEFORE

From Class II till Class X, I attended the most middle class school of all in India — Kendriya Vidyalaya or Central School as it’s better known. A number of them actually as dad had a transferable job. No matter which remote area we went to, the syllabus remained the same and admission was more or less guaranteed so mom and dad were happy with the arrangement. It did occur to them to send us to a boarding school for a while but both me and brother threw ultimate tantrums at just the mention of it and till date, I’m glad they never took that step.

I studied with all sorts of kids. If the squadron leader’s daughter was in the same class with me, so were the school’s clerk’s twins. My parents did not seem to have a problem with this mixing of classes. Strangely though, scores of other people did as I realised gradually.

The general perception about KVs is that it is a ‘Hindi medium school,’ teaching standards are extremely low and that crowd that studies there has ‘all types.’ Some allegations aren’t very far off the mark. There are some 800 plus KVs around the country and abroad and there is a possibility of poor teaching standard in some of them. I’ve gone through a terrible history teacher, a wonderful English teacher who taught me to love reading and two Maths teachers, one of whom made me hate the subject and the other ensured I ended up liking it enough to get a decent score in my board exams. This lack of uniformity isn’t unique to KV. There are several upper middle class schools across the country where the teaching standard isn’t uniformly excellent.

A friend and I had an argument once. She is a young mom and pretty concerned about which school her two year old will eventually get into. She’s limited her choices to the crème de la crème (at least by repute) schools of Delhi. It HAS to be Vasant Valley, Modern, Mother’s International, Sanskriti or something else in that super school category. Her argument: A good school shapes you for life. And you study with people from good families.

I don’t know how much of that argument I agree with as I've never quite understood school snobbery. I’ve seen kids from the best of schools do miserably in competitive exams while someone from a school we hadn’t even heard about has sailed past with ease. Of course these aren’t generalisations. The opposite can be true as well. The thing is whether you study in Kendriya Vidyalaya, Ferozpur Cantonment. or Cathedral and John Connon Bombay, how you ultimately shape up depends on a lot more factors than just which school you went to.

I studied with kids from all kinds of backgrounds and cultures. I may not have ‘connections’ with the vice admiral’s kids as my friend Adi does thanks to his days in Modern Barakhamba, Delhi but I do have friends from diverse backgrounds and communities and a reasonable amount of knowledge and level of tolerance about them than in many other people I know. People who think all Gaons are Catholics and Maharashtrian cuisine consists mainly of pao bhaji.

And no, am not bragging.


PS: On an absolutely different note have a problem maid at hand. Does the work well and claims to understand Hindi but the moment I want her to do things a certain way, pretends to lack all knowledge of the language and gets weepy.

My two bits...

ON PARINEETA
Very nice period details. Esp. the Saridon ad and the switches which sent me back to my grandparent's old house in Cal. Saif looks hot. Vidya Balan is a discovery. Good they picked her out of those chai ka patti and washing powder ads. Only sore point, did they need to have such a dramatic climax?

ON GARBAGE SEGREGATION
Recently started in the building. Largely due to the efforts of two ladies, one of them retired, the other a post graduate student. The reaction? Surprisingly varied according to the volunteers. An 80 plus grandmom has no objection doing it after a lifetime of habit where she probably had maids dumping all the garbage in one bin. On the other hand a 30 something woman has been complaining about how such stuff takes up a lot of time and is almost impossible for a busy working woman like her. Some things can be eye-openers in a strange way.

ON A CERTAIN HOT SHOT INTERIOR DESIGNER IN BANGALORE
Was talking to her for a story I'm working on. Her response to one of my remarks: 'I don't do middle class homes my dear. They're too many people involevd and they aren't just worth it.'

The Best?

I don't know about you but all these best blog listing always leave me cold. Esp the ones about Indian blogs. Find most of the blogs featured there either too opinionated or trying too hard (but please note, I said 'most') to be cool. And do we really need to know the life of every kid in every B school? Spare us for God's sake.

Some of the best blogs I read regularly are private so that rules them out but some aren't and in my opinion they would rate highly in any blog list anywhere. But that's my opinion and perhaps the listmakers of blogworld differ.

What brought about this current grouse, went to a listing of best Asian blogs (sorry can't gove the url, have deleted address bar history) and with the exception of a genuine blog or two, there wasn't much to cheer for. So I have some 'koshchens.' Do you get the same feeling whenever you visit a best blog list? Why does this happen and er...am I sounding terribly opinionated too?

Have discovered the magic word to get work done -- 'sahab gussa karega,' 'sahab ko achcha nahi lagega' and various other combinations with the word ‘sahab’. This is how it happened. Was fruitlessly telling the cable guy to tune Travel and Living and National Geographic properly so that I can actually watch them instead of just hearing disembodied voices when inspiration struck. 'Sahab sham ko aake yehi channel dekhta hai. Ye achcha nahi ayega to sahab gussa karega.' I told the guy. The next thing you knew the man had pulled some wires and the reception was crystal clear. Never mind that 'sahab' (P who is blissfully ignorant of the things that get done in his ‘name’) doesn’t venture beyond HBO and ESPN.

Tried same tact with the carpenters next. Was unhappy with the work done on one of the kitchen pullouts and had been unsuccessfully chasing them. Just had to pick up the phone last Sunday and utter, ‘Sahab bahut gussa kar raha hai,’ and bingo, the men came running. Had to of course train ‘sahab’ to look suitably angry when they arrived.

