Things I want to say in idiotic self-appraisal forms but can’t…
Describe your three major achievements in the last one year:
*Discovered blogs and made friends
*Extensively surfed the net (when your goddamned server allowed it) and found interesting details about travelling in Corsica, jobs in BBC (am overqualified, of course) etc
*Explored and identified restaurants around the workplace
Identify your major strengths
*Ability to survive in claustrophobic environment without air-conditioning for long hours
*High endurance level for salt less, bland canteen food (Strengthens the soul)
*Ability to survive without the Internet or office mail for ONE WHOLE DAY!
*Ability to work efficiently on 300-year-old computer with non-working speakers (Can you even imagine the agony when I get a forward with sound?)
Identify areas where guidance is required
*How to blog and work simultaneously without getting distracted from either
*How to browbeat canteen guy into making edible stuff
*Technical guidance on uploading new comment box, links, etc on the blog
Career ambitions
*Naturally, being the top boss. Do you even need to ask?
Would you prefer a job rotation? If yes, where?
*Yes. We can start with the cooler climes in Himachal (put me up at the Wildflower Hall), move up to Leh, wind down to Goa and zip off to Hong Kong, Venice, Barcelona, Reykjavik, Sun City, London, New York…(You said rotation, remember?)
Suggestions
Many. First, get one of those zany coffee machines they have in MNCs these days. The ones with everything from café au lait to espresso shots. And get clean mugs to match.
* While you are at it, also get a new café, with comfy, loungable sofas. Stock café with everything workplace hunger-pangs can dream of.
* Sanction a spa cum salon. We need to look presentable. Give the loo a makeover. Keep scented towels, little bottles of lotions and perfumes in a basket, etc. Also invest in a full-length mirror.
* Increase my salary eightfold. Remember I’ll be your boss soon.
Monday, May 17, 2004
Thursday, May 13, 2004
Born To Write
In my next life I want to be born as a freelance writer with supernatural confidence. Every second day our office gets a call from some freelance person or the other. The regularity has convinced us that when it comes to freelance writing, age and sex are no bar. All you need is HUGE faith in your writing abilities and choice of topic.
From 65 plus retired bureaucrat (RB) to teenage schoolgirl, they have all called. The RB, after giving a backgrounder on his illustrious career, said he wanted to write on the plight of women in India.
‘Anything specific Sir? We respectfully asked.
RB went through the roof
‘Why do you want specifics…in a country where women are still burnt for dowry, raped every second day…it is a sorry plight…If your mag doesn’t publish…standards going down the drain…Boom Booom BOOM BOOM BOOM’
I can still imagine him in front of his computer. Banging the phone on us, running his eye through a 3,000 word article (with no spell check) and wondering...hmm…now who do I send this brilliant piece of work to? Hindustan Times?
The teenage girl was far more difficult to handle. Not only was she young and vulnerable, she had a mother.
‘Sorry but we don’t publish poems,’ we informed the girl.
Mommy, who was obviously snooping in, cut in from the extension line: Oh! But you used to!
Not any more, I said. My biggest mistake. Mommy launched into a long spiel on her daughter’s creative mind, her numerous trophies (didn’t know they gave them out for poems. Ph, are you listening?), her scholastic achievements and the publications that had made her a star (Bright Youngster's Club, Pitampura). We were clearly nipping the bud, crushing the young spirit, destroying talent, etc.
Just now, the call came from a woman of uncertain age. ‘I am wanting to write,’ she said.
Goodie gumdrops! Please do so, I wanted to say but gave her the spiel about sending her CV to the ed, with sample work, etc. Also corrected her that ed was a ‘she’, not a ‘he’. Then I asked her what she wrote about. ‘Recipes. I will send them to him.’ Came the confidant reply.
Like I said. In my next life…
From 65 plus retired bureaucrat (RB) to teenage schoolgirl, they have all called. The RB, after giving a backgrounder on his illustrious career, said he wanted to write on the plight of women in India.
‘Anything specific Sir? We respectfully asked.
RB went through the roof
‘Why do you want specifics…in a country where women are still burnt for dowry, raped every second day…it is a sorry plight…If your mag doesn’t publish…standards going down the drain…Boom Booom BOOM BOOM BOOM’
I can still imagine him in front of his computer. Banging the phone on us, running his eye through a 3,000 word article (with no spell check) and wondering...hmm…now who do I send this brilliant piece of work to? Hindustan Times?
The teenage girl was far more difficult to handle. Not only was she young and vulnerable, she had a mother.
‘Sorry but we don’t publish poems,’ we informed the girl.
Mommy, who was obviously snooping in, cut in from the extension line: Oh! But you used to!
Not any more, I said. My biggest mistake. Mommy launched into a long spiel on her daughter’s creative mind, her numerous trophies (didn’t know they gave them out for poems. Ph, are you listening?), her scholastic achievements and the publications that had made her a star (Bright Youngster's Club, Pitampura). We were clearly nipping the bud, crushing the young spirit, destroying talent, etc.
Just now, the call came from a woman of uncertain age. ‘I am wanting to write,’ she said.
Goodie gumdrops! Please do so, I wanted to say but gave her the spiel about sending her CV to the ed, with sample work, etc. Also corrected her that ed was a ‘she’, not a ‘he’. Then I asked her what she wrote about. ‘Recipes. I will send them to him.’ Came the confidant reply.
Like I said. In my next life…
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
In black and white...
Watched Le Divorce yesterday. In black and white. Also Usual Suspects and Scent of a Woman. Again in black and white. Not by choice. Something in the DVD player went kaput and rather than fiddle with it and waste time, we thought it was better to leave it the way it was. I have seen all these films before (except for Le Divorce, which is a good book but avoidable film) but absolutely loved Usual Suspects in the black and white version. The movie has that dark, 1960s gangster feel and the unintentional lack of colour added to it. The other black and white scene I loved was the one in Scent of A Woman, where Al Pacino teaches a girl in a New York bar how to tango. It looked very old Hollywood, vintage romance…
There’s something about black and white. Both films and still photographs.
It got me back to movie days during my mass comm. course. Every Thursday afternoon, the chairs would be shifted, the projector set up, a screen put up in the classroom and it was showtime. Films were part of our ‘course’ and we watched everything — from Satyajit Ray’s Charulata and Pather Panchali to Renoir’s Rules of the Game to strange movies you must endure if you are studying cinema, like Battleship Potemkin, Un Chien Andalou, Birth of a Nation; we also watched absolutely fantastic stuff like Breathless, Hiroshima Mon Amour and Rashomon.
Didn’t always look forward to the discussion and analysis that was to follow (Why did Bunuel slice the eye and show ants crawling all over a hand? Because he had a fit of madness, that’s why!) but loved most of the films. Ninety-percent of the stuff was black and white, our course in-charge having a marked partiality for the early part of the 20th century. I loved her for it, never mind Bunuel and movies that sympathised with the Ku Klux Clan. Some films are best seen in black and white. Like old photographs. Madhubala and gang look much better in black and white than they would have looked in colour.
Black and white just seems very classic. And beautiful. Colour can sometimes bring out the flaws that black and white shadows over. Gosh! Shall stop before I sound like arty type. Had fun watching unplanned black and white fest. That’s all.
There’s something about black and white. Both films and still photographs.
It got me back to movie days during my mass comm. course. Every Thursday afternoon, the chairs would be shifted, the projector set up, a screen put up in the classroom and it was showtime. Films were part of our ‘course’ and we watched everything — from Satyajit Ray’s Charulata and Pather Panchali to Renoir’s Rules of the Game to strange movies you must endure if you are studying cinema, like Battleship Potemkin, Un Chien Andalou, Birth of a Nation; we also watched absolutely fantastic stuff like Breathless, Hiroshima Mon Amour and Rashomon.
Didn’t always look forward to the discussion and analysis that was to follow (Why did Bunuel slice the eye and show ants crawling all over a hand? Because he had a fit of madness, that’s why!) but loved most of the films. Ninety-percent of the stuff was black and white, our course in-charge having a marked partiality for the early part of the 20th century. I loved her for it, never mind Bunuel and movies that sympathised with the Ku Klux Clan. Some films are best seen in black and white. Like old photographs. Madhubala and gang look much better in black and white than they would have looked in colour.
