On a hot Saturday afternoon there I was at the gate of the Press Club trying to garner votes for a candidate -- my colleague's dad. Whew it was weird. Going up to people, smiling coquettishly and saying prettily, "Do vote for Mr X". Add to it the fact that for the first time in the 24 years of my life I was campaigning. These are the few things I learnt:
Steer clear of those with a purposeful stride. They know whom to vote for. They brush you away like flies.
Make a beeline for the grandaddies. They grin toothlessly and even mark out the candidate you point out to them in the pamphlet. God bless them.
Never call a woman journalist an aunty (Actually that's the last thing any woman wants to be called for sure). A girl campaigning for her father happened to address this lady as 'Aunty'. Poor girl was snubbed badly.
It's good to learn from other's mistakes.
Avoid other candidates. Especially if they happen to be former colleagues. This photographer, an ex colleague of mine came up and asked me to campaign for him too. Ahem it was a bit of a sticky situation. Unless of course you say sunnily, "Aw but I am already booked."
At the end of it, we badly needed nourishment. Entered the dining area. Was greeted by a host of old faces, some leery, some too busy to look up from their plates and some busy picking their teeth(shudder)
We ended up driving further up the road to the Women's Press Corps
and enjoying a lunch of appams and coconut chicken. And not to mention the fact that it seemed a mini office thing there with most of our colleagues scattered here and there. Everywhere.
Sometimes the world is too small.
28.5.05
24.5.05
Planet Bollywood beckons
My entrepreneurial instincts are at their best. Having just covered the pre launch event of Planet Hollywood restaurant, I whispered into fellow journalist eM's ears that a Planet Bollywood would go great guns instead of the former. I put my blind trust in the star crazed millions out there.
And as I watched visuals of Arnie serving stuff to guests at Planet Hollywood, I could actually imagine Shahrukh Khan and Fardeen Khan carrying plates around. Just as they have dishes that are favoured by the likes of Demi Moore and Sly Stallone, we could have dishes named after the stars, e.g. 'Shahi Shahrukh murg', 'Lolo's lobster' or 'Fardeen Falooda'. What fun! Now only for a financer.
And as I watched visuals of Arnie serving stuff to guests at Planet Hollywood, I could actually imagine Shahrukh Khan and Fardeen Khan carrying plates around. Just as they have dishes that are favoured by the likes of Demi Moore and Sly Stallone, we could have dishes named after the stars, e.g. 'Shahi Shahrukh murg', 'Lolo's lobster' or 'Fardeen Falooda'. What fun! Now only for a financer.
23.5.05
Up and down, up and down we went down the road to hell...
But then the road led to paradise. I was on my way to interview a famous photographer (lets call him FP) at his farmhouse. Sometimes I wonder when you are on the way to wallowing in the luxury of your plush farmhouse, how can you bear the brunt of the roads, if I would be pardoned for calling them roads. In fact the roads seem incident to the potholes. The farmhouses I passed on the way made me yearn for one. A small bungalow in the middle of mustard fields, surrounded by rows of ramrod straight eucalytpuses and silver oaks. And me relaxing on the porch with a tall glass of iced blue lagoon and a nice book (for sound effect, the gentle swish swish of the leaves) Hmmm...
The infamous RS had to disturb my reverie. He filled me in with
details about FP, how he grew up with FP's son, how FP has married
thrice...la la la. By the time he was done with his vivid descriptions, I had nodded off.
FP's house was quite out of the common. It looked a Rajasthani
haveli with beautiful jaali work and contemporary tile work as well. I was mesmerised by the brilliant aqua coloured tiles that formed a part of the steps to the house. Beat this, there was a huge lime and mortar pestle as well, where the lime was being ground by a huge chakki (wheel). Plus FP is a big garden freak. His huge huge garden boasted trees from Kashmir, Singapore, Bali and San Francisco and lotus ponds (from where snakes crawl out and sun themselves during the monsoons on the neaby rocks... shudder). There was a bird house that housed pigeons, colourful crested fowls, rabbits and ducks and a swimming pool too. Given all this, I was completely bowled over.
The best part was the view from the pavilion of the house. You could see for miles around and see the Aravalli ranges and greenery all around. Beautiful blossoms... laburnum, gulmohar, bougainvillea, roses, hibiscus. Oh it all seemed so surreal.
(Whisper) What befuddled me was FP and his wife. He is quite old and she is as young and good looking. Ok I am straying into RS's territory now. He would love to tell you how colourful FP is.
Now I have a new passion. A farmhouse.
The infamous RS had to disturb my reverie. He filled me in with
details about FP, how he grew up with FP's son, how FP has married
thrice...la la la. By the time he was done with his vivid descriptions, I had nodded off.
FP's house was quite out of the common. It looked a Rajasthani
haveli with beautiful jaali work and contemporary tile work as well. I was mesmerised by the brilliant aqua coloured tiles that formed a part of the steps to the house. Beat this, there was a huge lime and mortar pestle as well, where the lime was being ground by a huge chakki (wheel). Plus FP is a big garden freak. His huge huge garden boasted trees from Kashmir, Singapore, Bali and San Francisco and lotus ponds (from where snakes crawl out and sun themselves during the monsoons on the neaby rocks... shudder). There was a bird house that housed pigeons, colourful crested fowls, rabbits and ducks and a swimming pool too. Given all this, I was completely bowled over.
The best part was the view from the pavilion of the house. You could see for miles around and see the Aravalli ranges and greenery all around. Beautiful blossoms... laburnum, gulmohar, bougainvillea, roses, hibiscus. Oh it all seemed so surreal.
(Whisper) What befuddled me was FP and his wife. He is quite old and she is as young and good looking. Ok I am straying into RS's territory now. He would love to tell you how colourful FP is.
Now I have a new passion. A farmhouse.
17.5.05
Neighbour neighbour where art thou
Neighbours are a risque affair altogether. My colleague SB was regaling us at lunch with stories of her fat neighbour who does nothing but guzzle pizzas all day long. SB has christened her Fatty, so let me use this pet name. The other day Fatty got Mickey (that's SB's other neighbour) into trouble. It's a long story, but to cut it short the aftereffects of a spat between the two turned out thus: Mickey landed behind bars because Fatty filed an attempt to murder case against her with the cops. Actually to frighten Fatty, the former had touched her with her car, because she was refusing to budge from her path. That was it. Fatty lay prostrate on the ground and kept yelling about being murdered.
Back home, our neighbours were sort of ok. Except one of them. This fat guy with a weird voice next door, Rahul, was incredibly spoilt and kept fighting with his parents and sis. He had company in the form of their spitz dog Toffee who would not stop yapping till Rahul would. Now Toffee was not exactly an amiable creature, quite ill-tempered actually. And I would take full advantage. On afternoons when I would feel extremely bored and perverse, I would stand at my window (which overlooks onto a landing of our neighbour's place and where Toffee would be dozing off) and wake him up with 'Tch tch' sounds. It was a pleasure making faces at him. He would go berserk. Often Rahul's dad would step out to see what was wrong. But he never found out the reason. I was good at ducking down (this was an acquired habit. I was used to training my binoculars into our hot Malayasian neighbour's house and duck down whenever he happened to look up. Well he was not exactly Malaysian but an Indian who stayed there. He had fab abs).
I guess I was a painful neighbour. When I was 18 and learning to drive our bulky ambassador, I once drove it onto Rahul's garden. His mom was incredibly fond of their green patches, for she would spend hours on getting the hedges pruned at exactly the same level. So as I ploughed in to her manicured hedges one winter morning, she almost suffered a heart attack. She was standing at the verandah sunning herself with Toffee at her heels when I entered the scene with my four-wheeler. At that point my legs were trembling, but now as I recall her gripping the railings of her balcony, so much so that it seemed she would leap from it, it's hilarious.
What goes around, comes back. So it's payback time, I guess. Now we have this garrulous old Punjabi woman staying opposite us. Every time I open the door for our maid Leelavati, she miraculously pops out (I am convinced that she is obsessed with us) and starts insisting that the terrace door is unlocked. So when for the nth time, she bugged me about there being no lock hanging there, I ran up in front of her and looked very grimly at her in the eye and said, "Well it is locked." She must have been quite disappointed.
The first time I met her and had a thorough Q&A session with her
(exclusivity to the question part was hers), she learnt that the three of us are from Calcutta. So she insisted that when we go back home, we get her back Chikan sarees. I was convinced then that she was a bit touched in her upper works. Even when I informed her that Lucknow is famous for than Chikan work and not Cal, she just ignored me.
This is not all. Once S and me had to suffer a half-an-hour session with her when we needed some number. Since I was asking her stuff in Hindi, she suddenly looked at S and said, "Can't she speak?" Poor S had to explain to her in broken Hindi why she wasn't taking an active part in the conversation.
And she is forever curious about what we do and what we eat and where we are. Not to say this that she cribs about us to Leelavati whenever she can get her alone. That we don't chat with her, that she misses her old neighbours... I guess by the weird timings we keep, she only stops short of saying that we are sluts;)
Back home, our neighbours were sort of ok. Except one of them. This fat guy with a weird voice next door, Rahul, was incredibly spoilt and kept fighting with his parents and sis. He had company in the form of their spitz dog Toffee who would not stop yapping till Rahul would. Now Toffee was not exactly an amiable creature, quite ill-tempered actually. And I would take full advantage. On afternoons when I would feel extremely bored and perverse, I would stand at my window (which overlooks onto a landing of our neighbour's place and where Toffee would be dozing off) and wake him up with 'Tch tch' sounds. It was a pleasure making faces at him. He would go berserk. Often Rahul's dad would step out to see what was wrong. But he never found out the reason. I was good at ducking down (this was an acquired habit. I was used to training my binoculars into our hot Malayasian neighbour's house and duck down whenever he happened to look up. Well he was not exactly Malaysian but an Indian who stayed there. He had fab abs).
