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’.

The times they are a changin'

Not so many years ago, my favourite time of the week used to be Saturday night. Come evening and phone calls would fly back and forth between me and my friends to find the unanimous decision to that all-important question – where do we go today?
Come to think of it, we never asked each other what do we do today. Saturday meant ‘going out’ which meant a trip to the pub and possibly, if we were still standing by the end of it, dinner.
After calling each other frantically for at least three hours and trying to figure out a ‘new’ place to go to, we would invariably land up at Toto’s Garage Pub, our second home in Bandra. We would ask for pitchers of beer and spend the next 20 minutes arguing over ‘what to order.’ Absolutely useless exercise, as we always ordered masala peanuts, golden fried babycorn and mushroom (‘coz H loved mushrooms and P loved babycorn) and the chicken starter.
Sometime post midnight when Toto’s had kicked us out, we would bundle outside and start the ‘where to go’ argument all over again. Because this was Saturday night, because we were such ‘hard working, super busy’ people throughout the weekday and because we were young, poor and living on our own (or had manageable parents), we had to party, even if we were dropping dead. So what if some of us ‘Toto-ed’ on Tuesdays, Thursday and even on Mondays, sometimes?
Anyway, post Toto’s and post arguments, we would again invariably decide on the usual, Club IX on Pali Hill or Madness in Khar. We would dance hysterically (often not realising who we were dancing with -- each other, strange fat sardar or the mirror) and drop dead till we could take it no more or the health conscious people at these places threw us out, whichever was earlier.
Naturally, the evening didn’t end there.
A couple of boys in the gang would more often than not, pick up more bottles from the seedy all nighter Janta Beer Bar at Pali Naka for ‘later’. I never found out when ‘later’ was. We would then set forth in search of sustenance, this time in the form of food, trudge all the way to the bhurjiwala/dosawala at the airport or sometimes even go all the way to the bhurjiwala at Churchgate station.
At around five in the morning, we would get back home, give the building’s sanctimonious morning-walk uncle the glare/fumble with key in lock/wake up sleeping and rarely-there roomie/strip off uncomfortable bits of clothing/say unintelligible things to each other and CRASH.
These Super Saturdays existed only five years ago but for some reason seems ages back. In fact, they seem quite unreal. The participants are still the best of pals, at least the ones not married to each other, are. But now my favourite time of the week is so similar to my mom’s that it’s definitely scary.
I now love my Sunday afternoons. I finish cleaning the house, cook, have a marathon shower, a heavy lunch, curl up on the bed with loads of pillows, books and newspapers, read and doze off.
And bless me, I sound exactly like my mother.

Met two friends yesterday. Separately. One over lunch and one on the long drive back home. KP and Aar, the friends I met are studies in contrast. KP’s moving out of India soon and therefore the hurried lunch and attempted bonding session. She is smart, sexy and a total career girl. She and hubby live on their own. When I met her yesterday, KP was “fielding” a call from her ma-in-law. She finished it, rolled her eyes and informed me that “the woman” just won’t leave her alone.
“Now that we are moving, she wants to throw a dinner for us, with the entire family,” she whined.
Thinking that’s pretty much what my ma-in-law would’ve done too if I were to move out of the city and thinking I could have handled an evening of relatives, I made the mistake of saying, ‘pretty natural yaar, go ahead.’
Of course, you’ll think so, you good bahu, KP smirked.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be blogging about this but yesterday this comment, the good bahu bit, got my goat. Ever since I married P and moved to Delhi to live with his family, I haven’t heard the last of it from some people who thought bindaas me was sacrificing her independence. They were convinced I was going to turn into a ‘salwar kameezed, chai ka tray carrying’ person who would have to say goodbye to her jeans. When I broke the not so spicy news that the dreaded ‘in laws’ were a conservative lot but pretty much happy to let me do my own stuff and treated me exactly like they treated any other child of theirs, it wasn’t treated with much approval. This didn’t lend itself to juicy gossip. Poor girl, must’ve been brainwashed. Must be wanting to keep a happy front. Tch, tch…
KP and I met on and off all these years because before Anita decided to make Delhi her temporary (?) home and made me vvvvvvv happy, KP, and my mad friend B, were the only two old fiends I had here. KP always joked about my ‘good bahu act’ in quite a sarcastic way, especially after I couldn’t stay overnight at her place once because there was a family function to attend the next morning. She was a friend and fun to be with so I didn’t mind it much, until yesterday. Because I cannot see why KP has to brand anyone who doesn’t live life the way she does. KP has known her husband, R, since college. He comes from a middle class background. Her dad is a top-notch corporate boss. R’s first foreign visit was on their honeymoon. She has been travelling forever. Naturally, KP can’t ‘stand’ her very middle class ma-in-law. And ‘won’t be bullied’ by her sis-in-law. Forget keeping in touch with them, she gets quite pissed that despite staying apart and despite his busy schedule, R does call up and visit his mom and sis often. That he doesn’t ever expect, let alone ask her to, is totally lost on her. And when she complains about the little socialising she has to do with the ‘in-laws’, it doesn’t occur to her that she inflicts her parents on her husband often. Of course, her parents are ‘fun’ and it helps that her dad is a member of upscale clubs like India Habitat Centre, Delhi Golf Club and The Gymkhana, where Sundays are always sooo much fun to spend.
Do I sound like I am bitching about someone for no reason? Perhaps I do but I need to get this out. Trust me, I’d nothing to say about KP’s life until yesterday. Until I realised she had been sitting on judgement all the while on me and a couple of other friends, without even knowing things for the way they were. Now that I have moved to my own place, she’s thrilled that I have ‘my space’ at last. I am thrilled too. But KP just won’t believe if I told her I had ‘my space’ earlier as well in the dreaded joint family.
Anyway, post KP, I met Aar in the evening. She lives close to my place, so I dropped her home. Aar is married to a common friend of P and mine. It was a love marriage, totally against her parents’ wishes. The reason? Very different backgrounds, pretty much the same scene as KP’s. But Aar went ahead and made the best of a very challenging situation simply because she loved her guy and yes, the family may have been trying but she wanted to do the best for them as they were important to him. About a year and half back, Aar found her husband was seeing another woman. Things have been downward for her ever since. She’s moved to her parents’ with her little daughter, because of whom she’d earlier taken a sabbatical from work. She has a job and is trying to balance work and being a single parent. She’s also trying to save enough money to get a place of her own and move out, a tough deal. Her husband stands at that supremely convenient zone called ‘dilemma,’ saying the other woman is out of his life and throwing the decision making ball at Aar’s court. ‘What did I do wrong?’ Aar was wondering yesterday and before you think she’s the whimpering, pining type who blames herself at the drop of a hat, nope, she was just wondering why the relationships she’d worked so hard on had to fall flat so soon. She reminded me of KP; so carefree and indifferent in her own world and I thought once again that it isn’t cool to be good or nice. It doesn’t pay probably.

I was reading Man’s World and came across this quote from Mahima Chaudhry.

Reporter: We definitely think you have the hottest cleavage in Bollywood...
Mahima: "You know what, Suniel Shetty actually told me that to my face. I grinned and said, 'I thought you didn’t notice.' To which he replied, 'Oh No, we can tell when it’s natural.' I think it’s quite flattering to hear this and I am glad I have at least one thing I can boast of. Anything to distract attention from my face, because I have no confidence about that.”

Now if she has really said that to the reporter, must say the girl has a sense of humour and loads of chutzpah. Bollywood heroines usually come in two types. One does the ice maiden act a la Aishwarya and the other is all over your face, or Delhi/Bombay Times like Ms Sherawat.

To a question like that Aishwarya would’ve probably said (with a toss of L’Oreal hair and pursed lips): “Well…I think people need to focus more on serious issues like my work and stop spending their valuable time on my not so important assets. Gawd!”
(Rolls eyes heavenwards, perfectly)

And a Mallika Sherawat would’ve probably given a mini monologue on how oppressed girls from Haryana do not get noticed unless they have a hot cleavage. And Preeti Jain (or is she Pretti Jain now?) of Madhur Bhandarkur's shame...oops fame...would’ve sued the reporter for sexual harassment.

That’s why I loved Mahima’s quote. She knows where it’s at. Can laugh about her face. And thanks to her, we now know that Suniel Shetty is a natural-boob spotter.

It's absolutely gorgeous weather...rains, clouds and a slight chill in the air. Makes me feel like it's almost winter!

If there's one thing that's good about moving from Bombay to Delhi, it's the possibility of having more than one season in the year. I love winters and one reason I loved living in Pune was that it had winter, unlike Bombay which is uniformly humid throughout.

Winter means opening the balcony door at seven in the morning and getting the fog on your face, cosy quilts and blanket that brighten up the room, gajar ka halwa, hot showers, reading in the sun, outdoor lunches, long drives, warm jackets, oversized pullovers and steaming mugs of hot chocolate, coffee or soup.