Black and white just seems very classic. And beautiful. Colour can sometimes bring out the flaws that black and white shadows over. Gosh! Shall stop before I sound like arty type. Had fun watching unplanned black and white fest. That’s all.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
Prawn Vs Paneer
My cousin L, a nice, sweet Bong boy, eleven months younger than I am, is in love. With a ‘vegetarian’ girl, as I have been informed by my aunt, a nice, sweet and extremely Bong woman. She isn’t bothered by mundane facts about the girl’s complexion (wheatish, what else, jokes the cousin), her ‘caste’ or even her slightly tomboyish behaviour (Treks and bikes. Love her already!).
What my aunt is bothered about is that the girl doesn’t eat mangsho (meat) or maach (fish). ‘What am I to cook at home when she comes?’ she wailed into the phone last night, while my cousin chuckled behind.
I haven’t stopped laughing. In my case it was a non-vegetarian coming to live with a vegetarian family. It had some people from both sides in a state of convulsion. The veggies wondered if I would come home from shopping dangling live chickens over my shoulder (Ok. This is extreme. But some did make very rude comments) and the fleshies wondered if I would survive the green revolution or starve to death, and so on...
Shall never understand what drives people to such extreme reactions when it comes to the Veg Vs Non Veg issue. Well, I have survived (singalong!) pretty well, haven't I? So will the 'vegetarian' bikergirl. Now if only someone would pacify my aunt!
What my aunt is bothered about is that the girl doesn’t eat mangsho (meat) or maach (fish). ‘What am I to cook at home when she comes?’ she wailed into the phone last night, while my cousin chuckled behind.
I haven’t stopped laughing. In my case it was a non-vegetarian coming to live with a vegetarian family. It had some people from both sides in a state of convulsion. The veggies wondered if I would come home from shopping dangling live chickens over my shoulder (Ok. This is extreme. But some did make very rude comments) and the fleshies wondered if I would survive the green revolution or starve to death, and so on...
Shall never understand what drives people to such extreme reactions when it comes to the Veg Vs Non Veg issue. Well, I have survived (singalong!) pretty well, haven't I? So will the 'vegetarian' bikergirl. Now if only someone would pacify my aunt!
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
My friend M asked me the other day to explain the name of this blog — hornswoggle. Well, M, it’s because when I started it, I was going through a ‘romantic phase’ in books and reading Georgette Heyer. Her Dukes and Duchesses use a lot of strange words and hornswoggle is one of them. It basically means stupid, idiotic, nonsense, something to that effect at least.
These book phases happen to me occasionally. They start when I’m a little low, build up and then, go on for a month or two. This time, it’s been two months and I’m still stuck at romance. Been reading Georgette Heyer, Daphne Du Maurier and even Jane Austen. A Back To College phase. Completely. But I love it!
Forced to buy some of the books, even if I have read them earlier, as my own copy is either lost or in that old trunk at my parent’s place or I never had it in the first place.
Have no idea if others read like this but I go through phases in books.
My longest lasting phase has been books on travel or food or travel and food. It’s far from over. I’m only taking a romantic break. And there’s a mini-phase inside the travel one — travel and food in France! And then, there was the fun, footloose female phase (trendily called chic-lit) that started with Bridget Jones, hugely raised expectations and ended horribly with something called ‘Does My Butt Look Big In This?’ Yes. I bought that one. Once I go through a phase, I can’t be choosy, I HAVE to buy. I still go back to the chic-lit stuff willingly, only haven’t found anything exciting after ‘Nanny Diaries’, which is not only chic-lit but social commentary as well. There have been many other phases, including, thankfully, a very short-lived feminist one. Oh, and can also remember another short lived sci-fi one. Started and ended with Douglas Adams. The only one that never happened was Ayn Rand. Never had any intellectual pretensions :)
Wondering what the next one would be? Hmm...depends on the impulse of the moment really. Think I shall pick up the rest of the ‘Parlez Vous Franglais’ series and some more Calvin and Hobbes. Meanwhile, I'm very content Darcy for the 1500th time in Pride and Prejudice. Life goes on…
These book phases happen to me occasionally. They start when I’m a little low, build up and then, go on for a month or two. This time, it’s been two months and I’m still stuck at romance. Been reading Georgette Heyer, Daphne Du Maurier and even Jane Austen. A Back To College phase. Completely. But I love it!
Forced to buy some of the books, even if I have read them earlier, as my own copy is either lost or in that old trunk at my parent’s place or I never had it in the first place.
Have no idea if others read like this but I go through phases in books.
My longest lasting phase has been books on travel or food or travel and food. It’s far from over. I’m only taking a romantic break. And there’s a mini-phase inside the travel one — travel and food in France! And then, there was the fun, footloose female phase (trendily called chic-lit) that started with Bridget Jones, hugely raised expectations and ended horribly with something called ‘Does My Butt Look Big In This?’ Yes. I bought that one. Once I go through a phase, I can’t be choosy, I HAVE to buy. I still go back to the chic-lit stuff willingly, only haven’t found anything exciting after ‘Nanny Diaries’, which is not only chic-lit but social commentary as well. There have been many other phases, including, thankfully, a very short-lived feminist one. Oh, and can also remember another short lived sci-fi one. Started and ended with Douglas Adams. The only one that never happened was Ayn Rand. Never had any intellectual pretensions :)
Wondering what the next one would be? Hmm...depends on the impulse of the moment really. Think I shall pick up the rest of the ‘Parlez Vous Franglais’ series and some more Calvin and Hobbes. Meanwhile, I'm very content Darcy for the 1500th time in Pride and Prejudice. Life goes on…
Saturday, May 01, 2004
For no reason at all...Oslo, when it's raining
Wasn’t intending to blog at all but the rainy day has made me nostalgic about Oslo. The day I landed there for the first time was also our first wedding anniversary but all that was quite forgotten by the two of us in the excitement of going somewhere as far as Scandinavia!
The Weather Gods were against us right from the time of the short Frankfurt Oslo flight. The plane bobbed in the air, swung back and forth like a tennis ball and finally landed on Scandinavian soil. The closest call of my life! Post landing, I stuttered, pinching myself to see if I was still alive.
It rained on and off for the larger part of the 20 days that I spent there, though this was the beginning of summer (their summer that is). But I loved Oslo in the rains. The streets, trams, the statues, the parks to the bustling waterfront, Aker Brygge, would wear a windswept, drenched, damp look and while the Norwegians muttered and grumbled about bad weather, I strangely, loved it.
It was also very very windy and cold (by my standards) and I would wrap myself in a thick jacket, put on my sneakers and walk and walk and walk.
The previous monsoon had been in Bombay (which I also love in the rains, never mind wading through water at Elphinstone Station), where it can get a bit grimy, though as I write this I can see my all time fave monsoon scene — the waves breaking on to Marine Drive.
But walking through the rains in Oslo was another thing altogether. It was clean. The rain would come and go and I would sit in a VERY EXPENSIVE café (Ok. I'll stop romanticising. Could only afford McDonalds but it had a nice view of the waterfront) and spend a fortune on a small bite, watching a sudden squall break over the water and the clouds at a distance. The rain vanished suddenly in my last few days there but by then I was so used to it that it actually felt weird. As it did to see a bright sky very late at night. It wasn’t as bright when it rained, keeping my desi sense of time almost intact.
I’ve also seen Oslo at its sunniest best, when everyone takes their clothes off, but in my mind, that city is associated with rain. I can see it now, washing the café chairs on Karl Johan Gate, people rushing to cover everything up in their stalls at Youngstorget bazaar and the wind swelling up the sails of some of the boats anchored on Aker Brygge.
And if I imagine a bit, I can still feel that weather it on my face — cold, breezy, with the smell of sea salt and fresh air.
The Weather Gods were against us right from the time of the short Frankfurt Oslo flight. The plane bobbed in the air, swung back and forth like a tennis ball and finally landed on Scandinavian soil. The closest call of my life! Post landing, I stuttered, pinching myself to see if I was still alive.
It rained on and off for the larger part of the 20 days that I spent there, though this was the beginning of summer (their summer that is). But I loved Oslo in the rains. The streets, trams, the statues, the parks to the bustling waterfront, Aker Brygge, would wear a windswept, drenched, damp look and while the Norwegians muttered and grumbled about bad weather, I strangely, loved it.