I guess I was a painful neighbour. When I was 18 and learning to drive our bulky ambassador, I once drove it onto Rahul's garden. His mom was incredibly fond of their green patches, for she would spend hours on getting the hedges pruned at exactly the same level. So as I ploughed in to her manicured hedges one winter morning, she almost suffered a heart attack. She was standing at the verandah sunning herself with Toffee at her heels when I entered the scene with my four-wheeler. At that point my legs were trembling, but now as I recall her gripping the railings of her balcony, so much so that it seemed she would leap from it, it's hilarious.
What goes around, comes back. So it's payback time, I guess. Now we have this garrulous old Punjabi woman staying opposite us. Every time I open the door for our maid Leelavati, she miraculously pops out (I am convinced that she is obsessed with us) and starts insisting that the terrace door is unlocked. So when for the nth time, she bugged me about there being no lock hanging there, I ran up in front of her and looked very grimly at her in the eye and said, "Well it is locked." She must have been quite disappointed.
The first time I met her and had a thorough Q&A session with her
(exclusivity to the question part was hers), she learnt that the three of us are from Calcutta. So she insisted that when we go back home, we get her back Chikan sarees. I was convinced then that she was a bit touched in her upper works. Even when I informed her that Lucknow is famous for than Chikan work and not Cal, she just ignored me.
This is not all. Once S and me had to suffer a half-an-hour session with her when we needed some number. Since I was asking her stuff in Hindi, she suddenly looked at S and said, "Can't she speak?" Poor S had to explain to her in broken Hindi why she wasn't taking an active part in the conversation.
And she is forever curious about what we do and what we eat and where we are. Not to say this that she cribs about us to Leelavati whenever she can get her alone. That we don't chat with her, that she misses her old neighbours... I guess by the weird timings we keep, she only stops short of saying that we are sluts;)
16.5.05
They call it paranoia
I am suffering from an extreme case of paranoia since the past two days. Today morning for example, I locked my bedroom door from inside, opened my balcony door which connects me to E's room and got out from there. Then I devoted minute attention to little details in the house, like the buckets and toiletry stuff in the bathroom (I shifted them to one our bedrooms), a carton of books (to my room), a carton of cassettes (to E's room), the fridge door and the kitchen door. The latter had a huge padlock hanging on it thanks to me. Now it did look look funny. But look at my other option: Returning home after a weary day of work to see dirty feet marks all over the white kitchen tiles.
No I have not acquired a syndrome over the weekend. We have a few labour hands at our place repairing a leak in one of the loos. It's a mess out there. One Sunday at home, locked inside my room till evening, and I was indescribably worked up. Give them an inch and they would take a yard. One of them happened to ask me, "So you do not cook at home?" I said no and smiled gently. This was obviously taken to be a sign of cow-like gentility. So the next query was, "Your dad's not home?" It called for a snub. And with all the practise I have had in the three years of living away from home, I couldn't have performed better.
The fellows just wouldn't get over with their work. Every 5 minutes
there would be a tap on my door. "We need cold water", "We are going out for lunch", "We need a rag", "We need the gas for burning a rod"... Till I felt like shouting out: "Well, I need you people to get out!" I had it when I caught one of the labourers washing his dirty face and hands in one of our clean buckets. I screamed out : "What the heck are you doing?" The others found it pretty amusing. They laughed at me in a condescending manner which spoke volumes: "She's such a sissy".
Today morning one of them arrived and since S was fast asleep I made
sure the guy wouldn't knock on her door with this and that. So I left a bottle of cold water which obviously wasn't so by the time he arrived. The fool asked me for a bottle of water. I was on the verge of leaving for office. I said, "I left one for you" He smiled benignly: "I splashed it onto the cement". I said coldly, "Very good. Now you can start by bringing your own supply of water." That sure wiped the grin off his face.
And so I have arrived at a conclusion: Some are born rude, some achieve rudeness, and some have rudeness thrust upon 'em. I belong to the last species.
No I have not acquired a syndrome over the weekend. We have a few labour hands at our place repairing a leak in one of the loos. It's a mess out there. One Sunday at home, locked inside my room till evening, and I was indescribably worked up. Give them an inch and they would take a yard. One of them happened to ask me, "So you do not cook at home?" I said no and smiled gently. This was obviously taken to be a sign of cow-like gentility. So the next query was, "Your dad's not home?" It called for a snub. And with all the practise I have had in the three years of living away from home, I couldn't have performed better.
The fellows just wouldn't get over with their work. Every 5 minutes
there would be a tap on my door. "We need cold water", "We are going out for lunch", "We need a rag", "We need the gas for burning a rod"... Till I felt like shouting out: "Well, I need you people to get out!" I had it when I caught one of the labourers washing his dirty face and hands in one of our clean buckets. I screamed out : "What the heck are you doing?" The others found it pretty amusing. They laughed at me in a condescending manner which spoke volumes: "She's such a sissy".
Today morning one of them arrived and since S was fast asleep I made
sure the guy wouldn't knock on her door with this and that. So I left a bottle of cold water which obviously wasn't so by the time he arrived. The fool asked me for a bottle of water. I was on the verge of leaving for office. I said, "I left one for you" He smiled benignly: "I splashed it onto the cement". I said coldly, "Very good. Now you can start by bringing your own supply of water." That sure wiped the grin off his face.
And so I have arrived at a conclusion: Some are born rude, some achieve rudeness, and some have rudeness thrust upon 'em. I belong to the last species.
14.5.05
Now honey you aint no spring chicken
Turning 25 can be really stressful. Ask me. My parents are gung-ho about getting me 'settled in life' with a 'nice brilliant' boy (Read: A fat spectacled Bong guy. Ok so maybe I am exaggerating a bit). So I have had a tiff with my pa over the phone. That was two days ago. He went on and on like a stuck record about a particular guy he has in mind, till I wanted to throw up. I cut him short. He's not called me up since. I just can't get my folks to understand my idea of a guy.
I guess I am waiting for my prince charming. But it not's gonna happen, is it? On second thoughts, I should pray for a knight in shining armour. At least he could rescue this poor damsel in distress.
Arranged marriages, it seems, are tough ventures. After all, how many
times do you tell the prospective grooms about yourself? At least I am tired of it. After talking to the first guy my parents were keen on andwho turned out to be a slimeball, I have had to communicate on mail with another guy on e-mail, cause he stays in London. And I have had to go through the rigours of writing about myself again. At one point I felt like sending him a link to my blog. But sanity prevailed and I didn't. Enough about Bong well-to-do guys and matchmaker parents. I guess I sound obsessive now.
Yesterday I happened to bump into my alcoholic mate eM at a vodka
launch. With her and me around, goof ups are just waiting to happen.
Last time she didn't want to get out of the ladies' room. Yesterday was my turn. It went something like this. We had a very teenybopperish drink in the form of a classic Finlandia with cranberry juice. And I was eager to try a mango vodka. eM promised me we would get the drink from the vice president of the company itself. Let me call him Wiggy (he had quite an atrocious wig on) After some time, our conversation with him went like this.
eM: Now Mango Vodka is a very unique flavoured drink. Haven't heard of it before.
Wiggy: It is our USP.
eM: I was wondering whether we could smell it?
Me (Vigorous nods)
Wiggy beckoning the waiter: Get them a bottle of mango vodka. They want to smell it.
That's as good as we got!
Next the PR woman came up and asked us whether we had a taste of
Finlandia. We looked at her and said we were curious about the mango
flavoured one. She offered to get it for us and looked askance. Did we want it? I smiled and said, "Why not?" The woman came back with a
thousand apologies. I wished myself invisible. Next, they offered us
watches as 'small tokens' from Finlandia. I tried to put on my
wide-eyed-innocent-act and was at my coyest best while accepting the
watch 'unwillingly' when I noticed the other PR girl trying to warn me about something. I found out soon. There was a step ahead. Of course I missed it.
The evening was hellish. I had to put myself through an hour's torture of shrill Punjabi Pop. The singer was called Mehsophuria (apparently his father is from a Punjabi village called Mehsopur). He sang some awful number called Ranjha Jogi. I thought I would go into convulsions. But the balle balle crowd was at its enthusiastic best. Including dancing to Mehsophuria and buying his CDs to get them autographed. I am sure had Hitler ever come across Mehso, he would have snapped him up. Nothing better than Mehso performances for his gas chambers.
To my chagrin, I had to talk to him for a few minutes, within which span I just couldn't take my eyes off his flashing gold teeth. There were two in the front part.
The worst part is yet to come. I got lectured by a guy who was compering the show. I had asked him to hasten up the autograph session. I was getting late. Smartass told me, "I am also into journalism. I know how it is. You have to wait. After all, we are not the celebrities." That was it.
I was at my snooty best as I asked him, "So which organisation do you
work for?" He looked at me and said, "I am doing my bachelors in
journalism." Did he say bachelors???!!!! I stared at him in disbelief, at his cocky sureness. Dirty liar. Next when he tried to tell me that he takes autographs of the people he meets, I looked at him in utter disgust and said, "Another rule. Journalists DO NOT take autographs." Sometimes, a single action of yours can make you delirious with happiness. I loved myself at that moment. And I walked out a happy woman.
