A-Musing

Holier than cow hypocrisy

2012-02-10T09:19:00.000+05:30

Indiavision.com

This was breaking news with a difference. Caught live on camera were Karnataka’s honourable ministers indulging in a not so honourable deed. While the rest of the Vidhana Soudha was busy debating mundane issues such as drought, three ministers were busy tackling erection issues. So engrossed were these gentlemen in watching naked women on their tiny mobile screen that they were blissfully unaware of the television cameras zooming on them from behind.

Not porn silly! It was a performance review and they were simply trying to rise to the occasion!

Reminds me of the backbencher attitude typically seen in school kids. While the teacher is breaking into a sweat trying to explain how x must equal y, the boys at the back are busy drawing the class hottie’s bra strap in their note book.

But these are adults and not hormonal adolescents. And not just any male adults, but elected representatives, who were given a portfolio so that they could serve the very electorate that voted for them. Whether watching porn is right or wrong is another matter all together. If google search statistics are anything to go by, it’s a national pastime. This is what happens when people grow up watching filmy flowers kiss and parents who insist that no bodily function contributed to their birth. Curiosity didn’t kill the cat; it gave birth to an industry called porn.

The issue here is not some ministers indulging in juvenile behaviour. It is about political hypocrisy of the perennially pious. I understand that private lives of politicians is entirely their business but not if it contradicts their moral hectoring in public. It is the same CC Patil who just a month back was acting as the high priest of the moral brigade, loftily giving advice to women to cover up to escape sexual assault on streets. What a convenient way of absolving men of any responsibility for their libidinous nature! Mind you, this is a minister who handles the women and child welfare portfolio. Somebody tell him please, that there is no connection, never has been and never will be, between rape and what a woman wears. Sir, don’t try to fault our “skimpy” clothes when the trouble lies with the filth you carry in your mind. And how well you illustrated it - drooling over nude images and violating the sanctity of the assembly. S howing utter contempt for decorum and people who brought you to power.

What made it worse was the lack of remorse and the clumsy lies these men cooked up to defend themselves. As if watching rape footage makes them less sleazy! Thick skinned liars and they have the gall to issue diktats on moral behaviour. If Ram Sene can display uncharacteristic zeal in thrashing youngsters indulging in PDA, why can’t they beat up these cads for disrespecting the legislative assembly?

Hum karein to salaa character dheela hai?

What’s ironic is that these gents belong to a party that loves flaunting it’s holier than cow attitude. BJP – that has spent a lifetime as a party-in-waiting, boasts of a geriatric high command that specializes in high octane protests and walk outs and doesn’t waste an opportunity to demand resignations on moral high grounds.

So immersed is the party in its single minded pursuit for power that it is blissfully ignorant of the asses it’s breeding in its own party. And when they get exposed, look how they jump to their defence. Karnataka CM Gowda tried to dismiss it as yet another conspiracy by the Opposition and felt his three idiots had no reason to feel sorry!” According BJP leader Parrikar “They (the three Karnataka ministers) were only watching and not doing it in action". God forbid! If we are subjected to the torture of watching a live telecast, the entire nation will be walking around with a haunted look in their eyes.

BJP is not exactly known for being amenable to reason. They are illiberal and intolerant, prone to violence; and they would not mind manufacturing communal disharmony, which includes riots, when it suits them. All this in the name of protecting Indian culture and heritage. But it comes to dealing with its rogue ministers like Yeddyurappa or Maderna, it lacks courage and conviction. Politics wins, principles can go for a toss.

Ironically such hypocrisy is across the political spectrum and not just the prerogative of the Congress or BJP. Time and again we vent frustration at the intolerance our leaders breed to freedom of expression. Sadly these antiquated views stem from the desire to endear themselves to certain sections of the society rather than a personal conviction. Go ahead and play to the gallery but not at our expense! As citizens of a free country, shouldn’t we be free to decide what we want to read and watch! Why can’t we express what we feel, without the fear of censorship? Why this constant moral policing by double faced politicians who condemn a rave party in public and derive perverse pleasure in watching its clips in private?

Isn’t it time we asked you to just shut up and prove your usefulness to the country?

No Country for Young Girls

2012-02-05T12:14:00.002+05:30

mrpshow.deviantart.com

I am a resident of the rape capital of a country that has been recently certified by a UN report as the deadliest place in the world for the girl child. Am I surprised? No, but I’m definitely ashamed to be part of a nation that kills, abandons, rapes and sells its girls. A Devi worshipping society that murders its female foetuses before they are born. The birth of a daughter is not celebrated but bemoaned. Small towns boast of clinics that offer “ultrasound” services. Badhai ho says the lab technician while he pats the father’s back and informs it’s a boy.

Thanks to sex determination, fewer girls are born, if they are born they do not survive, if they survive, a far from rosy future awaits them. The sex ratio is heading south and things have come to such a stage that in certain parts of the country, prospective grooms are forced to buy a bride. And do you know what happens when a bride is bought? She is treated no better than a slave.

In Punjab and Haryana, there are only 830 girls per thousand boys. Other states are faring no better. No wonder sex crimes are on the rise. Logic will dictate that since girls are fewer, they will be valued. On the contrary, it encourages abuse. Girls often get abducted, drugged, beaten and forced into sex trade.

I know what you are thinking. Why is she painting such a grim picture? Such things don’t happen to our girls! We pamper our daughters, we treat our mothers with respect. It’s a malady restricted to the lower echelons of the society. Yet, educated women get harassed for dowry and are driven to suicide. They might have to face a sexist boss at work or fend off an amorous colleague. A young college girl was shot dead by her stalker. A woman was chopped into pieces by her suspicious husband. A daughter was brutally killed by her family for the sake of honour. Her mother didn’t shed a single tear.

Incidents of rape have increased by a staggering 792% (yes you read it right) over the last 40 years. Ironically the conviction rate in rape and molestation is a dismal 27%. Men know they will get away with it. They can always point fingers at her and say – she asked for it.

I have countless memories of getting brushed inappropriately, of a seemingly harmless pat that lingered too long, of men stalking me. Young girls are the easiest target – they are unable to comprehend and mostly too scared to react. As a young girl it baffled me, now it fills me with fury. Was I asking for it?

I agree on certain fronts, women have never had it better – they are leading successful companies, heading governments, defying conventions, going where no woman has gone before. ICICI’s Chanda Kochhar became the first woman to get the ET Biz leader award. Mamata Banerjee overthrew the CPI(M) after 34 years of misrule. The country’s PM reports to a woman.

I have a theory here, most men have a problem handling assertive women. They do not know whether they should treat her with awe or contempt. If she says what she thinks, she’s a bitch. If she has guy friends, she’s a slut. If she wears makeup she’s fake, if she doesn’t she is a behenjee. It’s like one cannot do anything without being labelled.

The more she tries to move forward, the more she’s pulled back. You had no business being out so late at night. You were drunk, what were you thinking! How dare you spurn my advance! You need to be taught a lesson.

I know many of you will dismiss it as yet another feminist rant. But remember, next time it could be someone you love. No one is safe. Families, who don’t think twice before snuffing life out of their baby girls, remember there will come a time when there will be no women left for your darling boy. Will you also buy a bride?

I have been seething with rage ever since I read about the battered baby Falak fighting for her life at AIIMS trauma centre. The two year old baby girl was admitted with severe bruises on her body, broken arms, head injuries and bite marks on her body. The perpetrator of this crime, a 14 year old girl forced into sex trade. The child is fighting for her life but you know what! I don’t want her to live. Falak will grow up in a country where even an 80 year old destitute woman gets digitally raped by a 19 year old boy. A boy young enough to be her grandson.

Minds are getting dirtier, crimes nastier. Perversion knows no limit. We need to stop letting our daughters believe they are the weaker sex. They should be able to defend themselves physically and not hesitate in reporting such instances. You are weak only if you think you are. You are a victim only if you suffer silently. We need sensitivity, intervention and engagement. If a crowd of ten witnesses a man trying to molest a woman, should they not intervene? What stops them from thrashing cads who think a woman is no more than an object. If you choose to be a mere spectator, you are guilty as well! Laws punishing sexual assault exist but we need stricter implementation. It’s not just a physical assault, its mental trauma and loss of faith. Such cases should be dealt with sensitivity and not sympathy.

I know it sounds harsh but shouldn’t men who abuse babies and toddlers be sent behind bars for life! Or better still, they should be castrated! Isn't it time we started demanding zero tolerance!

Till then this is no country for women.