It was also very very windy and cold (by my standards) and I would wrap myself in a thick jacket, put on my sneakers and walk and walk and walk.
The previous monsoon had been in Bombay (which I also love in the rains, never mind wading through water at Elphinstone Station), where it can get a bit grimy, though as I write this I can see my all time fave monsoon scene — the waves breaking on to Marine Drive.
But walking through the rains in Oslo was another thing altogether. It was clean. The rain would come and go and I would sit in a VERY EXPENSIVE café (Ok. I'll stop romanticising. Could only afford McDonalds but it had a nice view of the waterfront) and spend a fortune on a small bite, watching a sudden squall break over the water and the clouds at a distance. The rain vanished suddenly in my last few days there but by then I was so used to it that it actually felt weird. As it did to see a bright sky very late at night. It wasn’t as bright when it rained, keeping my desi sense of time almost intact.
I’ve also seen Oslo at its sunniest best, when everyone takes their clothes off, but in my mind, that city is associated with rain. I can see it now, washing the café chairs on Karl Johan Gate, people rushing to cover everything up in their stalls at Youngstorget bazaar and the wind swelling up the sails of some of the boats anchored on Aker Brygge.
And if I imagine a bit, I can still feel that weather it on my face — cold, breezy, with the smell of sea salt and fresh air.
Main Hoon Na. Filmi. Very Filmi
Nope. This ain’t a review. All I will say is that movie is worth a watch because you will laugh. A lot. Sometimes at Farah Khan, the director, for being silly and sometimes, at Farah Khan the director for being genuinely funny. I would like to remember the fun. Because look close and this movie had the potential to be a Bollywood buff’s delight if only the main plot wasn’t so ridiculous. Here’s the filmi part:
* Shah Rukh Khan is the product of Naseeruddin Shah’s affair with another woman. Naseer’s wife doesn’t like the kid and wants him to leave. Masoom, hmmm…
* The names. The brothers are called Ram Prasad Sharma and Laxman Prasad Sharma alias Lucky. Remember Amol Palekar in Golmaal?
* Shah Rukh goes to watch Sholay with the college kids, averts an attack and chases the killers in a cyclerickshaw, named, guess what…Dhanno!
* Everytime Shah Rukh spots Sushmita Sen, he breaks into a song. All those Rishi Kapoor type numbers from Nasir Husain films. Loved it!
* The Qawwali, it’s colourful, catchy and a vastly modified take on the ‘Hum Kisise Ka Nahin’ qawwalis of yesteryears.
* The heroine is drenched under the waterfall, and thank God, finally, so is the hero!
* Shah Rukh Khan’s army avatar keeps repeating ‘Koi Shaq?’ Maybe this wasn’t intended but I do remember him repeating that line in Fauji, the first time the man ever appeared before us.
And there must be lots more. This is all I can remember. Your additions, provided you are as hopelessly filmi as I am, are welcome. J
* Shah Rukh Khan is the product of Naseeruddin Shah’s affair with another woman. Naseer’s wife doesn’t like the kid and wants him to leave. Masoom, hmmm…
* The names. The brothers are called Ram Prasad Sharma and Laxman Prasad Sharma alias Lucky. Remember Amol Palekar in Golmaal?
* Shah Rukh goes to watch Sholay with the college kids, averts an attack and chases the killers in a cyclerickshaw, named, guess what…Dhanno!
* Everytime Shah Rukh spots Sushmita Sen, he breaks into a song. All those Rishi Kapoor type numbers from Nasir Husain films. Loved it!
* The Qawwali, it’s colourful, catchy and a vastly modified take on the ‘Hum Kisise Ka Nahin’ qawwalis of yesteryears.
* The heroine is drenched under the waterfall, and thank God, finally, so is the hero!
* Shah Rukh Khan’s army avatar keeps repeating ‘Koi Shaq?’ Maybe this wasn’t intended but I do remember him repeating that line in Fauji, the first time the man ever appeared before us.
And there must be lots more. This is all I can remember. Your additions, provided you are as hopelessly filmi as I am, are welcome. J
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Khan Market
Much as I hate the city, its people, the hot summer, the traffic, etc, there are certain things I love about Delhi. Like Khan Market. I’m there every week, once, twice, thrice…
It has my second favourite bookshop in the city, simply called The Bookshop (I know that everyone goes gaga over Bahrisons but I can’t ever find anything there!). The first favourite is called Fact & Fiction in Priya Cinema Complex, sadly out of the way now.
Back to Khan Market. When there, never miss a coffee at Café Turtle, the handpainted green and blue café perched above a bookstore called Full Circle. It even has a little terrace, which is a dream sit out on sunny winter afternoons. It’s fast becoming our regular ‘adda’ in the city, though it’s quite an expensive one. You get sinful iced creations for almost 100 bucks and divine camomile tea for Rs 55. Food there is another matter altogether. It’s vegetarian and pricey. But who goes there for food anyway?
Close on the heels of Turtle comes Big Chill, an Italian restaurant whose Hollywood movie posters are as famous as its food. Again expensive, with at least 20 mins waiting time (This ain’t an easy place to live, babe). Is the wait worth it? For the food, not anymore. For the desserts, anyday.
The other ‘when-in-Khan-Market-must-visit’ store is Empire. It’s a chicken, meat products and frozen foods shop. Once you take home stuff from Empire and eat, you are spoilt forever. No other chicken or mutton comes close to the taste.
The king of the backlanes is Khan Chacha, whose kebabs are mouthwatering though you need to be really hungry to stand in the gully, brave the sparks from his seekh and eat your heart out. He opens shop only after four and is there till nine. The kebabs are melt in mouth variety.
They also have hip clothes and shoe stores like Bizarre, Anokhi, Finesse etc, but few of us go to KM for clothes or even shoes. We go there to hang out and people watch. And boy, what people can you watch!
For starters, there are the ladies who lunch (and talk very loudly while they do so) in their solitaires and Chanel shades. Not to mention the Louis Vuitton bags. They step out of their huge cars and strut across the market with a proprietorial air. There’s a bewildered maid trailing behind sometimes, holding on to bags, bottles, half the apartment and what surprise…a sweet little kid!
Then there are the desi memsahabs for whom the sabjiwala keeps Australian apples. God help you (Am calling Shiva!Now!) if you ever come in her purposeful path. You’ll be cast aside like a hot potato as the shop guy hurries to service ‘medam,’ who only has to flick a finger, and her driver/Man Friday magically appears, to carry the load back to the car.
The other species that hangs around with that air of ownership are the stray dogs. You’ll find them curled up in their baskets or sleeping in front of certain shops and in winter you’ll find them cosying up in their bright red coats, bought with contributions from all the shopkeepers.
But the species that has really taken over the place are the firangs. Pardon the expression, not being racist and all that but wherever you turn, there is a white face staring back. Makes you realise that Delhi has an expat population that’s HUGER than you had ever thought. Come summer and they can all be found on the Turtle terrace, sunning themselves fearlessly. Heatstrokes be damned!
You spot the foreign students, the tourist, the professor type and the usual ambassador/highcomissioner’s wife, who doesn’t have to take care of her kitchen but shops for salad ingredients like leeks and apricots. The shopkeeper scurries towards her, even if she isn’t quite the demanding one. She sweetly smiles, ignores the fuss and walks on, dropping a little hello to ex-model and socialite Feroze Gujral, out on an afternoon stroll in Roberto Cavalli pants. Interesting place, haan?
It has my second favourite bookshop in the city, simply called The Bookshop (I know that everyone goes gaga over Bahrisons but I can’t ever find anything there!). The first favourite is called Fact & Fiction in Priya Cinema Complex, sadly out of the way now.
Back to Khan Market. When there, never miss a coffee at Café Turtle, the handpainted green and blue café perched above a bookstore called Full Circle. It even has a little terrace, which is a dream sit out on sunny winter afternoons. It’s fast becoming our regular ‘adda’ in the city, though it’s quite an expensive one. You get sinful iced creations for almost 100 bucks and divine camomile tea for Rs 55. Food there is another matter altogether. It’s vegetarian and pricey. But who goes there for food anyway?
