Nothing is probably a better start to a day than watching a litter of newborn pups gambolling about playfully and whining to each other. The lane through which I walk down, it turns out, is a kind of a mating hotspot. Only two weeks back there were these brown set of pups, who have grown up into healthy teenagers. The new set is mostly black in colour. Yesterday evening while the mother was not around, I sidled upto our friends. It is such a nice feeling -- the little things nuzzling against you and wagging their stubby tails furiously.
Oh how I wish I could have a pup of mine own. Two years back, I remember I was in Sarojini Market and I came across this little cute lab pup. I wanted to have him so badly that I almost fixed up a deal with the guy. And called up E and S who were both at work. Their reaction: What? Are you crazy? You and pup can have the flat to yourself!
That was the end of it.
But nothing can beat the fact that I was about to become the proud owner of a baby owl. What happened was, last winter, a former colleague told me that me that her tenant's daughter had rescued a baby owl with broken wings and put it in the Jain Hospital. Now I have always had a fascination for owls. My mum while out for a morning walk came across a baby white owl which had fallen down from a tree. What did she do instead of bringing it home to me? She asked a guard at a building nearby to put it back on the tree.
So this hurt owl was my best chance. On a cold winter evening I made my way to the Jain Hospital. I had to take off my shoes and walk barefoot to the section where birds are housed. A guy there informed me that it had been released after being treated. He took me around the birds' section. All kinds of them - kites, eagles, parrots, sparrows, doves, pigeons, budgeriars - nesting around. The kites were kind of scary. They barely moved in their cages. In a way I felt sad for them. It must have been bloody claustrophobic. To top the injury that I got nowhere near my baby owl, I faced the ignominy of the guy trying to get fresh.
This was a good news though for E. She freaked out when she heard at what might have been. What would you feed it? It would come back with dead rats from its nightly visits outside! I am sure I would have found a way out. But it's not destined to be it seems. Sigh.
25.11.05
Some say that the age of chivalry is past, that the spirit of romance is dead. I say that chivalry can never be a thing of the past.
Chivalry is not exactly the Indian male's forte. It is the Italian's.
In a matter of yesterday and today I came to the conclusion. Yesterday night I was attending the fashion show of Italian designer Gianfranco Ferre where at a certain point of time, a journo from another paper, S, and I were interviewing the CEO of Ferre. The latter pretended to be as dumb as possible with the result that we had none of our answers. As we were walking out of the hotel not very happy with life in general, an Italian guy held the door open for us and we sailed out. We turned back to smile and thank him. He was neither the doorkeeper nor was he trying to enter at the same time as we were getting out.
Today I was atttending a book launch. Now I K Gujral was there as the guest of honour. We walked out of the event at the same time and were waiting for our respective cars. I noticed an old lady who was kind of disabled and was trying to get in just after Gujral walked out. His PA, or whoever he was, held the door carefully open for Gujral but the next moment swung the door back on the lady. Of course she managed to open the door and walk in but there was nobody to help her. Not even the guard near the entrance who was standing watching people get in and out.
So if you want chivalry you know where to look.
On a different note, for the first time in my life, I watched a skywalk. Esprit launched in Delhi and for their fashion show, the models waltzed down the walls of the Shangri-la hotel. I revealed my awe and ignorance at the beginning by asking how they would do that. A photographer let me know that there have been shows like this in Bombay. And even though these models had ropes tied onto their waists and shoes that clung to the surface of the walls, I thought they were brave. Imagine walking down a five-star hotel and yet managing to look graceful!
Apparently colleague P was outside the hotel in the car and about to enter when she saw a person walking down the hotel wall. Her eyes popped out. "Initially I was trying to figure out whether I was seeing right (she was san lenses but wearing her glasses). Then I thought someone was trying to commit suicide. people had even gathered around because it could be seen from the road," she said dramatically as we stuffed into some yummy chocolate pastries and particularly nice chicken pizzettes (small circular thin crust pizzas).
In a matter of yesterday and today I came to the conclusion. Yesterday night I was attending the fashion show of Italian designer Gianfranco Ferre where at a certain point of time, a journo from another paper, S, and I were interviewing the CEO of Ferre. The latter pretended to be as dumb as possible with the result that we had none of our answers. As we were walking out of the hotel not very happy with life in general, an Italian guy held the door open for us and we sailed out. We turned back to smile and thank him. He was neither the doorkeeper nor was he trying to enter at the same time as we were getting out.
Today I was atttending a book launch. Now I K Gujral was there as the guest of honour. We walked out of the event at the same time and were waiting for our respective cars. I noticed an old lady who was kind of disabled and was trying to get in just after Gujral walked out. His PA, or whoever he was, held the door carefully open for Gujral but the next moment swung the door back on the lady. Of course she managed to open the door and walk in but there was nobody to help her. Not even the guard near the entrance who was standing watching people get in and out.
So if you want chivalry you know where to look.
On a different note, for the first time in my life, I watched a skywalk. Esprit launched in Delhi and for their fashion show, the models waltzed down the walls of the Shangri-la hotel. I revealed my awe and ignorance at the beginning by asking how they would do that. A photographer let me know that there have been shows like this in Bombay. And even though these models had ropes tied onto their waists and shoes that clung to the surface of the walls, I thought they were brave. Imagine walking down a five-star hotel and yet managing to look graceful!
Apparently colleague P was outside the hotel in the car and about to enter when she saw a person walking down the hotel wall. Her eyes popped out. "Initially I was trying to figure out whether I was seeing right (she was san lenses but wearing her glasses). Then I thought someone was trying to commit suicide. people had even gathered around because it could be seen from the road," she said dramatically as we stuffed into some yummy chocolate pastries and particularly nice chicken pizzettes (small circular thin crust pizzas).
19.11.05
Me a pickle freak
I am sitting at my desk and sneaking in a piece of mango pickle into my mouth (Colleague SB brings them on Saturday along with her aloo paranthas). If ever there was heaven, it is here, it is here, it is here.
I have always been a pickle freak. Especially pickled kul (I do not know the English equivalent for Kul). Whenever bottles of it would arrive at home in my grandma's suitcase, I would stash away one of them beneath the bed. Because when I was a kid, I was incredibly fond of two things as any other kid would be I guess - chocolates and pickles.
And I would hide them carefully since my brother had a bad habit of keeping them in the fridge right in front of my nose and preserving them for ages. Of course it wouldn't last. I would finish them off and Inevitably there would be a hue and cry about it and my mother would be ready to chase me around the dining table (it took some time, because the table happened to be really quite long).
The chocolates would come courtesy my aunt (father's sister) and my uncle (father's bro) from London. They would come in attractive packages like huge red stockings around Christmas. That was the time my aunt used to come down with my two cousins - Anna and Anthony - laden with perfumes, clothes, cookies and chocolates. Oh what times they were! I would stay with them for the entire time they were in Calcutta. It used to be a major party with their cousins as well accompanying us to trips to restaurants and the golf clubs. And there used to be this sardarji driver there who would take us around town. Nice man he was and very fond of me. I would chat with him for hours. Now I wonder what was the point around which our conversation centered.
The pickles though were a sore point with our family. Some baby or the other had died in the previous generation and mysteriously it was linked to the process of pickle making. Now don't ask me how? I am as confused and angry about it. I used to crib to my mother about it - why did we have to be saddled with such a weird excuse of not being able to make pickles?
Once I decided to flout this custom and I set out to make a bottle of lemon pickles for myself. It was an ambitious project may I say. First of all, my ma was not at all happy about the amount of lemons I had emptied on to the mat on the roof to be sun dried. Following which I dumped them into a bottle filled with a mixture of salt and sugar syrup. I waited for weeks till I opened the bottle.
I think it had turned into some kind of fungus instead of my dream pickle. So I have contemplating since then that it might have been a curse after all.
Now let me respond to Thalassa's tag before she accuses me of ignoring it!
Seven things I plan to do
1. Travel to my heart's content.
2. Open a paan boutique.
3. Own a nice sprawling farmhouse with lush greens all around. And have as my companions - an elephant, a horse, a panda and two dogs.
4. Keep a check on my foot-in-the-mouth disease.
5. Fall in love.
6. Get married at Cyprus - sort of an island wedding.
7. Shop without looking at the tags.
Seven things I can't do
1. Let my ego take a beating.
2. Be cheated.
3. Bear people trying to intimidate me.
4. Go window shopping (I end up buying no matter what).
5. Sleep well after a scary movie.
6. Not have popcorn when I am out for a movie.
7. Like my gym trainer (Laziest trainer I have ever come across. Just grins and says, wanna do more? I dread those three words).
Seven things I say most often
1. Gandu (an affectionate word in my dic)
2. Bitch (same as above)
3. Fuck
4. What the fuck
5. Basically (I hate this word. It comes up when I am doing an interview and am a bit nervous)
6. You know
7. Whatever
A random thought for the day:
Don't think the best things in life are free? Try not breathing for a while. Bob Smithwick
I have always been a pickle freak. Especially pickled kul (I do not know the English equivalent for Kul). Whenever bottles of it would arrive at home in my grandma's suitcase, I would stash away one of them beneath the bed. Because when I was a kid, I was incredibly fond of two things as any other kid would be I guess - chocolates and pickles.
And I would hide them carefully since my brother had a bad habit of keeping them in the fridge right in front of my nose and preserving them for ages. Of course it wouldn't last. I would finish them off and Inevitably there would be a hue and cry about it and my mother would be ready to chase me around the dining table (it took some time, because the table happened to be really quite long).
The chocolates would come courtesy my aunt (father's sister) and my uncle (father's bro) from London. They would come in attractive packages like huge red stockings around Christmas. That was the time my aunt used to come down with my two cousins - Anna and Anthony - laden with perfumes, clothes, cookies and chocolates. Oh what times they were! I would stay with them for the entire time they were in Calcutta. It used to be a major party with their cousins as well accompanying us to trips to restaurants and the golf clubs. And there used to be this sardarji driver there who would take us around town. Nice man he was and very fond of me. I would chat with him for hours. Now I wonder what was the point around which our conversation centered.
The pickles though were a sore point with our family. Some baby or the other had died in the previous generation and mysteriously it was linked to the process of pickle making. Now don't ask me how? I am as confused and angry about it. I used to crib to my mother about it - why did we have to be saddled with such a weird excuse of not being able to make pickles?
Once I decided to flout this custom and I set out to make a bottle of lemon pickles for myself. It was an ambitious project may I say. First of all, my ma was not at all happy about the amount of lemons I had emptied on to the mat on the roof to be sun dried. Following which I dumped them into a bottle filled with a mixture of salt and sugar syrup. I waited for weeks till I opened the bottle.
I think it had turned into some kind of fungus instead of my dream pickle. So I have contemplating since then that it might have been a curse after all.
Now let me respond to Thalassa's tag before she accuses me of ignoring it!
Seven things I plan to do
1. Travel to my heart's content.
2. Open a paan boutique.
3. Own a nice sprawling farmhouse with lush greens all around. And have as my companions - an elephant, a horse, a panda and two dogs.
4. Keep a check on my foot-in-the-mouth disease.
5. Fall in love.
6. Get married at Cyprus - sort of an island wedding.
7. Shop without looking at the tags.
Seven things I can't do
1. Let my ego take a beating.
2. Be cheated.
3. Bear people trying to intimidate me.
4. Go window shopping (I end up buying no matter what).
5. Sleep well after a scary movie.
6. Not have popcorn when I am out for a movie.
7. Like my gym trainer (Laziest trainer I have ever come across. Just grins and says, wanna do more? I dread those three words).
Seven things I say most often
1. Gandu (an affectionate word in my dic)
2. Bitch (same as above)
3. Fuck
4. What the fuck
5. Basically (I hate this word. It comes up when I am doing an interview and am a bit nervous)
6. You know
7. Whatever
A random thought for the day:
Don't think the best things in life are free? Try not breathing for a while. Bob Smithwick
14.11.05
Fashion is in the sky, in the street, fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening
That's a Coco Chanel quote since I have had a weekend of fashion study that actually made me feel fashion is not so trivial as most of us tend to think. After all it has a history of its own. A fascinating one at that.