I guess I am waiting for my prince charming. But it not's gonna happen, is it? On second thoughts, I should pray for a knight in shining armour. At least he could rescue this poor damsel in distress.
Arranged marriages, it seems, are tough ventures. After all, how many
times do you tell the prospective grooms about yourself? At least I am tired of it. After talking to the first guy my parents were keen on andwho turned out to be a slimeball, I have had to communicate on mail with another guy on e-mail, cause he stays in London. And I have had to go through the rigours of writing about myself again. At one point I felt like sending him a link to my blog. But sanity prevailed and I didn't. Enough about Bong well-to-do guys and matchmaker parents. I guess I sound obsessive now.
Yesterday I happened to bump into my alcoholic mate eM at a vodka
launch. With her and me around, goof ups are just waiting to happen.
Last time she didn't want to get out of the ladies' room. Yesterday was my turn. It went something like this. We had a very teenybopperish drink in the form of a classic Finlandia with cranberry juice. And I was eager to try a mango vodka. eM promised me we would get the drink from the vice president of the company itself. Let me call him Wiggy (he had quite an atrocious wig on) After some time, our conversation with him went like this.
eM: Now Mango Vodka is a very unique flavoured drink. Haven't heard of it before.
Wiggy: It is our USP.
eM: I was wondering whether we could smell it?
Me (Vigorous nods)
Wiggy beckoning the waiter: Get them a bottle of mango vodka. They want to smell it.
That's as good as we got!
Next the PR woman came up and asked us whether we had a taste of
Finlandia. We looked at her and said we were curious about the mango
flavoured one. She offered to get it for us and looked askance. Did we want it? I smiled and said, "Why not?" The woman came back with a
thousand apologies. I wished myself invisible. Next, they offered us
watches as 'small tokens' from Finlandia. I tried to put on my
wide-eyed-innocent-act and was at my coyest best while accepting the
watch 'unwillingly' when I noticed the other PR girl trying to warn me about something. I found out soon. There was a step ahead. Of course I missed it.
The evening was hellish. I had to put myself through an hour's torture of shrill Punjabi Pop. The singer was called Mehsophuria (apparently his father is from a Punjabi village called Mehsopur). He sang some awful number called Ranjha Jogi. I thought I would go into convulsions. But the balle balle crowd was at its enthusiastic best. Including dancing to Mehsophuria and buying his CDs to get them autographed. I am sure had Hitler ever come across Mehso, he would have snapped him up. Nothing better than Mehso performances for his gas chambers.
To my chagrin, I had to talk to him for a few minutes, within which span I just couldn't take my eyes off his flashing gold teeth. There were two in the front part.
The worst part is yet to come. I got lectured by a guy who was compering the show. I had asked him to hasten up the autograph session. I was getting late. Smartass told me, "I am also into journalism. I know how it is. You have to wait. After all, we are not the celebrities." That was it.
I was at my snooty best as I asked him, "So which organisation do you
work for?" He looked at me and said, "I am doing my bachelors in
journalism." Did he say bachelors???!!!! I stared at him in disbelief, at his cocky sureness. Dirty liar. Next when he tried to tell me that he takes autographs of the people he meets, I looked at him in utter disgust and said, "Another rule. Journalists DO NOT take autographs." Sometimes, a single action of yours can make you delirious with happiness. I loved myself at that moment. And I walked out a happy woman.
11.5.05
They so need a good spanking
There are so many kinds of people you meet at a film press conference. Just so many weirdos.
They are varied as the number of insignificant films releasing in Bollywood each week (I don't know why I thought of this, just that I
am thinking only in filmi terms).
The electronic media. They are a leechy lot. They just refuse to budge. No, they want their bytes first and have to keep tagging on till eternity. (If any of you are reading this, you have to stomach the truth. And no, please don't beat me up) The best instance from this type is RL, a reporter with an English TV channel. You should see her metamorphosing into an amazon in the matter of a few minutes.
With the print media it's a gimme more... funda. There are those who might have to write just a snippet on the subject while you might be interviewing the same person for a cover story. But they frankly couldn't care less. Like today I had gone for an interview with Pakistani actress Meera, a lengthy profile. A particular print guy I noticed was everywhere. At the end, when I was gearing up for my exclusive, or so it was supposed to be, I asked him, "Are waiting for an interview with Meera?" He replied in what he thought was an ultra cool gesture, "Waiting is my work. Intezaar hi to mera kaam hai." Donkey, I thought.
So when I finally had my time with Meera, I was not alone.
Besides ardent admirers (translation: loosers) hanging around for a look of even somebody like Meera, there are the autograph seekers. A surd had to get umpteen photographs of Meera autographed in between the interview by the lady herself. I glared at him. He was a benevolent fellow though. All he did was smile back with a surprisingly angelic look on his face.
Don't forget the subjects - actors and actresses. They are amusing
studies in themselves. As I met each of these stars my thoughts ran
along these lines:
Kamaal Khan seemed to have turned overnight into a gigolo with carefully kajalled eyes, Arjun Rampal was a hoity toity fellow with more airs than suits his persona, Zayed Khan was a carefully charming stud, hip and happening, a cool cat, even flirtatious at times. I even witnessed Amisha Patel shake her fingers at a photographer and warn him in freezing tones, "Kheench ke do thappar lagaungi, samjhe?" (I will give you two tight slaps). I myself was frozen where I stood till sanity got the better of me and I ran far away from where she was. All the poor photographer had done to invite such a vitriolic tongue was to take a few shots of her.
But Meera by herself was undoubtedly quite an entertaining individual. Actually naive would be the word to describe her. She had none of the diplomatic nonsense of our Bollywood actresses. When asked about kissing and nudity, she caught hold of a girl's hand and kissed it saying, "Now is there anything wrong with doing that? Tell me what is wrong?"
I couldn't shake off the feeling that she must have felt awfully trussed up, something close to a fancifully decorated turkey. At the peak of a Delhi summer, she had the temerity to dress in a black gown with a plunging neckline and a black velvet cape with a fur trimming! Not to say the pains she took to pose for the shutterbugs plus changing locales for their benefit. To top it all, the photographers were at their lewd best. I heard one saying, "These photos are gonna adorn my bathroom wall."
They are varied as the number of insignificant films releasing in Bollywood each week (I don't know why I thought of this, just that I
am thinking only in filmi terms).
The electronic media. They are a leechy lot. They just refuse to budge. No, they want their bytes first and have to keep tagging on till eternity. (If any of you are reading this, you have to stomach the truth. And no, please don't beat me up) The best instance from this type is RL, a reporter with an English TV channel. You should see her metamorphosing into an amazon in the matter of a few minutes.
With the print media it's a gimme more... funda. There are those who might have to write just a snippet on the subject while you might be interviewing the same person for a cover story. But they frankly couldn't care less. Like today I had gone for an interview with Pakistani actress Meera, a lengthy profile. A particular print guy I noticed was everywhere. At the end, when I was gearing up for my exclusive, or so it was supposed to be, I asked him, "Are waiting for an interview with Meera?" He replied in what he thought was an ultra cool gesture, "Waiting is my work. Intezaar hi to mera kaam hai." Donkey, I thought.
So when I finally had my time with Meera, I was not alone.
Besides ardent admirers (translation: loosers) hanging around for a look of even somebody like Meera, there are the autograph seekers. A surd had to get umpteen photographs of Meera autographed in between the interview by the lady herself. I glared at him. He was a benevolent fellow though. All he did was smile back with a surprisingly angelic look on his face.
Don't forget the subjects - actors and actresses. They are amusing
studies in themselves. As I met each of these stars my thoughts ran
along these lines:
Kamaal Khan seemed to have turned overnight into a gigolo with carefully kajalled eyes, Arjun Rampal was a hoity toity fellow with more airs than suits his persona, Zayed Khan was a carefully charming stud, hip and happening, a cool cat, even flirtatious at times. I even witnessed Amisha Patel shake her fingers at a photographer and warn him in freezing tones, "Kheench ke do thappar lagaungi, samjhe?" (I will give you two tight slaps). I myself was frozen where I stood till sanity got the better of me and I ran far away from where she was. All the poor photographer had done to invite such a vitriolic tongue was to take a few shots of her.
But Meera by herself was undoubtedly quite an entertaining individual. Actually naive would be the word to describe her. She had none of the diplomatic nonsense of our Bollywood actresses. When asked about kissing and nudity, she caught hold of a girl's hand and kissed it saying, "Now is there anything wrong with doing that? Tell me what is wrong?"
I couldn't shake off the feeling that she must have felt awfully trussed up, something close to a fancifully decorated turkey. At the peak of a Delhi summer, she had the temerity to dress in a black gown with a plunging neckline and a black velvet cape with a fur trimming! Not to say the pains she took to pose for the shutterbugs plus changing locales for their benefit. To top it all, the photographers were at their lewd best. I heard one saying, "These photos are gonna adorn my bathroom wall."
7.5.05
Embarrassments and extravagance
This has happened now twice in a row. It is embarrassing. Actually, come to think of it, I think strange situations dog me.
The other day I was trying to get in touch with cricket commentator
Charu Sharma on his mobile. It was unreachable. So the next day I tried my luck. And I was bamboozled. A female voice answered the call. In a very professional voice I asked for Charu. What she said nearly made me fall off my chair. "Is this you A?"
It was my colleague who has taken a transfer to Bangalore. And all the time she was biting her nails, thinking the dragon was trying to call her. "Trust you to do such a thing," she said.