Close on the heels of Turtle comes Big Chill, an Italian restaurant whose Hollywood movie posters are as famous as its food. Again expensive, with at least 20 mins waiting time (This ain’t an easy place to live, babe). Is the wait worth it? For the food, not anymore. For the desserts, anyday.
The other ‘when-in-Khan-Market-must-visit’ store is Empire. It’s a chicken, meat products and frozen foods shop. Once you take home stuff from Empire and eat, you are spoilt forever. No other chicken or mutton comes close to the taste.
The king of the backlanes is Khan Chacha, whose kebabs are mouthwatering though you need to be really hungry to stand in the gully, brave the sparks from his seekh and eat your heart out. He opens shop only after four and is there till nine. The kebabs are melt in mouth variety.
They also have hip clothes and shoe stores like Bizarre, Anokhi, Finesse etc, but few of us go to KM for clothes or even shoes. We go there to hang out and people watch. And boy, what people can you watch!
For starters, there are the ladies who lunch (and talk very loudly while they do so) in their solitaires and Chanel shades. Not to mention the Louis Vuitton bags. They step out of their huge cars and strut across the market with a proprietorial air. There’s a bewildered maid trailing behind sometimes, holding on to bags, bottles, half the apartment and what surprise…a sweet little kid!
Then there are the desi memsahabs for whom the sabjiwala keeps Australian apples. God help you (Am calling Shiva!Now!) if you ever come in her purposeful path. You’ll be cast aside like a hot potato as the shop guy hurries to service ‘medam,’ who only has to flick a finger, and her driver/Man Friday magically appears, to carry the load back to the car.
The other species that hangs around with that air of ownership are the stray dogs. You’ll find them curled up in their baskets or sleeping in front of certain shops and in winter you’ll find them cosying up in their bright red coats, bought with contributions from all the shopkeepers.
But the species that has really taken over the place are the firangs. Pardon the expression, not being racist and all that but wherever you turn, there is a white face staring back. Makes you realise that Delhi has an expat population that’s HUGER than you had ever thought. Come summer and they can all be found on the Turtle terrace, sunning themselves fearlessly. Heatstrokes be damned!
You spot the foreign students, the tourist, the professor type and the usual ambassador/highcomissioner’s wife, who doesn’t have to take care of her kitchen but shops for salad ingredients like leeks and apricots. The shopkeeper scurries towards her, even if she isn’t quite the demanding one. She sweetly smiles, ignores the fuss and walks on, dropping a little hello to ex-model and socialite Feroze Gujral, out on an afternoon stroll in Roberto Cavalli pants. Interesting place, haan?
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
What I do when I am vella...
I make lists. So here's a list of things I want to do RIGHT NOW:
* Go home.
* Stop working (That I have followed)
* Sit on my balcony and listen to Mark Knoffler
* Buy a dozen books
* Be in Goa
* Eat mom's sponge cake with choco syrup
* Get a sexy haircut
* Chat online on messenger
* Read blogs I can't open
* Watch old Hollywood classics
* Buy clothes
* Meet mom and dad
* Be at the airport, ready to take off
* Get a pedicure
* Go to Bombay. Forever.
* Go home.
* Stop working (That I have followed)
* Sit on my balcony and listen to Mark Knoffler
* Buy a dozen books
* Be in Goa
* Eat mom's sponge cake with choco syrup
* Get a sexy haircut
* Chat online on messenger
* Read blogs I can't open
* Watch old Hollywood classics
* Buy clothes
* Meet mom and dad
* Be at the airport, ready to take off
* Get a pedicure
* Go to Bombay. Forever.
One Size Bigger
I’ve been thin all my life. Stick-insect, that’s what Bridget Jones would call me, even though I don’t have the figure to show for it. All my life, I have been responsible for increasing sales at the children’s section of most stores, and the person behind the nasty comments about the useless women’s section in the comment book.
And all my life, I have felt left out of girlie conversations when it came to weight watch. While other girls talked about reducing their hips and buying jeans one size larger or celebrated when certain body parts went a size smaller, I sulked and sat silently, having nothing to add to the conversation. Among other things, I haven’t progressed beyond a certain waist size, the last many, many years. More than being boring, it has meant fewer excuses to go shopping.
The Girth Goddess seems to have finally looked up.
Some Sundays ago, a friend and me trotted off to buy some clothes in a Gurgaon mall. I spotted a pair of black trousers (ultimate weakness) and confidently trudged off to the changing room with MY size. Imagine my alarm, when it refused to move up my hips, no matter how much I tugged. Must have hogged too much at lunch, I thought, and gave up.
I went back the other day to the same shop, to try on the same pair of black trousers, in the same size (and didn't have a heavy lunch)…and finally had the all-important, must-have female experience. The trousers refused to budge beyond a certain point.
IT HAD HAPPENED FINALLY!
The waist had wavered! It had moved beyond the S/XS size and gone straight to M. I had a moment of natural female consternation. Yikes! I had put on weight! I’m fat! Must stop eating! Must join the gym, etc etc.
But at the bottom of it all, I was overjoyed. My excuse was here at last. I rushed out of the changing room and demanded gleefully that I needed a size larger. There was a perfect figured stick insect standing bang opposite who eyed me with horror but I was beyond care. This was an occasion to celebrate. With perhaps the entire lot of medium sized trousers!
And all my life, I have felt left out of girlie conversations when it came to weight watch. While other girls talked about reducing their hips and buying jeans one size larger or celebrated when certain body parts went a size smaller, I sulked and sat silently, having nothing to add to the conversation. Among other things, I haven’t progressed beyond a certain waist size, the last many, many years. More than being boring, it has meant fewer excuses to go shopping.
The Girth Goddess seems to have finally looked up.
Some Sundays ago, a friend and me trotted off to buy some clothes in a Gurgaon mall. I spotted a pair of black trousers (ultimate weakness) and confidently trudged off to the changing room with MY size. Imagine my alarm, when it refused to move up my hips, no matter how much I tugged. Must have hogged too much at lunch, I thought, and gave up.
I went back the other day to the same shop, to try on the same pair of black trousers, in the same size (and didn't have a heavy lunch)…and finally had the all-important, must-have female experience. The trousers refused to budge beyond a certain point.
IT HAD HAPPENED FINALLY!
The waist had wavered! It had moved beyond the S/XS size and gone straight to M. I had a moment of natural female consternation. Yikes! I had put on weight! I’m fat! Must stop eating! Must join the gym, etc etc.
But at the bottom of it all, I was overjoyed. My excuse was here at last. I rushed out of the changing room and demanded gleefully that I needed a size larger. There was a perfect figured stick insect standing bang opposite who eyed me with horror but I was beyond care. This was an occasion to celebrate. With perhaps the entire lot of medium sized trousers!
Monday, April 26, 2004
Strangest Sunday Ever
Was determined to have a very relaxed Sunday by not moving out of the house or cooking or getting worked up about the dust (tough one, that) or fighting with P. Bathed, ensured fridge had things to munch when hungry and plonked myself on the bed to read. Had two new books to start with plus another half-read one. Fixed a hot chocolate and a plate of fabulous cookies and homemade cakes, sent over a friend of mom-in-law’s. In other words, was ready to enter the world of sloth and sluggishness when…tantarrrra……..the doorbell rang.
A man from Mother’s Diary stood there with his card. The purpose? Can deliver milk packets to my house every, he had come to tell me that. Fantastic! Couldn’t he have slipped the card under the door instead of making me get up? Well, obviously not. What if memsaab wasn’t able to understand, even if the card said free home delivery! I thanked him for his wisdom, plonked back and began chapter one. Georgette Heyer seemed perfect for the day, having heard a lot from Anita about ‘These Old Shades’, the one I was about to start.
Things were going fine. The hot choc was fabulous, the cookies were getting over and the Duke was being super nice to his page Léon, leaving no cause for doubt that this boy actually was a girl (If you don’t understand this bit, never mind). Even P was in best behaviour and left the house almost as soon as he stirred, to play squash, have lunch with people and so on.
I fixed another hot choc, snuggled in more on the bed and waited for Leon to become Leonie and the Duke to fall in love. And then, ha ha, the doorbell rang. Two little girls had come to collect money for their annual school fair. I parted with the money and silently abused the school. A fair in this hot summer? Were they mad or what!