Similar story with man who came to fix the computer. Now am no techie but I do know the basics (I’d like to think so) and it’s me who’s going to be a permanent fixture on the home comp. ‘Let me speak to Mr P madam,’ said the computer guy after finishing his work.
‘Mr P wouldn’t be using this computer much. You can speak to me.’
‘I need to explain certain things to him madam,’ our man persisted with the look one preparing to battle with a five-year-old kid.
I ended the conversation the only way possible: ‘Look here. It’s me who uses this machine. So it’s me who has to know and understand the complicated stuff. NOT MY HUSBAND. UNDERSTAND?’

All that brings me to a slightly disturbing thought. Why is this happening suddenly to me? Is it because people automatically assume that a lady cannot take decisions without getting it approved by her husband (especially if she’s a housewife) or doesn’t have the mental capacity to understand technology? Or is it just mild-mannered, gentle (ahem) me?

On a different note:

Have discovered two good things. Daily Bread. A company that makes very exciting types of bread from spinach to whole wheat. Even one with mustard and curry leaves that smells like avial!

And Biryani Merchant. They even do a hilsa biryani!

...and the fact that I posted this in red tells you I don't have much to do.

My interesting life as a stay-at-home girl officially begins today. Well it should have technically begun about one and half months back in Delhi when I said bye to the girlie mag but circumstances kept me busy and circulating.
We finally shifted to the apartment in Bangalore yesterday. It’s pretty nice. High up again. We seem to be catching an aversion to anything below the 15th floor. The two balconies have excellent views of Bangalore’s unending greenery (yes, have fallen for the greens) and within the complex, you can feast your eyes on the manicured lawns. Ok. Not so manicured but at least that’s what they look like from this height. There’s also a lovely blue swimming pool. Again, the height helps.
Earlier in the day decided to do the following today or some of it at least from this list:
* Walk in nice looking (from above) garden. Only it was 11:00 am and a bit sunny for a walk. Wish had dog. Great excuse for walk.
* Check out the pool. Only can’t swim. So could only go, gape and get back. Could do that from the living room balcony so avoided.
* Check out the shops around. There isn’t much though, except Jai Hari Supermarket which isn’t very high on the excitement factor.
* Check out Bangalore.
* Find a beautician who offers door step services and get various body parts scrubbed and polished. Just the thought made me go zzzzzz…
It's about 4 in the evening now and haven't done any of these exciting things. Instead have spent the day finding a plumber, chasing the cable guy, getting washing machine repaired and shouting at the carpenter. Now awaiting man to come and fix aquaguard. Humph!

Wow! Feels great to be online at last. although only for a while as the furniture and the rest of our stuff hasn't reached so it will be a while till I get the computer fixed and running. Have finally landed in Bangalore. Welcomed by bad traffic and great weather. Coming from 40 degree plus Delhi the weather more than makes up for the traffic. And yes, the greenery too. Think am going to like thic city, unlike the previous shitty I stayed in.
Feels weird to have been cut off from the blog world for so long. Time for catching up.

What do you do when a colleague you do not particularly like insists on taking you for a farewell lunch, gives you nice farewell gift and proceeds to tell you what a great help to her you have been through all these years.

You stay silent. At least for a while. Concentrate on food. Then smile shiftily (remembering all those bitching sessions that centred around her) and say...oh no...c'mon...I did nothing.

And feel like a total fraud.

Life should be easy. You should have some memory box in your head with easy to operate buttons and depending on the mood of the person or the moment just press start the required memories.

You'd look funny of course but that's quite another matter.

Just read somewhere that Gauri Nanda, the MIT scientist who invented 'Clocky' (an alarm clock that rolls off your bedside table, hides around the room and basically keeps pestering you until you wake up) has also developed an amazing handbag.
It makes sure you haven't forgetten your wallet or house keys (My lifelong ailment!) and even lights up in the dark to make rummaging through it easier (I need this!).
And wait, there's more. It even tells you if you've forgotten something you will probably need later in the day. An umbrella for instance.
It takes a girl to invent the really smart and useful things, haan?

I am on a deleting spree. With barely 10 days left in this office, I’ve started getting organised about which files to take, which papers to shred and most importantly, which documents to delete. I don’t want person who inherits this rickety chair and hundred year old computer (not to mention the footrest!) to accidentally open any half-written blog or mails from friends that I’d saved in ‘My documents’ coz they were hysterical.
Deleting’s a tedious job and I quite hate it. Especially when I realise that I have lovingly stored copy written as far back as July 2001. What if I needed that info some other time? Small wonder that my doddering computer crashed so often!
Being a newly-turned alert and methodical person, I’ve also proceeded to delete my entire contacts list, which means I’m now grovelling before the systems guys to retrieve it some way or the other.
Minor hitches apart some of it has been fun. I’ve dug out a story I did with a group of travelling musicians in Oslo, which for some reason I never sent my editor. Something told me her ‘Indian values’ wouldn’t quite appreciate a family where the daughter was openly in lust with a ‘borrowed’ percussionist and the merry group of father, mother, daughter and ‘borrowed lover’ got happily sozzled after a well-paying performance. I think it's a keepsake. :)
Then there is the promptly sent but never used story on child sexual abuse, which despite all our hard work over it, went into cold storage as they wanted a ‘happy cover.’ That document will be deleted of course but it’s proof that perhaps I needed to say bye to this place much earlier. The happiest has been finding the Malaysia story. I wrote it with a friend who’d been there. We came back from our trip, exchanged a huge number of giddy and hilarious emails and that’s what became our travel story. It was fun while it lasted haan, fellow emailer?