Next day. Very confidently I pressed the entry for Mandira on my cell phone. On the first ring, she took the call, "Hi, ya I have your number saved A. So I knew it was you." My reaction: "Thank god (because she does not answer calls usually from unknown nos.) My photographer is trying to get in touch with you for the shoot." Mandira: "What???" There again, I had done it. I had called Mandira Nayyar from The Hindu instead of actor-commentator Mandira Bedi. But some good came out of it after all. She invited me for an event at the Women Press Corps next Saturday.
The bibliophile in me is getting the better of the self, which is trying to scrounge around and make some savings. In a matter of a few days, I have eight books on my rack. The first four books were from a bookstore sale. I had gone with the intention of raiding the whole shop. The stars were not in my favour. The discounts were as measly as 15-20%. So I spent quite some amount at a go. I have been casting admiring looks at them since.
Well, I was feeling oh-so-smug with my exploits. Till I was dealt a cruel blow. S walked in the other night with a beaming face and six new Penguin books for a mere Rs 200.
Yesterday I happened to wander into the bookshop at Janpath. Of course I came out laden with four books. This time I bought classics. The House of Seven Gables, Madame Bovary, She and Three Men in a Boat (The last one saw a delighted expression on E's face).
A solemn promise. No more straying into bookshops. It's time to head for The Shoe Garage.
The other day I was trying to get in touch with cricket commentator
Charu Sharma on his mobile. It was unreachable. So the next day I tried my luck. And I was bamboozled. A female voice answered the call. In a very professional voice I asked for Charu. What she said nearly made me fall off my chair. "Is this you A?"
It was my colleague who has taken a transfer to Bangalore. And all the time she was biting her nails, thinking the dragon was trying to call her. "Trust you to do such a thing," she said.
Next day. Very confidently I pressed the entry for Mandira on my cell phone. On the first ring, she took the call, "Hi, ya I have your number saved A. So I knew it was you." My reaction: "Thank god (because she does not answer calls usually from unknown nos.) My photographer is trying to get in touch with you for the shoot." Mandira: "What???" There again, I had done it. I had called Mandira Nayyar from The Hindu instead of actor-commentator Mandira Bedi. But some good came out of it after all. She invited me for an event at the Women Press Corps next Saturday.
The bibliophile in me is getting the better of the self, which is trying to scrounge around and make some savings. In a matter of a few days, I have eight books on my rack. The first four books were from a bookstore sale. I had gone with the intention of raiding the whole shop. The stars were not in my favour. The discounts were as measly as 15-20%. So I spent quite some amount at a go. I have been casting admiring looks at them since.
Well, I was feeling oh-so-smug with my exploits. Till I was dealt a cruel blow. S walked in the other night with a beaming face and six new Penguin books for a mere Rs 200.
Yesterday I happened to wander into the bookshop at Janpath. Of course I came out laden with four books. This time I bought classics. The House of Seven Gables, Madame Bovary, She and Three Men in a Boat (The last one saw a delighted expression on E's face).
A solemn promise. No more straying into bookshops. It's time to head for The Shoe Garage.
5.5.05
Winey diney affair
Sitting with seven glasses of wine on your table, waiting to be smelled, swirled and tasted, is a swell feeling. Especially when they are as nice as the Zinfandel Rose or the Kadarka and of course the fact that are worth thousands. The Rose turned out to be quite a hit with the ladies at the wine do. It had a different feel to it - a fresh strawberry aroma. There was a dark side to it too: I couldn't guzzle them down, much as I wanted to, for fear of a repeat of the last time I got drunk on six glasses of red wine.
Really, wine tasting is as exotic as it sounds. And it turns out to be extra delightful if it is followed by a dinner of cold cuts and cheese (the Indian dishes were still under covers, beats me why). My fellow journo, eM and I stacked our dishes with all kinds of cheese right from the rancid Gouda to a soft yummy variety. And guess what, the bar had nothing to offer apart from wines! It was kinda funny. eM wanted rum and coke. At the end she settled down for a sparkly white wine.
I have to say this. It's part of my social work. Never invite Pooja Bedi to compere any show. Unless you want to grit your teeth, bear those brilliant flashes of teeth and go the eM way: "Can I slap her?"
An Audi parked at the entrance of Mayfair Rooms was too much to resist. The interior was so lush and rich, I could almost feel
the snugness of those huge leather seats. No, the car was not open for visitors to peek in. This conclusion was arrived at after several minutes of squinting in through the dark glass. The incident
reminded the dragon (it slipped out while I was in a meeting with him)of Dilip Cherian who was doing the same (peeking in through a car window)when C K Birla stepped out and said, "Now stop it Dilip!"
Really, wine tasting is as exotic as it sounds. And it turns out to be extra delightful if it is followed by a dinner of cold cuts and cheese (the Indian dishes were still under covers, beats me why). My fellow journo, eM and I stacked our dishes with all kinds of cheese right from the rancid Gouda to a soft yummy variety. And guess what, the bar had nothing to offer apart from wines! It was kinda funny. eM wanted rum and coke. At the end she settled down for a sparkly white wine.
I have to say this. It's part of my social work. Never invite Pooja Bedi to compere any show. Unless you want to grit your teeth, bear those brilliant flashes of teeth and go the eM way: "Can I slap her?"
An Audi parked at the entrance of Mayfair Rooms was too much to resist. The interior was so lush and rich, I could almost feel
the snugness of those huge leather seats. No, the car was not open for visitors to peek in. This conclusion was arrived at after several minutes of squinting in through the dark glass. The incident
reminded the dragon (it slipped out while I was in a meeting with him)of Dilip Cherian who was doing the same (peeking in through a car window)when C K Birla stepped out and said, "Now stop it Dilip!"
30.4.05
A wistful wish
My colleague AG often used to threaten to leave home. One day he did
after bellowing like a mad bull. The dramatic intensity was heightened when his nephew clutched hold of his knees and begged him to stay back while a verbal battle was raging between him and his parents. AG stomped out anyways and put up with two of his rebel friends in an incompletely built house. For a month they would drink tea which tasted like pig's piss and which was actually meant for the labourers at the site. And the food that they had were available for Rs 2 in an aluminium thali(dish). Sounds rather adventurous and something I would never have done (especially for the last few reasons).
For myself, I have never threatened to leave home, timid as I was. The only time I was kicked out was at 11 at night. I was in the Vth std probably and I had got a really bad spanking. Now I don't remember for exactly what. The plot next to ours was empty and hence full of wild undergrowth which was quite scary. I hated going past it after daylight. Next to it lived a girl whom I could never manage to like but whom my parents praised to the skies. Reason: She used to get up at 5 in the morning. Now after being beaten up thoroughly, I was sent out to her house to ask at what time exactly she would get up and study.
Couldn't have thought of a worse punishment. It was a nightmare crossing the dark wild stretch. With a tear stained face I rang her bell. Her expression when she saw me at the door was rather comical. But who would blame her. Imagine seeing your neighbour calling in the middle of the night to see when you get up in the morning. After she confirmed it was 5 o'clock, I bid her a goodnight quite nonchalantly.
Sometimes I wish I had left home and not returned for a month. I would never have received half the beatings I did. Usually it was like this: my mom would come rushing at me with her wooden ladle and I would stand in the middle of the room waiting for it to come cracking on my back. Only when I was a little older, did I start running round and round our oval table with her in my wake.
That was exactly how it used to be. And all I would do be to mutter ala Eliza Doolittle style, "Just you wait!"
after bellowing like a mad bull. The dramatic intensity was heightened when his nephew clutched hold of his knees and begged him to stay back while a verbal battle was raging between him and his parents. AG stomped out anyways and put up with two of his rebel friends in an incompletely built house. For a month they would drink tea which tasted like pig's piss and which was actually meant for the labourers at the site. And the food that they had were available for Rs 2 in an aluminium thali(dish). Sounds rather adventurous and something I would never have done (especially for the last few reasons).
For myself, I have never threatened to leave home, timid as I was. The only time I was kicked out was at 11 at night. I was in the Vth std probably and I had got a really bad spanking. Now I don't remember for exactly what. The plot next to ours was empty and hence full of wild undergrowth which was quite scary. I hated going past it after daylight. Next to it lived a girl whom I could never manage to like but whom my parents praised to the skies. Reason: She used to get up at 5 in the morning. Now after being beaten up thoroughly, I was sent out to her house to ask at what time exactly she would get up and study.
Couldn't have thought of a worse punishment. It was a nightmare crossing the dark wild stretch. With a tear stained face I rang her bell. Her expression when she saw me at the door was rather comical. But who would blame her. Imagine seeing your neighbour calling in the middle of the night to see when you get up in the morning. After she confirmed it was 5 o'clock, I bid her a goodnight quite nonchalantly.
Sometimes I wish I had left home and not returned for a month. I would never have received half the beatings I did. Usually it was like this: my mom would come rushing at me with her wooden ladle and I would stand in the middle of the room waiting for it to come cracking on my back. Only when I was a little older, did I start running round and round our oval table with her in my wake.
That was exactly how it used to be. And all I would do be to mutter ala Eliza Doolittle style, "Just you wait!"
29.4.05
Oops I did it again!
Have you ever suffered from an ailment called the foot-in-the-mouth
disease? It's deadly. If you have, you would know how painful it is when you shoot off like a horse and want to gobble it up immediately after. Well, I happened to be interviewing a cricketer (M S Dhoni) who made some really chauvinistic comments. I gasped out loudly and said, "No wonder you don't have a girlfriend!" Luck was on my side. He was a nice fellow and didn't take me up on that.
