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!
Monday, September 20, 2004
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
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.
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.
Monday, September 13, 2004
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...
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...
Monday, August 30, 2004
'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.
'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.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
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.
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.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
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
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
Thursday, August 05, 2004
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 :)
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 :)
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
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!
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!
Monday, August 02, 2004
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!
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!
Saturday, July 31, 2004
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!
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!
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
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?
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?
Saturday, July 24, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
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?
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?
Thursday, July 15, 2004
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!
...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!
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
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!
‘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!
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
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…
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…
Friday, July 02, 2004
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
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
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
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?
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?
Friday, June 25, 2004
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.
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.
Monday, June 21, 2004
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.
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.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
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!
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!
Monday, June 14, 2004
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!
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!
Monday, June 07, 2004
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.
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.
Friday, June 04, 2004
At Last...
Have taken the day off and going to do complete vellagiri. Feels wonderful....
Have a blast, all ye who work today ;)
Have a blast, all ye who work today ;)
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
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.
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.
Saturday, May 29, 2004
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?
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?
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
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.
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.
Friday, May 21, 2004
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...
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...
Monday, May 17, 2004
Things I want to say in idiotic self-appraisal forms but can’t…
Describe your three major achievements in the last one year:
*Discovered blogs and made friends
*Extensively surfed the net (when your goddamned server allowed it) and found interesting details about travelling in Corsica, jobs in BBC (am overqualified, of course) etc
*Explored and identified restaurants around the workplace
Identify your major strengths
*Ability to survive in claustrophobic environment without air-conditioning for long hours
*High endurance level for salt less, bland canteen food (Strengthens the soul)
*Ability to survive without the Internet or office mail for ONE WHOLE DAY!
*Ability to work efficiently on 300-year-old computer with non-working speakers (Can you even imagine the agony when I get a forward with sound?)
Identify areas where guidance is required
*How to blog and work simultaneously without getting distracted from either
*How to browbeat canteen guy into making edible stuff
*Technical guidance on uploading new comment box, links, etc on the blog
Career ambitions
*Naturally, being the top boss. Do you even need to ask?
Would you prefer a job rotation? If yes, where?
*Yes. We can start with the cooler climes in Himachal (put me up at the Wildflower Hall), move up to Leh, wind down to Goa and zip off to Hong Kong, Venice, Barcelona, Reykjavik, Sun City, London, New York…(You said rotation, remember?)
Suggestions
Many. First, get one of those zany coffee machines they have in MNCs these days. The ones with everything from café au lait to espresso shots. And get clean mugs to match.
* While you are at it, also get a new café, with comfy, loungable sofas. Stock café with everything workplace hunger-pangs can dream of.
* Sanction a spa cum salon. We need to look presentable. Give the loo a makeover. Keep scented towels, little bottles of lotions and perfumes in a basket, etc. Also invest in a full-length mirror.
* Increase my salary eightfold. Remember I’ll be your boss soon.
Describe your three major achievements in the last one year:
*Discovered blogs and made friends
*Extensively surfed the net (when your goddamned server allowed it) and found interesting details about travelling in Corsica, jobs in BBC (am overqualified, of course) etc
*Explored and identified restaurants around the workplace
Identify your major strengths
*Ability to survive in claustrophobic environment without air-conditioning for long hours
*High endurance level for salt less, bland canteen food (Strengthens the soul)
*Ability to survive without the Internet or office mail for ONE WHOLE DAY!
*Ability to work efficiently on 300-year-old computer with non-working speakers (Can you even imagine the agony when I get a forward with sound?)
Identify areas where guidance is required
*How to blog and work simultaneously without getting distracted from either
*How to browbeat canteen guy into making edible stuff
*Technical guidance on uploading new comment box, links, etc on the blog
Career ambitions
*Naturally, being the top boss. Do you even need to ask?
Would you prefer a job rotation? If yes, where?
*Yes. We can start with the cooler climes in Himachal (put me up at the Wildflower Hall), move up to Leh, wind down to Goa and zip off to Hong Kong, Venice, Barcelona, Reykjavik, Sun City, London, New York…(You said rotation, remember?)
Suggestions
Many. First, get one of those zany coffee machines they have in MNCs these days. The ones with everything from café au lait to espresso shots. And get clean mugs to match.
* While you are at it, also get a new café, with comfy, loungable sofas. Stock café with everything workplace hunger-pangs can dream of.
* Sanction a spa cum salon. We need to look presentable. Give the loo a makeover. Keep scented towels, little bottles of lotions and perfumes in a basket, etc. Also invest in a full-length mirror.
* Increase my salary eightfold. Remember I’ll be your boss soon.
Thursday, May 13, 2004
Born To Write
In my next life I want to be born as a freelance writer with supernatural confidence. Every second day our office gets a call from some freelance person or the other. The regularity has convinced us that when it comes to freelance writing, age and sex are no bar. All you need is HUGE faith in your writing abilities and choice of topic.
From 65 plus retired bureaucrat (RB) to teenage schoolgirl, they have all called. The RB, after giving a backgrounder on his illustrious career, said he wanted to write on the plight of women in India.
‘Anything specific Sir? We respectfully asked.
RB went through the roof
‘Why do you want specifics…in a country where women are still burnt for dowry, raped every second day…it is a sorry plight…If your mag doesn’t publish…standards going down the drain…Boom Booom BOOM BOOM BOOM’
I can still imagine him in front of his computer. Banging the phone on us, running his eye through a 3,000 word article (with no spell check) and wondering...hmm…now who do I send this brilliant piece of work to? Hindustan Times?
The teenage girl was far more difficult to handle. Not only was she young and vulnerable, she had a mother.
‘Sorry but we don’t publish poems,’ we informed the girl.
Mommy, who was obviously snooping in, cut in from the extension line: Oh! But you used to!
Not any more, I said. My biggest mistake. Mommy launched into a long spiel on her daughter’s creative mind, her numerous trophies (didn’t know they gave them out for poems. Ph, are you listening?), her scholastic achievements and the publications that had made her a star (Bright Youngster's Club, Pitampura). We were clearly nipping the bud, crushing the young spirit, destroying talent, etc.
Just now, the call came from a woman of uncertain age. ‘I am wanting to write,’ she said.
Goodie gumdrops! Please do so, I wanted to say but gave her the spiel about sending her CV to the ed, with sample work, etc. Also corrected her that ed was a ‘she’, not a ‘he’. Then I asked her what she wrote about. ‘Recipes. I will send them to him.’ Came the confidant reply.
Like I said. In my next life…
From 65 plus retired bureaucrat (RB) to teenage schoolgirl, they have all called. The RB, after giving a backgrounder on his illustrious career, said he wanted to write on the plight of women in India.
‘Anything specific Sir? We respectfully asked.
RB went through the roof
‘Why do you want specifics…in a country where women are still burnt for dowry, raped every second day…it is a sorry plight…If your mag doesn’t publish…standards going down the drain…Boom Booom BOOM BOOM BOOM’
I can still imagine him in front of his computer. Banging the phone on us, running his eye through a 3,000 word article (with no spell check) and wondering...hmm…now who do I send this brilliant piece of work to? Hindustan Times?