From then on, the doorbell never gave up. It seemed to attract anybody passing by with ‘Hey! Here I am! Gimme a go! Now!’
There was the neighbour’s son (borrow Calvin and Hobbes), the plumber (why do they turn up only when you don’t want them?), the cablewala (some reason), the watchman with the maintenance bill (shock and awe), new neighbour and wife, coming to enquire if our driver knew another reliable one, lady from building inviting me to join her kitty party group (Very hard to shake off). By the end of it, I had packed up the books, given up on the bed and gone back to the living room. Why read when you can play such an exciting game as ‘answer the door’?
Have no idea if the Duke fell in love!
A man from Mother’s Diary stood there with his card. The purpose? Can deliver milk packets to my house every, he had come to tell me that. Fantastic! Couldn’t he have slipped the card under the door instead of making me get up? Well, obviously not. What if memsaab wasn’t able to understand, even if the card said free home delivery! I thanked him for his wisdom, plonked back and began chapter one. Georgette Heyer seemed perfect for the day, having heard a lot from Anita about ‘These Old Shades’, the one I was about to start.
Things were going fine. The hot choc was fabulous, the cookies were getting over and the Duke was being super nice to his page Léon, leaving no cause for doubt that this boy actually was a girl (If you don’t understand this bit, never mind). Even P was in best behaviour and left the house almost as soon as he stirred, to play squash, have lunch with people and so on.
I fixed another hot choc, snuggled in more on the bed and waited for Leon to become Leonie and the Duke to fall in love. And then, ha ha, the doorbell rang. Two little girls had come to collect money for their annual school fair. I parted with the money and silently abused the school. A fair in this hot summer? Were they mad or what!
From then on, the doorbell never gave up. It seemed to attract anybody passing by with ‘Hey! Here I am! Gimme a go! Now!’
There was the neighbour’s son (borrow Calvin and Hobbes), the plumber (why do they turn up only when you don’t want them?), the cablewala (some reason), the watchman with the maintenance bill (shock and awe), new neighbour and wife, coming to enquire if our driver knew another reliable one, lady from building inviting me to join her kitty party group (Very hard to shake off). By the end of it, I had packed up the books, given up on the bed and gone back to the living room. Why read when you can play such an exciting game as ‘answer the door’?
Have no idea if the Duke fell in love!
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
I used to be a journalist once. Now I work in a women’s mag
If you think the above statement makes me bitter, hah! The truth is far from it. Ever since I started working for a women’s mag, I’ve got loads of interesting responses from people. Here are some of the best:
Building airhead: OOOOOOOOH!!! So you know all about beauty and fashion!
Very Important Business Journalist: So you guys actually have an office? Do you guys have much work? (Nope. I go there to get my hair done. Yessir, Actual answer.)
My Mother: At last, you’re working in a place I understand (I worked in two/three websites before this. That explains it.)
My Brother: Why the f@#$ do you have to work there of all the places? (OK. Rolling Stones, here I come!)
PR: But you don’t cover fashion? Oh…all of you don’t? Oh…I thought all of you did!
Old uncle: So you know all the secrets of wimmenn, eh?
My journo teacher: Well, you worked in a newspaper once…(The rest is left unsaid, in Sword of Damocles fashion)
Close Friend (Guy): You have the numbers of all these models, then…?
Close Friend (Girl): What I want to know is, do you get any discounts on the products you shoot?
Women’s Development NGO: You’re doing a story on violence against women? Really? Why would you people be interested? What’s your name….blah blah.
Me: I’m still getting my hair done.
Building airhead: OOOOOOOOH!!! So you know all about beauty and fashion!
Very Important Business Journalist: So you guys actually have an office? Do you guys have much work? (Nope. I go there to get my hair done. Yessir, Actual answer.)
My Mother: At last, you’re working in a place I understand (I worked in two/three websites before this. That explains it.)
My Brother: Why the f@#$ do you have to work there of all the places? (OK. Rolling Stones, here I come!)
PR: But you don’t cover fashion? Oh…all of you don’t? Oh…I thought all of you did!
Old uncle: So you know all the secrets of wimmenn, eh?
My journo teacher: Well, you worked in a newspaper once…(The rest is left unsaid, in Sword of Damocles fashion)
Close Friend (Guy): You have the numbers of all these models, then…?
Close Friend (Girl): What I want to know is, do you get any discounts on the products you shoot?
Women’s Development NGO: You’re doing a story on violence against women? Really? Why would you people be interested? What’s your name….blah blah.
Me: I’m still getting my hair done.
If...
(The song's been in my head since yesterday, so I thought I would get it out. Been listening to this for years but it still gets those goosepimples going. The perfect laidback evening, close pals, crates of beer and mind-in-a-haze song.)
If I were a swan, I'd be gone...
If I were a train, I'd be late
And if I were a good man...
I'd talk with you more often than I do
If I were to sleep, I could dream...
If I were afraid, I could hide
If I go insane, please don't put your wires in my brain
If I were the moon, I'd be cool...
If I were a book, I would bend
If I were a good man, I'd understand the spaces between friends
If I were alone, I would cry...
And if I were with you, I'd be home and dry
And if I go insane will you still let me join in the game?
If I were a swan, I'd be gone
If I were a train, I'd be late again..
If I were a good man, I'd talk with you more often than I do
If I were a swan, I'd be gone...
If I were a train, I'd be late
And if I were a good man...
I'd talk with you more often than I do
If I were to sleep, I could dream...
If I were afraid, I could hide
If I go insane, please don't put your wires in my brain
If I were the moon, I'd be cool...
If I were a book, I would bend
If I were a good man, I'd understand the spaces between friends
If I were alone, I would cry...
And if I were with you, I'd be home and dry
And if I go insane will you still let me join in the game?
If I were a swan, I'd be gone
If I were a train, I'd be late again..
If I were a good man, I'd talk with you more often than I do
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
Designer Births
At the rate things are turning into boutiques, I'm scared soon I'll have no money to spend anywhere, even the local bania store.
Just now, a PR girl called to inform me about the latest 'Birthing Boutique' in town, in a 'I'm about to give you the scoop of the century' voice. I gulped as she went on about baby pink walls, a cafe and a mom & baby bonding rooms. Had visions of heavily pregnant mothers wearing four inch heels and led screaming to the delivery room in Gucci and Dior type clothes.
Soft PR voice went on to coo about the piped music, satin sheets (not exactly that but something similar), gourmet meals and designer cots. 'They do have doctors around...?,' I ventured. 'Of course!' she switched to a voice that was now talking about incidental, unpleasant stuff, 'It is, after all, a hospital!'
There it was! A hospital! Why didn't they tell me before!
Now, I'm all for bright, cheery looking hospitals that make you feel comfortable from the moment you step in. Even if they cost a bomb. And if the doctor is a George Clooney lookalike, well....(allow me a moment to drool).
To get back to the 'Birthing Boutique.' I was a little bothered by the name at first. Then I thought, at the rate the world is going designer, it's wonderful to have a mall cum spa with a hospital attached, where you can shop, have a massage and come back home with a baby! Why not?
Just now, a PR girl called to inform me about the latest 'Birthing Boutique' in town, in a 'I'm about to give you the scoop of the century' voice. I gulped as she went on about baby pink walls, a cafe and a mom & baby bonding rooms. Had visions of heavily pregnant mothers wearing four inch heels and led screaming to the delivery room in Gucci and Dior type clothes.
Soft PR voice went on to coo about the piped music, satin sheets (not exactly that but something similar), gourmet meals and designer cots. 'They do have doctors around...?,' I ventured. 'Of course!' she switched to a voice that was now talking about incidental, unpleasant stuff, 'It is, after all, a hospital!'
There it was! A hospital! Why didn't they tell me before!
Now, I'm all for bright, cheery looking hospitals that make you feel comfortable from the moment you step in. Even if they cost a bomb. And if the doctor is a George Clooney lookalike, well....(allow me a moment to drool).
To get back to the 'Birthing Boutique.' I was a little bothered by the name at first. Then I thought, at the rate the world is going designer, it's wonderful to have a mall cum spa with a hospital attached, where you can shop, have a massage and come back home with a baby! Why not?