Whenever I try to appear professional, one thing or the other
happens to upset this carefully set up image. Like my shoes had to give way during the photo shoot with Dhoni. I made a damsel-in-distress face (actually it came quite naturally) and said, "I guess I have to walk barefoot". Dhoni was my knight in shining armour. So there I was walking out of the hotel in a pair of rather "unfashionable" (as he teasingly put it. It was not exactly happening but at that point of time it was a choice between that or walking barefoot on a burning road through spit, shit and god knows what) bedroom slippers.
But I have to say this that I was very happy with my interview, for
once. The guy was a sweetheart. He's a small town guy and does not, till now, care for false pretensions. So when he said stuff like he would head for McDonalds right after the interview and enjoy a Maharaja Mac and milkshake I found it rather sweet. After all he's pretty famous and could have been on his snooty best like the rest. After all, cricketers are an overhyped breed. You would have believed that if you had been to the most insignificant of matches aka a benefit match and been jostled by fans banging on the changing room of the players while shouting corny lines, "Aapne vaada kiya thaa!"
A global conspiracy is on. To make me feel on top of the world. First of all, I got to see what the fashion week was all about, secondly I got my much-awaited interview with Dhoni and thirdly, I am doing a story on motorbike travellers. It's damn cool. I am strongly tempted to go biking with these guys to Ladakh, Leh and Rann of Kutch. But there are a few problems. The most important being I don't know them. As S pointed out helpfully, I would probably be raped and murdered.
disease? It's deadly. If you have, you would know how painful it is when you shoot off like a horse and want to gobble it up immediately after. Well, I happened to be interviewing a cricketer (M S Dhoni) who made some really chauvinistic comments. I gasped out loudly and said, "No wonder you don't have a girlfriend!" Luck was on my side. He was a nice fellow and didn't take me up on that.
Whenever I try to appear professional, one thing or the other
happens to upset this carefully set up image. Like my shoes had to give way during the photo shoot with Dhoni. I made a damsel-in-distress face (actually it came quite naturally) and said, "I guess I have to walk barefoot". Dhoni was my knight in shining armour. So there I was walking out of the hotel in a pair of rather "unfashionable" (as he teasingly put it. It was not exactly happening but at that point of time it was a choice between that or walking barefoot on a burning road through spit, shit and god knows what) bedroom slippers.
But I have to say this that I was very happy with my interview, for
once. The guy was a sweetheart. He's a small town guy and does not, till now, care for false pretensions. So when he said stuff like he would head for McDonalds right after the interview and enjoy a Maharaja Mac and milkshake I found it rather sweet. After all he's pretty famous and could have been on his snooty best like the rest. After all, cricketers are an overhyped breed. You would have believed that if you had been to the most insignificant of matches aka a benefit match and been jostled by fans banging on the changing room of the players while shouting corny lines, "Aapne vaada kiya thaa!"
A global conspiracy is on. To make me feel on top of the world. First of all, I got to see what the fashion week was all about, secondly I got my much-awaited interview with Dhoni and thirdly, I am doing a story on motorbike travellers. It's damn cool. I am strongly tempted to go biking with these guys to Ladakh, Leh and Rann of Kutch. But there are a few problems. The most important being I don't know them. As S pointed out helpfully, I would probably be raped and murdered.
25.4.05
When life meant just lazing around and being pampered
When I think of my earliest days in school, as in when I was a 4 or
5-year-old, I just can't remember any part if it that involved studying or even learning my alphabets. In fact, it's quite startling to think of school without studying. School till the age of 8 years meant the Indian School in Oman.
The first thing that comes to mind when I think of Indian School is the painful pinchy memories of Francis. A curly haired boy with an angelic expression - that was Francis. I guess only I knew or rather saw the devil in him. Sadly I used to sit beside him and be pinched till the end of school hours. One day it really got too much and I went up to the class teacher and said, "Teacher, teacher, Francis
keeps doing this to me" and showed her what he would do. She asked me, "He pinches you?" I had no idea about the word, so I did the p action for her once again so that she could make out my SMS (save my soul) cry. I learnt the word 'pinch' there for the first time in my life not knowing how it would dog me later as well (as a 12-year-old I was forever chased by a cousin who specialized in pinching. And I was terrified of him even though he was younger than me and was not much more than a puny kid).
Anyways, coming back to my early days, I think it was an extremely blissful period. There were lazy afternoons after school when I would plop in front of TV, hog on cheese balls, gulp down a can of coke and get my quota of Tom and Jerry. This was followed by my daily routine of racing out each evening with Nirupama and Nachiketa (they used to live on the ground floor of our place) in my little blue car towards a huge sandy field.
Later, mom, dad and me would go out for long drives along the sea. I can still recall the salty smell (sigh). A day out at the sea meant me sitting on the beach and staring mournfully at mom and dad, Nachiketa and Nirupama, aunty and uncle, all having a good time splashing about in the waters. While I used to burn with jealousy at the sight of mom hugging Nirupama and playing with. Somehow I always refused to wear my bikini briefs. As a result I could never take off my jeans. So I used to stay on the edges of the beach and satisfy myself with just wetting my ankles.
Oh what wouldn't I give to back to those good old days!
But wait there are bad memories too. For example, our cook who would molest me. Now when I remember, I cringe and wish I could whack the bastard.
Or that one time when my brother drove a pencil through my palm. All I could see was blood and the sugar that my mom sprinkled immediately on the wound.
An embarrassing memory that I can never forget: Every evening before
calling on my two friends, Nirupama and Nachiketa, I would try to pluck a huge flower from their porch. And every evening aunty would open the door at the precise moment that I would extend my hand towards the flower. It was a doomed expedition. Something I could never figure out at that point of time was how she would open the door right at the nick of time every day.
I have to stop now before I can't stop myself. But I have to say this that sometimes rambling on and on is so much of fun.
5-year-old, I just can't remember any part if it that involved studying or even learning my alphabets. In fact, it's quite startling to think of school without studying. School till the age of 8 years meant the Indian School in Oman.
The first thing that comes to mind when I think of Indian School is the painful pinchy memories of Francis. A curly haired boy with an angelic expression - that was Francis. I guess only I knew or rather saw the devil in him. Sadly I used to sit beside him and be pinched till the end of school hours. One day it really got too much and I went up to the class teacher and said, "Teacher, teacher, Francis
keeps doing this to me" and showed her what he would do. She asked me, "He pinches you?" I had no idea about the word, so I did the p action for her once again so that she could make out my SMS (save my soul) cry. I learnt the word 'pinch' there for the first time in my life not knowing how it would dog me later as well (as a 12-year-old I was forever chased by a cousin who specialized in pinching. And I was terrified of him even though he was younger than me and was not much more than a puny kid).
Anyways, coming back to my early days, I think it was an extremely blissful period. There were lazy afternoons after school when I would plop in front of TV, hog on cheese balls, gulp down a can of coke and get my quota of Tom and Jerry. This was followed by my daily routine of racing out each evening with Nirupama and Nachiketa (they used to live on the ground floor of our place) in my little blue car towards a huge sandy field.
Later, mom, dad and me would go out for long drives along the sea. I can still recall the salty smell (sigh). A day out at the sea meant me sitting on the beach and staring mournfully at mom and dad, Nachiketa and Nirupama, aunty and uncle, all having a good time splashing about in the waters. While I used to burn with jealousy at the sight of mom hugging Nirupama and playing with. Somehow I always refused to wear my bikini briefs. As a result I could never take off my jeans. So I used to stay on the edges of the beach and satisfy myself with just wetting my ankles.
Oh what wouldn't I give to back to those good old days!
But wait there are bad memories too. For example, our cook who would molest me. Now when I remember, I cringe and wish I could whack the bastard.
Or that one time when my brother drove a pencil through my palm. All I could see was blood and the sugar that my mom sprinkled immediately on the wound.
An embarrassing memory that I can never forget: Every evening before
calling on my two friends, Nirupama and Nachiketa, I would try to pluck a huge flower from their porch. And every evening aunty would open the door at the precise moment that I would extend my hand towards the flower. It was a doomed expedition. Something I could never figure out at that point of time was how she would open the door right at the nick of time every day.
I have to stop now before I can't stop myself. But I have to say this that sometimes rambling on and on is so much of fun.
20.4.05
Musings of a mosquito-infested night
Yesterday night as I was being bombarded by a contingent of mosquitoes that invade my room every night, my mind wandered to certain incidents in my life, incidents when I found myself wishing I could wave a wand and undo everything or simply disappear from the face of the earth.
1. Like when I had convinced a friend that he was a nitwit. We were
talking about Egypt. He said it was in Africa. I gasped at his foolishness and said, "O my god! What's wrong with you?" Anxiously he
asked me what was wrong with that. I replied, "Well, it's in the Middle East. For god's sake, don't reveal your ignorance to others." Well, I took a peek at the Atlas and I was foolish enought to call him up and admit my ignorance. Till this day my friend doesn't lose a chance of rubbing it in.
2. Last year I had gone on a junket to Palampur in Himachal Pradesh. The PR person took us around to show the local attractions. There was a temple high up in the mountains called Jakhni Mata Ka Mandir. Now when I reached there, I saw these rows of big and small trishuls (tridents). I lifted one and sidled back to the vehicle with it. I was very happy about it. Don't ask me why. The adrenaline was flowing high. The PR guy told me,"If ever you want to get rid of it, call me. We have a temple at home where we will put it." I pooh poohed him and came back to Delhi only to see my flatmates shocked at the sight of it and warning me that it would bring bad luck. They made a deal. I had to keep it in my room. I was ok with that.
