Of late I have developed a strange fascination for flowers. Flowers from hotels. Be it from the loo or the lobby, I love collecting a bunch and bringing it back to office. If you think I am bad then there's colleague N from another newspaper who picks up an entire bouquet. But yesterday I felt like doing the invisible man act. I had gone for an interview with the Pak band Strings. Since it had gone well, I felt happy and relaxed. There was M (who is N's colleague) with me. After all the journos had gone trailing after Faisal and Bilal to the poolside, M and I had the room to ourselves.
So while sipping on coffee, we started gathering a few carnations. After leaving the room, we tried our hands at a few orchid blooms. To our consternation, this waiter came up and stopped us. I put on a blank expression but held on to the two blooms that I had already plucked. M was busy sticking them back. "There are flowers inside if you want," he offered without thinking for a second that I might just take him up on the offer. And I did ask him. Seeing the expression (quite a bewildered one, I must confess) on his face, I stopped short and decided to scoot. With the blooms.
It was embarrassing. But what the hell, think I will do it again.
Sometimes is it not better to do what you want and not give two hoots to what the world thinks? Why not just grab the good times...In my alley, there was this fresh litter of fat little puppies of which somehow only one was left for me to pet. The other day I found it lying on the road and I started scratching it on its neck. When I realised it was weirdly quiet. In fact deadly quiet. Suddenly, a man on a scooter appeared and said, "He's been dead for some time now". I snatched my hands away. The next morning I saw him lying in a heap of garbage. The body was slowly starting to look distorted. Though I had not been overwhelmingly attached to it, I felt sad. For a life that was there. For a life that could have been. Everything is so transitory. You don't even know when you are gonna get snuffed.
So come tell me how many times have you actually done what you felt like without giving a damn about others...
22.4.06
12.4.06
Each day just goes so fast, I turn around it's passed...
Have you ever got up at 5 o'clock in the morning for a wedding? I did and since it was S's wedding, so did she. Actually whoever attended the wedding did. You see, it was a Tamilian wedding. I had stayed over the night before at E's place, so we could go together to the venue. So bleary eyed we somehow managed to wrap on our saris on the morning of April 3 and rush for the wedding.
The wedding itself was alfresco with a shamiana for the guests and a pretty pink pandal decorated with flowers for the bride and groom. S was wearing a maroon sari with a broad gold belt. She shooed us out of the room where she was getting dressed. I wonder why. Why S?:-) Mr S's relatives crooned as the ceremony took place. And as the fresh morning breeze carressed us, it felt nice. It was not a very long affair. Soon we were cramming down samosas and jalebis.
Then there was a short Bengali ritual that S and Mr S observed. Where they dipped their hands in an earthern bowl and had to fish out a ring. In the meantime, there was Mr S's Irish friend who sang two Rabindrasangeet songs very softly. Apparently she had picked them up in Benares where she has been staying for some time now. Mr S himself sang a song. And could we resist asking S for the same? Of course not (now if you have known S, you would know that singing is just not her forte;) But it is amazing how family can come together. The minute we started off, S's aunt came in and said, "Ok now it's time for breakfast."
By then all us sari clad women were feeling pretty hot and bothered even though we were inside an air conditioned room. But S's mom and aunt insisted we stay back for lunch. So there we were -- E, B, A (that's Tatonnement) and I struggling to find some way to entertain ourselves. It was a struggle alright but it was fun. The evening reception was fun. S looked very good and relaxed. So we left S very much a married lady now. Now I hear she is having a great time in the South. She's heading next for Goa.
As soon as I landed here in Delhi, it was time for Fashion Week. Jacquards, silks, nets, velvets, balloon skirts, frills, ruffles...I think at the end of three days I was ready to throw up fashion. But it was good to see eye candy material in the form of Suchitra Pillai's good looking firang hubby. The two designers who managed to put a finger on the pulse of the girls in the audience were Manoviraj Khosla and Arjun Khanna. They had only men walking the ramp and after watching just semi nude females, I must say it was very refreshing.
Aha how can I miss out the food that was specially put together by Shikha Sharma. It was all low calorie stuff but I wonder how low cal could it get if you really piled up your plate. The amount of baked fish I had two times a day for the five days can probably make up for the lack of it in my life the rest of the year. What I freaked out was with the dessert spread out there. Blueberry cheesecake, apple strudel, rich chocolate cake, fruit tarts, kulfi, malpoa...the list would run at least a mile long. Lunch and dinner were clearly the highlights of each day for me. I wish my mother could have seen me at work on during meal times. There's no way she wouldn't have done a double take.
Fashion week is fun but it leaves you as exhausted as it can. So I am kind of glad to get back to my normal routine. Except the day we got back to office, there was a fire here. Though some of my colleagues made fun of us for running down with our bags, the same night I caught the Meerut Fire clips on the channels and realised how scary it can be. Especially that our building has no fire exit. Just one entrance. It's liking waiting for a disaster to happen.
The wedding itself was alfresco with a shamiana for the guests and a pretty pink pandal decorated with flowers for the bride and groom. S was wearing a maroon sari with a broad gold belt. She shooed us out of the room where she was getting dressed. I wonder why. Why S?:-) Mr S's relatives crooned as the ceremony took place. And as the fresh morning breeze carressed us, it felt nice. It was not a very long affair. Soon we were cramming down samosas and jalebis.
Then there was a short Bengali ritual that S and Mr S observed. Where they dipped their hands in an earthern bowl and had to fish out a ring. In the meantime, there was Mr S's Irish friend who sang two Rabindrasangeet songs very softly. Apparently she had picked them up in Benares where she has been staying for some time now. Mr S himself sang a song. And could we resist asking S for the same? Of course not (now if you have known S, you would know that singing is just not her forte;) But it is amazing how family can come together. The minute we started off, S's aunt came in and said, "Ok now it's time for breakfast."
By then all us sari clad women were feeling pretty hot and bothered even though we were inside an air conditioned room. But S's mom and aunt insisted we stay back for lunch. So there we were -- E, B, A (that's Tatonnement) and I struggling to find some way to entertain ourselves. It was a struggle alright but it was fun. The evening reception was fun. S looked very good and relaxed. So we left S very much a married lady now. Now I hear she is having a great time in the South. She's heading next for Goa.