It also means the end of the year and, in case of my family, a whole lot of birthdays and a trip home to meet the parents.

Can't wait.

Bride Shide Hai Rabba!

After sitting through Bride & Prejudice, I'm pretty sure Gurinder Chadha, flush with the success of Bend It Like Beckham, woke up one morning and said, 'hmmm...now that they like me in India, let me take a shot at making a pure Yash Chopra/Karan Johar style Bollywood movie!'
But why dear Chadhaji, did you have to drag Jane Austen into this? Couldn't you have made a song and dance without naming Pride & Prejudice as the inspiration? Without calling the characters Darcy, Wickham and Georgina and changing Bennet to Bakshi? Couldn't you have reduced the number of songs, especially the first one where NRI Naveen Andrews breaks into instant Karan Johar type jhatkas with Aishwarya and Namrata?
Chadhaji must've thought this would work. After all, the NRI + mera Punjab mahan + mustard fields formula always works in Bollywood, doesn't it? But this seems alien territory for Gurinder Chadha, who excelled so brilliantly, and got the essence of each character right in the closer-to-her-zone Bend It Like Beckham. Or Bhaji On The Beach for that matter.
Bride...does have its funny moments, like the Cobra dance by one of the Bakshi girls and in the trophy wife hunter Mr Kohli. But it falls badly flat, not just as a movie inspired by a classic but also as a pure Bollywood shaadi shindig. This could've been a fabulously funny movie on its own, with the characters less wooden, their relationships a little more etched out. And it didn't have to 'inspired.'
Aside: Aishwarya Rai has found her perfect filmi match in Martin Henderson. He's equally perfect looking and equally wooden. Touche
Another aside: And now Mira Nair has added an item number to 'Vanity Fair.' Should be thrilled at the Bollywoodisation of English Literature. But does it work?

Random...

I want to work for Conde Nast Traveller. Apart from obvious reasons like getting to travel around the world free and in utter luxury (they only cover top 10 resorts and things like that), the other is the sense of humour. They have an Editor At Large and if that wasn’t enough, an Acting Word Of Mouth Editor. Imagine, handing people your business card!

More on my travel related aspirations. Saw with bitter regret that the daughter of some rich industrialist has brought Time Out to Mumbai. It was originally my idea though Rich Daughter doesn’t know of it and therefore shall forgive her. Loved Time Out when I landed in London with loads of time, very little money and a desire to see EVERYTHING. Ditched Lonely Planet after fainting at the price and bought Time Out. It came with many free things like entrance to London Dungeon (why on earth!) if you cut out one corner of the mag and took it to them, canal ride for one through Camden Lock and other such highly dispensable things. But with info on free entrance days in museums and the tip about the invaluable Bus No 13 that passes all the ‘sights’, it was a fabulous guide (apart from Anita’s long email with a list of Must Do’s). Naturally, I wanted to get it here and start Time Out Mumbai, Delhi, Bangalore, Kolkata and so on but girl with munny and business skills has beaten me to it. Shucks!

Old friend B and Me went for fishy lunch and tried to figure out how to revive our sagging spirits and careers. We thought of the Writing A Book route but since that requires imagination and contacts and both of us don’t have much of these, we came up with the Hook Rich Daddy route. Find a Readymade Rich Dad who’ll sponsor all your whims (papa, I want to get Vogue to India. NOW!), get into tie up with phoren publication house and get desirable fashion/lifestyle/travel mag to India. With us as editors (at large) of course. This is sure way to get rich and make your whole family famous by devoting the last few pages to parties and splashing pictures of self, dad, mom and rest of family. Only problem in plan: Lack of willing Readymade Rich Dads.
Result of lunch: Not so sagging spirits. Not because of our big idea but because of the nice Goan fish curry and Indonesian Prawn Sambal we had. If you are in Lodhi Market, go to Ploof. It’s got a strange name but it’s also got good fish!

Also recently opened. The Oxford Cha Bar in Statesman House, Barakhamba Road. Since the Barista in CP has become intolerable thanks to teenagers who mistake it for their college canteen and I was never a Coffee Day fan, this is a great addition. Best part is you can take books and mags you want to flip through but don’t particularly want to buy (OK. Can’t afford) on your table while you sip through your cup of chai. Reminds me of the time when Crossword in Mumbai opened its Café. The fact that you could actually sit there, read through a book and pay only for your coffee was the most thrilling part. Made my friend's dad wonder: Aajkal yeng bachchalog ko time waste karne ke liye kitna achcha jagah milta hai!'

Spent the weekend people watching in the malls. Fabulous way to distract myself from depression sustained over realisation that
a) I do not have as much money as other shoppers do
b) Window shopping is injurious to my sanity
c) Sale doesn't mean cheap

Having seen the light finally, spent most my time idling at Barista and the in front of the newly opened Donut Factory and spotting these:

Jazzy Couple Type: Found all over Delhi and Gurgaon. He is fair, in bright shirt, jeans and gelled hair, with very loud and latest mobile that spells money. She is fair (but of course), straight haired, red mouthed, in bright kurti and straight pants, arms overloaded with choodha (bangles newly married Punjabi women wear), flashy silver heels, silver evening bag, and half the shopping mall at her feet.

Undecided Bongs: Dad is 70 plus, thin, in dhoti, kurta and a Marxist frown, Mom’s in a traditional sari, very happy to be here but too scared of husband to show it. The son is 40ish, formally dressed and doubtful looking — caught between dad’s chagrin at being shown around capitalist paradise and his 10-year-old’s enthusiasm for the Tintins at the bookshop window.

Girl Uninterrupted: Young, single, earning (Doesn’t matter how much. We women spend anyway). In smart capris and vest, chatting on phone, window-shopping at every store possible, trailing along five bags from the trendiest shops. All at the same time. Multi-tasker extraordinaire.

Yuppy Couple: In Sunday casuals. Live next to the malls and have come for a leisurely stroll. Him in shorts. Her in trackpants. He checks out Nike & Reebok, she goes for The Home Store, sneers at Marks and Spencer’s prices. End up together at TGIF to watch Formula One over beer.

College Kids: In whatever clothes teenage types wear. Mission: To walk around aimlessly and find something cheap. The Boys check the scene out. The Girls giggle and dash into every shoe store with a sign that says 'SALE! SALE! RS 350 FOR ALL!'. Inexplicably, they all turn very giggly while queuing up for the lift later.

JNU Type: He’s bearded (and attractive), in trendy khadi kurta, jeans, floaters and a ‘well-I’m-here-but-couldn’t-care-less’ look. She’s in a long skirt, Fabindia top and trying to perfect that look. It’s tough for a woman in the face of so much shopping, trust me. They check out the book store, snigger at its ostentatious décor, buy Outlook and Tehelka, grab a coffee at Barista and proceed upstairs to catch a film.

Me: Wicked woman. Sits around with her third Cafe Mocha. Can only afford Barista, the small donuts and typecasting these poor souls. Sigh...

It was meant to be a quick phone from a very old friend in the middle of a busy day. He's a professional who is constantly traveling and even if we are good enough pals, he is too busy to call and I am too lazy to make the effort on a regular basis.

It turned out to be an hour long chat, the kind you have over bottles of beer and oily snacks at 7.30 pm on a lazy Saturday evening. We got over the work bit in five minutes and then started asking the usual let’s-end- this-in-five-minutes-talk.

How's life? How’s work? Buying a house? Oh my god, don't even think about a holiday for a year then! When are you coming to Bombay? When to coming to Delhi? Blah blah…

Somehow, we also drifted on to other things. How we worked together on some absolutely mad ideas, the stupidly HUGE crush I had on a fellow colleague, how some of us would hang around Marine Drive in the rains because we loved watching the waves crash and spray, his ex-girlfriend and the ‘one sided affair’ he had, wild parties we landed up in, getting ‘domesticated’, the change in our lives, etc. And then my phone’s battery ran out.

So it was only in the evening that I could see his message.

'Thank you. I smiled throught the day. We should do this more often'

Yes, I think so too. I need to smile and I need old pals for that.

But I doubt if we would. With each passing day, we get impulsive only once in a rare while, don’t we? The next time I call, my friend would probably be too busy or traveling or unavailable on his phone.

Ditto for me. Ditto for a whole world of friends out there. Friends I'm not in regular touch with anymore but who matter enough to make me think of them often; friends associated with incidents and memories. Friends I never end up calling. The intention is there but I’m always too hassled or too tired or too busy.

Wonder what makes it so difficult…

Saturday Night Live!

