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

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

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

And feel like a total fraud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sadly, I couldn’t. I’m that old.

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

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

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

Thank you people. :)

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

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

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

So long and thanks for all the shit.

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

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

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

HAPPINESS!!!!!

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

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

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

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

Not Idle anymore

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

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

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

And here's the reason.

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

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

No doubts about who I'm smsing for!

Thinking of:

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

Valentine Boys

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

Reading Vogue In a DTC Bus...

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

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

Still wondering about...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My rock star karma surely is bad.

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

Black

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

Saturday!

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

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

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

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

WHY DON'T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?

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

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

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

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

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

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

tsunamihelp.blogspot.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

But why blame just Delhi?

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

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

such is life...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How To Be A Corporat's Wife

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The times they are a changin'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can't wait.

Bride Shide Hai Rabba!

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

Random...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wonder what makes it so difficult…

Saturday Night Live!

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

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

On my mind...

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

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

Bliss!

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

stray thoughts...

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

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

Wondering...

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

Why isn't JK Rowling writing any faster?

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

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

Why is 15th August on a Sunday?

What it takes to write a book?

Why don't I work for Lonely Planet?

Whether I should buy chicken or prawn today?

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

Why are teenagers the way they are...

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

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

Toy Boy

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

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

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

Amazing how one mail can change your day.

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

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

Telepathy? That's what friends are for?

Book That Flight

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

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

Pune

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

Where Shall We Go This August?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

End result of emotional blackmail