The workshop was at Manesar Heritage Resort (two hours from Delhi). The place itself was not five star but it was nice and quiet. Some of us were lucky enough to get single double bed rooms to ourselves because of cancellations by other journalists. And my room faced the swimming pool.
Some highlights from my trip:
As I sat on the other side of the desk and listened to lectures, I rediscovered the pleasures of studying.
I met several 'interesting' people on the trip. People with heavily false accents, supercilious attitudes, dirty old men, geeks and someone who suddenly and inappropriately reminded me of Horse & Hounds.
The individual in the first category, goes without saying, was shunned by all and somehow I did not feel sorry. And let me not stretch it to the plural. There was actually a dirty old man who insisted on latching onto every female on the trip. By the end of it he had succeeded in pissing off one and all. At the beginning of the trip when we met I remembered him from a French opera where we happened to be talking to the director of the opera. When we reached Manesar, he insisted on telling me that it is the dirty weekend retreat for some. Besides filling me up on how he sits at the Press Club all day and loves getting drunk. So when he was sitting alone on a field trip to a factory and asked me to sit next to him, I literally ran for my sanity. And plonked myself next to a person who reminded me of Hugh Grant.
Now when I say he reminded me of Grant, I don't mean physically at all. He was a nice guy with a sophisticated air about him. He was from some trade magazine, the name of which brought back Horse & Hounds to my mind. Weirdly I didn't at all feel he was trying to be overfriendly or irritating when he asked me about my beat and myself. Some people I am glad to say just don't rub you up the wrong way.
The export factory we visited had amazingly fashionable jackets. They apparently export to Zara, Tommy and the like. The owner and his wife (who impressed us highly with her oratorial skills) showed us around the place. Inside the place were some thousands of workers sewing, checking and rechecking the garments. It might be employment for those people, but a huge huge room chock full of people doing the same mechanical job for 10 hours every day didn't seem very cheerful. I can't explain it. It was just the sight of row after row of sewing machines and other machines and a sea of people inside that freaked me out.
Once back at the resort, we had more classes. For which PR girl BS made sure we were seated inside. She even trailed behind us to the loo!
The classes itself were really cool. And the persons taking them cooler. Not for a single minute did I feel bored. Though I must say the German lecturer, who took us on a presentation on fashion through the ages, was so flat it was unbelieveable. She could have made even rock n' roll sound flat.
As it became dark and we got back to our rooms to freshen up for cocktails and dinner, I was feeling so happy. There were diyas floating in the pool and Rajasthani folk singers playing there. It was just perfect. And the happiness increased as I tossed drinks down my gullet. One after the other... LIT, red wine, white wine, a delicious vodka drink...teamed with yummy chocolate cake. The effect may I say was profound. Besides the fact that I could hear only through one ear, the next morning I found my watch cracked and a spot of pain on my forehead.
The unexpected happened too. There were designers Ashish Soni and Manish Arora at the workshop. Credit to geek journalist who asked them, "Why don't these export houses tie up with you? The house we visited said Soni and Arora just make a lot of noise." You should have seen the reactions of the two. Arora who needs a setdown really badly got it. And it did Soni good. He spoke. At any given occasion, he who has the least to say couldn't stop making his point and making sense too! While Arora was this picture of amiability.
In the feedback sheets we were given to fill up, I recommended such workshops once a month. I asked some others. They wrote once in 6 months.
I guess I couldn't have asked for more. A drunken weekend and let's not even begin counting the calories...oily bacon rinds, pineapples, cheese, lots of meat, malpuas, gulab jamuns and chocolate... Besides of course the worst pasta I've ever had!
The workshop was at Manesar Heritage Resort (two hours from Delhi). The place itself was not five star but it was nice and quiet. Some of us were lucky enough to get single double bed rooms to ourselves because of cancellations by other journalists. And my room faced the swimming pool.
Some highlights from my trip:
As I sat on the other side of the desk and listened to lectures, I rediscovered the pleasures of studying.
I met several 'interesting' people on the trip. People with heavily false accents, supercilious attitudes, dirty old men, geeks and someone who suddenly and inappropriately reminded me of Horse & Hounds.
The individual in the first category, goes without saying, was shunned by all and somehow I did not feel sorry. And let me not stretch it to the plural. There was actually a dirty old man who insisted on latching onto every female on the trip. By the end of it he had succeeded in pissing off one and all. At the beginning of the trip when we met I remembered him from a French opera where we happened to be talking to the director of the opera. When we reached Manesar, he insisted on telling me that it is the dirty weekend retreat for some. Besides filling me up on how he sits at the Press Club all day and loves getting drunk. So when he was sitting alone on a field trip to a factory and asked me to sit next to him, I literally ran for my sanity. And plonked myself next to a person who reminded me of Hugh Grant.
Now when I say he reminded me of Grant, I don't mean physically at all. He was a nice guy with a sophisticated air about him. He was from some trade magazine, the name of which brought back Horse & Hounds to my mind. Weirdly I didn't at all feel he was trying to be overfriendly or irritating when he asked me about my beat and myself. Some people I am glad to say just don't rub you up the wrong way.
The export factory we visited had amazingly fashionable jackets. They apparently export to Zara, Tommy and the like. The owner and his wife (who impressed us highly with her oratorial skills) showed us around the place. Inside the place were some thousands of workers sewing, checking and rechecking the garments. It might be employment for those people, but a huge huge room chock full of people doing the same mechanical job for 10 hours every day didn't seem very cheerful. I can't explain it. It was just the sight of row after row of sewing machines and other machines and a sea of people inside that freaked me out.
Once back at the resort, we had more classes. For which PR girl BS made sure we were seated inside. She even trailed behind us to the loo!
The classes itself were really cool. And the persons taking them cooler. Not for a single minute did I feel bored. Though I must say the German lecturer, who took us on a presentation on fashion through the ages, was so flat it was unbelieveable. She could have made even rock n' roll sound flat.
As it became dark and we got back to our rooms to freshen up for cocktails and dinner, I was feeling so happy. There were diyas floating in the pool and Rajasthani folk singers playing there. It was just perfect. And the happiness increased as I tossed drinks down my gullet. One after the other... LIT, red wine, white wine, a delicious vodka drink...teamed with yummy chocolate cake. The effect may I say was profound. Besides the fact that I could hear only through one ear, the next morning I found my watch cracked and a spot of pain on my forehead.
The unexpected happened too. There were designers Ashish Soni and Manish Arora at the workshop. Credit to geek journalist who asked them, "Why don't these export houses tie up with you? The house we visited said Soni and Arora just make a lot of noise." You should have seen the reactions of the two. Arora who needs a setdown really badly got it. And it did Soni good. He spoke. At any given occasion, he who has the least to say couldn't stop making his point and making sense too! While Arora was this picture of amiability.
In the feedback sheets we were given to fill up, I recommended such workshops once a month. I asked some others. They wrote once in 6 months.
I guess I couldn't have asked for more. A drunken weekend and let's not even begin counting the calories...oily bacon rinds, pineapples, cheese, lots of meat, malpuas, gulab jamuns and chocolate... Besides of course the worst pasta I've ever had!
2.11.05
Of blasts, crackers and ghosts
I love lazy weekends and I love the sight of the rich golden lights bursting in the night sky on Diwali. The chill in the air as I stand on the verandah craning my neck and trying to catch them going off in different portions of the horizon.
I don't love the green and blue coloured lights and I don't love it when rockets land on me. Thankfully this year they didn't because I sat at home with S and had a huge dinner of pizza, garlic bread with cheese and crispy honey chicken and mixed noodles. Wow that was a breathful. And calorific as hell.
But they did land on me once. I was in Calcutta in high school. It was Kali Pujo and I was standing innocently (I was just watching my bratty cousins light the chadkis and the tubris) between my two cousin sisters. When wham! a rocket hit my shoulder. I was stunned. Only when the burnt feeling set in, did I run inside. I have since always wondered at the uncanny precision of the rocket.
Also I don't love it at all when the crackers are lined from one end of the street to the other and they go off like the battering effect of the stengun. Yesterday night as I was trying to watch Shrek 2, the sounds of the damn things drove me up the wall. S gave up. She went to sleep as early as 9.30 while I gave up on Shrek and read a book. At present I am reading Vikram Seth's Two Lives. The man (pint sized though he may be) has magic in his fingers. I kept wiping my face as I read of his aunt Henny. The book seems even so better because I have just got over with One Night @ the Call Center by Chetan Bhagat. First of all, when I met him for an interview I thought he was a pompous ass with no reason to be so. I think he is just a guy-who-got-lucky-with-an-average-book phenomenon.
The weekend started off with a Chanel show on Saturday night. I was feeling so frantic that day finishing off with my stories that I didn't even go and join the crowd around the TV in office when I heard the word 'blast'. It must be some minor thing in some city I thought to meself. And I rushed home. In the auto I got a call from my London aunt. She wanted to know whether I was alive. But still I didn't find the time to flip on the TV. I rushed for the show. Thereafter the amount of calls I received told me that it must have been serious. An RJ even messaged and asked how I was. I was taken aback. I replied: "In heaven where they are having a Chanel show and serving champagne."
Got to know about the real thing from E. She messaged me: Get your ass home RIGHT NOW. When she called, I told her I was sipping on champagne and feeling happy. What she said next did make me feel ashamed. "There are BOMBS going off lady. One in Paharganj, one in Sarojini Nagar, in Karol Bagh and in a DTC bus!" What one of the designers told one of the reporters the same evening disillusioned me. When asked whether he had heard about the blasts, his reply was "Life has to move on!" And I met the son of a minister there who said that he 'had' to be there with his father at the site of the blasts.
Inspite of the scare, the next day I was 'foolishly brave' (as others around me described it ). I dragged P along with me to watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. And should I say I didn't regret it cos the theatre was practically empty. The sight of a nearly empty PVR on a Sunday evening is quite a thing. In the darkness though P suddenly grabbed my hand and said, "Can you feel the floor vibrating?" Truly it was humming. I reassured her with the words, "I think we are destined to live a few more years". A few seconds later there were mild sounds of a siren straining in. And of course P asked me what it was. If these diversions were not enough, there was a little curly haired kid walking around. She kept tapping P on her arms and jabbering away to her.
But do watch the film. I fell for the oompaloompas and need I say Johnny Depp. I watched another film that had me going gaga about Rahul Bose. It was Mr and Mrs Iyer.
Over the weekend (I had stayed over at P's place), I heard a story that of course scared the wits out of me. We were almost drifting off to sleep when P narrated her story. "My aunt and uncle were newly weds at the time. They had come to Delhi and were visiting the Humayun's Tomb. It was not so well kept then. They had sauntered off to the part where Bu Halima's tomb is. They got this peculiar smell and followed it till they came to this enclosure where they saw a body shrouded in white and patches of blood on it. They were so scared that they ran for the guard. The latter went back with the police and came back to say that there was nothing of the sort there. Very disturbed my aunt and uncle returned to the place they were putting up at. But the smell persisted. They shifted to another corner of the city after that." I remembered all the occasions on which I had trampled to lonely monuments in the city and also thanking my stars that I had not met any shrouded bodies or disgruntled spirits.
I don't love the green and blue coloured lights and I don't love it when rockets land on me. Thankfully this year they didn't because I sat at home with S and had a huge dinner of pizza, garlic bread with cheese and crispy honey chicken and mixed noodles. Wow that was a breathful. And calorific as hell.
But they did land on me once. I was in Calcutta in high school. It was Kali Pujo and I was standing innocently (I was just watching my bratty cousins light the chadkis and the tubris) between my two cousin sisters. When wham! a rocket hit my shoulder. I was stunned. Only when the burnt feeling set in, did I run inside. I have since always wondered at the uncanny precision of the rocket.