We went dancing after ages on Saturday night. Boy did it feel great or what! Now, you may be wondering why on earth am I getting excited about something as mundane as this. But when you spend most of your weekends alternating between giving the house a thorough scrub and being one of the boys with the husband and gang in TGIF (watching cricket or formula one), it is a novel experience to actually put makeup, wear shiny lycra top and skirt, step into your high heels and get ready to party. With one of your oldest friends.
Went partying with H, visiting from Bombay. The girl's now a sobered down version of the livewire we knew — once called the 'patakha' of the party. That she's also P's good pal means she knows exactly how to bully him to abandon thoughts of TGIF and go dancing instead!
We landed up at nightclub only to discover how out of practice we were. And spent the next four hours commenting on the following. Suffer:
First: Nobody is there yet. It’s only 10.30 pm for god’s sake…too early.
Second: Nobody eats. At least trendy girls don't, except daintily nibbling diced paneer after gingerly picking it up with a cocktail stick. They certainly do not tear Chicken Tangri with their bare, unmanicured hands. Or pour Fosters down their throat. Gosh!
Third: Trendy girls are always backless when it comes to clothes. Or without arms or legs or in some cases even midriffs. Bra straps are meant to be shown off and we were the only prehistoric women not displaying these. Utterly downmarket!
Fourth: It doesn’t matter what size you are. Only what size your clothes are. The smaller the better.
Fifth: Men like satin. With a vengeance. Or is it only the Haryana hunks? In my book, bylcreemed hair and satin shirt equals repulsive, oily schmoozer. It's time to throw the book out.
Sixth: Daler Mehndi and ilk rule the heart of every born and bred Delhiite. Doesn’t matter if that Delhiite happens to be a Mallu or a Bong or Pure Punjabi. He or she has the inborn ability to drop their glasses, partners, inhibitions and start flailing arms and legs at any song with a bhangra beat and words like ‘Kudiya’, ‘Mundiya’ 'tere naal' etc.
Seventh: Trendy girls always stand in a cluster and giggle adoringly to anything said by aforesaid bylcreemed boyfriend knocking back gallons of beer. Trendy girls also hold on to pink drinks with tiny umbrellas and never ever take more than two sips in three hours. Must learn.
Eighth: Note to self: When people do the Bhangra to Summer of ‘69 do not stare in horror. Enjoy it and er...perhaps even pick up a step or two.
Ninth: You are always older, more cynical, plumper and less energetic than the last time you went dancing.
Tenth: H is still the patakha. At least on the dance floor. She may have sobered down but the enthusiasm hasn't. And she is infectious as ever!

Had a party at home on Saturday night. The husband’s school pals with their wife/husband/friend. Everyone was having quite a blast with most of the men including my husband happily high and talking of things men beyond a certain age talk when they get drunk, nostalgic and very loving towards each other. That was on Saturday. The party ended sometime around four in the morning when we saw off the last of the guests, I looked at my watch, yawned and hit the bed.
Yesterday, our next-door neighbour (we have two. This one is the decent, non-partying type) rang the bell and politely asked for his ice tray.
‘Your ice tray? Do we have it?’ I wondered aloud, then in a flash of lightening remembered the party, looked into the freezer and found two ice trays that weren't mine. Figuring the hubby must've asked for it at some point in the party I thanked neighbour and apologised for bothering him late at night. ‘Oh never mind,’ he said, ‘it was about 1.30 am we were fast asleep, our maid gave him the trays.’
Bothering a neighbour at 1.30 is beyond indecency so I went off to have a word with the husband. 'What tray?' he asked innocently, 'I don't remember getting any.'
Our suspicion fell on R, who is a close friend and part of the furniture at home. We called him instantly. 'Of course not, I was too blown to move,' came the reply. The next half an hour was spent calling all the usual suspects who could have looked into the freezer, thought we had run out of ice, not bothered to ask me or look into the kitchen for THE FUCKING ICE BOX and decided to be enterprising. In the middle of the night.
Strangely, none of the usual suspects (which also includes my 'guilty until proved otherwise' husband) remember anything about the two ice trays collected from the neighbour. In fact, none of these models of sainthood even remember whether we had run out of ice!
Seriously contemplating moving out.

On my mind...

I used to be a beach person. When I closed my eyes and thought of taking a break I saw white sands, blue sea, a boat or two on the horizon, bottles of beer, pomfret masala...
In other words, I saw Goa, though the sands are not always so white
everywhere. Lately, the vision seems to have changed. I still see water. It's an almost opaque blue and amazingly calm lake, changing colours with the shifting clouds. If I look into the distance, I can see shades of turqoise and violet and somewhere hints of jade-like green. I can see mountains looming large, glistening snow capped peaks crossing over into another country, just like the lake does.
It's hard to shake Pangong Lake out of your mind. Once you've sighted
it, tired but excited after the five hour drive from Leh, the image of it, like a jewel surrounded by mountains, gets imprinted inside your head. Almost for ever.
I remember how we stared at the lake, unable to believe anything could look so perfect. I walked up to the bank, picking up pebbles from the edge to add to my pebble collection, saying innumerable 'wows', gaping and breathing hard.
We sat there in wonder, thanking everyone (from God to the travel agent) for this glimpse of what at that moment, seemed own private paradise. When works dumps itself on me, as it has been doing lately, I close my eyes and it's there in front of me -- blue-green, beautiful and unbelievable.
Next year again perhaps...

'You're not a Bombayite anymore. You left it a while back now,' laughed by Bambaiya friend, breaking my heart into a million pieces, because if there's one city I feel like belonging, it's Bombay.
'Well, I'm not a Delhiite either,' I growled back.
I'm a perfect case of neither here nor there. I've always been. Right from the time I was a kid. My dad got transferred all over and we got to live at various places in UP, West Bengal, Maharashtra and Goa. As a kid, whenever someone asked me where I was from, I'd love to say nowhere. I loved my rootlessness. Loved seeing new places and people.
Untill I landed in Bombay, instantly loved everything about it and wanted to stay there forever.
I loved the rush to catch the 8.29 local from Bandra. I loved the shoe-bargaining on Linking Road. I loved movies at Regal and Sterling. I loved walking along Marine Drive just like that. I loved the small fishy eateries. I loved the Bhel. I loved the smell of the sea. I loved the people.
That's the strange thing. Now, after four years of living in Delhi, I have a house of my own here. Ok, it's actually in Haryana but going by current logic, it is all the same. It's a nice house with two wonderful balconies, a place I love and call home. Sadly, I can't call the city that.
For reasons I can't ever put a finger to, Delhi has always left me cold. First, it's the people. Perhaps I interacted with only one set of people in Bombay, perhaps I wasn't observant enough earlier, but most people I've met in Delhi come across as interfering and judgemental. (I know this is illogical. Bombay must be crawling with such people too but I'm unashamedly biased)
Yes, I know Delhi has a lot of nice things to offer like theatre, space, greenery, PVRs, Cafe Turtle, Dilli Haat, a handful of very genuinely nice people (who are going to hate me at this instant) and certain stretches of wide, un-potholed roads but I don't get to travel on them so they're out.
And I don't have patience with this city when its out of order. And to love anything (place or person), patience is a must. I don't quite go gaga over Tandoori Chicken and chaat, gimme chutney sandwich anyday. And I do find it strange that most Delhiites aren't even bothered enough to check out any form of public transport (even if it is the gleaming metro) and consider people from Bombay a strange lot because they actually leave their cars back home and travel by local trains!
As P says, it's all in my mind. The bads and goods exist everywhere. I've tried to change things (Now look mind, a nice huge park. Would you get this in Bombay?) but I'm clearly not good at convincing my mind. When I comes to a place I love, it's Mumbai first. Anything else comes not even a close second, whether I have a home there or not.
So here I am, living in a city I don't quite like, in a house of my own I love a lot and don't quite want to leave. And still not ready to be called a Delhiite. Don't think I'll ever be.

Bliss!

