A-Musing

Un-muting those Pesky Voices in my Head

2013-05-19T17:29:00.000+05:30

All of us at some point in our lives have yearned to break free. Our reasons may have varied – that of monotony, a stifling relationship, a job that sucked the life out of us. It is in these periods of restlessness we see through the veneer of everything- is-perfect-in-my-life. Consumed with self-doubt we wonder whether we are doing too little or too much with our life. We retreat into a corner and finally unmute those pesky voices in our head. Voices with that air of superiority, always knowing what to do, merciless with truth – they make us feel like an errant child.

Then they are those phases when we are rudely thrown out of our comfort zones. It’s is like being pushed out of the dark comfort of your mother’s womb. You hate it – flail your arms with anger, squeeze your eyes shut and cry loudly to protest. You long to crawl back into that sac where you had just her heartbeat for company. Just like that clock on your wall, its loud tic-toc matching the rhythm of your heart, relegating each breath of yours to past tense.

As we grow old and take charge of our lives, we replicate the comfort of her womb by regimenting our existence into a routine. To bed by 11, wake up at 6, work hard on weekdays, work less on weekends, work time, play time, family time….

The truth is, most of us find routines comforting. Freedom intimidates us. It’s always reassuring to know what to expect.

Trust these phases of introspection to break the illusion. They make us question our existence, wonder if we have a purpose. If being a loving mother/loyal husband/dynamic manager/dutiful son enough!

Truth be told, we want people to know how good, attractive, generous, funny, wild and clever we really are. Fear or revere me, but please, think I'm special. It's the only reason you get up in the morning. The only reason you suffer the shitty boss, the blood, the sweat and the tears. (adapted from the Revolver)
One thing I know for sure is all of us want to be remembered well; to leave behind good memories for people whose lives we touched with our presence. I think that's what we all want, in the end; to know that we left footprints when we passed by, however briefly.

High Heels Confidential

2013-05-07T11:01:00.000+05:30

courtesy - Google images

Think sexy and you think heels. The little black dress, gown that sweeps the red-carpet, sari that shimmers under the arc-lights looks incomplete without a killer pair of high heels. Like Sunny Deol without his dhai kilo ka haath, Baba Ramdev without his beard, Poonam Pandey with clothes, Rahul Gandhi without his dimples….Get the picture?

According to gurus of high fashion, you’re not a high till it’s longer than 4 inches and they are not a killer if they don’t make you wobble on tapered, blade or wedges. Platforms are deemed too comfy to gain admittance in the high heeled hall of fame and it’s a stiletto that’s every woman’s preferred weapon of mass distraction.

Stilettoes are not meant for the faint-hearted. They feel like walking on a seesaw, your toes digging into hell and your heels pointing towards the heavens, begging for deliverance. It gets even better if they are six-inchers. You are constantly oscillating between agony and ecstasy. The feeling that you’re looking like a diva, as you balance your entire body weight on that delicate strappy thing, is even better than chocolate melting in your mouth. But the painful bunions on your feet, the raw cut on your ankle have a different story to tell.

Yet, scores of us are happy to haul ourselves atop needle shaped heels, for the sake of a killer statement.

Slide into a high heeled fantasy and you’ll know why. Your legs transform into poles and your entire anatomy gets a sensuous makeover. Your otherwise hurried steps turn into a lazy trot, your curves acquire a rhythm of their own and you are no longer the harried, multitasking woman on wheels but a Goddess meant to be worshipped. Stilettoes don’t discriminate. For them, it doesn’t matter that you are squat, fat or look like a matchstick; they will still lavish you with love and make you feel like the Diva you are. Hot, smouldering, standing head and shoulders above most, we look confident, feel confident and turn a blind eye to the foolish ones who totter on heels like drunken giraffes.

One of our pet nightmares is toppling on our stilted pumps and falling flat on our face. You swish into a party, looking like a million bucks, the tip of your heel gets stuck in the carpet and as you take the mighty fall, you imagine your terrified mug shot splashed on the front page of your favourite tabloid, the headline screaming – Woman killed by high heels!

Julia Gillard did it, on her visit to India. Lady Gaga did it even better and they both survived to read the morning headlines about their pointless misadventures! Aussie PM’s hilarious face-first tumble as her high heel gets stuck in the grass. Lady GaGa Falls Flat on Her Face, Thanks to Massive Platform Heels. Someone will even manage to shoot your Humpty Dumpty moment and upload it on YouTube.

Image courtesy www.thesun.co.uk

Does that mean women who love strutting their stuff on high heels are masochists or even worse; scatterbrains, simply pandering to a male fantasy of a femme fatale? Why would anyone put one self through so much discomfort for the sake of feeling good about looking good!

I think it’s more about the feeling of power it gives you. For us, high heels, a dress that hugs our curves are a symbol of liberation. If I am baring my cleavage, it’s because I get a kick out of flaunting my femininity and not because I’m hungry for attention. And isn’t liberation all about not letting others dictate your choices – be it a choice of career, soulmate or solemates?

Freud even articulated a theory likening the shoe to the vagina. By that logic, the heeled shoe becomes a vagina with penis - a chick with a dick who’s comfortable being a male fantasy and is not afraid to chase men and her ambitions with equal gusto.

Then why judge people on basis of how they look and their choice of attire and footwear. Why expect women who want to be taken seriously, to be grounded in matronly pumps and dress in pillowcases to desex themselves?

Isn’t that falling prey to yet another stereotype? Dressing down to earn the label of a nun and dressing up to be dismissed as a slut! Why should we let our looks get into the way of what we feel about ourselves and how we make others feel?

If Mamata Di decides to forgo her rubber chappals in favour of bright pink wedges and continues to blame everyone but herself for West Bengal’s problems; people will still make fun of her. Or for that matter Arundhati Roy shedding tears for her Maoist brothers in a pair of high heeled boots, will have as much impact.

For me, a woman who makes the pavement a runaway, is not afraid to unleash her oomph in the boardroom, is the ultimate alpha female. She doesn’t mind the gaze that lingers a tad longer on her legs as long as she’s in control of things.

And if things do go out of control, she can simply turn her weapon of distraction to destruction and bring the amorous man to heel!

Ironically, I am out of control in heels. Every time I aspire for a high-heeled existence, I teeter and falter and end up wincing in pain. When I do venture out in dangerously high heels, I hold on to the husband for dear life. And if I am on my own, I make sure there’s a good looking, almost chivalrous man in the vicinity before I fall from grace.

How to be successful on Twitter

2013-04-30T12:51:00.000+05:30

My post on Twitterati, where I have managed to offend everyone under the sun, is now live on http://ibnlive.in.com/group-blog/the-india-blog/3353/how-to-be-successful-on-twitter/64535.html

Google Images

If you love brandishing your opinions, think you are always right, consider the world too foolish to comprehend your intellect and have ample time to waste, Twitter is the ideal platform for you to script your success story. If you are a bored professional, struggling blogger, wannabe Chetan Bhagat, you get yet another excuse to get distracted and blame it all on Twitter.

All you have to do is compress your anger, poor-me stories, this-country-sucks and my-ex-is-a-bitch histrionics into 140 characters and have complete strangers express their opinion about your non-happening life. That’s what social media sites are all about – ignoring your friends and family for adulation from McSteamy, HotDawg and NautankiSali!

Success comes only to the desperate and passionate and who knows it better than me?

To get more gyan that I have freely dispensed, click on this link

http://ibnlive.in.com/group-blog/the-india-blog/3353/how-to-be-successful-on-twitter/64535.html

To Rush or not to Rush

2013-04-21T15:31:00.000+05:30

I have a habit that loves embarrassing me from time to time. Actually, I had no idea how terrible it was till I started going out on my own. Many moons back, when I was still in school, a friend invited me over for lunch at her place. As soon as her Mom placed the piping hot delicacies in front of me, I jumped on it like an impoverished kid from Somalia. A few gulps later when I raised my head to breathe, I noticed everyone staring at me silently, their expression a mixture of amusement and sympathy.

In my family, when food is placed before us, we jump on it like a pack of hungry wolves, without wasting time in social niceties like waiting for others to start. It is our way of showing that we love Mom’s cooking, even if it is tinda that we’ve been having three days in a row.

So, when thrown in an unfamiliar territory, I did what I did best. I pounced on what was served like my Mom hadn’t fed me for weeks, without bothering to wait for others to start.

Courtesy - Google Images

Old habits are like cockroaches and don’t die easily. Mine decided to haunt me for the rest of my life.

I got married to a man who is my polar opposite. A gentleman who has his hors d’oeuvres with fork and knife, while I prefer a hands down approach….Looks at me with horror when I try to lick the sauce off the knife and gives a pained smile when I drop chopsticks noisily on the floor. He also patiently waits for everyone at the dining table to start before he puts the first morsel in his mouth. The civilized world calls them table manners.

The first time my parents invited their brand new son-in-law, Maa cooked a feast that was enough to feed three ravenous generations. She had immense faith in my cooking abilities and wanted to make sure he didn’t complain of hunger for at least a month. Now before I proceed further with the story, I must acquaint you all with my Ma’s penchant for cardio during mealtimes. In her quest for hot and fresh, she keeps shuffling the dishes and asks anxiously if we have finished dish number 6, so that she can get dish numbers 7 to 10.

No, we are not spoilt brats and she is no doormat who has dedicated her life to servitude. It’s just that her love manifests in many ways and one of them is her concerted efforts at over-feeding us. Ironically, she doesn’t do much for our appetite when she insists we must finish the bhindi and the paneer because it had been lying in the refrigerator for five days.

She is at her hospitable best when we have guests and pretends not to hear them when they scream “no more, we are full” and happily ladles generous portions of fish curry and rice over their hand covering the plate.

Experience has taught me to raise my plate above my head, every time I see my Maa approaching with a ladle.

She was planning to impress her jamai (son-in-law) with the same tactics when she noticed much to her horror that he had yet to start his meal. She gingerly approached him and asked with her brows knit in concern – Is everything okay?

Of course, Maa, I am just waiting for you to join us.

Our “you’re kidding, right!” looks did little to deter goody two-shoes.

When I have cooked something (I have been doing a lot of that lately) I expect it to be finished in all its scalding glory. Funny thing is, when I serve my newest culinary delight with aplomb, the husband suddenly recollects a bunch of things that had to be done and disappears to the other room to send mails, fix faulty gadgets and save battered women in Afghanistan, while I gnash my teeth and wait for him to make an appearance. I try occupying myself by making a tower of sautéed carrots, attempt potato art, till I look at the crispy spinach wilting in the heat, the fragrant coriander drowning in the curry, the melting butter disappearing in the crevices of the rustic bread and can’t take it ANYMORE!

If I am the first to start, I am also the first one to finish. Yes, I am the Usain Bolt of eating. While others are carefully forking the peas inside their mouth, the fillet of chicken is sliding down my oesophagus, looking forward to a happy reunion with the veggies. Don’t expect me to behave like a Masterchef judge, savouring the hint of nutmeg and caressing the smooth velvety texture of the perfectly cooked leg of the chicken with my euphoric tongue! In fact my taste buds gave up on me long time back and have taken to satsang.

I eat fast, drink faster, ethanol or not. Not for me the snootiness of savouring the nose of the wine and elating at its finish. But hey, I still can tell a good wine from a bad one, my current favourite being an Australian pink that chases bystanders. Curiously, my cup will always have a little bit of tea or coffee at the bottom, waiting for deliverance. There must be a lot of hidden psychoanalytical messages there.

