Bluestocking's Blog

Kid You Not

2012-01-07T21:58:00.000+05:30

Book Cover of Percy Jackson & Lightning Thief

Happy new year,folks! I begin 2012 with one of my favourite topics – Books!

I was reading RickRiordan’s blog a couple of days ago. He is the author of very popular PercyJackson series. And in this post he writes about how adults sometimes wonder ifthere are others like them who enjoy “Kids” books. For those who don’t know,Percy Jackson books are purportedly for middle school students.

I, for one, havenever given a damn about who the books are meant for. So, this post is aboutthose books which lot of people I personally know call “Children’s” books. I readall of these as an adult and enjoyed immensely.

· Harry Potter, JK Rowling: This7 book series is one of the best things I have read. It may have started outwith a group of twelve year olds but by the time Deathly Hallows arrived, therewas no way it could have been called “Children’s” fiction. There is much too darkness,even violence (remember Hermione being tortured by Bellatrix) for it to be readby kids. There is human psychology, at least thousand shades of grey in allcharacters, including our hero, Harry. If I had my way, I would perhaps not letkids below a certain age read the series at all.
Percy Jackson, Rick Riordan: Idiscovered this series through a colleague’s sons. They are great fans of thebooks and had the entire 5 book series. I had of course heard about the bookthrough the movie but never been too keen on it. So, when my colleague lent methe books, I settled down for some light reading over the weekend. It waslight, breezy and fresh. It was fantasy. It was mythological. Greek mythologyto be precise and like any other Literature student, I had read and learnt a lot the Greek pantheon. These books are told from the point of view ofPercy Jackson, half-immortal son of Poseidon – a demi-god like Hercules. Demi-gods are, to put it bluntly,bastards of Greek gods and goddesses who sire them randomly with any mortal whoseems to catch their fantasy. The books are set in modern times and Olympus is atthe top of Empire State Building, New York. And isn’t that delightful? I lovedall the Greek references, re-learning some of them, recalling others anddiscovering new. The books are action-packed, fun and yet havecharacter-development. I am so glad Riordan has started a spin-off series,featuring Jackson and some new demi-gods. If you haven’t read Percy Jackson, myrecommendation would be to start now.
Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins:When I started this trilogy, I was a little unsure. This is what is called “YoungAdult” fiction. It has a post-apocalypse sort of world with twelve districts,each with a special produce and it is a basis for a new class system. Districtsrich in precious metal are higher up than Cotton District and right at thebottom is Coal District – District 12. And that is where our heroine,Katniss, resides. In the fine Roman tradition of Gladiators and champions, there areHunger Games held every year in the Capitol, to remind the districts who thebosses are. These are fight to death games; no winner is declared unless out oftwenty-four participants, twenty-three are dead. The contestants kill, maim,starve – do what they can in order to leave the arena alive. The games aretelevised and it is mandatory viewing. Eachdistrict must send at least two contestants – a boy and a girl. The contestantsdecided through (un)lucky draw. The world is morose and terrifying but slowly Iwas drawn into the cunning game of survival. It is written entirely in presenttense and in first person, Katniss being the narrator. Again, it is not a softworld of Enid Blyton where nothing worse than being mocked by your classmatesgenerally happens. It is extremely violent, full of machinations and bloodypolitics.
Bartimaeus Trilogy, JonathanStroud: And here we have Arabian Nights meeting Egyptology. This is again amodern world but where you have magicians – masters and apprentices, charmedmythical amulets, golems, Ptolemy, afreets and djinns. Bartimaeus is a djinn.He is clever, witty and almost entirely selfish. Summoned by a twelve yearold magician’s apprentice, he does try his best to dupe the kid but over aperiod of time, the two develop an unlikely friendship. Mind you, neither ofthem has any selfless motive or philanthropic intentions but they are drawnagainst their will in being the good guys. The books are thrilling, fast pacedand throw surprises almost at every turn. And the end, when it comes, isexplosive.

Do let me knowif there are any other so-called “kid” books that are your favourite.

Ciao.

An Obligatory Post

2011-12-29T21:48:00.002+05:30

Me leaving footprints behind captured by Supernova

It’s the end ofthe year. Seriously, I don’t know where the year went. I say it every year likealmost all of you but this year it is truly true. I swear. Most of it went intothe gaping maws of absolutely murderous work schedule and in all my years ofworking, this is probably the worst. Not because of the work per se but thesheer quantum. I wished for ten more hands, three more brains and twelve morehours in a day.

I am not toomuch into New Year Resolutions. I never was actually. I can never decide whatshould I resolve that I could keep. Because it is a promise. And breaking apromise is a little like breaking a heart. Especially when the promise is toyourself.

But I did alwaysexpect that I would feel different on the stroke of midnight every 31^stDecember. As if I would be new. Or my life would be new. As a kid, I expectedsome kind of magic, a swishing of wand or fairy dust or simply waking up to anew dream. Even through my teenage years as I developed thatoh-i-am-grown-up-and-therefore-world-weary air, I still secretly hoped forsomething new and bright to light up the rest of the year. And I think in somesecret part of my weary soul, I still cherish that hope.

To return to thedying year on hand and to be fair to it, 2011 did have its moments:

Leaving my footprints in thesand at a Puri beach as I walked towards some unknown beacon
India winning World Cup. It wasours. Not my dad’s generation’s.
The big family reunion and themadness and fun at Agra
The sheer beauty of a mistydawn at Jim Corbett National Park, as we went on a tiger’s trail in an openjeep across a river and saw Bambi instead
The rolling greens and the tallpine woods of a magical Ranikhet. Here I found the peace and the quiet joy I cravedfor
Trip to Latin America. The sightof snow-covered Andes from a plane window. Meandering through the streets ofSantiago. Sunday market at Bogota. And an underground wishing well.
My first Diwali without amma. It felt a little unreal.
My first trip to London. A lotof mad, mad work and then the exploration and walking and the cold. The historyand the mall. And a hope for return.
Lovely Christmas weekend. Walkingthrough an enchanting Park Street. Santa Clauses beaming from all directions. Acanopy of lights to walk under. The infectious joy on the roads. The fun lunchwith old friends. The memories and the jokes. Priceless.

I hope that 2012would also bring such moments for me. Some big. Some small. A forget-me-not aday would suit me just fine.

I hope that 2012also brings you loads of moments that fill you with happiness and make you feelalive. All the new that you want and all the old that you need. Happy New Year.

Country Cousin in London: Part II

2011-12-25T18:18:00.001+05:30

I stayed atHarrow-on-the-Hill. This place is almost like a mini-India, with Indians orthose of Indian origin abounding in all hues, shapes and sizes. It is quite abustling area during the day, with a busy mall, plenty of bakeries, cafes,restaurants dotting the place.

However, it isdifficult to identify it as the same place in the evenings, after dark. And I domean that literally. On my first day, I returned from office at around 8.30 pm –early by my standards in India. Guess what I found. The place was almost shutdown, with only a few eateries open and I was told that even those would closein a while. Seriously, you gotta be kidding me. And the roads were practicallydeserted. The short walk to my hotel felt like an eternity. I was kind offreaked out by how there was almost no one out and I constantly felt apprehensive,as if someone would leap out of the shadows and mug me. Call me paranoid if youwill but in a new city if you are walking down an area at barely 8.30 in theevening and find it deserted, I think you are entitled to feel a littleuncomfortable. I had initially thought that maybe it was a winter phenomenonbut I was told later by a friend who was there in summer that it was not.

So, you wouldunderstand if I felt wary of returning to the area after dark by myself. So, evenwhen I went out for sightseeing, I tried to be back by six-ish . Maybe if I makethe next trip in summer, it wouldn’t be as bad.

Anyway, back toall my doings in the city. Sunday was mylast day in London. I was taking the 10 o’clock flight next morning to returnhome.

Going by myprevious day’s experience I knew that I would have plenty of walking to dotoday also and it would be unrealistic to think that I could cover too manyplaces. So, I had to plan. I could either do the Museum circuit or try theNational Gallery and Trafalgar Square or do some shopping at Oxford Street.Well, I decided in favour of starting the day at National Gallery.

It was anotherblisteringly cold day but I thought I was well covered. There was only onesmall hitch. The gloves. Well, you see, I was wearing these woollen gloves,which were great for protection from cold but made my fingers thick, clumsy andunfamiliar. Result: I could either take photographs or I could keep my handswarm.

This was not somuch of a problem at the National Gallery. You are not allowed to take snaps. Problemsolved.

National Gallery, London

The entry to theGallery is free, though visitors are encouraged to voluntary donate any amountthey want to the museum. I thought it was a very nice system and wondered whywe could not try something similar back home. The Da Vinci section, however,required tickets and only a pre-decided number of visitors were allowed in asingle day. Unfortunately for me, the tickets were sold out for the day. Regardless,I was fascinated by all the art that I did see. The Biblical theme waspredominant with Christ, Mary, the Apostles and Parables portrayed in so manydifferent moods. Bold colours, vibrant strokes somehow made even the mostaustere of moments seem pagan.

And then therewere some which were unabashed in their sensuality. Delilah betraying Samson orVenus seducing Mars. There were moments of quiet contemplation too. A perplexedgaze looking out of a window or visions in dreams. Stern, family portraits ofroyalty and nobility – the kings and princes, the ladies and their corpulenthusbands, noble children trussed up and made to sit still for the paintings. Theywere all there. I wanted to sit and stare at some of them for hours but timewas a luxury that I didn’t have.

Plus, my feet werekilling me again. But there was no help, I had not even gone out to the Squareyet.

So, I walkeddown first to the Gallery shop and bought postcards of beautiful paintings,sternly lectured myself against buying something totally beautiful andextravagant like a deck of playing cards with Van Gogh’s Sunflowers printed ontheir back. I still think about them.

Christmas Tree at Trafalgar Square

Countdown to the Olympics

I walked out tothe Trafalgar Square and found that the sun which had peeked in the morning hadgone AWOL again. Yet, that didn’t quite dim my excitement. Here I was. At TrafalgarSquare. There was a huge Christmas tree, which was a gift from Norway toBritain. A clock showing the countdown to London Olympics. Families withsquealing kids enjoying a Sunday outside. Tourists too. Like me. I wanted tosit here and soak in the atmosphere. This famous place. And here I was.

Trafalgar Square

You could alsotake the Jubilee walkway from this point. It was a pathway designed tocommemorate the Queen’s silver jubilee in year 1977. I started to walk along itbut I couldn’t keep up. The cold and the fatigue were catching up with me fastand I still wanted to visit Oxford Street.

I alighted at Oxford Circus and stepped out into an almostenchanted place. There were lovely Christmas decorations all over the place. Thestreets were bustling with revelry and shoppers. I got hailed by a random someonewho claimed to work in a fashion house and complimented my coat. Well, thankyou very much. That is all I could say even as it all felt quite surreal.

I roamed aroundthe streets, walked into a few shops. Looked at some very quirky and colourfulmerchandise. Animal shaped clothes pegs and dish holders. Collapsible dressesand rings the size of two fingers.

There were lightsstringed across the roads. Santa and sleigh cut-outs smiling merrily at you. Allit needed was white snowflakes drifting slowly to the ground to turn theenchanting into magical.

When I boardedmy flight next day, I felt happy to be returning but I also left a wish behind.To come back again. Do all that I could not do this time. And somehow I hadthis feeling that I would be back. Amen.

Country Cousin in London: Part I

2011-12-19T01:17:00.004+05:30

Last evening inLondon on my first trip to the city. It’s freezing outside, though my room isquite toasty. I am exhausted and looking forward to returning home. And alsohoping that I return here again with some more leisure on my hand.

And you do needleisure to explore London. I am here for a business trip. The whole week wasextremely busy with nary a moment to spare. Thankfully, the work went moresmoothly than we expected and therefore, the weekend was mine.

I had firstthought, quite naively as it turned out, that in two days, I would be able tocover all the London staples like Buckingham’s, Tower of London, Madame Tussaud’s,Natural History Museum, Westminster etc. But boy, was I wrong!

The primaryreason for this is that in London you have to walk quite a lot. Apart from thefact that I am not used to walking quite so much, the unfamiliar boots and theheavy coat that I had to wear to keep the cold away made it all the moredifficult to walk around. It took me six hours to cover the entire Toweryesterday and four hours to go through National Gallery, Trafalgar Square andparts of Oxford Circus. And at the end of these hours, even though I have alittle more time to kill, I don’t have the stamina to do it.

Anyway, let mestart at the start. We landed on Tuesday morning and within an hour of reachingthe hotel, we were off for a meeting. The rest of the week went in really latenight and early morning working, peppered with presentations to clients andmeetings. Though in between this all, my boss – a London veteran – and some ofmy other colleagues took the time and trouble to explain to me how to moveabout in the city and how should I plan my exploration.

London is largeand well connected through tube and buses. There are cabs but these are quiteexpensive. My colleagues generally book them in advance when needed. Even thetube is quite costly if you buy a ticket everytime you take it. So, you buyOyster cards. My boss showed me the ropes the first day and I felt so much likethe gawky, awkward country cousin. it was the same when we visited the client’soffice, which was this really beautiful, sophisticated, grand and awesomebuilding in the Temple area. This client has its own security and protocolsystem and it can be quite overwhelming if you are visiting them for the firsttime. Country cousin, that was me!

Friday nightafter the final presentation was over, we went out for dinner and a late night movie.Sherlock Holmes and the Game of Shadows it was. A highly stylized Holmes,essayed by Robert Downey Jr. and Watson by Jude Law, this Guy Ritchie movie wasinteresting but I found it a little surreal. In my head, Holmes has always beenmore cerebral rather than this really well trained action hero.

Saturday morning, I set out on my own. It was drizzling and the wind felt like some vengefulwitch with a broom wanting to eat me alive. I went down to Tower Hill and spentthe day gawking at the beautiful sight of the Tower Bridge stretching acrossThames, listening to Yeoman’s tour of the Tower and gawking at all the echoesof all those centuries of History. It is a painful place, where traitors –either real or imagined – were imprisoned, executed or murdered. The Tower isalso home to the Crown jewels – they are majestic but I could not help butrecall how a lot of their glory is at the expense of nations like ours.

Yet, myfavourite part of the day was at sunset, when with really aching feet, I walkeddown to the pier, where you can take a boat trip. The royal blue and stonegrandeur of the bridge silhouetted against a sky turning a pale crimson thatbled out into the blue, as Thames undulated underneath, as if smilingly saying, “Somuch water under the bridge. Yet here you are!”

Tower Bridge at Sunset

Dear Author, “What’s wrong with you?”

2011-11-19T18:24:00.001+05:30

Inheritance, Book 4, Christopher Paolini

I have justfinished reading the fouth and final book in Christopher Paolini’s Inheritance/ Eragon series. Finally. And boy, was it a chore! It is an extremely popularseries and loads of people all round the world apparently love it. I don’t. I readthe final book simply as an obligation.

There areseveral other wildly successful and loved books which I barely can tolerate andsome I outright dislike. I know saying such things aloud is blasphemy (grins)but I think I would dedicate this post to such books / book series. The booksare in no particular order and some may even have started out promisinglybefore crumbling into a heap of illogic, no resolutions and plain ol’ ‘get-it-over-already’.

Twilight Series, Stephanie Meyer: Okay,don’t shoot me. Part I of the final book’s movie version, “Breaking Dawn”released earlier this week and is apparently generating mass hysteria andwild-eyed frenzy all over the world. I, for one, have difficulty understandingthe lure. The first book starts off with an interesting plot. Girl moves to anew place, new school. Girl is attracted to a mysterious, good-looking classmate. Boy likes her back though he has a strange way of showing it. Turns outhe is a vampire – a vegetarian vampire, if you will – and he tries to resisther because he wants to protect her from his kind. But it’s true love for BellaSwan and she is willing to sacrifice everything for him. After an abduction andrescue from another psychotic vampire, all’s well in their world. Okay, thegirl – I can’t call her heroine, she has to display some guts for that – is plaininsipid, whiny and clingy. Edward – the vampire hero - is intriguing and noble,the shining knights kind sans the armour. But it’s all a little different, so Ilike it. Then the horror starts in the second book. All of a sudden, you havevampire royalty threatening to kill our oh-so-delectable heroine. The werewolvescome to party but there is just one problem – they are arch enemies ofvampires. And then there’s Jacob, Bella’s best friend, who turns out to be awerewolf and in love with Bella. Guess, what happens next. In one trulycringeworthy and incredulous scene, Bella is camped out in snowy mountains withboth the vampire and the werewolf – they are united in their goal to protectlittle Ms. Damsel-in-perpetual-danger. I can’t precisely remember why. And becauseshe is freezing and her boyfriend Edward being vampire is cold to touch, shesleeps – literally – with Jacob to get warm and here’s the whopper, with Edward’spermission. He is a saint, ain’t he? But the final cake is taken by *spoilerahead* when Jacob finds himself mated for life with Edward and Bella’s daughterliterally the moment she is born and just like that the triangle becomes aweird set of parallel lines! “spoiler ends*

The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho: I readquite often how celebs cite this book as their favourite. A fabulous read whichin a way opens their eyes to the truth of life. Me? I found it difficult tofinish, despite its slim size and simple language. Because it moralizes. Preaches.And I hate that kind of tone. It reminds me of Moral Science lessons in schooland I couldn’t stand the subject. At the end of every chapter, there is almosta moral of the story kind of lesson. It does have its moments though. I especiallyliked the concept of how the entire universe conspires to help you attain theone thing you truly desire. The story is simple but pretentious – a feat that Ihave not seen many authors accomplish and I am not too sure that I like it.