Went to Ladakh on a week long vacation. Magical. Not just the place but also the experience. I've never felt to completely cut off from the world and happy to be so in any holiday ever...
There's so much to write about the place and so many images you wish to forever retain at the back of your mind, that I don't even know where to start.
Just couldn't believe the barrenness of the land — the miles stretching in front of my eyes, interrupted only by rocks or a patch of green or a lonely little white house with red wood-worked windows.
And the sound of silence, when you switched the jeep's engine off and just sat on the bend of a road, without talking, watching a gorge that fell where you dared not look.
Where else but in Ladakh would you drive through a rocky, deserted landscape that seems to have been torn off from some other planet and landed there. On our way to Hemis Monastery, we passed one such. A stark, boulder-laden expanse that seemed tailor-made for Clint Eastwood and his horse and of course Gabbar Singh. :)
The drive to Hemis is a wonderful one. You pass bends, loops and turns and suddenly discover that there’s a huge monastery hidden from view, tucked away in the mountains somewhere. This is where a festival is held every year and as a chatty young monk we met told us, the surrounding hills serve as seating area!
The chatty monk studied in North Campus (Delhi University) the same year as P. He looked happy, living here in hardened austerity, far away from all that he had probably grown up with, happy to point out details missed by tourists like us. I'm happy we met him.
The warmth of the local people was touching, especially at the monasteries and at the Stok palace, which incidentally is next to a Prasar Bharti transmitter!
Stok Palace has a small museum set up by the king. The caretaker was so thrilled he could communicate with people who understood his broken Hindi and English (foreigner kya bur bur karta samajh nahi aata) that he took an old rusty key and opened countless drawers to show us eye popping lapis lazuli and other such precious stones.
There was more eye popping to come when we landed up in Pangong Lake on the fourth day. What made the journey special was a fresh snowfall the night before, that turned Chang La, the 17000-something ft pass you have to cross to get to Pangong, into a magical, white blanket. The other heartstopping site was Durbuk, which was a pastureland taken out of a picture book — wild horses grazing along a mountain stream, green patches...you get the picture.
Pangong was breathtaking. Not just because the oxygen level is bottom rate there. The water played with the sun and shade and chaged from sky blue to aqua to turqoise green...I could live there for years looking at it. (Well at least I think I could)
Pangong Lake or Tso is like those 'sceneries' you paint as a kid: Blue sky, white floaty clouds, blue lake, brown mountains. The perfect world. With prayer flags fluttering in a corner adding extra colour. We drove up another five kilometres along the lake, oohing and aahing all the way; came back and found that we had got lucky. We were the only tourists there at that hour and the wonderful army chaps had agreed to take us on a boatride thanks to A's Tamil roots.
The drive the day after to the world's highest motorable road Khardung La at 18000-something feet was easier than the Pangong one had been. We took the mandatory show-off pictures at Khardung La, standing next to a board that proclaims 'World's Highest Motorable Road' and started the journey towards Nubra, which is the green bowl of Ladakh.
That night at the camp was a special one, thanks to Alberto and his happily high friends, who sang beautifully in languages we didn't understand. The next morning, as we sat huddled having our early morning coffee, A and I discovered Alberto looked even better than he sang. And guess what he turned out to be? A gondolier from Venice! If this was Ally Mcbeal, our tongues would've been dancing on the floor :)
We stayed at Sumur in the Nubra Valley and walked up to the gompa. A silent one, with plush rooms reserved for the Dalai Lama's special visit, said (yet another) young monk who showed us around. He turned out to be a Ladakhi born and brought up in Canada. A professor of philosophy, he joined the monastery to teach and give back something to his village, Tigger, which was nearby. Whoever said, a journey is all about the encounter was so right.
There were some interesting encounters en route to Nubra. The road to Khardung La was for some reason biker-infested! We met everyone from backpacking Israelis on Enfields to a Bengali couple.
"We are doing this the second time in two years," the Bengali couple, he a bank employee and she a government school teacher in Calcutta, told us. Somewhere in my mind, they broke a barrier, about people who travel, not because they can afford to but because they need their adventure.

stray thoughts...

Watched Agnipath on TV yesterday. Not by choice, was cleaning cupboard so couldn't wrestle the man for remote. As far as I'm concerned Agnipath and the films came aroud it, was the Big B's worst phase.
Just when I was pondering over this, Archana Puran Singh in black goggles, black cap, black tights and horrible makeup started doing her item number. Both man and I sighed. Boy am I glad we are in the 21st century. At least now we have Yana Gupta and Lara Dutta. And of course, the Dekh Le girl from Munnabhai.
Everything in Agnipath (including AB and unmentionable Mithun) was garish and over-the-top, the highlight of the early 90s. I couldn't help but remember baggy tops, stonewash jeans, kalidar kurtas, dhoti salwars, plastic hoops...
Shudder shudder

My brother called this morning for something and we had the usual, hurried conversation. I was rushing to work and he was already at work, with a presentation to make. After the two minute call, I thought that I’d like to see more of him, chat with him over a long lunch, meet him more often. But that rarely happens.
My brother’s living the fast-pace-no-worries life I led some years ago, when I’d started working. His office is almost his entire life. He works long hours and doesn’t seem to mind hanging around the office waiting for the other guys to finish before they go out for a drink. He wonders what to do on those rare days when he finishes work early, which means at about eight. He has a decent place to stay with basics like TV, DVD player and air conditioner (his basics, not mine) but finds himself with nothing to do when he returns early and all his three flatmates are at work.
He loves visiting us but rarely does because he “hardly ever has the time.” When he has the time, he likes hanging out with his friends, catching a movie with them, going on a drive or a trek or hanging out in a pub.
So many plans...Exactly like mine some years ago, when I lived in Bombay and would always be too busy at work or too caught up with friends to visit a very dear family friend who lived in Chembur. Her house was like a second home to me and the doors always open. But once I started living on my own, I rarely visited. Luckily for me, she understood. ‘Never mind. You won’t live this time in your life again’ she’d say, when I’d call and cancel lunch plans, groggy after coming back home at doodhwala hour on Sunday mornings.
Now when bro cancels off Saturdays and Sundays and doesn’t give us a ‘darshan’ for days, I no longer get hyper in mother type manner, as I used to when he first started living in the same city.
What goes around, comes around :)

Wondering...

Why isn't Bill Bryson travelling anywhere and giving us a book?

Why isn't JK Rowling writing any faster?

Isn't it funny when an eye doctor is called Sunaina...

Why does the driver bunk when the skies finally open up?

Why is 15th August on a Sunday?

What it takes to write a book?

Why don't I work for Lonely Planet?

Whether I should buy chicken or prawn today?

Why are people from the department-next-door shouting so much?

Why are teenagers the way they are...

Why don't I clean my desk when I am obviously aimless and jobless?

Why am I writing this when I SHOULD BE CLEANING MY DESK!

Toy Boy

The 16 year old boy-next-door has been gifted a mobile by his parents and came to show it off yesterday. It’s the new Nokia 2300, he said, flashing it under my nose. “Pretty good. No camera but mom said you can’t have everything at once.”
I silently thanked mom who definitely doesn’t want her teenager spending all his time clicking mini skirts. But the boy has plans. "I’ll sell this after six months and upgrade to a camera phone."
“What’ll you do with one?’’ I ask, only to get a sceptical look.
Camera phone or not, the boy is excited. His phone maybe a simple one by current mobile standards that have everything from computers, MP3 players to wardrobes but it’s his very own. And at 16, the thrill lies in possessing something that belongs to you and only you!!
I thought of the good ole’ days when my brother was gifted his first two-in-one. It was one of those ultra simple things you could carry from one room to the other, plug in and listen to your Guns and Roses tape while you shut the door on mom. Bro would show it off as he probably will when he acquires his first ultra cool home theatre system with sound by Nakamichi or similar (His ultimate ambition, trust me).
Blinded by nostalgia, I asked the boy what features the phone had: “FM Radio, number screening, in call timer, call and sms speed dialling, polyphonic ringtones, games…” he sounded like a product list from a hi-tech shopping mart. And there was more to come.
“The bad thing is…” the boy was saying, “the phone has only two colours, the other was too girlie so I was left with black and grey. At least it's not pink and blue!”
Boys will be boys. No matter how over-the-top, hi-tech, modest or simple the toy is!

Parmanu's blog has made me nostalgic and this is the result.

If I took a left turn from our one room apartment in Amsterdam, the road took me past ‘coffeeshops’ and canalside apartments to a building standing there since 13th century. The old church in Amsterdam is just called that, The Old Church or Oude Kirk. It houses a world famous organ dating back to the 1700s, has a floor littered with graves and looks out onto the red light district!
To me the BIG curiosity factor were the tombstones that were set into the church floor. Most of these are of famous Dutch people I couldn’t recognise, including Rembrandt’s wife, who was married to him the same church.
I loved Oude Kirk. Not just because my first visit coincided with a rehearsal for an upcoming organ concert. There was something so distinctly ancient (and even a bit musty) about the place it was magical. Since the church was almost next door, I’d go there when the tourist flow wasn’t much, sit in a corner and lose myself imagining life centuries ago.
Later I asked a friend if he had seen Oude Kirk. We'd gone to the new church on the Dam square, he said, and skipped the old one. Don’t make that mistake if you ever go to Amsterdam.
I couldn’t leave Amsterdam without seeing another church. The Westerkirk next to Anne Frank House. Remember Anne writing in her diary about the bells ringing every fifteen minutes and giving her hope?
On my last day in Amsterdam, I joined a tour to the bell tower to see how they rang. We climbed stairs, ladders, huffed and puffed and followed our guide, who looked like a hot long haired rock star and we found ourselves in the bell tower. After explaining the mechanics, we stepped outside on what is the tallest church tower in Amsterdam. The view was to die for. Never mind complicated bell mechanics.
This wasn’t supposed to be a blog on churches but it is turning into one. I love sitting in churches. The light filtering in through stained glass windows, the strange smell of frankincense and the stillness in the air has me hooked. I love history and old historical sites and in some way churches bring you closer to that.
Like the church in Aachen. Like Bill Bryson, I hated the touristy and overhyped Cologne Cathedral and loved the less-visited one in Aachen.
The dimly lit interiors, the chapel, and the amazing mosaics on the ceiling are mesmerising in this church built under Charlemagne’s supervision in medieval times. I could have spent hours here. We spent whatever time we had on our hands and moved on to the treasury or Schatzkammer. It was an exercise in eye-popping, especially the golden bust of Charlemagne. But I guess a man who built a church like this, deserves a bust like that!