After years of accusatory glances, I have finally accepted that I’m too impatient to stand and stare and savour the moment. I am the rabbit in a hurry to reach the finishing line. When I do, I am ready to move on to the next task. My mind always has multiple tabs open and my thoughts keep flitting between them. Leisure maybe pleasure for many but for me it doesn’t work. On the contrary, it makes me dull.

Unlike Aesop’s hare, mine always reaches the finishing line. So what if it didn’t stop to smell the flowers, do a little dance under the shade of the tree and sing a song? But then there are times when the tortoise in me makes me stop in amazement and savour this miracle called life.

Lamentations of a Grammar Nazi

2013-04-14T14:53:00.001+05:30

Grammar is knowing the difference between your shit and you're shit and who knows it better than Trisha's tortured soul ? To empathize with her anguish, you are requested to leave grammatically challenged comments.

Let the fun begin!

Courtesy - Google images

Do you remember the day you lost your first pet? When the project you worked so hard for fell into a puddle? Think of any time when the world seemed to be less wonderful, when the Gods themselves seemingly turned against you. Put yourself back in that moment. How did you feel? Crushed, morose, disappointed or even suicidal? Well now you feel a quarter, nay a tenth, of the pain any language purist feels. Welcome to our world, initiate.

Our days may seem to start like the rest of humanity’s, but underneath the coffee haze and bleary eyes, we are steeling ourselves. We look into the mirror, tell our reflection that all is not lost; that out ‘there’ people are not ruthlessly abusing and butchering our one true love; that things have gotten to the point where they cannot get worse. Yes, we say, we WILL have a positive outlook today!

But the real world is never gentle with my kindred. Forget those who aren’t English speakers (bless them). No, I’m talking about people who have the audacity to ask you to lend them your “stationary”. You thought they were your friends. You shared your deepest fears, your darkest secrets with them. To these...these traitors, I say, “My stationary what?” The day has barely begun for your average Grammar Nazi. When we want to watch a funny video, there are enlightened comments such as, “OMG!.....hez so awsum lol...I laf so hardddd!!!” When we check Facebook, someone posts a touching story along the lines of (bear with me, this is a long one. Oh, and it’s real)-

“bf n gf were siting at a table...dey were haeving a conversatein. da gurl sed 2 da boy “bbz will u luv me 4ever?”

boy said “NO....” girl was sad

she ran away n cryed

she triped over a CHAIR.

she was ded.

boy ran over to pic up her body

he wisperd in her ear “i meant to say...ill love you 5ever.”

dat meen he luv her moar dan 4ever.”

Don’t even get me started on the completely skewed morals in this poorly put-together babble (they most certainly are not words). The unnecessary ellipses (aka dot dot dot) in this paragraph, if converted into drops of water, are enough to supply a small village for a week. The shift/Caps Lock keys are clearly not working in this individual’s keyboard, and his/her PC seems to be infected by a deadly virus that converts “Th” to “d”. Oh, and what is “ded”? Is it a state of non-existence that is more permanent than death? You will NOT believe the amount of red on my screen as I write this.

Anyhow, I digress. My point is: where once bad grammar and spelling were restricted to our day-to-day interactions with a small group of individuals, social media and expanding telecommunications have made it an inescapable reality. The problem is not even education (or lack thereof) or social stratification. Many of these people come from good families; have been educated in the hallowed classrooms of the most reputed schools. It started with SMS language, but it’s no longer restricted to our mobile phones. It’s everywhere- even certain brands advertise using text message lingo. Many people are under the impression that it’s ‘cool’ (or cul/kool). While I by no means want everyone to speak in archaic Victorian English, all I ask is that you respect a language enough to not mutilate it. Cherish those poor abandoned commas, periods and colons. Stop abusing those exclamation marks, they need some rest. Don’t force together letters that do not belong with each other.

Language is music. A well-constructed sentence is heavenly sonata. A haphazard conglomeration of letters is like the sound you get when you run your nails over a blackboard, or like the sound of a face hitting the road after I have punched it.

Finally, I ask that you be more patient with us. Please don’t respond to our helpful corrections with “Your a bich, my grammer in fyn. Get a lyf.” For us, bad English is a physical and psychological discomfort. Our nightmares are haunted with lost apostrophes and errant ellipses. Our personal relationships are always at risk due to our neurotic auto-correct habits. For us, the only reprieve is the hope that we will find another who is as obsessed, as head-over-heels in love with grammar as we are, someone with whom we can grow old with (Grammar Granny and Grammar Grandpa, or two grandpas, or two grannies. Hey, love has no bounds) and a shoulder to cry on when a stranger tells us to “Plzz lyk dis page”. We are also human, albeit with a super-tuned sense of clear language. Also, please use spell-check. Thank you!

Viva la Grammaire!

Unravelling the Bengali Bombshell

2013-04-07T15:16:00.000+05:30

Google images

All you wanted to know about the Bong femme fatale and didn’t know who to ask.

If you are a reasonably attractive Bengali lady, chances are, you’ve had a man or two walk up to you and confess his weakness for the Bengali temptress. Being suspicious by birth, I make it a point to clarify if he actually meant tempest. He proceeds to wax eloquent about her raving beauty and I rudely interrupt to ask if he meant raging.

Similar sounding words that can mean Heaven or Hell – grammar Gods were sure having fun at our expense!

Chances are he will not be a Bengali himself and has dedicated his life to observing this quaint species from a distance. The Bengali bhodrolok community, on the other hand, prefers to live by the old jungle saying and treats his homebred chicken like insipid lentil.

One thing I’ll happily concede is the hotness quotient of the bhodromohila. I have arrived at this conclusion after having spent countless Durga Pujos, observing her sweaty prosperity spilling out of her almost backless, sleeveless blouse that she got especially tailored from Kolkata. You have to be hot to be sweating this much. You have to be insane to be devouring Biryani in the maddening October heat. It’s not a pretty sight, to watch her sweat, especially after she spent almost twenty minutes dusting her ample décolleté with Ponds Dreamflower talc. She looks like a Royal Bengal tigress, with rivulets of sweat criss-crossing messily down her expanse of pristine white.
For her, it’s just another clammy day as she proceeds to fan herself delicately with the end of her beautiful tangail.

Google Images

Hymns have been sung in praise of her tresses cascading down her shoulders. Either left loose or tied up in a casual bun, she swears by Keo Karpin hair oil to nourish her mane. I have a theory that this product was originally conceptualized as a mosquito repellent, till the owner’s wife mistakenly applied it on her scalp and sprouted a lush patch on her arid scalp.

For the traditional Bengali woman, it’s a tough choice between Keo Karpin and Jabakusum hair oil. I believe Jabakusum hair-oil is the secret behind her drop-dead beauty. One whiff and you are ready to drop dead. Thick, red and vile smelling, Jabakusum has nurtured Bengali scalps for decades. My Maa swears by it and still has a head full of hair, while I have to resort to hair-fall therapies. But I never fail to remind her, the company is surviving on her sole patronage.

And so is Boroline! Sold in a green tube, this super oily, atrociously smelly cream has been curing ailments for almost a century. From burns, to chapped lips, to cracked heels, to bruises and cuts – this magic potion is a panacea for all Bengali ailments. The other day, a Bengali friend was regaling us with her “how I met my husband” story and how badly she used to get beaten up for being so stubbornly in love. But every time it was the magical Boroline that came to the rescue of her swollen and sore body parts.

Boroline.com

For the face, the preferred choice is Lacto Calamine in summer and Ponds cold cream in winter. Bathing with Margo/Hamam/Lux, smelling like a potpourri of dried-up herbs, dusting herself with talcum, slathering her face with Lacto Calamine - her secret to glowing skin, dotting her forehead with a coin sized bindi, lining her almond shaped eyes with kajal, she is ready to take on the world.

Her eyes that convey a thousand emotions - throw daggers, crinkle with mirth or brim with tears to the strains of Robindro-shongeet. She has opinions and is never shy of expressing them. If she doesn’t hold back her anger, she doesn’t hold back her love either. Her passion will manifest itself in the silly nicknames she’ll anoint you with. Buro, Aloo, Goga – take your pick. Dare you take her for granted, she will quote from Elliot and Shaw to articulate her annoyance. Yes, she will never let you forget that her English is better than yours. She will swear by her chest of homeopathic medicines and Boroline and insist on curing all your deadly and not so deadly ailments with them. She can also be annoyingly domineering and insist you wear a monkey cap when the temperature dips below 30 C.

The Bong femme is no lentil, but Ileesh in a fiery mustard paste. Brawn doesn’t impress her, brain does.

The bhodrolok will take two minutes off from his Crossword puzzle, to nod in agreement. He will then take a swig from his bottle of Gelusil to prepare himself for his evening snack of tele-bhajaa and his favourite cup of Darjeeling.

And if you dare suggest that there’s a brew that’s better than Darjeeling, she will smash that cup of fine Bone China on your head.

This post in now live on IBN Live......http://ibnlive.in.com/group-blog/the-india-blog/3353/unravelling-the-bengali-bombshell/64486.html

How about leaving better children for this planet?

2013-04-01T15:15:00.001+05:30

Dear Cheeky ke Mom and Daddy,

Let me start by congratulating you for creating a miracle – your baby. Even though I don’t see your child with the same pair of rose-tinted eyes, I can assure you s/he is almost as adorable as you think. Her smile can turn the articulate to gibberish. Her beautiful eyes can light up even the darkest heart. She is cute as a button, till she opens her mouth to express her displeasure.

She wanted boo boo and you couldn’t get it for her. So, she’s doing what she does best. Scream. And why not - your Princess is not used to being disobeyed!

Courtesy - Google images

Her high pitched scream makes your hear palpitate with terror. You are even willing to swing upside down to stop that horrible noise. So, you do what you do best, fetch boo boo for her to make her shut up.

God forbid, if you are in a mood to be brave and decide to ignore, she will promptly raise her decibel levels and give you a migraine attack. Suddenly you start feeling the heat of at least a dozen pair of eyes boring into your back and accusing you silently for having created this monster.

If looks could kill, you would have died a thousand deaths.

Sorry, it’s all your fault. In your earnestness to be a good parent, you turned yourself into her personal genie. You wanted to be her superhero, moved mountains, jumped ditches and danced like a clown to fulfil her demands. And now she has you wrapped around her little finger. She knows the power she has over you and uses it to her fullest.

A generation of parents has forgotten how to say no to their kids. Born after much deliberation and planning, the apple of their eyes is treated like royalty. Buying the best the money can buy, lavishing their kids with everything that they were denied as children, new-age parenting leaves no stone unturned to keep their progeny happy.

Don’t worry, it will become worse as she grows older. You will place your little darling on a pedestal, applaud her every little achievement and tire everyone with your bragging. Most of you are under the impression, that by heaping praise, you are building your child’s confidence and sense of self. On the contrary, too much praise can backfire. It makes your kid afraid to try new things for fear of letting you down.

You are unknowingly conveying to her that she has to get your approval all the time and constantly look at you for validation.

You will worry incessantly on her behalf, do your best to keep her away from danger, won’t let her out on her own, fight her battles on her behalf, cry with her… Fair enough! But you must know, paranoid parents raise paranoid kids.

In other words, you are raising a generation of wimps and narcissists and passing your fear of risk to them.