Source :-

http://articles.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/2012-02-01/edit-page/31012635_1_adoption-procedures-guardian-and-wards-act-ngos

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/India-deadliest-place-in-world-for-girl-child/articleshow/11707102.cms

http://www.economist.com/node/18530371

When my heart went vroom vroom

2012-02-01T11:04:00.000+05:30

Cartoonstock.com

Like any another young girl, I used to find bikes and bikers incredibly hot. Not the paunchy, uncle type but the dude in unwashed jeans who zig zagged past your dad’s car. With a messenger bag slung carelessly across his chest, his muscled forearm expertly revving up his mean machine – didn’t you all follow him with puppy dog eyes, steadfastly ignoring the kid brother smirking on the seat next to yours! The hot one invariably had a cool femme clutching to him for dear life, her tresses flying silkily behind her. How many times have we tried to catch his eye as he waited impatiently at the red light crossing! I did it all the time.

Girls love fantasizing about bad boys. It’s another matter that they prefer settling down with the enfant terrible’s nerdy brother. Risk is hardly conducive to a happily ever after.

We did have a neighbour who fancied himself as a biker dude. Actually he wasn’t exactly a neighbour but G Aunty’s lover. G Aunty a loud, over dressed woman who fancied herself as Rekha’s local avatar, loved throwing parties. Not the regular parties but the type that had lots of gana, bajanaa and uncles ogling at girls shaking their booty to – jab chhaaye mera jaado koi bachh naa paye...Haaai.

Every time I walked back from the bus stop, he would be squatting and giving his machine a vigorous polish. But he was stocky, balding, kind of ugly, very-very old and sartorially challenged. When you are fourteen anyone above twenty seems ancient. Munna Bhaisahab(his universally accepted nick) walked with a swagger and even had a wife. She hardly looked like the suffering, embittered spouse. I guess she was glad to get him off her back.

But I refused to let such unsavoury memories mar my dogged devotion to the biker clan.

When I finally got a chance to ride a motorbike I was terrified. Since the chap driving it was not a boyfriend, I couldn’t even cling to him for dear life. I must have looked quite a sight, sitting ramrod straight, looking petrified. My dying to be boyfriend in college would often try to lure me for a date with the promise of a bike ride. But my brother used to call me Mother Teresa and I tried my best to live up to the title bequeathed upon me.

I did date a biker chap briefly. In fact he was my long time crush. When he finally deigned to look at me, I collapsed like a pack of stacked cards. I often hear boys complain about girls or rather the lack of them. In my opinion most of them don’t even know how to treat a girl right. Imagine sitting in a restaurant with your “Greek god”, all you can notice is the coy looks directed at him from left, centre and right - yet he has eyes for no one but you?

My Greek God now looks like a worn out gent and I can’t stop thanking my lucking stars for not having ended up with him. Getting together is easy when you have moved apart.

God always rewards good girls and look what he had in store for me - a man who was an answer to all my prayers. And what’s more he HAD A BIKE and muscled forearms! Since we were to get married in six months and I was desperate to make the most of our courtship. Unfortunately my parents’ idea of a rendezvous with my fiancé was rather unusual. The entire family would frolic together at the Baha’i temple/Mughal Gardens/some other random park. So it became my responsibility to engineer our dates. It was during this phase I discovered my innate talent for fiction. Sudden emergencies would crop up, I had to save my distressed friends, submit a form urgently and who else would come to my rescue but my Superman on his bike! And did we have fun whizzing all around the town. Me clinging to his warm back, almost throttling him with all my unspent passion... Laughing at his jokes including the unfunny ones and him keeping a straight face when I would turn up with my eyelids smudged with a violent shade of blue... At 22, my make-up sensibilities were rather awkward. What I lacked in skills, I would make up with myriad colours.

I was now married to a biker dude and I was on a high – is that what you think right? It’s only when I started co-habiting with one, did I realize I had a rival vying for my beloved’s attention. Every weekend he would spend inordinate hours grooming his bike. Admiring it from different angles, giving anguished cries when he discovered little scratches and when I would say it’s just a stupid bike – he would make me the unwilling recipient of his aggrieved looks. Boy! Did it make me mad! To make it worse, I couldn’t even scream at this inanimate object! So I silently put up with it and whined once in a while.

I whined louder every time I had to plonk myself on its backseat to commute. My short hair instead of swaying silkily would billow in perpendicular direction, a million acne would merrily erupt on my face and my nose would be assaulted by the traffic smells. By the time I got off from my high horse, I would be looking like a war ravaged victim from far off Bosnia. Soon I adopted an all new look to save my face – a scarf covering everything visible above my neck, an oversized shade resting on my nose bridge, a wind cheater to protect the rest of me. Why! I even had a cute pair of gloves to wear in the evenings. I was now looking like a commando out to bomb Bosnia.

As newly married we would often get invited to dinner engagements and parties. God forbid if the host decided to see us off. He had put up with agony of seeing us layering up painfully. Just as he was about to say Achha Betaa bye, out came another jacket, cap or scarf! Just like another rabbit from the magician’s hat.

My ride was no longer thrilling, it was a pain. It was either too hot, too cold, too wet for a motor bike. On long trips I would bury my face behind his back and wait for my ordeal to come to an end. My romance with the bike had come to an abrupt end. Just eight months into our marriage and I made him buy a car.

Our biking travails are now part of folklore – little nuggets we sometimes share over a cup of tea.

The other day as I was waiting at the traffic junction, I spotted a dude on his bike – scruffy, almost handsome, his bag slug carelessly; he was tapping his foot impatiently. And I giggled like a school girl, a little self consciously. But when he took off like a maniac, zipping through lanes I crinkled my nose in disdain. Show off, I muttered under my breath.

The woman took over the young girl in me and I sighed wistfully!

Life etc.

2012-01-24T12:00:00.000+05:30

Courtesy : Wisie.com

Compassion and I have been best friends for as long as I can remember. I was all of four when I tried to save half a dozen fish from drowning. As I was engaged in the earnest endeavour, dragging them out of the school water tank with a stick, I fell in the pool of freezing water. I was trying my best to drown when an insensitive lout of a school peon pulled me out. Instead of being nominated for bravery awards and made to sit atop an elephant on Republic Day, I was taken to the Principal’s office.

Let me announce at the onset that this is a pointless post. In fact I don’t even know what I am going to write about. Aren’t there times when you venture out for a walk and have no idea where you are heading? You just know you want to be outside, so you inhale the scent of the Hasnuhana trees, admire the striking couple that passes you by, pat the Labrador as it looks at you with those lugubrious eyes. You don’t have to keep a tab on the kilometres you walk, no calories to burn, no destination to reach. Aimlessness can be liberating - it frees you from expectations and you have no disappointments to fear. I wish life could be like that.

Today I will let my thoughts meander. I have no news to share, no point to make, I may not make you laugh, but I still invite you to join me on this journey. It’s no fun being on your own.

Nostalgia is a seductive mistress. How often have we huddled together with friends and family and dipped into the vat of collective memories for some succour. We laugh ourselves silly, sometimes blame each other for unspoken torment and invariably end up confessing our so called misdemeanours. Like the time when my Dadu banned me from reading the Godfather and I still went ahead and read it. At thirteen when I tried shaping my eyebrows, I ended up snipping away half of it. For weeks I faced the world looking like Spock from Star Trek. Every time Ma said No to me, I went ahead and did it. They were my small victories and I cherished each one of them.

I was always restless, I still am. My daughter tells me she gets tired just looking at me. I can’t sit still, I can rarely relax and always need something to keep me occupied. I work myself to exhaustion and crib about it. Is it because I am scared to face the eternal ‘what next’? Is it because I have no clue what it’s going to be? Of course I know what I will be eating for lunch and dinner for the next seven days – that’s how organized I am. But I do wish that I could let go. Surrender myself and let time take me wherever it wants to. Not be consumed with a sense of guilt about wasting it.

They say as you grow older, you lose your sense of wonder. The world becomes a habit. How tragic that most people have to get ill before they understand what a gift it is to be alive! Yet we prefer to immerse ourselves in the mundane. We battle with deadlines, get stressed, complain about lack of time. What a waste of life.

I feel compassion has become a thing of the past. It is getting replaced by cynicism instead. And if empathy does exist, it is reserved only for our own plight. Poor me, what a hard life I have.

We mourn the past and wait for happiness tucked away in the distant horizon. I feel sorry that that the current generation has become acquainted with political realism and cynicism, so early in life. It has robbed them off their innocence.