Amazing how one mail can change your day.

Was typing away listlessly on the keyboard, trying to edit horror story in a hurry, staring at the walls in utter boredom, thinking of beaches, mountains and holidays when got this mail from Meeta that read:

'Hiiiiiiiii. Am bored. Sitting at airport. Waiting for flight to take me to another idiotic meeting. Must prepare pre-meeting notes but don't feel like. Want a beach...You too?'

Telepathy? That's what friends are for?

Book That Flight

I hate flying. Nothing troubles me more than air pockets, turbulence and seat belt signs getting switched on during boring calm phases of long haul flights.
My mind throws up a million ideas from the moment the plane takes off: Omygod! The plane is almost vertical! Why haven't we been served food yet? What's wrong? Why haven't they switched offseatbelt sign yet? Why is it circling the sky and NOT LANDING? Did the pilot say somehting about flying over mountains and turbulence?
Unlike some lucky people who start snoring the moment they hit the sky, I stay wide awake during the entire duration of the flight, whether it lasts for one hour or fourteen.
The end result of being the worst example of in-flight bad nerves is that, while flying, I need distraction. Loads of it. This means not the eye-straining in-flight movie or ear-popping channel music but books.
If it's a two hour flight I carry at least three books in my hand baggage. The numbers increase with the flight duration. The max I've carried is five books and three newly bought mags for a 16 hour flight with a two hour changing halt.
There is of course a perfectly good reason (To me obviously) for this book mania. The first book I put in is something I've been reading. Which means there are chances it could be over by the time the flight is halfway thru'. What would I do then? To prevent such panic attacks I carry Book No. 2. However, I have no idea whether this is an engrossing, enjoyable read and if it isn't, then I'll be reminded of being suspended over oceans and mountains again. To avoid this extremely unpleasant situation I carry Book No. 3 and so on...
The number of books to be carried is always a sour point between the man and me. He thinks I'm plain crazy. I think he's one of them lucky peoples who can sleep through the entire journey.

If you live in Gurgaon, you can’t escape the malls. You want to watch a movie, you go to the mall. You want a drink? Head to the mall. A cup of coffee? The Barista in the mall. You even go there for your buckets, Surf Excel at sasta rates and vegetables.
All this was too much for my inner villager (yeah I know v politically incorrect) when we first moved in. I’d move up and down the see-thru escalator at Metropolitan, wide eyed at the display all around me. Never mind the fact that I’d seen it all before in various shops in Delhi, but what chance did expensive Benetton pants in dusty South Extension shop window have against the ones in clean and shiny glass?
I grumbled about the crowds on weekends, wished the car park was bigger and wondered for the umpteenth time what I was doing dodging Chunnu, Munnu and Nita bhabi in the crowded food section of Big Bazaar on a Sunday afternoon!
But reluctance be dashed, I was a convert soon. And so was my wallet. Converting into nothingness. I couldn’t catch a film without attacking the linen section of Shoppers’ Stop and buying Fab India inspired kurtas at Good Things.
And I couldn’t stop eating. At the Food Court. At the stall selling masala corn. At the Chat Kiosk...
I couldn’t help but go tut tut at the price of two metres of clothing in places like Marks and Spencer and Tommy Hilfiger (what else could a loony looking smiley firang give you!) but check them out all the same.
But that was the distant past. The present is even more dismal.
Even with the inner villager suitably placated, even after the discovery that all that glitters is not gold (Don’t go to Arcus for furniture. Go back to good ole’ Amar Colony), going to one mall is never enough.
I have to cross the road and raid the others. Never mind that this involves weaving thru rush hour Haryana traffic. But who cares for life when there are things to be admired, envied and er...even bought? The wallet has all but disappeared by now but who cares when the Inner Villager has met and fallen in lust with the Inner Mallrat?

Pune

I dreamt about Pune last night. The Pune I knew in my college days. Don't remember what exactly the dream was abvout but woke up with a great longing to be in Pune.
...Walking up and down FC Road for entertainment; checking out Super Shoppe (which we thought was one hell of a superstore!); bunking lectures to sit in Vaishali, eating SPDP; night outs in Thousand Oaks; Going to Jasbir for an expensive and trendy haircut; Sunday evening outs on MG Road and the cheapest sandwiches in Marzorin; the Chinese near Univ circle; Anda-Bun in snack breaks; Vada pav; rushing in rain in between lecture through the vast Fergie campus; learning to ride the Kinetic on the University campus; debating over now laughable intellectual issues in Kimaya; sabudana vada in the hostel mess with evening chai; the balgandharv music fest; a year of Insynch with a T-shirt to show; five women creating a racket in one tiny hostel room (I'm out of touch with all of them now); long bike rides and goofed up dates; studying just before the exams...
I want to be a student again!

Where Shall We Go This August?

It all started with an innocuous phone call. ‘I want a break,’ I whined to AN. ‘Yup. I want a holiday too,’ she whined back.
‘I dunno why we don’t go anywhere, even Jaipur would do’ said whiny me, flipping through Outlook Traveller’s 52 weekend breaks from Delhi and wishing I was anywhere but here. AN was apparently in the same frame of mind. ‘Hmmm…I’ve never seen Rajasthan…could meet you in Delhi too...’ she droned on.
That did it.
Suddenly the idea of seeing Rajasthan in 40 degree heat has taken us over. None of us had seen much of this glorious land and we wanted to go there. Now! Never mind the heat.
And since AN is a good driver we even chalked out a plan. She comes to Delhi, chills out at my place for a day or two and then we take off on an all-girl desert drive. Ok…nothing so glamorous. All girl shopping trip to Jaipur.
Like all big ideas, this one started with a bang. And started flickering down to a whimper as fast.
NS, AN’s significant other (no man can be called a better half) got wind of our plans and decided he too could spare time off work.
But why Jaipur, Delhi's weekend backyard? Let’s drive down/up to Uttaranchal instead, NS suggested.
Impressed by his self-proclaimed hill driving skills, we women gave in. And from then on, the holiday plans had a life of their own.
Spurred by our excitement-charged research activities, i.e, surfing the net, trying in vain to read a map, etc, P decided he needed a break too. But let’s go in August, that’s the earliest I’d be free, he said in his best ‘am-pretending-to-be-busy’ tone.
Now there are four of us. We agree on a weeklong holiday. What we don’t agree on is where to go.
Rajasthan isn’t my thing anymore. In 40 degree plus Delhi heat and sweat, I’m longing for the hills, solitude and a verandah in a bungalow with a book. The Cottage in Jeolikot is looking more tempting than ever. Do nothing!
AN has shifted focus to Udaipur and is also eyeing Jaisalmer and Bikaner.
NS wants the hills like me but he wants to do something as opposed to my do nothing.
P wants Nepal and is already dreaming of lazing it in Thamel.
Never knew the search of a holiday could be so tedious!

Relationships are such difficult things. One off the mark word here, one falsely interpreted gesture there and something you’d built up over time, conversations, arguments, fights, memories, hugs and moments is gone in a flash. Almost.

In a flash you see yourself too. You see a corner of yourself that wants an end to the misgivings, to the explanations, to the effort that just being part of this person’s life brings you. And you tell yourself again and again about staying away, being indifferent, impassive and quite the bitch.

But you are a sold-for-life-slave to old friends and habits. You know they are easy to acquire but hard to let go. So you stay silent. For days, weeks and even months and then one day when you are dull, bored and numb from the heat, one day when you aren’t thinking, you pick up the phone again…

It happened last night (should've been posted yesterday)

9.40 pm: The husband is on phone with friend. Plans are being made for good dinner, good booze and a good match of football (on TV thankfully) later. I’m lovingly thinking of bed and yesterday’s leftover chicken in the fridge.

10.00 pm: Friend is coming over from his 40-mins-away home. He is husband’s pal from college days and lives in Bombay. He is also someone with a tendency to dance on the dining table after downing a couple of Old Monks. I’ve seen this with my own eyes and serenaded him during the performance in days of yore. He’s seen me passed out on kitchen sink after too many tequilas in the days of yore. Result? Emotional blackmail of gullible female by men aiming to spend rest of the night pissed drunk.

10.10 pm: Friend-on-phone: Arre yaar Rash how can we go out without you…
Husband-at-home: C’mon baby (signs that he is already drunk) don’t be a spoilsport
Gullible Me: Hmmm…these gorillas are old friends after all. Even the one am married to
The Gorillas: Hmm…she’s falling for it…we’ll have a driver for the night if things go out of hand (evil chuckle in Gorilla head)

11.00 pm: We are sitting at trendy and very expensive restaurant (because the men want food and booze and good music). The men are ordering booze in great numbers. They are trying to patao waiter to get them drinks even after the bar closes. Waiter grins=pataoed. I get familiar sinking feeling.