If you don’t let her skin her knees, let her fall and fail, face her darkest fears alone, how do you expect her to face the world on her own? Outside your cocoon of love, she will face a harsh world and you cannot be always around to protect her. Raise her to be a fighter and not a delicate Barbie.If you love her, listen patiently to her arguments rather than dismissing it as rebellion, value her opinions and most importantly treat her with as much respect as you expect from her. Only when you treat her like a responsible adult will she behave like one.

Start with learning how to say no to her. Don’t let her manipulate and negotiate till she gets her way. You ask her to switch off the TV and she makes a puppy face and says- please Ma, 10 more minutes? Reason with her, tell her with a firm tone why she can’t watch Cartoon Network all the time. If she throws a tantrum, don’t get upset and never negotiate. It’s very important to set a clear, firm limit. If she sulks and throws a fit, let her know her behaviour isn’t going to get her what she wants.

Saying yes is always the easier way out, but not putting up with her nonsense will always pay rich dividends in the future. Do you want your child to grow up to be a tantrummy woman, used to getting her own way by manipulating others? Show your love by teaching her that best things in life are never handed on a platter, you have to earn them.

Love has many manifestations, but pampering her and bending backwards to accommodate her unreasonable demands is certainly not one of them. Praise her efforts and not the outcome. If she toiled nights on a project and still didn’t walk away with the award – don’t console her, laud her for the hard work! Teach her to be happy and not how to make you happy with her accomplishments.

We talk about leaving a better planet for our children that we forget about leaving better children for this planet. Educate your children. Say no to them every once in a while.

Feeling Right to be Wrong

2013-03-24T14:48:00.001+05:30

Prejudice is as natural as sewage – Boris Johnson

It’s disconcerting to realize that years of first world existence, education, experience and travel to exotic destinations often do very little to open up minds. Once you decide what you think is right, is right, you will never be short of excuses to deride beliefs that are different from yours. Different is a concept that most of us are not comfortable with. We baulk at men dressed as women, find the sight of gay men holding hands hilarious, crack jokes at the eating habits of people from certain regions…In our little universe inside the well, we are perfect. So, when it’s someone else who ridicules our skin colour, customs and rituals, we bristle with indignation.

I grew up having to put up with “ami tomake bhalobashi” and “roshogulla” jokes. I took pains to explain that our cuisine is beyond “machh-bhaath”. But that didn’t stop me from making fun of my butter chicken loving Punjabi friends. In our limited perceptions – all Punjabis are crass, anybody living in the south of the Vindhyas is a brainy South Indian who licks sambhar off his elbows, North Easterners are Chinkies and Nepalis, watchmen.

We colour our opinions with many shades of prejudice.

We waste no time in forming opinions, castigating our fallen heroes, shaking our heads with disgust at the falling morals while safely assuming that there’s nothing wrong with us. It is as if we have never lied, been unfair, hurt our loved ones and been insincere.

The thing is, we expect very little from us and too much from others. We are never short of excuses to justify our failures but quick to condemn other’s failings.

So, if an employee gets chastised by his employer for not delivering – it is the boss who is nasty. If someone decides to be truthful rather than pretend to be nice, that person is hurtful. If someone’s opinion clashed with yours, she is dismissed as a troll. The girl, who’d rather immerse herself in her thoughts than indulge in inanities, has attitude problems. The guy driving faster than you is a show off and the guy driving slower is an idiot.

Everyone in this world is an asshole but you.

It is easier to pronounce someone guilty, make him the villain because it makes us feel like the hero and absolve ourselves of guilt. But you should know, a victim can victimize, the prey can predate in different contexts, from different points of view. There are no absolute rights and wrongs, truth is but a perception. There exists a duality in all of us. We are constantly battling thoughts of envy, revenge, lust and greed! Yet, when it’s someone else who succumbs we are quick to pronounce him guilty in our court of judgment.

It is so much simpler to indulge in hypocrisy, make sweeping generalizations than try and comprehend diversity. Stereotyping people on basis of their gender, attire, religion, preferences is intellectual laziness. Remember, judging a person does not define who they are. It defines who you are.

In my opinion, basing half-baked opinions on little or no information is a crime worse than hate.

We are all different as chalk and cheese, but if we can’t accept someone’s sexual preference, waist size, philosophy or opinions we might as well keep our mouths shut.

What if, in your endeavour to make someone else appear foolish, it is you who might end up looking like one!

Maybe it’s not as bad as it sounds. According to Psychology Today, racism, sexism and ageism come naturally to us. We are merely mirroring what we have been hearing and reading our whole life. We pick up the patterns that culture happily spoon feeds us, and we haplessly store it all in our thirsty memory banks, gladly retrieving the connection and filling in the blanks. For most of us, the racist/sexist/ageist inside us may not be a monster of our own making; s/he is not a reflection of who we are, but a reflection of where we've been. At times, it appears we are still stuck in medieval times.

Can we now all sigh in relief, now that we know we can blame our prejudices on social belief passed down the ages?

Beliefs are not facts. These are but interpretations that we have made in our minds and have nothing to do with reality. Not all old people are stuck in the past, not all politicians are corrupt, light skin is not a virtue, women are not weak, fat doesn’t equate to sloth and not every Muslim is a fanatic!

Accepting that we have preconceived notions is half the battle won.

So, look at your prejudices straight in the eye and either shake them away or tame them. But please, take a good look in the mirror, before you make someone the object of your derision, ridicule and loathing.

Courtesy - Google

Source -

http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/mind-the-gap/201110/prime-and-prejudice-why-we-are-all-little-bit-racist-0

When Nirvana is Just a Bottle Away

2013-03-18T17:33:00.000+05:30

Google Images

There was a time when we lived happily ever after with frizz, dandruff and split ends. A weekly dose of egg shampoo with a lot of bathroom singing and we were good for a week. The first three days were bouncy bliss while the remaining were a mousy mess, but we were okay with it.

One fine day someone somewhere decided that for their company to sell more shampoos they need to make their prospective consumers feel bad about their hair. It started with the hunt for models with luscious hair. They were made to wear turtle neck sweaters in black, before their head and shoulder were doused with chalk powder. The gorgeous girl with shiny mane was then instructed to turn around, notice the Milky Way galaxy on her shoulders and gasp with horror. Her boyfriend, her legion of admirers, colleagues mirrored her disgust and refused to talk to her till she started using Cynical antidandruff shampoo.

The dawn of realization hit millions of men and women worldwide. The white dusty thing, the giver of itchy scalps was evil and it was time to exterminate it. We set about it with a vengeance and shed much hair at the altar of dandruff-free existence. Rather have less hair than more dandruff and wear a black turtle neck with my head held up high.

Shampoo companies were getting ambitious. After all they had tasted blood. So they started packaging themselves as the nectar of joy. The banisher of frizz, split-ends, falling hair and the provider of happiness self-esteem and blow-dried shiny hair, enriched with vitamins.

Pretty girls endowed with abundant hair on their scalps were now being snapped up by advertising firms only to have their hair tousled, distressed, dried for the “before look”. Freed from the tyranny of turtle necks, she was allowed to wear vests, hold her tresses like it was a piece of dirty rag she had picked up from the floor, roll her eyes in disgust and then run into the nearest shower stall to work up a mountain of lather on her scalp. She would then go running to the fields, swaying her miraculously cured, smoothened and shiny hair. The look that took 2 hours and a battery of “hair-experts” to achieve! Too bad most of us were led to believe that it could be ours for a few hundred rupees.

Suddenly we were feeling ashamed of what we were born with – straight hair wanted curls, curls wanted to be rebonded, black wanted to go copper, short wanted extensions! We discovered keratin, PH balance, Pro Vitamin B5, verbena, lavender. One look at the all new “Sea of Spa Black mud shampoo Enriched with Obliphica Oil” on the pharmacist shelf and our mop of hair would start doing the Samba. We were all convinced that the exoticness of the ingredients stuffed in our shampoo was directly proportional to bliss.

Our hair follicles now had the choice to soak their roots in hibiscus enriched oils, wash it off with a residue free shampoo and use a devilishly deep conditioner to keep it glossy.

A legion of women were now more keen to enrich their tresses rather than their lives! And why not, joy was now packaged in pretty looking jars and bottles.

Not just shampoo; we have an array of delectable options to tighten, brighten, smoothen and plump our skins ravaged by stress and aging.

It’s so funny that there are people who actually believe in the dictum of eating well, sleeping right and thinking positive to look and feel beautiful. In this age of instant gratification who has time for the slow and tedious process of healing?

Domestication of Spiderman

2013-03-08T10:39:00.000+05:30

Courtesy - Google

It started when he read a joke that went viral. It was about him. Someone had called him the most stupid superhero of all, for wearing his underwear over his head. That state-of the-art mask took him 23 ½ hours and 18 bottles of Maybelline’s glossy liquid liner, to make.

Only a moron can mistake those carefully drawn doe eyes for leg holes!

Mr Spiderman had a mid-building crisis. He hung between sky scrapers for days, coloured his hair orange, waxed his chest hair, got drunk on Root Beer and tried hitting on Sarah Jessica Parker. Boy, did she have bony hands! That slap stung for days.

To think he had squeezed himself into lycra and spandex, crept up buildings, clung to inanimate objects, performed death defying stunts to save distressed souls, for no pay and just accolades?

After months of introspection and a vacation in Koh Phi Phi later, a tanned Spidey was back in his apartment to hang up his superhero costume forever. It took him hours of intense cajoling and buckets of tears, before an enraged Mrs Spiderman finally let him in. He had been an irresponsible and selfish husband and Mary Jane was not ready to forgive him in a hurry.

So he wooed her with all the skills he had picked up in Thailand. It was only when MJ burped with satisfaction after a meal of Chuchi pla kaphong, Kaeng hangle with steamed rice, could Spiderman sigh with relief.

Spidey had made up his mind. He would spend the rest of his life at home dedicating himself to housework.

It took him exactly a day to discover what a lousy housekeeper Mary Jane was. Kitchen floors that had not been scrubbed for months, curtains that had once been cream, mugs with coffee stains on them…The final straw was the mould he discovered in the refrigerator! He almost threw up. No wonder he always had an upset stomach. MJ had been feeding him fungus!

Agreed, he was too busy saving the world to notice the filth around him and was too tired to even do the dishes after the usual macaroni cheese dinner. But he made sure he never complained even if MJ served him the same damn macaroni for seven days in a row. He once had and was made to have stale bread with ketchup for an entire month.

Spiderman was on a mission now. After setting the world right, he had to set his home right. What good were his super-powers if couldn’t make the dishes sparkle, the carpet bright and the floors shiny and white?

His World Wide Web had now shrunk to the home page.

It was tougher than he had imagined. Waking up to shrill sound of the alarm clock and no coffee, going to the supermarket and having to choose between a toilet cleaner with bleach or pomegranate scent… large or extra-large cage free eggs…milk with 3% or 5% fat…dishwashing powder with powerball or shine enhancers…coming home to laundry and a pyramid of ironing, tending to simmering pots of gravy and a burnt finger….going to bed with an aching back….and waking up to another day of more housework!

When he’d get precious few minutes to reminisce on his glory days, killing Green Goblin and chasing runaway lab experiments seemed like child’s play.

Sigh! Fighting crime was so much simpler than fighting grime.

Spiderman finally knew – housework comes with no power and lots of responsibilities.

For Mrs Spiderman, the first few weeks were bliss. She would come home to a clean house, a warm meal (the newest recipe he had picked up from Nigella) and an exhausted husband.