I felt like blogging today after a long time. Was going to write about something else. The lecherous building uncle for instance. But how can you think of humour and laughter when the person you associate it with, the girl with the super-enviable zest for adventure, is going through what is probably is the most trying time of her life.
Perhaps you've come across Lee's blogearlier, perhaps you haven't. But take a look today. She, her niece, her family and most of all her sister, need all our positive thoughts and prayers.

Do you ever go through a blank mind phase? I do. This is one of them. So shall get back when I have something to say. For my own sake, hope that happens soon. :)

The other day we went for dinner to a fancy new restaurant. Seeing it pretty much crowded, we decided to give it a try. Only when we had taken our seats did we realise that most of the diners were foreigners, with an Indian face or three as part of the group.
In MNC-infested Gurgaon, this generally means ‘the introduction to Indian food outing.’ It usually has four bewildered looking white people (no blacks ever!) accompanied by two officious looking Indian chaps who loudly proclaim, ‘No yaar, they should try the Tandoori Naan (accompanied by a knowing nod from the whites), Methi Matar Malai and the Butter Chicken. The rest of the stuff here isn’t
that good.’
This makes me wonder whether all those bewildered looking whites really want to have Indian food. Would they have gladly traded the culinary delights of ‘Punjabi Rasoi or Tandoori Tadka’ for the salami sandwich at the office canteen instead? And, with such do-gooders, do the poor souls get to choose anything on their own
at all?
Anyway, the restaurant we went to also had a heavy and gilt-edged menu listing its delights and being looked into with great interest by the firangs. Given the descriptions, it took us a while to figure out it was Chicken Do Piaza it was talking about. It went somewhat like this: Succulent pieces of boneless chicken, marinated in saffron and yogurt and sautéed with whole spices and baby onions.
We also broke our heads over pickled baby mushrooms and peas sautéed in garlic and onions, served with cream. Turned out to be Mushroom Matar, in gravy suspiciously similar to the chicken’s.
After a not-so-hot meal and a completely unjustified bill, we walked out and wondered what got this lowest-of-dhabas-masquerading-as-posh-restaurant going. I decided it was probably the menu. Name anything in an exotic way and even your run of the mill ‘rajma chawal’ will sound exciting enough.
Cubed potatoes sautéed in cumin and coriander with a lime dressing, sounds so much better than plain ‘jeera aloo,’ n’est pas? Check out any French food menu. Nothing's never described in less than five lines. No wonder that the bread and snail cuisine is so hot around the world. Time we learnt.

Was trying to remember how we dug out telephone numbers of government organizations and paranoid corporate houses, special reports on events that happened in 1957, backgrounders of people to interview in the pre-google days.

Sadly, I couldn’t. I’m that old.

The pre-google era, when one had to actually call Ask Me, get the BMC headquarter’s number and then beg them for the number of their Chembur ward seems a distant past. I have very hazy recollections, despite having worked in such circumstances for at least four whole years or maybe more.

The worse bit was finding out about people and their claim to fame before you went to interview them. Either you risked asking dumb questions that later made dumb copy or you had to request the PR (usually inefficient) for a backgrounder (usually insufficient) or make your ‘own enquiries.’ All you need to do now is type the name or subject in google and you are an instant authority, sometimes even on the person’s underwear preferences.

Weirdly though, I think I worked but better (and faster) then. Wonder why…

Thank you people. :)

To tell you the truth, the real 'push' to chuck the job came with the imminent move to a new city — Bangalore. We'll be there sometime in May.

Had the 'move' not happened I'd be probably sitting on my resignation letter still, waiting for the 'right time.'

As they say, a change is always good. Looking forward to it.

So long and thanks for all the shit.

Should’ve said that ideally in my resignation letter but am one of those strong, silent types. I stay silent no matter what ;)

Will be here for the required notice period but saying bye feels great. Although a little unnerving as have never quit without a job in hand earlier, unless I count that two-month break after I shifted to Delhi post marriage. And that wasn’t exactly unnerving. The dotcom my friend worked for had shown significant interest so had the secure feeling that if nothing worked out that would.

Have no idea what I am going to do next. And in the strangest of ways that just feels great :)

HAPPINESS!!!!!

It’s a very strange feeling. To move or not to move. To quit or to stay. It's stranger when you don't particularly like the place and its policies but when you seem to have grown roots, without any reason for you to do so.

I’ve wanted to freelance for months, because even if the money is slow to come by, it does give an amount of flexibility in the kind of work you want to do.

Years back, when our joyride in a small publication suddenly ended, thanks to a publisher with illusions of false grandeur, I’d freelanced happily for some months, made some money, lost some. The stories I ended up doing weren’t always exceptional, the projects I took up weren’t always that great, but it was my decision and my time and I had fun with it.

Wonder what’s stopping me from doing the same now?

Not Idle anymore

Indian Idol has divided our two member family. I wasn't into the contest much earlier and neither was P, except when we happened to catch it ocassionally. We only started noticing it towards the end, all thanks to Prajakta Shukre and her pretty looks. P, like Sanjay Bhansali and Anu Malik, found the little girl a complete 'star.' Ahem...

Poor Prajakta didn't make it (though I'm quite certain we'll see her in playback singing and music videos soon enough) but Abhijeet Sawant and Amit Sana did.

And our household had instant division. P (like most of my friends, grrrrr...) wants Abhijeet to win. He thinks the boy is the complete package. I want Amit Sana.

And here's the reason.

Abhijeet has his smile. And pleasing looks. And Shilpa Shetty's compliment. And the entire Mumbai city. And one lakh plus employees of BMC, where his father works. Amit has nothing but his voice. And throat infection. And the people of Bhilai. And I suspect teenage Bhilai girls might just go for his opponent's smile.

All these makes Amit Sana the underdog. Why should looks count in playback singing?