Eragon / Inheritance Series, ChristopherPaolini: I just couldn't get over how ambitious it tried to be while findingits inspiration in two exceptional and unparalleled worlds that Rowling andJ.R.R Tolkien created. The quest to defeat an all pervasive evil ruler -Galbatorix - with the help of various magical species from elves to dwarves anddragons (the last alone were a new addition to this world) seems like a paleimitation of the epic battle that Aragorn (see how even the name is similar),Frondo, Gandalf and others wage against Sauron in Lord of the Rings. In fact, there is a hint of Hunger Games also in the last throes of the book. And Eragon is no epic hero. The secondarycharacters like Roran, Nasauda and Murtagh are more interesting. In fact, it isone of my peeves that Paolini leaves so much unresolved when it comes to thesepeople. Eragon is insipid and is only acircumstantial hero. He would have been very ordinary if a dragon had nothatched for him. He whines quite a lot. He has no true ties except with Saphira,his dragon. He pines for Arya, the elf but never has the courage to speak toher freely. Roran, on the other hand, is a self-made hero. Here is a man, ahero who wins his battles through sheer courage, ingenuity and wit, withoutmagic. A true master of his fate. This holds true of Nasauda too. A young girl,barely older than Eragon, she leads an epic army into a war against thegreatest evil. She has no magic in her. But she is gritty, a great strategistand an astute leader. She has her moments of vanity and regret but they quicklypass. And Muratgh! I wish Paolini had taken more time and effort to sketch thatparticular strain. Even Galbatorix - when we finally - see him comes across asquite ordinary for a villain competing with the likes of Voldemort or Sauron.Trust me when I say that the climax was quite anti-climactic. Plus, the bookcould have been half in length.

Books by Chetan Bhagat: I have read twoand have no intention of reading others. At least, not because I want to. It couldbe because my sister has bought one and for the lack of anything better I doso. I have read One Night at Call Centre andThree Mistakes of my Life. If I wereto write about all the things I dislike about his books, I would never stop. Butfor starters how about the stories themselves, which are like bad Bollywoodpotboilers in English. Phone call from God, anyone? And what about romancingbest friend’s sister and sleeping with her on the terrace? That’s certainlyoriginal. Then there’s the writing style and language. Which is not too bad, ifyou were a seventh standard student writing in school magazine. Then it would haveshown potential. I know a lot of people like his books especially because thelanguage is everyday, simple English but I would direct them to the inimitableR. K. Narayan to see how the same tool can be used to greater and beautiful effect.

A House for Mr. Biswas, V. S. Naipual:No! I can see you gasping in horror. It is a classic. Critically acclaimed. A literarygem. Sorry, I didn’t like it. I felt no empathy for Mr. Biswas or his miserablelittle quest for a house. And not because his life has no grandeur of an epicor the shine, no matter how brittle, of a posh sophisticated society. Simply because,his character seems like one drawn out torture with no little moments ofhappiness at all. If you have read the great Hindi author Premchand, you wouldsee what I am talking about. he also writes about the common man – the farmer,the daily labourer, the shepherd – but there are moments in his stories, evenwhen they end tragically, where the characters see hope and for a shininginstant, all’s well with the world. Naipual’s book lacks that.

That’s it for now. There are some others that I could talk about butI see the length of my post and realize that it is a potential sleeping drug. :-)

But I would love to hear about books that you did not like and thenwe can compare notes.

Until then, ciao.

Ukraine Unexplored

2011-11-03T20:33:00.000+05:30

So, I am backhome after a trip to Ukraine. Yes, you heard right. Ukraine.

When I was firsttold about the trip, I was like “Huh?” I mean who goes to Ukraine, right? I wasproven wrong when I had to go down to their embassy in Delhi to apply for visain person. You wouldn’t believe the rush that had come to apply for visa. Dancers,students, businessmen galore. That was an eye-opener.

Anyhow, afterspending almost an entire working day convincing them that I had no nefariousmotives in visiting Kiev, I finally got the visa about a week back.

I reached Kievon Monday afternoon and left yesterday morning. Since I spent most of my time inmeetings, working and presenting, I had no time to explore the city, except onmy way to client’s office from the hotel and back and on the way to theairport.

The glimpses I hadof the city made me really wish that I had more time. It is a city rich inhistory and endowed with breathtaking natural beauty also. It is late autumn inthe city currently and the temperature is generally below 10 degrees. The lovelygold, russet, green and orange of the falling leaves, crunching under feet remindedme of Keats’s ‘To Autumn’, though I suspect that not everyone in the countrysee this time as “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”.

The architectureclearly was similar to what you would expect in the Russian cities. The hotel Istayed in had a beautiful old world facade and the interiors were gildedopulence without going over the top.

Since I do nothave more details to provide about the city, I leave you with some picturesthat

I managed to capture from my hotel balcony and cab windows.

Until next time,ciao.

These black and gold angels watch over the city

View from my balcony

Lobby at Opera Hotel, Kiev

I am lovin' it!

2011-10-04T16:54:00.000+05:30

It’s that timeof the year again. The time of glorious festivals – Durga Puja / Navratri andthen Diwali. Now, while Diwali is a nationwide phenomenon, Durga Puja /Navratri is big in pockets of India like Bengal, Gujarat etc.

Anyway, I lovethis time of the year. The city is decked up bright and beautiful. Everyone’sin good spirit – well, mostly – and I get four days straight of holidays forthe Pujas!!! And that my dear, is why I love the Pujas the most.

My neighbourhood Durga Idol - last year

When I was akid, I used to really enjoy gallivanting around the town, staring up at the gorgeousand huge idols of the goddess and her children, the menacing visage ofMahisasur, the breathtaking splendour of the pandals and the yummy delicious food. It was one of those raretimes in the year, when I went out. And I was not alone in this regard. Most ofmy friends, cousins were also in the same situation. Remember, these were thedays before parents used to give humongous amounts of pocket money that couldbe spent in multiplexes, coffee shops and shopping malls. We were no models ofobedience but we definitely did not have the freedom that kids these days have.

But, I digress. Thepoint is that I do not like this pandalhopping anymore. I have not done this for more than a decade now. I no longerhave patience for the jostling, pushing crowds, where some creep would alwaystry to grope and feel and some overbearingly fat lady would always be steppingon my toes. And I have one of the biggest pujasof the city right next door practically, which incidentally makes the lives ofthe neighbourhood residents quite difficult with all those big barricades.

Yet, I love thesefour days. Ever since I have started working, I think I live for these longholidays. Puja is one of them. For these four days, I do not step out of my house.I just laze around, read, eat, watch TV, sleep, enjoy the view of brightlydressed throngs of people from my balcony and while away my time. And thisyear, these four days have followed a weekend – so in effect, six days of doingnothing! You have to be me to appreciate the beauty of this, after the really,really terrible time I have had this year at work.

So far, I havespent half of this time catching up on sleep – getting up at 11 every morning –reading anything and everything (from Tagore to Gibran to fantasy Romance),cleaning my room (my only useful but back-breaking exercise), watchingMasterchef Australia religiously and relishing my solitude. (Even as I writethis, my mom is sitting next to me and berating, “God knows, what’s wrong withyou! People go out and enjoy at this time and you do not even feel like doingthis!” )

My black beanbag is my throne these days. I loll about it in it and plan my wardrobe forDiwali. Now that is my favouritefestival. The lights, the crackers, the family get-together, the jokes, the samosas – I love it all. I love deckingup – I especially shop for a sari forthe occasion. I love artistically arranging the candles and diyas around myhouse. I adore the time spent with my family, laughing and pulling each other’sleg. It is during such occasions that I cannot help but thank my lucky starsthat I have all these wonderful people as my family. Although this year wouldalso be a little sad. I will miss my grandma but I hope she would be watchingus.

So, while allyou busy people go about your business, I am going to drag my throne in fromthe veranda, put my feet up and do nothing. Just nothing at all!

Happy Pujas.

Murphy - Part II

2011-09-25T16:33:00.005+05:30

Note to Readers: This is Part II of my post on Murphy. Click on the following link to read Part I: http://bluestockingzblog.blogspot.com/2011/07/murphy-part-i.html

“Hello, again.”

I looked up tosee a familiar face but could not quite place him.

“Um. Hi.”

I think he readthe confusion on my face because he squatted down on one knee to bring himselfto my eye level.

“You don’tremember me?” he smiled and things kind of clicked into place. And I had nointention of admitting that.

“No. I am sorry.”I shoved the book I had been browsing, back into the shelf and got up. Damn. ButI had been looking forward to splurging on books this quiet evening. It hadbeen such a long time too.

“Really?” He hadfollowed me out of the bookstore, even as I tried to reach my driver over thephone. Pick up the phone, I prayed. He didn’t.

“Yes”, I turnedon him. “Now leave before I get you into trouble for harassing me.” I redialledmy driver’s number.

He stoodunperturbed next to me. “He is not going to answer the call.”

I startedwalking up the street. “Not until I want him to”, he continued to speak behindme.

I whirledaround. “What utter crap! I do not know who you are, so stop following mearound!”

“Really?” heasked once more in a quiet voice, laced with amusement.

And I simply didnot know what to do. I thought of – and more than once, mind you – engaging allthese people passing me by in putting him in his place but I knew that thatwould be of no use. Because despite my stubborn refusal to say it aloud so far,I knew him. Despite having met him just once months ago, I knew him. And I hadknown him a long time before that, curse his blasted soul.

I tried tochange tack. “Okay. Okay. I know you think you are Murphy but look I don’t seehow it concerns me in any which way. And you know it is not proper to harass awoman on the streets like this. You look like a gentleman, so it would be...”

“I have a dealto propose”, he cut off my tirade.

“A deal?” I sputtered,before reclaiming my usual glib tongue. “What sort of deal? And why would I beinterested in that?”

“A deal thatwould rid you of that wretched law of mine.”

My eyes went wideat that. But I came to my senses. “Get lost.”

I quickly strodeaway from him, refusing to look back. My phone rang. My driver was calling toenquire where I was. I gave him my location and as I got into the car, I pretendedto just cast my eyes around. He was nowhere to be seen.

Good riddance, Ithought to myself. But then why did I feel as if I had lost an opportunity?

I had no answerto that, until we met again.

Latino Wonders

2011-09-04T19:38:00.003+05:30

Don’t be misledby the title. It is not about wonder of Latin America. It is more about whatLatinos found wondrous about us. I was flattered, amused and amazed – all ofthem put together at various points. Do tell me what you make of the following:

“How long did you have totravel to reach here?”
“So, did you go to US to studyEnglish?”
“Do you wear Sarees to office?”This was from someone whose wife was an absolute India fan and found Indiafascinating. He, himself, seemed to have a fondness for the country.
“Do you eat with hand?” Same guyas above. He had to do this at some restaurant in Kuala Lumpur, where he hadspent some years.
“How come you speak to eachother in English?”
“Are all the people in Indiavegetarian? No? Then why are both of you?” This we got asked quite frequently,since both of us were Vegetarian.
“Is India really as spiritualas they show in Movies?”
“You have such nice skincolour? Everyone here wants it. I will give you a discount because you havesuch nice colour!”

Despite andbecause of everything, I found the people warm and friendly, as eager to showoff their land and culture as any of us. Be it nodding a ‘no’ to our request of“English, please” or an “Ah, yes” when they did manage to understand what wewere trying through bad mime. The clients and colleagues who very thoughtfully translatedthe Spanish menus, our queries for vegetarian food to uncomprehending waitersand waitresses and wrote down for us the places to visit during our free time.

So, Gracias, Latin America.

Latino Days

2011-09-04T19:16:00.003+05:30

Yesterday, whenthe plane touched down on Kolkata’s NSC Bose Airport, I felt a huge smile splitmy face. Homecoming does that to me. And this time, I had returned from halfthe world away. Literally.

I was on a twoweek trip to Latin America. Chile and Colombia to be precise.

I was excited inthe weeks leading up to the trip. But also very tired. It was an official tripand there was loads to be done in the days leading up to it. Late nightsworking. Whole nights working. Weekends. Early mornings. You name it and thechances were that I was working at that time. Add to that, the pressure ofunseen clients, who were – surprise, surprise – very demanding. Even a few hoursbefore we were to board our flight, my colleague and I were busy instructing theteam who would be working at the office when we were gone. Phew.

Willy-nilly, weboarded the flight(s). And boy, was it a long trip. Forty eight hours, if youwant a number. Including a twelve hour stopover in Sao Paolo. And no, we couldnot go out because that required a transit visa.

View of Andes from a plane

But the firstsight of snow-covered Andes, as we approached Santiago, made me feel so glad. Itwas breath-taking. I have professed my love for the mountains in my previousposts. This sight took it to a new level. I had never seen the white peaks fromthe height of the sky. And there I was, having my jaw drop, eyes wide open andheart stopping with the sight of snowy mountains spread out like some feast forall hedonists below us. Awesome.

The first threedays in Santiago were spent in a whirlwind of workshops, meeting, telecons anddinners / lunches with clients. But I still could savour the view of thosemountains from my balcony. The darkness that still enveloped the city at 7.30in the morning. The biting cold that penetrated the two layers of clothes. The wide,clean streets. The very European and chic feel of the city. The Spanish architecturein the older parts of the city. And of course, the chivalry of Latino men. Yes,they open the doors for you and would never precede you when leaving a room. (Idon’t particularly need this but it does make a girl feel good, I swear). I alsospotted a couple of Marutis (the cars, in case you are wondering) and made merealize that it is truly a global world.

But it was notall good. Finding vegetarian food feels like a quest for Holy Grail. It got alittle easier, once we located the nearest Subway. And then there’s thelanguage issue. Getting people to understand English is nearly always anexercise in frustration. And no, it’s not an accent issue. The Latinosgenerally do not know English. Spanish is the lingua franca. It is not thatdifficult a language to follow if you are reading it. The staccato speech,however, is a trial. And the place is expensive. A five minute ride in the cabwould cost you a couple of thousand pesos or about hundred rupees. Compared toIndia, though people told us that it is cheaper compared to Brazil, Argentinaetc. Especially the branded stuff. We, however, found that buying souvenirs wasalso exorbitant. I think, we were also limited by our ability to bargain, withlanguage and our so obvious foreign appearances being the leading causes.

Colombia wasanother six hours flight away. Now, this was a country, I went to with a lot ofpre-conceived notions. Drugs, lawlessness et al, fed by books and movies, ledby Mr. Forsythe and company. Also, Wikitravel advised not walking alone atnight, not hailing cabs on your own and locking the doors of the cabs, whensitting inside!

So, I waspleasantly surprised in Bogota. I am sure that those parts of Colombia exist. Butthe area that we were staying in and the places we went to were decidedly upmarket,with a distinct cosmopolitan feel to them.

Bogota was alsocold but closer to Kolkata winters – chilly but pleasant. My hotel room was airy,spacious and cheery, with full-length windows dominating one wall. The foodsituation was also better, though French Fries would turn out to be ourprincipal source of sustenance in these two weeks that we spent in LatinAmerica.

Metal Sculpture of a Salt Miner, Zipaquira

We had a weekendat our disposal. We chose to visit Catedral de Sal de Zipaquirá on the firstday. It came highly recommended by a Colombian we had met in Santiago. It is anunderground Cathedral, built in a salt mine. It is some 200 metres below thesurface of the earth and you walk the entire way in and out. It is quiteawesome and you can taste salt on your tongue even as you speak. There is asalt waterfall – an entire wall covered with raw salt. We also took a tour ofthe miner’s route, which involved a five minute walk in a completely dark andnarrow cave, with our headlamps turned off. And trust me, it feels like hoursif you have to let you hands be your eyes.