Have you noticed on public platforms how fashionable it has become to express outrage – at the system, the boss, our colleagues, our friends who have no time for us. Nothing seems perfect anymore. How easily we judge, how easily we make fun of others. A part of me was feeling sorry for Schettino(captain of the ill fated Costa Concordia) dubbed as Captain Coward by the International press. After all he acted purely on instinct, to save himself from the sinking ship. Agreed it was him who engineered the catastrophe. But do you know how you will react when your life is under threat?

When some crazed person shows throws a shoe at Rahul Gandhi, our first instinct is to crack jokes at his expense. When Barkha Dutt threatens to take legal action against a troll, we make a nasty #BarkhaBarks in her honour.

What if it’s you the next time?

Hate is expressed so casually that it scares me. Temper is not meant to be lost but held for dear life. In this age of online scorn and public break-ups, it has become so easy to delete relationships. One stray, uncomfortable incident and we are ready to block the unfortunate soul for the rest of our lives. It has become so much easier to despise than love.

But then I am over-generalising and resorting to intellectual laziness. What may be true for many may not be true for you. It’s passion that makes us achieve the unachievable. It’s love that makes life so beautiful. And it’s enthusiasm that is the most potent aphrodisiac.

Let’s not embrace cynicism so easily. Let’s not think of love as dispensable. And never underestimate the power of positive thinking- it is just another term for faith. Your unconscious mind has the power to turn wishes to reality. Believe me once you make up your mind nothing is unachievable.

And this reminds me I have to save the fish I saw drowning in the aquarium nearby. I could certainly do with some help. So who’s joining me?

Singapore on your plate

2012-01-18T11:17:00.000+05:30

It’s not every day that you get a call from a blogger friend asking if you’d like to accompany him to a Singapore themed culinary fest at ITC Maurya,New Delhi. And when he does, you drop all your plans (even that lunch date with your school buddies), like a hot potato and say yes-yes-yes.

The Travelling Pop-out Kitchen

Singapore-Takeout, a one of a kind concept is a travelling pop out kitchen with more visa stamps on its passport that you and I can manage in a lifetime. This multi-city, international culinary show organized by Singapore Tourism brings the country’s famed diverse cuisine to your doorstep. Even though it’s been over three years since my last visit to the island country, my taste buds still tingle with the memory of Chilli crabs at Jumbo, the pungent Nyonya curries, spicy Laksa, Hainanese chicken rice and baskets of dimsums we sampled at the many restaurants and Hawker centres. The lion city is a cornucopia of flavours with Malay, Chinese, Indian and Perankan influences and leaves you spoilt for choice.

Hun Kwee Jagong- coconut corn jelly.

This was my chance to revisit my foodie memories in apni Dilli itself. And when you have expert chefs cooking up a storm, you arrive with your heart singing in E minor and tummy doing a merry tap dance.

Chef Benjamin Seck

On the menu was Popiah Goreng (fried spring rolls), followed by Nyonya Prawn curry with Jala roti, a Singapore inspired Laksa Pulao and anti pasti themed around Asian flavours. The meal would be ending on a sweet note with Hun Kwee Jagong- a coconut corn jelly. With award winning Peranakan Chef Bejamin Seck at the helm and ITC chefs Rajkamal Chopra & Manisha Bhasin giving the Indian touch– we were feeling like excited kids waiting for our Christmas treat.

Jala Roti topped with Nyonya Prawn Curry

It was more than a treat; it was a journey as we watched these wizards dish out one masterpiece after the other in the live kitchen. Chef Benjamin crafting the Jala roti on his pan was undoubtedly the star of the show. The flour and coconut milk pancake has a delicate net like structure which is inspired by the intricate lace work found on a traditional Peranakan dress. The unique Peranakan or Nonya food is a unique blend of Chinese, Malay and Indonesian flavours and combines aromatic herbs & spices such as lemongrass, chillies, tamarind paste and coconut milk in its dishes. They say your visit to Singapore is incomplete till you have sampled the famed Nyonya curries.

The Jala roti topped with prawn in curry was a clever combination of the melt in the mouth pancake that had so beautifully absorbed the piquant flavours of the prawn curry.

Laksa leaves

One of my favourite dishes is the Laksa (a soupy noodle dish) but what I didn’t know was that Laksa is actually an aromatic leaf that is ground to a paste to lend flavour to the broth. ITC Chef Rajkamal had reinterpreted this classic Singaporean dish by incorporating it into a Pulao. The unusual blend of Laksa paste with Indian masalas had us licking our bowls clean.

Next in line was Chef Manisha’s fusion inspired signature dish. She had ingeniously used the methi-dhania papdi as a canapé to serve a lemongrass ceviche & scampi and drizzled it with a dash of galangal and imlee chutney. Accompanying it was Chicken Tikka marinated with Laksa paste to give it a Singapore twist. Her jugalbandi of Asian antipasti was a winner and she had plated it beautifully.

The Asia inspired Anti Pasti

The popiah was crisp with a crunchy veggie and noodle filling but what had our taste buds tingling was the tangy sauce that complimented it perfectly. Never has a simple combination of vinegar with chilli paste tasted so good.

Popiah with tangy vineagar chilly sauce

I was now behaving like a true blue food presenter on TLC, savouring the yummy delicacies with my eyes closed, jabbering incessantly about the flavours and textures. But I made sure that I didn’t let my prankster friends capture my inimitable expressions on their cameras lest they try to blackmail me with my ugly pictures.

Time flies faster than light when you are with friends and good food. And I had to run faster than light when I discovered that I had nine missed calls from my driver. But I parted with memories of a luncheon that was so Singapore in its essence - sparkling conversation, affable hosts and a cuisine that never ceases to surprise.

They say dining is one of Singapore’s national pastimes and I now know why. With a tantalizing array of cuisines to suit everyone’s taste and budget, this gastronomic global destination is a foodie’s delight.

Singapore I’ll be back and my stomach just gave a high five!

Pictures and invite courtesy Snow Leopard (my self proclaimed nephew). Thanks Rituparna, Deeba, Madhav and all you lovely people whose name I forgot to ask, for the good time I had.

Secret Cow Facts

2012-01-11T19:55:00.000+05:30

All that you wanted to know but didn't know who to ask.

istockphoto.com

India can save the world or so the scientists at Bee Jay Pee Research laboratories would have us believe. They have stumbled upon a breakthrough that will fetch them a tsunami of accolades. China will feel like a cretin, CERN will turn a beetroot red and Pakistan will sulk and go green. Finally India will be every neighbour’s envy. Speculations are rife that the research team is now a strong contender for the Nobel Prize. Not just one, but all categories. Like a true blockbuster it is strongly backed by fiction, has sizzling chemistry and can usher in world peace. This hitherto unknown headquarter of the geniuses which is on a headline grabbing spree, is located in Tikamgarh, an unsung hamlet of a Middling State. The scientist community is abuzz with excitement. It’s not every day that a third class research centre manages to produce such first class results.

Imagine coming up with a mother of magic potions that is an answer to all your miseries! And what’s commendable is that they did not even have to seek out Harry Potter’s help! Liberal quantities of it can insulate you from nuclear radiations. All you have to do is coat the walls of your house with this brown goo and voila you can say bye-bye to all your fears of apocalypse. Its application can prevent C- section and ensure normal deliveries for women. It is still not clear how and where it should be applied. This magic potion found in abundance in India, can be picked straight off the roads and fresh samples can be procured from bovine behinds. Yep...I am talking about the humble cow dung.

Hold your Bullshit please, there’s more to come!

For all of you who find cow dung too icky, you can always turn to the cow next door for bovine comfort.

According to Bhartiya Gauvansh Sanrakshan Va Samvardhan (BGS&S) only cow can save mankind: just touching a cow can stabilize blood pressure! BJP Rajya Sabha MP Meghraj Jain has gone a step ahead and extolled humanity to leave themselves at the mercy of the cow. “To escape death just touch a cow”. Shankar Lal, chief of Akhil Bhartiya Gauseva has asserted that children who drink only Hindu cow’s milk become more obedient. Foreign breeds only give poisoned milk and can cause heart attacks and autism. Glugging a glass of gai ka doodh everyday can turn you into model citizens.

Sri Sri Snow Varma even went on to suggest that Cow piss is rich in Vitamin Eww. Results are still awaited.

So impressed is China with our Cow-theory that they have decided to rename Macau to Maa-cow.

Hospitals have ditched their expensive equipment and sent their Doctors on a permanent vacation. All they need is a herd of cows to waive off our medical ailments. Touch wood is so passé now that touch cow is here. Scientists at CERN are so heartbroken that they have ditched their quest for God particles and are now studying bovine movements. A bunch of them were spotted in Haridwar, chasing an alarmed looking cow with a bowl in hand.