As soon as I landed here in Delhi, it was time for Fashion Week. Jacquards, silks, nets, velvets, balloon skirts, frills, ruffles...I think at the end of three days I was ready to throw up fashion. But it was good to see eye candy material in the form of Suchitra Pillai's good looking firang hubby. The two designers who managed to put a finger on the pulse of the girls in the audience were Manoviraj Khosla and Arjun Khanna. They had only men walking the ramp and after watching just semi nude females, I must say it was very refreshing.
Aha how can I miss out the food that was specially put together by Shikha Sharma. It was all low calorie stuff but I wonder how low cal could it get if you really piled up your plate. The amount of baked fish I had two times a day for the five days can probably make up for the lack of it in my life the rest of the year. What I freaked out was with the dessert spread out there. Blueberry cheesecake, apple strudel, rich chocolate cake, fruit tarts, kulfi, malpoa...the list would run at least a mile long. Lunch and dinner were clearly the highlights of each day for me. I wish my mother could have seen me at work on during meal times. There's no way she wouldn't have done a double take.
Fashion week is fun but it leaves you as exhausted as it can. So I am kind of glad to get back to my normal routine. Except the day we got back to office, there was a fire here. Though some of my colleagues made fun of us for running down with our bags, the same night I caught the Meerut Fire clips on the channels and realised how scary it can be. Especially that our building has no fire exit. Just one entrance. It's liking waiting for a disaster to happen.
25.3.06
Oh to pack my bags and leave again...
Yes my bags are packed and I am ready to leave for Calcutta. Ten days of lolling around. I am so excited.
This is exactly the kind of life I want to lead. Pack my bags every week. Last week this time I was leaving for Palampur and Mc Cleodganj. It was an amazing trip. I can still feel the cold mountain air. Actually I was working on a story and stayed at a tea plantation for a day in Palampur. It was beautiful, the snowcapped Dhauladhars, the gurgling brook in the valley...that reminded me of Tennyson's Brook...you know that poem with the refrain 'Men may come and men may go but I go on forever'.
There was yummy homecooked food rustled up by the cooks at the estate. They were such people. Sarwan and Dharmo. They belonged to the local tribes -- the Gaddis and Dhogries. They reminded me of the good old servants who take care of you and make you feel cherished. Sarwan's gajar ka halwa was one of the best things I had on the trip.
The highlight however was my walk back to my cottage at night from the lounge area which housed a television. It was a Sunday night and I was desperate enough for Desperate Housewives to stay back in the lounge at 10 pm. The whole place was eerily silent by then. Everybody had gone to sleep. Now leopards are commonly seen prowling around the estate. All I could do was sit with an irregular heart beat and check my watch every 5 minutes to see whether it was 11 yet and when the soap would end. It was that bad. I was shit scared. Further the owner had showed me photographs of the British planters who owned the estate in the 1800s. And a picture of the planter's wife who had died here during the devastating earthquake of 1905. I kept looking at the glass doors thinking that any moment I would see a face staring at me. And I swear when I swtiched off the lights of the room and ventured out, I heard a rustling in the tea bushes. That was it. I ran for my life and for the shelter of my cottage.
It did not end there. You see I am rather a coward. I just couldn't go to sleep. I called up E who thought it was adventurous and sounded fun. "It must be good for newly weds. Roam around in the morning and have sex in the evening when there is nothing else to do," she mused. Even trying to read an MB didn't help.
Next morning I set out for Mc Cleodganj where I had spinach and potato momos for Rs 2 each (they were delicious especially as it was drizzling with a cold wind blowing. A monk called Tenzing egged me on saying they were the best momos to be sold there), listened to the Dalai Lama and couldn't make out anything of his Tibetan chants, saw nice looking firangs most of whom seemed like they needed a bad bath, searched for a monk I knew at the Namgyal Monastery but was told to look at the archives so didn't bother, bargained with a ruddy faced Tibetan junk jewellery seller who didn't relent much, sat down in a cafe and enjoyed piping hot coffee with macaroni and walked down to the St John's Church in the Wilderness (where Lord Elgin is buried) and thought I would get raped and thrown down the forest (it was that deserted, on top of which it was a dark and windy day). I did as much as I could do in a day before I set out for Delhi in the evening.
Now I have made some more plans. This time it goes like this: six months of the year I can spend in Goa, from October to April. The rest of the year in Mc Cleodganj.
Now I have to figure out some way to do this.
This is exactly the kind of life I want to lead. Pack my bags every week. Last week this time I was leaving for Palampur and Mc Cleodganj. It was an amazing trip. I can still feel the cold mountain air. Actually I was working on a story and stayed at a tea plantation for a day in Palampur. It was beautiful, the snowcapped Dhauladhars, the gurgling brook in the valley...that reminded me of Tennyson's Brook...you know that poem with the refrain 'Men may come and men may go but I go on forever'.
There was yummy homecooked food rustled up by the cooks at the estate. They were such people. Sarwan and Dharmo. They belonged to the local tribes -- the Gaddis and Dhogries. They reminded me of the good old servants who take care of you and make you feel cherished. Sarwan's gajar ka halwa was one of the best things I had on the trip.
The highlight however was my walk back to my cottage at night from the lounge area which housed a television. It was a Sunday night and I was desperate enough for Desperate Housewives to stay back in the lounge at 10 pm. The whole place was eerily silent by then. Everybody had gone to sleep. Now leopards are commonly seen prowling around the estate. All I could do was sit with an irregular heart beat and check my watch every 5 minutes to see whether it was 11 yet and when the soap would end. It was that bad. I was shit scared. Further the owner had showed me photographs of the British planters who owned the estate in the 1800s. And a picture of the planter's wife who had died here during the devastating earthquake of 1905. I kept looking at the glass doors thinking that any moment I would see a face staring at me. And I swear when I swtiched off the lights of the room and ventured out, I heard a rustling in the tea bushes. That was it. I ran for my life and for the shelter of my cottage.
It did not end there. You see I am rather a coward. I just couldn't go to sleep. I called up E who thought it was adventurous and sounded fun. "It must be good for newly weds. Roam around in the morning and have sex in the evening when there is nothing else to do," she mused. Even trying to read an MB didn't help.