Also I don't love it at all when the crackers are lined from one end of the street to the other and they go off like the battering effect of the stengun. Yesterday night as I was trying to watch Shrek 2, the sounds of the damn things drove me up the wall. S gave up. She went to sleep as early as 9.30 while I gave up on Shrek and read a book. At present I am reading Vikram Seth's Two Lives. The man (pint sized though he may be) has magic in his fingers. I kept wiping my face as I read of his aunt Henny. The book seems even so better because I have just got over with One Night @ the Call Center by Chetan Bhagat. First of all, when I met him for an interview I thought he was a pompous ass with no reason to be so. I think he is just a guy-who-got-lucky-with-an-average-book phenomenon.
The weekend started off with a Chanel show on Saturday night. I was feeling so frantic that day finishing off with my stories that I didn't even go and join the crowd around the TV in office when I heard the word 'blast'. It must be some minor thing in some city I thought to meself. And I rushed home. In the auto I got a call from my London aunt. She wanted to know whether I was alive. But still I didn't find the time to flip on the TV. I rushed for the show. Thereafter the amount of calls I received told me that it must have been serious. An RJ even messaged and asked how I was. I was taken aback. I replied: "In heaven where they are having a Chanel show and serving champagne."
Got to know about the real thing from E. She messaged me: Get your ass home RIGHT NOW. When she called, I told her I was sipping on champagne and feeling happy. What she said next did make me feel ashamed. "There are BOMBS going off lady. One in Paharganj, one in Sarojini Nagar, in Karol Bagh and in a DTC bus!" What one of the designers told one of the reporters the same evening disillusioned me. When asked whether he had heard about the blasts, his reply was "Life has to move on!" And I met the son of a minister there who said that he 'had' to be there with his father at the site of the blasts.
Inspite of the scare, the next day I was 'foolishly brave' (as others around me described it ). I dragged P along with me to watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. And should I say I didn't regret it cos the theatre was practically empty. The sight of a nearly empty PVR on a Sunday evening is quite a thing. In the darkness though P suddenly grabbed my hand and said, "Can you feel the floor vibrating?" Truly it was humming. I reassured her with the words, "I think we are destined to live a few more years". A few seconds later there were mild sounds of a siren straining in. And of course P asked me what it was. If these diversions were not enough, there was a little curly haired kid walking around. She kept tapping P on her arms and jabbering away to her.
But do watch the film. I fell for the oompaloompas and need I say Johnny Depp. I watched another film that had me going gaga about Rahul Bose. It was Mr and Mrs Iyer.
Over the weekend (I had stayed over at P's place), I heard a story that of course scared the wits out of me. We were almost drifting off to sleep when P narrated her story. "My aunt and uncle were newly weds at the time. They had come to Delhi and were visiting the Humayun's Tomb. It was not so well kept then. They had sauntered off to the part where Bu Halima's tomb is. They got this peculiar smell and followed it till they came to this enclosure where they saw a body shrouded in white and patches of blood on it. They were so scared that they ran for the guard. The latter went back with the police and came back to say that there was nothing of the sort there. Very disturbed my aunt and uncle returned to the place they were putting up at. But the smell persisted. They shifted to another corner of the city after that." I remembered all the occasions on which I had trampled to lonely monuments in the city and also thanking my stars that I had not met any shrouded bodies or disgruntled spirits.
26.10.05
Homecoming
Well I am back. Two weeks of home was bliss.
The smell of the dhuno, the bhog, the smell of homecoming - I was so glad to be back in Calcutta.
We have a family puja which is some hundred years old (my father, heaven forbid, if you get him started on it will give you the history as vividly as possible and bring out the family tree chart as well). We rotate the Durga Puja among three houses, ours being one of them. But this time it was at an uncle's place.
I rediscovered many things at the puja. Amongst which foremost was a crush on a cousin. A distant one - may I point out! I still feel the same way and I was strongly tempted to talk to him about it. Thankfully this time I let my impulse take a back seat.
In the same house was my aunt's husband who is bedridden. He has cancer. From a healthy good looking man he has been reduced to what I cannot even call a shadow of his former self. His daughter has come down from the States to be with him. Apparently she has been crying all the time, so her husband sent her back. The aunt couldn't even smile properly when she met me. I felt like hugging her and telling her everything will be okay. But that was the one thing I just could not do, could I?
On the second day of sapthami I realised that I was only the youngster around. Otherwise it was only my parents, and my uncles and aunts. Would my generation ever take the pains to carry on this tradition? Seems highly unlikely. All my cousins are abroad and scattered in different parts of the country.
The relatives were highly flattering though. I was a major celebrity among them. "We read you every time and wonder how you know so much!" By the end of it my jaws were aching with smiling. Next they leapt on to what is their favourite territory. "Have you found a guy for yourself? What is it with you girls that you do not want to get engaged?" asked aunt A whose daughter N is the same age as me and studies in London. "I am telling you what I tell N. When you have a slim waistline, guys should fall in line. Is it that you don't want to commit?" she asked.
And she launched on to a story. She recently visited N and was very excited about her male friends. "It was a reunion. The first guy whom N hugged and kissed was this really good looking guy called Simon. I was excited. She introduced me to him and then his girlfriend. Some time later she hugged another guy, Paul, and told me he was a very close friend. He was not bad looking and I tried hard not to raise my hopes. She introduced me to his parents and siblings. I thought this is the one. Till another guy came along and she introduced him as Paul's partner." What was aunt A getting at? Get yourself a guy.
My parents did the best they could to remedy that in their own way. On consecutive days, there were two guys, AG and AGT, to see me along with their family.
With the two meetings coming to an end, I have realised that I don't want to get married in this way.
Being asked what I cook, why my Bengali has an accent (I don't. AG's father insisted I had. I didn't bother to argue after a point), why I want to get married (I replied very honestly to this. My parents want me to, I said. AG was of course not happy with it), what I had talked about with the guy can you believe this? AG's uncle asked me this. And I rattled it out.. what are my working hours, what am I looking for in a guy, why I want to marry blah
blah. Till the uncle looked at me and said you are a quite a child. I was pissed).
AGT was nice but I got brotherly vibes from him. My mum couldn't believe this. "You can adjust," she said.
I couldn't think of either as my partner. My folks were very disappointed. "Mamma, do you want to look for yourself? Is that it?" my father asked in a concerned manner. And then, "How do we say no to them now?" But there's always a way out. My father has figured it out by now.
Besides the boy and boy's family meeting girl sessions I endured, I did something I have been obsessing about. I had KFC. I overate till I felt sick.
And I went cycling. The weather towards the beginning was fabulous in Calcutta though a bit humid. But once I was on the cycle, I felt the world was at my feet. It felt so right.
All in all I was the perfect daughter (I did not fight for a single day). Except for the last day when I fought with them. We did make up before me leaving however.
Funnily I didn't feel much homesick after reaching Delhi. The weather is perfect.
It's not so bad to have two homes after all.
The smell of the dhuno, the bhog, the smell of homecoming - I was so glad to be back in Calcutta.
We have a family puja which is some hundred years old (my father, heaven forbid, if you get him started on it will give you the history as vividly as possible and bring out the family tree chart as well). We rotate the Durga Puja among three houses, ours being one of them. But this time it was at an uncle's place.
I rediscovered many things at the puja. Amongst which foremost was a crush on a cousin. A distant one - may I point out! I still feel the same way and I was strongly tempted to talk to him about it. Thankfully this time I let my impulse take a back seat.
In the same house was my aunt's husband who is bedridden. He has cancer. From a healthy good looking man he has been reduced to what I cannot even call a shadow of his former self. His daughter has come down from the States to be with him. Apparently she has been crying all the time, so her husband sent her back. The aunt couldn't even smile properly when she met me. I felt like hugging her and telling her everything will be okay. But that was the one thing I just could not do, could I?
On the second day of sapthami I realised that I was only the youngster around. Otherwise it was only my parents, and my uncles and aunts. Would my generation ever take the pains to carry on this tradition? Seems highly unlikely. All my cousins are abroad and scattered in different parts of the country.
The relatives were highly flattering though. I was a major celebrity among them. "We read you every time and wonder how you know so much!" By the end of it my jaws were aching with smiling. Next they leapt on to what is their favourite territory. "Have you found a guy for yourself? What is it with you girls that you do not want to get engaged?" asked aunt A whose daughter N is the same age as me and studies in London. "I am telling you what I tell N. When you have a slim waistline, guys should fall in line. Is it that you don't want to commit?" she asked.
And she launched on to a story. She recently visited N and was very excited about her male friends. "It was a reunion. The first guy whom N hugged and kissed was this really good looking guy called Simon. I was excited. She introduced me to him and then his girlfriend. Some time later she hugged another guy, Paul, and told me he was a very close friend. He was not bad looking and I tried hard not to raise my hopes. She introduced me to his parents and siblings. I thought this is the one. Till another guy came along and she introduced him as Paul's partner." What was aunt A getting at? Get yourself a guy.
My parents did the best they could to remedy that in their own way. On consecutive days, there were two guys, AG and AGT, to see me along with their family.
With the two meetings coming to an end, I have realised that I don't want to get married in this way.
Being asked what I cook, why my Bengali has an accent (I don't. AG's father insisted I had. I didn't bother to argue after a point), why I want to get married (I replied very honestly to this. My parents want me to, I said. AG was of course not happy with it), what I had talked about with the guy can you believe this? AG's uncle asked me this. And I rattled it out.. what are my working hours, what am I looking for in a guy, why I want to marry blah
blah. Till the uncle looked at me and said you are a quite a child. I was pissed).
AGT was nice but I got brotherly vibes from him. My mum couldn't believe this. "You can adjust," she said.
I couldn't think of either as my partner. My folks were very disappointed. "Mamma, do you want to look for yourself? Is that it?" my father asked in a concerned manner. And then, "How do we say no to them now?" But there's always a way out. My father has figured it out by now.
Besides the boy and boy's family meeting girl sessions I endured, I did something I have been obsessing about. I had KFC. I overate till I felt sick.
And I went cycling. The weather towards the beginning was fabulous in Calcutta though a bit humid. But once I was on the cycle, I felt the world was at my feet. It felt so right.
All in all I was the perfect daughter (I did not fight for a single day). Except for the last day when I fought with them. We did make up before me leaving however.
Funnily I didn't feel much homesick after reaching Delhi. The weather is perfect.
It's not so bad to have two homes after all.
7.10.05
So here I go...
At last I pack my bags and leave for home today. Whee! The train's at 4.45 pm (Mental note: Stack in those books and walkman). The past few days have been hectic what with working overtime to finish extra stories. Also I have been dreaming of death. The aftertaste certainly isn't pleasant.
A few nights ago I experienced death, as close as you can get to it in your dreams. Phew! I saw an old friend Sudak in it. She and I were waiting for an elevator. I don't know why she kept hesitating while getting in. Finally she did get in and kept pressing over and over again. Suddenly the elevator started moving weirdly. We panicked at the sickening drop but we could do nothing except wait to die. When we got out of the elevator, I saw RS my photographer (this sure was comic) floating around and saying, "Come join me A. I have suffered the same fate as you. We are dead".
I came to the conclusion the next morning that I sure don't want to die a violent death. Cliched it might be, but I want to die in my sleep.
Yesterday night I dreamt of having something to do with ashes of the dead. And in the morning when I woke up I was reminded of Teri Hatcher covered in Martha's ashes. It somehow failed to bring a smile. Grim thoughts but I hope I reach in one piece to Calcutta.
Meanwhile, a friend has just broken up with her guy. He was physically abusing her. This is the same friend to whom I had said that I would be sorry for her if she went out with him. Now when I said that, I never wanted it to come true. So if you are reading this V, I am sure you know I would never mean them even if I said them at the time. I think you are better off without the bastard. S saw him the other night at TC's with some babe. The point is he is not worth anything. I am glad you are out of it. As they say, there are lots of fishes in the sea. You just have to look out.
Last of all, let me do the tag duty. A tag by Compulsive Confessor says, delve into your blog archive, find your 23rd post (or closest to), find the fifth sentence (or closest to) and post the text online.