Thursday, April 15, 2004
MAN WHO COOKS DOESN'T CLEAN UP
There’s something sexy about a guy who knows his way around the kitchen. And I mean a guy who knows his way around garlic and onion, pots and pans, strainers and knife-holders, the list can go on…
This is the kind of guy who switches on some great music, lights a cigarette, places the ashtray at the edge of the kitchen platform, doesn’t bother wearing an apron and chops onions faster than even TV chefs can!
It may be grimy in there but this guy isn’t in the least bit bothered as he goes about blanching, tossing, sautéing, crisping and frying. He’s focused with the assurance of someone who knows the end result is delicious.
All this while you sit at the dining table, comfortably flipping through the pages of Cosmopolitan, watching him get delicious and dirty and try not to think what comes next…
Achtung Baby!
Keep aside those salacious thoughts. What comes next is a clean-up job. Chances are that you’re the Kitchen God’s Wife. Or the Live-in maid. Your job is to undo what he has done. In other words, splotched tomato puree on your tiles, sent little green peas flying everywhere and in that heart-stopping demo of omelette tossing, fed some eggie bits to the burner. There’s also some mashed potato stuck to the sink but you’ll deal with that later.
The Kitchen God, of course, is oblivious to all this. He can only see the gourmet meal he's fixed, bottles of wine and a thank-you smile on your face.
You can see mops, tissues and wipes.
For the moment, you’re silently regretting the day you first cooed at the Kitchen God’s cappuccino and slobbered over his seekh kababs. Your romance has taken a new direction since that fateful day. He has become the God of the Good Bite. You have turned into a human mop that follows him around.
This is the kind of guy who switches on some great music, lights a cigarette, places the ashtray at the edge of the kitchen platform, doesn’t bother wearing an apron and chops onions faster than even TV chefs can!
It may be grimy in there but this guy isn’t in the least bit bothered as he goes about blanching, tossing, sautéing, crisping and frying. He’s focused with the assurance of someone who knows the end result is delicious.
All this while you sit at the dining table, comfortably flipping through the pages of Cosmopolitan, watching him get delicious and dirty and try not to think what comes next…
Achtung Baby!
Keep aside those salacious thoughts. What comes next is a clean-up job. Chances are that you’re the Kitchen God’s Wife. Or the Live-in maid. Your job is to undo what he has done. In other words, splotched tomato puree on your tiles, sent little green peas flying everywhere and in that heart-stopping demo of omelette tossing, fed some eggie bits to the burner. There’s also some mashed potato stuck to the sink but you’ll deal with that later.
The Kitchen God, of course, is oblivious to all this. He can only see the gourmet meal he's fixed, bottles of wine and a thank-you smile on your face.
You can see mops, tissues and wipes.
For the moment, you’re silently regretting the day you first cooed at the Kitchen God’s cappuccino and slobbered over his seekh kababs. Your romance has taken a new direction since that fateful day. He has become the God of the Good Bite. You have turned into a human mop that follows him around.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Read Alert!
I love reading. Will read anything under the sun at any given point. Bedtime, breakfast table, potty, train, bus, autos, flights, restaurants, coffee shops, bookshops, the doctors, movie theatre, five-star lounge, interstate bus stop…you name the place and I have pored over the book there. Apart from being my favourite hobby, a book is my guardian angel when I wan’t to avoid or escape or forget an undesirable situation.
Take for instance, bad movies. In Bombay, we were a huuuuge group of friends and sometimes when the bonding reached great heights all of us went to a movie together, whether you wanted to watch that particular film or not.
But I had my way out! When the film happened to be intolerable (Jackie Chan, Govinda, horror film, highly intellectual type movie, etc) all I did to survive death by boredom was to sit outside in the lobby with a book and pretend it had to return to the library the very next day and I had to finish it, or else…
Some may call it insecurity or impatience but if I have to wait anywhere even for a minute, I need something to read on my lap. It works wonders. Nobody bothers you with silly questions like what’s the time, are you waiting for the dentist, where’s the loo, do you have two legs, etc, because you never look up! You’re also spared the forced ‘polite conversation’ that invariably happens when three or more people are waiting in a confined space with nothing much to do. They probably think I’m the rude, anti-social type. Suits me fine.
At home, books have always been my road to salvation. If P and I have had a fight, I promptly open the most romantic or hilarious stuff I can find and dig deep. This has two advantages. I forget fight has happened and that he is a male who won’t analyse our relationship to the minutest detail that it deserves. A good read also keeps me silent. Thus ensuring peace and happiness all around!
Books are my knight in a jacket when I’m travelling — by air or road. Since I’m God’s chosen one to sit next to the strangest people on earth, books come handy in more ways than one. On a flight for instance, I forget that I’m suspended mid-air. And I can avoid conversation. I don’t know what is it with me, but ninety percent of the times, the person next to me is a lady who wants to know every detail of my life, a man who creepily asks if I’m going (?) for business or pleasure or someone who hasn’t bathed in three months.
I once sat next to a teenager on a Bombay-Goa flight who wanted to speak about her love for Aamir Khan non-stop. At such times, a book is the best protection. The fatter the better. Look serious, turn the pages and ignore. When airhostess approaches, distractedly pick up with orange juice/water giving impression that you are lost to the outside world.
Golden rule: Don’t chuckle to yourself, however funny the book is. It elicits questions like, ‘Aap kyun has rahi hai?’ to even ‘Everything alright, you not crying are you?’
Heartless, am I? Thing is, I have no desire to form strong attachments in four hours flat. Unless of course it’s a super-hot man. No one like that has ever sat next to me. Never!
Take for instance, bad movies. In Bombay, we were a huuuuge group of friends and sometimes when the bonding reached great heights all of us went to a movie together, whether you wanted to watch that particular film or not.
But I had my way out! When the film happened to be intolerable (Jackie Chan, Govinda, horror film, highly intellectual type movie, etc) all I did to survive death by boredom was to sit outside in the lobby with a book and pretend it had to return to the library the very next day and I had to finish it, or else…
Some may call it insecurity or impatience but if I have to wait anywhere even for a minute, I need something to read on my lap. It works wonders. Nobody bothers you with silly questions like what’s the time, are you waiting for the dentist, where’s the loo, do you have two legs, etc, because you never look up! You’re also spared the forced ‘polite conversation’ that invariably happens when three or more people are waiting in a confined space with nothing much to do. They probably think I’m the rude, anti-social type. Suits me fine.
At home, books have always been my road to salvation. If P and I have had a fight, I promptly open the most romantic or hilarious stuff I can find and dig deep. This has two advantages. I forget fight has happened and that he is a male who won’t analyse our relationship to the minutest detail that it deserves. A good read also keeps me silent. Thus ensuring peace and happiness all around!
Books are my knight in a jacket when I’m travelling — by air or road. Since I’m God’s chosen one to sit next to the strangest people on earth, books come handy in more ways than one. On a flight for instance, I forget that I’m suspended mid-air. And I can avoid conversation. I don’t know what is it with me, but ninety percent of the times, the person next to me is a lady who wants to know every detail of my life, a man who creepily asks if I’m going (?) for business or pleasure or someone who hasn’t bathed in three months.
I once sat next to a teenager on a Bombay-Goa flight who wanted to speak about her love for Aamir Khan non-stop. At such times, a book is the best protection. The fatter the better. Look serious, turn the pages and ignore. When airhostess approaches, distractedly pick up with orange juice/water giving impression that you are lost to the outside world.
Golden rule: Don’t chuckle to yourself, however funny the book is. It elicits questions like, ‘Aap kyun has rahi hai?’ to even ‘Everything alright, you not crying are you?’
Heartless, am I? Thing is, I have no desire to form strong attachments in four hours flat. Unless of course it’s a super-hot man. No one like that has ever sat next to me. Never!
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Beautiful Girl
Why do they become beauty queens, I wonder, as I watch her, tired, trying to catch up on a quick nap in a room full of a dozen people. The simplest answer would be the glamour, fame and money that follow especially when you inevitably land Bollywood. But hey, what about the gruelling life that comes attached?