But my favouritepart was the wishing well. It was a small pool, with coins of variousdenominations glittering at its bottom. You could make a wish by turning yourback to the well and throwing a coin (denomination and currency irrelevant)over your left shoulder with your right hand. I made a wish and threw the coin.And it hit the water. Not everyone’s did. So, I like to live in hope J

Anyway, whatsurprised me that this man-made wonder is barely thirty years old and notcenturies, like I had originally believed. While I was still awed, I realizedthat it was a very clever piece of marketing that we could learn from backhome. Same was the case with El Museo del Oro (the Gold Museuem). Beautiful prehistoricand tribal gold ornaments, weapons and other artefacts displayed artistically withcleverly designed videos, photographs, light and sound shows that reel you in. Andentry is free. It is well-maintained, with no empty cases or missing descriptions.The thought of Indian Museum trying something similar crossed my mind severaltimes.

Once, theweekend was over, we again spent most of our time working, though on the lastday, we visited this delightful cafe called Crepes and Waffles. It turned outto be a chain of cafes, quite famous in Colombia. It had, much to our delight,quite a spread of vegetarian dishes, including one called Gandhi!

At the end oftwo weeks, though, we were ready to return home. And my heart soared higher andhigher as we changed flights at Sao Paolo, Doha and then finally at Delhi. It wasfitting that on the flight to Kolkata, I saw one of the most amazing visions. Ahuge white lion, sitting regally on the cottony clouds, with the morning sun,shining bright. A pity, I do not have a picture to share with you.

Quite a longpost this has been. So, I will end it here. Although I will definitely doanother one on the most common questions / comments that we heard. It wasstrange being a foreigner and being the object of some other people’spreconceived notions.

An experience toremember, to say the least. This travelling to places actually half a world,three continents and seven seas away.

Until next time.Ciao.

Light in a Salt Mine

2011-08-28T04:56:00.000+05:30

Groping in the dark, through a narrow tunnel, 200 metres below earth. Knowing what’s ahead of you through precious touch – of a garment, a scrape of rough stone, a taste of raw salt. It’s an experience – a mix of excitement and novelty, and just a dash of fear. What if you can no longer touch anyone or anything but air? What if the murmur of excited voices that echo around you fade away and you find yourself all alone. But, luckily for you, some short moments later, there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Literally. Like you wished there to be light and there was light. And as you look behind into the gaping maws of darkness, you know that you would never again take Light, no matter how feeble, for granted.

Murphy – Part I

2011-07-24T13:55:00.001+05:30

“Hi. I am Murphy.”

I turned around at the voice. You must be kidding, I thought, even as I took in his appearance. He could have passed off as a successful executive at his casual best in blue jeans and white shirt. Or he could have been a bohemian writer or an artist. Difficult to peg him.

In return, he just waited with polite patience.

“Sorry?” I managed.

“I said, I am Murphy”, he repeated, courteous and bland. “I believe you wanted to meet me.”

“Huh?” I surely wasn’t doing a good job of seeming articulate.

“I said, I believe...” he started to repeat but I came out of my stupor and cut him off.

“I know what you said. I don’t quite know what to make of it. And I am not sure I want to know any further. So, if you will excuse me, I am waiting for a friend.” I began to walk off towards the entrance of the restaurant in the swanky city mall.

“This is not a trick, you know.” Damn. He was still by my side.

“I don’t know what you are talking about”, I insisted. But what if it was. Nah. Such things don’t really happen to mundane people like me. I lengthened my stride. Well, as much as, I could, which wasn’t much.

And it was an exercise in vain. Because he still refused to go away.

“Look”, I turned and tried to give him one of my frosty glares (I am quite good at it, you know). “You could be Murphy, Brian or Murtaza. I don’t know why you are following me. Why you think that I ever wanted to meet you. Hell, I don’t know any man named Murphy.”

“Are you sure?”

When I just stared at him mulishly, he smiled and leaned back against the rails of the aisle in which we stood. “You are early”, he said pleasantly. “But your friend is likely to be late. Very late because of the traffic. And look you have not even brought a book to pass the time.”

“You can’t possibly know that.” I was adamant. It was true that I was early but I had not called my friend yet. I had been about to when he – I refused to consider him as Murphy – had appeared.

“I do.” His assurance was maddening. “Call and check.” With those words he simply sauntered off.

And guess what, he was right. Only, that entire episode seemed like some alternate reality. But I knew, even as a chill passed through me, that it was not.

He was Murphy.

The question was, would he meet me again?

One for Friends

2011-07-16T18:53:00.001+05:30

Having passed a personal milestone very recently, I was wondering where life leads from here. And when I begin to think along these lines, I can be extremely brooding. But thank god for friends who pull you out from detrimental self-introspection.

I am lucky that way. I am not among those who make friends everywhere. And when I say friends, I mean ‘friends’, not just mere friendly acquaintances. I have plenty of those but friends I have only a handful and those I really cherish.

I am proud to say that I can count some of my family members among my closest friends. My cousins with whom I grew up and a few others I discovered late in life – they all bring such joy to me. I know I am always welcome in their homes and in their hearts. If I go to their city, they would meet me half-way and make my stay warm and cheerful.

Then there are those that I met along the paths of life. Some I have known for more than a decade (cheers to you, girls – you know who you are) and a few that my career has gifted me. I am so blessed that I have them in my life.

So, yeah. This post is about counting my blessings. And my friends, you are right up there. You make an ordinary day, extraordinary. You make cribbing seem like the best pastime. You add that extra zing to watching movies. Shopping with you is sheer bliss. Cards games with you turn unbearably hot afternoons into slices of paradise. Arguing, squabbling and quarrelling with you only makes me realize how much I miss you all when we are asunder. Coffee is just not the same without you.

We are so different. You, with your vivacious personality. You, with your deep soul of a poet. You, so brave and stoic in bearing your responsibilities. You, whose world revolves around her family. You, quiet and sober, until you are with us. You, such an adoring father. You, an incorrigible flirt. You, shy and timid. You with your love of uninhibited dancing. All of you. So different.

But it comes down to that one big commonality. Us. We are friends. And thank god, for Us.

Sunlit Perfection and Wodehouse

2011-07-03T18:55:00.003+05:30

Image via Wikipedia

I have been thinking about doing a post on one of my favourite feel-good authors for a long time. He is British, witty and a master of his genre. A final clue: Jeeves.

I discovered Wodehouse in college. I had heard of him earlier, of course. But it was finally in college that I finally had the chance to explore the world of beautiful comic timing, with and satire that he so effortlessly created.

I became a member of British Council’s library to have easy access to loads of reference books that they had on English Literature. But those who know me would tell you that I would never leave a library without taking something for my own pleasure. Since BCL in those days, stocked British authors almost exclusively (the result of literary myopia in my opinion), the choice of books to read for fun was limited to classics (I adore them by the way) and Wodehouse.

My first encounter with Bertie Wooster and his cronies, the Drones, his ensemble of aunts – from scary to the one with potential for affection – and Jeeves opened to me a whole new world of witty dialogue and situational comedy that is almost unparalleled. Wodehouse is laughing at the catastrophes that invade the lives of rich British aristocracy, abounding in absent minded peers, good-for-nothing bachelors, shrewd spinsters and occasional damsels in distress. And you know what the biggest laugh is – the rescue of the gentry by the supremely intelligent butler, Jeeves. There can be no greater commentary on the redundancy of the gentry than the ease with which Jeeves extricates Wooster and the entourage of his world from all sorts of hilarious (to us, not to them) situations.

There is humour in every line and in every expression. The names of the characters are full of comic delight. Who else can come with names like Wooster (sounds like a wuss), Pongo Twistleton and Fink-Nottle for characters. And what about Blandings as the estate name for his series about a pig-loving peer, Lord Emsworth. Yes, the peers have weird loves – pigs for Emsworth and newts for Fink-Nottle. The troubles in their world are no greater than the schemes to win the annual fat pig competition, the attempts to steal a prized French cook, getting bachelors engaged and married to rich heiresses and avoiding dictatorial aunts. I can clearly visualise the scene in one of the Jeeves’ novels where Anatole after work unwinding is rudely interrupted by the ungainly sight of Wooster teetering outside his window. And who can forget the mastery and cunning with which Jeeves persuades Wooster to get rid of his pride, an unattractive moustache.

Sample this gem of telegraphic exchange between Wooster and his Aunt Dahlia Travers, who stays near Market Snodsbury (really, how does he come up with these names) in Right Ho, Jeeves. Bertie has just returned has just returned home after spending nearly two months with the said aunt and therefore is perplexed when he get the following wire:

Aunt Dahlia: Come at once. Travers.

Wooster: Perplexed. Explain. Bertie.

Aunt Dahlia: What on earth is there to be perplexed about, ass? Come at once. Travers.

Wooster: How do you mean come at once? Regards. Bertie.

Aunt Dahlia: I mean come at once, you maddening half‑wit. What did you think I meant? Come at once or expect an aunt's curse first post tomorrow. Love. Travers.

Wooster: When you say “Come” do you mean “Come to Brinkley Court”? And when you say “At once” do you mean “At once”? Fogged. At a loss. All the best. Bertie.

Aunt Dahlia: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. It doesn't matter whether you understand or not. You just come at once, as I tell you, and for heaven's sake stop this back‑chat. Do you think I am made of money that I can afford to send you telegrams every ten minutes. Stop being a fathead and come immediately. Love. Travers.

Honestly, when I read these books I can barely restrain myself from laughing-out aloud. The books are such a refreshing change from the slap-stick humour which abounds in today’s world – be it movies (remember the David Dhawan – Govinda presentations) or in writing. Sarcasm has replaced genuine humour. Most people seem to find only poking fun at others funny. Not that Wodehouse does not do that but it is done with such good-nature and warmth that you cannot help but bask in the ‘sunlit perfection’ as Stephen Fry calls Wodehouse’s world.

If you have never read a Wodehouse, you don’t know what you are missing. As for me, I have upon me the delightful urge to read them all over again. And this time, I would buy them for my collection.

Ciao.

Awesome Saturdays

2011-07-02T10:38:00.000+05:30

Today’s a Saturday. Normally I sleep late on Saturdays but today I got up fairly early by my standards. And guess what? I am still feeling quite perky. That is next to impossible on any other days. So, this must be the Saturday effect.

I love Saturdays. Honestly, how can you not? The weekend is fresh, new and shiny. Like leaves after rains. Full of so many possibilities. Movies, lunch with friends. Shopping for something totally unnecessary. Glorious lazing and couch potato-hood. Gorging and binging on decidedly unhealthy stuff. And sometimes the occasionally useful stuff like cleaning the room. You can do as you choose with it.

And you know what the best part is? You still have another day of no work to look forward to.

So, does that make Sunday as great as Saturday? I say not. See, Sunday is a precursor to Monday blues. You know that weekend is practically over and the long work-week looms large. Sunday evenings are in fact the worst. One short night and it’s all over. Another weekend disappears in the maws of the new week.

That is why on Sundays, I prefer not doing anything. Just stay at home and brood over the unfairness of Mondays in general. See? The mere mention of Sundays and its bosom buddy has turned my chirpy post into an almost melancholy litany.

Let’s get back to Saturday awesomeness. So, what are you planning on doing today? Me – I am still pondering the possibilities. I am vaguely nourishing the thought of catching Delhi Belly in a theatre very close to my home, late in the evening. I am also mentally making a list of pros and cons of using the afternoon / early evening to set my dresser right. Pros are obvious. But the con is bigger. It will eat into my don’t-feel-like-doing-anything mood. Decisions. Decisions. I am currently reading Golding’s Lord of the Flies. I might also add Austen re-reading to my current book mix. But which one? I am leaning towards Darcy big-time. It is hard not to. So, Pride & Prejudice, it is likely to be.

I think I might cook also today. Miracles do happen, you know. But what is the question. Nothing too strenuous for sure.

Sigh. There are just so many choices. I am spoilt for them on a Saturday. While I mull over my options for the day, what are your Saturday plans? I hope that they are fun.

Ciao.

Songs for the Rains

2011-06-26T18:07:00.001+05:30

There is something about rains – it brings out the yearnings for hot pakoras and adrak-wali-chai. It makes its own music – the soft patter of drizzle and the hard drum of a heavy shower on the roof. The deep bass of thunder rolling somewhere deep within the heavens and the streaks of purple brightening the grey skies. And sometimes, the music of the rains needs accompaniment by the songs of our heart:

Aapki aankhon mein (Film: Ghar): When you sit in the balcony, listening to the winds chime as the rain turns an early evening pearly, the strains of this song come floating to you. Beautiful lyrics, sung with so much love. Aapki aankhon mein kuch mehke hue se raaz hain / aapse bhi khoobsurat aapke andaz hai (Your eyes hide some fragrant secrets and more your nature / style is more beautiful than you are – the English translation just doesn’t stir the same feelings). And as the song progresses, you sigh dreamily and it teases a soft smile from you.
Rimjhim runjhun (Film: 1942 – A Love Story): Lot of people feel that R.D. Burman’s last movie as music director is perhaps one of his best. While the album consists of more famous Ek ladki ko dekha and Kuch na kaho, when it rains, the song which comes to mind is the equally melodious Rimjhim rimjhim, runjhun runjhun. The song captures the sound of rain and the joy of lovers sharing that music.
I need you now (Artist: Lady Antebellum): Rain drums hard on the tin roof, venting some unknown passions buried deep in its heart as the world around sleeps or tries to sleep. You stand next to window watching the storm lash the trees, batter the vulnerable buds from the branches. You are both awed and intrigued by this display of raw power, as if someone up there deeply needs something or someone. Lady Antebellum’s beautiful song suits such weather perfectly. The lyric sings of a need that cannot be controlled. It’s a quarter after one, I am alone and I need you now. Said I wouldn’t call but I have lost all control and I need you now. Perfect.
Bheegi bheegi raton mein and Kabhi toh nazar milao (Artist: Adnan Sami): The Pakistani singer’s debut album in India was everything a romantic heart could wish for. Especially the first two songs. Kabhi toh nazar milao – a duet sung by Sami and the inimitable Asha Bhonsle – is just right for the rainy afternoons when you are all snug and warm in your bed and a tad restless for some unknown horizon. Bheegi bheegi raton mein is the song for the people who have loved and lost and the rainy night makes the ache a little deeper, a little more al
Ek ladki bheegi bhaagi si (Film: Chalti ka Naam Gaadi): This old song from a black and white movie is such a timeless blend of mischief and flirtation, wonderful vocals and great picturization. Sample the lyrics: Tan bheega hai, sar geela hai / Uska ka koi pench bhi dheela hai (the second line hints at mental instability of the girl, bedraggled and wet). You have to see the song to understand the warm chemistry between two unlikely stars – goofy Kishore Kumar and the ethereally beautiful Madhubala. The latter plays a rich girl who has had a car breakdown on a rainy night and Kumar the mechanic who is repairing it. It’s funny and it’s endearing.

These are my personal favourites. Would love to hear about yours. Ciao.

Of Cats, Dogs and Other Sayings

2011-06-18T20:14:00.001+05:30

It’s been raining cats and dogs in my city since yesterday. Thank god, it’s Saturday today and I don’t have to step out unless I want to. Anyway, this post is not about my experiences in a rain-battered city but more about cats and dogs – the saying that is.

I find it fascinating how some phrases are such an integral part of our vocabulary that we never stop to think where do they come from. Take raining cats and dogs, for example. After all, it never literally rains cats and dogs, does it?

Yesterday once I reached office and settled down, I googled the saying (ever wondered where we would be without Google?). It took me to the site http://www.phrases.org.uk where I found quite a bit of interesting info. Apparently no one quite knows what is the exact origin of the phrase. There are several theories though.

Wolves and dogs in Norse mythology are associated with Odin, the god of storms. Cats are often seen as the pets of witches who could ride the win. Hence, some speculate, that could have led to the saying. There is another one which talks of how cats and dogs were washed from thatched roof during winter, where they would have buried themselves to find warmth!

But the most probable is the one where Jonathan Swift has been accredited with the origin of the saying. In one of his poems about the general mess caused by rains in London, he refers to how cats and dogs drown in the rain and are washed out into the street (“Drown'd Puppies, stinking Sprats, all drench'd in Mud, Dead Cats and Turnip-Tops come tumbling down the Flood”, ‘A Description of City Shower’). One of the earliest records of the phrase in its current form is found in Swift’s own ‘A Complete Collection of Polite and Ingenious Conversation’ in 1738:"I know Sir John will go, though he was sure it would rain cats and dogs".

