What Shall We Gift This Year?

I love gifts. Hunting, giving, getting...all of it. But one thing that leaves me stumped is gifting for the sake of it. Not because you genuinely like the person and really want to give something to him/her but because you think it forms part of your social protocol and obligation and therefore you must.

Which is why Diwali used to exasperate me in my Delhi days. And as I discovered it continues to do that in Bangalore. A day before Diwali we were at the Shoppers' Stop outlet near our home and came face to face with one of the neighbours whom we barely ever meet. After exchanging the usual hello and how are yous, we moved on, did our shoppping and got back home. Sometime in the evening, their son appeared with a box of Haldiram namkeens, muttered 'Uncle, aunty, Happy Diwali, mummy papa have sent,' and escaped.

The next morning I knocked on their door with a box of chocolates. The lady opened the door and we had the briefest of conversations: How are you ji? Very good? Chalo badiya hai. Ok. Happy Diwali. Bye.

My first encounter with random gift giving was post marriage, during my first Diwali in Delhi. I received a make-up kit from the daughter-in-law of my mother-in-law's friend. I was a bit surprised as we barely knew each other and had only met once before. At my wedding. When I mentioned this to my friend S, a Delhi veteran, she nodded sagely, 'It's part of Diwali protocol.'

Since then in my five years of Diwali in Delhi I have received several random gifts which show that the sender has to follow the protocol, even if she/he is completely unaware whether you have a taste for the stuff she/he is sending or not. My all time top five include a disgustingly floral smelling perfume and powder set, a steel tiffin carrier, pink and plasticky icecream cups, a bindi and bangle gift box and something equally terrible I've forgotten all about.

But the point isn't whether the gift is good or bad, tacky or tasteful. The point is why part with it when both the sender and receiver know that it's being done purely for the sake of formality? I'm usually flummoxed and have no idea how to react beyond Oh thank you, you needn't have, etc, on such ocassions. Yes some of you may argue it's a nice gesture but there isn't much thought that goes behind such gestures if you ask me. And to use that cliche, it's the thought that counts.

Which is why I love getting spotted-just-for-me book on Goa from Kahini, which is why I knew my friend H had to have it when I read Anupama Chopra's book on Sholay, which is why some shiny bags have Subs written on them and are screaming to be bought, wrapped in equally shiny cover and dispatched, even if birthdays, anniversaries, New Year, whatever are all far away or long gone. In my mind, gifts don't need a season but they certainly need a definite reason don't they?

Preggie Talk Again

Think only Gabby will read me at this rate :)

At the antenatal class we (The girls) ask the instructor how exactly do contractions feel.

'Different women react differently but to give you an idea, I can say it feels like extremely strong period cramps,' she says.

'Oh...O...okay...alright...ummm..think I can deal with that...well maybe not...' we nod our heads, understanding exactly what she's talking about. Well almost.

Predictably (and cruelly for the boys perhaps), the conversation turns briefly to period cramps, in an effort to find out exactly how bad would the contractions be.

We suddenly realise the men in the room seem to have vanished. Two have queued up outside the loo (and out of earshot), one is in the instructor's kitchen taking a long time over a glass of water (when she's thoughtfully placed a whole jug in the table next to us), one is peering intently into his mobile, the fifth one (mine) has suddenly developed tremendous interest in greenery and is inspecting the plants on the balcony very closely.

Boys will be boys. And girls will be well...girls.

Remix

Poor Ram Gopal Varma. He and the factory seem to have run out of ideas. Why else would he want to remake James, Shiva and Sholay? I'm sorry but the very thought has me in splits. Especially when I read that the Sholay remake is to be called 'Ramgopal Varma Ki Sholay.' Yes. The man is serious. Reminds me of a C-grade movie made years back with all those Amitabh and Dharmendra lookalikes and Amjaad Khan. It was called Ramgarh Ke Sholay. Hehehe.
Why are Bollywood directors into remakes? That too of a film released in 1975, one released in the early 90s (?) and one released what, some two months back? Hollywood does remakes too and sometimes successfully but I wonder if it works for Bollywood. Our movies seem to stay longer in our memory shelves. Perhaps it's because of the songs.

(Though I dunno if anyone remembers any songs from Shiva. In fact, I don’t recall the movie at all, except that it had a very hairy Nagarjuna and lots of fights.)
In recent years, the recall value is perhaps higher because of the combined might of Zee Cinema/Sony Max, etc, which repeat these films often enough to ensure that no memory lapses occur.
Which makes me wonder if we’ll be interested in watching the all-new Umraojaan by JP Dutta. It was only made in 1981 and I tend to remember stuff from that many years back at least (except for Shiva, ha ha). And for God's sake, Aishwarya Rai? Can you imagine the film without Rekha in it? Without Farooq Shaikh's elegant portrayal of Nawab Sultan? And what are they going to do about the songs? How do you expect to match or surpass gems like 'justju jiski thi...' and 'In ankhon ki masti ke....'
The remade Sholay could do with some nice music though. Kill me if you are a Sholay fan and bought cassettes with 'songs and dialogues from Sholay' in your misguided youth (I know people who did) but music ain't that film's strong point. Ok, I'm not talking about the background score here.
Perhaps Ramu could introduce Gabbar Singh to that 'haunting' item number from James: 'Woh hero hai, hero hai, woh hai hero....' After all, Gabbar is the real hero of Sholay isn't he? And with Big B playing that role he'll dwarf everyone else in it anyway.
And since Ramu is remaking both James and Sholay it shouldn't be a problem to lift bits and parts from here and there, eh? That’s what remixes are all about.

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?’