Standard beauty queen shift post contest-win includes: Shoots, shoots and more shoots, with appearances at events thrown in. You are under contract with the company that organised the contest, so you can’t even squeak when called to work — whether it’s your mother’s birthday or an upset stomach or lack of sleep.
For that extra cherry on top, the shoots are back to back, usually from the crack of dawn till late evening. She needs to look good (and feel good, coz no matter how much make-up you have on, if you’re feeling like shit, it shows). One shoot is followed by the other, as the company has many magazines and papers where they would like your mug plastered, now that they have you under their thumb for a year.
But she can’t complain. After all, she volunteered for this. She mentioned in her first interview after being ‘crowned’ how it was always her dream to win, how she would pirouette in front of the mirror for hours as a nine-year-old, and so on…
At the hotel where she is shooting, the PR girl comes up to congratulate with a beautiful bouquet and asks how she is doing. Great! On top of the world! She replies with that eye-sparkling smile which by now comes to her with unpractised ease. Only it feels far from great. “All I want right now is home food and my own bed,” she whispers to the fellow winner, who’s having her hair murdered for the fantasy shot next.
Home, the place she left three years back for ‘further studies’ that turned into modelling stints, suddenly seems very far away. She thinks of her kid sister, screaming with excitement into the phone, after she won the contest. The wardrobe they shared back at home would total what she was going to wear for this one single shot — Gown: Rs 40,000 plus, shoes: Rs 2,500 plus, bag: Rs 5,000.
She thinks of getting her sister down to shop with the complimentary gift vouchers from the hi-fashion stores, given to her after the win. But where’s the time? Her sister would have to bunk college and she would have no time, shuttling between fittings with designers, shoots and preparations for the international contest less than a month away. But she is missing home, more than she ever did in the last three years.
How would it feel to run away from all this? To chuck her no-carbs diet and gorge on some rice and prawns? How would it feel to not wear make-up for a day, sit with oil in her hair and not smile? How would it feel to wake up late and not have bronzers and creams slathered all over her five times a day? How would it feel not to act like the diva she is not all the while? She is surprised by her state of confusion. Wasn’t this what she had worked towards? How could she let a slight hectic schedule upset all that?
It’s time to wake up. There’s a reporter from one of the papers. Time to remember her lines and that sparkling smile.
Standard beauty queen shift post contest-win includes: Shoots, shoots and more shoots, with appearances at events thrown in. You are under contract with the company that organised the contest, so you can’t even squeak when called to work — whether it’s your mother’s birthday or an upset stomach or lack of sleep.
For that extra cherry on top, the shoots are back to back, usually from the crack of dawn till late evening. She needs to look good (and feel good, coz no matter how much make-up you have on, if you’re feeling like shit, it shows). One shoot is followed by the other, as the company has many magazines and papers where they would like your mug plastered, now that they have you under their thumb for a year.
But she can’t complain. After all, she volunteered for this. She mentioned in her first interview after being ‘crowned’ how it was always her dream to win, how she would pirouette in front of the mirror for hours as a nine-year-old, and so on…
At the hotel where she is shooting, the PR girl comes up to congratulate with a beautiful bouquet and asks how she is doing. Great! On top of the world! She replies with that eye-sparkling smile which by now comes to her with unpractised ease. Only it feels far from great. “All I want right now is home food and my own bed,” she whispers to the fellow winner, who’s having her hair murdered for the fantasy shot next.
Home, the place she left three years back for ‘further studies’ that turned into modelling stints, suddenly seems very far away. She thinks of her kid sister, screaming with excitement into the phone, after she won the contest. The wardrobe they shared back at home would total what she was going to wear for this one single shot — Gown: Rs 40,000 plus, shoes: Rs 2,500 plus, bag: Rs 5,000.
She thinks of getting her sister down to shop with the complimentary gift vouchers from the hi-fashion stores, given to her after the win. But where’s the time? Her sister would have to bunk college and she would have no time, shuttling between fittings with designers, shoots and preparations for the international contest less than a month away. But she is missing home, more than she ever did in the last three years.
How would it feel to run away from all this? To chuck her no-carbs diet and gorge on some rice and prawns? How would it feel to not wear make-up for a day, sit with oil in her hair and not smile? How would it feel to wake up late and not have bronzers and creams slathered all over her five times a day? How would it feel not to act like the diva she is not all the while? She is surprised by her state of confusion. Wasn’t this what she had worked towards? How could she let a slight hectic schedule upset all that?
It’s time to wake up. There’s a reporter from one of the papers. Time to remember her lines and that sparkling smile.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Hop, skip and jump!
The first time I had beer I could barely stop myself from spitting it out. ‘Yikes, people actually drink this?’ I thought, looking aghast at my cousin bro and his wife, lounging in a beach shack, with at least 10 empty bottles scattered at their feet. It was about eleven in the morning. I was 17 or something similar.
I looked at my new sis-in-law, hair in a wild mess, guzzling away to glory and thought, now why beer of all things? That’s such a guy thing. What on earth did he see in her?
Stuffy? I could have been worse! I could have been one of those girls who snort at beer!
I had tasted port wine, taken surreptitious sips of rum at my dad’s bar and decided rum was my thing. But beer? Sadly, it had me cold from the start. It was bitter and left a horrible aftertaste in your mouth. It made you go to the loo 1500 times and gave you a belly afterwards (as I gathered looking at veteran beer guzzlers). And it was something dad and his buddies drank out of crates while watching cricket or football. Not something for a decent girl to have.
Or so I thought.
The pink-papered girlie visions vanished the moment I landed in Bombay. I stayed with a family friend in Chembur and when aunty and uncle wanted to celebrate my admission into the course, there was nothing at home but…beer! ‘Argh!’ Aunty and me twitched our noses but uncle urged us on. ‘C’mon, it’s only one mug!’
At the introductory session of my mass communications batch, the other girls talked about their ‘changing the media’ and ‘being Rupert Murdoch.’ M, who was sitting next to me, chuckled, held up her Styrofoam coffee cup and said, ‘Hi, am from the beer city, Bangalore. Cheers!’
My education in the golden tipple had begun.
I did try and get back to rum. But I had never really been into it and was accosted by 'beer buddies' from all possible quarters. The thing is that beer grows on you. You find it bitter at first, then take the next sip thinking it would be better, and then the next and before you know it you have finished an entire mug and LOVED it!
The best part? You don’t wake up with 40 hammers knocking on your head (at least I don’t). You just wake up late.
M and I become the best of pals and shifted in together, as the cranky nuns thankfully thought we didn’t deserve the hostel. Before I knew it, I was a beer convert. It helped to be part of an evenly divided mass coms batch. You were either into beer or wine. If you didn’t drink anything, you were on our side, because we, the beer drinkers weren’t alcoholics. With all that barley and water and yeast, it was like having a cake or a nice piece of bread, only liquid. And good for health to boot. What excellent stone-free kidneys were we going to have!
Strangely, for all this talk of beer not being a girl’s drink, most of my girl pal bonding had been done over beer. Perhaps most girls I know drink it or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that right after the course, I jumped into a newspaper, where I met a bunch of fellow-alcoholics masquerading as ‘reporters and sub-editors.’ I joined gang with the con-women pretending to be the ‘Features Team.’ The rest, as they say, is history. Or should I say, her-story?
(And I finally understood what my cousin saw in that girl)
I looked at my new sis-in-law, hair in a wild mess, guzzling away to glory and thought, now why beer of all things? That’s such a guy thing. What on earth did he see in her?
Stuffy? I could have been worse! I could have been one of those girls who snort at beer!
I had tasted port wine, taken surreptitious sips of rum at my dad’s bar and decided rum was my thing. But beer? Sadly, it had me cold from the start. It was bitter and left a horrible aftertaste in your mouth. It made you go to the loo 1500 times and gave you a belly afterwards (as I gathered looking at veteran beer guzzlers). And it was something dad and his buddies drank out of crates while watching cricket or football. Not something for a decent girl to have.
Or so I thought.
The pink-papered girlie visions vanished the moment I landed in Bombay. I stayed with a family friend in Chembur and when aunty and uncle wanted to celebrate my admission into the course, there was nothing at home but…beer! ‘Argh!’ Aunty and me twitched our noses but uncle urged us on. ‘C’mon, it’s only one mug!’