Next morning I set out for Mc Cleodganj where I had spinach and potato momos for Rs 2 each (they were delicious especially as it was drizzling with a cold wind blowing. A monk called Tenzing egged me on saying they were the best momos to be sold there), listened to the Dalai Lama and couldn't make out anything of his Tibetan chants, saw nice looking firangs most of whom seemed like they needed a bad bath, searched for a monk I knew at the Namgyal Monastery but was told to look at the archives so didn't bother, bargained with a ruddy faced Tibetan junk jewellery seller who didn't relent much, sat down in a cafe and enjoyed piping hot coffee with macaroni and walked down to the St John's Church in the Wilderness (where Lord Elgin is buried) and thought I would get raped and thrown down the forest (it was that deserted, on top of which it was a dark and windy day). I did as much as I could do in a day before I set out for Delhi in the evening.
Now I have made some more plans. This time it goes like this: six months of the year I can spend in Goa, from October to April. The rest of the year in Mc Cleodganj.
Now I have to figure out some way to do this.
14.3.06
Grrrr...
A pair of huge scissors. That's what I wanted to carry to work today. As usual I forgot. Damn.
For the past two weeks I have been getting bombed by water balloons. It's been happening in a particular alley that leads to my home and which I cannot avoid out of the necessity of reaching home. Some kids have been having the time of their lives. And I have been telling myself everyday that the next time it happens I am going to ring the bell of that particular house and threaten them. Somehow I never seem to have the time to catch up with them.
Yesterday evening I was about 3 yards from home when these gang of young guys on bikes passed by and hit me real hard with balloons. I was on the phone and couldn't do a thing except shout fuckers. And pray really hard that their balls off.
Why can't people let others be? So I have had my share of enjoying Holi and I so do not want to play around. Is that too much to ask? It's like a menace which is out of my hands.
Hence the scissors. I have made up my mind. Whoever happens to throw colours on me, risks getting his locks chopped off. That's a deal.
On second thoughts, maybe I will carry the small scissors lying in my office drawer on the way back.
For the past two weeks I have been getting bombed by water balloons. It's been happening in a particular alley that leads to my home and which I cannot avoid out of the necessity of reaching home. Some kids have been having the time of their lives. And I have been telling myself everyday that the next time it happens I am going to ring the bell of that particular house and threaten them. Somehow I never seem to have the time to catch up with them.
Yesterday evening I was about 3 yards from home when these gang of young guys on bikes passed by and hit me real hard with balloons. I was on the phone and couldn't do a thing except shout fuckers. And pray really hard that their balls off.
Why can't people let others be? So I have had my share of enjoying Holi and I so do not want to play around. Is that too much to ask? It's like a menace which is out of my hands.
Hence the scissors. I have made up my mind. Whoever happens to throw colours on me, risks getting his locks chopped off. That's a deal.
On second thoughts, maybe I will carry the small scissors lying in my office drawer on the way back.
9.3.06
How many times must a man look up/ Before he can see the sky?
It was my once-a-week home dusting spree yesterday night. And as it happens when you come across photo albums, you rifle through them and feel happy in the warmth of the past.
I have two albums of my childhood with me here in Delhi-- one with pictures shot in Oman and the other in Thailand. Just before this I had come upon something that was written by someone who will always be special in my life, regardless of how complicated he is. I was feeling blue and wondering how things never turn out the way you want them to. A look, however, at those photos of me in my baby clothes posing with my mom, dad and bro put a smile on my face.
Memories kept flitting in as I turned the pages of the album. Dresses which I had a thing for as an 8-year-old -- a sky blue nightie that made me feel like a queen, an orange and brown checked dress which gave me an Alice-like feeling because that was the time around which I watched Alice in Wonderland (I even remember Alice's face right now. Amazing really, given that my memory quite fails me at times, especially when I want to recall the faces of old schoolmates), a frothy lacy pink concoction of a dress that I would always be made to wear for school functions. Maybe dresses fascinated me because I was perpetually in jeans or trousers, often my brother's hand-me-downs. Which is why I guess I am so fond of skirts now.
Photographs of my mother and father - then in their 40s and 30s (they had me pretty late) - my mother young and beautiful with her fair lovely complexion and my father in contrast really dark and robust with the same thinning hair I have seen since I can remember. It was a standing joke then. My bro and me wondering aloud in front of him whether his head ever brimmed with hair. "Yes once upon a time when I was really young," he would say. But then we would come across his black-and white pix and bawl because dad never really had much hair on his pate.
Photographs of dinners organised by my mother. It was a party-like atmosphere in Oman when Indians, Germans, Iranians and Pakistanis would throw parties very often to escape boredom. Mother says there was not much to do. But I was well entertained with what we did - go for long drives, spend time by the sea, climb mountains, or go shopping in supermarkets to stock up the larder. My personal favourite past time though was sitting in front of the telly and gorging on my quota of cheese balls, 7up can watching Tom & Jerry and Bugs Bunny. And even though I studied there till I was 8 years old, I am surprised to say that I have no memories of studying. Not one! That feels nice.
As for the Thaliand photos, they had the complete feel-good look. The brilliant blue skies, the clean waters, the long stretches of beaches, my mother in her yellow silk sari, me in my polka dotted yellow frock with my four front teeth missing, my father who had developed a good paunch by then and my brother a long and lanky teenager who looked distinctly disgruntled with life at times...
Now I see how things have become. My parents have aged. My mom's skin,which was once flawless and glowing, has developed pigmentation, while my father has become very thin. My brother wants to marry someone whom my parents don't like. There's kind of a cold war going on between them as a result. So when I say this that the time I spent reminiscing made me feel good, I mean that it made all the difference to my ageing 25-year-old heart.
I have two albums of my childhood with me here in Delhi-- one with pictures shot in Oman and the other in Thailand. Just before this I had come upon something that was written by someone who will always be special in my life, regardless of how complicated he is. I was feeling blue and wondering how things never turn out the way you want them to. A look, however, at those photos of me in my baby clothes posing with my mom, dad and bro put a smile on my face.
Memories kept flitting in as I turned the pages of the album. Dresses which I had a thing for as an 8-year-old -- a sky blue nightie that made me feel like a queen, an orange and brown checked dress which gave me an Alice-like feeling because that was the time around which I watched Alice in Wonderland (I even remember Alice's face right now. Amazing really, given that my memory quite fails me at times, especially when I want to recall the faces of old schoolmates), a frothy lacy pink concoction of a dress that I would always be made to wear for school functions. Maybe dresses fascinated me because I was perpetually in jeans or trousers, often my brother's hand-me-downs. Which is why I guess I am so fond of skirts now.