11.30 pm: The men have finished all the booze on table (including mine) and are discussing legendary boy’s nite out in college centuries ago. I am getting a bad sense of déjà vu because any moment they’ll discuss the enormity of Duggu’s puke on that legendary night, followed by Sandy’s vital stats, followed by more fond analysis of past misbehaviour.

11.35 pm: We have shifted to a corner table where booze can be surreptitiously passed. Am wondering if waiter has been bribed before/is gay/is boy bonding champion/hates women. The men are singing to each other. The hide-out area under the table looks very comfy.

12.00 am: Have told waiter to get the food packed. Have flicked three sexy steel stirrers to make myself feel better.

12.10: The men are not coming out of the loo. Call the one am married to. He answers the phone and sings: ‘It’s the time to disco!’ I think fondly of housewifely things like a good home-cooked meal, dinner on time, early to bed, etc.

12.15: Slight tussle as I try to drive but the husband doesn’t let me. ‘You don’t think am drunk do you?’ Hah!

12.20 am: Car halts at theka. More booze is picked up. We drive homewards with music (hip hop) in full blast. I have out of body experience as the man deftly manoeuvres car through a pile of sand/mortar/whatever and the friend keeps shouting ‘Schumacher!!!!’ Car reaches apartment gate and it is decided that it’s too early to call it a night. My fervent pleas of ‘Mujhe Jaane Do’ are ignored. Car driven to super trendy nightclub.

12.45 am: Entry refused at super trendy nightclub on account of being oddly numbered. I do a little jig and thank the Gods. The men have luck on their side. They spot some bouncer type they know from their ‘basketball days.’ We are stamped and pushed in.

1-2: The men have taken to the floor. In fact the floor is full of mostly men. All the women seem very happy to be left draped over table next to wall nursing drink/chatting with female friend, etc. Come to think of it, it’s tough to top a bunch of super sloshed guys trying to do a Yana Gupta.

2.00: Finally give up resolution of not drinking much and go in search of sustenance in crowded bar. The husband has just whispered in my ear that he wants to become a DJ. This requires booze.

Ungodly Hour: Drive two grown and sloshed men home. It is a distance of only 4 kilometres and the parking lot is near empty so can manage this supremely brave feat (Am no driver). The men protest and say they can drive. You throw them a look that says…(well, can’t be described)

Rest of the night: Reach building. Ignore grinning watchman (aaj madamji gadi chala rahe hai). March very happy men to lift. Reach door of own flat. Push happy men in. Lock door. Take out packed dinner. Warm packed dinner. Leave on dining table for the happy men if hunger strikes them. Go to bed. The men are pouring rum and coke down their throat and celebrating Portugal/Ethiopia/whatever’s victory by watching last moments of match/match analysis whatever.

7.00 am: Wake up to the doorbell. Bai enters and throws disgusted look. Turn around to notice two not-too-shapely human bodies sprawled on different parts of floor (one on the gadda the other on bean bag and floor to be exact), along with half finished bottle of rum, many empty glasses (never occurred to them they could use the same ones?), CDs and cassettes…

End result of emotional blackmail

A happy, average middle class family living in Calcutta with a daughter they cherish. One fine day, she’s found, lying in a pool of blood, brutally raped and murdered. She's 14. A horrible and undeserved end to an innocent life.
Years later, when the man who committed the crime is about to be executed, perhaps the family breathes a tiny sigh of relief. Their little daughter is finally getting the justice she deserved. But hey, suddenly it’s not about justice for their daughter, the victim, Hetal Parikh. It’s justice for the murderer that they’re talking about.
If there’s one news item that simply boils my blood these days it’s the stayed execution of rapist and murderer Dhananjoy Chatterjee in Kolkata.
I fail to understand why so-called sensible people like Aparna Sen and co. have filed clemency pleas on behalf of a man who raped and brutally murdered a 14 year old girl. Change it to life imprisonment, they’ve argued. For god's sake, why?
By what logic does this man deserve pardon? That he wasn't in his senses when he did it? That he has already been punished by being in the prison for years? That he repents what he has done?
People are never short of strange arguments. Check out this inane quote by the defence counsel in this NDTV story.
'Please don’t teach children this hunger for blood,' he says. What nonsense is he talking about? And what nonsense are self-righteous intellectuals like Aparna Sen and Mahasweta Devi talking about? Would they appeal for clemency if the victim had been any of their daughters?
To me pardoning a rapist almost looks like encouraging the multitude of perverts lurking out there. Go ahead, commit that crime. You can repent later in jail and there’s always some human rights activist type waiting to bail you out!
And why should they hang the rapist only after his poor, old parents are dead? What about the girl's parents who have lived a nightmare all these years? 'My son couldn’t have done such a thing,’ the rapist's father wailed in front of Calcutta Press Club according to a report. Poor man. Yes, we never think anyone close to us, anyone we love, can do anything heinous. But is that argument enough for pardon? And where does human rights come in here?
It's amazing how intelligent, educated people lobbying for someone who has committed the worst crime possible. I shudder to think how Hetal Parikh would’ve endured the last moments of her life. How come human rights doesn’t figure there?

If you suspect that the man your friend is enamoured with is nothing more than an extravagant planner and big talker, do you tell her? Do you risk years of friendship, wardrobe sharing, cribbing, laughing, movie-going, male bashing, pub-hopping, gossiping and shoulder lending over a man who you know is not exactly what she thinks he is?
Do you worry over her, wonder whether she is making the biggest mistake of her life and confront her with what you think is the truth, at the cost of your friendship? Or do you tell yourself that this is the first stable relationship she’s ever had, so let her be?
Do you convince yourself that no matter what his faults may be, this man, who is visibly uncomfortable with you or any of her other close female friends, really adores, even worships her?
Perhaps you do. Because hers is one of those friendships you value. Your heart tells you that’s the reason you should be upfront with her. Your head tells you, you’ve gone through this before and you know you'll hit a wall.
She believes in him, in his extra-large plans, in his self-important voice. Yes, she’s the same girl who laughed at people who talked big but she isn’t laughing now, she’s listening. And she’s a part of his plans. Willingly.
So you tell yourself it’s not worth losing sleep over. Nobody’s perfect. Someday, you hope, she’ll see. More than anything, you hope she’ll not see too late. More than anything, you hope she’ll be happy. Even if it's with the Extravagant Planner.

Every Sunday I call my parents in Calcutta. I call them every other night of the week as well but the Sunday morning/afternoon call is a ritual that’s been followed since the time I’ve been away from home.
Since Sunday at my parents' means food followed by more food, the conversation naturally revolves around it.
And inevitably plunges me into the depths of gloom and homesickness. At least for sometime.
When I lived with the in-laws in the veggie house, my mom would tactfully refrain from mentioning the non-veg part of the Sunday menu. Since it is usually All Flesh day, with a dal thrown in, I wouldn't be easily fooled.
Knowing fully well the consequences, all I had to do was press dad a bit and he’d start rattling off: chicken curry, two types of fish, and oh I don’t know how I’m going to eat all this because your mom also made keema paranthas for breakfast.
By this time I’d be drooling enough to flood a small country and choking an urge to rush to airport and take first flight out to Cal.
I do this to myself every Sunday. And yesterday was a double dose. Anita lovingly called to ask if I wanted Hilsa, there was an overdose of it at her place. Nope, said I feebly, stomach rumbling. The vegetarians are visiting.
Called the parents afer that. They were lazing after a very very late lunch. Guess what the mother had cooked? Smoked Hilsa.

The more I live in Delhi, the more I learn. Years ago when I came here, I was an ignoramus who preferred that crabby island-full-of-buildings with sea attached to this wide-road Greenland. Now, after four years, I’m a wise cat. Where else but in Delhi would I learn the art of showing off? The Capital has such well-trained show offs that you can’t help but admire. They’ve the ability to slip in ‘certain somethings’ in casual conversationa — like summer in phoren, children in Modern, house in GK with open kitchen, saris by Suneet (Varma, silly!), etc. And you have to hand it to them. Making people think you were born draped in designer yards, that your 1.3 crore house is really too small and even your little pups have always been dripping diamonds is no easy task!
Of course, for every classy show off act, there are 100 loud Aunty No.Ones, who are so artless that they sound like they were reading from a shopping list! I of course, am learning the class act.
Then there’s driving. I admit I’m no good behind the wheels but when I finally start, I’d know all about How To Get Ahead Of Other Cretins On The Road. It’s been my daily education on the wide, well paved, car-infested streets of the Capital. Honk, shove in, more honk, more shove, dent, yell, more dent, get off car, say you know who I am, get in car, repeat act, vrooooom….
Delhi has also opened my eyes to weddings. Had I not come to this city and attended 5000 weddings by now, I’d have thought that the Gujjus did it best (am not even mentioning us Bongs. With that clown like topor we are the pits. Am serious) in Turf Club. I’d have never realised that a Wedding Extravaganza means driving two hours to reach a farmhouse with 7000 invitees, jostling for food, dancing to Punj Pop in a corner and admiring a Lancer tied with a red bowon a revolving dias. And a bride and groom somewhere
So you see I’m really glad that I came here. If this is not education, what is?