The teenage girl was far more difficult to handle. Not only was she young and vulnerable, she had a mother.
‘Sorry but we don’t publish poems,’ we informed the girl.
Mommy, who was obviously snooping in, cut in from the extension line: Oh! But you used to!
Not any more, I said. My biggest mistake. Mommy launched into a long spiel on her daughter’s creative mind, her numerous trophies (didn’t know they gave them out for poems. Ph, are you listening?), her scholastic achievements and the publications that had made her a star (Bright Youngster's Club, Pitampura). We were clearly nipping the bud, crushing the young spirit, destroying talent, etc.
Just now, the call came from a woman of uncertain age. ‘I am wanting to write,’ she said.
Goodie gumdrops! Please do so, I wanted to say but gave her the spiel about sending her CV to the ed, with sample work, etc. Also corrected her that ed was a ‘she’, not a ‘he’. Then I asked her what she wrote about. ‘Recipes. I will send them to him.’ Came the confidant reply.
Like I said. In my next life…
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
In black and white...
Watched Le Divorce yesterday. In black and white. Also Usual Suspects and Scent of a Woman. Again in black and white. Not by choice. Something in the DVD player went kaput and rather than fiddle with it and waste time, we thought it was better to leave it the way it was. I have seen all these films before (except for Le Divorce, which is a good book but avoidable film) but absolutely loved Usual Suspects in the black and white version. The movie has that dark, 1960s gangster feel and the unintentional lack of colour added to it. The other black and white scene I loved was the one in Scent of A Woman, where Al Pacino teaches a girl in a New York bar how to tango. It looked very old Hollywood, vintage romance…
There’s something about black and white. Both films and still photographs.
It got me back to movie days during my mass comm. course. Every Thursday afternoon, the chairs would be shifted, the projector set up, a screen put up in the classroom and it was showtime. Films were part of our ‘course’ and we watched everything — from Satyajit Ray’s Charulata and Pather Panchali to Renoir’s Rules of the Game to strange movies you must endure if you are studying cinema, like Battleship Potemkin, Un Chien Andalou, Birth of a Nation; we also watched absolutely fantastic stuff like Breathless, Hiroshima Mon Amour and Rashomon.
Didn’t always look forward to the discussion and analysis that was to follow (Why did Bunuel slice the eye and show ants crawling all over a hand? Because he had a fit of madness, that’s why!) but loved most of the films. Ninety-percent of the stuff was black and white, our course in-charge having a marked partiality for the early part of the 20th century. I loved her for it, never mind Bunuel and movies that sympathised with the Ku Klux Clan. Some films are best seen in black and white. Like old photographs. Madhubala and gang look much better in black and white than they would have looked in colour.
Black and white just seems very classic. And beautiful. Colour can sometimes bring out the flaws that black and white shadows over. Gosh! Shall stop before I sound like arty type. Had fun watching unplanned black and white fest. That’s all.
There’s something about black and white. Both films and still photographs.
It got me back to movie days during my mass comm. course. Every Thursday afternoon, the chairs would be shifted, the projector set up, a screen put up in the classroom and it was showtime. Films were part of our ‘course’ and we watched everything — from Satyajit Ray’s Charulata and Pather Panchali to Renoir’s Rules of the Game to strange movies you must endure if you are studying cinema, like Battleship Potemkin, Un Chien Andalou, Birth of a Nation; we also watched absolutely fantastic stuff like Breathless, Hiroshima Mon Amour and Rashomon.
Didn’t always look forward to the discussion and analysis that was to follow (Why did Bunuel slice the eye and show ants crawling all over a hand? Because he had a fit of madness, that’s why!) but loved most of the films. Ninety-percent of the stuff was black and white, our course in-charge having a marked partiality for the early part of the 20th century. I loved her for it, never mind Bunuel and movies that sympathised with the Ku Klux Clan. Some films are best seen in black and white. Like old photographs. Madhubala and gang look much better in black and white than they would have looked in colour.
Black and white just seems very classic. And beautiful. Colour can sometimes bring out the flaws that black and white shadows over. Gosh! Shall stop before I sound like arty type. Had fun watching unplanned black and white fest. That’s all.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
Prawn Vs Paneer
My cousin L, a nice, sweet Bong boy, eleven months younger than I am, is in love. With a ‘vegetarian’ girl, as I have been informed by my aunt, a nice, sweet and extremely Bong woman. She isn’t bothered by mundane facts about the girl’s complexion (wheatish, what else, jokes the cousin), her ‘caste’ or even her slightly tomboyish behaviour (Treks and bikes. Love her already!).
What my aunt is bothered about is that the girl doesn’t eat mangsho (meat) or maach (fish). ‘What am I to cook at home when she comes?’ she wailed into the phone last night, while my cousin chuckled behind.
I haven’t stopped laughing. In my case it was a non-vegetarian coming to live with a vegetarian family. It had some people from both sides in a state of convulsion. The veggies wondered if I would come home from shopping dangling live chickens over my shoulder (Ok. This is extreme. But some did make very rude comments) and the fleshies wondered if I would survive the green revolution or starve to death, and so on...
Shall never understand what drives people to such extreme reactions when it comes to the Veg Vs Non Veg issue. Well, I have survived (singalong!) pretty well, haven't I? So will the 'vegetarian' bikergirl. Now if only someone would pacify my aunt!
What my aunt is bothered about is that the girl doesn’t eat mangsho (meat) or maach (fish). ‘What am I to cook at home when she comes?’ she wailed into the phone last night, while my cousin chuckled behind.
I haven’t stopped laughing. In my case it was a non-vegetarian coming to live with a vegetarian family. It had some people from both sides in a state of convulsion. The veggies wondered if I would come home from shopping dangling live chickens over my shoulder (Ok. This is extreme. But some did make very rude comments) and the fleshies wondered if I would survive the green revolution or starve to death, and so on...
Shall never understand what drives people to such extreme reactions when it comes to the Veg Vs Non Veg issue. Well, I have survived (singalong!) pretty well, haven't I? So will the 'vegetarian' bikergirl. Now if only someone would pacify my aunt!
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
My friend M asked me the other day to explain the name of this blog — hornswoggle. Well, M, it’s because when I started it, I was going through a ‘romantic phase’ in books and reading Georgette Heyer. Her Dukes and Duchesses use a lot of strange words and hornswoggle is one of them. It basically means stupid, idiotic, nonsense, something to that effect at least.
These book phases happen to me occasionally. They start when I’m a little low, build up and then, go on for a month or two. This time, it’s been two months and I’m still stuck at romance. Been reading Georgette Heyer, Daphne Du Maurier and even Jane Austen. A Back To College phase. Completely. But I love it!
Forced to buy some of the books, even if I have read them earlier, as my own copy is either lost or in that old trunk at my parent’s place or I never had it in the first place.
Have no idea if others read like this but I go through phases in books.