Well here's the sentence. It's quite easy to comprehend. "One thing I hate absolutely hate - seeing those slimy silver fishes scurrying about the edges of my precious books." (June 13,2005)
Let's see whom I can tag: Motheater, Parna, Couchpotato, Essar, PS... Go ahead guys. Do it. It's not bad browsing through the old posts. Kind of brings a smile on your face.
A few nights ago I experienced death, as close as you can get to it in your dreams. Phew! I saw an old friend Sudak in it. She and I were waiting for an elevator. I don't know why she kept hesitating while getting in. Finally she did get in and kept pressing over and over again. Suddenly the elevator started moving weirdly. We panicked at the sickening drop but we could do nothing except wait to die. When we got out of the elevator, I saw RS my photographer (this sure was comic) floating around and saying, "Come join me A. I have suffered the same fate as you. We are dead".
I came to the conclusion the next morning that I sure don't want to die a violent death. Cliched it might be, but I want to die in my sleep.
Yesterday night I dreamt of having something to do with ashes of the dead. And in the morning when I woke up I was reminded of Teri Hatcher covered in Martha's ashes. It somehow failed to bring a smile. Grim thoughts but I hope I reach in one piece to Calcutta.
Meanwhile, a friend has just broken up with her guy. He was physically abusing her. This is the same friend to whom I had said that I would be sorry for her if she went out with him. Now when I said that, I never wanted it to come true. So if you are reading this V, I am sure you know I would never mean them even if I said them at the time. I think you are better off without the bastard. S saw him the other night at TC's with some babe. The point is he is not worth anything. I am glad you are out of it. As they say, there are lots of fishes in the sea. You just have to look out.
Last of all, let me do the tag duty. A tag by Compulsive Confessor says, delve into your blog archive, find your 23rd post (or closest to), find the fifth sentence (or closest to) and post the text online.
Well here's the sentence. It's quite easy to comprehend. "One thing I hate absolutely hate - seeing those slimy silver fishes scurrying about the edges of my precious books." (June 13,2005)
Let's see whom I can tag: Motheater, Parna, Couchpotato, Essar, PS... Go ahead guys. Do it. It's not bad browsing through the old posts. Kind of brings a smile on your face.
26.9.05
Me... big mouth and coward
I have a big mouth. That's sheer objective analysis. It dawned on me doubly as I was speaking to my friend today. She is going around with a guy. And before they started going around, I told her one day, "You know what? If you ever go around with him, I will feel very sad for you". To this day I rue those words. Because each time I talk to her she reminds me of that one line.
And I am a terrible coward. It was reinforced as I went to bed very reluctantly on Saturday night, actually morning. I watched Ghost Ship on Saturday evening. I had heard it was a scary movie from S. Even then I was so badly drawn towards it that as it struck 9, I surfed to the channel before I could stop myself. To mitigate the effect, I tried to watch other things at the same time, like the film Plan. Of course, it didn't help. As an extra measure I read an MB before turning in. That too, didn't. At 4 I went to sleep with the lights on. After some time, I switched it off and jumped into bed shrouding myself in a bed cover. Hence forth, I lay on the bed, stiff as a ramrod. I was waiting for morning and my maid to come and knock on the door.
Every time I see a scary film it's the same. I wish there was some remedy.
Once my brother told me about an experience that scared the lights out of me. It happened to him while he was in a hostel. The building in which he was staying at the time faced a Muslim cemetary. He was told by his teachers about some of the known incidents. One night he was studying alone in the hall when the windows (which were tightly shut) started flapping to and fro. My brother asked his teacher the next day about it. He was told, "See you can't do anything about it.You have to stay here. So there are two ways you can deal with it. You either ignore these happenings or get affected by them and cower each time they take place." My brother chose the former. I couldn't sleep three nights in a row after that.
There is one story of my father's that just confuses me. Do I believe him or not is the question that I ask myself till date. He till sticks to it. When he was a little boy and stayed in a joint amily, they used to have a separate kitchen where they used to dine together. To get to the kitchen they had to take a flight of stairs that was outside the house. Next door was an old British mansion. One evening as my father was going up the stairs for dinner, he happened to look into the neighbour's lawns. And what he saw apparently chilled him to the bone. It was a skondokata (that's the Bengali word for a headless ghost). Each night after that he would race up the stairs and refuse to look next door.
But once I read a book called The Adventures of Holly Hobby. It belonged to my friend Amy and it was the story of Holly Hobby, a ghost who came down to meet one of her descendants. They embarked on an adventure which led them to the jungles of Guatemala. It was a beautiful book and one that reaffirmed my faith in ghosts. Good ghosts that is.
And I am a terrible coward. It was reinforced as I went to bed very reluctantly on Saturday night, actually morning. I watched Ghost Ship on Saturday evening. I had heard it was a scary movie from S. Even then I was so badly drawn towards it that as it struck 9, I surfed to the channel before I could stop myself. To mitigate the effect, I tried to watch other things at the same time, like the film Plan. Of course, it didn't help. As an extra measure I read an MB before turning in. That too, didn't. At 4 I went to sleep with the lights on. After some time, I switched it off and jumped into bed shrouding myself in a bed cover. Hence forth, I lay on the bed, stiff as a ramrod. I was waiting for morning and my maid to come and knock on the door.
Every time I see a scary film it's the same. I wish there was some remedy.
Once my brother told me about an experience that scared the lights out of me. It happened to him while he was in a hostel. The building in which he was staying at the time faced a Muslim cemetary. He was told by his teachers about some of the known incidents. One night he was studying alone in the hall when the windows (which were tightly shut) started flapping to and fro. My brother asked his teacher the next day about it. He was told, "See you can't do anything about it.You have to stay here. So there are two ways you can deal with it. You either ignore these happenings or get affected by them and cower each time they take place." My brother chose the former. I couldn't sleep three nights in a row after that.
There is one story of my father's that just confuses me. Do I believe him or not is the question that I ask myself till date. He till sticks to it. When he was a little boy and stayed in a joint amily, they used to have a separate kitchen where they used to dine together. To get to the kitchen they had to take a flight of stairs that was outside the house. Next door was an old British mansion. One evening as my father was going up the stairs for dinner, he happened to look into the neighbour's lawns. And what he saw apparently chilled him to the bone. It was a skondokata (that's the Bengali word for a headless ghost). Each night after that he would race up the stairs and refuse to look next door.
But once I read a book called The Adventures of Holly Hobby. It belonged to my friend Amy and it was the story of Holly Hobby, a ghost who came down to meet one of her descendants. They embarked on an adventure which led them to the jungles of Guatemala. It was a beautiful book and one that reaffirmed my faith in ghosts. Good ghosts that is.
22.9.05
When I want it, I really want it
I had a KFC attack yesterday. So after a satisfying evening of lingerie shopping and dinner at McDonald's, during which we happened to talk about the KFC outlet in Calcutta, I was craving for some KFC-style chicken. The attack was serious. I couldn't get past it. Now Delhi doesn't have a KFC damn it). So the least I could do was call up Slice of Italy at 11. The conversation went like this:
Slice Guy: What would you like today ma'am?
Me: Chicken wings. Now you have two types. One I had last time. It was really bad you know. Soggy and dripping with sauce.
SG (started checking his records): But the last time you had a pollo risotto.
Me: No I mean last to last time, maybe before that. But I need some KFC style chicken. Please.
SG: Ok (pause) you can try out the spicy chicken wings.
Me: But I want it done up well. Like baked very nicely.
From the next room S who was on the phone kept saying, "I can hear what you are saying. God!"
The chicken arrived sometime before midnight. I was happy. The chicken was not bad. Not ala KFC but definitely a big improvement on the chicken wings I had last time from Slice. So I finished reading Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi along with a box of chicken wings by my side. It was bliss.
Slice Guy: What would you like today ma'am?
Me: Chicken wings. Now you have two types. One I had last time. It was really bad you know. Soggy and dripping with sauce.
SG (started checking his records): But the last time you had a pollo risotto.
Me: No I mean last to last time, maybe before that. But I need some KFC style chicken. Please.
SG: Ok (pause) you can try out the spicy chicken wings.
Me: But I want it done up well. Like baked very nicely.
From the next room S who was on the phone kept saying, "I can hear what you are saying. God!"
The chicken arrived sometime before midnight. I was happy. The chicken was not bad. Not ala KFC but definitely a big improvement on the chicken wings I had last time from Slice. So I finished reading Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi along with a box of chicken wings by my side. It was bliss.
19.9.05
For old times' sake
On Sunday morning, as I lay half asleep on the bed, I smelt childhood. The smell of Quality Street biscuits. The memory of the round tin with the buttery biscuits that I loved chomping down. It was weird because suddenly I thought of all the people I had almost pushed to the back of my mind, to the extent that now I have trouble remembering some of their faces and names. They were old people I knew as a child. For instance, there was Mr X (just can't remember his name) whose house was called The Haven. It was extremely ironical because his son had committed suicide in that very house. He was a sad man, my dad used to say. But to me he was a friend who used to call me Wax, play cards with me and chat with me for hours.
Then there were my three old neighbours. Their houses are opposite to ours. The extreme left hand side is the only one who is still alive. But Mr D doesn't talk to anybody now. I wonder why. He used to take me to the circus and whenever I used to catch sight of his wife we would wave to each other from our respective balconies with much vigour.
The other two are dead. Sometimes I forget it. And I expect them to be there when I go back. One of them, the owner of the house in the middle (It was the prettiest of them all. It was a small villa with flowers all over), was especially dear to me. Mr S had a swing in his house. And every day at 5 in the evening, I would be there to take a ride. I felt very privileged. After all it was not a community park thing that I would have to share with others.
Except that his dog Pixie was a bit intimidating. Initially she would growl and growl (I would make faces at her) but slowly she became used to me. Later I stopped making faces at dogs. Thanks to my friend Amy's dog Teddy, the hugest alsatian I have ever seen. The day he chased me and my other friend Sudakshina all over Amy's place (I happened to have pointed fingers at him which Amy had told me not to), I lost my fear of dogs. So with time I learnt to ignore Pixie even when she was in a black mood.
Mr S died in London. His mother is still alive and a broken woman. She hates the fact that has outlived both her sons.
Dr D, the third of my neighbours, used to give me medicines on every occasion. When I suffered from tummy aches to when I ran high temperatures. Last time I went back home, he was there. Now he isn't.
I miss them.
And there's a relative - an aunt's husband. I have seen him as a healthy man who would sit back and enjoy his drink, drive around a contessa with much pride. We used to live at the same time in Oman. They returned to Calcutta soon after us. I have the fondest of memories with him. Whenever I would meet him, I would plant a kiss on his cheek. It became a ritual with us except for when I grew up. Their house is near to ours in Saltlake. It is an ornate house with his paintings all over it.
When I was in college, I visited his place and carted out a huge canvas that was unfinished. After that whenever I visited his place, he ask me to bring it back for him to give it the finishing touch. He never got the chance. One day he had a stroke. Now he lies on his bed with one half of him paralysed. When I visited him last October, he saw me and tears ran down his cheeks. He couldn't speak. He had to be fed like a little baby by a nurse.
How things change. And how they make one overwhemingly sad.
Then there were my three old neighbours. Their houses are opposite to ours. The extreme left hand side is the only one who is still alive. But Mr D doesn't talk to anybody now. I wonder why. He used to take me to the circus and whenever I used to catch sight of his wife we would wave to each other from our respective balconies with much vigour.
The other two are dead. Sometimes I forget it. And I expect them to be there when I go back. One of them, the owner of the house in the middle (It was the prettiest of them all. It was a small villa with flowers all over), was especially dear to me. Mr S had a swing in his house. And every day at 5 in the evening, I would be there to take a ride. I felt very privileged. After all it was not a community park thing that I would have to share with others.