Photographs of my mother and father - then in their 40s and 30s (they had me pretty late) - my mother young and beautiful with her fair lovely complexion and my father in contrast really dark and robust with the same thinning hair I have seen since I can remember. It was a standing joke then. My bro and me wondering aloud in front of him whether his head ever brimmed with hair. "Yes once upon a time when I was really young," he would say. But then we would come across his black-and white pix and bawl because dad never really had much hair on his pate.
Photographs of dinners organised by my mother. It was a party-like atmosphere in Oman when Indians, Germans, Iranians and Pakistanis would throw parties very often to escape boredom. Mother says there was not much to do. But I was well entertained with what we did - go for long drives, spend time by the sea, climb mountains, or go shopping in supermarkets to stock up the larder. My personal favourite past time though was sitting in front of the telly and gorging on my quota of cheese balls, 7up can watching Tom & Jerry and Bugs Bunny. And even though I studied there till I was 8 years old, I am surprised to say that I have no memories of studying. Not one! That feels nice.
As for the Thaliand photos, they had the complete feel-good look. The brilliant blue skies, the clean waters, the long stretches of beaches, my mother in her yellow silk sari, me in my polka dotted yellow frock with my four front teeth missing, my father who had developed a good paunch by then and my brother a long and lanky teenager who looked distinctly disgruntled with life at times...
Now I see how things have become. My parents have aged. My mom's skin,which was once flawless and glowing, has developed pigmentation, while my father has become very thin. My brother wants to marry someone whom my parents don't like. There's kind of a cold war going on between them as a result. So when I say this that the time I spent reminiscing made me feel good, I mean that it made all the difference to my ageing 25-year-old heart.
7.3.06
Things as they are
1. It was two full hours of being soaked in soap water that did it. Nowmy beloved mobile is lying with its maker. Literally so. The service centre guy keeps telling me every day to call up the next day. So I have become a dedicated caller to the Samsung service centre. The chances of it coming back to life however seems pretty bleak. For the time being colleague SB has bailed me out by lending me her spare but stylish Nokia. But the few days that I had to spend in the absence of my phone made life hell. I was even paranoid about getting into our office lift, which if you are ever unfortunate to get into, is guaranteed to make you sweat. Well, whenever I happened to be alone stepping into it, with the doors closing in upon me, I would send a silent prayer up.
2. Have you ever come across a Rs 1-lakh coffeetable book? I did. Ritu Beri just launched hers. And as she announced the price of 'Firefly', her book, the entire room fell silent. And beat this: A limited 100 editions of it are being sold from the Louis Vuitton's flagship store in Paris. Yes, as la di la as it gets. Only its preview and 'informal' launch was by the hammy Akshay Kumar. Quiet an unusual 'friendship' we have there. When a journalist asked them about their friendship, Ritu hemmed and hawed and passed it on to Akshay. "Oh we just met through a common friend last year," said the actor who tried his best to be standoffish.
Ritu's faux pas at the event went somewhat like this. The shutterbugs were as usual crowding around Ritu, Akshay, when Ritu made an appeal to them to disperse and allow the event to start. She said: "I know it's your honour to be here but please wait for some time. I want to get started with the event."
3. She: "Age doesn't matter. Does it?" He: "It does, between the legs". She can't stop laughing.
This is an excerpt of the conversation between Bipasha Basu and Amar Singh. A hot Bipasha with an even hotter boyfriend calling someone like Amar Singh 'sweetie'. Indeed a sorry state of affairs.
4. This is for all those of you who think I have a real cool job. There are times when I am made to feel oh so sorry. Like when I went to interview the Bombay Rockers at Elevate recently. I was called at 10.30 pm. They made me wait till 1 am. I should have walked out, but the thought of walking out on a story kept me sticking to the turf.
When Thomas Sardorf and Navtej Singh Rehal (the two guys of Rockers) walked in with their producer Janus, 10 minutes after 1, I was seething. To the point that I bit out: "How can you guys be so unprofessional?" Mr Producer was clearly taken aback at being told so. His excuse was he had not been told about the interview. Liar. The PR guy had it from me though he tried to appease me by saying sorry a thousand times and ensuring me of getting interviews with them the next time. "I don't think I want to meet them again. Even film stars have never made me wait so long!" was my indignant outburst. But really, at the end of such along day when I snuggled into bed, I never felt more blessed.
5. A funny incident. I was at the place of a model, AW, shooting her wardrobe. She got a call on her landline. "No my parents are not home.You cannot contact them. You want a contact number? Why, will you call them up in Australia?" Suddenly I heard her shouting sternly into the phone, "Phone rakkho! Phone rakkho!" She resumed her conversation again. After hanging up, she looked at me and explained, "These bank people I tell you! This person who called up asked in a very timid voice, 'Ma'am are you asking me to hang up?'"
6. If it goes on any longer, I will probably hallucinate. I swear I will. As much Obelix craves his daily dose of boar meat, Jughead dreams of Pop Tate meals, I want my chicken. The other day, three friends of mine and I went for a Chinese dinner. While two of them hogged on their chicken manchurian, me and the other girl feasted on veg manchurian. One of the chicken hoggers said: "I don't think I was meant to die eating chicken."
Amen.
7. The other day my parents called. This is what they had to say: "Mamma if you want to stay single all your life, there's no problem. We will come and stay with you there."
2. Have you ever come across a Rs 1-lakh coffeetable book? I did. Ritu Beri just launched hers. And as she announced the price of 'Firefly', her book, the entire room fell silent. And beat this: A limited 100 editions of it are being sold from the Louis Vuitton's flagship store in Paris. Yes, as la di la as it gets. Only its preview and 'informal' launch was by the hammy Akshay Kumar. Quiet an unusual 'friendship' we have there. When a journalist asked them about their friendship, Ritu hemmed and hawed and passed it on to Akshay. "Oh we just met through a common friend last year," said the actor who tried his best to be standoffish.
Ritu's faux pas at the event went somewhat like this. The shutterbugs were as usual crowding around Ritu, Akshay, when Ritu made an appeal to them to disperse and allow the event to start. She said: "I know it's your honour to be here but please wait for some time. I want to get started with the event."