My longest lasting phase has been books on travel or food or travel and food. It’s far from over. I’m only taking a romantic break. And there’s a mini-phase inside the travel one — travel and food in France! And then, there was the fun, footloose female phase (trendily called chic-lit) that started with Bridget Jones, hugely raised expectations and ended horribly with something called ‘Does My Butt Look Big In This?’ Yes. I bought that one. Once I go through a phase, I can’t be choosy, I HAVE to buy. I still go back to the chic-lit stuff willingly, only haven’t found anything exciting after ‘Nanny Diaries’, which is not only chic-lit but social commentary as well. There have been many other phases, including, thankfully, a very short-lived feminist one. Oh, and can also remember another short lived sci-fi one. Started and ended with Douglas Adams. The only one that never happened was Ayn Rand. Never had any intellectual pretensions :)
Wondering what the next one would be? Hmm...depends on the impulse of the moment really. Think I shall pick up the rest of the ‘Parlez Vous Franglais’ series and some more Calvin and Hobbes. Meanwhile, I'm very content Darcy for the 1500th time in Pride and Prejudice. Life goes on…
These book phases happen to me occasionally. They start when I’m a little low, build up and then, go on for a month or two. This time, it’s been two months and I’m still stuck at romance. Been reading Georgette Heyer, Daphne Du Maurier and even Jane Austen. A Back To College phase. Completely. But I love it!
Forced to buy some of the books, even if I have read them earlier, as my own copy is either lost or in that old trunk at my parent’s place or I never had it in the first place.
Have no idea if others read like this but I go through phases in books.
My longest lasting phase has been books on travel or food or travel and food. It’s far from over. I’m only taking a romantic break. And there’s a mini-phase inside the travel one — travel and food in France! And then, there was the fun, footloose female phase (trendily called chic-lit) that started with Bridget Jones, hugely raised expectations and ended horribly with something called ‘Does My Butt Look Big In This?’ Yes. I bought that one. Once I go through a phase, I can’t be choosy, I HAVE to buy. I still go back to the chic-lit stuff willingly, only haven’t found anything exciting after ‘Nanny Diaries’, which is not only chic-lit but social commentary as well. There have been many other phases, including, thankfully, a very short-lived feminist one. Oh, and can also remember another short lived sci-fi one. Started and ended with Douglas Adams. The only one that never happened was Ayn Rand. Never had any intellectual pretensions :)
Wondering what the next one would be? Hmm...depends on the impulse of the moment really. Think I shall pick up the rest of the ‘Parlez Vous Franglais’ series and some more Calvin and Hobbes. Meanwhile, I'm very content Darcy for the 1500th time in Pride and Prejudice. Life goes on…
Saturday, May 01, 2004
For no reason at all...Oslo, when it's raining
Wasn’t intending to blog at all but the rainy day has made me nostalgic about Oslo. The day I landed there for the first time was also our first wedding anniversary but all that was quite forgotten by the two of us in the excitement of going somewhere as far as Scandinavia!
The Weather Gods were against us right from the time of the short Frankfurt Oslo flight. The plane bobbed in the air, swung back and forth like a tennis ball and finally landed on Scandinavian soil. The closest call of my life! Post landing, I stuttered, pinching myself to see if I was still alive.
It rained on and off for the larger part of the 20 days that I spent there, though this was the beginning of summer (their summer that is). But I loved Oslo in the rains. The streets, trams, the statues, the parks to the bustling waterfront, Aker Brygge, would wear a windswept, drenched, damp look and while the Norwegians muttered and grumbled about bad weather, I strangely, loved it.
It was also very very windy and cold (by my standards) and I would wrap myself in a thick jacket, put on my sneakers and walk and walk and walk.
The previous monsoon had been in Bombay (which I also love in the rains, never mind wading through water at Elphinstone Station), where it can get a bit grimy, though as I write this I can see my all time fave monsoon scene — the waves breaking on to Marine Drive.
But walking through the rains in Oslo was another thing altogether. It was clean. The rain would come and go and I would sit in a VERY EXPENSIVE café (Ok. I'll stop romanticising. Could only afford McDonalds but it had a nice view of the waterfront) and spend a fortune on a small bite, watching a sudden squall break over the water and the clouds at a distance. The rain vanished suddenly in my last few days there but by then I was so used to it that it actually felt weird. As it did to see a bright sky very late at night. It wasn’t as bright when it rained, keeping my desi sense of time almost intact.
I’ve also seen Oslo at its sunniest best, when everyone takes their clothes off, but in my mind, that city is associated with rain. I can see it now, washing the café chairs on Karl Johan Gate, people rushing to cover everything up in their stalls at Youngstorget bazaar and the wind swelling up the sails of some of the boats anchored on Aker Brygge.
And if I imagine a bit, I can still feel that weather it on my face — cold, breezy, with the smell of sea salt and fresh air.
The Weather Gods were against us right from the time of the short Frankfurt Oslo flight. The plane bobbed in the air, swung back and forth like a tennis ball and finally landed on Scandinavian soil. The closest call of my life! Post landing, I stuttered, pinching myself to see if I was still alive.
It rained on and off for the larger part of the 20 days that I spent there, though this was the beginning of summer (their summer that is). But I loved Oslo in the rains. The streets, trams, the statues, the parks to the bustling waterfront, Aker Brygge, would wear a windswept, drenched, damp look and while the Norwegians muttered and grumbled about bad weather, I strangely, loved it.
It was also very very windy and cold (by my standards) and I would wrap myself in a thick jacket, put on my sneakers and walk and walk and walk.
The previous monsoon had been in Bombay (which I also love in the rains, never mind wading through water at Elphinstone Station), where it can get a bit grimy, though as I write this I can see my all time fave monsoon scene — the waves breaking on to Marine Drive.
But walking through the rains in Oslo was another thing altogether. It was clean. The rain would come and go and I would sit in a VERY EXPENSIVE café (Ok. I'll stop romanticising. Could only afford McDonalds but it had a nice view of the waterfront) and spend a fortune on a small bite, watching a sudden squall break over the water and the clouds at a distance. The rain vanished suddenly in my last few days there but by then I was so used to it that it actually felt weird. As it did to see a bright sky very late at night. It wasn’t as bright when it rained, keeping my desi sense of time almost intact.
I’ve also seen Oslo at its sunniest best, when everyone takes their clothes off, but in my mind, that city is associated with rain. I can see it now, washing the café chairs on Karl Johan Gate, people rushing to cover everything up in their stalls at Youngstorget bazaar and the wind swelling up the sails of some of the boats anchored on Aker Brygge.
And if I imagine a bit, I can still feel that weather it on my face — cold, breezy, with the smell of sea salt and fresh air.
Main Hoon Na. Filmi. Very Filmi
Nope. This ain’t a review. All I will say is that movie is worth a watch because you will laugh. A lot. Sometimes at Farah Khan, the director, for being silly and sometimes, at Farah Khan the director for being genuinely funny. I would like to remember the fun. Because look close and this movie had the potential to be a Bollywood buff’s delight if only the main plot wasn’t so ridiculous. Here’s the filmi part:
* Shah Rukh Khan is the product of Naseeruddin Shah’s affair with another woman. Naseer’s wife doesn’t like the kid and wants him to leave. Masoom, hmmm…
* The names. The brothers are called Ram Prasad Sharma and Laxman Prasad Sharma alias Lucky. Remember Amol Palekar in Golmaal?