Except that his dog Pixie was a bit intimidating. Initially she would growl and growl (I would make faces at her) but slowly she became used to me. Later I stopped making faces at dogs. Thanks to my friend Amy's dog Teddy, the hugest alsatian I have ever seen. The day he chased me and my other friend Sudakshina all over Amy's place (I happened to have pointed fingers at him which Amy had told me not to), I lost my fear of dogs. So with time I learnt to ignore Pixie even when she was in a black mood.
Mr S died in London. His mother is still alive and a broken woman. She hates the fact that has outlived both her sons.
Dr D, the third of my neighbours, used to give me medicines on every occasion. When I suffered from tummy aches to when I ran high temperatures. Last time I went back home, he was there. Now he isn't.
I miss them.
And there's a relative - an aunt's husband. I have seen him as a healthy man who would sit back and enjoy his drink, drive around a contessa with much pride. We used to live at the same time in Oman. They returned to Calcutta soon after us. I have the fondest of memories with him. Whenever I would meet him, I would plant a kiss on his cheek. It became a ritual with us except for when I grew up. Their house is near to ours in Saltlake. It is an ornate house with his paintings all over it.
When I was in college, I visited his place and carted out a huge canvas that was unfinished. After that whenever I visited his place, he ask me to bring it back for him to give it the finishing touch. He never got the chance. One day he had a stroke. Now he lies on his bed with one half of him paralysed. When I visited him last October, he saw me and tears ran down his cheeks. He couldn't speak. He had to be fed like a little baby by a nurse.
How things change. And how they make one overwhemingly sad.
8.9.05
Ask one what it feels like when dreams come true
I have always wanted to meet a man. His name is L K Advani. Some might grimace at the thought. But I have always been fascinated by him. I was taken by a colleague who is almost like a son to him. So I got a nice reception. I chatted with him for an hour. In the beginning, he seemed a bit stiff. But as time went, he became friendlier. You know what I liked about him? There was no coyness or hesitation. He even talked about the Jinnah episode. The quotes were cool. I didn't have to egg him on. Of course, he was prepared for it, but you have got to give credit where its due.
The man reads Mitch Albom. Now he's reading Shantaram. I guess that was enough to floor with me. It was one of my most satisfying interviews. Of course, his wife reminds one of a barracuda. But a funny and sweet barracuda (if that's possible). She insisted on showing me her favourite photograph, where she is glaring at Advani and he is very consciously looking at his plate.
It was a contrast of sorts with my interview with Maneka Gandhi recently. Who I swear is a bitch. She had the nerve to say to me, "Enough Bubbly. Now haven't I given you a long time? I normally don't give so much time to the others." My bloody left foot!
I was very excited. But look at my parents' reaction.
Me: Baba, I interviewed Advani!
Father: That's nice. Probably you should meet a famous architect friend of mine who would be as interesting.
Me: For god's sake don't say this outside.
How can people be so stoic I don't know!
Yesterday evening I also went for the launch of Farah Khan's jewellery collection. Farah Khan as in Zayed Khan's sister and not choreographer Farah Khan. Her whole family was there. Sanjay Khan, his wife Zarine (is rumoured to have beaten up Zeenat Aman because she was having an affair with Sanjay. P told me that Sanjay used to beat up Zarine. So I guess it's all a cycle), Fardeen, his fiancee Nitasha, Zayed and his fiancee Mallika, Farah's hubby DJ Aqueel, and Fardeen's mom Sundri.
Zayed resembled a monkey on the move. He was a show-off. Kept jumping up on the ramp, crossing it, hugging people, flashing perfect teeth like there was no tomorrow and crossing the ramp to get back to his seat where he sat at times with his legs raised halfway up. And he stared hard at the models, so that it seemed that given a chance he would eat them up. Fardeen on the other hand seemed like the perfect gentleman, sitting upright with his collars standing stiff in dracula mode. He kept whispering into his fiancee's ears every time a model appeared on the ramp. There were times though when I caught him catching a quick look through the corner of his eyes. Men will be men.
Then Bipasha Basu walked down the ramp as the special guest. And she was stunning.
At the end of it all, I felt distinctly grumpy because I couldn't speak to a single person except Fardeen's fiancee. I did't try though. What with huge bouncers trodding on my feet, all I could do was abuse them loudly while P kept saying in hushed tones, "What are you doing?"
The man reads Mitch Albom. Now he's reading Shantaram. I guess that was enough to floor with me. It was one of my most satisfying interviews. Of course, his wife reminds one of a barracuda. But a funny and sweet barracuda (if that's possible). She insisted on showing me her favourite photograph, where she is glaring at Advani and he is very consciously looking at his plate.
It was a contrast of sorts with my interview with Maneka Gandhi recently. Who I swear is a bitch. She had the nerve to say to me, "Enough Bubbly. Now haven't I given you a long time? I normally don't give so much time to the others." My bloody left foot!
I was very excited. But look at my parents' reaction.
Me: Baba, I interviewed Advani!
Father: That's nice. Probably you should meet a famous architect friend of mine who would be as interesting.
Me: For god's sake don't say this outside.
How can people be so stoic I don't know!
Yesterday evening I also went for the launch of Farah Khan's jewellery collection. Farah Khan as in Zayed Khan's sister and not choreographer Farah Khan. Her whole family was there. Sanjay Khan, his wife Zarine (is rumoured to have beaten up Zeenat Aman because she was having an affair with Sanjay. P told me that Sanjay used to beat up Zarine. So I guess it's all a cycle), Fardeen, his fiancee Nitasha, Zayed and his fiancee Mallika, Farah's hubby DJ Aqueel, and Fardeen's mom Sundri.
Zayed resembled a monkey on the move. He was a show-off. Kept jumping up on the ramp, crossing it, hugging people, flashing perfect teeth like there was no tomorrow and crossing the ramp to get back to his seat where he sat at times with his legs raised halfway up. And he stared hard at the models, so that it seemed that given a chance he would eat them up. Fardeen on the other hand seemed like the perfect gentleman, sitting upright with his collars standing stiff in dracula mode. He kept whispering into his fiancee's ears every time a model appeared on the ramp. There were times though when I caught him catching a quick look through the corner of his eyes. Men will be men.
Then Bipasha Basu walked down the ramp as the special guest. And she was stunning.
At the end of it all, I felt distinctly grumpy because I couldn't speak to a single person except Fardeen's fiancee. I did't try though. What with huge bouncers trodding on my feet, all I could do was abuse them loudly while P kept saying in hushed tones, "What are you doing?"
2.9.05
Some things just don't change
For the nth time I watched Notting Hill. And it's amazing how that one line -- "I am just a girl standing in front of a boy asking him to love her" --never ceases to make me misty-eyed. The seasons changing as William Thacker walks down to his book shop, the park where June sat along with Joseph, Anna Scott signing an autograph saying, Dear Rufus you belong in jail, ...it's all so perfectly done. At the end of it I was sighing and messaging E. Predictably she was watching it too in her hotel room in Bombay. She finally called me and for the nth time we had this why-doesn't-it-happen-to-us conversation. E said she wouldn't mind a film star. "After all, when you are asking, ask for something big," she said before the line got disconnected.
The last few days have been a throwback to my crazy spending-the-night-on-the-porch-and-stair days in the previous two houses (I used to forget my keys regularly). The day before, I reached home early. Like really early. At 6.30 pm. I was so happy, I went and chatted with the owner of the Pop Tate's clone right opposite my place. It has fab sandwiches and its owner is a sweet old man with a curiously trimmed moustache. Now how do I describe it? It is white and is trimmed and levelled into a straight line much above his lips. So there is a broad expanse of skin between his lips and moustache. Frankly I have seen all kinds of moustaches - a lion moustache, a mouse moustache...but not one like his. Anyways after he had made me buy a packet of methi paras (somewhat like matthris), I reached home feeling happy for no reason.
Then I dug my hands inside my bag. My happiness vanished in a trice. I had no keys.
Frantically I called up S. The only solution we came up with was for me to go all the way to her office to collect the keys. Rare moments when I hate myself. By the time I returned home, it was almost 9. One nice evening wasted after what?
A key.
But I guess I have faced worse times. Like when I was in the first house and in my second job, I would frequently forget my key inside the house. So it was not an unusual sight for me to take the drop back to office at 1.30 at night. The drop organisers would look at me getting down from the car and smile, "Madam has forgotten her keys again?" Once I didn't even check my bag till after I reached the door and my colleague had dropped me following an office party. So on a very brrr winter's night, a very drunk me was sitting on the stairs dying to pee and get under the covers of a warm bed. That morning I saw the right hand side neighbour's waking up habits. He would get up at 5 in the morning, do some yoga stretches and burp loudly.
The other time E returned from office to find me walking in the park at 2 am. It was not a very wise thing to do I know. But did I have any choice besides sitting on the stairs and die of mosquitoe bites?
No.
I have tried to come up with ingenuous ways of never forgetting the key. Like putting it into a chain around my neck. Somehow it has not worked till now. Think will have to give it a shot. Sigh.
The last few days have been a throwback to my crazy spending-the-night-on-the-porch-and-stair days in the previous two houses (I used to forget my keys regularly). The day before, I reached home early. Like really early. At 6.30 pm. I was so happy, I went and chatted with the owner of the Pop Tate's clone right opposite my place. It has fab sandwiches and its owner is a sweet old man with a curiously trimmed moustache. Now how do I describe it? It is white and is trimmed and levelled into a straight line much above his lips. So there is a broad expanse of skin between his lips and moustache. Frankly I have seen all kinds of moustaches - a lion moustache, a mouse moustache...but not one like his. Anyways after he had made me buy a packet of methi paras (somewhat like matthris), I reached home feeling happy for no reason.
Then I dug my hands inside my bag. My happiness vanished in a trice. I had no keys.
Frantically I called up S. The only solution we came up with was for me to go all the way to her office to collect the keys. Rare moments when I hate myself. By the time I returned home, it was almost 9. One nice evening wasted after what?
A key.
But I guess I have faced worse times. Like when I was in the first house and in my second job, I would frequently forget my key inside the house. So it was not an unusual sight for me to take the drop back to office at 1.30 at night. The drop organisers would look at me getting down from the car and smile, "Madam has forgotten her keys again?" Once I didn't even check my bag till after I reached the door and my colleague had dropped me following an office party. So on a very brrr winter's night, a very drunk me was sitting on the stairs dying to pee and get under the covers of a warm bed. That morning I saw the right hand side neighbour's waking up habits. He would get up at 5 in the morning, do some yoga stretches and burp loudly.
The other time E returned from office to find me walking in the park at 2 am. It was not a very wise thing to do I know. But did I have any choice besides sitting on the stairs and die of mosquitoe bites?
No.
I have tried to come up with ingenuous ways of never forgetting the key. Like putting it into a chain around my neck. Somehow it has not worked till now. Think will have to give it a shot. Sigh.
27.8.05
Was it the wrong train?
Reading Couchpotato's post on train journeys just triggered off a whole lot of memories. Like when I was a child, I was fascinated by trains. There was a simple explanantion for this. I hadn't travel much within the country as a kid. It was always shuttling between Oman and Saltlake (that's where I live in Calcutta). And in between stopping over at places like Dubai, Muscat, Singapore... So I had never set foot on a train till I was really much older. As old as when I was in the Xth.
There is one train journey that at times I treasure. And often I loathe. This was during my post high school days, when I was relaxing doing nothing. I accompanied my brother for an exam of his to Delhi. The chaperon for the journey was my dad.
When I got into our compartment, I saw this trio of young guys seated opposite us. One of them, I noticed was very cute with nice sparkling eyes. As the train chugged out of the station, my dad and bro got into a conversation with our neighbours. They, it turned out, were doctors (a bonding thing immediately happened between my bro and them), who were going for the same exam. Slowly I came to the conclusion that the whole train was choc-a-bloc with young docs.
I was mum during the initial phase of the conversation. Soon cute guy SS started belting out jokes and riddles. I came up with an answer or two. Those were my first few words with him. But I enjoyed myself immensely during the course that we chatted. It was a bit intellectual and at the same time very funky. It was special. I liked SS a lot. He was funny. Next I saw him in Delhi at the exam venue for a second or two.