PS: With due apologies to Hekate, Cafe Turtle, Bookshop, Fact & Fiction, Priya Market and my own home.

Ma always had a foolproof way to make me smile when I was a kid. The moment she saw me low or feeling a little sickie, all she had to do was bake her special ultra-soft sponge cake and I’d be smiling again. Me and bro loved ma’s ultra-soft sponge cake. And unlike most other kids we knew, we didn’t want it with chocolate sauce on top or whipped cream or orange sauce or wafers or anything…
Ma would cut the cake into bite-sized bits and put it into two separate cake tins. One for brother and one for me. We could just open the fridge and pick up a piece whenever we wanted to without having to take it out, cut it, etc. Invariably brother would run through his own share and attack mine. And continues to do so.
If anyone asks me what’s my favourite (and respectable) comfort food, it has to be that sponge cake. Just the way ma makes it. Last year I was quite thrilled to see a similar version in Barista but of course it came nowhere near the original version. I even tried it at home recently but let’s just say it didn’t quite have the ‘mother’s touch.’
The other ‘comfort’ dish would be khichdi, made the Bong way, served with ‘aloo bhaja’ and eaten with a dollop of butter on top. This was my fave thing to eat when I was ill or home from hostel. Also something that I now try to recreate when it’s raining outside. Can get the khichdi almost right, though a bit watery but I shy off at making aloo bhaja.
It’s the thought of throwing anything in a kadhaiful of oil…I can hear all health and nutrition related things I’ve read over the years kickboxing inside my head. I’ve reached a compromise: I can eat deep-fried stuff but I won’t be the one making it. Strange right? Can’t help it.
When it comes to comfort foods there’s another, absolutely disgusting favourite. Even the brother who doesn’t know the meaning of the word disgusting (watch him attach a chicken leg and you’ll know) shudders at this. It’s my ultimate sit-with-book-n-laze-on-Sunday-morning food: Mashed potatoes plus boiled egg cut into bits plus mustard plus haldiram bhujia plus butter. Served in a big bowl. Garnished with chopped green chillies.
Revolting right? Luvvit!

I spent my Sunday with that Faith No More song playing in my head: Easy like Sunday morning…
Well I know that song that as much to do with Sunday morning as I have to do with driving but I love that line. It sums up how a Sunday should be: Easy…
Yesterday was like that. And strangely enough I didn’t spend it lolling around in bed, having endless mugs of chai and lounging listelessly. I spent half of it cooking (toiling in the kitchen, slaving over the hot stove…get the picture you lazy Sunday loungers).
By the time I finished filling half the fridge with curries, chutneys and a pasta dish, Madhur Jaffrey’s face had a yellow haldi smudge across it, my fingers reeked of garlic and the microwave top had black spots thanks to the jumpy little mustard in hot oil.
I was sweating, needed a shower again but very happy (the prospect of the fridge being full for the next three days always makes me happy). There was beer chilling in the fridge and a nice book to look forward to. The afternoon couldn’t have been better.
It made me wonder how my ‘wonderful’ Sundays have changed over the years but that’s another blog. But I never really thought that I would wake up on a Sunday morning, spend just an hour with the papers and the rest cooking and feeling happy.
Relaxation? Or just the freedom to do what you want to in your own home? I choose to think it’s the latter.
When I lived on my own in Bombay and had a roommate who was one of those natural-born cooks, I never thought I was the 'cooking type'. But then I never thought that one day I would be married, buy a house, want children, spend my holidays cleaning the house…(If you’re getting visions of a sacked up maid in the making, stop reading immediately. I'm toned, brunette, Uma Thurman lookalike!)
Much to my surprise, over the last one year, I have discovered that I really like to cook. Not just the regular 'dal chawal' variety but even elaborately planned meals. I love poring over cookbooks, trying out recipes, testing my own combinations and er…sometimes even eating them myself coz not all my combos come out right.
My mother called when I was in the middle of pounding spices for the chicken curry and muttered for the 59768th time how I took after ‘dad’s side’ of the family when it came to cooking.
‘Has P demanded a huge meal?’ she wanted to know. No ma, he hadn’t and if he had I would’ve sent him packing to the nearest restaurant. Am not cooking for him. Am cooking for myself. For the joy of it. Yes hard to believe (can hear audible gasps if any of my Bombay friends were to read this) but c'est la truth!

Harry, What Else?

This isn’t a review. Just random thoughts about the latest film I HAD to see.
The best thing about Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban is Daniel Radcliffe. Finally.
Can finally forgive him for his irritating Good Boy act in the first and second Potter films. Here he looks 13 and behaves accordingly with all the mischief, meance and impishness that characterises the Harry JK Rowling wrote about, not the woodfaced, can’t-do-no-wrong-boy we saw in the first two movies. Here’s a boy who’s itching to do just the opposite of what he’s been told to. The film closes with an image of the Marauder’s Map and Harry’s voice: ‘I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.’ Loved it. I hope the next film continues in this spirit.
The other wonderful bits?
* Hogwarts has never looked better. It’s as magical as you imagine it and with a lot more of the outdoors thrown in. I loved the sloping, rocky way to Hagrid’s hut. Hogwarts also looks centuries old (which it’s supposed to be), with hints of dark corners lurking here and there. It’s a relief to see it like this, unlike the postcard-type castle in the last two movies. Any castle that houses snakes, ghosts and trolls has to look somewhat sinister.
* Harry’s ride on the Hippogriff, though he looked like he was going to slide off any moment.
* Hermione. The movie should be renamed Hermione Granger and How She Saved Buckbeak and Black. She storms out of a class, punches Malfoy, doesn’t like how her hair looks from behind, comforts Harry when he’s upset and gets him out of tricky situations. Love that girl. She also clutches Ron’s hand when scared and sobs on his shoulder. Hmm…
* BIG disappointment: Sirius Black. C’mon…this is the adult hero of the film (even if bumped off in book number 5). He’s the raking guy all women like. Gary Oldman isn’t what we imagined.
* Moment of Happiness While Watching The Film: Very loud laughs shared with 12-year-old sitting next to me. Turned out to be a complete Potter fan and we bonded over our extensive knowledge of spells and charms. Her mother smiled. A bit strangely at me I thought.
What is it about a book that makes devotees out of us all? I discovered Harry Potter on a holiday four years ago and like many people I know have been hooked ever since. I still think the films are no patch on Rowling’s imagination and the complexities and relationships she weaves for her characters. But this one comes close enough.

At Last...

Have taken the day off and going to do complete vellagiri. Feels wonderful....

Have a blast, all ye who work today ;)

Confusion is my middle name. Give me a choice and chances are you’ll need to wait a good five minutes for me to make up my mind. Sample the latest. P was finishing early yesterday and wanted to catch a film. Tickets were available for both the 7.45 pm and 10.30 pm shows. Can you imagine the amount of confusion it caused in my muddled mind?
7.45 meant rushing home and rushing back. The 10.30 show meant time to finish stuff, relaxed dinner, etc. I took the 10.30 pm tickets and regretted the moment I’d left the counter.
‘Oh god…this show’ll finish at 1.20 am, that’s too late for a weekday. I need to get up early. 7.45 would’ve been better. Why didn’t I book that, now what, etc, etc…’
I’m always like this. The moment I’ve decided on Chinese for lunch, I want Pizza or Pulao or…basically anything but Chinese. It takes me quite some time to order a meal, especially if it’s a fancy restaurant with a menu that explains each and every dish. This means I check out the ingredients mentioned in one, then go back to the other, then wonder if I should have nothing but a salad…etc.
I’ve solved this problem somewhat by ordering whatever my eyes sight first on the menu, unless of course it is a dish that is tomato based or has broccoli or…
When it comes to buying regular household stuff, groceries etc, I usually dedicate an entire evening or afternoon. I can never decide fast between Surf Excel or Ariel, salt from ITC or salt from Tata, shampoo for dry hair or shampoo for dull hair, banana or apple or both or watermelon instead…it’s a constant battle!
I’ve been wondering if everyone’s like this? Is it normal to be so confused, indecisive, etc? Or do I have some disorder here?
There’s only one thing I can order straightaway, without thinking it over — it’s a regular cappuccino at Barista. It comes from being a coffee slave over years.