There are other not so illogical idioms and sayings also. For instance, stubborn as a donkey. Now there is plenty of evidence of that. And too many cooks spoil the broth. I am pretty sure that most of us have experience on that front. Ditto for you cannot teach an old dog a new trick.

Curiosity killed the cat is another matter though. How many of us have ever seen that happen? Again there is no definite idea on where did the phrase come from. It is in its earliest form was seen Ben Jonson’s ‘Every Man in His Humour’, where Care was supposed to be capable of killing a cat. Its current form apparently is, however, merely a century old, tracing back to 1898 in ‘Galveston Daily News’.

A cat (the animal is all over the place!) is also said to have nine lives. This one, it is said, originated in ancient Egypt, where Pasht or Bashtet, a cat-headed goddess was attributed with nine lives.

Gosh! I sure could use nine lives. Or may be not. It just might get too boring!

Ciao.

Best and Worst of Times

2011-06-10T16:18:00.002+05:30

These are the best of times. These are the worst of times. Dickens might have been thinking of French revolution but I cannot but help draw a parallel with the state of affairs in my own country.

Normally, I am pretty clued in about what is happening around me. I keep abreast of all the happenings, without spending hours watching the news channels show the same clippings and analysing them to death.

This last week has been the same. Only I am not too sure as to what has been happening. Who is right? And who is wrong? Forget black and white. The shades of grey are so numerous and similar that it is well nigh impossible to even guess where one ends and other begins.

There have been scams galore – from 2G spectrum to Commonwealth Games. Surely we all knew – even Kanimozhi and Kalmadi, the alleged perpetrators of the two biggest scams in Indian history – that things will come to a head. In a country where there are millions who toil so hard for daily bread that they would be hard-pressed to tell you how many zeroes there are in ten thousand, millions of billions worth rupees goes unaccounted for in the pockets of a few. Obviously, the acceptance of corruption as the integral part of our business and political fabric was bound to be renounced someday. Someone would have belled the cat and started a revolution.

Anna Hazare addressing his supporters

So, when Anna Hazare sat for his fast-unto-death for the formulation of Lokpal Bill which would bring all grafters to speedy justice, the entire nation supported him, including yours truly. But since then so much water has flown under the bridge. I am no longer sure as to what is happening. Cracks appeared within the civil society vigilantes who Anna leads. Mysterious CDs appeared undermining the credibility of our Light Brigade. Some claimed it was a conspiracy to raise doubts by a government beleaguered by the charges of corruption. Others felt that there is no smoke without fire.

Kanimozhi after arrest

While all this drama is playing out on one stage, a red bastion is overthrown and Bastille stormed. Political heirs are arrested on corruption charges and even Kalmadi, months after first rumours of large scale irregularities appeared in CWG organisation, is booked by authorities. Commoners like myself rejoice. Finally, things are looking up. Justice will prevail. Anna and his merry men would ensure that no more Rajas, Kanimozhis and Kalmadis are allowed to strut around un-accosted for so long.

But then nothing much happens. The government and vigilantes reach a dead-end. Another dramatis personae emerges – this time a saffron robed, self-proclaimed saint followed by thousands. Ramdev decides to join the fray and declares a manifesto against corruption. He wants all the issues solved almost overnight, Rajinikanth style, if you please. He threatens to fast-unto-death in Delhi until his demands are met. The government panics. Sends senior ministers to receive him at the airport and to strike a deal with him. God only knows what happened in that meeting but Ramdev starts his fast surrounded by thousands of his followers until the government decides to arrest him in the dead of the night. Baba tries to run in the disguise of a woman, is actively seen to cohort women into following a protective circle around him but is finally caught and deported back to his ashram.

I am still grappling with what this accomplished. Do we need so many vigilantes? And what was the crackdown all about? The government spokesperson called the baba a thug. Is that so? Maybe. Then why did the nation’s Finance minister set about to bargain with him and welcome him to the capital? Ramdev maybe just a showman under the saffron garb of a revolutionary but I think the government might just end up turning him into a hero as he nears a week of fasting.

What is a very serious issue has been turned into very crass and political melodrama. There is absolutely nobody in this entire fracas who will come out smelling of roses and it only reaffirms my contempt of politicos. Decorum has been shunned by everyone who can grab a news channel’s microphone. And the heart of the matter is lost somewhere in the game of one-upmanship.

In fact, for me one of the sanest voice of reasons came from Salman Khan! When asked about all this fasting going around, he advised the junta to stop aiding corruption. That is how we start. More in the style of Tata Tea Jaago Re campaigns. The revolution begins with me and a ‘no’ to grease the palm of the traffic policeman.

I agree, we also need quicker, more efficient laws. However, the entire process is complex and will take some time. Regardless it has to be transparent; ideally it should be televised live to all and sundry as and when it happens. So that there is no hidden agenda being enacted behind the closed doors. Perhaps I am being very naive when I suggest all this but surely there is a better way than what is being practised now.

The upshot of it all is that perhaps now scams will not just come and go, to be swept under the carpet of burgeoning news stories. In a sense all that has happened has been for good. Yet until and unless, this protest is galvanized into practical action, everything is meaningless.

And while such cacophony holds centre-stage, India’s Picasso walks lonely into the London night, away from the country he loved.

Isn’t it sad that M F Husain was denied the chance to breathe his last in India while those who plunder and loot the country can roam around scot-free, unabashed? There cannot be a harsher judgment than this on our country. None whatsoever.

Twilight

2011-06-05T13:14:00.000+05:30

I stand atop the small sand dune that slopes down towards the rumbling sea. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and feel a smile blooming within me.

I start walking towards the sea. The sun is a big ball of beautiful fire, slowly sinking into the churning waters. The sky has so many shades of pink, red and crimson tinting the delicate blue. It reminds me of a wish a friend once made. I want curtains of exact that colour. Today, I want them too.

I reach the sea and the first waves eagerly welcome me. I delight in their embrace, the sensation of the earth slipping out from between my toes. My eyes sweep the beach. I am alone. I like this solitude. This world at this moment belongs to me. The sea, the sun, the evening – everything. I am greedy and not willing to share it with anyone else.

For some moments, I stand still, absorbing the beauty of the seascape, trying to see beyond the horizon and to scoop out a bit of the crimson glory out of the sun on my fingertip. I give up a little later and turn to walk aimlessly along the sea.

As I walk, I can hear in my head the melody of a song, the rhythm of an Iktara. I smile and hum it slowly under my breath, letting the breeze carry my voice over the waves. Almost like a message in a bottle. Maybe it would reach some distant shores and an answering song would come dancing. Pure fantasy, some may say. But who decides what is real and what is fanciful.

Coming across a partially embedded conch shell, I stoop and dig it out, even as the mischievous waves attempt to steal it out of my gritty fingers. I finally hold it in my palm and let out a small whoop of joy. A little further on, I see a crab scuttling towards me. I take a frightened step back, only to realize that it does not seek to bite me. It only seeks to go to its hiding hole, close to my feet. I shake my head at my own fear and decide to continue.

There is a lighthouse that I can see in the distance. It does not look too far. But I know that that could simply be the result of optical illusion. It does not matter, though. I have this evening and the night to come. All of it my own. For the first time. And who knows it may be the last.

I shall not turn back, I resolve. And continue my not-quite-aimless meander towards that beacon, as the evening began to gather the last vestiges of twilight in her arms, to make way for my favourite silver Enchantress.

And Iktara continues to play, silently, ceaselessly.....

RomComOrgy – Part II

2011-05-16T22:30:00.000+05:30

Cover via Amazon

In continuation of the last RomComOrgy post, here’s the next set of my favourite romcoms:

Everafter: A Cinderella Story: I love fairy tales – the magic, the romance and the happy ever-afters. While Cinderella is not my absolute favourite, this retelling of a children’s bed-time story, starring Drew Barrymore is spunky, funny and of course, romantic. Barrymore is Danielle, our poor, mistreated step-daughter of a wicked step-mother – Anjelica Houston. But, our heroine refuses to mope in despair. She can fend off lascivious villains and save the prince (Dougray Scott) from bandits with equal élan. There is the expected ball, with the midnight deadline. And there’s a fairy god-mother too in the form of an inimitable Leonardo Da Vinci. Delightful.
My Best Friend’s Wedding: What do you do if your best friend is getting married? And you just realized that you are in love with him? You can either choose to be a martyr or set out to wreck his wedding plans. Julia Roberts chooses the latter. Roberts plays Julianne, who has a fling with her best friend – Dermot Mulroney as Michael. They break up soon after and continue to be best friends, their lives uncomplicated by any deeper feelings. Until the time Michael decides to get married to the lovely, classy Kimberley Wallace (Cameron Diaz). What ensues is a hilarious series of attempts by Roberts to drive a wedge between the to-be-married lovers. The first-time watchers of the movie are kept wondering till the end who wins this war of love. For me the highlight of the film is the wonderful cast rendition of I Say a Little Prayer for You at the rehearsal dinner.
When Harry Met Sally: I am extremely finicky about my perception of whether an actor fits a character. And in my mind Billy Crystal and a romantic hero do not quite align themselves. Yet, When Harry Met Sally features on my list because I feel there must be something very special about characters who keep meeting and parting for a long, long time before realizing that they are soul-mates. That is what happens to Harry and Sally. They meet first as college students and instantly dislike each other. They keep bumping into each other over the years – on a flight, in a bookstore before finally striking a tentative friendship, which deepens with time. They even decide to help each other find the right partners and set the other up with respective best friends. But the law of romcoms prevails and the inevitable happens – Harry and Sally fall in love. Meg Ryan as Sally is adorable and very cute. I also love the Hindi adaptation of the movie – Rani Mukherjee and Saif Ali Khan starrer Hum Tum.
Bend It Like Beckham: Gurinder Chaddha’s second directorial venture revolves around Indian diaspora in London. Jasminder Bhamra a.k.a. Jess – born to Sikh parents in the London – loves football and dreams of being a footballer as famous as Beckham. But her mother, Mrs. Bhamra (almost an Indian rendition of the infamous Mrs. Bennet of English Literature) is adamant that decent Indian girls do not run around in knickers, playing football with boys. They should learn how to cook alu-gobhi and be a proper wife. Jess with the help of her friend Jules (Keira Knightley in one of her earliest big-screen roles) joins a girls’ football team coached by a dishy coach. Needless to say, she succeeds in taking meaningful steps towards realizing her dream and winning the heart of the handsome coach too.
Runaway Bride: This movie proves that the chemistry between Gere and Roberts seen in Pretty Woman was no fluke. Roberts plays Maggie, who falls frequently in love, gets engaged, buys the perfect white dress and even starts to walk down the aisle before bolting from the wedding. Gere plays a reporter who wants to do a story on this runaway bride, in a last ditch attempt to save his job, just as she is about to get married, yet again. They meet – he offends her and she manages to intrigue him. Eventually they fall in love but she jilts him at the altar too. Yet, all’s well that ends well and the lovers finally get hitched under the open skies in a beautiful meadow.
What Happens in Vegas: This Ashton Kutcher-Cameron Diaz starrer is all set to be remade into Hindi, with Imran Khan and Kareena Kapoor as the lead pair. I am not too sure how good the remake would be but the original was fun. Diaz is a workaholic, hot-shot career woman who goes to Vegas to unwind with a friend. The friends run into Kutcher and his friend, when all four of the end up in the same suite, due to a clerical mistake. One thing leads to another and our hero and heroine get married in drunken stupor and end up in bed together – all of it on the very first night. To top it all, they also manage to hit the jackpot as they quarrel with each other in the casino about whose fault the entire fiasco is. The rest of the movie is about their attempts to outdo each other, as each tries to claim the prize money all alone, even as they are ordered by a court judge to make their marriage work and stay together for at least six months. Diaz and Kutcher try all sorts of shenanigans to discredit the other before falling totally and irrevocably in love. Watch it for the antics of Kutcher and the fun equation between the lead cast.

I am still missing some that I watch at every given chance but if I were to list them all, the post would never end :-)

I would love to hear from you about your favourites – do let me know. Ciao.

Back Again

2011-05-15T19:21:00.002+05:30

So, I am back. From the beautiful mountains, lush valleys, green plains, some moments of blissful solitude and loads of screaming family fun. And I am missing it all already.

And why not? It all started with a big family function at Agra. And my entire family was there! Now that takes some doing if you have a family as large as mine. Assorted cousins, uncles, aunts in all shapes and sizes – from Delhi to Mumbai to Chennai. There were day long addas, leg-pulling and an entire night of dancing.

The big family reunion ended with a party for my parents on their anniversary. They have spent more than three decades together. Gosh. My sister and I had wanted a party at the hotel but we realized that booking a restaurant at such short notice for such a large group would have been a task. So, my aunts pitched in and cooked an awesome dinner. Everyone gathered at my oldest uncle’s home and had a blast. The highlight of the evening: a complete family picture, that the kids engineered. Well, almost.

We set off next morning for Jim Corbett National Park. We hired a car and went by road. It was hot as long as we were in the plains but as we started climbing up and the twilight approached, my spirits soared. The lovely greenery flanking both sides of the road, the gathering dusk and day-dreams. I could not have asked for more. The resort – Wood Castle – an uncle of mine had booked for us was lovely and next morning when we embarked on the safari, it was raining softly. It was quiet and serene. We did not spot any tigers but there were other compensations. The single bright blue kingfisher sitting still as a statue on a tree branch, the river crossing in an open jeep (a first for me) and the playful deer herds, including quite a few Bambi lookalikes.

Next on the agenda were the glorious mountains. The destinations were as much of an allure as the winding roads, looping around majestic heights. The clouds hovering just above our heads and occasionally lowering themselves enough so that we could touch them. The deep, still and rippling Naini lake like a silken sheet of turquoise, the crimson glory of a mountain sunset.

One of my favourite moments was when we walked around Mukhteshwar. It is 7500 feet high and there is just a wooden trail which you can take to walk around. Halfway through the walk, you come to a cliff, topped by huge stones who seem to have been there since time immemorial. There is a sheer drop beyond and you can see the valley spread out in front of you and the white mists hiding the peaks of the Himalayas from curious gawkers. When we stood there, an eagle flew above us, so close that I almost ducked my head to avoid being swooped off. Amazing.

Majnu of the Hills

Our final stop before returning to the hustle and bustle of the city was Ranikhet. We arrived after eight in the evening and the town was already enshrouded in darkness. Being an army cantonment, it shuts down early. It was raining and very cold when we entered the town. We found the right hotel on the outskirts of the town – West End View. Though it was night and wet, the charming cottages and the distinctly British Raj decor (a parlour, a dressing room and fire place to the boot along with the staple bedroom, wallpapered with pretty floral patterns) made sure that we could not go anywhere else. And when the morning dawned, the beauty of the surrounding landscape, the rolling forests, the cool breeze and the warm sun made us doubly glad of our decision to stay here.

We spent the day walking around the town, savouring the sights, discovering nature and some quirky facts. In the Chaubatti garden, the guide told us that the Weeping Willow in the local parlance is called Majnu (the subcontinent equivalent of the doomed lover). Reason: the drooping leaves and branches resemble the tatters and rags that Majnu wore when he roamed the streets looking for his beloved Laila and when it rains, the water running down the tree looks like his tears. Imaginative, ain’t it?

The evening was spent at the Army Golf Course. Acres of rolling, flat green. A couple of families enjoying open air and sunshine. But what I liked most was the wooden bench at the edge of the hill overlooking the wooded valley and the sun setting in the west. It was a sublime moment. I could have sat there forever, waiting for the night to arrive and the morning to kiss me awake. You know how most of us have moments and time we want to return to at least once. This was mine. An enchantment cast for life.

We returned to Delhi next day and from thereon back home. But I left a little of me behind on those roads, the fragrant wind, the fairy mists and the grandfatherly mountains. Maybe they whispered about me once I had left. I wonder what they thought.

And I carried a lot of them home with me. Most precious among all the gifts I brought back was the peace that I needed. I made some wishes too when I roamed those hills. I hope when I lose myself in the chaos of my daily life, they remember me and say an “Amen” for my wishes.

RomComOrgy

2011-04-26T15:20:00.001+05:30

Cover of One Fine Day

Just the other day, I was telling my friend how I would love to watch a good rom-com (short for romantic comedy) and how they are so hard to come by these days. The concept practically does not exist in Bollywood and Hollywood keeps churning out these really indistinguishable movies in the name of the genre that inevitably star the same uninteresting and deadpan faces like Katherine Heigl and Amy Adams.