But as I relaxed in my room and read a book, I just couldn't take my
eyes away from it. It was thoroughly freaking out. By night, it was out on the balcony. And the next day I called up the PR guy and almost begged him to pick it up from my place. He obviously had a good laugh. Whenever he calls me, even now, he reminds me of it.
3. While I was studying in Delhi, I went back home for the holidays. I went to the library room (the exclusivity of visiting this room is mine, or so I thought) and checked to see if all was in place. It was not. My mother had very conscientiously dusted my books. Nothing was in its place. That's one thing I just cannot bear.
The absence of one thing was particularly conspicuous - a photo frame that displayed the smiling face of a crush of mine (I think of it now and cringe in embarrassment). This meant it was in the safe custody of my mother (In the past, when I was a kid, she would catch me sneaking Enid Blytons and later MBs into the bathroom, where I would spend hours with them. Those books were confiscated by her and gone forever beacuse it was eating into study time).
At night the same day, when I sat down for dinner, my mother looked at me with a suspiciously naughty glint in her eye and said, "Not a badlooking guy at all." I put on the most innocence face I could pull off. But I guess it wasn't good enough.
4. I think this was the worst. I had gone for an interview with tennis player Vijay Amritraj. He was talking about a soap that he had acted in and which ran on the lines of The Police Academy. "Have you watched Police Academy?" he asked. I said: "No. Actually I am not into action." In a matter-of-fact manner he told me: "Well, it happens to be a comedy."
1. Like when I had convinced a friend that he was a nitwit. We were
talking about Egypt. He said it was in Africa. I gasped at his foolishness and said, "O my god! What's wrong with you?" Anxiously he
asked me what was wrong with that. I replied, "Well, it's in the Middle East. For god's sake, don't reveal your ignorance to others." Well, I took a peek at the Atlas and I was foolish enought to call him up and admit my ignorance. Till this day my friend doesn't lose a chance of rubbing it in.
2. Last year I had gone on a junket to Palampur in Himachal Pradesh. The PR person took us around to show the local attractions. There was a temple high up in the mountains called Jakhni Mata Ka Mandir. Now when I reached there, I saw these rows of big and small trishuls (tridents). I lifted one and sidled back to the vehicle with it. I was very happy about it. Don't ask me why. The adrenaline was flowing high. The PR guy told me,"If ever you want to get rid of it, call me. We have a temple at home where we will put it." I pooh poohed him and came back to Delhi only to see my flatmates shocked at the sight of it and warning me that it would bring bad luck. They made a deal. I had to keep it in my room. I was ok with that.
But as I relaxed in my room and read a book, I just couldn't take my
eyes away from it. It was thoroughly freaking out. By night, it was out on the balcony. And the next day I called up the PR guy and almost begged him to pick it up from my place. He obviously had a good laugh. Whenever he calls me, even now, he reminds me of it.
3. While I was studying in Delhi, I went back home for the holidays. I went to the library room (the exclusivity of visiting this room is mine, or so I thought) and checked to see if all was in place. It was not. My mother had very conscientiously dusted my books. Nothing was in its place. That's one thing I just cannot bear.
The absence of one thing was particularly conspicuous - a photo frame that displayed the smiling face of a crush of mine (I think of it now and cringe in embarrassment). This meant it was in the safe custody of my mother (In the past, when I was a kid, she would catch me sneaking Enid Blytons and later MBs into the bathroom, where I would spend hours with them. Those books were confiscated by her and gone forever beacuse it was eating into study time).
At night the same day, when I sat down for dinner, my mother looked at me with a suspiciously naughty glint in her eye and said, "Not a badlooking guy at all." I put on the most innocence face I could pull off. But I guess it wasn't good enough.
4. I think this was the worst. I had gone for an interview with tennis player Vijay Amritraj. He was talking about a soap that he had acted in and which ran on the lines of The Police Academy. "Have you watched Police Academy?" he asked. I said: "No. Actually I am not into action." In a matter-of-fact manner he told me: "Well, it happens to be a comedy."
17.4.05
This and that
In the 24 years of my life, I have met a host of chatterboxes. The cake goes to my photographer RS. And I have probably never felt so close to snapping at him than when we were headed to a golf resort in Gurgaon.
It was a simmering day and the road seemed to be an infinite stretch.
The media co-ordinator had told me to take the left turn from a green
board which said Jaipur Ahead. Now he didn't mention that there was a
green board at every block. So we took several left turns, only to
retrace our steps back to the highway every time. By this time I was in a frenzy, for the co-ordinator kept calling me and asking us to hurry up. "Sabeer Bhatia will leave soon," he warned me. On hearing this, RS said, "Let's turn back from here and go have some lassi and roti." I stopped barely short of asking him to shut up.
Finally we reached the turn we were supposed to take and came upon
Rampur village. Soon the Aravalli ranges came into view. RS had been
mumbling smart comments for quite some time when suddenly he pointed out the Aravallis to me and exclaimed, "Laavly, laavly!" (That's lovely for you). Then he looked at a village belle and said, "Dekho dekho nayi navelli dulhan" (look at the newly wed bride).
If you know RS, you realise that "Laavly" is a particular favourite of his. So be it a socialite or an artist, he falls back upon the L word during the shoots. Surprisingly these subjects are often flattered. They ask, "Ya?" And then they go on to pose with more vigour for the gregarious RS. And if the subject of his shoots happens to be a Punjabi, god save me. He shoots off in his local tongue and all I can make out are "tussis" and "chaddos" in his conversations.
Of all the assignments we have covered together, I can say without any hesitation that each one has been a revealing story of RS's life. By now I know what his wife cooks for him, which musical instrument he used to play in college, that Shahrukh Khan was his batchmate, how Shahrukh would dangle after their college professor's daughter...
Can somebody put a ban on The Bold and the Beautiful? Please. I am
tortured every Sunday by episodes of women simpering and crying with
every breath they take. E watches it with alarming alacrity. Yeah yeah I know S you will point fingers to the number of soaps I watch. Well, I don't any more:)
Hey, do you know what India should be called instead of the usual "The land of the tiger"? This is from Maneka Gandhi: "The land of the vanished tiger".
It was a simmering day and the road seemed to be an infinite stretch.
The media co-ordinator had told me to take the left turn from a green
board which said Jaipur Ahead. Now he didn't mention that there was a
green board at every block. So we took several left turns, only to
retrace our steps back to the highway every time. By this time I was in a frenzy, for the co-ordinator kept calling me and asking us to hurry up. "Sabeer Bhatia will leave soon," he warned me. On hearing this, RS said, "Let's turn back from here and go have some lassi and roti." I stopped barely short of asking him to shut up.
Finally we reached the turn we were supposed to take and came upon
Rampur village. Soon the Aravalli ranges came into view. RS had been
mumbling smart comments for quite some time when suddenly he pointed out the Aravallis to me and exclaimed, "Laavly, laavly!" (That's lovely for you). Then he looked at a village belle and said, "Dekho dekho nayi navelli dulhan" (look at the newly wed bride).
If you know RS, you realise that "Laavly" is a particular favourite of his. So be it a socialite or an artist, he falls back upon the L word during the shoots. Surprisingly these subjects are often flattered. They ask, "Ya?" And then they go on to pose with more vigour for the gregarious RS. And if the subject of his shoots happens to be a Punjabi, god save me. He shoots off in his local tongue and all I can make out are "tussis" and "chaddos" in his conversations.
Of all the assignments we have covered together, I can say without any hesitation that each one has been a revealing story of RS's life. By now I know what his wife cooks for him, which musical instrument he used to play in college, that Shahrukh Khan was his batchmate, how Shahrukh would dangle after their college professor's daughter...
Can somebody put a ban on The Bold and the Beautiful? Please. I am
tortured every Sunday by episodes of women simpering and crying with
every breath they take. E watches it with alarming alacrity. Yeah yeah I know S you will point fingers to the number of soaps I watch. Well, I don't any more:)
Hey, do you know what India should be called instead of the usual "The land of the tiger"? This is from Maneka Gandhi: "The land of the vanished tiger".
14.4.05
Destiny
What must it feel like to own your own private jet? Or to marry someone who owns one.(E says if you can't have it, marry into it). I guess the right person to ask is Ritu Beri. The other day I went to cover the launch of Ritu Beri's latest collection. The farmhouse I presumed was hers. Actually it was hers (I learnt later). I couldn't take my eyes off this tomato red Mustang parked at the entrance. I am a sucker for any vintage item on four-wheels, so I really couldn't help going gaga about it for the next few hours.
Now that reminds me of hotelier Tarun Thakral. He owns 18 vintage cars! Everything from a Mustang, a Sedan, an Austin and a Buick to a
Chevrolet. Imagine my feelings as I saw row after row of vintage cars
standing to attention in his car shed. Shining clean and ready to roll out. The man even has a train house at his farmhouse. It is a luxury train compartment which the maharajas used to travel in. I have never thought of such a novel concept. Really, what money can't do!
But then that's destiny for you. E and I were talking about a friend
yesterday. The friend has always had a boyfriend with a small car.
Fixated as we are about cars, we couldn't help thinking about the four-wheeler aspect more than the guy. I told E, "Well, you know I would like somebody with a bigger car." She burst out laughing and pointed out the ultimate irony of our lives. No guys. No cars. Our only consolation: God has something really good in store for us.
And look at this way - if I can be away from home for three years living with friends, chat with a murderer in a jail, rub shoulders with a Chhota Shakeel convict in the train, hobnob with Pocketbaba (a scary fakir I met in a dargah), be forced to eat a concoction made of pearls by a descendant of Hakim Ajmal Khan, meet Shahrukh Khan, why not believe that destiny can take me anywhere.