But after the suggestion that drinking cow’s milk leads us to commit fewer crimes authorities at Tihar are a worried lot. Will Tihar soon turn into a retreat for errant politicians? Imagine a nation of hale and hearty citizens who commit no crimes and spend their spare time attending satsangs!

But Doodhwallahs nationwide will not let our country go to dogs. They have been taking appropriate measures to ensure we never get to drink pure milk. Thanks to their enterprise we consume milk fortified with detergents, fat and even urea. I am proud to say, we in India drink adult-rated milk!

And thanks to the concerted efforts of Bee Jay Pee laboratories, India is shining again. Nothing gives me more pleasure to know that I am part of a nation that loves its animals so passionately. Only in India we value cows (and its excretions) more than humans and have stringent laws for their safety. Even world famous in India Dhanush, owes his success to holy cow. It was his rendition oh my lovvu/ you showed me bouv-u/cow-u cow-u holi cow-u that made us loose our senses and exclaim once more…once more!

It pays to be cattle class in this country.

And why just cattle! We love our haathis so much that we spend crores covering them with pink. Only in Maya’s own country will you find an elephant in purdah.

Now I am having serious doubts about my lowly human existence. I work hard, think too much, stress, cry, become sick with worry and spend sleepless nights pondering upon the purpose of my existence. Am I doing enough, am I wasting my time? Am I a good mother? Have I failed as a wife? Is my writing good enough? I am sick and tired of these thoughts.

What’s worse, I have more duties than rights. I watch helplessly as I see our polity give precedence to their self interest over the nation’s. Yet I cannot express my disenchantment on social networks lest big Daddy Sibal sends me to jail.

I seek a life where I just have to think about my next meal and not worry about a bank balance...Where I can plonk myself in the middle of the road and swat flies with my tail...Have a bunch of uneducated buffoons trying to convince the world of my importance...

In my next birth I want be a desi cow. God! Are you listening?

Source : http://www.indianexpress.com/news/bjps-cow-dung-gems-stops-csec-nradiation/897891/

My Crystal Ball Predicts...

2012-01-08T19:00:00.000+05:30

Courtesy blippitt.com

The road to Baga beach is almost empty. The taxi union after taking the pledge to go green has sold off their taxis and are now giving free piggy back rides. The shops selling genuine fakes have now turned into physiotherapy centres. The shopkeepers spent a fortune buying their degrees from the neighbouring state. As I walk towards Tito’s, I notice a huge crowd on the beach. They have all assembled to hear Anu Jalota sing bhajans. Jalota looked quite fetching in a bandhni lungi and Doc Martins, his six packs gleaming under the moonlight. Nearby at Zanzibar, the world- famous- in- Goa shack, they are serving lauki juice. Since it’s happy hour, one can get two glasses for the price of one. Hey isn’t that Vijay Mallya glugging a tall one!

Somewhere in Delhi, inside a well designed by Lutyens & Baker half a century back, Sushma Swaraj is giving an impassioned speech. With his face resting on his palms, Kapil Sibal is listening to her with rapt attention and admiring her Patola sari. Just as Ms Swaraj finishes her debate, Manu Singhvi starts applauding wildly shouting bravo-bravo. Sushma blushes a beetroot red and does a silent adaab.

In Lucknow, Maya is giggling softly as she unwraps her Valentine’s gift from Rahul G. It’s a cute jumbo with a heart sown on it. She shyly puts a garland of currency notes around its neck.

Mamata Di has finally learnt a new word – Yes. It took 72 back-to-back episodes of Yes Minister to get it into her head.

MMS – the silent sardar’s weekend soiree was a hit. The ghazal renditions in his velvety baritone left the audience asking for more. People afflicted with an acute case of hypermetropia could almost mistake him for Jagjit Singh(may his soul rest in peace). The TV cameras were quick to capture a man swaying wildly at MMS’s feet. Only when the gamchha came off, did the audience realize that it was none other than Kiran Bedi. Kejriwal was thumping his tabla energetically, his shampooed hair bouncing with a life of its own.

Salman Rushdie was spotted cozying up to Tasleema Nasreen on the streets of Nice. When the paparazzi started following them, Rushdie screamed #Shame at them before disappearing into the dark alleys.

With Kiran and Kejriwal discovering their love for music and Manmohan, Anna now has to fend for himself with only the Bhushans for company. The self-proclaimed Gandhian has now adopted a unique form of protest to bring the government to its knees. He now eats non-stop till Pranab Da comes running to him, begging him to stop. Shri Hazare will soon be enrolled for Jane Fonda’s aerobics for the elderly.

The National survey has thrown a few surprises with Mumbai emerging as the cleanest city, Delhi the safest and Bangalore with the least traffic. And now that Chennai is the new fashion capital, all Fashion weeks will be held in Amma’s own country.

Hollywood hotties, Ryan Gosling and Eve Mendes were spotted wearing monkey caps and Hermes lungis are a worldwide rage.

Finally Bollywood has come up with its first crossover hit – Amar Akbar Anthony(AAA) starring Amir, Sallu and SRK. Their Mom, the role essayed brilliantly by Bipasha, is a wrestler who goes to Beijing to participate in the Olympics. Instead of winning any medals, she comes back with triplets. The movie revolves around these youngsters who must find their Dad, so that they can get him to pay alimony. AAA are desperate to get her off their back. In the movie Sallu romances Angelina Jolie’s daughter while SRK and Amir fight over Just a Beiber. The movie creates history by running to full houses (if you don’t look beyond the last four rows of the movie halls) for 25 consecutive weeks.

And my crystal ball shows Sharad Pawar dancing with gusto on the streets of Vrindavan, his arms raised towards heaven chanting Hare Krishna~~Hare Rama. After donating his assets worth 12 crore (and the rest of the zeros he conveniently forgot) for the welfare of Vrindavan widows, he has decided to spend the rest of his life in service of Almighty.

This is what my made in China, Crystal Ball has predicted. Now all I have to do is start praying sincerely and earn some brownie points from God. I want to make sure that I live long enough to see these miracles unfold.

To order your own, please log on to YouMustBeKidding.com

Lokpal No Pal Of Mine...

2012-01-03T12:07:00.000+05:30

Were you pissed off
too with the way our esteemed MP”s conducted themselves in the Parliament? The
way they made a mockery of the Lokpal bill? Here’s what Cacofonix, my guest
blogger has to say about this farce…

Courtesy HindustanTimes.com

Give Anna some credit. At least he got everyone in Parliament to attend Parliament, that too over the holiday week when most Parliamentarians have other pressing matters to attend to, like checking out Kiwi cultivation techniques in Phuket or how Santa’s kinky helpers dress up in Sin City. So, here we were, proud citizens of India, glued to our television sets, fitfully watching our tax money spent in mind-numbing debate on the subject of the Lokpal Bill. If you had high-definition TV, you could even count the number of ear hairs flailing in the wind as Lalu held his ground, hurling insult at retired cops and retired truck drivers who are holding the nation to ransom. Or you could measure to the nearest millimeter the extent of venom-hardened tartar that dentists have to scrape out from Sushma Swaraj’s defiant dentifrice.

Through several days of incessant coverage of the proceedings in the upper and lower houses, of the debates on TV and of the dwindling crowds at Team Anna’s venues, we got educated at great length on the finer points of the Lokpal Bill. Is it introduced under Article 252 or 253? What about section 24 of the Bill? Maybe clauses 63 through 97 should be struck off. I loved the drama and marveled at how such debates provide our lawmakers and party spokespersons the opportunity to take the attention of 1.2 billion people away from the basic premise that started it all – to have an effective law against corruption.

I think there will be many who feel disappointed at the way in which Anna Hazare’s movement panned out. I have not agreed with his ways, his views, and the undue haste with which the public at large built a halo around him. But the immense upside I have always acknowledged is that he managed to galvanize the nation on the one topic that drags us down everyday – rampant corruption across all levels of the administration. There were millions out there in the first wave because they liked the refreshing absence of insincere politicians from the podiums. It was truly a people’s movement and it energized the youth. There was palpable hope and a groundswell of public anger against this social evil. The optimist in me hoped that all this will finally start to make life difficult for the corrupt, even if the Lokpal Bill may not see light of day. However, by changing tack – from being an apolitical movement to an overly political one targeted against the Congress ‘because they did not bring an effective bill’ – Team Anna has no idea of the huge constituency they have lost and let down. Even while tactically calling off his fast at MMRDA grounds, Anna’s final answer was ‘Congress’, when TV reporters pointed out that all political parties have played their part in operation Kill Bill.