* Shah Rukh goes to watch Sholay with the college kids, averts an attack and chases the killers in a cyclerickshaw, named, guess what…Dhanno!
* Everytime Shah Rukh spots Sushmita Sen, he breaks into a song. All those Rishi Kapoor type numbers from Nasir Husain films. Loved it!
* The Qawwali, it’s colourful, catchy and a vastly modified take on the ‘Hum Kisise Ka Nahin’ qawwalis of yesteryears.
* The heroine is drenched under the waterfall, and thank God, finally, so is the hero!
* Shah Rukh Khan’s army avatar keeps repeating ‘Koi Shaq?’ Maybe this wasn’t intended but I do remember him repeating that line in Fauji, the first time the man ever appeared before us.
And there must be lots more. This is all I can remember. Your additions, provided you are as hopelessly filmi as I am, are welcome. J
* Shah Rukh Khan is the product of Naseeruddin Shah’s affair with another woman. Naseer’s wife doesn’t like the kid and wants him to leave. Masoom, hmmm…
* The names. The brothers are called Ram Prasad Sharma and Laxman Prasad Sharma alias Lucky. Remember Amol Palekar in Golmaal?
* Shah Rukh goes to watch Sholay with the college kids, averts an attack and chases the killers in a cyclerickshaw, named, guess what…Dhanno!
* Everytime Shah Rukh spots Sushmita Sen, he breaks into a song. All those Rishi Kapoor type numbers from Nasir Husain films. Loved it!
* The Qawwali, it’s colourful, catchy and a vastly modified take on the ‘Hum Kisise Ka Nahin’ qawwalis of yesteryears.
* The heroine is drenched under the waterfall, and thank God, finally, so is the hero!
* Shah Rukh Khan’s army avatar keeps repeating ‘Koi Shaq?’ Maybe this wasn’t intended but I do remember him repeating that line in Fauji, the first time the man ever appeared before us.
And there must be lots more. This is all I can remember. Your additions, provided you are as hopelessly filmi as I am, are welcome. J
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Khan Market
Much as I hate the city, its people, the hot summer, the traffic, etc, there are certain things I love about Delhi. Like Khan Market. I’m there every week, once, twice, thrice…
It has my second favourite bookshop in the city, simply called The Bookshop (I know that everyone goes gaga over Bahrisons but I can’t ever find anything there!). The first favourite is called Fact & Fiction in Priya Cinema Complex, sadly out of the way now.
Back to Khan Market. When there, never miss a coffee at Café Turtle, the handpainted green and blue café perched above a bookstore called Full Circle. It even has a little terrace, which is a dream sit out on sunny winter afternoons. It’s fast becoming our regular ‘adda’ in the city, though it’s quite an expensive one. You get sinful iced creations for almost 100 bucks and divine camomile tea for Rs 55. Food there is another matter altogether. It’s vegetarian and pricey. But who goes there for food anyway?
Close on the heels of Turtle comes Big Chill, an Italian restaurant whose Hollywood movie posters are as famous as its food. Again expensive, with at least 20 mins waiting time (This ain’t an easy place to live, babe). Is the wait worth it? For the food, not anymore. For the desserts, anyday.
The other ‘when-in-Khan-Market-must-visit’ store is Empire. It’s a chicken, meat products and frozen foods shop. Once you take home stuff from Empire and eat, you are spoilt forever. No other chicken or mutton comes close to the taste.
The king of the backlanes is Khan Chacha, whose kebabs are mouthwatering though you need to be really hungry to stand in the gully, brave the sparks from his seekh and eat your heart out. He opens shop only after four and is there till nine. The kebabs are melt in mouth variety.
They also have hip clothes and shoe stores like Bizarre, Anokhi, Finesse etc, but few of us go to KM for clothes or even shoes. We go there to hang out and people watch. And boy, what people can you watch!
For starters, there are the ladies who lunch (and talk very loudly while they do so) in their solitaires and Chanel shades. Not to mention the Louis Vuitton bags. They step out of their huge cars and strut across the market with a proprietorial air. There’s a bewildered maid trailing behind sometimes, holding on to bags, bottles, half the apartment and what surprise…a sweet little kid!
Then there are the desi memsahabs for whom the sabjiwala keeps Australian apples. God help you (Am calling Shiva!Now!) if you ever come in her purposeful path. You’ll be cast aside like a hot potato as the shop guy hurries to service ‘medam,’ who only has to flick a finger, and her driver/Man Friday magically appears, to carry the load back to the car.
The other species that hangs around with that air of ownership are the stray dogs. You’ll find them curled up in their baskets or sleeping in front of certain shops and in winter you’ll find them cosying up in their bright red coats, bought with contributions from all the shopkeepers.
But the species that has really taken over the place are the firangs. Pardon the expression, not being racist and all that but wherever you turn, there is a white face staring back. Makes you realise that Delhi has an expat population that’s HUGER than you had ever thought. Come summer and they can all be found on the Turtle terrace, sunning themselves fearlessly. Heatstrokes be damned!
You spot the foreign students, the tourist, the professor type and the usual ambassador/highcomissioner’s wife, who doesn’t have to take care of her kitchen but shops for salad ingredients like leeks and apricots. The shopkeeper scurries towards her, even if she isn’t quite the demanding one. She sweetly smiles, ignores the fuss and walks on, dropping a little hello to ex-model and socialite Feroze Gujral, out on an afternoon stroll in Roberto Cavalli pants. Interesting place, haan?
It has my second favourite bookshop in the city, simply called The Bookshop (I know that everyone goes gaga over Bahrisons but I can’t ever find anything there!). The first favourite is called Fact & Fiction in Priya Cinema Complex, sadly out of the way now.
Back to Khan Market. When there, never miss a coffee at Café Turtle, the handpainted green and blue café perched above a bookstore called Full Circle. It even has a little terrace, which is a dream sit out on sunny winter afternoons. It’s fast becoming our regular ‘adda’ in the city, though it’s quite an expensive one. You get sinful iced creations for almost 100 bucks and divine camomile tea for Rs 55. Food there is another matter altogether. It’s vegetarian and pricey. But who goes there for food anyway?
Close on the heels of Turtle comes Big Chill, an Italian restaurant whose Hollywood movie posters are as famous as its food. Again expensive, with at least 20 mins waiting time (This ain’t an easy place to live, babe). Is the wait worth it? For the food, not anymore. For the desserts, anyday.
The other ‘when-in-Khan-Market-must-visit’ store is Empire. It’s a chicken, meat products and frozen foods shop. Once you take home stuff from Empire and eat, you are spoilt forever. No other chicken or mutton comes close to the taste.
The king of the backlanes is Khan Chacha, whose kebabs are mouthwatering though you need to be really hungry to stand in the gully, brave the sparks from his seekh and eat your heart out. He opens shop only after four and is there till nine. The kebabs are melt in mouth variety.