3. She: "Age doesn't matter. Does it?" He: "It does, between the legs". She can't stop laughing.
This is an excerpt of the conversation between Bipasha Basu and Amar Singh. A hot Bipasha with an even hotter boyfriend calling someone like Amar Singh 'sweetie'. Indeed a sorry state of affairs.
4. This is for all those of you who think I have a real cool job. There are times when I am made to feel oh so sorry. Like when I went to interview the Bombay Rockers at Elevate recently. I was called at 10.30 pm. They made me wait till 1 am. I should have walked out, but the thought of walking out on a story kept me sticking to the turf.
When Thomas Sardorf and Navtej Singh Rehal (the two guys of Rockers) walked in with their producer Janus, 10 minutes after 1, I was seething. To the point that I bit out: "How can you guys be so unprofessional?" Mr Producer was clearly taken aback at being told so. His excuse was he had not been told about the interview. Liar. The PR guy had it from me though he tried to appease me by saying sorry a thousand times and ensuring me of getting interviews with them the next time. "I don't think I want to meet them again. Even film stars have never made me wait so long!" was my indignant outburst. But really, at the end of such along day when I snuggled into bed, I never felt more blessed.
5. A funny incident. I was at the place of a model, AW, shooting her wardrobe. She got a call on her landline. "No my parents are not home.You cannot contact them. You want a contact number? Why, will you call them up in Australia?" Suddenly I heard her shouting sternly into the phone, "Phone rakkho! Phone rakkho!" She resumed her conversation again. After hanging up, she looked at me and explained, "These bank people I tell you! This person who called up asked in a very timid voice, 'Ma'am are you asking me to hang up?'"
6. If it goes on any longer, I will probably hallucinate. I swear I will. As much Obelix craves his daily dose of boar meat, Jughead dreams of Pop Tate meals, I want my chicken. The other day, three friends of mine and I went for a Chinese dinner. While two of them hogged on their chicken manchurian, me and the other girl feasted on veg manchurian. One of the chicken hoggers said: "I don't think I was meant to die eating chicken."
Amen.
7. The other day my parents called. This is what they had to say: "Mamma if you want to stay single all your life, there's no problem. We will come and stay with you there."
15.2.06
I feel the magic between you and I/ I want to hold you so hear me out/ I want to show you what love's all about/ ...I've got hungry eyes
It was dark and warm. The throbbing lights and sensual music were intoxicating. And I was dancing to the tunes of a stranger. Dancing the Merengue which started slow as a ballroom dance with slow hip movements and then broke into what seemed like a bright, fast Jive with lots of turns.
My dance instructors have been telling the guys in the class to 'lead' the lady. I have never actually known what they meant till yesterday night. I didn't know a thing about it (except that it is a fast dance), but my partner just swept me off the floor, pushed me out, pulled me in, turned me in fast whirls...He made me feel like a princess.
The night had not started out on a promising note. I was covering theValentine's bash at Tapas, the Jaypee Vasant Continental bar, thrown by salsa dancer Kaytee Namgyal. I was as usual stag and accompanied by friends A and G. Kaytee was teaching everything from salsa, merengue, bachata to blindfold dancing. Of course the basic steps. While speaking to him, I happened to tell him that I have been taking salsa classes at Ashley Lobo's. He said: "You go to Ashley's for Jazz, to Shiamak for Bollywood and me for salsa. At Ashley's they teach the original salsa of the '70s. I teach the Cuban and New York styles. Hang around, you will see what I mean." And I did see, so much so that next month I think I will try Kaytee's classes.
Meanwhile, a guy walked up and asked me to dance with him. I was cool with it so long as it meant just a dance. Yet I felt hesitant. G danced with him after which he kept insisting for a dance. I guess I was acting pricey but I didn't really intend to. I was enjoying my glass of rum and coke. Kaytee was busy playing music, so he patted me on the cheek when I asked him to show me some steps and said: "Give me five minutes." Next he walked on to the floor and called a guy in red who was probably a dancer with his troupe. "Dance with her," he said.
.
Thus began the next few minutes that made me add another criteria to my list for the perfect guy (I decided to respond to the tag by Mint Chutney and Thalassa Mikra even though I have been tagged twice, which means I do not have to do it) :
1. He should dance or, lets be lenient, he should learn dancing (Since this is my latest obsession in life). Right now, more than a life partner I think I want a dance partner.
2. He has to look decent. I should not feel ashamed of being seen with him (This might sound vain but seriously I don't want to hem and haw while introducing my lover to you).
3. "I do this, I love this, my mother thinks I should marry someone like Sonali Bendre..." Yes, this was a navy guy who managed to bore the hell out of me. A guy who is too full of himself is a big NO.
4. I dig chivalry.
5. He should have a sense of adventure and be game for fun (though when I say fun, I don't mean swinging;) You would know what I am talking about if you have watched Rajat Kapoor's Mixed Doubles).
6. He should not act like a moron when I am with friends. In short he should have a social life of his own. I can't bear someone who would be stuck to my hip 24*7.
7. He should love to eat out. And he should be a decent eater. I have known friends -- guys -- who eat abominably. Like they have been marooned on an island without food for weeks.
8. And he should be able to relate to me when I talk books.
There, I am getting that feeling of not having said all that I wanted to.
My dance instructors have been telling the guys in the class to 'lead' the lady. I have never actually known what they meant till yesterday night. I didn't know a thing about it (except that it is a fast dance), but my partner just swept me off the floor, pushed me out, pulled me in, turned me in fast whirls...He made me feel like a princess.
The night had not started out on a promising note. I was covering theValentine's bash at Tapas, the Jaypee Vasant Continental bar, thrown by salsa dancer Kaytee Namgyal. I was as usual stag and accompanied by friends A and G. Kaytee was teaching everything from salsa, merengue, bachata to blindfold dancing. Of course the basic steps. While speaking to him, I happened to tell him that I have been taking salsa classes at Ashley Lobo's. He said: "You go to Ashley's for Jazz, to Shiamak for Bollywood and me for salsa. At Ashley's they teach the original salsa of the '70s. I teach the Cuban and New York styles. Hang around, you will see what I mean." And I did see, so much so that next month I think I will try Kaytee's classes.