So, while I wait for a really interesting rom-com to release in my city, here’s a list of my all time favourites:

One Fine Day: This one’s got George Clooney. Need I say more? But seriously, this movie is funny and sweet. The story of two single parents – Michelle Pfeiffer and Clooney – who are unexpectedly thrown together with their kids on – you got it – one fine day. They are opposites, like in most romances – she is ultra-organized and efficient and he is a reporter who just might lose his job and reputation soon. They end up taking care of each other’s kids along with their own for different parts of the same day. She manages to lose his daughter and he lets her son push a marble up his nose. But all’s well that ends well, right? So, it does. Oh, I must mention the last sequence, where Michelle changes what seem like a dozen outfits so that she can look good for Clooney who has shown up at her door with his daughter and the intention to romance her. She finally gets the desired effect and walks out to her living room only to find the tired father fast asleep on the couch. She sits on the couch, rests her head on his shoulder and goes to sleep herself. Ain’t that sweet? Perfect with so many beautiful possibilities left unsaid.
While You Were Sleeping: Sandra Bullock is the lonely, single girl in the big city, who works the ticket counter at the subway station and spends her free time with her cat. And oh, she day-dreams about the tall, dark and handsome stranger in business suits, until the day she saves him from being crushed by a train. Start of a beautiful love story, right? Not quite. What follows is a quirky tale of the fairytales we think we want and the fairytales we actually meet. Lucy finds love alright but not quite where she expected it to. One of my most watched movies. Plus, it has Bill Pullman looking quite cute.
Never Been Kissed: This Drew Barrymore starrer is fun, frothy and fresh. It’s the story of a journalist who at the ripe age of 25 has never been kissed. A number of reasons for that – the most glaring been that her erstwhile frumpy, geeky high-school self was rebuffed and ridiculed on the prom night by the hottest guy in school. Enough to leave anyone scarred, some would say. But in romcoms, poetic justice is never hard to come by. She goes undercover as a student in a hep high-school, and this time around is a star. She dates the hottest guy in school, is considered an insider in the cool circles, becomes the prom queen and manages to fall in love with the handsome English teacher, who ultimately gives her, her first kiss in on a baseball pitch, cheered on by thousands of spectators. When I watch this movie, I do not think how improbable all of this is. I only fall for the really high cuteness factor of the movie, Barrymore and the English teacher. By the way, did I mention that there is a most romantic Ferris wheel ride sequence? Sigh.
Pretty Woman: He is a heartless tycoon. She is a hooker. And when the twain meet, there are fireworks. Julia Roberts’ first movie has her playing the role of a prostitute, who wants to better herself and never kisses a client on the mouth. Only she did not factor in the charm of suave and dashing Gere, who picks her up for a night and then offers her a deal to stay with him for a week. So that she can play his hostess (among other things, no saint the man is) in the city, where he has come to execute a hostile takeover. What follow are a magical seven days, where she transforms from an uncouth, loud and decidedly vulgarly dressed call girl to a “pretty woman”. She brings out the humane part in him, teaches him that sometimes emotions make perfect business sense. Of course, there is a happy ever after, once they both realize that they have more than a business deal between them. Plus, the movie has some good music, including the title track and Roxette’s It must have been love.
Aladdin: Yes, I know that it is an animation movie. But it’s funny and it’s romantic. A Whole New World is one of the most incredible love songs ever. Who would not want to be serenaded with this song while on a magic carpet ride? Aladdin is the street rat and Jasmine, the beautiful princess. He lies to her in order to win her love. She is hurt by his deception. How can they ever find happiness together? But that is the beauty of fairy tales. You find love in most unimaginable places and with the most unexpected person. My favourite Disney movie.
Notting Hill: All the cinegoers in the world have a favourite star - the one they dream about meeting and enjoying a happy ever after with. So does a small travel book store owner in London, played by the charmingly goofy, bumbling and reticent Hugh Grant. One day the most famous movie star in the world steps inside his book store to escape unwanted attention. What follows is an unlikely and lovely love story between a famous movie actress and a common man. The movie is made unforgettable by not just the lead characters but the extended cast of friends and family, their camaraderie, witty banter and obvious love for each other. This gang includes a disabled best friend of our hero, her husband, the hero's quirky sister and her even weirder lover, who also happens to be Grant's roommate. The climax sequence is delightful, involving a mad car ride and a press conference unlike any other. Add Ronan Keating crooning When You Say Nothing at All. The result: a movie that successfully withstands endless repeats on movie channels without losing its appeal.

Aren’t these lovely? I feel so good whenever I watch them. They are a perfect escape. At least for people like myself.

Apart from these, there are others that I will keep for another time. Until then, ciao.

Bells

2011-04-06T18:07:00.000+05:30

Ask not for whom the bells toll

They toll for thee.

But they a wedding song sing

Or so it seems to me.

Or, mayhap in childbirth rejoice

The proud family.

Perhaps, they first golden leaf welcome,

In bosom of the Autumn lady.

Or, could they be the litany of snow?

Falling into silence, musically.

Hark! Are their notes sober and sombre?

Mourning the surrender deathly.

Or do they call Youth to war

To kill strangers unnamed blindly.

But I hear my favourite alone

An innocent love lullaby,

A new morn, a new life, a hope new herald

Chiming laughter and a butterfly.

Cup of Joy

2011-04-03T18:43:00.000+05:30

“1983 was yours”, I told my Dad, as frenzied celebrations erupted all around – on the television screens, in the streets and in the tears that flowed down the cheeks of the Men in Blue. “This is our World Cup.”

And I was not exaggerating. Most of my generation in India were told tales of the historic day in 1983 when Kapil Dev lifted the cricket World Cup. The intensity of these fond remembrances increased once every four years when India participated in yet another World Cup, raised a billion hopes and then faltered.

But no more. The Men in Blue have ensured that the World Cup which came to India to be given to the Champions stayed home. India won and how!!! Though someone had to be a Man of the Match in every battle, it was truly a heroic team effort. It would perhaps have been equally fitting if the Indian team shared these individual awards – there would have been no greater example of how 11 men became one.

It was a brilliant night preceded by one of the more harrowing of evenings for me personally. India started off beautifully and then gave runs generously towards the end of the Lankan innings. And then came the start of the Indian innings. When Sehwag got out, I was still okay and then Sachin got dismissed too. I closeted myself in my room with a book, with music turned on full volume and refused to pay attention to the match, until I was completely sure that we were champs. I do that. I just cannot bear the sight of us losing or playing badly. Call it a lack of sportsmanship. I don’t care. The tension is way too much for me.

I came out just in time to see the last over commence, thanks to the shouts of joy that emanated from the neighbouring buildings and my own brother. And then Dhoni hit that brilliant six to bring home the cup. It was sweet poetic justice. On our way, we beat Australia, knocking them out of the tournament and avenging the humiliating 2003 Final loss. We defeated the arch-rivals Pakistan in style and finally conquered Sri Lanka and laid to rest the ghost of 1996 semi-final in Eden Gardens.

The celebrations began then. And I could just watch in wonder as one by one all these grown men of Indian team lost composure. I will never forget the sight of Sachin Tendulkar being carried around the grounds on the shoulders of his team mates. He was the reason why I began watching cricket and he is one of the reasons why I still watch it. I have never watched a World Cup, in which he has not played. And this was probably his last. It brought a twinge to my joy but what the hell, I thought. His crown is now complete. The dream of the man came true yesterday and the legend had another conquest. Fittingly, one of the youngest members of the team, 22 year old Virat Kohli, paid perhaps the greatest compliment to Sachin when he said, ”This man (Sachin) has carried the burden of this country for 21 years. We can at least carry him.”

World Champs!!!
(Picture Source: NDTV. com)

It was a team which won, however. And not one person. The captain who could not contribute with the bat earlier in the tournament came alive in the final. A warrior who had valiantly fought almost by himself for the better part of two decades, finally had an army to back him. A man whose very selection had led to countless heated debates silenced all the naysayers. The young turks who have so often been berated for the lack of responsibility proved that they are more than capable of carrying the mantle when the legends retire. If that is not the stuff dreams and fairytales are made of, I do not know what is.

Former Indian Test Captain Anil Kumble with World Cup
(Picture source: NDTV.com)

I read in the newspaper that when Yuvraj Singh and MS Dhoni arrived at the post match press conference, Yuvi jumped on the table and shouted out Badhaiyaan, Badhaiyaan (Congratulation, Congratulations). The inscrutable and imperturbable captain of the Indian team could not help but giggle in delight during the question and answer session. Then, there was this photograph of Anil Kumble being handed over the trophy by Sachin Tendulkar when he went to congratulate his former teammates. That shows how this team has not forgotten those who are no longer part of the team but had a great role to play in bringing the team where it is today.

These are heart-warming pictures of joy that I will always remember. So yes, Dad, this is our World Cup.

Anecdote

2011-03-27T16:11:00.001+05:30

“I would like to check your teeth please,” she said, adding belatedly, “if you don’t mind, of course.”

“Excuse me?” he looked as bewildered as he surely felt.

“Ummm.....” She was beginning to have second thoughts about the entire thing. Surely he was handsome but this was a strange place. “Never mind,” she said. “Some other time, maybe.”

“Whoa. Wait.” He caught up with her at the door of the restaurant. “I don’t mind some other time but you do have me curious. Did you just ask to check my teeth? Are you a dentist or....” he trailed off as if another thought had struck him. He smacked his forehead. “Oh. Now I see.” And he gave her a mischievous, knowing grin.

“You see what?” She was indignant now.

“Never mind. But I think we should at least introduce ourselves.” He leaned forward and spoke in a voice so soft that she could hear him only by reading his lips. “I am Vlad.”

She flinched and he laughed so loudly that people around them turned to stare.

“You should see you face”, he managed to speak once he had controlled his mirth.

His voice broke her stupor. “I am glad you are finding this highly amusing”, she said in a chilly voice and walked off.

He stood there and watched till she surreptitiously quickened her steps, refusing to even look back, hailed a cab and drove off.

================================================================

She did not even look out of the window. He was joking, right? Of course, he was. She was just being silly. She must have lost her marbles to have asked him the question. It was stupid how her friend’s joking words popped in her head the moment he came in all his good-looking glory and said “Hello”. And how quickly he had figured out her reasoning. Of course, he couldn't be...you know. He was clearly American, not East European with a fetish for innocent, young things and their fresh, unmarred throats. Well, she did not know the last, did she. After all, he did not let her check his teeth, did he now?

Stop it. She ordered herself. You are talking in circles. It was a chance encounter. Maybe you made a fool of yourself. Maybe it was a chance to know an interesting man that you lost. But it’s all done and over with. You go back tomorrow morning. You will probably never meet him again. So, just chalk it down as an experience that you will tell your grandkids as an anecdote.

With these thoughts firm in her mind, she hopped on her plane next morning and returned home.

=================================================================

Back in his hotel room, he looked in the mirror. He bared his teeth. He had just brushed them. They were even and white. Funny woman she was to ask such a question in this day and age. Silly chit. Or maybe not, he thought to himself, as he smiled and his canines elongated subtly to become two points. He poured a large glass of whiskey and raised it in a silent toast to lucky escapes. Noroc.

Teach Me If You Can

2011-03-23T19:20:00.000+05:30

I am writing this post from a hotel room in Delhi / Gurgaon (not too sure where does it technically fall). I am here to attend a two-day training on “Creating Client Value”. It’s been an interesting day so far, fun in parts and relatable and useful in others. Plus, I had attended another training with largely the same group of colleagues around 4-5 months back, so there is none of that initial ice-breaking hiccups – a really big issue with me – here. We have another full day tomorrow and it promises to be useful.

Today has caused me to reflect back upon the various trainings that I have undergone in my professional life. There have been several of them on various topics over many years. One thing that my experience has reinforced is that any good training is only as useful as the trainer – be that it in school / college or corporate world.

I have always believed that teaching is one of the most important and most difficult jobs in the world. I can never see myself teaching annoying little students like myself in school or college. Even in my current role at my organization, I am sometimes required to take workshops / training sessions and find them more challenging and draining than actual projects. Because when you are a teacher / trainer, no matter how much you underplay it, you are viewed as an expert on the topic, a maestro so to speak. It is never a comfortable position to be in, regardless of how confident and self-assured you might be. You feel as if you are constantly being evaluated and judged. Good teachers are those who can ignore the scrutiny and yet deliver something of value, which the students / trainees can take home and remember.

In school / college, my favourite teachers were always those who could engage my attention even through the most boring of subjects or topics. I remember, we had this one play by John Osbourne called Look Back in Anger. When I had first read it before the classes had commenced, I totally hated its depressing tone, its obnoxious hero, the spineless heroine and the two side-kicks. Luckily, the play was taught by one of the more senior teachers of the English department and in her hands, it became such an intriguing piece of human drama that we all could spend hours discussing its every nuance. That’s the power of a great teacher.

Even in various corporate trainings I have attended, the ones that I have found most useful are the ones that have been most enjoyable too. It is a wrong notion that if training is intense and serious, it cannot be fun. As a trainee, I can refute this with authority.

Take for example, an extremely intense corporate training that I underwent towards the end of last year. It required us to stay up till 11.30-12.00 at night with little breaks in between. It was supposed to prepare us for our next role. The intentions were correct and the content too, perhaps. Where the trainers went completely wrong was in execution. You do not expect people who are no longer students to spend 12 hours straight listening to lectures, jargons and doing role-play. The result? None of us found the training to be of great value though it could have been.

Contrast this with another soft skills training that we had. The aim was to help us understand as relatively new team leaders, how should we deal with our sub-ordinates. The session began at 9 sharp in the morning and ended at six. There were role plays and activities that broke the tedium. We did a paper tower building exercise post-lunch to chase drowsiness away one day and on another, we played ball games. There was time set aside specifically for us to talk amongst ourselves and we found that our situations were not unique but we all could benefit from specific advice that our counterparts gave. Both the ladies who had come down for the training were competent yet so much more approachable.

The second training took place nearly four years ago and yet I use it to this day. The first training I have almost forgotten except when we are discussing the gruelling schedule.

The point is that not everybody can be a trainer. A good student need not be a good teacher. So just because somebody is excellent as a consultant does not mean that he / she can train others on how to be one. And therefore, I have always had great respect and admiration for those who take up teaching / training as a vocation. In this profession, it is not enough to merely like what you are doing but to love it.

On that note, a grand salute to all the teachers who have every taught me in any manner. Without you, I still might have been here. But the route would have been more arduous and longer. So, thank you.

Through the Looking Glass: From a Car

2011-03-19T17:31:00.000+05:30

I look out of the car window and see so many people milling about – in cars, on foot. Standing, walking. Talking on phone, staring in the distance. Smiling and brooding. Children and adults.

And I see possibilities. So many stories – they could have been mine if Providence had so chosen.

There’s that woman in a saree leading her son by hand to school. I wonder how old is she. I try to judge from her face. Not too lined. Her son also looks to be a pre-schooler. May be she is my age. Is she happy to be who she is? Is she content? Would she have been happier, if she was I? Would I have found her life better? Perhaps the answer to all the questions is “Yes”. Who knows? But speculation is interesting.

Then there’s this old gentleman sitting by the road on a stool, soaking in the winter sun. He is dressed in a white kurta and pajama. His beard is white with age and perhaps wisdom. He seems serene as he slowly discusses the matters of the world with a young man. The latter does not seem to be his son or any kind of relative. Perhaps, he is a neighbour. Maybe, the two meet every morning in this same spot to share their first cup of tea and exchange greetings. The younger man on the way to work. The older looking only for that conversation. I try to gauge whether the old man would be my grandfather’s age. I wonder what he would be like as a grandpa. He seems to be benevolent and the kind who would spoil his grandchildren. I think I would have liked him in that role. But my grandpa is fun too. I smile and move on.

At the crossing, the light turns red. A swanky red car comes and stops next to mine. A very young man seems to be driving it. Only a teenager perhaps. He seems to be concentrating hard on the road. Who knows what’s on his mind? May be a date with his girlfriend. Or the Saturday night party. Or may be the upcoming exams. Would he make it to that coveted college? Would his dad be happy with his decision to join an acting school or fine arts? There’s so much pressure on him to do well. This car was a gift because he had managed to stay at the top of his class. But it seems like blackmail.

I can make out the music is blasting in the car, even though the windows are rolled up. I cannot make out the song but the beats reach out to me in waves.

On the other side in a very dashing black Honda City, a man in a pinstriped suit is very seriously reading the Economic Times. Not for him the frivolity of music. But I am probably being unkind. He could be a great lover of music. Only it does not suit his mood today. For all I know his work life balance is better than mine. He has hobbies, he keenly pursues. He is a lover of arts. Can play the guitar himself. Loves reading books and debating. A loving father and devoted husband. Then my thoughts take an uncharitable turn. What if he is a total snob? His polish and sophistication only a veneer to hide an acute lack of self-respect. I would not like him for my own boss. Thank god, he is not. And the signal turns green.