They also have hip clothes and shoe stores like Bizarre, Anokhi, Finesse etc, but few of us go to KM for clothes or even shoes. We go there to hang out and people watch. And boy, what people can you watch!
For starters, there are the ladies who lunch (and talk very loudly while they do so) in their solitaires and Chanel shades. Not to mention the Louis Vuitton bags. They step out of their huge cars and strut across the market with a proprietorial air. There’s a bewildered maid trailing behind sometimes, holding on to bags, bottles, half the apartment and what surprise…a sweet little kid!
Then there are the desi memsahabs for whom the sabjiwala keeps Australian apples. God help you (Am calling Shiva!Now!) if you ever come in her purposeful path. You’ll be cast aside like a hot potato as the shop guy hurries to service ‘medam,’ who only has to flick a finger, and her driver/Man Friday magically appears, to carry the load back to the car.
The other species that hangs around with that air of ownership are the stray dogs. You’ll find them curled up in their baskets or sleeping in front of certain shops and in winter you’ll find them cosying up in their bright red coats, bought with contributions from all the shopkeepers.
But the species that has really taken over the place are the firangs. Pardon the expression, not being racist and all that but wherever you turn, there is a white face staring back. Makes you realise that Delhi has an expat population that’s HUGER than you had ever thought. Come summer and they can all be found on the Turtle terrace, sunning themselves fearlessly. Heatstrokes be damned!
You spot the foreign students, the tourist, the professor type and the usual ambassador/highcomissioner’s wife, who doesn’t have to take care of her kitchen but shops for salad ingredients like leeks and apricots. The shopkeeper scurries towards her, even if she isn’t quite the demanding one. She sweetly smiles, ignores the fuss and walks on, dropping a little hello to ex-model and socialite Feroze Gujral, out on an afternoon stroll in Roberto Cavalli pants. Interesting place, haan?
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
What I do when I am vella...
I make lists. So here's a list of things I want to do RIGHT NOW:
* Go home.
* Stop working (That I have followed)
* Sit on my balcony and listen to Mark Knoffler
* Buy a dozen books
* Be in Goa
* Eat mom's sponge cake with choco syrup
* Get a sexy haircut
* Chat online on messenger
* Read blogs I can't open
* Watch old Hollywood classics
* Buy clothes
* Meet mom and dad
* Be at the airport, ready to take off
* Get a pedicure
* Go to Bombay. Forever.
* Go home.
* Stop working (That I have followed)
* Sit on my balcony and listen to Mark Knoffler
* Buy a dozen books
* Be in Goa
* Eat mom's sponge cake with choco syrup
* Get a sexy haircut
* Chat online on messenger
* Read blogs I can't open
* Watch old Hollywood classics
* Buy clothes
* Meet mom and dad
* Be at the airport, ready to take off
* Get a pedicure
* Go to Bombay. Forever.
One Size Bigger
I’ve been thin all my life. Stick-insect, that’s what Bridget Jones would call me, even though I don’t have the figure to show for it. All my life, I have been responsible for increasing sales at the children’s section of most stores, and the person behind the nasty comments about the useless women’s section in the comment book.
And all my life, I have felt left out of girlie conversations when it came to weight watch. While other girls talked about reducing their hips and buying jeans one size larger or celebrated when certain body parts went a size smaller, I sulked and sat silently, having nothing to add to the conversation. Among other things, I haven’t progressed beyond a certain waist size, the last many, many years. More than being boring, it has meant fewer excuses to go shopping.
The Girth Goddess seems to have finally looked up.
Some Sundays ago, a friend and me trotted off to buy some clothes in a Gurgaon mall. I spotted a pair of black trousers (ultimate weakness) and confidently trudged off to the changing room with MY size. Imagine my alarm, when it refused to move up my hips, no matter how much I tugged. Must have hogged too much at lunch, I thought, and gave up.
I went back the other day to the same shop, to try on the same pair of black trousers, in the same size (and didn't have a heavy lunch)…and finally had the all-important, must-have female experience. The trousers refused to budge beyond a certain point.
IT HAD HAPPENED FINALLY!
The waist had wavered! It had moved beyond the S/XS size and gone straight to M. I had a moment of natural female consternation. Yikes! I had put on weight! I’m fat! Must stop eating! Must join the gym, etc etc.
But at the bottom of it all, I was overjoyed. My excuse was here at last. I rushed out of the changing room and demanded gleefully that I needed a size larger. There was a perfect figured stick insect standing bang opposite who eyed me with horror but I was beyond care. This was an occasion to celebrate. With perhaps the entire lot of medium sized trousers!
And all my life, I have felt left out of girlie conversations when it came to weight watch. While other girls talked about reducing their hips and buying jeans one size larger or celebrated when certain body parts went a size smaller, I sulked and sat silently, having nothing to add to the conversation. Among other things, I haven’t progressed beyond a certain waist size, the last many, many years. More than being boring, it has meant fewer excuses to go shopping.
The Girth Goddess seems to have finally looked up.
Some Sundays ago, a friend and me trotted off to buy some clothes in a Gurgaon mall. I spotted a pair of black trousers (ultimate weakness) and confidently trudged off to the changing room with MY size. Imagine my alarm, when it refused to move up my hips, no matter how much I tugged. Must have hogged too much at lunch, I thought, and gave up.
I went back the other day to the same shop, to try on the same pair of black trousers, in the same size (and didn't have a heavy lunch)…and finally had the all-important, must-have female experience. The trousers refused to budge beyond a certain point.
IT HAD HAPPENED FINALLY!
The waist had wavered! It had moved beyond the S/XS size and gone straight to M. I had a moment of natural female consternation. Yikes! I had put on weight! I’m fat! Must stop eating! Must join the gym, etc etc.
But at the bottom of it all, I was overjoyed. My excuse was here at last. I rushed out of the changing room and demanded gleefully that I needed a size larger. There was a perfect figured stick insect standing bang opposite who eyed me with horror but I was beyond care. This was an occasion to celebrate. With perhaps the entire lot of medium sized trousers!
Monday, April 26, 2004
Strangest Sunday Ever
Was determined to have a very relaxed Sunday by not moving out of the house or cooking or getting worked up about the dust (tough one, that) or fighting with P. Bathed, ensured fridge had things to munch when hungry and plonked myself on the bed to read. Had two new books to start with plus another half-read one. Fixed a hot chocolate and a plate of fabulous cookies and homemade cakes, sent over a friend of mom-in-law’s. In other words, was ready to enter the world of sloth and sluggishness when…tantarrrra……..the doorbell rang.
A man from Mother’s Diary stood there with his card. The purpose? Can deliver milk packets to my house every, he had come to tell me that. Fantastic! Couldn’t he have slipped the card under the door instead of making me get up? Well, obviously not. What if memsaab wasn’t able to understand, even if the card said free home delivery! I thanked him for his wisdom, plonked back and began chapter one. Georgette Heyer seemed perfect for the day, having heard a lot from Anita about ‘These Old Shades’, the one I was about to start.