Meanwhile, a guy walked up and asked me to dance with him. I was cool with it so long as it meant just a dance. Yet I felt hesitant. G danced with him after which he kept insisting for a dance. I guess I was acting pricey but I didn't really intend to. I was enjoying my glass of rum and coke. Kaytee was busy playing music, so he patted me on the cheek when I asked him to show me some steps and said: "Give me five minutes." Next he walked on to the floor and called a guy in red who was probably a dancer with his troupe. "Dance with her," he said.
.
Thus began the next few minutes that made me add another criteria to my list for the perfect guy (I decided to respond to the tag by Mint Chutney and Thalassa Mikra even though I have been tagged twice, which means I do not have to do it) :
1. He should dance or, lets be lenient, he should learn dancing (Since this is my latest obsession in life). Right now, more than a life partner I think I want a dance partner.
2. He has to look decent. I should not feel ashamed of being seen with him (This might sound vain but seriously I don't want to hem and haw while introducing my lover to you).
3. "I do this, I love this, my mother thinks I should marry someone like Sonali Bendre..." Yes, this was a navy guy who managed to bore the hell out of me. A guy who is too full of himself is a big NO.
4. I dig chivalry.
5. He should have a sense of adventure and be game for fun (though when I say fun, I don't mean swinging;) You would know what I am talking about if you have watched Rajat Kapoor's Mixed Doubles).
6. He should not act like a moron when I am with friends. In short he should have a social life of his own. I can't bear someone who would be stuck to my hip 24*7.
7. He should love to eat out. And he should be a decent eater. I have known friends -- guys -- who eat abominably. Like they have been marooned on an island without food for weeks.
8. And he should be able to relate to me when I talk books.
There, I am getting that feeling of not having said all that I wanted to.
13.2.06
Is it time for a change?
It will be a month since I returned from Goa. But the sand seems to be there in my flip flops.
The trip came as a junket offer and I stayed at a resort in South Goa. I was on my own. Yet I had the time of my life. I did as many things as is possible in three and a half days (my feet went really sore). Eating, parasailing, jetskiing, dolphin chasing, a trip to a spice plantation, going for elephant rides, getting extremely oily ayurvedic body massages...
Parasailing was exhilarating. It was the first time I tried it. The scenery from up there was fantastic. Only I had a hard time getting back to land. I have to come to the conclusion that you need strong arms to make it back.
And yes, I went for an underwater sea walk. This was a weird experience at the Baina Beach near Vasco. First of all, the water was not at all clear, secondly, there was no changing room and thirdly the helmet (very like a huge space helmet) which had several 1 kilo weights attached to the rim left two sore spots on my shoulders. Turns out that mine was defective.
I have to confess that I am not a water baby. So as I descended down the ladder into the sea and had the helmet lowered over my head, I panicked. The water was rising and almost threatened to reach my ears. But then thankfully it didn't. The only consolation was the good looking walk leader. I didn't even get the chance to flirt. The resort guy insisted on saying: "A come on hurry. We have to leave." I have never felt more akin to punching somebody.
The one moment I will never forget is when I was sitting on the rocks on Anjuna Beach and swigging a cranberry breezer. The wind whipping my hair with wild abandon, the sunset and the firang band playing live music at Cafe Looda's in the backdrop. It was surreal. As it grew darker, the sky became as starry as it could get. The feel was so bohemian and young. Now I know why people rave about Goa. Plus it has some of the most pretty quaint villas. I want to go back -- either own a shack, or be a bartender.
Or if none of these work, I have come upon another career option. Recently I attended a chocolate appreciation workshop by a French chef who is the head patissier at Harrods. I asked him if he would let me be his assistant. The man kept laughing. But he gave me his number and asked me to give him a call. So now I have to take a call.
In between, my folks have been obsessing about me returning home and working in Calcutta. At one point I was ready to and even asked my boss for a transfer. Now when he said: "I can't imagine you working the Cal office. Also you have to do production work," I thought twice. I guess I am too much in love with my life, work, the profile, the timing, to give it all up. My parents are sulking but I am too chicken to take such a huge step. And I just hate production. So am sticking on in Delhi.
Meanwhile, it is nearing. S's wedding. Everyone around me seems to be getting married. Now even another friend, who has gone to Calcutta for some time, is planning to go in for an arranged marriage. The bug seems to be spreading fast.
The trip came as a junket offer and I stayed at a resort in South Goa. I was on my own. Yet I had the time of my life. I did as many things as is possible in three and a half days (my feet went really sore). Eating, parasailing, jetskiing, dolphin chasing, a trip to a spice plantation, going for elephant rides, getting extremely oily ayurvedic body massages...
Parasailing was exhilarating. It was the first time I tried it. The scenery from up there was fantastic. Only I had a hard time getting back to land. I have to come to the conclusion that you need strong arms to make it back.
And yes, I went for an underwater sea walk. This was a weird experience at the Baina Beach near Vasco. First of all, the water was not at all clear, secondly, there was no changing room and thirdly the helmet (very like a huge space helmet) which had several 1 kilo weights attached to the rim left two sore spots on my shoulders. Turns out that mine was defective.
I have to confess that I am not a water baby. So as I descended down the ladder into the sea and had the helmet lowered over my head, I panicked. The water was rising and almost threatened to reach my ears. But then thankfully it didn't. The only consolation was the good looking walk leader. I didn't even get the chance to flirt. The resort guy insisted on saying: "A come on hurry. We have to leave." I have never felt more akin to punching somebody.
The one moment I will never forget is when I was sitting on the rocks on Anjuna Beach and swigging a cranberry breezer. The wind whipping my hair with wild abandon, the sunset and the firang band playing live music at Cafe Looda's in the backdrop. It was surreal. As it grew darker, the sky became as starry as it could get. The feel was so bohemian and young. Now I know why people rave about Goa. Plus it has some of the most pretty quaint villas. I want to go back -- either own a shack, or be a bartender.
Or if none of these work, I have come upon another career option. Recently I attended a chocolate appreciation workshop by a French chef who is the head patissier at Harrods. I asked him if he would let me be his assistant. The man kept laughing. But he gave me his number and asked me to give him a call. So now I have to take a call.
In between, my folks have been obsessing about me returning home and working in Calcutta. At one point I was ready to and even asked my boss for a transfer. Now when he said: "I can't imagine you working the Cal office. Also you have to do production work," I thought twice. I guess I am too much in love with my life, work, the profile, the timing, to give it all up. My parents are sulking but I am too chicken to take such a huge step. And I just hate production. So am sticking on in Delhi.