The first hint of trouble started when she dropped spaghetti sauce on the carpet. Spiderman let out a blood curdling scream, looked accusingly at her before running into the store to fetch the stain remover. This was just the beginning. In the days to follow she would get screamed at for not keeping toilet seat up, dropping her wet towel on the floor, shedding too much hair on the carpet, not taking out the garbage, for never having enough time for him. And when Mary Jane tried lending a hand, it was never good enough for him. She never folded the laundry right, her chopping was never good enough, she was lousy and always cutting corners.

And then every second day, Spidey would turn around and ask – Is my ass getting bigger?

Her superhero husband had turned into a super nag!

So she started staying late in office, went drinking with friends and came back home only when he was fast asleep. Her affair with her assistant was a disaster. He fancied himself as Dark Knight and would insist she dress up as Bane! When she tried, her voice was never deep enough, she wasn’t mean enough, her toy guns weren’t impressive…God, men can be such complaint bags!

She knew she was heading towards hell till she chanced upon Deepak Chopra’s – The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success – A Practical Guide to the fulfilment of your dreams. That book brought her face to face with her destiny.

That night when she tried on Spiderman’s discarded suit, it felt so good! Mary Jane was ready to save the world to save herself from her husband.

Meanwhile Spiderman was busy preparing his speech for International Women’s Day. It was titled - Women don’t need emancipation from men. They need emancipation from household chores!

Picture courtesy - Happydent India

It’s time you knew

2013-03-03T15:48:00.000+05:30

For over a month I watched my blog readership plummet, much to my dismay. Plagued by self-doubt, I blamed my writing, my fickle-minded readers, tried harder and wondered what I was doing wrong. To put it simply, I assumed that I had been discarded like a soiled tissue paper.

I was dealing with my biggest fear – the thought that perhaps I had moved past my best.

Last week, Manu Katyaayan sent me a concerned message. He wanted to know why my feeds had stopped showing in his reader. My first reaction was of immense relief. I could finally blame something else for my dipping blog hits. Of course I had no idea what to do about it. So I did what I do best, send an SOS call to my friends. Those who took the bait, I latched on them like a hungry leech and chewed their heads off.

I must mention Subhorup Dasgupta and his exemplary patience. He would sit with me for hours and give every trouble-shooting tip that was ever devised. For me he was Sherlock Holmes, meticulously sifting for clues to solve the befuddling mystery of the missing feeds. I tried everything – from removing widgets, pinging manually, authenticating my feeds. You name it, I tried it. When everything failed, I did a headstand, hung from an imaginary bell in an imaginary temple and demanded justice from God.

Several frustrating days and Mark Miranda later (a Twitter follower and an insomniac techie from Mumbai) I was able to crack the code. I felt like Robert Langdon (okay not him, but his hardworking sidekick). In my nerve wracking thriller of an almost lost blog, I found the evil, scheming villain MS-Word, the comedienne – Purba Ray and the heroes – Manu, Subho and Mark. The funny Mrs Ray had been copying, pasting her posts from MS-Word, blissfully unaware of the unnecessary codes that were getting embedded in her posts.

I am not aware of the technicalities, but it seems my blog had used up all the allotted space and hence the feeds had stopped appearing in the reader. It’s only when I manually removed formatting from nearly 50 posts, did my feeds start showing.

Just six months back, I nearly lost my blog. I had forgotten to disable two-step verification for my google account, when I moved to Australia. This water-tight security feature made sure I couldn’t access my account. It was sending the access codes to my non-functioning Indian SIM card. Countless security questions and many aborted attempts later I was informed by Google that they are still not sure whether I’m the genuine product and should consider opening a new account. It’s not a nice feeling to know that you might have to abandon two and a half years of hard-work, over 200 posts and a following that I had so painstakingly built.

It was only after I mailed my SIM card back to India and have someone text me the codes, I could finally access my account.

Lesson learnt - Either disable two step verification or carry a print of backup verification codes with you,when you move to a new country.

When you are about to lose something, you realize how much it means to you. For me A-Musing is not a just a blog I author. Over the last three years it has become my identity. I discovered myself through my blog and my friends & family discovered me through my musings.

You have no idea how great it feels to see the happy chattering make a comeback on my blog. It’s as if A-Musing has come back to life. I must thank my tenacious readers and friends who made it to the comments section despite the missing notifications.

To think that I was ready to give up on writing!

But I didn’t. I fought tooth and nail for it.

I think it’s time I told you, how much you and your comments means to me. What good is a blog without readership? I don’t write for myself. I write for you.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Likes

2013-02-24T13:14:00.002+05:30

Most women are more sensitive about their looks than their feelings. Criticize how she looks and you risk hurting her and hurtling yourself out like yesterday’s chapatis. And how do you gauge her sensitivity? It’s simple, just try clicking her pic. Slowly take out your camera, aim and wait for the miraculous transformation. Watch her eyes turn into limpid pools of kindness, prepare to get blinded by her dazzling smile. But not before she flips her hair, turns her face 45 degrees north (her best angle), pinches her cheeks and smiles her mysterious smile. The one that makes her look like Monalisa minus the mumps.

Monalisa minus the mumps

You see, she wants the world to see what she sees in the mirror.

Candid clicks are a big no and you can’t get away with just one shot. You are expected to click her again and again from different angles. It’s not because she doesn’t trust you. Experience and many ugly mugshots have taught her that you and your camera take time to warm up to her loveliness. So, she is willing to say cheese 17 times, just for the sake of a priceless capture. The one she can proudly show to her grandkids, when she gets old and wrinkled. Then she will grandly inspect all the shots you took and make you promise to delete the unflattering ones. If you don’t, you risk her wrath. If you upload it on Facebook, you risk getting killed.

We women have a secret pact – thou shalt not tag/upload any ugly shots of ours. The moment a friend takes out her mobile and aims, we exchange that secret look. “You will make me look the diva that I really am”. Photos that inadvertently capture Christmas indulgences spilling out of our jeans or make us look like a hungry hippopotamus, are meant live happily ever after in the recycle bin. Since most photos are clicked for the sake of Facebook, we make sure each one of us is informed once they have been uploaded. And then we wait for the comments to follow. Look aghast when only 15 friends like it. Pretend to blush when someone gushes about how we look.

Follow the instructions carefully.

In my distorted opinion, we women spend 33.3% of their lives complimenting each other about our looks.

One look at a new profile pic on a social networking site and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Out of the 55 comments she gets, 49 will be from her girlfriends – Ooo, you gorgeous thing! Again there’s a secret pact. In a parallel universe it’s called reciprocity. You praise me and I will praise you back – get it?

I blame social networking sites. Before Facebook, we’d quietly click a few dozen pics of us frolicking in Gulmarg, stick them inside an album with a floral cover, wait for relatives to come over and pounce on them. They’d leaf through the albums, sip Rooh Afza and make a few appreciative noises. That was it. To be called beautiful, we had to solely rely on the free services provided by roadside Romeos. Of course, verbally challenged Kamal Kumar could only express his appreciation by whistling. And that was perfectly okay!

The Hungry hippopotamus look.

And now thanks to our 567 online friends, who spend all their waking hours waiting to like you and your pics, how can you not believe that you are God’s gift to mankind?

Men seem to be under the impression that we dress up for them. Let me roll on the floor laughing before I shout – you are so wrong! Nope, we dress up for other femmes. Only a woman is capable of noticing the finer nuances of our appearance – the all new plum shade of lipstick, the perfectly tailored trouser that sits so flatteringly on our bum, the brand new clunky watch! And it takes us exactly 10 seconds before we furnish this appraisal. Now turn towards your man and all he will be able to muster is – looking nice, babe! We try our best not look affronted and smile painfully. Yes, it hurts to be called nice. It hurts more if someone calls you cute and it hurts the most when someone has the audacity to suggest – Erm! You look better in your photographs.

Try saying that and you will be hurled out like yesterday’s chapatis.

It’s because all of us would like to believe, that we are prettier and slimmer than our pics. But if you want to risk lifelong affection from us, try looking for our inner beauty. We are suckers for men who appreciate us for the person we are.

My Guest Post for BlogwatiG

2013-02-21T16:05:00.001+05:30

Courtesy - Google Images

We met exactly a year back. She had just ventured into the world of blogging and I was celebrating my blog's second anniversary. It was love at first sight for us. I fell in love with her writing and spread the word around and she has never let me forget that. She calls me her lucky charm, I call her the tigress. She roars, prowls confidently and pounces on what she perceives as unjust. She makes plagiarizers pee in their pants, has little patience for hypocrisy and is never afraid of raising her voice against wrongdoers.

It's requires a lot of will power not to fall in love with Blogwati G.

On the occasion of our blog anniversary (yes, A-Musing turned 3 yesterday) I ponder upon my relationship with him, in God and I.

Before the age of special effects, before innocence was dead, during my frilly frock days – God was my superhero. I believed it was He who could set things right that I had messed up so badly. He was my confidante, my sounding board, the one who listened to my whys and why nots patiently. He was my first strong and silent one before I graduated to Mills and Boons.

Now before you turn around and ask me, why He, why not a She – I’d like to admit that it was because I knew no better. He was meant to protect, while She was meant to nurture and I had accepted this logic without a murmur of protest.

If this has piqued your interest, click here to read more

When We Were Your Age

2013-02-17T18:04:00.001+05:30

Image courtesy - Stock Vector

During my growing up years, festivals and birthdays were great occasions of joy for me. That time of the year when delicious aromas would waft out of the kitchen and I would be hovering around expecting my Mom to invent a miracle that would change the world forever, quite like Marie Curie. For me a hot, syrupy, melt in mouth malpua was a miracle that could cure the world of all its ills.

Ma would pretend not to notice the tiny little hands trying to paw a mishtee or two. Nothing tastes better than a “stolen” cham-cham, its sticky juice running down your arms in rivulets.

Festivals (Durga Pujo for Bengalis) and birthdays also meant brand new clothes. Pujo shopping would start months in advance. Baba would come home early and we’d all drive down to Karol Bagh. Ma would spend hours trying to drive the sari salesman insane with her “aur dikhao” demands, while we would slurp noisily from out bottles of lime and lemoni Limca.

It didn’t matter who we were shopping for. All that mattered was we were together having a good time.

Birthdays meant two brand new dresses and Ma taking the day off for me. Pujo meant animated discussions with friends, all of us trying to impress each other with our windfall of 3 skirts, two frocks and the fancy sandals from Metro shoes.

I didn’t care that none of them had labels, that my coveted croc tees were actually fakes, that the cake was pineapple every year and that I mostly got colour pencils as gifts!

Of course, every year my brother and I were subjected to the mandatory “when we were your age, we got only two sets of clothes every year” lecture, before we got ours.

I can still vividly recount that day when we were waiting for Ma in the market. She was supposed to join us from work. All three of us were waiting outside the Bata store, the minutes turning to anxious hours. I was trying my best to dissolve in my own tears, convinced someone had kidnapped my one and only Mom, when she turned-up, looking all harried and worn out.

These were the pre-mobile days and she had no way of informing us of the nasty jam she had got stuck in.

The pre-mobile and pre-Credit card days, when we shopped for our needs and not as a therapy…When we made a list of what we wanted and carried enough in our pockets to pay for it. Unlike the present, when gratification is instant and repentance awaits a credit card bill.