No doubts about who I'm smsing for!

Thinking of:

watching Finding Neverland/Aviator/Raising Helen back to back
going berserk in a book fair
dashing off to Bombay for Mark Knopfler
getting a rich aunt
saying bye bye to the mag
shopping till my head hurts
reading more of Ruth Reichl
watching Love Actually on the DVD
cutting my hair
making chocolate strawberries and coconut paste sambhar

Valentine Boys

We spent Valentine’s Day peacefully. We don’t celebrate it, never have. The day doesn’t matter to us of course (we're too cool kya!) but we went out for dinner as I was too tired to cook and had gotten home late. We went to the food court where I turned up my nose at the sight of two scrawny youth in oiled hair walking up and down with red roses. Considering it was 9.30 pm and the roses looked pretty much wilted, it was obvious the girls around were smart enough and their efforts hadn’t paid off. I sniggered quite loudly when we passed the boys on our way out (half an hour later). My dear husband thought I was being unnecessarily mean. Apparently all boys do such soppy things (yikes) at some point or the other. I'd say it's meanos like us who show them the light.

Reading Vogue In a DTC Bus...

...is inviting unwanted attention, of course. However a 45-minute long traffic jam ridden ride in a somewhat soiled vehicle requires distraction, which is why I dug into my bag, discovered Vogue and proceeded to read about Donald Trump's third wife. I was immersed in the engrossing details of her shopping trip to Paris when some stray comments of the not-so-polite-Hindi kind made me look up. Two men standing next to me were having a good time. The back cover had a model sprawled out in a perfume ad. Fully clothed (by fashion mag standards) but with enough peeking out for the guys to lose their equilibrium. Being the easily-embarassed type, I primly rolled up the offending mag, remembered a friend's tryst with the Financial Times in Germany, though for entirely different reasons, stared out of the window at the endless traffic and tried to ignore the dust. The men didn't give up. They were now looking at my bag.
How I miss the ladies compartment of Bombay locals!

I've been thinking whether we really need movie reviews. Isn't the reviewer (and all of us are guilty of this at some time or the other) creating a bias in people's minds and in some cases, affecting the movie's chances at the box office?
We react to any creative effort, including cinema, in our unique, individual way. Which means it's quite impossible for everyone to arrive at the same conclusion about a film. I loved 'Black' and most people loved it as well but there are some for whom the movie did nothing.
I found 'Shabd' disappointing. Sid liked it. So did Anita. Most of us loved 'Bend It Like Beckham'. But there are people who quite hated it. Ditto for 'Hyderabad Blues' (Part one of course. The lesser said about part 2 the better. See there I go!).
When 'Page 3' released, the Indian Express reviewer trashed it. I'd already bought the tickets so we went ahead with the film and ended up liking it.
So do we need reviews at all? I asked a friend and she said, so that we know what to expect. Isn't a synopsis enough for that?

Still wondering about...

* JNU students: They've thrown out a Nestle coffee vending machine from the campus as it is elitist (nestle achine is definitely gourmet coffee), expensive (Rs 5 only. ouch. we'd rather go to barista) and corporate (which their phones and shoes and watches aren't of course). What'll they throw out next? Themselves?
Anyway, just in case you want to read JNU arguments against this criminal coffee, I came across studentsolidarity.blogspot.com. This time, I'd rather side with the horrid Mcmedia.

* The Battle For Pitampura: It was hysterical to see Delhi divided into two over this stinging issue. There were the Absolute Snobs who couldn't imagine going to Pitampura and driving with the metro over their heads. There were Pitampura Loyalists who looked down upon the snobs looking down upon them and said it was a great place. There were the Music Lovers who said they'd go anywhere for music, even if it's Pitampura. And now, after the concert, there are Pitampura Converts who it seems will only go there for concerts now and nowhere else. Between quotes from Rina Dhaka, Subir Malik, Palash Sen, Rohit Bal, DNA head, south delhi studs and Pitampura teenieboppers, it was hugely entertaining. Thank you guys!

1994 (As far as I remember): Bryan Adams is performing in Mumbai. Five girls an three boys at Fergusson College, Pune, are over the moon. A rock concert! In India! Wow! The last time Sting and Bruce Springsteen came to India we were kids. Now we can actually make it. So what that we have exams going on? By a stroke of luck the concert is on the last day of our exams. One of the boy's brother buys us tickets, some of us pay him. Some of us promise to next month after mummy daddy send the cheque. Boy's brother organises Maruti Van. We shall rush to Mumbai as soon as the paper's over. We buy t-shirts with Bryan Adams' mug on it and barely stay quiet in the examination hall. We are soooooo excited. A rock concert!!! We barely finish paper, get into the van and dash off. Van bangs into tractor type vehcle. Two of us are hurt. It's off to a dispensary in Satara instead.

1996: Led Zeppelin and Bryan Adams perform on stage for the Channel [v] Awards. Me (and countless other journos) get to meet the rockstars but hey, where's the excitement? Caught in the whirl of too much work and too many celebrities, I've become a snob journo. Only notice that Robert Plant looks HOT. Rockstar Hot! Bryan Adams? Yeah, there's a tiny man moving around somewhere...

Sometime around that: Michael Jackson makes it to Mumbai. Horrid RE of course send his favourite (who's friend of mine so won't bitch). Tickets almost equal my salary. I don't want to go anyway. Who wants to see a monkey on stage. That too blessed by Bal Thackeray.

2002/3: Pink Floyd plays in Bangalore. I'm all ready to go. Eventually can't because it's a new job for me and don't have leave! Brother makes it, comes back raving and says he's disappointed in me, someone who saved up pocket money and bought their albums.