But I knew he was working with a hospital in Calcutta. Several months later on an impulse, I walked in one day with my friend into the hospital campus (this damn thing called impulse has always landed me in trouble). We asked about him. They told us his room was locked. Still we climbed up and while we were locating his room, the door to the next room opened and SS stepped out. I made an about turn and ran down the stairs leaving my friend behind. My heart was beating so fast, I couldn't hear anything above it. I can still feel it. The embarrassment.
I had walked out to the road, when I saw my friend coming down followed by SS. While I blushed and blushed (I have never blushed ever before like I did then), he kept saying, "I can't believe you are here!"
I went out on dates with him. In between he would leave for Shimla, his home. And come back with gifts and stories of how he had told his mom about me. That kind of did it. And the day that put an end it to all was when he kissed me. I felt repulsed. Because he was so desperate to get me into bed. I told him I never wanted to see him again. I stopped taking his calls. He landed up in college and I made my friends ward him off. He followed my friend (the one with whom I had gone to his hospital the first time) one day to the British Council Library. I was horrified to see him. He tried to placate me and finally he said it. He flung it in my face: "It was you who came to me first." And even though it was true, that one line made me feel so small.
He walked out dramatically throwing a parting shot. "You'll never get a guy like me."
I didn't regret the meeting on the train. I regret what happened later. I wanted to be just friends with him. But I guess it sounded unbelievable. And since then I have been always very careful of never making the first move.
This was a long detour. But damn it, it feels cathartic.
The next journey that is stuck to my memory like it happened yesterday was on the way from Delhi to Bombay. I travelled on unreserved tickets with friends. This was while I was studying in Delhi, and three of us (including S) made a plan to go to Bombay for the New Year's. So there we were shifting from one compartment to other lugging our huge rucksacks along. Till we got one seat in a compartment crammed with kids. They looked like dolls arranged in a row in the middle bunk. One of them was this chubby little girl. She kept pointing at us and going into fits of giggles. I guess we did look funny. Seated in one row on the upper bunk at the side.
A station or two later, some cops strolled in and sat in the bunk beneath ours. It was cramped up there, so I couldn't resist dangling my legs. One of the cops got up and said something. I thought he wanted us to move, but then I realised he was offering us another seat in the next compartment. K told me the one on which we had planted ourselves was theirs. "And have you noticed the man in chains with them?" she asked. I was stunned. "Really?" I said and peeked. I saw this thin dark handcuffed man. He looked up at the same time. I drew back hastily.
At night, I moved to the seat offered to us by the cops. I had dozed off when I was woken up by a cop. He patted me on the head and moved on. After some time, another cop came and wanted me to give him some space to sit. For the next few hours neither did he let me sleep nor stay quiet. He told me about the prisoner - a Chhota Shakeel guy who had been caught finally after being in the police records for a few murders. They were taking him to Gujarat.
Later in the night, I realised the cop was trying to act funny. It was a desperate attempt to rid myself of him. That I managed to do by saying I wanted to go to the loo. I just went and sat at the edge of another seat. It happened to be the one facing the prisoner. So all night long, I was trying to read a book in the dim lights, while he kept walking up and down, from the loo to his seat and back. And though he did not lech, he did keep looking at me curiously like I was the prisoner there. In the morning, he changed his pullover and washed his face, applied cream and brushed his hair very carefully. Then he got down at a station surrounded by his many chaperons.
Lesson learnt: Train neighbours are better left alone.
So now I always plug my walkman into my ears when I am on the move.
There is one train journey that at times I treasure. And often I loathe. This was during my post high school days, when I was relaxing doing nothing. I accompanied my brother for an exam of his to Delhi. The chaperon for the journey was my dad.
When I got into our compartment, I saw this trio of young guys seated opposite us. One of them, I noticed was very cute with nice sparkling eyes. As the train chugged out of the station, my dad and bro got into a conversation with our neighbours. They, it turned out, were doctors (a bonding thing immediately happened between my bro and them), who were going for the same exam. Slowly I came to the conclusion that the whole train was choc-a-bloc with young docs.
I was mum during the initial phase of the conversation. Soon cute guy SS started belting out jokes and riddles. I came up with an answer or two. Those were my first few words with him. But I enjoyed myself immensely during the course that we chatted. It was a bit intellectual and at the same time very funky. It was special. I liked SS a lot. He was funny. Next I saw him in Delhi at the exam venue for a second or two.
But I knew he was working with a hospital in Calcutta. Several months later on an impulse, I walked in one day with my friend into the hospital campus (this damn thing called impulse has always landed me in trouble). We asked about him. They told us his room was locked. Still we climbed up and while we were locating his room, the door to the next room opened and SS stepped out. I made an about turn and ran down the stairs leaving my friend behind. My heart was beating so fast, I couldn't hear anything above it. I can still feel it. The embarrassment.
I had walked out to the road, when I saw my friend coming down followed by SS. While I blushed and blushed (I have never blushed ever before like I did then), he kept saying, "I can't believe you are here!"
I went out on dates with him. In between he would leave for Shimla, his home. And come back with gifts and stories of how he had told his mom about me. That kind of did it. And the day that put an end it to all was when he kissed me. I felt repulsed. Because he was so desperate to get me into bed. I told him I never wanted to see him again. I stopped taking his calls. He landed up in college and I made my friends ward him off. He followed my friend (the one with whom I had gone to his hospital the first time) one day to the British Council Library. I was horrified to see him. He tried to placate me and finally he said it. He flung it in my face: "It was you who came to me first." And even though it was true, that one line made me feel so small.
He walked out dramatically throwing a parting shot. "You'll never get a guy like me."
I didn't regret the meeting on the train. I regret what happened later. I wanted to be just friends with him. But I guess it sounded unbelievable. And since then I have been always very careful of never making the first move.
This was a long detour. But damn it, it feels cathartic.
The next journey that is stuck to my memory like it happened yesterday was on the way from Delhi to Bombay. I travelled on unreserved tickets with friends. This was while I was studying in Delhi, and three of us (including S) made a plan to go to Bombay for the New Year's. So there we were shifting from one compartment to other lugging our huge rucksacks along. Till we got one seat in a compartment crammed with kids. They looked like dolls arranged in a row in the middle bunk. One of them was this chubby little girl. She kept pointing at us and going into fits of giggles. I guess we did look funny. Seated in one row on the upper bunk at the side.
A station or two later, some cops strolled in and sat in the bunk beneath ours. It was cramped up there, so I couldn't resist dangling my legs. One of the cops got up and said something. I thought he wanted us to move, but then I realised he was offering us another seat in the next compartment. K told me the one on which we had planted ourselves was theirs. "And have you noticed the man in chains with them?" she asked. I was stunned. "Really?" I said and peeked. I saw this thin dark handcuffed man. He looked up at the same time. I drew back hastily.
At night, I moved to the seat offered to us by the cops. I had dozed off when I was woken up by a cop. He patted me on the head and moved on. After some time, another cop came and wanted me to give him some space to sit. For the next few hours neither did he let me sleep nor stay quiet. He told me about the prisoner - a Chhota Shakeel guy who had been caught finally after being in the police records for a few murders. They were taking him to Gujarat.
Later in the night, I realised the cop was trying to act funny. It was a desperate attempt to rid myself of him. That I managed to do by saying I wanted to go to the loo. I just went and sat at the edge of another seat. It happened to be the one facing the prisoner. So all night long, I was trying to read a book in the dim lights, while he kept walking up and down, from the loo to his seat and back. And though he did not lech, he did keep looking at me curiously like I was the prisoner there. In the morning, he changed his pullover and washed his face, applied cream and brushed his hair very carefully. Then he got down at a station surrounded by his many chaperons.
Lesson learnt: Train neighbours are better left alone.
So now I always plug my walkman into my ears when I am on the move.
20.8.05
I am an actor, I am a star, and I even have my own car, and I'm hoping so much you'll say...
They said it anyway. That they love him. How many times did John Abraham hear the word sexy and hot at the photography exhibition yesterday? I lost count. From wee sized kids, powdery faced aunties and teenagers wearing itsy bitsy numbers to six footer men, all were drooling on him. And even though I didn't feel the thrill running down my spine (which happened when I saw Shah Rukh Khan for the first time), I have to say this that he is the nicest man I have ever met.
In fact, I have started to wonder whether he has an alter ego. You know what I mean? He is a hunk, doesn't drink, is a vegetarian, is honest, is very caring... The amusing thing is that even when he praises himself he is very matter-of-fact. Mamma's boy and daughter's dream in one package. It doesn't get better.
Not a single star has ever looked my way and cared about whether I have got my interview with him. John did. First of all I was tagging him like a shadow. At 10.30 at night I was seated right at the back of the room where he was being interviewed by the television channels. The moment I saw this editor of one of the newspapers which was sponsoring the event enter the room, I took it for granted that it was over. But then John happened to look at me. And he smiled and asked, "Where are you from?" Next he assured me that he would just get over and sit with me. "I am sorry for making you wait," he said. That is also something I have never heard any star say. I am touched.
There have been quite a few changes in my life of late. My parents left for Calcutta the day before I shifted along with S to our new apartment. In the beginning there were the predictable shifting blues (and I was missing my folks as well) but now it feels nice. Reaching office in 15 minutes and paying peanuts to the autowallah.
My face has gone through a few changes as well. I don't know how that sounds but seriously I think I looked like a puma cat a few days before. Now I look less like one.
First of all, I was licked by a cockroach or it might have been a spider. The right side of my face, a considerable part of it, had turned bright red. It seems aeons now that it has been there on my face. But it has grown tired of being there I guess. I am tired too, of peering at it day and night. If it wasn't enough, now I have a bright red round spot right on the bridge of my nose.
Three days ago I went for a fashion show. Certain scented candles caught my fancy. I started poking at the transparent wax with a plastic toothpick. Then I decorated them with rose petals while sipping on my glass of red wine. I felt very nice. That feeling of doing nothing is bliss. I could see tiny bubbles forming as the petals gradually sank into the wax. Next moment I heard a popping sound and felt a blob of searing something on my nose. Must have been the bloody wax. So when the fashion show started I was standing at the back pressing a block of ice on my nose. It was wrapped in a white hanky. And then to my dismay I looked to my left side and saw a few male models. One of them is somebody whom I interview often. Of course he was staring.
I guess it has to go down in my evergrowing list of embarrassing moments.
In fact, I have started to wonder whether he has an alter ego. You know what I mean? He is a hunk, doesn't drink, is a vegetarian, is honest, is very caring... The amusing thing is that even when he praises himself he is very matter-of-fact. Mamma's boy and daughter's dream in one package. It doesn't get better.
Not a single star has ever looked my way and cared about whether I have got my interview with him. John did. First of all I was tagging him like a shadow. At 10.30 at night I was seated right at the back of the room where he was being interviewed by the television channels. The moment I saw this editor of one of the newspapers which was sponsoring the event enter the room, I took it for granted that it was over. But then John happened to look at me. And he smiled and asked, "Where are you from?" Next he assured me that he would just get over and sit with me. "I am sorry for making you wait," he said. That is also something I have never heard any star say. I am touched.
There have been quite a few changes in my life of late. My parents left for Calcutta the day before I shifted along with S to our new apartment. In the beginning there were the predictable shifting blues (and I was missing my folks as well) but now it feels nice. Reaching office in 15 minutes and paying peanuts to the autowallah.
My face has gone through a few changes as well. I don't know how that sounds but seriously I think I looked like a puma cat a few days before. Now I look less like one.
First of all, I was licked by a cockroach or it might have been a spider. The right side of my face, a considerable part of it, had turned bright red. It seems aeons now that it has been there on my face. But it has grown tired of being there I guess. I am tired too, of peering at it day and night. If it wasn't enough, now I have a bright red round spot right on the bridge of my nose.