Oh, look. There’s that bunch of college girls. They probably go to the same college as I did. Was it so long ago? Do they talk about the same things as we did? The same giggling and conspiratorial tones. Plans to bunk college and bitching about the rigorous attendance requirements. Exchanging notes and planning get-togethers. College fest coming up – so what about the dress code? There’s a sale on in the nearby malls. Maybe they can find some good deals – mix and match clothes and jewellery to put together a cool ensemble.

They walk on towards that mall and my car travels the really short distance left to office. And there ends my imagination’s hour out. Until the evening.

Faithfully Yours

2011-03-13T14:47:00.000+05:30

What do a Jain nun, a low caste theyyam dancer, an upper caste idol maker, an illiterate folk singer from Rajasthan and another from Bengal and an HIV+ devdasi have in common? Not their language, not their nationality, not their religion. Faith – that’s what makes them alike.

If you have read William Dalrymple’s remarkably written and extremely relevant Nine Lives, you would have come across the stories of all these people. If you have not read it, I would strongly recommend it. It is a simply written book, objective yet understanding. Never judgemental, never harsh but always insightful.

The book reaffirmed what I have always believed – that it’s the Faith that matters. Nothing else. Religion is just an outer shell. A name given for identification. A protocol that one can follow. But at the heart, Faith is the bigger and truer emotion. Everything else is incidental.

Because what is Faith after all? Faith is knowing everything will be alright. Faith is hoping that your grandma is now a star smiling benevolently upon you. Faith is the child’s certainty that Santa would bring her gifts if she is good. Faith is praying so that India wins the match. Faith is adding your best wishes to Egyptian and Libyan revolutionaries. Faith is even building temples for Rajnikanth. Faith is being strong. Faith is simply believing in Him or Her or It – whatever suits you.

When I look back upon my own life, I find that while I always had a practising religion, it was my belief in God, a greater Providence or the Force, whatever you may choose to call it, that saw me through all the difficult times. Whether it was a spat with my closest friends or bad exam results. My first experience of seeing someone I care for die or my first day at work. At all these times, I believed and prayed that someone up there would guide me, keep watch over me.

And I like to think that this is true for all, or at least, most of us. Our prayers may take different forms and incantations but instinctively we are appealing to that entity or being beyond the skies. The blessings of our elders and the wishes of our friends are never directed by which religion they follow.

So many of my friends have found similar peace praying inside a church and inside a Buddhist temple. So many of us have travelled all the way to a dargah (the resting place of a Sufi saint) and asked for a mannat (a form of prayer, where the devotee promises the deity a comeback visit if his wish is granted). There are instances of temples which are maintained and revered by non-Hindu devotees.

Don’t these prove that it’s Faith and Faith alone that drives us when we pray? What does it matter whether you wear a cross or face west while praying? Who cares if you worship an idol and somebody else prays in front of a holy book? Who cares if you cannot recite the right shlokas or do not observe all the rituals?

I believe in angels and don’t care a whit whether they wear halos or wings, whether they speak Arabic or Hebrew, Sanskrit or Greek. Whether they carry an ektara or a harp. Whether they are white and golden or dusky and dark.

That is why it comes as such a shock when people persist in classifying people by their religion, race, caste, language etc. Everyone feels that their community is wronged and that their people who are victims of prejudice. But who are these people – ours and theirs? When would we realize that all of us have more in common than we give credence? If we were all the same, would we not become robotic and mechanical? Something straight out of a sci-fi horror novel.

But we may yet learn to see our Faith reflected in others. Maybe we can begin a quiet revolution for that. Amen.

Packing the World

2011-03-03T22:30:00.001+05:30

Zzziiiipppp!!!!!! And at last the suitcase is zipped with all the things vital for my existence for the three day trip out of town. Have I got everything? Hmmm..lemme see.

Two saris. Check. Their blouses and petticoats. Check. Matching bindis and jewellery check.

Requisite number (at least half a dozen) of salwar suits. Check. Casual wear (jeans and t-shirts) – two sets for two days of travelling plus a couple of back-up. Check. Two new pairs of sandals. Check.

Make up, assorted lotions, lens case, spectacles. Check.

Books. How can I forget them? Check. But wait. They can’t go into the suitcase. How will I read them on the plane then? Take them out and pack them in the handbag.

But damn. Now the handbag has become too bulky. It’s probably going to dislocate my shoulder. And there are my PJs and the jacket and shawl that my sister has informed that I might need. I have not been able to pack them in the suitcase and the warm clothes will have to easily accessible anyway for the trip. Aarrgghhh.

I will have to carry an extra back pack and tow it in the overhead area on the flight. I hate doing that. But there’s absolutely no help.

Where can I find a backpack? Rummage. Hunt. Consider calling mom. Ah. There’s one hanging behind my door. This will do nicely. No, wait. The zip is stuck. Murphy at mischief again.

So, as a last resort, take the laptop out of its bag and stuff all the extra things in it. Maybe, I should get rid of the handbag and dump all its contents (some two kilos of it) in the back pack. Nah. Bad idea. Will have to keep the two separate.

Perhaps I can do without some of the things in my handbag. Which ones? Wet tissues? No. Comb? No. Wallet? You must be mad. iPod? Definitely no. Hand mirror? Painkillers? Lip Balm? Hand sanitizer? No. No. And, no.

There you have it. I will have to maintain status quo. A suitcase. A handbag and a back pack.

A better packer would have managed with just one piece of luggage. A light traveler would not have needed so many things in the name of essentials.

Unfortunately, I am neither. I belong to the class of people who need to carry their world with them regardless of the duration of the trip. I suspect that I have got it from my dad. So, not my fault, you see. And ergo, it would not be possible for me to reform my ways.

Not that I have not known sterling examples of excellent packing skills. I have an aunt who can make even the smallest suitcase look like a bottomless well. You can keep on throwing things for her to pack and they all end up being neatly organized in the single suitcase. I have seen her perform miracles with my spilling and splitting at the seams luggage. And on such occasions, I have stood aside, with mouth agape and eyes shining with reverence.

Anyway, no use ruing the lack of packing flair. At least, I have managed to cram my world in a suitcase, a handbag and a back pack. Surely, that calls for a round of applause.

Until next time, adios.

Wanted: A Dash of Pick-Me-Up

2011-02-15T23:25:00.000+05:30

It’s been one of ‘em days, you know. A little frustrating. Almost no bright sparks. No major goof-ups or upsets but generally dissatisfying. I could seriously use a pick-me-up.

But since I prefer the non-alcoholic variety, I thought, what the hell. Let me at least reach home before 9 so that I can at least catch today’s episode of Jhalak Dikhla Jaa on Sony. I managed. That cheered me some. Mads magic does that to me.

Any how, after that I started pondering on my unwinding options for the night. No Castle on Star World (that’s really sad!!! Especially now that there is actually something happening between Beckett and our “ruggedly handsome” novelist – that’s what Facebook tells me everyday). No book waiting for me since I have managed to read all the books that I had hoarded from my last couple of shopping expeditions. Except a Paulo Coelho which my sister had bought. And you know how I feel about him (no??? there is a post that I once did about things I dislike in books. His books suffer heavily from moralizing). I would read the book but not just now.

What next? For the lack of anything better, I opened Outlook, connected to the net and sent off a work-related mail. Then because I am anal about meeting deadlines, I worked some on a document that I could have finished at work tomorrow.

Yes, I know. I know. Stupid me. But you see I need to get rid of this niggling feeling of discontent that has followed me home. And since I am unable to escape into the beloved world of books or favourite television shows or even dream of the weekend, since it is so faraway, what’s a girl to do?

Any suggestions would be most welcome. I might not be able to use them tonight but the recipe for a good pick-me-up never goes waste. J

A Sin a Day

2011-02-01T23:48:00.003+05:30

Seven days in a week. Seven sins. Coincidence? Maybe, yes. Maybe not. May be the seven days of weeks were each meant to be spent in the lap of one sin.

Let’s start with Sunday. Hmmm…what shall it be? I think, Sloth. That is what I do. I spend the day sleeping, lazing, eating and being a couch potato. Siesta is the highlight of my day before the evening rolls around with unwelcome thoughts about Monday.

Aargghhh. Monday. I think all the sane people in the world hate Mondays. If you are a student, you have to get up bright and early to reach school / college on time. And if you are working like yours truly, you still have to reach office and tackle all the work that you postponed on Friday. Not a happy day for sure. So, what sin should we have for the blue, blue Mondays? Envy, perhaps. Because every spare moment and otherwise that I get on this accursed day is spent envying all the people whose week does not begin on Monday – like toddlers, or socialites, or people on leave.

Somehow Monday rolls by and Tuesday arrives. You are truly into the week now and are already longing for that weekend which is an eternity away. You are depressed and irritated and frustrated. All you want is a break from the drudgery. Surely that’s not too much to wish for. So, in search of some relief, I indulge in eating out. Perhaps, eating is a misnomer. Gorging is more like it. Hot, hot pasta. Cheesy garlic bread. Steaming pizza. Clues do not get bigger than this. Tuesdays for Gluttony.

Wednesday. Middle of the week. Half the week has gone by in a blur. The deadlines are looming. The last weekend seems like a distant memory from another lifetime. Saturday is a faraway dream. Work piles on. Things that can go wrong, go wrong. Murphy is in a malicious mood. Sure bets all fail. The unexpected happens. Tempers simmer, then boil and finally spill over. Frowns are common. Smiles, rare. Grouchiness, surly monosyllables and self-righteous indignation run havoc. Wednesdays, unless I am on a vacation, are dedicated to Wrath.

Thursdays should be better considering that I am so close to the coveted weekend. But sadly, no. Because those reports are still to be sent. The fine tuning yet to happen. The grass on the other side seems so much greener. I want more. More money. Less work. More play. Less drudgery. Daydreams that I cannot indulge in lay their silken traps. I want all the luxuries. The sophisticated apartment. The beautiful farmhouse, complete with a picket fence. The sleek, sexy cars. All the material comforts. There is no higher goal or aim than instant gratification. I want. I should get. So, yeah, Thursdays belong to Greed.

Finally, Friday rolls around. Somehow you have managed to finish the most urgent work. And you can almost smell the end of the tunnel. Saturday beckons. And you feel not an ordinary sense of accomplishment. You have managed to beat the (Herculean) odds. The universe had conspired against you but it could not crush your indomitable spirit. You have survived the week and emerged victorious. Ergo, Pride reigns supreme.

Ah, the sumptuous Saturday. It’s the carrot at the end of the stick. The day to go out. Watch movies. Shop. Meet friends. Shop. Visit your relatives. Shop. Catch up with your chores. Shop. I can see that you are getting the drift. Saturdays are meant for Lusting after all things bright and beautiful – be it a dress, a pair of earrings, shoes or books. And isn’t it poetic – the week that begins in extreme inertia ends on a passion so strong.

Being an unabashed sinner, that is how my week goes by. Do tell me, how does your week align itself to the Seven Deadly Sins? Or are you a Saint? ;-)

Remembrances of 26th January Past

2011-01-29T16:25:00.000+05:30

Last Wednesday was 26^th January, the Indian Republic Day. When I was in school, it had another meaning as well. It was our school foundation day and hence the day our annual function was held. It was the day that we looked forward to most as students. We had good reason to.

Immediately after half yearly exams in December, the teachers began selecting students for various programmes that would be put up on the big day. One could either participate in the shows directly or could volunteer for other duties. But it was something like the movies, you know. Acting and dancing were the most glamorous and sought after roles.

Some part of the schedule was more or less fixed. There would be an English play, a Hindi skit and Bengali dance-drama. Then there would be the some song and dance performances put up by various classes. The students who were good at these things were largely ear-marked and were therefore automatic selections (the taller girls always played the male roles, much to their chagrin). Yet there were some surprises every year when auditions for various parts were held. I used to be a part of the function in the junior classes through the dances and in the senior school as the narrator.

We also had exhibitions – Art, Craft and Science. The last I particularly enjoyed and took active part in. it comprised various experiments that were conducted in front of the visitors. Some of the most memorable ones that I had seen / conducted included an Orange crystal tree, a mini volcano that actually erupted throwing up green ash and a skeleton that we had made out of thermocol. When were making the skeleton, we could not make the teeth stick. Ultimately somebody came up with the idea of using chewing gum strips as teeth and it worked! Fun times, those.

While the actual function was plenty of fun and excitement – I especially loved the cute little dances that the tiny tots put up under the direction of my house-mistress Mrs. Bethe (rest in peace, ma’am) – the nearly two months leading up to the big day were plenty exciting themselves.

For these two months, most teachers were engaged in organizing rehearsals and quite a few students from each class were part of them. So, in essence the classes were left to their own devices and boy, what fun we had. There were day-long antaksharis with our own Deewane, Parwane and Mastaane (take a bow Team Close-up Antakshari), dumb charades, dancing and what not. I remember once in class Seven, we had run out of songs so we had a challenge about inventing the silliest and funniest of ads. The class monitors, school prefects and house captains were all eager and active participants. The teachers turned a blind eye to all the madness and mayhem running through the school corridors, giving a building full of young girls the license to go as wild as they could within the school perimeter. And to top it all, the lovely winters reign in the city during those months. Even those who were frequently AWOL made a point of not missing school during these days.

The intensity of rehearsals built up and climaxed in the penultimate week. The morning assembly would also be suspended and those extra twenty minutes put to use in rehearsals. There were frenzied costume fittings, the detailing of sets (cardboard trees and the perfect vase), the frantic and mad dash to claim the sole tape recorder before any other show team could lay its hands on it, the catfights between teachers over girls who participated in multiple shows. It went on and on as if it would never end. The adrenaline surge and just a hint of hysteria. The desire to put up your best performance because your parents would be sitting in the audience. The attempts to check out the books that would be given away as prizes and hoping that the ones you want are the ones that you would get. Minor disciplinary transgressions were pardoned but every dialogue had to be clearly enunciated.

Finally, the big day dawned. The school was all decked up with flowers, flags and welcome signs. The participants were asked to come in as early as 6.30 in the morning so that they could be ready at the time of flag-hoisting. The teachers looked resplendent in their best sarees, with barely a sign of anxiety on their faces until you looked into their eyes or you were the one they holding onto tightly while explain their instructions. The whole atmosphere used to be charged and electric and beautiful.

The programme for the day would kick off with the part I hated most – the long winded speeches by the school Secretary, the Chief Guest, the Principal and the school manager. This was followed by the prize-giving ceremonies. I clearly remember the slight knocking of my knees as my name was called out to go up on stage to receive the prize, mumbling my thanks to the guest, walking down the stair and searching the audience for my parents. Finding them, raising my prize high in triumph and then rushing back to my friends before tearing off the covers and discovering the treasures underneath. Every year it was just the same and the feeling never grew old.

Then the entertainment began. The English play was generally the first performance of the day and I always was in awe of the beautiful things that they put up. My favourite however was a modern interpretation of Cinderella, told in flashback style by one of the step-sisters. The Hindi drama more often than not highlighted the social issues and the Bengali dance drama revolved around some mythological story or the other. We clapped and cheered every performance and on one memorable occasion, all the students actually stood up and provided the chorus to a dance celebrating national integrity.

When the day was finally done and we trudged back home with the sweets and confectionary, there was the triumphant joy of a job well done and of a yet another beautiful memory made. I miss those days. I miss those 26^th of Januarys.

Dilli Dilwalon Ki*?!

2011-01-23T17:41:00.000+05:30

The reporter stood on a busy flyover from which a young girl returning home in the evening was thrown over by a mugger when she refused to part with her purse. The time was around 9 p.m. and the city was the national capital, Delhi.

The girl turned out to be the sister-in-law of somebody I know. That turned the incident from just another news item to shake my head over to an issue about which I have always felt strongly about. The safety of women in our national capital.

I first visited Delhi about fourteen years ago. That was the time before CNG buses. So, my first experience was that of foul, polluted air, stinging eyes, burning nose and an extreme inconvenience as we were stuck in traffic endlessly owing to the frequent passage of some VIP or the other.

Over the years, I have been to Delhi several times and quite regularly. There are things that I like about the city – the now clean air, the wide roads and flyovers, the shopping in Chandni Chowk. Some of these things are to be expected – hygiene factors, so to speak – in any metro and more so, in the country’s capital. But these are so rare in most Indian cities, including my own home town, that I cannot help but admire these.