2005: Sting performs in Pitampura. Don't go again. First coz nobody I know wants to go including the formerly bohemian husband who is now too busy making presentations. Even the brother is working. The rest want free tickets.

2005: Mark Knopfler is coming to India. Now this is someone I'd give arm, leg and other body parts to see. Only, he's performing in Bombay and Bangalore. Not Delhi. Will I make it to Bombay? Unlikely. We bought a house last year. We are doing it up now. We are as Washington Post says, cashtrated.

My rock star karma surely is bad.

PS: I know the post has no point. But bad karma and old age lethargy needs to be documented.

Black

It isn't just the performances, the photography and the direction that deserves praise. It's the fact that a mainstream filmmaker has the guts to show the box office the finger and make a film that is far removed from conventional Bollywood standards. For those of us who've always watched and liked Hindi movies, even when it was uncool to do so, films like Black make you confident that the film industry is coming of age. At last!
Great film. Go watch if you haven't already. And not on DVD. This is for the big screen.
On the other hand Shabd was a disappointment. Great story but weak and overstylised direction. It could have been a fantastic study of a writer's complex, distraught mind, fanatic about proving his genius to the world. All it ends up being is a confused Hindi film with bad songs.

Saturday!

After years of going to work on Sundays, holidays and other unmentionable days when friends are planning mini vacations or plotting picnics while I travel miles to sub copies on warts and pimples, I finally have the luxury of a two-day weekend. For the sake of all those unfortunate souls who do not have this privilege (Now, why do I smirk?), I have to say that it is an awesome, mind-blowing experience. To an extent.
Here’s how it’s been going so far:
I wake up on Saturday at the usual workday hour.
Realise with a bang in big, bold fonts that it’s a holiday. HOLIDAY!!!!!!
I promptly show the clock the finger, dive back inside the quilt and get back to sleep.
Pause
I try to get back to sleep. With one small hitch. Sleep has also gone back on me. I toss and turn, count sheep and try to think of nothing (which means I think of everything, including my neighbour’s acne problem). And I can't sleep.
I can’t wake up at seven either! Haven’t I endured endless Saturday mornings struggling to pull myself up from the bed while most of the world (the civilized working world at least) sleeps, especially the snoring bundle next to me? Haven’t I stifled four-lettered retorts when friends have called and announced in their just-out-of-bed voice: ‘Ohhhh myyyy Gawd...(Yawn)...You’re aaaattt work! Gosh...(Yawn)...ok dear...so I guess you're working...(yawn)...I
just woke up!’
Ugh!
So how can I wake up THAT early?
Just to punish me sleep has a way of staying away when I need it the most. Therefore, in a resigned state of mind, I get up (ignoring the snoring bundle), bring in the newspapers, make a cup of chai and put my feet up and sit.
That’s when it really hits! I DON'T HAVE TO GET READY IN HALF AN HOUR. NO WORK TODAY! YIPEEE!!!
As a former six-day-week slave, this mindblowing fact takes me the entire day to digest. During this time, the snoring bundle has woken up, had his chai, bathed, exercised, met friends, gone out for lunch, shopped for CDs and DVDs, watched a lot of television, driven around half the city and drunk himself silly.
He's always been a privileged five-day week type, they take such luxuries in their stride.
I, on the other hand, am still slouched and zombie like. There is a different one liner running in my mind: CAN'T BELIEVE TOMORROW IS A HOLIDAY TOO!!!!

There are reasons why I’ll never make too many friends in Delhi. For one I'll never figure out the ‘Haanji’ crowd. It's impossible to have a serious conversation with people who pick up the phone and go 'haanji?' Excuse me? What about 'Namaste,' 'Hello,' etc? 'Haanji' sounds like you are demanding to know why the caller had the audacity to call. Even if it was just to wish you Happy New Year (ending with ji). Whenever I call someone and get confronted with a 'haanji,' I find myself launching into a long-winded explanation on why I called and almost apologising. Really.
Then there are the ‘Pancake’ queens. Especially the crack of dawn variety. Ok honey. Nothing against looking well-groomed and pretty but do you have to wear eyeliner and gloss at seven thirty in the morning? And the reason you and I will never see I to eye is because I’ll never learn that it is bad manners to walk up to you and say 'my god you actually comb your hair this early!' when you have not only combed hair but also blow dried it, applied makeup and look ready to catwalk.
This is the other thing that instantly makes me an outsider: I’ve actually taken the Delhi metro! If you are a true blue Delhiite, you never step into a mode of transport that also carries the 'aam janta.' If it's a modern invention like the metro, you appreciate it and say how proud and how international and how like the metro in Bangkok, which naturally, you have travelled on extensively. Of course, it's not your fault that the metro’s not even in South Delhi. It’s in strange places called Shahdara and Kanhaiya Nagar. And sure, you know all about public transport — like what the inside of a DTC bus looks — but that’s only because you took the U special 15 years ago to college when dad refused to give you the car.
But what has me confused the most is the 'auto expression.' It’s a mixture of awe (?) and disbelief in the eyes of a delicately bred Delhi babe, after hearing that I have taken an auto to remote, rapist-infested areas like Mehrauli, Vasant Kunj, etc. That too in the middle of the night, i.e 8 pm. I love this one and revel in the heroine worship (Brave me! Ooh I took an auto!) but I suspect that’s not what it really means.
If you have reached here and aren't itching to break my neck, you are either not from Delhi or have nothing else to read or you're simply a saintly type of person.
Before you (the possible non-saintly Delhiite) curse me for being a determined Delhi hater (who me?), let me say this. There are loads of wonderful refreshing girls, totally comfortable with how they look. PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY AVOID WARPAINT IN THE MORNING. And of course there are people who take the bus or the metro to work, to meet friends, to the movies. You do meet people who don’t look at you like you are from a different planet if you mention the word public transport. It’s just sad that I don’t meet too many of them.