We go to malls because we have nothing better to do. We buy dresses we don’t need, crib that our closet doesn’t have enough space to accommodate our extravagances and then claim we have nothing to wear.

If we fancy something, we don’t torture ourselves with “do I really need this?” or wait for birthdays or anniversaries to pamper ourselves. We simply swipe our credit cards.

In our quest for making every day special, the special occasions have lost their sheen.

I’m not condemning our evolving lifestyle that caves in to its impulses than deny itself. After all, we are working harder and putting up with unimaginable stress. So, if all it requires is a few extra pairs of shoes to make me happy, why not? I’d rather live for the day, hum zindagi na milegi dobara, as I board the plane for my tri-annual break, than save for a rainy day that I might not live long enough to see.

For those of us who have chosen to stay in the material world, elevating our standard of living is a reasonable objective.

But what I do not relate to is when we use shopping as an excuse to sidestep our problems rather than confront them. I broke up with my boyfriend of seven years... I deserve that clunky watch that I have been eyeing for ten minutes. I hate my boss and I’d rather change my mobile than my job that is sucking the life out of me. I’d rather play golf on weekends than spend time playing with my children, but let me surprise them with an iPad!

No amount of money spent can replace the emotions we invest in a relationship. It most certainly cannot be used to assuage our guilt for not spending enough time with our family.

Funny thing is our love for the excessive doesn’t stop us from sermonizing the younger generation on frugality. It’s now us recounting our growing up years to our kids, trying to get them to value money… When I buy yet another dress for my daughter from Zara, I don’t fail to remind her, when I was your age – we only bought clothes from Karol Bagh!

Because I want her to know, behind the apparent ease with which we acquire modern day trappings, is a lot toil and sacrifice. And what we have today may not last forever.

A Lost Concept?

2013-02-10T16:19:00.002+05:30

Her gentle demeanor belies her razor sharp wit. Alka Gurha of Freebird fame, not only happens to be one of my favourite bloggers but also my favourite blogger friend. Painfully shy, yet so warm, you can't help but fall in love with her. As a writer, she's well-informed, her language impeccable and her wit is like a cherry on the icing.

In this post, Alka reflects on the dying concept of Role Models.

Read on....

‘Who is your role model and why?’ used to be a common essay topic while I was in school. There were options – Mother Teresa, Mahatma Gandhi, Sardar Patel, parents, grandparents.

Two decades later, when my son was in school the topic morphed to, ‘Do we need role models and why?’

Today the concept of role models has lost relevance. We want to chart our own paths, role models be damned.

For one, there is a serious dearth of role models. And since definitions of morality are in a state of flux, black and white have merged together to give us more acceptable shades of grey. What was wrong a decade ago does not evoke the same outrage today.

Income tax raids ruined reputations. You could be a party president today.

A corrupt cop in a Bollywood movie was a baddie. Today he is the mainstream hero who mints millions.

Women drinking in pubs were unacceptable. It is a sign of liberation today.

Unfortunate though it is, staying perched atop the moral pedestal has become increasingly difficult. Be it Tiger Woods, Bill Clinton, Lance Armstrong or Rajat Gupta - the perceived role models are under intense scrutiny. Every move of theirs is scanned, exposed and served on a platter to be dissected by the media. It is a tightrope walk across the hall of fame. People wait for you to slip.

Another idol who turned out to have feet of clay is Lance Armstrong. Once the initial outrage about the use of performance enhancing drugs subsided, we realized that it is not easy to look at the picture from the prism of right or wrong. The onslaught of tweets like, “Your government cheats you of your taxes, your bank cheats you of your hard earned savings, but Lance is who you should be angry with”( @Jonathan Witt) suggested that most of us live in glass houses.

Lance was caught. Many went scot free. Ditto with Rajat Gupta.

Someone else’s embarrassment is always a shared pleasure.

Funny, how we instinctively rally around celebrities to propel them on a moral platform. Soon we, along with the media begin to pull the same people down. It appears as if there is great fun in the entire act of hoisting and de-hoisting celebrities.

This reminds me of Anna Hazare, who has disappeared from the media glare. For a Gandhi reincarnate who was going to purge the nation of corruption, Anna does not enjoy the same status as he did last year. I doubt if Anna has had a change of heart. Where is the deluge of ‘I am Anna’ caps?

Along with Anna, the issue of corruption has also left the centre stage. The burning issue today is gender equality and safety for women. Along with idols, news is also getting ephemeral with the emergence of new news. The only thing shorter than public memory is public enthusiasm.

Very few like Sachin Tendulkar or Amitabh Bachchan have managed to stay afloat as role models. Sachin survived miraculously after his Rajya Sabha nomination. Some were ready to lynch him then and there. Amitabh went through a phase when he was pilloried for everything from acting, to politics, to business. Somehow he has managed to rise like a phoenix.

Given that movies mirror reality and vice versa, Bollywood has become meaner and darker over the years. Sooraj Barjatya’s sugary sweet movies are said to cause diabetes. It is the Dabanggs we love to watch. Perhaps we are grappling with the good bad and the bad good.

So what does this mean?

Since the role model concept is increasingly becoming irrelevant, it is best to draw inspiration from the grit and determination of Lance, the resolve and will power of Anna and the intellect and perseverance of Rajat Gupta.

Perhaps it’s best to accept that to err is human. But to learn from mistakes is divine.

“Role models? Are they the ones who walk on the ramp?” asks my seven year old nephew.

Courtesy - Cartoonday.com

The real story behind the Taj

2013-02-04T09:23:00.000+05:30

Courtesy - jokesPrank.com

Yo Yo Shah Jahan, lay in his chambers, trying to catch grapes with his mouth, thrown by his favourite slave Gulabo. Ever since he had lost 12 of his teeth last month, he had been advised a diet of kakoris and fruits.

So far he had managed to catch 6 with his gums, while the rest lay splattered on his beard. As he sat admiring his reflection in one of the 56 mirrors adorning the walls, he couldn’t help but notice the purple stains on his pristine white beard. They were going so perfectly with his brand new silken pajamas in pomegranate pink. SJ made a mental note to ask his favourite personal hajaam, Habib to create a purple dye exclusively for him. He possibly couldn’t have every Salim, Haleem and Asif sporting the same coloured beard!

He would have to keep it a secret from Mummy-Taz. The last thing he wanted to hear was that harridan rant about his midlife crisis. This is what happens when you have been married for over two decades!

Agreed, he was sick and tired of his job as CEO of Mughal & Co. And who wouldn’t? Imagine having to sit on a jewel studded throne all day, listening to a bunch of losers having no interest in art and music, complain about no rains, no grains and hunger! He’d had enough of being treated as the universal Aunty Agony.

These people just love wallowing in their pool of misery!

This despite the insanely successful Agra Literary festival he had organized for his awam, just last month. Which Emperor spends time, money and effort to promote a book fair under the garb of a lit fest? All the months he wasted sending his messenger boys all over the world, to invite luminaries including Miyan Salman, his many girlfriends and the dark slave Oprah Begum! True, some high caste Hindus had created some needless controversy by blaming corruption on the lowliest. But he had their heads chopped off immediately in the Bazar square.

And how could they forget his annual extravaganza, Jahangir Art Summit. The many sacrifices he made for the sake of art – sitting for hours, nursing a bad back, just to get 23456 portraits of him painted in different-different poses. But he still put himself through this unbearable torture just for the sake of his subjects. Imagining their joy as his, as they spent hours, admiring rows upon rows of his and his many begums portraits!

How foolish of him to assume that discovering the higher purpose of life was more important than hunger!

Yes, he tried water skiing on one leg on the River Yamuma. Went sliding down the corridor inside Fort…Ordered Armani’s Achkan online…had booked a diamond-ruby facial at Shahnaz’s Begum’s hamam! Big deal! It was his damn asharfees that he had appropriated as taxes from the Awam.

He tried telling Begum No. 1 that these were just attempts to overcome the frustration of not being understood. But nah! She was more interested in reading “Fifty shades of grey”!

He knew why Mummy-T was mad at him. He had made her pregnant yet again, for the 14th time. Just last year she had complained of having had enough of popping babies. She wanted to take off on an all-girls vacation to Persia. Stock up on kasturi and pamper herself with the finest silks. Could he help it that the awesome Hakim Sablok concoction of bulls balls, lizard tail and tiger claws, managed to turn him into a virile bull!

He had tried to make up for it with a candle light dinner on Valentine’s Day. Gifted her a 24 carat gold beard he had ordered from Tiffany’s, ignored her ghastly new hair-do and the pan stains on her chin. But she? No sire, she would have none of it and chose to torture him with her infamous silent treatment.

She was in labour now. My God! Can that woman cuss. His face was turning rose red with embarrassment. What will his courtiers think if they hear his begum scream – Khuuuurrrrraaaaamm…befakoof…namakool….may you have to go through labour to feel my pain! He ran to her chambers, as fast as his aging legs could carry him. For Allah’s sake Begum, can you please shutup? I promise to build the greatest erection in your honour - the world’s greatest wife who has never faked a single headache in her lifetime. Just as she was about to slap him, he hastily added – a monument so beautiful, that thousands of years from now, it will become one of the most popular tourist attractions of the world.

She looked calm now.

Shall we name it Wah Taj?

Mummy-Taz said yes! Yes! YES and dropped dead.

As he held the wailing baby in his arms, his mind was F1 racing with plans. Yes, Taj would be a perfect preoccupation for his bored mind.

He must ask his chief architect to start looking for 22000 workers who will willingly get their arms chopped off after the assignment.

Hornsutra - My Guest Post for Subho's Jejune's Diet

2013-02-03T05:53:00.002+05:30

Indian traffic, like our society, is structured on a strict caste system. The bigger you are, the more adventurous you can get. A speeding truck just by the virtue of its size and jalopiness can magically make all traffic scuttle away in fear. If a car has a blinking lal batti, it has the right to abuse you and any rules that come it way. SUVs with Haryana registration number with drivers in Ray Bans enjoy special reverence. Handcarts, bicycles dogs and pedestrians are treated like women are in India. If they get hit or die, they were asking for it.

If this has piqued your interest, I suggest you click here to find out what I'm blabbering about....

Psst...don't miss Subhorup's wickedly green introduction. He blames it all on a cheescake he had one evening.

The Certainty of Uncertainty

2013-01-28T10:08:00.000+05:30

Four days of braving cyclonic storms, tornadoes, torrential rains and finally flooding, dredged out the philosopher-in-hiding.

Image courtesy - http://field4.co.uk/protools.html

What is the first thought that occurs to you when you come to know about a natural/manmade calamity? It’s a feeling of relief, right? That comforting thought that it wasn’t you grieving the loss of a limb or someone you loved deeply. Saying a silent prayer of thanks that it was someone unknown who will be dealing with grief.

It’s a little later you start feeling sorry for the futures lost, luck that chose to play truant, musing on the what-ifs that condemn the afflicted to a lifetime of remorse.

Call me a sadist, but I often imagine myself as the victim. I wonder, in the face of adversity, will I be the one who stays back to help others or simply run for my dear life, putting my conscience on mute. Too selfish to care about others, worried sick about my well-being, my high ideals abandoning me the moment I needed them the most. It scares me to know that there might be a frightened, hysterical coward waiting to come out at the hint of calamity.

How many times have we dealt with tragedy without even feeling a hint of resentment for someone else’s normalcy? Battling the “why me”, “what did I do to deserve this” laments! Blaming our friends and family for not being kind enough, understanding enough and time stretched to pay heed to our distress?