Now that reminds me of hotelier Tarun Thakral. He owns 18 vintage cars! Everything from a Mustang, a Sedan, an Austin and a Buick to a
Chevrolet. Imagine my feelings as I saw row after row of vintage cars
standing to attention in his car shed. Shining clean and ready to roll out. The man even has a train house at his farmhouse. It is a luxury train compartment which the maharajas used to travel in. I have never thought of such a novel concept. Really, what money can't do!
But then that's destiny for you. E and I were talking about a friend
yesterday. The friend has always had a boyfriend with a small car.
Fixated as we are about cars, we couldn't help thinking about the four-wheeler aspect more than the guy. I told E, "Well, you know I would like somebody with a bigger car." She burst out laughing and pointed out the ultimate irony of our lives. No guys. No cars. Our only consolation: God has something really good in store for us.
And look at this way - if I can be away from home for three years living with friends, chat with a murderer in a jail, rub shoulders with a Chhota Shakeel convict in the train, hobnob with Pocketbaba (a scary fakir I met in a dargah), be forced to eat a concoction made of pearls by a descendant of Hakim Ajmal Khan, meet Shahrukh Khan, why not believe that destiny can take me anywhere.
11.4.05
Dumb and dumber
Are models instructed to be dumb, is it a cult thing with them or more importantly is it genetic?
The other day when I went for a fashion show, I saw this really hunky model. On the ramp he was a stud, but off it, he was a zilch. P and I went up to him with some questions. The first thing he said was, "Well, guys hardly have any choice when it comes to clothes. You girls have lots of choice and you would look sexy in anything." He kept looking at us for a reaction. Sadly it was lost on both of us. I looked at P. She was very studiously penning down stuff and
I was too distracted by his foolishness. His name? Aditya Bal.
The girls however tend to use their cerebrum while talking. At least
this pretty model called Aanchal Kumar did. I think I was the first one to speak to her. How would it explain otherwise, why she was so
genuinely sweet to me. A study in contrast - VJ Anousha. She was all
hoity toity. I did my part in ruffling her feathers. I happened to call her Anoushka.
What an easy life these models have - all they have to do is take time to don tonnes of make-up and display wafer thin bodies in sexy clothes. But some are really ugly. It's a sin that they are up there. One particular guy caught my eye with his distinctly neolithic looks.
"Vinod contacts several music directors and asks for their ideas for
scores and songs. Anu Malik, the composer he worked with on Kareeb, gets very emotional when he hears that Vinod is shopping around. He has a two-hour conversation with Vinod one Sunday morning in which he declares he is ready to work for free. He weeps and wails; he will not ask for a single paisa. The money is nothing compared to their friendship, he declares through his sobs. Vinod hears a crunching sound on the other end of the line. 'What's that? asks Vinod. 'I'm eating a radish,' answers the composer. 'Just a minute, I'll finish it.' Vinod hears him furiously crunching away; then he comes back to the phone, ready to weep afresh." That's an extract from Suketu Mehta's Maximum City: Bombay Lost & Found. He worked on the script of Mission Kahsmir with Vidhu Vinod Chopra.
It's quite a good read - he talks about Amitabh Bachchan to Shahrukh Khan to Mahesh Bhatt to cops to Bal Thackeray to bar dancers.
Between, S, E and I went out for dinner. It was S's birthday treat. At Flavours. On the way, we witnessed hormones running amok. And all we were doing were trying to hail an auto.
The Bangkok Thai Cafe adjacent to Flavours needs some serious image change. As in, people might die queueing up outside Flavours, but they wouldn't touch the Cafe with a barge pole. I told S that I should probably set shop there with my paan shop - Paandora's Box. Now that goes back a long time. To when S and me were in an auto one hot summer's day last year. I had just returned from a junket to Palampur and McCleodganj and was hell-bent upon opening a restaurant in McCleodganj. Finally, I had to scale down to Pandara Road. But where there's a will there's a way, right?;)
The other day when I went for a fashion show, I saw this really hunky model. On the ramp he was a stud, but off it, he was a zilch. P and I went up to him with some questions. The first thing he said was, "Well, guys hardly have any choice when it comes to clothes. You girls have lots of choice and you would look sexy in anything." He kept looking at us for a reaction. Sadly it was lost on both of us. I looked at P. She was very studiously penning down stuff and
I was too distracted by his foolishness. His name? Aditya Bal.
The girls however tend to use their cerebrum while talking. At least
this pretty model called Aanchal Kumar did. I think I was the first one to speak to her. How would it explain otherwise, why she was so
genuinely sweet to me. A study in contrast - VJ Anousha. She was all
hoity toity. I did my part in ruffling her feathers. I happened to call her Anoushka.
What an easy life these models have - all they have to do is take time to don tonnes of make-up and display wafer thin bodies in sexy clothes. But some are really ugly. It's a sin that they are up there. One particular guy caught my eye with his distinctly neolithic looks.
"Vinod contacts several music directors and asks for their ideas for
scores and songs. Anu Malik, the composer he worked with on Kareeb, gets very emotional when he hears that Vinod is shopping around. He has a two-hour conversation with Vinod one Sunday morning in which he declares he is ready to work for free. He weeps and wails; he will not ask for a single paisa. The money is nothing compared to their friendship, he declares through his sobs. Vinod hears a crunching sound on the other end of the line. 'What's that? asks Vinod. 'I'm eating a radish,' answers the composer. 'Just a minute, I'll finish it.' Vinod hears him furiously crunching away; then he comes back to the phone, ready to weep afresh." That's an extract from Suketu Mehta's Maximum City: Bombay Lost & Found. He worked on the script of Mission Kahsmir with Vidhu Vinod Chopra.
It's quite a good read - he talks about Amitabh Bachchan to Shahrukh Khan to Mahesh Bhatt to cops to Bal Thackeray to bar dancers.
Between, S, E and I went out for dinner. It was S's birthday treat. At Flavours. On the way, we witnessed hormones running amok. And all we were doing were trying to hail an auto.
The Bangkok Thai Cafe adjacent to Flavours needs some serious image change. As in, people might die queueing up outside Flavours, but they wouldn't touch the Cafe with a barge pole. I told S that I should probably set shop there with my paan shop - Paandora's Box. Now that goes back a long time. To when S and me were in an auto one hot summer's day last year. I had just returned from a junket to Palampur and McCleodganj and was hell-bent upon opening a restaurant in McCleodganj. Finally, I had to scale down to Pandara Road. But where there's a will there's a way, right?;)
7.4.05
Of good friends, mirrors and long waits
Sometimes I do envy Carrie Bradshaw. The fact that she is a columnist is so cool. At least there's no one sitting on her head to approve of anything she writes or wants to write.
As if my work isn't enough, to add to my woes, my folks have sent me a picture of a guy. My father describes him as a "brilliant boy, tall and handsome" (E's right, my father almost seems like this guy's PR person). Now the previous two attributes might be true. On the last front, though I beg to differ. He's ok.
Am so scared. This is so not what I have ever thought of. E says a colleague of hers met more than 20 guys, before she liked one. Shit. What have I let myself in for? E in all her wisdom says I should look at it as a date. I can't even call it a blind date, after all am going into it with my eyes open.
If you have a good friend you don't need a mirror. So said my colleague NH today. Well, what immediately flashed into mind was the seven mirrors in our small apartment here. And the fact that before getting out of the house (it takes at least one hour), it's a compulsion to pose before every mirror. Back home in Calcutta, my dad finds it amusing. Each time we had to attend a wedding or a party, the spoken rule for me was to start preparing two hours ahead. Or there would be mayhem. It became a habit for my parents and brother to sit in the car and curse me.
As if my work isn't enough, to add to my woes, my folks have sent me a picture of a guy. My father describes him as a "brilliant boy, tall and handsome" (E's right, my father almost seems like this guy's PR person). Now the previous two attributes might be true. On the last front, though I beg to differ. He's ok.
Am so scared. This is so not what I have ever thought of. E says a colleague of hers met more than 20 guys, before she liked one. Shit. What have I let myself in for? E in all her wisdom says I should look at it as a date. I can't even call it a blind date, after all am going into it with my eyes open.
If you have a good friend you don't need a mirror. So said my colleague NH today. Well, what immediately flashed into mind was the seven mirrors in our small apartment here. And the fact that before getting out of the house (it takes at least one hour), it's a compulsion to pose before every mirror. Back home in Calcutta, my dad finds it amusing. Each time we had to attend a wedding or a party, the spoken rule for me was to start preparing two hours ahead. Or there would be mayhem. It became a habit for my parents and brother to sit in the car and curse me.
6.4.05
Hunky dudes and disenchantment
Met Milind Soman at this fashion show yesterday. I have to say at the risk of sounding like a callow teenager that I was absolutely in love with him. But that was before I saw him making a fool of himself. While my eyes were only on Soman, he had eyes trained on the ramp for every other woman.
Moreover the dude was oh-so-drunk. Kept hugging Boman Irani and dancing for the sake of the TV cameras.
To my astonishment Aman Varma was there. The 'sting'ed guy had to rake up the controversy thanking the audience for their 'support'??? Now what was that. Am as clueless. I actually wanted to go upto him and identify myself as Ruchi from dash newspaper. And a friend, a fellow journo wanted to do the same only with the name of her newspaper. I wish we had the time to do it. His reaction would
have been worth watching.