“It’s the Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston syndrome we are going through,” my friend laughed into the phone. “He wants babies, I don’t. I almost feel like a celeb!”
I laughed along with her, at that moment it seemed the only way to handle the situation.
It goes deeper than that. My friend wants to go for further studies. Doesn’t mind having children at some point in life if she feels like but not now. Not when she is at what she feels is the most exciting time in her career. An opportunity to let go of a well paying job and spend a year or two studying overseas.
The world thinks differently. It includes her husband, also a friend of mine. They’ve been each other’s rock-like support and guide through the best and worst times of their personal and professional lives. They’ve stayed together despite seemingly obvious differences in background and mindset. Until now. To my friend’s husband, her reluctance to have a child now equals a lack of interest on her part in their relationship, in the future.
She thinks he’s being drastic. Honestly, I think so too, which is why I’m writing this. And what hurts her the most is his refusal to accept that she might genuinely want to have a child although not now, that she might really want the relationship to continue but not because of a compromise.
We talk pretty often, even though we don’t end up meeting much. I don’t know what to say, I listen, because that’s what she wants me to.
It also strikes me that this is not my only friend who’s going through a rough patch in her relationship. I look at these relationships from an outsider’s point of view and to me it looks like a jigsaw puzzle gone wrong. Perhaps all it requires is some concentrated attention, some shifting here and there, before it all fits in. But life is more complicated than that I suppose.

Why don't you get the floor polished?
Why don't you change the maid?
Why don't you have your hair coloured?
Why don't you visit us more often?
Why don't you start planning children?
Why don't you get a better job?
Why don't you drive?
Why don't you do something exciting with your life?
Why don't you learn to control your temper?
Why don't you tell me what's wrong?
Why don't you make more money?
Why don't you start saving?
Why don't you stop chewing your nails?
Why don't you learn how to tell people off?
Why don't you stop drinking?
Why don't you stop having junk food?
Why don't you stop thinking so much?
Why don't you learn to sell yourself?
Why don't you call me often?

WHY DON'T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?

I’d forwarded the tsunamihelp website to some friends and acquaintances when one of them wrote back saying 'Have already donated 10k. But will forward this one.'

It irked me immensely. It always does, when people declare 'how much' they have done or contributed to something. It makes me feel that they are not doing this because they genuinely feel for the cause but because it is a way to make themselves feel good and make others think how noble/selfless/concerned they are.

Perhaps mine is a very cynical and myopic way of looking at it. And I could be far off the mark. But I can't help being a skeptic. Vivek Oberoi rushing off to Nagapattinam and adopting a village does impress me but I invariably wonder how much of it is work he is actually doing and how much is publicity? Yes, I know I shouldn't be doubting the guy. At least, he's there. There are so many of us just saying 'wish we could be there' and sitting stuck to our chairs instead. And stars would perhaps motivate others to join in or donate. Therefore it is a good thing that there are many coming forward both from hollywood and bollywood. But is it necessary to mention in the newspapers how much they've donated? Is the amount a reflection of their sincereity?

Perhaps I'm very conservative. I still believe that people who actually do something do not advertise it. I feel that if you can make a difference (by giving money/volunteering/whatever) make it in whatever way possible, big or small. Make it within your means and keep quiet. Unlike a lot of talk happening around. You frequently hear people saying 'I donated xx amount.' We don't need to know do we?

The Tsunami disaster is unbelieveable. There was a story in this morning's paper about an IAF officer's 13-year-old daughter who floated on a piece of wood and survived. Her parents didn't.
The most heartbreaking were the mass graves in Sri Lanka. And the photograph of a Swedish kid in Phuket holding a piece of paper that says parents and two brothers missing.
You go to a beach — whether it's in India, Sri Lanka, Maldives or Thailand — usually in the happiest frame of mind. This was no way to die.

A must visit site for info on what's happening and how you can help:

tsunamihelp.blogspot.com

My little brother has bought a car. No big deal I guess but he is four years younger than me, and I feel motherly about every development in his life. Naturally, when we went to pick up the car, I was moist-eyed and as my horrid brother remarked, a perfect replacement for Nirupa Roy in Hindi films. The real trouble started once we got the car out of the showroom. My mom called and asked me to ‘take the car to a temple.’
Since when did she become such a devoted person, I asked her.
I haven’t. It’s because this is my son’s car, she sternly replied. To reach a compromise (and avoid the temple), I dashed back to the showroom and picked up a ‘Divinity Ganesha.’ It was golden and the only semi-decent Ganesha available. Brother smirked, fumed and grumbled about superstitions, blind faith, etc. I kept a straight face. Much as I love Ganesha (ok. Let me confess it. I collect them), the Divinity one was horridly golden.
‘I’ll change it for a better one tomorrow,’ I promised him. He muttered in reply.
By now we were on our way to Gurgaon, where P was planning to celebrate with bottles of booze. It involved passing the newly constructed Dhaula Kuan flyover. I love all these new flyovers in Delhi but would someone tell them to put up CLEAR, LOUD AND PROPERLY DIRECTED SIGNS? In the grasp of my big sister act, I almost directed brother to Naraina, which is on the opposite side.
Now brother's a good driver but the moment I saw him behind the wheel I felt as if he was 14 and taking out dad’s car for the first time.
Expectedly, things went downhill from then on:
‘Now watch that turn, there’s a lot of traffic coming in from there.’
‘Thank you. I have eyes. I can see traffic.’
‘Ok. Ok. Go slow for God’s sake’
‘I am going slow. Thanks to you, I’m going slower than even that khatara van!’
‘You can’t go fast. This is the highway. There are so many accidents.’
By the time we reached the 30 km distance from the showroom to my place, brother had a strange look in his eyes. It wasn't helped by me telling him to park carefully between a Maruti 800 and a Santro.
‘Do you realise how old I am?’
‘Umm…you’re definitely younger and I’m just asking you to be careful.’
‘Do you realise that unlike you, perhaps I can drive and I don’t think it’s like climbing the Everest?”
‘Hmmm…’
‘Do you realise that thanks to you I got stuck at every signal because you asked me to drive slow, follow speed limits, mind the cops, cows, autos, everything?’
‘Oh my god! You mean to say that was slow? You mean you’ll drive faster than that?’
Naturally enough, brother’s a bit evasive whenever I ask for a ride these days.