Grief makes us selfish.

They say, it is during our darkest moments we come to face with blinding clarity. Just when we are about to lose it all, do we see truth that we had been seeking all our lives. Realizing, we wasted our precious years confusing the inconsequential for the consequential, putting up with crap when we should have walked away from it! Foolishly thinking that happiness lay in a bigger bank balance, swankier cars, posh vacations, when fulfilment was waiting to be found in the simplest pursuits…Working too hard, pursuing goals that had no meaning and wilfully ignoring things that mattered the most…

Regretting that I did not have the courage to live a life true to myself and not what others expected from me.

Wishing, I had the courage to express what I felt and devoted more time to my loved ones…

If only I had let myself to be happier.
Why do we relegate happiness to the past or postpone it to the future and choose to ignore the present?

Isn’t it ironic, that it’s during the worst in our life, do we realize, what we were taking for granted, and dismissing as mundane was actually a blessing we were turning a blind eye to?

The Krishna Key: Not a Revelation

2013-01-23T15:41:00.001+05:30

She claims to live in a pineapple under the sea. A full time dreamer, an aspring journalist, Ms Tee makes a comeback on A-Musing after a long hiatus.

Courtesy - Google Images

The Krishna Key is Ashwin Sanghi’s third novel, a story that weaves the narrative of Krishna’s exploits with the coming of the “Kalki Avatar”, the tenth avatar of Vishnu and supposed harbinger of the apocalypse.

I picked up this book with certain expectations. The description led me to believe I would be reading a “heart-stopping tale” with a villain who executes “gruesome and brilliantly thought-out schemes”. I will say right at the outset that if you want a coherent plot, you will not find it in this book. It starts off with some promise: a mysterious serial killer, the hard-as-nails Inspector Radhika Singh, a Robert Langdon-like eminent historian Ravi Mohan Saini and his gorgeous assistant/student/muse Priya Ratnani. The narrative builds up slowly, giving the author enough time to enthral the reader with a flurry of factoids. At this point the author’s research, though admirable and extensive, overshadows the plot. Despite my rather harsh review, I do not want to take away from the fact that the book is like all of Sanghi’s work, well-researched. But while I understand that one’s research is dear to them, any self-respecting author knows when to let go. I did enjoy the little excerpts from the Mahabharata at the beginning of each chapter. However, there is next to no character-development, the distinctions between them being so vague that the editor (or the author himself) forgets who’s who and mixes-up the names frequently. The plot then begins losing all sense of progression, and we start skipping ahead as the author remembers that he had started out with the intention of writing a novel and not an encyclopaedia. A hurried romance with a poor semblance of chemistry follows as the protagonists and antagonists magically commute (teleport?) from Gujarat to Tibet and so on with incredible ease and no apparent time lapse.

And did I mention how absolutely uninspiring the female leads are? Yes, they’re gorgeous. Yes, they’re successful. But villain is inevitably belittled (she apparently has no will of her own and is completely carried away by her emotions) and the strong, independent woman is reduced to a mushy, good-girl character.

And then we reach the conclusion. The most inconclusive conclusion I have read in a while. We find ourselves at the typical epicentre of Indian tourism, are fed a conspiracy theory we’ve heard a million times, and then given a pseudo-philosophical, happily-ever-after, love-conquers-all solution. Yay. So glad I read that.

The Curse of the First Born

2013-01-20T11:49:00.000+05:30

Rachna Says, a blog with a phenomenal following, is an eclectic mix of parental advice, personal musings and concerns voiced on social ills that plague us. The woman behind the blog, Rachna Parmar is a spirited woman, with strong opinions and stronger principles. She also happens to be a dear friend who I merrily take for granted.

Just as she had given up on hope that I’ll ever write a guest post for her, I shocked her with this ->

As the lifetime member of SODS (Society of Disgruntled Siblings), I finally unburden my heart of its woes in The Curse of the First Born.

As the young couple hold their labour of love in their arms, their hearts fluttering with excitement at having accomplished such a Herculean task - their bundle of joy snuggles up to its mother’s bossom, blissfully unaware of the travails of being the first born.

Read more.....

The National Treasure

2013-01-16T11:18:00.002+05:30

Rickie Khosla is one of the brightest and inarguably the wickedest in Indian blogosphere. On his blog he offers coleslaw that is crisp, whisked with meaningful contemplations and peppers it with humour that’s always spot on. He articulates about life, people, media, politics and claims to be a Bollywood aficionado, but I suspect he watches Hindi flicks so that he can tear them apart. Read his last post to know what I’m talking about.

Of late Rickie Khosla, Prince of Gobargaon has been eavesdropping in the corridors of the high and mighty and has come up with this priceless scoop!

Presenting *insert drumrolls*
The National Treasure

“This is a disaster!” yells Sonia Gandhi as she facepalms her forehead uncharacteristically. “How could we even let this happen?”

The emergency (yet hidden from the media’s prying eyes) political meeting is taking place at the lawns of Sheila Dixit’s official residence in Delhi. The bright winter sun is warm but doing little to dispel the frosty ambience of the congregation. The news that had been received by the PMO just that morning has pulled the rug from under the political establishment’s feet. “It can’t be true!”, “The media must not find out about this!” and “What will Maya and Mulayam do now?” are the universal exclamations in the corridors of power. (As is “How come Urvashi won Bigg Boss?” but that is off-topic for this post.) Mamata Banerji and Narendra Modi have already rushed to Delhi as they are prone to do under such circumstances. So have most other leaders. All except Jayalalitha, who decides to stay put in Chennai under the perceived threat of a snub.

As the perfectly attired waiters with starched pagdees discreetly serve cream of mushroom soup and assorted nibblers, the political class furiously debates ways to help abate the latest crisis – the imminent loss of a national treasure to an adversarial nation.

Kapil Sibal : But she hasn’t signed the papers yet…

Sushma Swaraj : (shaking her head in acute sadness) But it’s just a matter of time before she does. I vow to shave my head in shame when it happens…

P.Chidambaram : Perhaps the information RAW has is wrong…? Maybe they tapped the wrong person’s phone. There could be many people in that city with the same name, right? It’s a fairly common name, I think.

Pranab Mukherji : (in heavily accented Bangla, or perhaps it is English?) Bhell, honly in Kolkota.

A.K. Anthony : She is the only one there. Actually, even the ISI has indirectly corroborated the news. They threw a big party at their HQ last night. Pitying us on our plight, I’m sure!

L.K.Advani : (shaking fist) Monsters!

Uddhav Thackaray : Thank God she hasn’t moved to Pakistan!

Everyone giggles, but they soon stop. It is simply too painful to joke about what is happening.

More so than anybody, the news has upset Madam Gandhi the most. It means that one more has flown the coop for good. All the bright ones are leaving, she thinks. She wonders about her old apartment in Milan and what it would be like to leave but quickly banishes such thoughts from her mind. Bringing her focus back to the sad old faces seated around her, she demands an explanation yet again but none has any. Uncomfortable silence prevails for several minutes. Sheila-ji offers to break the awful hush by politely mumbling about another round of soup for everyone but is quickly glared into submission by Manmohan-ji through his Coke bottle glasses. The others in assembly dare not look above their potbellies or the soiled napkins in their hands.

Sonia Gandhi : This is your fault. BOTH of you are idiots! Shouldn’t we have done more to lure her back?

Both Sheila-ji and her partner-in-crime look crestfallen.

Sonia Gandhi : First you let her leave, and now this. Do you know what this means? It means she is never coming back now! Never! We have lost a national treasure. She is the BEST in the business! Have you ever read what the others write? It’s ALL GARBAGE!

Sheila Dixit : (sheepishly) But maybe despite this she will still return…?

Sonia Gandhi : What for? How do you imagine that?

Sheila Dixit’s Partner-in-Crime : Maybe she won’t like it there after a while…? They say ‘crikey’ too much…And they are always drunk too. Hooligans!

Sheila Dixit : (adding usefully) And their vegemite! So terrible it is…My son brought…

Sonia Gandhi : (yelling in interruption) WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TWO TALKING ABOUT? Don’t you know that once you have flown Qantas or held a koala in your arms, THERE IS NO GOING BACK!! It’s the POINT OF NO RETURN! And she has probably done both by now. Multiple times!

Sheila-ji sheds a silent tear.

Sonia Gandhi : (suddenly,and excitedly) Let’s call her! Maybe if we beseech her to return, she will come back.

Rahul Gandhi : (cheerfully) Yes, Madre, that is a bellissimo idea! Only you could have thought of it!

Sonia Gandhi : What do you think, Manmohan-ji? Blink once if you agree.

The requisite number is blinked.

Sheila-ji’s landline phone quickly becomes the cynosure of all eyes in the gathering. The speaker option is enabled and an international number starting with country code “61” is dialed.

Purba Ray : G’Day!

Sheila Dixit’s Partner-in-Crime : Hello, Purbaji?

Purba Ray : Yes, this is Purba. (Partly covers mouthpiece to speak with someone with her) Bolte parchi na. Sounds like that Rohtak wale Batra uncle of yours. (Uncovers mouthpiece to resume conversation with the caller) Who is it?

Sheila Dixit’s Partner-in-Crime : This is Hooda speaking.

Purba Ray : (thinking hard) Hooda...? Hooda…who…? Oh, Hooda! Wow, what a surprise! I am such a big fan of yours!

Sheila Dixit’s Partner-in-Crime : You are?

Purba Ray : (excitedly) Yes, Saahib, Biwi Aur Gangster is one of my favourite films! Though I must say, on the phone you sound nothing like you do on screen! You sound…mature.

Sheila Dixit’s Partner-in-Crime : (coughs) Hein?

Purba Ray : You are Randeep Hooda, aren’t you?

Sheila Dixit’s Partner-in-Crime : No, no, this is Bhupinder Singh Hooda, the Chief Minister of Haryana.

Purba Ray : (silence)

Bhupinder Singh Hooda : Hello, are you there?

Purba Ray : (speaking slowly, very surprised) Yes, I am. Sorry, I was not expecting a call from you. I am quite shocked actually! What is this about?

Bhupinder Singh Hooda : We have a very humble request to you. Please come back!

Purba Ray : (sounds ever more surprised) Come back? Where? Back to Gurgaon?

Bhupinder Singh Hooda : Yes, Gurgaon, Delhi…wherever you please! In fact, even Sheila Dixit-ji is with me on the phone. (Looks at Sheila-ji and urges her to speak)

Sheila Dixit : (speaks loudly into the phone) Hello, beta, how are you?

Sonia Gandhi rolls her eyes in disbelief.

Purba Ray : Errm…I am doing well…errm…How are you…errm…aunty?

Sheila Dixit : I am well, too. But beta, iss baar thand bohot padi hai idhar. Heater se bhi kaam nahi…

Bhupinder Singh Hooda : (quickly interrupting) Ok, let’s get back to the reason why we have called you. So, we have recently discovered that you are thinking about acquiring Australian citizenship.

Purba Ray : Australian citizenship? What are you talking about? (Adds, with suspicion) How did you even find out about that?

Bhupinder Singh Hooda : Don’t worry about that. That’s not important.

Purba Ray : But…

Bhupinder Singh Hooda : But, the question is this. Why Australia? What do they have that we don’t?

Purba Ray : Errr…

Mamata Banerji : (unable to control herself, spurts) Don’t forget, if they have Harbour Bridge, our Kolkata has Howrah Bridge!