At the introductory session of my mass communications batch, the other girls talked about their ‘changing the media’ and ‘being Rupert Murdoch.’ M, who was sitting next to me, chuckled, held up her Styrofoam coffee cup and said, ‘Hi, am from the beer city, Bangalore. Cheers!’
My education in the golden tipple had begun.
I did try and get back to rum. But I had never really been into it and was accosted by 'beer buddies' from all possible quarters. The thing is that beer grows on you. You find it bitter at first, then take the next sip thinking it would be better, and then the next and before you know it you have finished an entire mug and LOVED it!
The best part? You don’t wake up with 40 hammers knocking on your head (at least I don’t). You just wake up late.
M and I become the best of pals and shifted in together, as the cranky nuns thankfully thought we didn’t deserve the hostel. Before I knew it, I was a beer convert. It helped to be part of an evenly divided mass coms batch. You were either into beer or wine. If you didn’t drink anything, you were on our side, because we, the beer drinkers weren’t alcoholics. With all that barley and water and yeast, it was like having a cake or a nice piece of bread, only liquid. And good for health to boot. What excellent stone-free kidneys were we going to have!
Strangely, for all this talk of beer not being a girl’s drink, most of my girl pal bonding had been done over beer. Perhaps most girls I know drink it or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that right after the course, I jumped into a newspaper, where I met a bunch of fellow-alcoholics masquerading as ‘reporters and sub-editors.’ I joined gang with the con-women pretending to be the ‘Features Team.’ The rest, as they say, is history. Or should I say, her-story?
(And I finally understood what my cousin saw in that girl)
Monday, March 22, 2004
Howzzat!
Things a man should remember while watching cricket:
There are other channels on television apart from Ten Sports or DD when the cable goes off. I may not be a regular watcher of Jassi, Tim Sebastian or VJ Anusha but I like to watch them and the others once a while. So go ahead, watch the match but why subject me to re-runs, award ceremonies, post-match analysis and discussions? Unless of course, it features Imran Khan.
Cricket does not equal food. If it does, fix yourself a snack before you plonk in front of the television. Don’t ever repeat: 'Er…Kaif’s taken a brilliant catch, could you heat some kebabs? And while you are at it, fix me a mug of cold beer?'
In keeping with the above, cricket does not mean a messy room. Cushions, ashtrays and popcorn don’t have to be tossed in the air because Yuvraj’s hit a ‘brilliant’ six. Who does the cleaning up? His mom?
There is more to meaningful conversation than a running commentary on the day’s match.
I am a woman. A straight one. The kind that knows a good piece of work when she sees one. Just because I think Rahul Dravid is neat does not mean that I am trivializing the game.
And calling Shoaib Akhtar superfast does not mean I’m supporting Pakistan either.
Finally, I’m not a jinx. If Indian wickets don’t stand when I’m around, it’s their fault not mine. It doesn’t mean I stay locked up in the loo or the bedroom. Ever!
There are other channels on television apart from Ten Sports or DD when the cable goes off. I may not be a regular watcher of Jassi, Tim Sebastian or VJ Anusha but I like to watch them and the others once a while. So go ahead, watch the match but why subject me to re-runs, award ceremonies, post-match analysis and discussions? Unless of course, it features Imran Khan.
Cricket does not equal food. If it does, fix yourself a snack before you plonk in front of the television. Don’t ever repeat: 'Er…Kaif’s taken a brilliant catch, could you heat some kebabs? And while you are at it, fix me a mug of cold beer?'
In keeping with the above, cricket does not mean a messy room. Cushions, ashtrays and popcorn don’t have to be tossed in the air because Yuvraj’s hit a ‘brilliant’ six. Who does the cleaning up? His mom?
There is more to meaningful conversation than a running commentary on the day’s match.
I am a woman. A straight one. The kind that knows a good piece of work when she sees one. Just because I think Rahul Dravid is neat does not mean that I am trivializing the game.
And calling Shoaib Akhtar superfast does not mean I’m supporting Pakistan either.
Finally, I’m not a jinx. If Indian wickets don’t stand when I’m around, it’s their fault not mine. It doesn’t mean I stay locked up in the loo or the bedroom. Ever!
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
The Well Wishers
Well…If you’ve read UTG’s this one's quite similar!
I’m easily annoyed. Have a short fuse that blows up without warning, especially when I’m being given unsolicited advice and facing an inquisition into my private life. And when you live in a country where nobody minds their own business, are married and pushing 30, the advice comes pouring in torrents. It starts with decorating oneself post-marriage. ‘But beta, you don’t look married at all. Thoda sa lipstick laga liya hota…’ cribs Pimmi Aunty from the balcony-next-door. Never mind that this is seven in the morning and you’ve only roused yourself from sleep because the milkman rang the bell too many times.
Pimmi gives way to the others. ‘Why do you need a job? Your husband earns well enough!’ says retired baldie uncle. You gently remind him that you’ve always worked. Ever since you graduated at least. ‘So?’ he retorts, ‘You weren’t married then!’
A couple of years pass. Your marriage is now old enough to contemplate divorce. You chicken out instead and decide to buy a flat. This creates a stir. Why are you moving? Wasn’t this house large enough? Why live in a flat when you have a large place here? Do you get along with your mother-in-law?
You show heartless disregard but the well-wishers won’t stop. ‘Now that you have a house of your own, isn’t it time to have a baby?’ they chorus. Miraculously the intense questioning (why we haven’t had a baby yet, do we want one, what are my bowel movements like, etc) are reserved for that magic moment when I’m left alone with the female. Child production to most Indian women seems a one-sided job. Men aren’t supposed to be bothered.
The funny thing is, all these CBI type intense questioning isn’t seen as rude but concerned. And it must be deep-rooted in our veins because age is no bar here.
Years ago, a cousin who promised never to have an arranged marriage (what a prehistoric practice, oppressive to women, blah blah) said yes to the first IIT-IIM-NRI boy who came along. When I called to congratulate her, she was quick to come to the point: You should agree to an arrange marriage you know. These are the ones that last!
Cousin is separated now and though I may sound like a bitch, I do feel bad that it didn't work out. Last heard, she was passing off valuable nuggets to still-in-school little sister. 'Never opt for an NRI guy. And stay away from an arranged marriage!'
I’m easily annoyed. Have a short fuse that blows up without warning, especially when I’m being given unsolicited advice and facing an inquisition into my private life. And when you live in a country where nobody minds their own business, are married and pushing 30, the advice comes pouring in torrents. It starts with decorating oneself post-marriage. ‘But beta, you don’t look married at all. Thoda sa lipstick laga liya hota…’ cribs Pimmi Aunty from the balcony-next-door. Never mind that this is seven in the morning and you’ve only roused yourself from sleep because the milkman rang the bell too many times.
Pimmi gives way to the others. ‘Why do you need a job? Your husband earns well enough!’ says retired baldie uncle. You gently remind him that you’ve always worked. Ever since you graduated at least. ‘So?’ he retorts, ‘You weren’t married then!’
A couple of years pass. Your marriage is now old enough to contemplate divorce. You chicken out instead and decide to buy a flat. This creates a stir. Why are you moving? Wasn’t this house large enough? Why live in a flat when you have a large place here? Do you get along with your mother-in-law?
You show heartless disregard but the well-wishers won’t stop. ‘Now that you have a house of your own, isn’t it time to have a baby?’ they chorus. Miraculously the intense questioning (why we haven’t had a baby yet, do we want one, what are my bowel movements like, etc) are reserved for that magic moment when I’m left alone with the female. Child production to most Indian women seems a one-sided job. Men aren’t supposed to be bothered.
The funny thing is, all these CBI type intense questioning isn’t seen as rude but concerned. And it must be deep-rooted in our veins because age is no bar here.
Years ago, a cousin who promised never to have an arranged marriage (what a prehistoric practice, oppressive to women, blah blah) said yes to the first IIT-IIM-NRI boy who came along. When I called to congratulate her, she was quick to come to the point: You should agree to an arrange marriage you know. These are the ones that last!
Cousin is separated now and though I may sound like a bitch, I do feel bad that it didn't work out. Last heard, she was passing off valuable nuggets to still-in-school little sister. 'Never opt for an NRI guy. And stay away from an arranged marriage!'
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