After watching Swades on Saturday afternoon, I had a huge argument with the friends I went with. They didn’t like the film. I did. Although, I wish the film had been more gripping and less preachy. I’ll blame it on the dialogues. They sound very Doordarshan documentary type. But my friends had more to criticise about the movie than just the dialogues. They felt there was nothing new about the story and that it was pointless.
It surprised me hell of a lot. I fail to understand why they think Swades, a movie about an Indian living abroad, who's back on a journey that becomes one of self discovery and who makes a decision to stay back and contribute to his country's development, is pointless? Then Dil Chahta Hai, a film about the ups and downs over the years in three friends’ lives didn’t have much point either, did it? Or for that matter Veer Zara (which is a bad movie. I’d rather go and see DDLJ for the 25th time) and all those Karan Johar 'classics'.
Which is why Nikhat Kazmi’s review in TOI angered me. Not that I go by her review but here is someone who gives a thumbs up to Veer Zara, an ode to mustard fields and Punjabi suits and then runs down Swades. What’s new, she said. We see poverty and barefoot children in railway stations everyday, she added. Yes we do. But while most of us walk past without bothering to do anything about it, some do stop and make a difference. I have a cousin who left a highly paying job to start a school in his mother’s village. Today, thanks to that school, many girls in that village can read, write and some even work. This movie was about people like him. I just wish it had the grip and punch of a Lagaan or a Dil Chahta Hai.
Swades is worth a watch just for the subject it has tackled. Our Hindi films do not delve from tried and tested subjects. It’s up to us to appreciate the few that do.

Four and half years and at least 30 weddings later (I like the way that sounds hehe), I’m convinced the profession to be is wedding planning. Especially if you live in Delhi like I do. If you're a wedding planner, you make money, you are never short of business and you are constantly in demand. What more could a girl want?

Last Sunday was the famous 14,000 weddings day here. But I kept thinking what the fuss was all about? They had a similar day last year when there were 14000 plus weddings. And they'll have one next year. This time, the TV channels had more story ideas though. One of them, Star Plus I think, had a 15-minute ‘news’ report on the ladkiwalas and the ladkawalas. It was nothing but filmi style antakshari. I couldn’t believe my ears. This was news? And to think in my reporting days I was blasted by the RE for doing a ‘fluffy-piece’ on chairs painted by MF Husain?

Perhaps you can’t blame TV journos for going overboard when the shaadis are over the top. Nobody does them on a small scale anymore. It’s a farmhouse or nothing. Even in freezing winter, which thankfully hasn’t arrived yet. One farmhouse wedding I went to this time had waiters dressed like Arab sheikhs for some strange reason. Perhaps it was to distract the kids who kept chasing them around. The fake Sheikh sight momentarily cheered me up with the thought that perhaps the food was Arabic but no such luck. The wedding day is strictly vegetarian. This is one time I miss Bong weddings. Never mind the topor*.

But the funniest wedding I attended was last year. Again in a farmhouse closer to Jaipur than to Delhi. Again overcrowded. Again 40 different food stalls, all of which were being attacked by very fat men and women wearing all their jewellery. Again a wedding where I only saw the bride and groom on a huge TV screen they had put up at the venue. But the icing on the cake was two revolving platforms flanking the entrance. On one stood a gleaming big black car tied with a huge blue bow, a placard on it bearing the legend: ‘From Mr XYZ To His Loving New Son.’ The other platform had similar gleaming car, though not so big (for the girl, silly) and not black, tied with a pink bow and the placard: ‘From Mr XYZ To His Lovely daughter.’ I almost thought I’d entered a contest by mistake.

But why blame just Delhi?

Last year, some newspaper tycoon's daughter got married in Bhopal and they actually printed a mini-tabloid with all the wedding news!
And years ago, when I was a gawky student in Bombay, we attended a classmate's wedding. The venue was Turf Club. We were showered with petals as we walked in. Thinking we had died and gone to heaven, we looked up to find two poor souls dressed and positioned like Hindi movie apsaras (Think Raj Kapoor films) on two podiums. All set to start showering petals the moment a guest entered. Heavenly no?

*Topor=Strange conical hatlike thing worn by Bengali grooms. Must’ve been invented by some jilted woman.

such is life...

There are Four main reasons behind the zero activity on this blog the last couple of weeks:

* Tons of work. For once, gallons of it. Since I mostly paint my toenails in the office, the volume of so much real work naturally knocked me out.

* Very Slow Server. Takes an hour to open anything.

* Blog intertia. Yep. It happened. Only felt like reading blogs when had the time. Not posting anything. Even comments. Has passed. Hopefully.