Purba Ray : But…

Salman Khurshid : Sydney Opera House. Lotus Temple!

Many in the gathering start clapping appreciatively looking around at each other smiling and nodding.

Ajay Makan : And the Indian cricket team under Dhoni is No. 1 in the world. What is the Australia cricket team? A big zero!

The appreciative claps come to a thudding stop.

Sushil Kumar Shinde : (chipping in usefully) Tendulkar!

A smattering of claps resumes.

Suresh Kalmadi : Sports overall, I will say. In fact, we won more Olympic medals this year than Nepal, Bhutan, Bangladesh and Burma. Combined! We are a sporting powerhouse now!

The accomplished gentry continue to look around with appreciative nods and smiles.

Manish Tiwari : Plus our Cinema! Our TV. KBC. Amit-ji!

The claps get even louder.

Purba Ray : I love all that, too. But…

Ghulam Nabi Azad : But? No ifs and buts, please. No thinking about Australian citizenship! You have to come back!

Sachin Pilot : Yes, in fact just tell us who we can send over to convince you. Just tell us! Should we send Salman or Shah Rukh to request you to come back personally? Amitabh-ji? Tell us, who is your favourite film personality?

Purba Ray : It’s Satyajit Ray, actually.

Sachin Pilot : Who is that? (Turns to Mamata Banerji) Sounds like a Bengali star…can we send him there?

Mamata Banerji : (disappointedly) He is no more…he died a decade ago…No doubt the Left Front was responsible.

Sachin Pilot : Dammit!

Purba Ray : That’s all very sweet of you, everyone. But have things improved in Gurgaon? Have they got better in India since I left?

Sheila Dixit : Of course! Have you seen our new Metro? And the Malls in Gurgaon?

Nitish Kumar : (adding helpfully) We even have malls in Patna now.

Rabri Devi nods happily but is quickly stared down by her husband Laloo Prasad.

Purba Ray : But what about the appalling infrastructure there? Women’s safety? Nirbhaya’s story has shaken the entire nation…

Sheila Dixit : (sounding angry) Yes, shame on those rapists. We will hang them and that will solve the problem of rape forever!

The appreciative claps begin again.

Purba Ray : I see. And corruption? How come Kalmadi-ji is attending this meeting? Isn’t he supposed to be in jail?

Kapil Sibal : I can promise you that after this meeting, Kalmadi is going straight back to jail. We only let him out when there are critical meetings like this to attend. Here or in London or Switzerland. So, unless he becomes President of the Indian Olympic Association again, or wins a parliamentary election, we will make sure he rots in jail.

Purba Ray : Yes, that should fix the issue of corruption for good, too…A lesson to everyone.

Several people in unison : Right!

Purba Ray : Then we wouldn’t need that Jan Lokpal Bill either?

P. Chidambaram : Oh that Mango People Party bill? Those fruit salads don’t know how to run a movement let alone a country! We will table an even better bill than the Jan Lok Pal in the next to next session of Parliament.

Sharad Pawar : (correcting quickly) Or the one after that.

Salman Khurshid : Yes, yes!

Purba Ray : I see. By the way, did you know that the streetlights in my lane in Gurgaon were always on the blink? In all the years I lived there, they never worked. Not once!

Bhupinder Singh Hooda : (looking sheepishly at Sonia Gandhi who glares back in anger) Don’t worry, we will fix them right away. As soon as I leave this meeting, I will instruct the local administration to float a tender to replace street lights in your part of Gurgaon. Once the tender is passed by early next year, everything should get better by 2015.

Hooda and Gandhi look at each other. Sonia nods appreciatively at the deft handling of Purba’s googly.

Purba Ray : I see. I guess I should say thank you…?

Bhupinder Singh Hooda : Oh you are welcome ji! So, you are returning to India for good then? Pakka?

Purba Ray : I have to think about it. You know, talk to my husband, my daughter, my hair stylist, maid, girl at the grocery store etc…

Kapil Sibal : Ok, how about we sweeten the deal for you? What if I send you an Aakash tablet? Imagine, it’s like a computer without a keyboard! It’s going to cause a revolution here!

Purba Ray : No, thank you, I already have an iPad.

Kapil Sibal : (not giving up) What if I send you two? Yes, yes, just tell me your address, I will send you two. No, three. We will send you three of them. Modi-ji, can you send her one of the two I sent you?

Narendra Modi quickly nods in agreement.

Purba Ray : I really don’t need it! Thank you for the offer, anyway.

Kapil Sibal : But…(is stopped by a stern look by Madam)

Purba Ray : You see, I love India and all the wonderful things you have mentioned. In fact, you missed mentioning the Taj Mahal that we built in the 1600s, the Charminar, Digboi, Gateway of India! I am sure if we all collectively think very hard, we will surely recall some world beating things we have developed in the past 10-15-20-30 years.

Sheila Dixit : (immediately adding) Like the…

Purba Ray : …Delhi Metro. Yes, we already talked about that! And like you folks also always say – T3 at Indira Gandhi airport…

Kapil Sibal : Yes, the biggest and the best airport man has ever built.

Purba Ray : Yes, of course it is.

Kapil Sibal : And despite all this, you still have to think about coming back?

Purba Ray : Unfortunately, yes! You see I have just adopted a baby koala. He is too cute! I can’t abandon him and return to India!

And just like that, it is all over. The war is lost. Sheila-ji bursts into tears. Chidambaram lifts his lungi and storms out of the premises. Manmohan-ji silently takes off his glasses to dab moist eyes. Even the stoic visage of Madam crumbles as her lower lip quivers to register defeat. And Rahul drops his head on his mother’s lap and bawls like a baby.

It is left for Bhupendra-ji to collect the pieces of a nation’s broken dream.

Bhupinder Singh Hooda : (his voice quivering) A koala…

Purba Ray : Yes, we have named him Bhalloo!

Bhupinder Singh Hooda : In that case, what is left for me to say…

Purba Ray : I am sorry!

The line goes dead.

The room is silent except for Sheila-ji’s and Rahul’s sniffles. Manmohan-ji starts to say something by way of consolation but no words are forthcoming. Madam looks forlorn. But just as the men start to get up in preparation to leave, Madam’s face suddenly lights up. As if she has just had a brainwave! One member of the gathering, who had been silent thusfar, notices the change in Madam’s mood and quickly springs to her feet to draw attention.

Meira Kumar : (looking at Sheila-ji and Rahul) Aap dono shaant ho jayiye. (And to everyone else) Aap sab baith jaiye.

All eyes are on Sonia, who looks triumphant.

Sonia Gandhi : Ok guys, I just had a great idea! What if we kidnap Bhalloo and smuggle it into India?

Meanwhile, Bhalloo is blissfully unaware of the evil conspiracy being hatched in New Delhi.

Brisbane Chronicles

2013-01-13T18:31:00.001+05:30

Just when you’d given up hope that I’d ever write about Brisbane…

Brisbane is not a city many have heard of. Say Australia and most will assume it’s either Sydney or Melbourne. And why not! Isn’t it where our chachera Chacha, Billoo ki mausi and Mrs Gupta’s only daughter live! If a few of you are familiar with the city, you’d probably know it for the iconic Gabba stadium.

Brisbane, the capital of Queensland has less to do with the Queen and more to do with sunshine. Thanks to the missing ozone layer the sun is so harsh that within the first few weeks you start resembling a well-roasted tomato. Skin cancer is a huge scare here and we all slather ourselves with sunblock because our lives depend on it. It does have a Queen Street though named after Queen Victoria. All streets in the central business district (CBD) that run parallel to this street are named after female members of the royal family – Margaret, Charlotte, Ann, Adelaide, Mary, Alice while George, Edward, Albert, William run perpendicular to them. Royalty gets to meet only at intersections.

Locals call the city Brissy. Aussies have this amazing habit of shortening words – after a brekky of coffee and toast, people kill time in office only to get back home to watch footy on TV. Got it? Most are fanatically religious about their fitness regime and it shows and how! If there are some fat Aussies, they have done a good job of hiding themselves from me. All I see is tattooed hunks and women with fantastic figures.

And no Aussie will be caught dead with a bottle of Fosters beer, as the ads will have us believe. Fosters made in Australia is only popular in India.

Flanked by Sunshine coast and Gold coast on either side, Brisbane like most Australian cities is built around a river. In fact the city derives its name from the river around which it sits. My apartment is on the riverside and I can spend the entire day just staring at it. Never a dull moment – one can spot kayaking enthusiasts on a late night outing holding up lights, tanned Greek Gods speeding around in the water scooters, their ex-dads partying in their yacht, the city-cat catamarans busy ferrying commuters, the cafes and restaurants on its banks buzzing with activity. It’s the sounds of laughter and raucous singing by drunk boys and girls that fill up my otherwise quiet days.

The Iconic Story Bridge

Brisbane is quiet and too sane for comfort. Especially when you come from a city that honks, claws, barks its way through the crowds. And what’s worse it goes to bed by 9. But then one can’t help it, if there’s bright sunshine piercing through your curtains at 4.30 A.M!

Late night dining is as alien a concept as chivalry is in my motherland. I spent my first few weeks, raving and ranting about this uncivilized culture that closes shop at 5 and wears a deserted look by sundown. I mean what is one supposed to do in the evenings – watch TV? Thank God, there’s Friday when everyone dresses up in their skimpiest best and parties with a vengeance.

Everyone had warned me that I’d soon become one of them and slip into my pyjamas by nine. I haven’t, at least not yet.

Brisbane River

The Treasury House

Queen Street Mall - Image courtesy Google

There’s lot to do in this city during the day time. One can take a soak with a battalion of noisy kids in the manmade swimming beach pools of Southbank, treat oneself to Italian, Chinese, Greek, Tibetan, Japanese, Indian, Mexican, Vietnamese cuisine in one of the many restaurants dotting the city. Watch movies in the open air theatres, musicals in the Queensland Performing Arts centre, go museum hopping, immerse oneself in masterpieces at the GOMA (Gallery of Modern Art) or take a walk in the Botanical Gardens. James Street has some great watering holes for the undomesticated and the domesticated ones can press their nose against show-windows admiring the Italian pumps retailing for 900 AUD. (1 AUD = appx 58 INR) For antique shopping there’s the lovely Given Terrace in Paddington. For retail therapy there’s the Queen Street mall (where you can also watch some amazing street performances), Westfield Malls, Indooroopilly, Toowong and many more that I have yet to explore. If you are in mood for some adventure, you can always book a climb to Brisbane’s iconic Story Bridge, trek up the lit-up weathered walls of Kangaroo Point Cliffs or go Kayaking down the Brisbane River. And if you want to chill out, book a river cruise and dance to Lady Gaga. For the Vegas feel, you can gamble your accumulated riches at the Treasury Casino House, located in a heritage building.

To get a vantage view of the city, take a bus to the scenic Mt. Coot-tha, the highest peak in Brisbane, where you can sip coffee and take in the beautiful sights. If you want to cuddle up to the Koalas and pat the Kangaroos, head to the Lone Pine Sanctuary, a mere 12 km drive from the city. I promise you won’t regret it!

View from Mt Coot-tha

Weekends get even better – mountain side retreats (Mt Tamborine, Montville), sunny coastlines (Moreton Bay, Noosa, Gold Coast, Stradbroke Island, Manly), tropical rainforests (O’ Reilly, Springbrook, Kondalilla Falls) are all a mere hour’s drive away. If you are in the city, you can browse your way through Farmer's markets.