Dirty politics has won once again. All that muck, dug up by minions of the ministries and unwitting investigative journalists, worked. Kiran Bedi travelling coach while billing business class for her NGO. From the view point of wrongdoing, this is a mere peccadillo when you compare Praful Patel and his ilk buying coach and travelling business class, misusing taxpayer money. Just an instance of where the contrasts show and why Team Anna’s political naiveté will not let them succeed in the electoral playground.

My view has always been this. We are a nation of law-breakers. Bringing in another law will give us one more law to break or circumvent. The most corrupt in our society have this abiding faith that ‘the law will take its own course’ – which generally translates to getting away with even murder, with the occasional inconvenience of a few days spent in lavish luxury in jail under medical supervision. It was inane of us to think that a roomful of law makers will make a law that will go against their very grain. Nine out of ten politicians want to get elected for the pelf and the power and the red beacon on their cars. At the height of the Anna sympathy wave, Yeddyurappa was at his brazen worst, playing caste politics and dictating terms to his tulsi-washed central leadership and hanging on like a leech to his position of influence. The BJP ended up merely putting someone to keep the chair warm while Yeddy figures out a way to come back. Why did Anna not go hammer-and-tongs at the BJP for this mockery?

It isn’t the law, it is the system. That’s what has to change. The system has to make greasing palms irrelevant. There are enough success stories in sunrise sectors that prove it can happen in our country. So, it is our policies and procedures that have to become transparent, leveraging modern technology and ushering in e-governance, so that you and I can go about living in dignity. In my view, we cannot let the Wrong happen first. And then try to contain the consequences through law. It is as hypocritical as Mayawati Behen first employing a gallery of rogues as her ministers, and then upholding her morality card by sacking two of them every day over the last ten days.

In our political playgrounds, it is rajniti, or rather kutniti that rules – instead of Nyaya. Political expediency and diplomatic chicanery – instead of Justice. They could have spared us the agony and torture of all those Parliamentary debates, all those barbs hurled at civil society, all those pompous expressions of misplaced indignation, all those vacuous and puerile objections, if in the end all they wanted was to scuttle the Bill – with 187 amendments.

Election season ushers in next month. Care to vote? What choices do we have?

Winter’s Sonata

2012-01-01T19:27:00.000+05:30

istockphoto.com

It was indeed a proud day for all us when the NCR recorded a minimum of 0.1 °Celsius. With our chests puffed up in pride, we shivered even more vigorously. We were even happier to note that the hills were warmer than the plains, courtesy an unusually dry spell. Someone even dedicated a Rajni joke in honour of this unusually cold spell – Dear Rajnikanth please switch off your A/C. Regards North Indians.

Rajni Anna, please don’t switch it off until April! I am delighted that the refrigerator is warmer than my room and my fingers feel like kulfi sticks. That I have not stood straight for weeks does not bother me at all. Actually I quite fancy myself as the crouching tiger and am ready to growl at anyone who thinks otherwise. I happily bound in and out of my building with the tip of nose matching the colour of my boots – a startling red. And if you hear a hissing sound in the background, please don’t start screaming for help – it’s just me trying to keep warm.

Long ago I had made up my mind that winter is going to be my favourite season and nothing can deter me from my resolution - not even my teeth which have become exhausted from all the chattering.

I am given to understand that as a bonafide Bengali, I am expected to dive under a pile of blankets at the mere mention of cold. A Bengali’s paranoia to anything below 20°C is well chronicled. Come November and you will spot most of us covered in moth balled shawls ready to face a blizzard. Strangely our race’s legendary aversion to cold doesn’t deter our adventurous spirit. Think of a hill station and the first thing your mind will conjure is a Bong Meshomoshai in his monkey cap, with only his pinched face exposed to Maa Nature. From Kasauli to Kausani, from Shimla to Shilliguri, from Dalhousie to Darjeeling you will you will find our brethren rubbing their hands vigorously and muttering “Kee sheet” (it’s so cold) under their breath!

As a Delhi-born Bengali I find such behaviour disdainful and will drop dead with shame if I spot a relative taking refuge in a monkey cap.

A typical Delhite will perish rather than cover up. Caps, mufflers, mittens are meant for children and the chicken-hearted! In apni Dilli, we love to weather the weather first-hand. Come rain, come shine we consider carrying an umbrella uncouth. In summer, when I am stupid enough to open my umbrella to protect myself from the singeing heat, passersby turn around and smirk at me!

Since winter is the time when the Capital parties with a vengeance, we have a busy season air kissing the fog and whoever is behind it. For some strange reason, most of these parties are either by the poolside or hosted in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. So even if the weather is begging you to take that coat you spent a fortune on, out from the closet, you’d rather shiver in your bare minimum for maximum effect. And God forbid if you wear anything remotely woollen, you risk standing out like Mayawati on a Paris runway.

A typical Delhi man exhibits his recklessness by using the cretin who dared brush past his brand new E Class Mercedes, for target practice. And his woman will flaunt her bravado by flaunting her oh- so- sexy neckline and bronzed arms even when the mercury is plummeting.

In my case I have reached a happy compromise. Even though I’ll be the happiest walking in a social do sporting a wrap around blanket, I still prefer making a chattering entry. To keep hypothermia at bay, I casually sling a shawl across my shoulder and snuggle into it surreptitiously, when I think no one’s looking.

Of course there exist extremes - a certain kind of especially cool Delhite who takes layering-up to new widths. With thermal body suits, high necks, cardigans and coats piled on one single life form, they dress up on behalf of the entire nation. From afar they look like a heap of woollies that has just come to life. Strangely, even when the sun is blazing in the afternoon, they look smug with sweat trickling gently down their forehead.

I still have two months to enjoy the chill and tch tch when I read about fog playing havoc with flight schedules. I have enough horror stories of my own to relate – of flights that didn’t take off, missed connections and reaching the hotel with our tongues hanging out, only to be told that our booking accidentally got cancelled. Two years back we made a resolution never to take a flight out of Delhi in winters and we have stuck to it. We now express excitement about our friends’ vacation plans and happily click like for the FB pictures they share. And I don’t mind that at all. It’s in winter Delhi and its denizens come to life. Breaking into bhangra to some crazy Hindi song, getting high on labels black, red and blue, scooping up piping hot saag with makki ki roti, biting into that extra crisp gajjak, having endless cups of adrak chai...

Two more months till we start cursing the unbearable heat. ...Two more months till we discover all the accumulated fat around our waist and bawl our hearts out.

Even Santa Needs A Break!

2011-12-26T12:00:00.000+05:30

Cartoonstock.com

A day after Christmas, Santa is back home recuperating. Jetlagged and nursing a terrible tummy ache, he yells for an elf to get antacid in his favourite orange flavour from the nearby pharmacy. His dietician had advised an all veggie diet to control his burgeoning weight. So he had stuck to having just Pizzas all through his world tour. Wasn’t it the Congressional delegation from Minnesota that had declared Pizza as a vegetable? And who knows better than the Senate! To force all that pepperoni down his gullet, he had swigged copious quantities of Cola which boasts of containing no traces of fruit at all. But despite his healthy intake, Santa had managed to put on another 15 pounds, got stuck in chimneys and had to be rescued by the Fire Brigade. So much for the surprise!

Santa was tired of being old all his life. Imagine a life with no teen angst, no cause to rebel and no mid-life crisis! To make it worse, his contract with “ChrissyMissy” forbade him to dye his hair black. Nopes, he was not allowed to look young, feel young and yet he was expected to go ho-ho-ho all the time. Stuck with the same hairstyle and delivering gifts in a horrendously red business suit, he had started feeling like a glorified courier boy.

On top of it, he had to deal with imbeciles who thought that working one night a year and spending the rest judging whether kids have been naughty or nice – life was one big party for him! Santa wished he could show them, how it felt to work overtime on a night, when the whole world was making merry. Carrying a gargantuan sack full of gifts.... dealing with the pressure of a deadline... navigating reindeers with zero sense of direction...sliding down all those dirty chimneys... Try spending some time in North Pole dude, with just reindeers and elves for company!

There were days Santa Claus wished he could run off to Hawaii, spend the rest of his endless life drinking Pina Colada and doing the hula in a grass skirt.

And kids have become so demanding these days! Gone are the days when they were happy with toy soldiers and trains. Now all of them had mutated into gizmos freaks. How on Earth was he supposed to manage an iPad 2 or a Nintendo WII? His elves were trained to make just toys, dammit! A brat even had the gall to ask for a Lamborghini! Yea right! While he had to traverse the whole wide world on a pre-historic sleigh!