The clincher of the evening was something I overheard. A girl asking this short guy, clearly a gay, "Found any cute guys yet?" Felt a weird connection with him. After all, we share a common cause;)
Have to go back to my story. Gosh it's a 1000-word one and my deadline's tom. God save me!
Moreover the dude was oh-so-drunk. Kept hugging Boman Irani and dancing for the sake of the TV cameras.
To my astonishment Aman Varma was there. The 'sting'ed guy had to rake up the controversy thanking the audience for their 'support'??? Now what was that. Am as clueless. I actually wanted to go upto him and identify myself as Ruchi from dash newspaper. And a friend, a fellow journo wanted to do the same only with the name of her newspaper. I wish we had the time to do it. His reaction would
have been worth watching.
The clincher of the evening was something I overheard. A girl asking this short guy, clearly a gay, "Found any cute guys yet?" Felt a weird connection with him. After all, we share a common cause;)
Have to go back to my story. Gosh it's a 1000-word one and my deadline's tom. God save me!
5.4.05
Barbeques and burning boots
Chatted for a long time with my colleagues. They have such love stories.
SB would throw barbeque lunches to 'trap' her hubby. "I must have thrown about a 30 barbeques," she laughs. And NH used hang out with her hubby and his bachelor friends. She used to pile on with them on a bike. Once her boots got burnt. She blamed them for everything, but her feet was on the silencer.
Now some serious observations:
1. When I say I am obsessed with the idea of a car, it is inevitable
that when I am on the way to office, I end up looking wishfully at the huge cars drawn up next to my obsequious auto. Those behind the wheel are a study in their own. There are those who slouch and grip the wheel with such seeming intensity that it feels the world would come to an end just any minute. The others are a picture of ease. Life seems like a smooth ride for them, with nowhere to rush to or no one waiting to bark at them in office (presuming they work at all). The ones which make me feel ew are the ones who can't keep their hands on the wheel... I mean they are more engaged in picking their teeth or shoving their fingers up their noses.
2. Never say the truth. Lie unerringly with a fake smile pasted on your face. Otherwise you end up hearing how you are a prototype of the Indian media who don't have any knowledge whatsoever. This is a fallout from my an interview with an author. The first question I was asked,"So how did you find the book?"
I hemmed and hawed and finally let it out. "There is so much of sex that I couldn't get past it." It didn't curry favour with him obviously. And when I pointed out the reviews that had not been particularly favourable, the donkey had the gall to say, "They are just like you. They have not read 500 books of the Indian tradition and make a hash of everything."
3. "You are such a vella!" That's E for you. What had I done to hear
such a thing? Well, I painstakingly sat all evening, missed out on my
quota of soaps, only to set all the channels in a certain order. I did that for more than an hour at a stretch, at the end of which my eyes felt like they would pop out any second. Think about it E, next time you switch on the TV and don't have to scramble for Star Movies!
SB would throw barbeque lunches to 'trap' her hubby. "I must have thrown about a 30 barbeques," she laughs. And NH used hang out with her hubby and his bachelor friends. She used to pile on with them on a bike. Once her boots got burnt. She blamed them for everything, but her feet was on the silencer.
Now some serious observations:
1. When I say I am obsessed with the idea of a car, it is inevitable
that when I am on the way to office, I end up looking wishfully at the huge cars drawn up next to my obsequious auto. Those behind the wheel are a study in their own. There are those who slouch and grip the wheel with such seeming intensity that it feels the world would come to an end just any minute. The others are a picture of ease. Life seems like a smooth ride for them, with nowhere to rush to or no one waiting to bark at them in office (presuming they work at all). The ones which make me feel ew are the ones who can't keep their hands on the wheel... I mean they are more engaged in picking their teeth or shoving their fingers up their noses.
2. Never say the truth. Lie unerringly with a fake smile pasted on your face. Otherwise you end up hearing how you are a prototype of the Indian media who don't have any knowledge whatsoever. This is a fallout from my an interview with an author. The first question I was asked,"So how did you find the book?"
I hemmed and hawed and finally let it out. "There is so much of sex that I couldn't get past it." It didn't curry favour with him obviously. And when I pointed out the reviews that had not been particularly favourable, the donkey had the gall to say, "They are just like you. They have not read 500 books of the Indian tradition and make a hash of everything."
3. "You are such a vella!" That's E for you. What had I done to hear
such a thing? Well, I painstakingly sat all evening, missed out on my
quota of soaps, only to set all the channels in a certain order. I did that for more than an hour at a stretch, at the end of which my eyes felt like they would pop out any second. Think about it E, next time you switch on the TV and don't have to scramble for Star Movies!
4.4.05
Tuscany Calling
Last weekend I chanced upon a movie where a woman lands in Tuscany
and buys an old ancestral villa. I fell in love with the place. While earlier I ranted about Cyprus, now I can't stop talking about
Tuscany. Yesterday I read this book which also happened to be based in Tuscany. Isn't this fate pointing out that I am somehow meant to be there? (Sigh) Instead of all that fate has ordained for me:) (some hunky Leonardo Fortinari owning dozens of vineyards) , I am waiting for an interview with an author.
That brings me back to reality. Thump.
Have to do some research before I go for the interview. Sex, sex, sex... that is all there is to Tejpal's The Alchemy of Desire. It has everything from homosexuality to heterosexuality to threesomes to what not. Here is what a reviewer says about the book : "The title at first sounds overweeningly pretentious. Till, about halfway through the book, you realise it describes exactly what the book is about." And this is what I thought after I was over with it. "A treatise on the subject: the Indian Penile Code" - the reviewer couldn't have echoed my thoughts better.
The only part that I identified with in the book is the description of the hill estate of Jeolikote. Apparently the author owns the place. They also say he's bought it with the money that he wasn't paying his people at Tehelka.
Wonder what I will say when he asks me, "So how did you like the book?" I will probably have to lie through my teeth or put on a straight face and ask him why he's so obsessed with sex. The worst part is that when I try to lie, a slow grin creeps in and it is so so obvious.
Damn, I just got a call from E. I forgot to switch off the pump. This is the nth time that it has happened between our earlier house and this one. Really I think I will stop switching it on. S and E are surely cursing me. Ok promise, it won't happen again guys :)
A friend from college messaged me that he's packing for a trekking trip to Sandakphu. And just a month back, he had gone trekking to some Go lala place in Sikkim. Some guys just have it all. The only place I ever trek to, I realise, is the nearest shopping mall.
My parents are on their eternal search for the guy of my dreams, or
should I say theirs. Every time they meet the parents of some guy (he is usually someone in Switzerland or Manchester), I get a call. "Mamma, this guy's really nice. He's tall, handsome and goodlooking. Has fantastic prospects. Your horoscopes match perfectly."
The last time they said that they got hold of this chubby
cheeked boy from Chicago. An asshole who advised me that I shouldn't be using the word 'bitch'. "Take it from someone who's lived two long years in America, you can't hold your head high in American society if you say b****," he said.
Sometimes I just can't believe that I will have to go through an
arranged marriage. Really, when did I reach the grand old age of 24, when all my parents can think of is getting me married? Before all the eligible bachelors vanish from the horizon.
and buys an old ancestral villa. I fell in love with the place. While earlier I ranted about Cyprus, now I can't stop talking about
Tuscany. Yesterday I read this book which also happened to be based in Tuscany. Isn't this fate pointing out that I am somehow meant to be there? (Sigh) Instead of all that fate has ordained for me:) (some hunky Leonardo Fortinari owning dozens of vineyards) , I am waiting for an interview with an author.
That brings me back to reality. Thump.
Have to do some research before I go for the interview. Sex, sex, sex... that is all there is to Tejpal's The Alchemy of Desire. It has everything from homosexuality to heterosexuality to threesomes to what not. Here is what a reviewer says about the book : "The title at first sounds overweeningly pretentious. Till, about halfway through the book, you realise it describes exactly what the book is about." And this is what I thought after I was over with it. "A treatise on the subject: the Indian Penile Code" - the reviewer couldn't have echoed my thoughts better.
The only part that I identified with in the book is the description of the hill estate of Jeolikote. Apparently the author owns the place. They also say he's bought it with the money that he wasn't paying his people at Tehelka.
Wonder what I will say when he asks me, "So how did you like the book?" I will probably have to lie through my teeth or put on a straight face and ask him why he's so obsessed with sex. The worst part is that when I try to lie, a slow grin creeps in and it is so so obvious.
Damn, I just got a call from E. I forgot to switch off the pump. This is the nth time that it has happened between our earlier house and this one. Really I think I will stop switching it on. S and E are surely cursing me. Ok promise, it won't happen again guys :)
A friend from college messaged me that he's packing for a trekking trip to Sandakphu. And just a month back, he had gone trekking to some Go lala place in Sikkim. Some guys just have it all. The only place I ever trek to, I realise, is the nearest shopping mall.
My parents are on their eternal search for the guy of my dreams, or
should I say theirs. Every time they meet the parents of some guy (he is usually someone in Switzerland or Manchester), I get a call. "Mamma, this guy's really nice. He's tall, handsome and goodlooking. Has fantastic prospects. Your horoscopes match perfectly."
The last time they said that they got hold of this chubby
cheeked boy from Chicago. An asshole who advised me that I shouldn't be using the word 'bitch'. "Take it from someone who's lived two long years in America, you can't hold your head high in American society if you say b****," he said.
Sometimes I just can't believe that I will have to go through an
arranged marriage. Really, when did I reach the grand old age of 24, when all my parents can think of is getting me married? Before all the eligible bachelors vanish from the horizon.
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