Things were going fine. The hot choc was fabulous, the cookies were getting over and the Duke was being super nice to his page Léon, leaving no cause for doubt that this boy actually was a girl (If you don’t understand this bit, never mind). Even P was in best behaviour and left the house almost as soon as he stirred, to play squash, have lunch with people and so on.
I fixed another hot choc, snuggled in more on the bed and waited for Leon to become Leonie and the Duke to fall in love. And then, ha ha, the doorbell rang. Two little girls had come to collect money for their annual school fair. I parted with the money and silently abused the school. A fair in this hot summer? Were they mad or what!
From then on, the doorbell never gave up. It seemed to attract anybody passing by with ‘Hey! Here I am! Gimme a go! Now!’
There was the neighbour’s son (borrow Calvin and Hobbes), the plumber (why do they turn up only when you don’t want them?), the cablewala (some reason), the watchman with the maintenance bill (shock and awe), new neighbour and wife, coming to enquire if our driver knew another reliable one, lady from building inviting me to join her kitty party group (Very hard to shake off). By the end of it, I had packed up the books, given up on the bed and gone back to the living room. Why read when you can play such an exciting game as ‘answer the door’?
Have no idea if the Duke fell in love!
A man from Mother’s Diary stood there with his card. The purpose? Can deliver milk packets to my house every, he had come to tell me that. Fantastic! Couldn’t he have slipped the card under the door instead of making me get up? Well, obviously not. What if memsaab wasn’t able to understand, even if the card said free home delivery! I thanked him for his wisdom, plonked back and began chapter one. Georgette Heyer seemed perfect for the day, having heard a lot from Anita about ‘These Old Shades’, the one I was about to start.
Things were going fine. The hot choc was fabulous, the cookies were getting over and the Duke was being super nice to his page Léon, leaving no cause for doubt that this boy actually was a girl (If you don’t understand this bit, never mind). Even P was in best behaviour and left the house almost as soon as he stirred, to play squash, have lunch with people and so on.
I fixed another hot choc, snuggled in more on the bed and waited for Leon to become Leonie and the Duke to fall in love. And then, ha ha, the doorbell rang. Two little girls had come to collect money for their annual school fair. I parted with the money and silently abused the school. A fair in this hot summer? Were they mad or what!
From then on, the doorbell never gave up. It seemed to attract anybody passing by with ‘Hey! Here I am! Gimme a go! Now!’
There was the neighbour’s son (borrow Calvin and Hobbes), the plumber (why do they turn up only when you don’t want them?), the cablewala (some reason), the watchman with the maintenance bill (shock and awe), new neighbour and wife, coming to enquire if our driver knew another reliable one, lady from building inviting me to join her kitty party group (Very hard to shake off). By the end of it, I had packed up the books, given up on the bed and gone back to the living room. Why read when you can play such an exciting game as ‘answer the door’?
Have no idea if the Duke fell in love!
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
I used to be a journalist once. Now I work in a women’s mag
If you think the above statement makes me bitter, hah! The truth is far from it. Ever since I started working for a women’s mag, I’ve got loads of interesting responses from people. Here are some of the best:
Building airhead: OOOOOOOOH!!! So you know all about beauty and fashion!
Very Important Business Journalist: So you guys actually have an office? Do you guys have much work? (Nope. I go there to get my hair done. Yessir, Actual answer.)
My Mother: At last, you’re working in a place I understand (I worked in two/three websites before this. That explains it.)
My Brother: Why the f@#$ do you have to work there of all the places? (OK. Rolling Stones, here I come!)
PR: But you don’t cover fashion? Oh…all of you don’t? Oh…I thought all of you did!
Old uncle: So you know all the secrets of wimmenn, eh?
My journo teacher: Well, you worked in a newspaper once…(The rest is left unsaid, in Sword of Damocles fashion)
Close Friend (Guy): You have the numbers of all these models, then…?
Close Friend (Girl): What I want to know is, do you get any discounts on the products you shoot?
Women’s Development NGO: You’re doing a story on violence against women? Really? Why would you people be interested? What’s your name….blah blah.
Me: I’m still getting my hair done.
Building airhead: OOOOOOOOH!!! So you know all about beauty and fashion!
Very Important Business Journalist: So you guys actually have an office? Do you guys have much work? (Nope. I go there to get my hair done. Yessir, Actual answer.)
My Mother: At last, you’re working in a place I understand (I worked in two/three websites before this. That explains it.)
My Brother: Why the f@#$ do you have to work there of all the places? (OK. Rolling Stones, here I come!)
PR: But you don’t cover fashion? Oh…all of you don’t? Oh…I thought all of you did!
Old uncle: So you know all the secrets of wimmenn, eh?
My journo teacher: Well, you worked in a newspaper once…(The rest is left unsaid, in Sword of Damocles fashion)
Close Friend (Guy): You have the numbers of all these models, then…?
Close Friend (Girl): What I want to know is, do you get any discounts on the products you shoot?
Women’s Development NGO: You’re doing a story on violence against women? Really? Why would you people be interested? What’s your name….blah blah.
Me: I’m still getting my hair done.
If...
(The song's been in my head since yesterday, so I thought I would get it out. Been listening to this for years but it still gets those goosepimples going. The perfect laidback evening, close pals, crates of beer and mind-in-a-haze song.)
If I were a swan, I'd be gone...
If I were a train, I'd be late
And if I were a good man...
I'd talk with you more often than I do
If I were to sleep, I could dream...
If I were afraid, I could hide
If I go insane, please don't put your wires in my brain
If I were the moon, I'd be cool...
If I were a book, I would bend
If I were a good man, I'd understand the spaces between friends
If I were alone, I would cry...
And if I were with you, I'd be home and dry
And if I go insane will you still let me join in the game?
If I were a swan, I'd be gone
If I were a train, I'd be late again..
If I were a good man, I'd talk with you more often than I do
If I were a swan, I'd be gone...
If I were a train, I'd be late
And if I were a good man...
I'd talk with you more often than I do
If I were to sleep, I could dream...
If I were afraid, I could hide
If I go insane, please don't put your wires in my brain
If I were the moon, I'd be cool...
If I were a book, I would bend
If I were a good man, I'd understand the spaces between friends
If I were alone, I would cry...
And if I were with you, I'd be home and dry
And if I go insane will you still let me join in the game?
If I were a swan, I'd be gone
If I were a train, I'd be late again..
If I were a good man, I'd talk with you more often than I do
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
Designer Births
At the rate things are turning into boutiques, I'm scared soon I'll have no money to spend anywhere, even the local bania store.
Just now, a PR girl called to inform me about the latest 'Birthing Boutique' in town, in a 'I'm about to give you the scoop of the century' voice. I gulped as she went on about baby pink walls, a cafe and a mom & baby bonding rooms. Had visions of heavily pregnant mothers wearing four inch heels and led screaming to the delivery room in Gucci and Dior type clothes.
Soft PR voice went on to coo about the piped music, satin sheets (not exactly that but something similar), gourmet meals and designer cots. 'They do have doctors around...?,' I ventured. 'Of course!' she switched to a voice that was now talking about incidental, unpleasant stuff, 'It is, after all, a hospital!'
There it was! A hospital! Why didn't they tell me before!