Meanwhile, it is nearing. S's wedding. Everyone around me seems to be getting married. Now even another friend, who has gone to Calcutta for some time, is planning to go in for an arranged marriage. The bug seems to be spreading fast.
16.1.06
Shall we dance?
I have heard of salsa being fun. I never realised how much till I actually joined a social dance class yesterday. It's a one-month programme at the end of which I can join for two more months if I like it.
Dancing has always fascinated me. Except that I never took a liking to classical dance forms. I remember my parents trying their best to initiate me into Bharatnatyam classes. Much to their disappointment their daughter never turned out to be a dancing queen.
But I am glad to say that I have finally found my calling.
Before we started, we watched a jive by the other class which has been at it for months. They were good. Our trainers were guy A and girl C. A kept assuring us that it was normal to mess up and abnormal to do the right thing. C was this stylish chick with a great body and great moves.
A and C went on to teach us the basic steps for salsa after segregating the girls and the guys into two groups. When we had picked it up, they decided to let us try it with our partners. The only problem being most of us were stag. It was A and C who teamed us up. Now I might have mentally chosen my partner -- this cute tall guy who looked just right to dance with. But it didn't necessarily mean that I ended up with him. While he was paired with a plump little girl, I ended up with J, a fat guy with oily hair (This mattered. There was this particular step where we had to keep our hands on the partner's nape. Each time I drew back my hand, I could smell the oil).
In social dance a guy leads the girl. J kept forgetting the counts, as a result of which I had to stand, and curse my luck. In the meantime he had the gall to keep insisting on me 'relaxing' my elbows. I was close to snapping but then I clung to that last thread of patience. I think I will need a whole lot of the latter for the next few classes because I am stuck with the same partner unless he leaves or I do.
But inspite of all the cribbing I have done, I must confess the class was fun and happening.
In the meantime, S and Mr S (that's her fiance) have with all noble intentions been trying their best to matchmake. So on Saturday night I was duped into meeting one of Mr S's friends from Bombay. I have never been more mortified thanks to the fact that I happened to have met him for an interview. It seems everybody is intent on getting me hitched. Only nobody is getting any successful at it:-)
Dancing has always fascinated me. Except that I never took a liking to classical dance forms. I remember my parents trying their best to initiate me into Bharatnatyam classes. Much to their disappointment their daughter never turned out to be a dancing queen.
But I am glad to say that I have finally found my calling.
Before we started, we watched a jive by the other class which has been at it for months. They were good. Our trainers were guy A and girl C. A kept assuring us that it was normal to mess up and abnormal to do the right thing. C was this stylish chick with a great body and great moves.
A and C went on to teach us the basic steps for salsa after segregating the girls and the guys into two groups. When we had picked it up, they decided to let us try it with our partners. The only problem being most of us were stag. It was A and C who teamed us up. Now I might have mentally chosen my partner -- this cute tall guy who looked just right to dance with. But it didn't necessarily mean that I ended up with him. While he was paired with a plump little girl, I ended up with J, a fat guy with oily hair (This mattered. There was this particular step where we had to keep our hands on the partner's nape. Each time I drew back my hand, I could smell the oil).
In social dance a guy leads the girl. J kept forgetting the counts, as a result of which I had to stand, and curse my luck. In the meantime he had the gall to keep insisting on me 'relaxing' my elbows. I was close to snapping but then I clung to that last thread of patience. I think I will need a whole lot of the latter for the next few classes because I am stuck with the same partner unless he leaves or I do.
But inspite of all the cribbing I have done, I must confess the class was fun and happening.
In the meantime, S and Mr S (that's her fiance) have with all noble intentions been trying their best to matchmake. So on Saturday night I was duped into meeting one of Mr S's friends from Bombay. I have never been more mortified thanks to the fact that I happened to have met him for an interview. It seems everybody is intent on getting me hitched. Only nobody is getting any successful at it:-)
11.1.06
It's been a long long time...
I have missed blogging terribly. That includes reading up my daily dosage of blogs. But it's just that so much has been happening in my life of late.
The first thing that comes to my mind is the night S came home with her beau and announced very coyly: 'I am getting married". "What?????" was the only word that I could manage. I was quite dramatic about it I guess. But what the hell it is S getting married after all.
A few minutes later though I was seated with the two of them on her bed and chattering excitedly about her wedding plans. I called up E who had a similar reaction. She wanted the wedding to be held in Goa as well. Anyway, now it is happening in Calcutta and Delhi in April. Also the immediate thing that struck me was that I would be flatmateless. Of course I freaked out (This announcement came sometime early in December). Since then I have been in a terrible dilemma. Should I stay back inDelhi or go back home to Calcutta? That was the only question that I could obsess about. Somehow I could not convince myself to return because everything has been fine till now. Plus it is winter and I love this time of the year in this city. So I think I am kind of staying back here even though I get those occasional guilt pangs.
In the meantime my mother has been worrying herself sick over my single status. Especially in light of the fact that "S is doing the right thing at the right time". So she has been trying to fix me up with her usual selection of eligible bachelors. The latest was a guy from California who was visiting his folks in Calcutta. He wanted to visit me here. My mother was only too happy and even told him "If you don't happen to like my daughter, don't worry. Just tell me and I will find another girl for you." Seriously the things my mother comes up with!
The guy called me up that very evening and said he would land in Delhi the next day. Next evening he called and said his flight had been cancelled thanks to the fog. And he asked me something which I will never forget. His question was: "So are you ready to relocate to California from Delhi?" This despite the fact that we had never met. In a rush I said everything I had to. And that did it. Because he never called back. My mom did. She had quite a few things to say none of which was particularly endearing.
Then came the New Year Eve's party that was absolutely the weirdest thing I have ever been to. It seemed like one of those American teen parties where nobody knows anybody. My friend Essar took me to the party. It was at her friend's cousin's place and turned out to be a terrace affair. Initially I had settled down to watching a movie at home, so at 10.30 pm when Essar called me and made her friends call me up, I had no option but to be a sport. I got ready in record time - 10mins. The one thing I remember from the party is the sight of this guy bent double over the terrace wall for the longest possible time. All that occured to me in my drunken state was that he would topple over. Finally someone pulled him back. The poor fellow was busy puking. The party ended on a sudden note with a drunken brawl. So at 3 in the morning we trudged back to our respective homes.