Mr Claus was now seriously considering sourcing cheap replicas from China. With North Pole fast turning into Greenland, he could always utilize his out-of-work-elves for organic farming. He had often dreamt of a farm with stress free cows and laidback chickens. Santa’s butter, sourced from peace loving cows. Make your Christmas healthier with Santa-Claus Broccoli.

But this Christmas, Santa had an interesting encounter in Siberia, when he’d stopped for a coffee break at Starbucks. While parking his sleigh, he noticed a shiny looking chariot. Intrigued he walked inside, only to spot two bespectacled old men dressed in Santa suits carrying sackfuls of a book – Bhagwad Gita. Yes, it had to be them! Advani and Jaitley had come all the way from India to de-stress the Siberians. The poor sods had mistaken the Gita as a war manual with complicated instructions. With hundreds of books to deliver, A & J looked pretty stressed themselves. The sweet souls they were, they left a gift for Santa as well – a DVD of the latest comic caper from Bollywood.

It was getting late. It was time for Santa to hit the bed. But wait, he wanted to watch that movie on the brand new DVD player he had ordered on eBay. He changes into his PJs in startling green (yes, he hates red), grabs a packet of Wasabi encrusted crisps and slips inside his reindeer skin comforter (God bless, Rudolf XXII).

The movie was a scream. The lead actor tries to eat spaghetti and curd with his fingers and dies. God gives him a makeover and sends him back as a robot with a strange name. G-one with the wind spends the next 2 hours chasing trains, men, women (not necessarily in that order). In between all this furious action, the robotic actor sings a funny song in a nasal voice and serenades an overly expressive woman - Chhamak Chhalo. For emotional support, he has a bunch of barely clad dancers making cute faces in the background.

(Since the author of this post was not brave enough to watch the movie herself, she cannot bullcrap anymore.)

By the time he finished watching Ra-One, Santa had tears in eyes: tears of laughter. He couldn’t wait to watch the promised sequel of this laugh riot!

Santa switches on his Mac and starts surfing travel sites for cheap tickets to India. He was dying to meet his doppelganger in India – thepla loving Chieftain of a Western state. In fact A & J mistook him for his double and greeted him like an old friend - Abey tu?

Yes...Santa had made up his mind. He will retire to India, meet his long-lost brother, get his hair dyed and live happily ever after with Chhamak Chhalo.

An Assembly Line Product

2011-12-19T11:37:00.000+05:30

clipartguide.com

You are walking on the road, holding your sari pleats in one hand and clutching your massive handbag in the other. In a hurry to reach home before your maid does, your mind hovering over the stack of dirty utensils in the kitchen, you almost land inside a comfy looking pothole. But today in your Superwoman avatar, no force can topple you. You hop, skip and jump over the yawning crater with effortless ease and wonder if you have smashed an Olympic record. It’s then you notice the woman staring at you intently, her eyebrows knit with concentration. Hell yeah! I am sporty you have a problem with that? Or is it my glowing skin? I did switch to an insanely expensive soap with an odd fragrance. She stops you and asks – Do I know you? Wondering if the query has some deep philosophical meaning, your mind is now running helter-skelter trying to conjure up a smart retort. But before you can stun her with your awesomeness, she says – You look so familiar, have we met somewhere? You roll your eyes, sigh loudly and mumble – Welcome to the club.

When God created me, he threw away the mould and the sneaky Chinese stole it from the garbage bin only to make hundreds of copies. Imagine being approached by strangers demanding to know why you look so familiar! You smile uncertainly and try giving helpful suggestions – mmm... school? Perhaps we went to the same college? Aren’t you the sis I pushed in the well and left to die?

As if it’s my damn fault that I have a face that everybody claims to have seen somewhere! By now I have heard it so many times, from so many people, across so many age groups that I’ve started doubting whether I am the genuine product or the Chinese counterfeit.

Those of you who are unfortunate enough not to have relatives and friends, who look like me, need not despair. You can always look up to the stars for inspiration. I often have to bear comparisons with Moushumi Chatterjee (we have similar teeth) and few more actresses I’d rather not name. As long as you don’t persist that I look like Shakti Kapoor or Kader Khan, I promise not to snap like Lalita Pawar!

Strangely, despite the fact that there are so many duplicates of me that exist, I have yet to encounter one myself. A colleague with a penchant for plunging necklines would often insist I look just like her bhaabi! And when I finally had the misfortune of meeting the bhabi, I attempted Seppuku. Does she think I’m that ugly! I spent the rest of the evening sounding like a stuck record.

At a club, the music so loud that your heart is pounding in your ears, you are screaming in your friend’s ears to be heard and a gentleman walks up to you and asks have we met! You turn slowly towards him, try to stretch your lips into a smile say – Yipee! you are the 155^th person to make me feel so commonplace!

It is an age old belief that somewhere in this planet, alive today, is someone who looks like you – maybe not precisely but close enough to be your doppelganger. Even if the resemblance with your double is flattering, it can trigger a little earthquake in your self-esteem.

Tragically in my case, nature got carried away and forgot to stop at one. But I am an eternal optimist – knowing that I have so many replicas can be very liberating. I can make faces at people I don’t like, walk into a party wearing a red lungi and purple kurta, stand in front of Bappi Da’s house and scream I love yoooooo and insist it was my doppelganger and not me!

Is There An NRI Stereotype?

2011-12-12T20:22:00.002+05:30

Presenting K Mathur who blogs at Never Mind Yaar and has debuted as an author with a book with the same title. She lives in New Zealand and writes passionately on two of India’s most pressing problems - violence between communities and the Environment. Her debut novel about friendship and fun between three college students from different ethnic backgrounds is set in Mumbai — a city the three girls love but know is fraught with communal tension. On the surface the story might look like just another college love story but the writing and story telling, according to a reviewer, make it different.

According to the author, “Never Mind Yaar” is an attitude - our tendency to feel defeated by the scale and nature of certain problems, give up and move on with a sigh and a "never mind". We ordinary Indians have so many stumblers put in our path. No running water in our taps except between 4 and 6 every morning? Never mind yaar, we can take it. We are inured – such problems bring out our creative flair – water tanks, large tubs in our bathrooms connected through a series of pipes to progressively smaller ones, an alarm clock set for 4 am... “Even today,” she adds, “when my husband uses his ingenuity to sort out some problem, he crows “Aapan kaun?” and I’m supposed to holler with a high five, Bombaiya!”

In her guest post for A-Musing, she muses on the stereotypes an NRI faces.......

Recently they showed a movie on TV, here in New Zealand. In the movie some of the NZ public were against the South African Springboks being in NZ for rugby in 1981. NZ was split in two. One side said politics shouldn't enter the sporting arena, and the other, that a mostly white team from a country where the majority are overwhelmingly black was offensive. A lovely movie, denouncing South Africa's apartheid policy, recounted from the perspective of two NZ students who were against the South Africans being in NZ, and a police mole planted amidst them - a young female police officer posing as a student.

Then there was the token Indian.

He was the landlord of the two, strapped for cash, students. He was portrayed as someone who made ingenious observations that made you laugh. "We need to show that even well-dressed people are with you," he said to those students, joining them as they all got ready to march in protest with banners and placards. The students were dressed in their uniform - T-shirt, jeans and keds; and he sported a fawn coloured suit.

In another scene the students were delayed paying their rent. The Indian, their landlord, chased them into their classrooms at University yelling for the overdue rent and causing the professor to gape in astonishment. The students escaped through a back route with the Indian still yelling and chasing. Tiny scenes in a movie, not really connected to the main plot, but providing light relief.

I thought the person who acted in the movie as the Indian did a fantastic job. He is a well respected NZ actor who owns a theatre company in NZ - IndiaInk. I've been for one of his plays, "The Guru Of Chai". His name is Jacob Rajan. Nobody really remembers the actor's name when he simply plays a minor role, as he did in this movie. They remember his character - the character of the ever so slightly, foot-in-mouth Indian.

Some people in NZ and around the world know us - the entire Indian community, as if we are all identical - through such characters. It is known as stereotyping. We do it too. Remember the old Indian movies where the villainess was always Helen with a glass of wine in one hand and a cross dangling from her neck? The neckline was as plunging as the movies of old dared allow them to be and she flirted outrageously. In contrast the heroine was modestly dressed, didn't touch liquor and was pure as driven snow. That is stereo typing too.