Now, I'm all for bright, cheery looking hospitals that make you feel comfortable from the moment you step in. Even if they cost a bomb. And if the doctor is a George Clooney lookalike, well....(allow me a moment to drool).
To get back to the 'Birthing Boutique.' I was a little bothered by the name at first. Then I thought, at the rate the world is going designer, it's wonderful to have a mall cum spa with a hospital attached, where you can shop, have a massage and come back home with a baby! Why not?
Just now, a PR girl called to inform me about the latest 'Birthing Boutique' in town, in a 'I'm about to give you the scoop of the century' voice. I gulped as she went on about baby pink walls, a cafe and a mom & baby bonding rooms. Had visions of heavily pregnant mothers wearing four inch heels and led screaming to the delivery room in Gucci and Dior type clothes.
Soft PR voice went on to coo about the piped music, satin sheets (not exactly that but something similar), gourmet meals and designer cots. 'They do have doctors around...?,' I ventured. 'Of course!' she switched to a voice that was now talking about incidental, unpleasant stuff, 'It is, after all, a hospital!'
There it was! A hospital! Why didn't they tell me before!
Now, I'm all for bright, cheery looking hospitals that make you feel comfortable from the moment you step in. Even if they cost a bomb. And if the doctor is a George Clooney lookalike, well....(allow me a moment to drool).
To get back to the 'Birthing Boutique.' I was a little bothered by the name at first. Then I thought, at the rate the world is going designer, it's wonderful to have a mall cum spa with a hospital attached, where you can shop, have a massage and come back home with a baby! Why not?
Thursday, April 15, 2004
MAN WHO COOKS DOESN'T CLEAN UP
There’s something sexy about a guy who knows his way around the kitchen. And I mean a guy who knows his way around garlic and onion, pots and pans, strainers and knife-holders, the list can go on…
This is the kind of guy who switches on some great music, lights a cigarette, places the ashtray at the edge of the kitchen platform, doesn’t bother wearing an apron and chops onions faster than even TV chefs can!
It may be grimy in there but this guy isn’t in the least bit bothered as he goes about blanching, tossing, sautéing, crisping and frying. He’s focused with the assurance of someone who knows the end result is delicious.
All this while you sit at the dining table, comfortably flipping through the pages of Cosmopolitan, watching him get delicious and dirty and try not to think what comes next…
Achtung Baby!
Keep aside those salacious thoughts. What comes next is a clean-up job. Chances are that you’re the Kitchen God’s Wife. Or the Live-in maid. Your job is to undo what he has done. In other words, splotched tomato puree on your tiles, sent little green peas flying everywhere and in that heart-stopping demo of omelette tossing, fed some eggie bits to the burner. There’s also some mashed potato stuck to the sink but you’ll deal with that later.
The Kitchen God, of course, is oblivious to all this. He can only see the gourmet meal he's fixed, bottles of wine and a thank-you smile on your face.
You can see mops, tissues and wipes.
For the moment, you’re silently regretting the day you first cooed at the Kitchen God’s cappuccino and slobbered over his seekh kababs. Your romance has taken a new direction since that fateful day. He has become the God of the Good Bite. You have turned into a human mop that follows him around.
This is the kind of guy who switches on some great music, lights a cigarette, places the ashtray at the edge of the kitchen platform, doesn’t bother wearing an apron and chops onions faster than even TV chefs can!
It may be grimy in there but this guy isn’t in the least bit bothered as he goes about blanching, tossing, sautéing, crisping and frying. He’s focused with the assurance of someone who knows the end result is delicious.
All this while you sit at the dining table, comfortably flipping through the pages of Cosmopolitan, watching him get delicious and dirty and try not to think what comes next…
Achtung Baby!
Keep aside those salacious thoughts. What comes next is a clean-up job. Chances are that you’re the Kitchen God’s Wife. Or the Live-in maid. Your job is to undo what he has done. In other words, splotched tomato puree on your tiles, sent little green peas flying everywhere and in that heart-stopping demo of omelette tossing, fed some eggie bits to the burner. There’s also some mashed potato stuck to the sink but you’ll deal with that later.
The Kitchen God, of course, is oblivious to all this. He can only see the gourmet meal he's fixed, bottles of wine and a thank-you smile on your face.
You can see mops, tissues and wipes.
For the moment, you’re silently regretting the day you first cooed at the Kitchen God’s cappuccino and slobbered over his seekh kababs. Your romance has taken a new direction since that fateful day. He has become the God of the Good Bite. You have turned into a human mop that follows him around.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Read Alert!
I love reading. Will read anything under the sun at any given point. Bedtime, breakfast table, potty, train, bus, autos, flights, restaurants, coffee shops, bookshops, the doctors, movie theatre, five-star lounge, interstate bus stop…you name the place and I have pored over the book there. Apart from being my favourite hobby, a book is my guardian angel when I wan’t to avoid or escape or forget an undesirable situation.
Take for instance, bad movies. In Bombay, we were a huuuuge group of friends and sometimes when the bonding reached great heights all of us went to a movie together, whether you wanted to watch that particular film or not.
But I had my way out! When the film happened to be intolerable (Jackie Chan, Govinda, horror film, highly intellectual type movie, etc) all I did to survive death by boredom was to sit outside in the lobby with a book and pretend it had to return to the library the very next day and I had to finish it, or else…
Some may call it insecurity or impatience but if I have to wait anywhere even for a minute, I need something to read on my lap. It works wonders. Nobody bothers you with silly questions like what’s the time, are you waiting for the dentist, where’s the loo, do you have two legs, etc, because you never look up! You’re also spared the forced ‘polite conversation’ that invariably happens when three or more people are waiting in a confined space with nothing much to do. They probably think I’m the rude, anti-social type. Suits me fine.
At home, books have always been my road to salvation. If P and I have had a fight, I promptly open the most romantic or hilarious stuff I can find and dig deep. This has two advantages. I forget fight has happened and that he is a male who won’t analyse our relationship to the minutest detail that it deserves. A good read also keeps me silent. Thus ensuring peace and happiness all around!
Books are my knight in a jacket when I’m travelling — by air or road. Since I’m God’s chosen one to sit next to the strangest people on earth, books come handy in more ways than one. On a flight for instance, I forget that I’m suspended mid-air. And I can avoid conversation. I don’t know what is it with me, but ninety percent of the times, the person next to me is a lady who wants to know every detail of my life, a man who creepily asks if I’m going (?) for business or pleasure or someone who hasn’t bathed in three months.
I once sat next to a teenager on a Bombay-Goa flight who wanted to speak about her love for Aamir Khan non-stop. At such times, a book is the best protection. The fatter the better. Look serious, turn the pages and ignore. When airhostess approaches, distractedly pick up with orange juice/water giving impression that you are lost to the outside world.
Golden rule: Don’t chuckle to yourself, however funny the book is. It elicits questions like, ‘Aap kyun has rahi hai?’ to even ‘Everything alright, you not crying are you?’
Heartless, am I? Thing is, I have no desire to form strong attachments in four hours flat. Unless of course it’s a super-hot man. No one like that has ever sat next to me. Never!