Yet, I have never liked the city (including Noida and Gurgaon) as a whole. I always have this uneasy premonition and am always looking over my shoulder in the city. Not necessary that something unpleasant does happen but just the instinct, you know. And the sense that if you do land in some kind of trouble, you are probably on your own. This feeling is so different from what I would feel in my own hometown that it colours all my experiences of Delhi.

Take for instance, the incident that I cited at the start. It could happen anywhere. Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai – anywhere. After all, we do not live in a utopian, crime-free world. However, the chances of it occurring in a city other than Delhi are less. As a woman, I feel safer in the other metros. Not quite so vulnerable.

Adding to this general sense of menace and unease is the infamous statement of the chief minister, Mrs. Sheila Dixit, about the safety of women in the city. When cornered by the media on the issue after the murder of journalist Soumya Vishwanathan, Mrs. Dixit implied that the “adventurous behavior” of the murder victim while travelling home after work was to be blamed for the crime.

No wonder Delhi always projects this feeling of you-are-totally-on-your-own if you are out in the city. From men brazenly refusing to get up from seats reserved for women on the buses to a bunch of uncouth and rude auto-rickshaw drivers trying to cheat you on the highway connector between Noida and Delhi. From being followed by rather suspicious looking characters in Gurgaon at only 9 in the evening, only a stone’s throw away from a swanky mall to being ignored by the cycle-rickshaw driver when implored for road directions.

And I am not alone in possessing such sentiments. Our national capital is perhaps one of the most unsafe places for a woman. Every second day, there is some news flash about violence against women. Some are very high-profile like Jessica Lal murder and the rape of a seventeen year old girl returning home from tuitions in Noida and Aarushi homicide case. Others manage to garner only a single mention in the news ticker. But each tragic and senseless.

I do not have the statistics of such crimes at hand but they are likely impressive in an unflattering manner. It’s a really ironic state of affairs in city which is home to some of the most powerful women in the country.

And until some effective steps are taken (and that does not include staying at home, Mrs. Dixit), I will continue to wonder if Dilli is truly Dilwalon Ki*.

*’Dilli Dilwalon Ki’ is an affectionate sobriquet given to Delhi (Dilli) which means that the city belongs to those with a heart.

Flight of Fantasy

2011-01-09T19:08:00.000+05:30

She stood on the edge of the cliff. It was so far above. And the water so far away. And she was so scared.

And sick. Of being scared. Of playing safe. How did anyone know that being safe was better than sorry? What if you were sorry because all your life you have been safe? Never stepping out of the mundane, humbug life. Never knowing the grand adventure of doing something terrifying new.

Yes, she was sorry. But it was all gonna change. She would shun safety.

She looked down at the deep, blue ribbon that was deceptively calm. But she knew it was not. She could hear its roar even from the height at which she stood poised.

She looked above. Here the blue was not a mere ribbon. It was beautiful and endless. She wanted to fly into that blue. All by herself. Know and remember the exhilaration. Have the feeling as her most precious memory.

But she could not do that. She remembered a quote from somewhere: If God meant man to fly, He would have given us wings.

She flung a soft “Ha” at the single white cloud passing above her head and jumped.

She finally flew.

The Sales Siren

2011-01-08T21:49:00.000+05:30

I am not a shopaholic like Sophie Kinsella’s heroine and do have some ability to resist the temptation to buy every pretty thing I come across. Nonetheless, I really, really love shopping. And season-end sales just give me a reason to go out and shop.

Devious things – these end-of-season sales. They advertise in big, bold words – 50% off, upto 90% off, flat 60% discount. And lured by these sirens, I step into these stores, confident of buying great stuff at bargain prices. I start fantasizing about when and where I am going to show-off that oh-so-chic top or those really sexy heels.

Alas, the feeling lasts only until the time when I start browsing through the stuff on sale. If I have managed to visit the store at the start of the sale, I might be lucky enough to snatch some good things but woebegone any shopper who goes towards the end. All you are left with are – well, leftovers. In every sense of the term. The stock is near depleted and whatever is left, is well-nigh revolting.

Any sensible person in such situations would walk out of the store with minimal lightening of the bank account. Not me. I feel obliged to buy something since I have graced the shop with my presence. So, what do I do? I begin to wander among the fresh arrivals. And sure enough there’s that cool peasant blouse that I ought to buy (never mind, that my near zero-active social life does not provide me with enough opportunities to wear it) or that knee-length skirt that would look great with the red top that I have. Down come the items from their shelves and a quick swipe of my card ensures that I am several thousands poorer. Like today. The culprit? Westside 50% sale.

I am not even counting the nail-polishes and lipsticks and junk jewellery that I buy at every turn. I am not too bad about shoes – possibly because I generally want strappy, skinny heels which are not so easily available nowadays, except in some exclusive stores.

Anyway, this flatter-to-deceive nature of sales is not just limited to fashion. As I have said so many times before – I love books. So, any kind of bookstore sale (even a measly 10%) is bound to catch my eye and I feel it is my duty to take advantage of it. I waltz into the bookshop dreaming of all the beautiful, lovely books I am going to feast on and at such affordable prices! I am brought down to earth when I see that most books on discount are the ones that I do not really fancy buying – cookbooks, political treatises, Shobhaa Des and Chetan Bhagats. The latest Archer or Grisham have no discounts marked. Neither do the classics or Wodehouses. Or if they do, they are inconsequential. Yet, I succumb and buy the ones that I want and at their full prices.

This has happened to me so many times that I should have learnt my lesson. But of course not. There is no such thing as a reformed shopper or a wise shopper. Or if there is, it sure ain’t me.

Until the next sale call, ciao.

Ten Commandments for the New Decade

2011-01-05T16:08:00.001+05:30

Thou shalt practise patience and not just consider it a virtue.
Thou shalt learn to relax – that entails leaving work at work.
Thou shalt crib and complain less.
Thou shalt learn to care less about everyone’s opinion. Not everyone matters.
Thou shalt spend more time with thy family.
Thou shalt pay more attention to thy hobbies – they are worth more than you think.
Thou shalt not brood.
Thou shalt take care of thyself. Pamper, sometimes.
Thou shalt see more of the world.
Thou shalt learn to be as happy as you can.

Amen.

Book Dislikes

2010-12-28T18:43:00.000+05:30

I am an indiscriminate book reader. My reading philosophy is very simple – has a story, will read. I have given up – that is, not finished reading them – on only two books in my lifetime. I finish what I start even if I do not particularly like it.

Even so, there are some things which grate on my nerves and sometimes prevent a good book from becoming my favourite. I think, all the book lovers have such criteria of categorising a book. Mine are simple and perhaps quite common too.

A perfect hero / heroine: Think of your favourite book and its central character. Was he / she a paragon? A saint so virtuous that everyone absolutely loved or canonized him / her? It is unlikely that that would be the case. The greatest characters may be larger than life but they are always human. They may be perfect for the situations they are thrown in but as people they are flawed. Think Sidney Carter, Darcy, Howard Roarke, Heathcliff or Portia or even Harry Potter. None of them are perfect. They have their shortcomings – be it a temper or arrogance or simply a callous attitude. Absolute perfection, to my mind, is extremely boring, bland and lifeless.
India as an exotic land / quagmire of poverty and ignorance: There are few things which irritate me more than modern Indian writers of English who sell India as an unpalatable mix of snake-charmers, arranged marriages, call centres, Bollywood and loud, brash relatives. This trait is more common among Indian chick-lit (I dislike that term but there’s no help for it) writers and Chetan Bhagat. Then there are those who portray India as a land with no hope – a country with new, swanky malls in the cities and farmer suicides, deaths from hunger and Maoists in its hinterlands. The largest democracy where the common man, the middle classes lead an extremely depressing life. If you have read Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance or Kiran Desai’s The Inheritance of Loss, you will know what I am talking about.
Pedanticism: Some really good authors suffer from it. Like Salman Rushdie. I have read two of his books – the really interesting Midnight’s Children and the relatively lesser known Ground Beneath Her Feet. In both the cases, the storyline hooked me. The characterization was great. I could practically see the events playing out in front of my eyes – from Veena’s descent into debauchery born out of a stubborn love to a lost Salim in the wetlands. But what ticked me off was the constant showing off by Mr. Rushdie. His narrative has this annoying stage-whisper in author’s voice permeating it: “Look how much I know. I know India’s history. I understand its present crisis. I know it all.” Agreed, a good author should have a good understanding of his setting but really, must you shout it out loud?
Moral Science lessons: I hated the subject in school, although I loved GK (General Knowledge) with which it was usually clubbed. So, it is no wonder that I cannot abide it in a book of fiction. Paulo Coelho loves stating moral of the story. I know, The Alchemist is often cited as the favourite book by most of the intellectuals, celebs and what have you. But seriously, I found the book difficult to read, despite it being rather short in length. Sure, it had some gems like the one Farah Khan shamelessly copied in Om Shanti Om – if you wish for something with all your heart, the whole universe conspires to make your wish come true. But I detested the preachy tone of the book. I have not read any of his other works except a short story or two but they are written in the same manner. So, he is not on my authors-to-read-by-default list

That more or less covers it. There are some slightly lower order irritants, but the above seriously put me off a book. Yet I, almost always trudge on, unless the book is either really, really vulgar like the Shobha De novel I gave up on after reading thirty-odd pages or if the book suffers from all the maladies that I described above. Thankfully, neither of the two are common occurrences. Ergo, I almost always read a book to its end.

I wonder, if there are any other points that really irritate ardent readers? Do let me know :-)

Ciao.

From a Summer Morning

2010-12-23T21:07:00.000+05:30

Gather a handful of stars and blow them away with a whisper so that they swirl around your skirt, like fairy dust, keeping rhythm as you dance to the sighs of the night and the tinkle of church bells settling in for their daily rest.

An image which simply floated into my vision on a hot, sultry morning in a polluted, crowded city. Today.

A Winter Interlude

2010-12-23T20:53:00.002+05:30

It is a quiet winter evening. Not quite lazy. But quiet. There are noises. Of the distant traffic. A child cries having been denied what he wanted. There is the almost rhythmic hitting of the mason’s tools in an under-construction building close by. A dog barks. But underneath it all, is a quiet that makes me feel so content but also a little edgy, as if to be content is unambitious, as if to enjoy and even long for this quiet is a sign of stagnation.

But I push these treacherous thoughts away. Because tomorrow will come soon enough. With its ambitions and anxieties and grouches and destined to stay longings and desires. But the quiet has begun to dissolve as the cacophony grows louder to intrude upon the solitude. The traffic runs faster, telephones sing, the hammering is louder……and the interlude becomes just that. An interlude.

Sunshine and Butterflies

2010-12-19T16:33:00.001+05:30

I am a little rusty – there has been so much happening in my life recently that I have not had the time or energy to formulate a single cohesive line of thought. Actually, this time has made me realize how one, single incident can change how I do things.

Anyway, this post is not for brooding. This one is to remember some of the bright, unexpected spots of warm light that I have come across in my life. In them, I may have been merely an observer or a silent participant. But that does not prevent them from becoming some of my favourite memories.

Best Friends

I had just begun at my new job. The office was pretty far from home and I had to change transport thrice to reach on time. The last leg of the journey involved an auto-rickshaw ride in the bylanes of an area which I did not know very well. In fact, I had heard its name for the first time when I had visited my office for the interview.

This particular morning, a mother with her two kids shared the auto-rickshaw with me. The son was older and at about ten years of age, clearly the man in the family. His mother was taking him and his sister to school.

There was playful banter throughout the ten minute ride. But what I found most endearing was the relationship that the mother and son apparently shared. They were friends first and the son very clearly considered himself, his family’s protector. He advised his mother on the route to take back home, what to do and what not to. His mother listened with affectionate amusement but never took his words lightly. There was discussion on budgeting and places for good bargains. The little man held his kid sister’s hand and occasionally disciplined her with “Don’t poke your head out” or “Sit still”.

It was not the most scintillating conversation that I have eavesdropped upon but it was one of the most intriguing. There was so much love and concern that the little child felt for his mother and sister. It was as if he had grown up already and decided he was responsible for the well-being of his family. Also, very clear was the mother’s belief and pride in her son. He was her hope of the future and the sun and the moon of her life. I got the feeling that she felt safer when he was with her than at any other time.

The ride was over a little too soon but that mother-son duo – more friends than contemporaries – has stayed in the box marked as rides to savour.

Trusting Imps

Ever since I started working, I take a two-three vacation once a year to visit a place I have never been to before. Last year, my siblings and I hired a car and travelled across the lovely Himachal. After we had visited all the expected spots at McLeodganj (that’s where Dalai Lama stays), we had our evening free. So, we drove down to Dharamshala, which was only an hour away and arrived at Army Park.

This park was built in the memory of the martyred Indian soldiers. It sprawled over a large area with a monument inscribed with the names of the martyrs at its heart. The setting sun winked through the dappled brown trunks of the tall trees. The air had a pleasant nip and chill that we, residents of the plains, really enjoyed. The river flowed down the slope, silently gurgling its way through the park. The birds returning home chirped and cooed. There were not too many visitors and the near solitude was a rare gift. The best part, however, was the serenity that had settled over the park like a content lullaby.

Meandering aimlessly, we arrived at a small stone pergola beyond which a mini-playground for children had been set up. There was a slide and seesaw that were sitting at a little distance to each other. A swing set had been put up farther away. The architect of the playground, however, had overlooked one crucial fact. This being Dharamshala, the entire park was sitting atop a small hill. So, if you walk for long in one direction, you would reach the edge of some slope or the other. The swing set was installed rather close to one such edge. Nothing that an adult would fall over easily. But if you put kids into equation, the location became a little alarming.

When we arrived at this spot, a local family was already there, enjoying the evening. A grandmother had brought her three little grandchildren – two girls and a boy – to play there. The kids ranged from ages three to six-seven. The sisters were happily occupied at the seesaw, with the grandmother overseeing their antics. The curious and rather intrepid brother approached us strangers, who were watching their shenanigans from the edge of the pergola.

We said “Hello” and smiled at the child. He, in return, said something in a garbled tongue. We asked him to repeat what he was trying to say a couple of times. In the end, the grandmother interpreted his words for us. “He is asking you,” she said, “not to go there. Monkeys hide there.”

“Where?” I asked.

The boy pointed in the direction of the swing set and said, “There.”

We looked at the grandmother in puzzled askance. “The swing is very close to the edge”, she explained. “So, we have told him that there are monkeys near the swing. That acts as a deterrent. Please don’t tell him otherwise.”

I smiled at her in reassurance and was inordinately touched by the little guy’s attempts to warn us of danger. We were people he had never seen before and probably would never see again. And here, he was, trying to save strangers from his own personal bogeyman.

As I sat there, watching the charming little tableau that the kids presented along with their adoring grandma, the dusk gathered slowly in her arms the last crimson vestiges of the setting sun and left me with a forget-me-not.

I am lucky to have more such gems sprinkled across the expanse of my memory. When these happen to me, I remember that life is not just a mundane chore with me at its grinding centre. When these happen to me, I feel blessed and content. The feeling may be momentary but it is cherished forever.

BBC's Top 100 books

2010-12-06T21:43:00.000+05:30

Have been tagged by Scarlett. Given below is the BBC's list of the top 100 books of all time. According to them an average person has read 6 of these books.
I'm marking the ones that I've read...

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6 The Bible
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulk
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveler’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34 Emma -Jane Austen
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - A.A. Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce
76 The Inferno - Dante
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - E.B. White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

My count stands at 41..... I am looking to add to it, but like my friend and fellow blogger Supernova, I am surprised too that Ayn Rand does not feature on the list and neither do writers like D.H. Lawrence, Edith Wharton, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Edgar Allen Poe. And not to forget R K Narayan, who I think, is the best Indian writer of English prose.

Dasvidaniya

2010-12-04T18:05:00.000+05:30

As I bid adieu to one of the most precious people in my life, I find myself, like most other people, dwelling on philosophy. What happens to a person after death? Is there another life? Reincarnation? Or is it simply the end?

For me the questions are not so much about what actually happens and the proof thereof. They are more about what gives me the most comfort – comfort that the one I love is safe and happy. That she is not in any pain. That she has found peace. That she has regained the vitality that disease treacherously stole from her. And that she would always be with me.

As she sits in a regal pose in her photograph and looks out at her large family, her children and grandchildren, I pray and hope that she becomes a star, a shining presence in my conscience, guiding me and my family. That she becomes our guardian angel, always watching over us – proud of our achievements, smiling at our little foolishnesses and holding our hand through difficult times.

So, I will not bid her farewell. I will not say good-bye. Because I believe that she lives on in that world beyond the skies and will do so forever.