They were the first travelling musicians I’d ever met (not counting those in Mumbai local trains, they travel too). But I met them in a café near the Bazarhallen in Oslo, without knowing who they were or what they did. They were a father-daughter duo and we shared a table in a crowded café, me and the daughter, all of 14, communicating through broken English and smiles. The two grabbed a quick bite and while I struggled through my cold sandwich (am very Indian in this. Don’t like a cold lunch), they crossed across to the other pavement and set up their equipment.
What followed was magical.
I still have no idea what exactly was the language in which she sang. I suspect some of the songs were in English but it was so heavily accented (Polish, I later learnt) that it was hard to tell. But the 14 year old had the kind of voice that lifts you out of your surroundings and places you elsewhere. It was the kind of voice that you pray stays with her forever (for she’s 14 and growing); a voice that holds promise, happiness and an unusually mature longing.
The girl kept singing for more than half an hour with the father on the guitar and suddenly I realised there was quite a crowd gathered there. This was a weekday and beyond lunch hour but I think like me, something in her voice kept those people waiting. Coins dropped, she flashed a smile, sometimes at us, sometimes at her dad and carried on.
I went up and spoke to them after the performance. They were on their way to the Molde Jazz Festival, which happens in Norway’s West coast, in a town called (obviously) Molde. Right now, they were coming from Germany, had stopped in Oslo for a couple of days and were singing along the journey to raise money for the trip. The man (who it turned out spoke decent English) said it was one of the best Jazz Festivals in Europe. He had a CD of his music, which he hoped to circulate in the festival and sell along the way. He hoped to bring out a CD of his daughter’s songs too, he told me. He’d written some of it, some were old folk songs. He had any hopes for her, his only remaining daughter. The other stayed with his wife who he calmly said he ‘didn’t like.’ The girl had a new mother now, his girlfriend.
I was dying with curiosity. I wanted to know if Ely (that was her name) went to school, if they had a permanent home, if she enjoyed her life, liked her dad’s girlfriend…
But suddenly it seemed rude and very work-type. (So, Ely, do you enjoy singing? Who’s your idol? What are your future plans?) So I left, asking them when I could hear them sing next. Ely muttered something in her dad’s ear; he gave her head a playful whack and laughed. Twenty minutes and a coffee later, all three of us were walking along to their next destination somewhere near a shopping centre, Ely giggling at a bunch of hot American students walking with a holiday swagger and me cursing the fact that this was the day I chose not to bring a camera.
So that’s it. A memory. The afternoon I spent with the travelling musicians.

Are You Settled Yet?

Bumped into S’s mum yesterday. Over the next 20 mins or so, the conversation was of course about S. ‘Kya hoga uska…’ muttered aunty while staring into space. Her naani, who has to eavesdrop whenever any friend of S is around, sighed audibly.
It’s always like this. S is 28, attractive and working with a business publication. She’s doing very well according to us (her friends) but is the source of constant agony to her parents as she refuses to get married, especially go through the arranged marriage routine.
I tried to tell aunty that she’s doing wonders with her work (she’s been promoted recently, salary hike, et al) but aunty was on her own trip. ‘Beta…yeh natural nahi hai. Why is she being so stubborn? Why isn’t she settling down…’
Why is the Indian mind so demanding? It starts with parents exhorting children to do well in school, get through a good college, get a degree, then get a job. You do all that, start moving up the ladder and earning well but they (parents, maasis, uncles, even some people from your own generation) are far from satisfied. You need to get married. The thing is, even if you do that, the demands, the expectations don’t stop. Now that you are married, you must have your own house, own car and of course, your own kid. Unless and until that happens, the story isn’t complete yet.
According to a friend of mine with a kid of her own, the story isn’t complete even after that. You need to get baby no. two to keep baby number one company, you insensitive parent, you!
Seven of my closest friends aren’t married. One of them is a guy who works with a bank, gets paid decently and leads a happy, carefree life. He doesn’t ask anyone about minute details of their lives but others are really bothered about his ‘wifeless’ one. The other single friends are girls. One of them is a CA and holds a top-notch job with a finance consultancy, the other is S, whom I have described abive. A third works with a popular magazine, has her own flat in Pune and is a happy, contented soul. The fourth one is the top boss where she works. The fifth one has just moved to corporate from journalism and doing very well, touchwood. The seventh is working with Delhi’s number one paper. To me, they all look as ‘settled’ as the word suggests. But I guess the world at large demands more.
The reason for this rant…can’t forget what S’s mum was going on about. And can’t forget what some people often lecture me about. Settle down? Will somebody please define this magic term? What is settling down? Is it buying a house? Getting married? Getting a job that let’s you do both these things? Staying in one city? Producing a baby? Getting the baby married? Going to phoren? Marrying boy from phoren? Making moolah? Marrying Michael Jackson?

Wouldn't have written this. But a comment from a friend after checking out the steel and glass corporate edifice that another friend works in has got me going.
It has reminded me (due to the lack of work. Otherwise am not one to hanker after materialistic pleasures) that I have always wanted to work in a swanky office. At least for a while. Till I get matter-of-fact about full-length bathroom mirrors and ACTUALLY clean water dispensers.
The closest I came to working in one was with a Chennai based dotcom's branch in Bombay. I was a freelancer for their filmi website and would walk into that office only to key in copy, send mails (and chat on the net), chat up hunky young men, etc. It was another battered building in Fort from the outside but inside they had managed to turn it quite swanky and colourful. Perhaps it had to do with the top boss being a woman :)
Having come to that place from a dying magazine in another crumbling
Fort building with a rickety lift and a newspaper* that functioned out of a bunch of barely held together cubicles with a smelly common loo, I thought the dotcom place was the coolest yet.
Then one day, after a late night Sterling movie, a couple of us went
with a friend to his office nearby, while he picked up the keys to his car to drive us home. It was the end of innocence.
This was a bank. Foreign one obviously, in one of those heritage-type
Fort buildings. Inside, it was a haven of plushness, cleanliness,
comfort, etc, etc. Two of us, the girls in the gang, had to check out
the loo. It was ideal. (Refer to loo demands in appraisal blog ha ha)
The 'workstations' as S, our banker pal called them, were clean, with
ergonomical chairs that didn't have broken legs and didn't plummet down when you wanted to adjust the height.
That was the first. From then on, I have been subjected to a sense of
despair every time some friend talked about her office cafe getting a
makeover (again Fort, again bank) and making it to Inside Outside. It
was of course, bright, cheerful and functional. With clean cups and nice looking coffee machine.
Yet another one started going to his office half an hour earlier to
workout at the gym. By this time I was in Delhi and worked in a duplex flat that would've been nice had 49 people not been crammed into it with strange partitions put up between 'departments'. It boasted of a pantry operated by a man who was addicted to dust, and as we later discovered, fungus on pots and pans. The only bright side was a patch of lawn outside, which was the smokers' and coffee-addicts' corner.
Now I spend my days in a windowless semi cubicle with the most
uncomfortable chairs, overflowing drawers and a dustbin that requires a thorough washing up with the strongest disinfectant available. For recreation and contact with the outside world we have a couple of porthole-type windows near the smokers' staircase and three telephones on our desks, one of them with STD.
The husband works in an ultra modern, glass n steel structure, with
state of the art private lifts, 'workstations', headsets for hands free communication and Italian coffee machine (Yes. The coffee machine is an obsession with me. Period). There's a gym on the terrace, with a swimming pool and a view of the Gurgaon skyline (I'm sure you can see nothing but buildings but I ALWAYS want what I can't have). The cafe has juice, organic bread, five types of yoghurt and five-star catered lunch.
The man of course is totally blasé about the place and says most people he knows work in similar kind of offices. By an act of coincidence most people in such offices ALWAYS work a five-day-week!
Naturelment, any conversation regarding workplaces and workstations at home is PURE TORTURE. Sigh...

PS: For all its lack of amenities, I LOVED the newspaper that functioned
out of barely held together cubicles, including the conference room on
the stairs.

Random...

Very listless and bored. It's the heat. To make matters worse am doing trend story on wine and food festivals and high end stuff like that. This means for the better part of the day, am on the fone with hoteliers/sommeliers/PR chicks and other such people who have accents and with whom one has to speak politely coz otherwise they don't understand. Makes me feel very 'back-to-school' trying to remember my Ps and Qs (Does an apostrophe go there?) and smoothing down my wild hair even if they can't see me over the phone.

Hate the heat. Thinking with deepening nostalgia about Bombay, where it's raining and people are lucky enough to not just have the sea but also weather that is not 45 degrees. Also local trains, bhelpuri, chutney sandwich, polite cabbies, nice people, toto's, Mondy's, freedom to move around as you like, fish thalis, bandra, vadapav...
Was planning to drown myself in beer yesterday and pretending I was in Toto's (dimmed the lights at home and all that) when my mother called from Cal to inform me that is had just started pouring there. Why?

Was dreaming about getting out of Delhi over the weekend or on a short weekday break but can't. The man can't take a day off on a weekday and is even booked over the weekend playing for some wrongly punctuated corporate football tournament. I have become bored wife. Yikes!

After mother's fone, called single pal in Bangalore to crib about domesticated life in horrible weather. She is planning to go on some exciting trek this weekend but muttered sad things about men being bastards and nothing ever working out for her. Said she felt ready to settle down at last, blah, blah.

The grass is always greener...