Take for instance, bad movies. In Bombay, we were a huuuuge group of friends and sometimes when the bonding reached great heights all of us went to a movie together, whether you wanted to watch that particular film or not.
But I had my way out! When the film happened to be intolerable (Jackie Chan, Govinda, horror film, highly intellectual type movie, etc) all I did to survive death by boredom was to sit outside in the lobby with a book and pretend it had to return to the library the very next day and I had to finish it, or else…
Some may call it insecurity or impatience but if I have to wait anywhere even for a minute, I need something to read on my lap. It works wonders. Nobody bothers you with silly questions like what’s the time, are you waiting for the dentist, where’s the loo, do you have two legs, etc, because you never look up! You’re also spared the forced ‘polite conversation’ that invariably happens when three or more people are waiting in a confined space with nothing much to do. They probably think I’m the rude, anti-social type. Suits me fine.
At home, books have always been my road to salvation. If P and I have had a fight, I promptly open the most romantic or hilarious stuff I can find and dig deep. This has two advantages. I forget fight has happened and that he is a male who won’t analyse our relationship to the minutest detail that it deserves. A good read also keeps me silent. Thus ensuring peace and happiness all around!
Books are my knight in a jacket when I’m travelling — by air or road. Since I’m God’s chosen one to sit next to the strangest people on earth, books come handy in more ways than one. On a flight for instance, I forget that I’m suspended mid-air. And I can avoid conversation. I don’t know what is it with me, but ninety percent of the times, the person next to me is a lady who wants to know every detail of my life, a man who creepily asks if I’m going (?) for business or pleasure or someone who hasn’t bathed in three months.
I once sat next to a teenager on a Bombay-Goa flight who wanted to speak about her love for Aamir Khan non-stop. At such times, a book is the best protection. The fatter the better. Look serious, turn the pages and ignore. When airhostess approaches, distractedly pick up with orange juice/water giving impression that you are lost to the outside world.
Golden rule: Don’t chuckle to yourself, however funny the book is. It elicits questions like, ‘Aap kyun has rahi hai?’ to even ‘Everything alright, you not crying are you?’
Heartless, am I? Thing is, I have no desire to form strong attachments in four hours flat. Unless of course it’s a super-hot man. No one like that has ever sat next to me. Never!
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Beautiful Girl
Why do they become beauty queens, I wonder, as I watch her, tired, trying to catch up on a quick nap in a room full of a dozen people. The simplest answer would be the glamour, fame and money that follow especially when you inevitably land Bollywood. But hey, what about the gruelling life that comes attached?
Standard beauty queen shift post contest-win includes: Shoots, shoots and more shoots, with appearances at events thrown in. You are under contract with the company that organised the contest, so you can’t even squeak when called to work — whether it’s your mother’s birthday or an upset stomach or lack of sleep.
For that extra cherry on top, the shoots are back to back, usually from the crack of dawn till late evening. She needs to look good (and feel good, coz no matter how much make-up you have on, if you’re feeling like shit, it shows). One shoot is followed by the other, as the company has many magazines and papers where they would like your mug plastered, now that they have you under their thumb for a year.
But she can’t complain. After all, she volunteered for this. She mentioned in her first interview after being ‘crowned’ how it was always her dream to win, how she would pirouette in front of the mirror for hours as a nine-year-old, and so on…
At the hotel where she is shooting, the PR girl comes up to congratulate with a beautiful bouquet and asks how she is doing. Great! On top of the world! She replies with that eye-sparkling smile which by now comes to her with unpractised ease. Only it feels far from great. “All I want right now is home food and my own bed,” she whispers to the fellow winner, who’s having her hair murdered for the fantasy shot next.
Home, the place she left three years back for ‘further studies’ that turned into modelling stints, suddenly seems very far away. She thinks of her kid sister, screaming with excitement into the phone, after she won the contest. The wardrobe they shared back at home would total what she was going to wear for this one single shot — Gown: Rs 40,000 plus, shoes: Rs 2,500 plus, bag: Rs 5,000.
She thinks of getting her sister down to shop with the complimentary gift vouchers from the hi-fashion stores, given to her after the win. But where’s the time? Her sister would have to bunk college and she would have no time, shuttling between fittings with designers, shoots and preparations for the international contest less than a month away. But she is missing home, more than she ever did in the last three years.
How would it feel to run away from all this? To chuck her no-carbs diet and gorge on some rice and prawns? How would it feel to not wear make-up for a day, sit with oil in her hair and not smile? How would it feel to wake up late and not have bronzers and creams slathered all over her five times a day? How would it feel not to act like the diva she is not all the while? She is surprised by her state of confusion. Wasn’t this what she had worked towards? How could she let a slight hectic schedule upset all that?
It’s time to wake up. There’s a reporter from one of the papers. Time to remember her lines and that sparkling smile.
Standard beauty queen shift post contest-win includes: Shoots, shoots and more shoots, with appearances at events thrown in. You are under contract with the company that organised the contest, so you can’t even squeak when called to work — whether it’s your mother’s birthday or an upset stomach or lack of sleep.
For that extra cherry on top, the shoots are back to back, usually from the crack of dawn till late evening. She needs to look good (and feel good, coz no matter how much make-up you have on, if you’re feeling like shit, it shows). One shoot is followed by the other, as the company has many magazines and papers where they would like your mug plastered, now that they have you under their thumb for a year.
But she can’t complain. After all, she volunteered for this. She mentioned in her first interview after being ‘crowned’ how it was always her dream to win, how she would pirouette in front of the mirror for hours as a nine-year-old, and so on…
At the hotel where she is shooting, the PR girl comes up to congratulate with a beautiful bouquet and asks how she is doing. Great! On top of the world! She replies with that eye-sparkling smile which by now comes to her with unpractised ease. Only it feels far from great. “All I want right now is home food and my own bed,” she whispers to the fellow winner, who’s having her hair murdered for the fantasy shot next.
Home, the place she left three years back for ‘further studies’ that turned into modelling stints, suddenly seems very far away. She thinks of her kid sister, screaming with excitement into the phone, after she won the contest. The wardrobe they shared back at home would total what she was going to wear for this one single shot — Gown: Rs 40,000 plus, shoes: Rs 2,500 plus, bag: Rs 5,000.
She thinks of getting her sister down to shop with the complimentary gift vouchers from the hi-fashion stores, given to her after the win. But where’s the time? Her sister would have to bunk college and she would have no time, shuttling between fittings with designers, shoots and preparations for the international contest less than a month away. But she is missing home, more than she ever did in the last three years.
How would it feel to run away from all this? To chuck her no-carbs diet and gorge on some rice and prawns? How would it feel to not wear make-up for a day, sit with oil in her hair and not smile? How would it feel to wake up late and not have bronzers and creams slathered all over her five times a day? How would it feel not to act like the diva she is not all the while? She is surprised by her state of confusion. Wasn’t this what she had worked towards? How could she let a slight hectic schedule upset all that?
It’s time to wake up. There’s a reporter from one of the papers. Time to remember her lines and that sparkling smile.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)