Three days ago I went for a fashion show. Certain scented candles caught my fancy. I started poking at the transparent wax with a plastic toothpick. Then I decorated them with rose petals while sipping on my glass of red wine. I felt very nice. That feeling of doing nothing is bliss. I could see tiny bubbles forming as the petals gradually sank into the wax. Next moment I heard a popping sound and felt a blob of searing something on my nose. Must have been the bloody wax. So when the fashion show started I was standing at the back pressing a block of ice on my nose. It was wrapped in a white hanky. And then to my dismay I looked to my left side and saw a few male models. One of them is somebody whom I interview often. Of course he was staring.
I guess it has to go down in my evergrowing list of embarrassing moments.
9.8.05
Message in a blog
My conversation with a subject:
Me: Could you tell me about the turning points in your life? (in a flirtatious tone cos he has quite a reputation as a lady lover;)
He: Why don't you come down and we can chat.
Me: Geographically not possible. I am in Delhi. (He is in Bombay)
He: Doesn't matter. You can come down with that Little Terrorist guy. (He meant Ashvin Kumar)
Me: Giggle giggle
He: At the age of 14, I got kissed. That was my first turning point. It happened to be a big disappointment. Because the girl who kissed me was a 16-year-old and was a first time kisser too. There was no music. No violins playing. After that I never kissed till I was much older.
I had to keep on laughing till my jaws ached while he guffawed at his own stories. (Painful)
He: Next when I was 16 years old, I was seduced by an older woman of 24 years. She told me she would teach me to please women, for what is most important to a woman is taken for granted by a man. For the next 9 months I was tutored in the art. One day she warned me not to fall in love with her because then I would be history. But of course I did fall in love with her. And even though she did not drop me like a hot potato she did disengage herself gradually. I have never looked back since.
Me: What about something in your career?
He: My whole life I have spent courting, chasing and pleasing a plethora of high achieving women. That's my career.
Me: (Gnashing teeth and laughing at the same time) No, I mean what about when you opened your first restaurant?
In that restaurant of his he had a fixed item that never changed. What was that? A board with the words: 'The management reserves the rights to kiss all pretty girls on the premises'.
I was dying to get off the hook. He wanted to go on. "Don't you want to know more about my life?" "Err...actually next time I can call you for more on your life. Bye..."
He: But you must seduce a 16-year-old. Catch them young between 15 and 21. You will be doing a service to other women out there.
Me: Sure the message will be passed on.
Me: Could you tell me about the turning points in your life? (in a flirtatious tone cos he has quite a reputation as a lady lover;)
He: Why don't you come down and we can chat.
Me: Geographically not possible. I am in Delhi. (He is in Bombay)
He: Doesn't matter. You can come down with that Little Terrorist guy. (He meant Ashvin Kumar)
Me: Giggle giggle
He: At the age of 14, I got kissed. That was my first turning point. It happened to be a big disappointment. Because the girl who kissed me was a 16-year-old and was a first time kisser too. There was no music. No violins playing. After that I never kissed till I was much older.
I had to keep on laughing till my jaws ached while he guffawed at his own stories. (Painful)
He: Next when I was 16 years old, I was seduced by an older woman of 24 years. She told me she would teach me to please women, for what is most important to a woman is taken for granted by a man. For the next 9 months I was tutored in the art. One day she warned me not to fall in love with her because then I would be history. But of course I did fall in love with her. And even though she did not drop me like a hot potato she did disengage herself gradually. I have never looked back since.
Me: What about something in your career?
He: My whole life I have spent courting, chasing and pleasing a plethora of high achieving women. That's my career.
Me: (Gnashing teeth and laughing at the same time) No, I mean what about when you opened your first restaurant?
In that restaurant of his he had a fixed item that never changed. What was that? A board with the words: 'The management reserves the rights to kiss all pretty girls on the premises'.
I was dying to get off the hook. He wanted to go on. "Don't you want to know more about my life?" "Err...actually next time I can call you for more on your life. Bye..."
He: But you must seduce a 16-year-old. Catch them young between 15 and 21. You will be doing a service to other women out there.
Me: Sure the message will be passed on.
8.8.05
What's in a word?
We spoke too soon. On Saturday morning S and I got a rude shock. We went to sign the lease for our new apartment. I was supposed to rush for an interview with a fashion designer right after and he had called up to confirm the time and place. So I excused myself for a few seconds during which I absent-mindedly noticed the landlady showing S a room on her floor that was unoccupied. Even while I was busy noting down what Mr Designer was saying I kept thinking, Why the fuck is she showing a new room to S?
I finished my call just as she too was done. She led the way back to the drawing room. Where her son (this tall gangly guy with hair tied into a knot on the head), says S, was busy applying a face pack and peeking from the loo (it was right opposite to where S was seated). He also put on some music way too loud till his sister yelled and he relented to lower the volume.
Anyways, in between all these distractions I realised the landlady was saying that some guy working with a 5-star hotel had shifted his stuff into the apartment. So could we adjust and stay in a room on her floor, use the loo on the terrace and share her kitchen if at all we cooked? (The latter she was insistent about since she was under the impression that we never cooked).
I was dumbfounded as was S. One look at her face and I saw it had become very grim. I covered my face for a second. The landlady kept staring and saying, "You are like my daughter Simran. We will keep you like her." When we told her that we had irregular working hours, she said, "Of course you will not be using the kitchen at 2 in the morning will you?" Next we suggested that the guy was single and he could easily do with the room she was now offering us. "No actually the hotel is paying for the place through cheque." What was that supposed to mean?
Then she and her husband took us to the terrace to show us the loo. (I felt shrieking at her, "Well would you have let Simran go to a loo on the terrace of a house to shit or pee?") Was this happening? I was ready to cry right then. Here we had given notice to our present landlord and was ready mentally to live in the new house.
Not only had this woman duped us, she had dealt us an underhand blow. For money. She had never even bothered to call us and let us know about it. Damn it, she had given usher word that the apartment was ours for the taking.
So we left our prospective new place with no lease in hand, with no place to live in after the 15th of this month unless our present landlord was thoughtful enough.
Sunday morning: E left for Bombay. We dropped her, came back and went through the classifieds desperate for some ray of light. We went through some 5-6 shitty houses in a place which I had always thought to be shady. Depressed like hell, we landed in another area of the city and walked into some vague property dealer's office. After we trudged back and forth between the broker's office and some three other houses, I can say proudly that it's official. (Touche) We have a new house. And yes, this time we paid some money in advance right on the spot. We are gonna sign the lease today. So I will be a really (I mean really really) broke individual starting today.
I finished my call just as she too was done. She led the way back to the drawing room. Where her son (this tall gangly guy with hair tied into a knot on the head), says S, was busy applying a face pack and peeking from the loo (it was right opposite to where S was seated). He also put on some music way too loud till his sister yelled and he relented to lower the volume.
Anyways, in between all these distractions I realised the landlady was saying that some guy working with a 5-star hotel had shifted his stuff into the apartment. So could we adjust and stay in a room on her floor, use the loo on the terrace and share her kitchen if at all we cooked? (The latter she was insistent about since she was under the impression that we never cooked).
I was dumbfounded as was S. One look at her face and I saw it had become very grim. I covered my face for a second. The landlady kept staring and saying, "You are like my daughter Simran. We will keep you like her." When we told her that we had irregular working hours, she said, "Of course you will not be using the kitchen at 2 in the morning will you?" Next we suggested that the guy was single and he could easily do with the room she was now offering us. "No actually the hotel is paying for the place through cheque." What was that supposed to mean?
Then she and her husband took us to the terrace to show us the loo. (I felt shrieking at her, "Well would you have let Simran go to a loo on the terrace of a house to shit or pee?") Was this happening? I was ready to cry right then. Here we had given notice to our present landlord and was ready mentally to live in the new house.
Not only had this woman duped us, she had dealt us an underhand blow. For money. She had never even bothered to call us and let us know about it. Damn it, she had given usher word that the apartment was ours for the taking.
So we left our prospective new place with no lease in hand, with no place to live in after the 15th of this month unless our present landlord was thoughtful enough.
Sunday morning: E left for Bombay. We dropped her, came back and went through the classifieds desperate for some ray of light. We went through some 5-6 shitty houses in a place which I had always thought to be shady. Depressed like hell, we landed in another area of the city and walked into some vague property dealer's office. After we trudged back and forth between the broker's office and some three other houses, I can say proudly that it's official. (Touche) We have a new house. And yes, this time we paid some money in advance right on the spot. We are gonna sign the lease today. So I will be a really (I mean really really) broke individual starting today.
4.8.05
There's nothing better than a great romance...to ruin a perfectly good friendship
This tagline of Lot Like Love doesn't make sense. For starters there
was never much romatic romance. Like the kind of romance that leaves you in a daze for days on row. And really Ashton Kutcher is too funny to be seriously romantic.
But it is a nice early morning watch before heading for work or when your flatmate (read: partner in watching mushy movies) is leaving for another city.
Between have been subject to a certain teenybopper's perfectly kittenish charms. I have been wondering aloud about it in front of her. But she has taken it in good humour excepting of course for some faux pouts. I guess that's what I like about her (no, not the pouts). But seriously when she started giggling and saying breathlessly to this filmmaker guy, "Oooh I love Johnny Depp!" I did a double take. That, she says is the perfect way to get a guy to open up (no puns intended).
On the parents' front, my mom and dad are interesting to watch (I had forgotten just how amusing it can be). They squabble all their waking hours. Like for example, when dad is relating a ghost story with added effects (the hushed voice, the killing pauses et al), my mom suddenly starts off on one of her matchmaking stories. A day back, he was getting started on one of his favourite ghost stories from college for E's benefit, when my mom popped in from the kitchen and suddenly asked me, "I haven't told you about this good looking guy who called in today to take a look at the flat, have I?" Now that couldn't have but snagged my attention. While my dad looked on with a helpless god-save-us kind of a look and kept shaking his head at the insensitiveness of his listeners.
But I could totally identify with poor dad. The same used to happen to me back home. Dinner time would see me all enthusiastic with my stock of the day's events, gabbling away (mom would often interrupt and ask me to breathe in between), when my bro would say just one line and grab all the attention. I would pout and pout and sulk and sulk and vow never to speak. This happened everyday.
Now I think I should have had what I have now. A blog.
was never much romatic romance. Like the kind of romance that leaves you in a daze for days on row. And really Ashton Kutcher is too funny to be seriously romantic.
But it is a nice early morning watch before heading for work or when your flatmate (read: partner in watching mushy movies) is leaving for another city.
Between have been subject to a certain teenybopper's perfectly kittenish charms. I have been wondering aloud about it in front of her. But she has taken it in good humour excepting of course for some faux pouts. I guess that's what I like about her (no, not the pouts). But seriously when she started giggling and saying breathlessly to this filmmaker guy, "Oooh I love Johnny Depp!" I did a double take. That, she says is the perfect way to get a guy to open up (no puns intended).
On the parents' front, my mom and dad are interesting to watch (I had forgotten just how amusing it can be). They squabble all their waking hours. Like for example, when dad is relating a ghost story with added effects (the hushed voice, the killing pauses et al), my mom suddenly starts off on one of her matchmaking stories. A day back, he was getting started on one of his favourite ghost stories from college for E's benefit, when my mom popped in from the kitchen and suddenly asked me, "I haven't told you about this good looking guy who called in today to take a look at the flat, have I?" Now that couldn't have but snagged my attention. While my dad looked on with a helpless god-save-us kind of a look and kept shaking his head at the insensitiveness of his listeners.
But I could totally identify with poor dad. The same used to happen to me back home. Dinner time would see me all enthusiastic with my stock of the day's events, gabbling away (mom would often interrupt and ask me to breathe in between), when my bro would say just one line and grab all the attention. I would pout and pout and sulk and sulk and vow never to speak. This happened everyday.
Now I think I should have had what I have now. A blog.
1.8.05
'Meet me in the altar in your white dress'
My parents are here with an agenda. There are four points on this
agenda. a) To take me back to Calcutta, b) To pack me off to London from there, c) To meet this family friend whose son is of marriageable age in London, d) To see me married as fast as possible.