There's always a first time in life they say. It was mine. I have never, in my wildest imagination, thought of being at such a party but there Iwas.
Last but not the least I couldn't possibly leave out the recent degustation meal I had at a Mediterranean restaurant just a day back. For all those who do not know what a degustation menu is, it is something which you should try out next time you go out for a dinner. It is a 10-course to 20-course meal that a chef prepares. You get bite sized proportions of different dishes in each course and pay a fixed amount. I was doing a story on the same so I ended up at an invitation from the restaurant and it was a night to remember. I have never had so much fune ating out. I was asked repeatedly to take along a friend. So I asked VK to come along.
The dinner started at 8 in the evening. It was freezing outside yet we opted for an alfresco dinner (I must confess to a decided weakness forthe word 'alfresco'). There were huge coal fires near each table so it was very nice and toasty. The restaurant itself is very pretty and has a lovely Mediterranean ambience. The chef came and told us all that was to come to our table. Now unadventurous as I am when it comes to seafood, I was amazed at the fact that the chef's starters which had sole, prawns (yes I even hate prawns something which everybody finds weird considering the fact that I am a Bengali), salmon with caviar managed to impress me. With the starters came a straw coloured Chardonnay. In between the soups and the main courses were palate cleansers, tiny shots of sorbets --yummy Blue Curacao & Lime and Green Apple & Mint. The wine glasses kept changing with each course so that by the end of it, VK declared she was drunk.
The dessert was what dreams, actually my dreams, are made of. Exotic melon laced with apricot brandy and mascarpone mousse, pineapple and coconut tart with wildberry gelato, Baileys Irish cream cheese gateaux and chocolate cake topped with double chocolate mousse. I was completely floored.
I have also decided that's there nothing better than being the owner of such a restaurant. I came across the owner who was sprawled on a sofa two tables away from us chatting with his sister. It seemed so like what I would love to do. Free from the cares of life, drop in once in a week and do nothing.
The first thing that comes to my mind is the night S came home with her beau and announced very coyly: 'I am getting married". "What?????" was the only word that I could manage. I was quite dramatic about it I guess. But what the hell it is S getting married after all.
A few minutes later though I was seated with the two of them on her bed and chattering excitedly about her wedding plans. I called up E who had a similar reaction. She wanted the wedding to be held in Goa as well. Anyway, now it is happening in Calcutta and Delhi in April. Also the immediate thing that struck me was that I would be flatmateless. Of course I freaked out (This announcement came sometime early in December). Since then I have been in a terrible dilemma. Should I stay back inDelhi or go back home to Calcutta? That was the only question that I could obsess about. Somehow I could not convince myself to return because everything has been fine till now. Plus it is winter and I love this time of the year in this city. So I think I am kind of staying back here even though I get those occasional guilt pangs.
In the meantime my mother has been worrying herself sick over my single status. Especially in light of the fact that "S is doing the right thing at the right time". So she has been trying to fix me up with her usual selection of eligible bachelors. The latest was a guy from California who was visiting his folks in Calcutta. He wanted to visit me here. My mother was only too happy and even told him "If you don't happen to like my daughter, don't worry. Just tell me and I will find another girl for you." Seriously the things my mother comes up with!
The guy called me up that very evening and said he would land in Delhi the next day. Next evening he called and said his flight had been cancelled thanks to the fog. And he asked me something which I will never forget. His question was: "So are you ready to relocate to California from Delhi?" This despite the fact that we had never met. In a rush I said everything I had to. And that did it. Because he never called back. My mom did. She had quite a few things to say none of which was particularly endearing.
Then came the New Year Eve's party that was absolutely the weirdest thing I have ever been to. It seemed like one of those American teen parties where nobody knows anybody. My friend Essar took me to the party. It was at her friend's cousin's place and turned out to be a terrace affair. Initially I had settled down to watching a movie at home, so at 10.30 pm when Essar called me and made her friends call me up, I had no option but to be a sport. I got ready in record time - 10mins. The one thing I remember from the party is the sight of this guy bent double over the terrace wall for the longest possible time. All that occured to me in my drunken state was that he would topple over. Finally someone pulled him back. The poor fellow was busy puking. The party ended on a sudden note with a drunken brawl. So at 3 in the morning we trudged back to our respective homes.
There's always a first time in life they say. It was mine. I have never, in my wildest imagination, thought of being at such a party but there Iwas.
Last but not the least I couldn't possibly leave out the recent degustation meal I had at a Mediterranean restaurant just a day back. For all those who do not know what a degustation menu is, it is something which you should try out next time you go out for a dinner. It is a 10-course to 20-course meal that a chef prepares. You get bite sized proportions of different dishes in each course and pay a fixed amount. I was doing a story on the same so I ended up at an invitation from the restaurant and it was a night to remember. I have never had so much fune ating out. I was asked repeatedly to take along a friend. So I asked VK to come along.
The dinner started at 8 in the evening. It was freezing outside yet we opted for an alfresco dinner (I must confess to a decided weakness forthe word 'alfresco'). There were huge coal fires near each table so it was very nice and toasty. The restaurant itself is very pretty and has a lovely Mediterranean ambience. The chef came and told us all that was to come to our table. Now unadventurous as I am when it comes to seafood, I was amazed at the fact that the chef's starters which had sole, prawns (yes I even hate prawns something which everybody finds weird considering the fact that I am a Bengali), salmon with caviar managed to impress me. With the starters came a straw coloured Chardonnay. In between the soups and the main courses were palate cleansers, tiny shots of sorbets --yummy Blue Curacao & Lime and Green Apple & Mint. The wine glasses kept changing with each course so that by the end of it, VK declared she was drunk.
The dessert was what dreams, actually my dreams, are made of. Exotic melon laced with apricot brandy and mascarpone mousse, pineapple and coconut tart with wildberry gelato, Baileys Irish cream cheese gateaux and chocolate cake topped with double chocolate mousse. I was completely floored.
I have also decided that's there nothing better than being the owner of such a restaurant. I came across the owner who was sprawled on a sofa two tables away from us chatting with his sister. It seemed so like what I would love to do. Free from the cares of life, drop in once in a week and do nothing.
6.12.05
Now if I had my own way...
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.
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.
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