A Love So Grand – Part II

2010-11-12T23:45:00.000+05:30

Being the oldest child of my clan and an only child for several years, I have been pampered and indulged by a bevy of uncles and aunts. But more so by my amma (paternal grandmother). And she therefore has a very, very special place in my heart.

Since we lived in a joint family, my mother felt very comfortable leaving me in the care of my grandparents whenever she travelled. And if I go by the accounts that she gives me often, I never missed her even at the tender age of one. In fact, while she was the disciplinarian to a stubborn I, my amma was my refuge – a shelter from my mother’s temper and dad’s strict standards.

But let’s make no mistake. Amma’s a true matriarch, despite her leniency towards me. I remember my mom and aunt asking amma about the menu for lunch and dinner. What vegetables were allowed to be cooked and when. This was especially important when it came to onions because in our household like in scores of other homes in UP and Rajasthan, onion was considered an impure vegetable. In fact, I remember once asking amma about why it was so. After all onion is also a vegetable and therefore can be a part of vegetarian diet. She told me how when Lord Vishnu (he is one of three most powerful gods in Hindu mythology) once sat down for his meal, a bulb of onion fell off his plate. And from that day onwards, the onion was cursed and no true devotee of Vishnu was allowed to have the vegetable! Incredible, isn’t it? But to a six year old, it was gospel truth.

That is one of the charms of my grandma. She is so full of stories. And they are not always about gods and fictional characters. You should hear her speak about her childhood. You can almost see the house that she grew up in, her friends and her aunt who raised her, since her own mother had passed away at an early age. Amma, as was the norm more than fifty years back, got married at the tender age of fifteen. But she recollects all the details of those first fifteen years so clearly, more than what has actually happened in last fifteen years!

Did I mention that she is a great cook? Her aloo paranthas are nonpareil. Even the most mundane dishes are amazing. And I only have to whisper in her ear about the dish I want to eat and it would be done – from bharwan baingan to chole bhature.

Going vegetable shopping with her used to be fun because she would buy me all the roadside savouries that I liked, without my mom getting to know about it. I dodged naps in hot summer afternoons so that I could eat that extra mango that amma had saved especially for me, with my siblings safely tucked away. At night, if I felt scared, I could slowly inch over to her bed (I slept in my grandparents’ room) and cuddle her. And at three in the morning when she woke up to go to the temple, she often found me curled asleep on her bed.

I could go on endlessly about her. There are so many things that I have not mentioned. There are so many stories that I have not shared. The words I have written do no justice to a woman who has a flair for languages (she can speak Hindi, Bengali and Marwari – the last two she learnt post marriage), can manage the operational aspect of my dad’s business, pamper her brood of grandchildren and still manage time for her religious rituals and her husband. But over the last few years, as her health has slowly degenerated, my heart has been breaking bit by bit. The plump cuddliness of her body has withered away to frail bones. In the last one month or so, she has been hospitalized twice and is still being treated for severe kidney damage. Every time I see her now, her weak countenance, drained of all vitality, is like a jolt to my senses.

So, while she would never be able to read this blog or even understand what a blog is, I still needed to write this – to tell her how much she means to me and that I just want her to come home, recovered and healthy.

That’s all, amma. Come back home to me, safe and sound.

A Love So Grand: Part I

2010-11-06T17:58:00.002+05:30

There is a saying in Hindi: Asal se sood jyaada pyaara hota hai. Roughly translated it means that interest is dearer to a moneylender as compared to the actual amount. This is usually quoted in the context of the relationship between grandparents and grandchildren, the inference being that people love their grandkids more than their own offspring. The inverse, I like to think, is also true.

I was one of those fortunate people who had both sets of grandparents alive and healthy for all my childhood.

My Mom hails from a small but hugely famous town in Uttar Pradesh. All through my school life, we had a largely fixed summer ritual. The day after the school closed for summer, we would travel to my nani’s (maternal grandmother) place after a day long journey by train. It was the one month I looked most forward to. The huge assortment of cousins who would gather was the biggest attraction. In fact, I used to think that that was the only reason I used to love spending my vacation there. But now in hindsight, after so many years, I realize that it was not just the kids. It was the sheer joy that my grandparents felt at having all their grandchildren around them that made the months special.

My nanaji (maternal grandfather) was a lawyer – highly successful and respected. I remember people coming from far and wide to discuss legal issues with him. The courts also used to close for summers and his vacation largely coincided with ours. He liked to cook, especially for us. He would prepare huge mounds of sandwiches and gallons of thandai every morning for the horde of ravenous children (there were eighteen of us, ranging from teenagers to mere toddlers). Always had some input for the lunches and dinners. Special requests for mithi guzhia was always granted.

But what I loved most about time with him were the quizzes and puzzles that he set out for us to solve. These brain teasers were fun and interesting. He would ask about and tell us trivia in the hot afternoons while we demolished plates of mangoes, watermelons, berries and melons. He would peel and cut the fruits, distributing it fairly amongst us, coaxing me to eat the melons, which I did not like and trying to protect the mangoes from being pillaged. And then there were stories too. Of Akbar and Birbal, Tenalirama and Mulla Naseeruddin.

He liked gardening and if any of us were around while he watered the plants, he would tell us about the flowers and the fruits that he had in his garden.

He loved reading too. Children’s magazines like Nandan, Chandamama and Champak were subscribed for him, along with intellectual reads like Wisdom and Reader’s Digest. I think I inherited the love of reading from him. Yeah, I am quite sure.

He had answers and infinite patience for all our questions. Celebrations and parties for our academic achievements were sponsored by him. Ice creams and chocolates. Taught us new card games and new tricks too.

Not that we never got dressed down by him. Oh, countless number of times. We were extremely naughty, especially the oldest six, which included yours truly. We considered sleep a waste of time since this one month was all we got in an entire year to spend together. And as we grew older, there was a sense of urgency to pack as many conversations and games in as little time as possible. The chats and games lasted late into night. This was all very well if we were sleeping in a room separate from all the adults. Obviously, when the adults were sleeping close by, we had to be more cautious – whispers only. Once, three of us were busy making wild plans, which included opening a detective agency and its potential branding, with nanaji sleeping in the adjacent room with the connecting door open. At one point in the discussion, we got extremely excited (we could not decide whose name should come first in the partnership) when a bark to shut up from Nanaji made the decision for us.

It’s been so long since I had the benefit for his stories and his admonishing. Nobody makes mithi guzhias like he used to. Sometimes, I wonder if he saw me today, the person I have become, the successes I have had and the failures that I have chalked up, what would he say. Would he be proud? Would he be disappointed? He would have retired, perhaps but forever busy. He would have spoilt his great-grandchildren. He would have been one more vociferous voice cajoling me to settle down. I can almost hear him say this in the same voice as when he asked me to eat melon or drink thandai.

Ah, nanaji. I miss you.

Simply the Best Job in the World!

2010-10-21T01:31:00.001+05:30

Sometime in 2009, there was a job advertisement that had garnered a lot of interest and buzz. Touted to be the best job in the world, it came with a pay package of 150,000 Australian dollars (105,000 US dollars) and included free airfares from the successful applicant's home country to Hamilton Island on the Great Barrier Reef, Queensland. In return, the "island caretaker" will be expected to stroll the white sands, soak up the sun, snorkel the reef, "maybe clean the pool" -- and report to a global audience via weekly blogs, photo diaries and video updates.

The successful applicant, the ad said, would get to stay rent-free in a multi-million dollar three-bedroom beach home complete with plunge pool and golf buggy. The only requirements were that one must be an excellent communicator and be able to speak and write English.

Dream job, indeed. At least for some. I do not know who, if any, got that job ultimately. But we can all perhaps relate with the desire to be in a job which would be great fun, easy and would pay top dollar. It is something which is a frequent topic of discussion among office-goers.

Topping the list of dream jobs would be the position of Food Critic. You get to eat food, critique it and all this is not just free - you actually get paid for it. Seriously, how awesome is that? The only downside I came up with (after wracking my brain hard) has more to do with me – you cannot be a Food Critic if you are a vegetarian. Talk about life being unfair.

Next up would be the Travel Show host. How many times have you watched all the beautiful, interesting places, famous, infamous and totally unknown, on Travel & Living or Discovery channels and wished that you could take the place of the svelte anchor or the smiling guide? How many times have you longed not to be bound by responsibilities and truly see the world? If I had my three wishes from a genie, I would have chosen to be a Travel Show host. You get paid great bucks all for the pleasure of exploring the amazing world out there.

Since we are already talking about the TV anchors, why not discuss the hosts of all those Electronic, Gadgets and Automobiles shows? They get to test drive all the latest, hippest and coolest gadgets and cars and I think, also get to keep what they test occasionally.

And then there’s the Socialite. One of my friends recently commented that maybe it would be great to be a socialite. All you have to do is marry a rich guy or be born into a stinking rich family and then you can just flit from party to party during the nights and attend charity luncheons during the day. Add to that holidays abroad twice a year. And a great, fashionable wardrobe. Hmmm….the last bit, I definitely like. I am just not too sure of the first half of the job definition. But that’s just me. There are a whole host of ladies and gentlemen (yes, them too – in most cases, they are called the Heirs) who totally enjoy being a social butterfly. This breed is definitely here to stay.

My dream job would be that of a Book and Movie reviewer. I would get all the latest books – free of course – and be invited to the premieres and paid previews of all the movies. So, I would have been provided with Harry Potter and Deathly Hallows before most of the world. I would be a respected guest at the movie premiere of the same. And afterwards, people would be paying me to hear my opinion on them. All this for doing something I actually love. I can’t imagine a better life professionally. Sigh.

On that note, I must bid adieu. My real job demands that I return to it. So be it, until the dream job is mine.

Holiday Blues

2010-10-16T11:29:00.000+05:30

Is it just me or do other people also miss holidays while still having them? I mean, do you start feeling rueful towards the end of a holiday or vacation? A feeling of bafflement as to where did the time fly. Only yesterday, you were looking forward to these days away from work and regular drudgery of life and just like that it’s come and gone.

I call them Holiday Blues. Typically they strike in the last leg of a holiday. Take for instance, the last four days. My city is celebrating its biggest festival that generally stretches for 4-5 days officially. This year most of these days were during the week, so we got nearly five days off. Now that time is nearly up and I have to report back to work on Monday – day after tomorrow. So, I am missing the past four days of lazy vegetation (wait, make that three. After all, I did spend several back breaking hours on the first day cleaning my room). But the point is that I still have almost two days to go before having to hit work. Yet, here I am. Missing the time off something bad.

I like to believe all the sane and normal people in the world suffer from Holiday Blues. Except for abnormally cheerful and full-of-beans kind who always look forward to tomorrow. Even Mondays. Ugh! And the workaholics. They taught us in school: Work is worship. But these people take it too far. They willingly and happily work on holidays. Extended time off causes withdrawal symptoms. To them, Blackberry is the new Wheel. Of course, they would not suffer from Holiday Blues.

The Blues can be better borne when there is another holiday (read, weekday off) in sight. Even if it is not as long as the one being lamented currently. Something’s better than nothing, right? It is like Manna from Heaven. A freshwater spring for a man dying of thirst in a scorched desert etc. etc. You get the gist.

Like I have a Friday off in the coming week. That will sustain me through the endless week that inevitably follows a holiday. I do not know how people think that they feel energised when they rejoin work after a longish time-off. I feel all the more lazy and it takes longer for me to get into groove.

Nonetheless, I will now go and take my medication for the Holiday Blues. A book to forget that a working Monday is looming and my afternoon siesta. And a two minute silence to mourn the passing of my holidays. May they come soon again. Amen.

Wishlist

2010-10-09T19:14:00.001+05:30

I wish, I could count the stars,
I wish, I could sparkle.
I wish, I could live a dream,
I wish, I could dazzle.

I wish, I could row to the moon,
I wish to be a firefly.
I wish, I could churn the seas,
I wish to know the highest high.

I wish, I could slay a dragon,
I wish for adventures real.
I wish, I could treasures hunt
I wish for realms magical.

I wish, I could have wishes three,
I wish for a boon.
I wish, the boon is granted
I wish, real soon!

Sky High

2010-10-01T18:21:00.000+05:30

I will start with an admission: I do not like flying in an aeroplane. It makes me feel nauseous, my ears ring and my head is a like a leaden weight on my shoulders. Seriously overweight co-passengers who hog armrests and the plane-is-my-mansion kind who recline their seats regardless of whether you are eating, reading or sleeping make things worse. But the absolute pit is getting the middle seat. Or wait, getting an aisle seat with co-passengers who want to go to the restroom every fifteen minutes or so probably takes the prize.

Yet, of late I have chosen to book a flight because it saves time – time that is better utilized with family and friends rather than travelling from Point A to Point B.

So, last week, when I decided to take a seriously needed break from work, I booked air tickets with the extra pre-caution of selecting the seats in advance. I chose window seats – a luxury that airlines have been denying me for years now.

And it was a fortuitous decision. Because it reminded me of the only thing I love about flying.

I boarded an evening flight for my destination. The moment I had made the obligatory call home, I switched off my cell phone, put on my seat belt, took off my sandals, curled my legs under me and prepared to pass the two and half hour journey with my book and iPod. The plane took off in the usual roaring manner, with yours truly gripping the armrests and closing the eyes and hoping that the tinny noise in my ears would not last long.

Thankfully, the take-off was smooth and the plane soon righted itself. I opened my eyes and looked out of the window. And had my breath stolen.

It was after a long, long time that I was taking an evening flight and also had the window to myself. Outside my window, a glorious sight met my eyes. I was going west, so it seemed as if I was flying into the crimson sun itself.

The plane was far above the clouds. A melange of colours had lit up the beautifully soft and dense world of white below us. Red, pink, orange and all the possible shades in between were playing within the cloudy folds. I wanted to taste them really bad. Would they taste slightly sweet and cool, like candy floss? And I wanted to touch and roll in them. Know their feel, remember their texture.

It was a fairy land below me. Surely those spires of marsh-mellows belonged to the castle of the fairy queen. I half-expected faery creatures to peek out of clouds and wink at me. As if I was the only one to know their secret. Imps, goblins and leprechauns walking down the rainbow to the pot of gold. Tiny, little Tinker Bells with gauzy, sparkly wings and naughty smiles.

I also saw a huge polar bear with wings, flying alongside the plane – a knight escorting me to my destination, sworn to protect me against all misfortunes that could befall me. And then there was Pegasus being born right in front of my eyes – the head and torso rising out of the clouds and the wings taking shape, stretching white and magnificent. Mesmerising.

When the sun set and the white world beyond my window went dark, I returned to my book with a rueful smile. But of one thing I was sure. I could not ask for a better and more beautiful memory to begin my vacation.

To windows and flights, then.

Coming Up for Air

2010-09-18T12:40:00.000+05:30

It is Saturday today but we have full-day office. Because we got an unnecessary Tuesday off last week, courtesy our ever-conscientious trade unions.

But since it is a Saturday, I think I can take out half an hour to day-dream a little. Mainly about my upcoming week off. Now, there is a big smile on my face.

A whole week off! What a relief. It’s been more than a year since I went on a vacation (and lovely was the trip to Himachal last year). This time, though, I am not really going on a trip to explore some new place. I am going to another city, catch up with cousins and old friends I have not seen for a couple of years now.

Sometimes, I am surprised to discover that though I have been to this city – let’s call it Eden, for the time being – I have never really seen it. And it is a city which people claim, has to be experienced. In the past, my sojourns to Eden have been on official tours – zipping in and out. Between meetings and travelling all over the city, I barely ever had time to meet a friend for coffee.

So, I have decided to make amends. It will be a week full of gluttony, sloth and visiting all the landmarks dotting Eden. Hanging out and reminiscing with friends who have gotten married and become parents since I last saw them. Get introduced to a whole bunch of nieces and nephews – some familial, others honorary – and hoping that they would remember me the next time they see me.

And I vow not to think of work even for a second. Not to worry about all the mails and commitments waiting for me when I return. Not to obsess about the last mails that I would send before taking off and the possible replies that they would evoke. Not to wish for my laptop to check just one mail (Facebook excepted, of course). Not to wonder if the meetings for important presentations have been set up. And most definitely not to agonise over my career choices.

I always have promises to keep but these I would, with pleasure.

Gibberish

2010-09-10T23:08:00.000+05:30

Do this. Don’t do that.

If you follow those,

You are a cranky old bat.

Copy this. Paste that.

Don’t make a mistake

And cut the crap

Present this. Hide that.

Keep it succinct;

Don’t make it fat.

Plan for this. Leave that out.

And if you are tired,

Scream out loud.