My thoughts on the above:
a) I have no objections to returning home except this that if I do,
either me or my parents will end up killing each other. Since the time they have landed in Delhi I have been fighting with them. And I don't mean to. It's just that I can't help it.
b) I would love to go to London. But it would mean being 'taken care' of by relatives. Really I couldn't think of anything worse.
c) This is the reason behind my parents' eagerness in sending me to
London. Considering the fact that I have turned down two eligible
bachelors in a matter of a few months, they are highly concerned. (My mom has been asking me with a very serious look, you know the puckered-brow type look, on her face, "Now why did you say no to the last guy? He was so good. Mamma you are so foolish.")
When I asked them what I should do in London, they gave me two options, "You can work or study. Do anything." Now that sounds tempting but not when I know the ulterior motive. And the mentioned family friend's son is somebody I have been seeing since I have been attending my cousin's birthday parties. We have never talked till now. He's ignored me. As for me, he's somebody who has never existed till now.
d) No objection again. "Do you want to get married at all?" asked ma yesterday with much revealed anxiety. Of course I do, but at my own sweet time.
If you notice, most of their arguments are for marriage. Frankly, now I am scared.
I need to cure me of my depression. So I am soaking my senses in
chocolate. No, not Ferrero Rochers or even Dairy Milks. I am reading 'Indulgence' by Paul Richardson. It is one man's selfless search for the best chocolate in the world. The summary led me on to read it. Here: "Everyone loves chocolate. From Willy Wonka to Ferrero Rocher, the Cadbury's Flake girl to the man from Milk Tray, it is embedded in our culture as perhaps no other food stuff. Depending on who you listen to, it either clogs up your arteries or reduces the risks of cancer; it is the bringer of acne or the 'Prozac of Candy'; it produces the same chemicals in your brain as when you fall in love."
Perhaps it will do the trick for you too.
agenda. a) To take me back to Calcutta, b) To pack me off to London from there, c) To meet this family friend whose son is of marriageable age in London, d) To see me married as fast as possible.
My thoughts on the above:
a) I have no objections to returning home except this that if I do,
either me or my parents will end up killing each other. Since the time they have landed in Delhi I have been fighting with them. And I don't mean to. It's just that I can't help it.
b) I would love to go to London. But it would mean being 'taken care' of by relatives. Really I couldn't think of anything worse.
c) This is the reason behind my parents' eagerness in sending me to
London. Considering the fact that I have turned down two eligible
bachelors in a matter of a few months, they are highly concerned. (My mom has been asking me with a very serious look, you know the puckered-brow type look, on her face, "Now why did you say no to the last guy? He was so good. Mamma you are so foolish.")
When I asked them what I should do in London, they gave me two options, "You can work or study. Do anything." Now that sounds tempting but not when I know the ulterior motive. And the mentioned family friend's son is somebody I have been seeing since I have been attending my cousin's birthday parties. We have never talked till now. He's ignored me. As for me, he's somebody who has never existed till now.
d) No objection again. "Do you want to get married at all?" asked ma yesterday with much revealed anxiety. Of course I do, but at my own sweet time.
If you notice, most of their arguments are for marriage. Frankly, now I am scared.
I need to cure me of my depression. So I am soaking my senses in
chocolate. No, not Ferrero Rochers or even Dairy Milks. I am reading 'Indulgence' by Paul Richardson. It is one man's selfless search for the best chocolate in the world. The summary led me on to read it. Here: "Everyone loves chocolate. From Willy Wonka to Ferrero Rocher, the Cadbury's Flake girl to the man from Milk Tray, it is embedded in our culture as perhaps no other food stuff. Depending on who you listen to, it either clogs up your arteries or reduces the risks of cancer; it is the bringer of acne or the 'Prozac of Candy'; it produces the same chemicals in your brain as when you fall in love."
Perhaps it will do the trick for you too.
26.7.05
Some days...
just flow by. Like a dream. Days when I feel like my life couldn't get better. When I feel like hugging everybody. When I feel light headed with happiness. The past few days have come close to this kind of feeling. Only now its waning at lightening speed.
It started from yesterday evening. E is leaving for Bombay. S and I have to shift. It's house-hunting time yet again. So S and I went to meet this property dealer who was supposed to show us what sounded like a nice deal - a two-set apartment on the terrace (a barsati type). When we reached the place it seemed nice, just like our present place. Except that its shortcomings were going to strike us very badly soon. While we were waiting at the broker's (surprisingly it was quite plush. Complete with an AC, a laptop and a smart phone on display), he asked us whether we were architects with the DDA. I was startled. He said, "Actually two girls had come for this flat and they were architects. So I thought you were the same people." (A sign. Those girls obviously never came back).
A guy was sent with us to see the apartment. He suddenly said, "Madam, yaha to kitchen nahi hai (Madam there's no kitchen here)". We looked at each other. The guy spoke again: "Aur madam yeh LIG flat hai.(And madam this is an LIG flat)". Now LIG stands for Lower Income Group.
It seemed to be a day of revelations. Bad ones.
About turn. We marched back to the broker's office. Listen to what the broker said. "Oh we will get a kitchen done" and "I had told you it was an LIG flat". Liar. Fraud. Add to that indecent. He didn't even show us the way out of the colony.
This was the start of our nightmare (topped by the fact that my sandal straps were cutting into my feet). We seemed to be walking forever till we reached the highway. No auto rickshaw would take us which meant we had to cross the road. When I say it was quite an impossible task, I am not exaggerating one bit. We saw the signal go red. The next second we turned back towards the bloody signal and it was green. We kept standing for what seemed infinity while the lights kept alternating betweem red and green. As S commented it was like a bad comedy. The humidity was the icing to the evening. Finally after aeons we scampered across the road. And crossed the other.
Bless the auto who took us to our next destination - an apartment to be vacated by an acquaintance of S. Though we reached there in a few minutes, we got lost in the alleys. We landed in front of a barber's that said Nice Hairdresser's. Let me tell you, nice was the last thing on my mind when I ran away from there. What happened was S asked a man there for the address. He asked, "Kaun log hai? Bangali hai ka?" We walked away a little distance and S called up her acquaintance P.
Meanwhile the man kept calling me. I approached him and said we didn't need any help. My foolishness. The man said, "Aaiye na. Darr rahe hai kya?" (Come here. Are you feeling scared?) I just turned back and both of us hurried out of there. P was going to pick us up. He and his girlfriend arrived in their car promptly.
Their apartment was huge. My eyes grew wide as I heard the rent for it. No, this time it was something good. It was ridiculously inexpensive. Apparently the girlfriend had struck a hard bargain.
P and girlfriend dropped us till the bus stop. Well, again no auto would take us to our place. But all of them lined up looking at us
expectantly. Waiting for us to run back with our tail between our legs I suppose. They were in for a big disappointment. Finally we got the right man.
Back home I was thinking about the evening. Just one evening and we met a variety of people. The broker (an asshole), the guy who was going to show us the apartment (astute. In 2 mins pointed out the flaws), the auto wallah (a sweetheart. No nagging, nothing, took us to P's place), the man at Nice Hairdresser's (a fucker) and lastly P and his girlfriend (kind. They needn't have bothered to pick us up or drop us. They needn't have taken the trouble of showing us the apartment. Nonetheless they took the trouble. And that touched me).
So I have come to a conclusion. That there's a right place and a right time for everything.
And, dare I say, the right man.
It started from yesterday evening. E is leaving for Bombay. S and I have to shift. It's house-hunting time yet again. So S and I went to meet this property dealer who was supposed to show us what sounded like a nice deal - a two-set apartment on the terrace (a barsati type). When we reached the place it seemed nice, just like our present place. Except that its shortcomings were going to strike us very badly soon. While we were waiting at the broker's (surprisingly it was quite plush. Complete with an AC, a laptop and a smart phone on display), he asked us whether we were architects with the DDA. I was startled. He said, "Actually two girls had come for this flat and they were architects. So I thought you were the same people." (A sign. Those girls obviously never came back).
A guy was sent with us to see the apartment. He suddenly said, "Madam, yaha to kitchen nahi hai (Madam there's no kitchen here)". We looked at each other. The guy spoke again: "Aur madam yeh LIG flat hai.(And madam this is an LIG flat)". Now LIG stands for Lower Income Group.
It seemed to be a day of revelations. Bad ones.
About turn. We marched back to the broker's office. Listen to what the broker said. "Oh we will get a kitchen done" and "I had told you it was an LIG flat". Liar. Fraud. Add to that indecent. He didn't even show us the way out of the colony.
This was the start of our nightmare (topped by the fact that my sandal straps were cutting into my feet). We seemed to be walking forever till we reached the highway. No auto rickshaw would take us which meant we had to cross the road. When I say it was quite an impossible task, I am not exaggerating one bit. We saw the signal go red. The next second we turned back towards the bloody signal and it was green. We kept standing for what seemed infinity while the lights kept alternating betweem red and green. As S commented it was like a bad comedy. The humidity was the icing to the evening. Finally after aeons we scampered across the road. And crossed the other.
Bless the auto who took us to our next destination - an apartment to be vacated by an acquaintance of S. Though we reached there in a few minutes, we got lost in the alleys. We landed in front of a barber's that said Nice Hairdresser's. Let me tell you, nice was the last thing on my mind when I ran away from there. What happened was S asked a man there for the address. He asked, "Kaun log hai? Bangali hai ka?" We walked away a little distance and S called up her acquaintance P.
Meanwhile the man kept calling me. I approached him and said we didn't need any help. My foolishness. The man said, "Aaiye na. Darr rahe hai kya?" (Come here. Are you feeling scared?) I just turned back and both of us hurried out of there. P was going to pick us up. He and his girlfriend arrived in their car promptly.
Their apartment was huge. My eyes grew wide as I heard the rent for it. No, this time it was something good. It was ridiculously inexpensive. Apparently the girlfriend had struck a hard bargain.
P and girlfriend dropped us till the bus stop. Well, again no auto would take us to our place. But all of them lined up looking at us
expectantly. Waiting for us to run back with our tail between our legs I suppose. They were in for a big disappointment. Finally we got the right man.
Back home I was thinking about the evening. Just one evening and we met a variety of people. The broker (an asshole), the guy who was going to show us the apartment (astute. In 2 mins pointed out the flaws), the auto wallah (a sweetheart. No nagging, nothing, took us to P's place), the man at Nice Hairdresser's (a fucker) and lastly P and his girlfriend (kind. They needn't have bothered to pick us up or drop us. They needn't have taken the trouble of showing us the apartment. Nonetheless they took the trouble. And that touched me).
So I have come to a conclusion. That there's a right place and a right time for everything.
And, dare I say, the right man.
15.7.05
Cause I'm keeping you forever and for always
I have met him. He is a firang. I don't know his name, I don't know where he is from. I don't know anything about him. I can just speculate. He looks like Ashton Kutcher. Better if I may so (can't do away with the rose-tinted glasses). And I think he's a photographer.
It happened like this. I had gone to attend a photography exhibition of a guy called Haran who is actually from the streets. A slum kid coming so far is very touching. Such nice work too. I was tempted to buy a photograph till I realised I couldn't afford to shell out Rs 10,000 in one go. Anways, the firang was standing right there and going click, click, click. And I was leching. Leching and drooling till I could probably fill up an ocean.
I made one of my photographer friend take his pic. I am going to post it too. So my love, if you ever see it, do write back to your Demi.
It happened like this. I had gone to attend a photography exhibition of a guy called Haran who is actually from the streets. A slum kid coming so far is very touching. Such nice work too. I was tempted to buy a photograph till I realised I couldn't afford to shell out Rs 10,000 in one go. Anways, the firang was standing right there and going click, click, click. And I was leching. Leching and drooling till I could probably fill up an ocean.
I made one of my photographer friend take his pic. I am going to post it too. So my love, if you ever see it, do write back to your Demi.
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