* Weddings. Everyone I know hatched some conspiracy and decided to get married at the same time. Totally broke/exhausted and unsocial after buying thoughtful gifts/sitting in car for hours to reach farmhouse out of town/chatting with same relatives and friends and even eating the same kind of food. And reaching home very very late. Ugh

There's probably a fifth reason as well. It's called Laziness. :)

I’m sitting in office finishing off last minute pages, wishing colleagues hurrying off home a very happy Diwali and thinking of the different Diwalis I’ve had. Strangely, despite being a Bengali, it’s Diwali and not Durga Puja that always has me excited.
I’m not a ritual-friendly person and often get scolded at various functions by family aunties for not knowing the right way to put a tikka on someone’s forehead and 'important' stuff like that. But I’ve always loved the rituals, the activities and the sense of urgency associated with Diwali — from cleaning up the house with mom as a kid to helping her shine her much loved silverware to perfection to soaking the mitti ka diyas.
I love yellow lights — candles, diyas, even nice fairy lights which I love winding around my plants. As a kid, the highlight of my Diwali celebration was lighting up one part of the house just the way I wanted to. In fact, when we lived in Goa, I once lit up a corner with such enthusiasm that dad had to almost call the fire brigade!
My lighting up activities were perfectly alright with the bro who had a free go at the crackers, something I largely stayed away from. Still, it was fun to light up your ‘anar’ and see if the sparks went up higher than the neighbours'. By late night, mom and dad's friends would start dropping in, dad and his friends would sometimes sit down for a quick round of cards, the drinks and mithais would come out, some aunty would bring out a casserole of ‘chhole puri’ and it would suddenly be an impromptu potluck dinner.
When I lived in Bombay, I mostly went home for Diwali. When I stayed back, it was usually spent at my friends H or An’s place, in much the same way as it was at home but with the essential people missing — mom, dad and brother. Diwali is when homesickness hits me the most.
An lived close to Worli Seaface and we would drive down to watch the fireworks across the sea. One magical Diwali night was spent driving from Bandra Bandstand to Marine Drive, chasing the fireworks as we called it. It seems magical now but come to think of it, must’ve been crowded then. When I started staying in Delhi, Diwali acquired an entirely new dimension (traffic jams, a profusion of dry fruits, large scale gifting and cards!) and I discovered a new side to the man. Diwali card parties are huge in Delhi and this is when P’s inherent Delhiite comes out. I’ve to endure the entire season listening to perplexing terms like ‘teen patti,’ ‘blind ki chal’ ‘flash’ etc.
The last four and half years I’ve been in Delhi, I’ve been home for Diwali only once. In Delhi, it means an elaborate dinner at P's parents' place. This is preceded by an equally elaborate ‘puja’ earlier in the evening, performed in utter seriousness by my father-in-law, watched indulgently by my mother-in-law and bhaiya and bhabi. I’m the fumbling participant (which finger do I use? Ghee or chandan? Yikes! Wrong stuff!). P, our niece and my brother who lives in Delhi, pretend to look serious and wait impatiently to start with the food and the crackers, which nowadays mean nothing loud or polluting. The niece is very eco-friendly and stares with disgust at her uncle when he suggests noisy stuff. I wait for the noise, the visitors and the rituals to fade out, go out on the balcony and relish the sudden silence, the flickering diyas in the adjacent balconies, the end of a festival and the beginning of a new year, which I don't quite follow. I call home, speak to mom and dad and hope that next year either I make it home or they make it here.

How To Be A Corporat's Wife

Be pretty. Preferably with straight hair, a smile that turns warm/icy depending on person it’s being bestowed on. Fondness for diamonds, platinum and other glittery expensive things a must.
Absolute no no: Fabindia clothes. That’s for the time when the husband chucks top job to open NGO and you become the able partner.

Have the ability to speak knowledgeably on your man’s profession even if you do not know finance from furniture (though in your house the two are closely related). This is easily achieved by saying things like ‘Paresh was really happy to work with you guys when he was handling the Payments team.’

Throw parties for your husband’s ‘select’ office crowd. Ensure home is stuffed with very expensive (and breakable) things kept in visible locations that scream how wonderfully successful, well travelled and highly paid your man is. Don’t forget to point at the tiffany lamp and add how super caring he is as well. (Paresh never forgets to get me little somethings you know, no matter however busy he is…)

Drop your career the moment you land your corporat or if he isn’t that high up on the career ladder yet, the moment the baby comes. This will give you the chance to stare wistfully at the silk venetian blinds and sigh martyr style— “I used to be in banking but gave it up when Sara came along. You know, her dad travels so much that someone had to be home…” Since you are the CEO’s wife nobody will ask you what kind of ‘banking’ you did and the careerwoman-turned-homemaker act would be suitably applauded.

Mention what an involved mom you are. This one’s easy. Just mention how many classes (tennis, piano, dramatics, riding) you pick her up from at different hours of the week. Also mention how you and busybee hubby spent the last vacation bonding with Sara in Disneyland. Spread cute pictures of the same in silver photoframes around the room for desired effect.

Have the enviable ability to instruct the servant, show the husband’s boss around your garden, manage sari with voluminous pallu and and air kiss newly arrived person all at the same time.

Be involved with a cause. This would not only add to your good karma but also give you the chance to hold forth on topics like street children, domestic violence, sexual harassment, etc. Instantly puts you high up on the admiration scale. Just never mention that the part where you really work is organising fundraisers where all you have to do is get the kids to make some cards, organise a party for you friends and get everyone else to pay for your pet ‘cause’.