The city enjoys a warm sub-tropical climate, with warm to humid summer and moderately cold winters. Thunderstorms are pretty common here but enjoy uncommon coverage by news channels. The last time we had a hailstorm, news channels couldn’t stop gushing about it. The Indian in me can’t stop sniggering. Ha! We deal with scams, murders, arsons, rapes on a daily basis and when it rains we get stuck in jams for hours!

My face mostly wears a peaceful look now barring the odd muscle soreness I get for getting too adventurous in my fitness classes. I’m convinced that my instructor is trying to kill me and it certainly doesn’t help that his smile can launch a thousand ships. So, every morning I limp my way to the health club, ready to put myself through some more torture.

If you’re planning to visit Brisbane, make sure you pack a sturdy pair of walking shoes. It’s a great city to walk around, with all its attractions not too far away from each other. If you get tired, you can always catch a bus, take a river ferry, sit in of the cafes and soak the city’s warm vibe, as you sip your coffee. It’s possible someone walking by might pick a French fry off your plate and say hmm! This is quite good! Don’t be alarmed, just put on your best smile and say, wanna grab a beer, mate?

The Law will protect women

2013-01-08T15:35:00.000+05:30

My guest blogger,Cacofonix, he with the acerbic tongue, has got a sneak peek of the freshly minted laws formulated by our venerated MPs to protect our second class citizens – women. In a rare act of benevolence and perhaps aided by a peg or two of single malt, he has decided to share it with the readers of A-Musing.

A country, somewhere near Pakistan and Bangladesh, is embarking on ‘sweeping changes in laws’ to protect its female citizens. The political advisor has told the Perpetually Mum (PM) that the phrase ‘sweeping changes in laws’, according to the bureaucrat’s thesaurus, is really the same thing as ‘sweeping (under the carpet) changes in laws proposed by the civil and uncivil Society’. So, the government can never be dragged to the courts on it.

Members of the law-making elected body (otherwise known as Mutual Parasites or MPs) know what is good for civil society. Which the English-speaking, forever protesting, forever tear-gassed, arrogant members of civil society do not realise. But, the MPs, like truly benevolent parents with the welfare of their children uppermost in their cranial chambers, have chosen to ignore all the barbs being thrown at them, throw out all the inane suggestions made to them, and arrive at a set of carefully thought through laws and procedures that will forever uphold the dignity of women. These are the highlights of some key sections of the draft, presently under review by the committee of Minor Sociologists and Gynaecologists, or in short, Misogynists.

Article 101 Clause 6: It shall be made mandatory for men to wear dark sunglasses after sunset. This will make it difficult for their brains to process visual stimuli such as feminine skin around the gluteus maximus or feminine adipose tissue in the upper quarters. Only policemen will be exempt because they have to catch violators and write challans. Besides, they have a tough job and deserve a bit of excitement after dark. The measure will lend a fillip to the sunglass industry, a sunrise sector, generating employment and getting the country’s GDP back on track. The eyewear will be smartly marketed under the brand name Rape Ban and make the perfect gift for women to give their men on their birthdays.

Article 111 Clause 23: MPs or those aspiring to stand for elections will forfeit their ability to purchase a party ticket (aptly termed because what you get after winning an election is pretty much like a party) after their third rape charge or conviction. It is a big country and there are lots of women out there, so once or twice is okay for chaps climbing up the ladder. But three is a no-no. Especially if you had your sunglasses on.

Article 212 Clause 1: A nationwide campaign will be launched to sensitise men towards the modesty of women. Men must respect women. All men who intend to commit an act of rape or two will have to first sign up on the national register to be made available at the website http://www.i-respect-women.co.in and attend 12 weeks of virtual classroom training on rape etiquette. For instance, how to politely ask a woman “madam, may I please have your permission to engage in a unilateral act of coition?”in Haryanvi, Sanskrit, Hindi, Manipuri and other national languages.

Article 222 Clause 1b: A national fund will be maintained through a surcharge of 10% on income tax payers and income tax evaders. This fund will be used to provide every single woman in India with a mobile recording device, a small notebook and a pencil (pens never work in these situations). A woman will receive extensive training from filmmakers such as Pujya Bhatt and Lakshman Balaram Verma on how to film the proceedings herself and take notes while the man is engaged in an act per Art 212 Clause 1 above. A court of law can hear a case only when there is irrefutable evidence – not all this fancy DNA stuff – and a woman victim can really nail it if she exercises calm and records all that she can. While breathing normally, as one would when one’s airplane is about to crash into a mountain.

Article 222 Clause 1a: This clause precedes Clause 1b above and entails equipping women with rakhis. As advocated by a prominent religious leader, addressing the male as ‘bhaiyya’ and tying the thread around his wrist or whatever comes in hand, often does the trick of putting off the act altogether. For years. The tighter it is tied, the better.

Article 101 Clause 2: Police will be provided clear guidelines on how to register a case. For starters, jurisdiction will lie with the thana where the alleged woman victim’s neighbour’s dog last went for a walk. The woman victim must then be rushed to a government-run hospital in an area whose PIN code ends with the two digits of the year the woman was born. No wishy-washy evasion between police stations on where the FIR is not to be lodged.

Article 400: To douse public outcry, the government will make it mandatory for rape trials to be conducted on priority by the judiciary. The Wall Street Journal has reported there are 95,000 pending cases (the government will take steps to prevent such malicious data going out) to which 13,000 cases get added annually. Fast Track Courts will hear a case within 123 working days (that’s two calendar years after adjusting for leaves and tours), following which High Courts will conduct the requisite screening hearings before the file reaches the Supreme Court. With 26 judges there, taking 42 calendar days on each case, you do the math – the entire backlog will get cleared in 420 years! Applause! Even better, with the judiciary engaged entirely on this social cause, all other court cases on political corruption, scams and murders will not even get a peek before the year 2432.

This way, even the (great)14-grandchildren of political leaders will stay safely in power. While (great)14-grandchildren of pesky civil society members would be numbed to eternal silence – and it was all their own doing.

Neat.

Don’t Confuse this as a Battle of Sexes!

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Courtesy - Google Images

This time we will not look away and pretend that the malaise never existed. We will not look away or convince ourselves that everything is alright. This sickness within our society is growing.

No more putting up with assaults on our dignity. Our voice will now be heard. We, will shout, demand, protest and not let the nation’s conscience rest in peace.

This is not a battle of sexes. This is a cry for the reclamation of our honour, a cry for girls who have to live and work under fear and humiliation. A clash of attitudes between empathy and apathy, the humane and the inhuman, just and unjust…frustration seeking sense in this madness…the voice of sanity dying to be heard…decency seeking a chance at redemption.

This a cry for a safer India that does not look at rapes as conquests, where the righteous can live with their heads held high.

In a nation of law breakers, the last thing we need is yet another law. Laws rarely serve as deterrent to crimes, especially when you know how easy it is to bypass them. It’s a pity, when we witness an accident or an assault, our first thought is not for the victim but about the consequences of reporting a crime. Where the complainant has to make endless rounds of the police station and is made to feel like a petty criminal.

For the common man, police is the last resort. For the police the common man’s travails is yet another irksome irritant. But should we let their apathy deter us? Absolutely not!

Of course it’s a messy state of affairs. Things cannot be expected to and will not change overnight. That’s why it’s pertinent that we keep the flames of our candle light vigils burning. Ensure that this movement is not a fad that gets forgotten like yesterday’s stale news.

She fought against formidable odds, let us make sure her death was not in vain. In our small ways, let’s use our circles of influence to change things for the better. Every effort, every word, every initiative counts.

If 2012 ended on a shameful note, let 2013 be the year where every Indian walked with his/her held high.

A young boy from Guwahati refuses to let "her" memory die. Support him and his cause, please!

http://subhabratadasgupta.wordpress.com/2012/12/30/voices-for-damini-my-humble-initiative/

Damn you, Woman!

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In this country famous for Gandhi and a monument a lovesick emperor built in memory of his wife, being a woman is akin to being a contestant in the Survivor series. The only difference? If she survives, s he gets to win an opportunity to live with dignity.

From age two till she coughs her last, she is a potential victim for men blinded by lust and rage. In a nation where men outnumber women, frustration outnumbers contentment, failure outnumbers success, cries of anguish outnumber sounds of laughter, corrupt outnumber the honest – being human becomes the first casualty. Someone somewhere is invariably waiting to trample upon her self-esteem. In this struggle for power and survival of the fittest – the underprivileged, the fairer sex, the principled have to fight the hardest. They don’t always succeed. But they know they must never give up.

She knows she must never give in. Because if she does, she will be doomed to a life of servitude.

It helps if she is born with silver cutlery in her mouth. It certainly helps if her family wields wealth and power and insulates her from reality.

But God forbid if she nurtures aspirations of being independent and seeks out a life of her own - she is clearly being “adventurous”. If she’s foolish enough to walk the streets or travel in buses, she is meant to be groped and pinched. If the man gets lucky, he even gets to rape her. And for the sake of brotherhood he’s even willing to share his booty with his friends. It’s tough to let go of sharing and caring values he has imbibed since childhood.

There are certain dos and don’ts a woman must adhere to if she’s about to get raped. She must accept her fate gracefully. She should stop being an unreasonable bitch and swallow that feeling of revulsion like a bitter pill.

Simply put, she must surrender if she values her life and intestines.

God forbid, if she dares to act normally – kicks, claws, scratches and screams – she ends up being a vegetable on a ventilator for the rest of her life. Just pray that she dies, so that all those years of joys, accomplishments, the identity she carved for herself, doesn’t get wiped off by a cruel twist of fate and she’s simply reduced to a label - “a rape victim”. As if she never had a name, a life before she chose to get assaulted.

Her most horrific moment gets splashed all over national dailies, becomes fodder for rising TRP’s, and is brandished as an issue that political parties use to settle scores with. She ceases to be human.

Some will google for pics of her mauled vagina, others will call her a braveheart for having the will to live and a few will feel her anguish and cry for her fate. Women who take to the streets demanding justice for her will be dismissed as dented and painted. The police will smirk, and give candid views on women who file rape charges, passing them off as prostitutes who didn’t get paid.

Every time a woman gets mauled and assaulted, it is not just a travesty of her fate, because what follows is much worse. The shame, the ridicule, the disbelief she has to put up with doesn’t let her heal. Ironically it’s the perpetrator who walks off with all the sympathy – poor boy! He couldn’t help it. It was she who tempted him.

There will be men who will be man enough to stand up to this injustice, get beaten up by bullies because they are simply hindrances to their act of pleasure. Men who will hang their heads in shame on behalf of those for whom machismo is a misunderstood concept and for whom women are ‘objects’ waiting for their stamp of ownership.

For every brutal assault on her dignity, it is she who has to pay by forsaking her freedom. She will be asked to cover up, ordered to stay home and forsake her dreams for the sake of her honour and her family’s. The more she tries to take flight, the more they will try to pull her back.

While those men will continue to strut the streets looking to prey on another girl foolish enough to believe in herself.

Damn you girl! Your parents should have killed you the day you were born, like so many others do.

But they didn’t. They chose for you to live.

Don’t give in, don’t give up. Because struggle today is for the sake of a better tomorrow. A tomorrow, where you can be what you want to be, without a hint of apology.

RIP Amanat, may you have a better life next time.