The problem with stereotyping is that some people believe everything they hear, see or read to be the ultimate truth and juxtapose those characteristics on to real live people. They blank out everything an individual really might be. They don't want to know. They hold on with everything they have to the image they've already created. It is difficult to erase. And sometimes, as in the case of the Indian heroine, they get annoyed if the flesh and blood person turns out to be different.

I believe stereotyping has to be politely but firmly nipped in the bud each time it happens. Each person is different and unique, wherever in the world we might come from.

If I feel tempted to stereotype, which, being human, I do, quite often, I know I only have to search within and I'll unpeal a layer or a prejudice I've always lived with, albeit subconsciously. Similarly, if someone is trying to stereotype me and I understand why, their trying to fit me into a box I feel I don't belong in ceases to worry. My feeling anxious and thinking I am not who they think I am, changes to, "they aren't really looking at me but at someone who their press or their prejudice or some movies have led them to believe I am".

That understanding and the knowledge that it takes all kinds - that there are others who do see me as me - make me feel empowered and able to move on.

Two tight slaps!

2011-12-08T15:51:00.000+05:30

Somberi.com

I will refrain from expressing angst against Kapil Saiborg’s attempts to be a giant broom that is out to clean the filth that floats on the World Wide Web. No, not porn, not morphed images of celebrities on nude bodies, not fundamentalist propaganda, not the step by step guide on how- to- kill- your- neighbor- in- 10 –minutes- flat… but material deemed objectionable against politicians and religious communities. I suspect God was added as an afterthought to lend credence to his indignation. It is another matter that Saiborg ended up giving publicity to all that he wanted to hide. Within minutes the whole world hit the Google button to search for Sonia Gandhi and MMS and what made Saiborg angry!

I will applaud the chivalry in him that wants to protect the lady and her minions from the vitriol spewed by the nameless and the faceless. Offending images that we are quick to dismiss as juvenile attempts at humour, but our polity looses sleep on. I am surprised. All along I was under the impression that being thick-skinned is a must-have quality to be a politician.

Saiborg has a dream – he dreams of a Utopian world of subjects modeled after Gandhi’s monkeys –deaf, dumb and blind to all things disagreeable. An Indiayeah of yes-men. It’s great that you are dying to play the strict school principal out to discipline his errant students. Three cheers for Kapil, the self-appointed crusader for model behaviour. Bur Sir, if you expect us to shut up and behave, we have similar expectations from you as well.

One has to watch a live telecast of Lok Sabha proceedings to understand what I am talking about. Members of the assembly throwing paper balls at the speaker, jumping enthusiastically over benches to express their anguish, hurling their footwear at each other. My heart swells in pride when I see people who we elected to lead our country behave like a bunch of adults who forgot to grow up; who think protesting is their birthright and contributing to public life is a mere formality that is not to be taken seriously.

Your esteemed colleagues lack basic etiquettes and all Meira Kumar can say is “Shant rahiye, baith jaiye”..? The school teacher in me is itching to give them two tight slaps!

The Opposition’s hysterical reaction to FDI in retail was like the icing on the cake. We saw our elected argue, counter argue and disrupt the Parliament for six consecutive days. That these international chains with refrigerated transport and cold storages could stop farm produce from rotting, and might have benefited the farmers was of no consequence to anyone. We will continue paying Rs 13 for a kilo of potatoes that the farmer sells for 3 and the rest will line a slimy middleman’s pocket. And the middleman in turn keeps the local neta happy. Yet, we were made to believe that all our economy needs is a Walmart to collapse. The GDP can head south, industrial growth can go underground but we need to prove our point.

To make it worse Sushma Swaraj has the temerity to suggest that by making the government rollback FDI, she made them bow to the people’s wishes? Excuse me! Nobody even bothered to ask us.

Ironically when Delhi’s High Court was rocked by bomb blasts, Advani jee requested that the house be adjourned early. Why? Because they wanted to mourn at leisure. Strange isn’t it? When the members of the house should have worked overtime and tried to arrive at a cohesive solution to tackle terror, they chose to take a half day instead! Isn’t it a classic case of misplaced priorities?

I don’t think we are unjustified in demanding an exemplary behaviour from our elected. Leaders after all are expected to lead by example, so why not have a code of conduct for them as well? And if you have the liberty to tell us how to feel and what to write, we can expect some modicum of decency from you as well.

Before we proceed let’s get one thing straight – you were elected to serve the public and not rule over them. So as public servants when you plot, plan, defame, protest instead of doing your job – we have all the right to feel incensed. As employees if we can be subjected to appraisal through Annual reviews and confidential reports, then by the same logic we should be allowed to scrutinize your performance as well.

We do not have enough good schools and colleges, our grains rot in granaries while prices shoot through the roof, files collect dust in some babu’s office – so it’s logical for me to feel dissatisfied and demand accountability. I hope you do not expect us to sit back and burp in satisfaction instead! When millions of people show as much respect as electing you to be the MP of the largest democracy in the world, the least we can expect is honesty and sincerity at your end. Is this too much to ask?

I am given to understand that you made an impassioned speech and asked your fellow Parliamentarians to refrain from obstructing proceedings. “It is our job to work, we get paid for it. It is not just issue of money, it is an issue of public service.” So how about translating all these empty words into reality? How about implementing no work, no pay legislation if minimum business is not transacted! Why is it when comes to us, laws are framed instantly while your fraternity continues to steal from public coffers, shirk work, create controversies with impunity?

So don’t tell me that you’ll happily go around denying me my rights as a citizen while I am expected to wait patiently for change. And if you are in such a hurry to clean the world to heal your wounds, I can certainly help you out. NASA has just discovered Earth’s twin, located merely 600 hundred light years away. A cozy little planet with No FB, No Twitter, No online hate, No Anna and his bunch of loonies - just like the Utopian existence you are so desperately seeking. Why don’t you and your colleagues shift bag and baggage to the mystical Kepler -22b? Trust me; no one will miss you even for a second.

A Pigeonholed existence

2011-12-04T11:39:00.001+05:30

If you come to my complex and look skywards, you are most likely to spot me screaming profanities from my balcony. Before you open your mouth in shock, I suggest you quickly close it before a messy missile lands on your well moisturized face. In case you are wondering about the origin of the missile, let me assure you that it’s completely vegetarian and fresh from the bottom of a pigeon ass.

Seven years back when we had shifted to Gurgaon to our own apartment, I was more than happy to have escaped the simian population that had infested our pucca Punjabi calonee in Delhi. It was impossible to come out in the patio without having to encounter their monkeying ways – baby monkeys swinging delightedly from the washstand, their parents unwinding on a nearby ledge and picking lice off each other. I also had the pleasure of hearing my maid scream in falsetto, only to see an alarmed looking baby monkey sitting on my daughter’s sleeping back. Once when a bunch of them invited themselves for an impromptu feast from our refrigerator, my MIL promptly locked herself in the kitchen before pushing our cook out with a timely warning...Indar, Bandar andar. He realized much to his relief that it was not him she was referring to.

Gurgaon with its open spaces and greens was an antithesis. We were now staying in a high rise complex. The views from our seventh floor condo were stunning, the rain never looked better. Having a cup of tea in our balcony to the sounds of birds and wind chimes, the soft breeze caressing our face was sheer bliss.

The monkeys preferred to stay back in Delhi and I could finally sigh in relief. And not just relieved but also jumping with joy at the sight of the exotic birds I could spot from my veranda. Yes, the millennium city is a haunt for exotic birds. From parakeets to Asian Koels, to Bulbuls to storks, you can spot them all.

sarahchalek.com

The bird community must have sensed the warm, welcoming vibes emanating from the Ray household. Soon our AC compressors became the favoured hangout zone for pigeons. We saw quite a few love stories unfold in our balcony. Singles ready to mingle meet, settle, passionate coupling ensues and baby pigeons make an appearance. My daughter even played Mother Teresa to an injured baby pigeon. She named it Cheep (from the baby sounds it made) nursed it for days and grew hopelessly attached to it. When it died she was inconsolable.

Our reputation had now grown in leaps and bounds. The news of our compassion soon spread like wild fire. We now had pigeons flocking on all our balconies, on the floor, on the wash stand, even on the bathroom ledge. Dumb, desperate creatures that they are, they even try nesting on our kitchen balcony floor laying down a bed of borrowed broomsticks.

The husband in an attempt to scare them off often splashes huge quantities of water at them, inadvertently giving them a much needed bath. In fact the other day he just said f... off and they actually beat a hasty retreat. Wow! We have managed an incredible feat: our pigeons can now actually comprehend English! Unfortunately they keep coming back for more lessons.

