It's Better In Goa

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

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

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

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

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

Unrelated Updates

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

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

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



















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

Names Builders Play

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

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

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

The Great Rejection

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

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

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

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

Recent Job Offers

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

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

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

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

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

9.30 pm

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

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

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

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

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

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

Babymaking Basics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family Feasts

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

Govinda Govinda!

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

Travel on my mind

Pangong Tso, Ladakh.

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

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

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

My friends are taking off.

The brother is trekking somewhere in the Himachal.

My friend M is trekking somewhere in Coorg.

Subs is out there in Africa.

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

Inky will be off to my favourite faraway land soon.

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

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

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

Tee Vee Ki Bimari

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choking

Here's why

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No. I’m a Bengali.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wishful Thinking

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

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

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

Inside Hogwarts

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

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

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

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

Go back to work then, all you lovely people.

Ciao!

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

Arranged Adventures

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now who shall I pass this on to:

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

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

*wicked laugh*

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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