And where there are pigeons there is pigeon shit, loads and loads of it - on the compressors, balcony railings, wash stands, even my hapless plants are not spared. By the end of the day, my verandas look like a warzone. Of course I am upset, all these years and I have not been able to potty train these birds. Believe me, I’ve tried it all – from screaming profanities (yep, the same ones you heard from the ground floor) to urging them to hold their shit. If you don’t even have the decency to clean up your mess, learn to wear diapers you shit heads!

We now have a love-hate relationship with the pigeon population – they love us, we hate them. The birds share such comfortable vibes with us that they often saunter into our living room for their morning walk and poop on our carpet. The daring ones love playing hide and seek and lunge towards me from behind the curtains. If you find me dead, clutching my heart, you know who to blame.

All these years of shifting houses, each one has left an indelible impression with it’s beautiful memories and unique traumas. From musk rats, to snails crawling on the driveway, to cacophonous crows, to scary termites – I have braved them all. It’s time I reconciled myself to the fact that there’s no escaping them. And what if I am reborn as a pigeon in my next birth as some sort of divine retribution! Imagine not being able to poop in peace and braving abuses hurled at me by some demented woman! Scary thought, no?

I better start earning some brownie points and call for a truce. I think I’ll go outside right now, shimmy Shammi Kapoor style and sing Aajaa ajaa main hoon pyaar teraaa.....

Do you think the trauma will be enough to knock them dead?

Call of the Wild

2011-11-28T11:36:00.000+05:30

Old habits die hard especially traits that are hammered into our kiddy frames by our persistent parents. Even after we are done with growing up, working our arse off, paying instalments for home loans, changing diapers of our wailing progeny - we can never say NO to them. We are hardwired to obey our parents. So one fine evening, when you are flopped on the bed after a hard day’s work, your Mom calls you only to announce that we are all going to Jim Corbett next weekend, you instinctively say YES to her. Of course you have the rest of the week to repent, worry about unfinished chores, incomplete reports. Ahh...I’ll manage, somehow!

organisart.co.uk

My Mom has a special fascination for animals, the wilder the better. In fact just a few months back, she and Baba went all the way to Kenya to see lions, zebras, hippos and their sundry cousins frolic in the Masai Mara forest reserves. In the 90’s she had yet to acquire an international taste and was content with desi forest reserves, especially Jim Corbett. So every time she was feeling low, high, bored, restless we would all rush off en masse to the resorts in the vicinity of the wildlife reserve.

When my parents say they are taking a break, they do exactly the opposite. As kids whenever we took a vacation, we would see them mutate into hyperactive kids ready to scale any peak or crawl under cobweb infested caves all in the name of sightseeing. Since we had no choice but tag along with them, we (me and my brother) would feel like hapless prey caught in a Venus Flytrap. Once when I refused to accompany them on a trip to Kolkata, my brother came back with a look of betrayal in his eyes. Listening to his endless stories of torture – of being dragged around in hot and humid Calcutta (as it was then), forced to gorge on the much hated maachh and mishtee – I giggled in relief.

Even after I had been married, the memories were still fresh in my mind; so I had enough history to support my unusually low enthusiasm about the much abused word break!

Clark Kent needed a phone booth to transform into Superman and all my Mom had to do was sit in a car packed with suitcases and voila she would be ready to fly with her brood in tow. Since she has always a great believer of conservation, five of us (my daughter was still a thought) would stuff ourselves in one car. And just as we were getting in the mood to snooze, our limbs resting not so gently on each other, she would take out a thermos full of coffee like a rabbit from the magician’s hat. Puhleez Maa not now! But does she give up? Nah. So whenever we stopped for a loo break – I am so hungry break – Wait, aren’t those guavas, they look so fresh break – Maa would triumphantly take out the thermos and threaten to pour out coffee for us.

The first time we went to Corbett, we agreed to pick up a gentleman from Ramnagar, the town nearest to the forest reserve. Imagine five of us already squeezed in an Esteem and an adult man is graciously asked to join us on the front seat. With my brother propped on the gentleman’s lap, his gangly legs on the dashboard resting next to the steering wheel, the husband gingerly changing gears lest it slam into one of the protruding bums – I am surprised people didn’t stop our car and click pictures. But this was a pre mobile phone camera, pre Facebook era where memories were not meant to be uploaded and shared with 355 online friends.

The resort was a stunning piece of property – River Kosi a stone’s throw away, well tended greens, each cottage built around a mango tree. Since it was winters, it was decided our next visit will be during the mango season. But what excited us the most were the hammocks and the friendly German Shepherds. Good, we have plenty to keep us occupied and won’t have to venture in the wilds. Famous last thoughts!

The caretaker was suggesting that we take an early morning safari on an elephant’s back. At the crack of dawn, there she was gently encouraging us to haul ourselves atop a pachyderm and look for cheetahs and tigers. Of course not, I said. Not in this lifetime, said my brother. I looked sweetly at my still-trying -to-impress husband to accompany his doting in-laws. He actually looked mildly excited and bounded off. And came back with the all too familiar look of betrayal in his eyes. Farty elephant...bumpy ride...all they spotted were tree tops. Don’t worry, tomorrow we will take the camel ride, cooed Ma in her best conciliatory tone.

On our next trip, it was decided we’ll take an open jeep ride in the forest reserve. You went all the way to Corbett and all you saw was stray cows and manic truck drivers – Shame on you! Obviously we had to spot at least a tiger or two for the sake of our neighbours. And we did – stared intently at tiger paw marks, oohed and ahhed at tiger poop (yeh dekhiye, bilkul fresh), jumped in excitement when we heard rustling behind the tall grass, swooned in ecstasy when we spotted elephants. The highlight of the safari was our jeep coming to a screeching halt at the sight of a white owl and Baba exclaiming beeyoootiful. The owl looked too stunned to react.

When we finally got back from mission-jungle-exploration looking like rag dolls, we realized that Baba had left the car keys in an impossibly secure place – inside his locked car. With Maa giving a stern lecture to her sheepish looking husband, me staring at dismay at my white jeans gone a dusty gray, the husband and bro desperately trying to open the lock with a plastic ruler – we made quite a fetching sight.

It’s been over a decade since our last visit. I have finally mastered the art of saying no and my parents prefer unwinding in their cottage in Ramgarh in Nainital. Last year when we decided to join them for a couple of days, Ma insisted on feeding us two crates of eggs (yes, all 60 of them) she had bought especially for us. Later she took out half a dozen ready-to-heat packets of Aloo-mattar and gave us a hurt look. See, what a waste! And suddenly all those Corbett memories came rushing back. It made me wonder whether I actually missed those days – the craziness, the endless arguments, the exasperated sighs...

The more things change, the more they remain the same – Thank God for that.

Mwaah to Zephyr for reviving those memories.....

The Luckiest Woman Alive - Part II

2011-11-22T19:00:00.000+05:30

newdawncollections.com

Read Part I here

Lavanya had been married for over five years when she discovered she was pregnant. Not in a long time had she felt such joy – the kind you want to share with the rest of the world, the kind that makes you want to shout from rooftops and your heart suddenly feels inadequate to contain it. They had been trying for years but in vain and Harsh had started getting impatient. She had almost started dreading her monthly ritual of shedding eggs, his look of disappointment – as if it was her damn fault! When the lab reports confirmed her worst fears, Harsh threw a massive fit. What an irony, a man who sported his virility like a badge of honour had sperm so weak that they couldn’t even finish the race.

Whether it was medical science, their persistence or simply a miracle, Lavanya would never know, nor did she care. All she knew was she had a life blossoming inside her. Someone who she could call her own... on whom she could lavish all her unspent emotions... She wanted to fill that void in her heart with love, she wanted to heal and God knows how long she had waited for that.

Lavanya was in the second trimester of her pregnancy, when she got that strange phone call. First silence and then sounds of sobbing at the other end of the phone – not the soft, sniffling one but a gut wrenching one – the type that fills your heart with dread. She was Sumita, PR officer in Vardhaman industries. Harsh had been sexually assaulting her for months...he would call her to his office, take her out for official dinners, insist she accompany him for out-of-town tours. First it was fear of losing her job and then shame that had stopped her from discussing it with anyone but now she’d had enough! Could Lavanya help her out?

Strangely Lavanya took the news rather calmly – she felt neither anger nor loathing for her husband. She had never loved him to feel let down.

October 3, 1998 – The news channels were in a tizzy, they were busy airing the sleazy sex tape of Harsh’s hairy naked ass stooped over an unidentified girl. All they could hear was sounds of heavy breathing and her cries of protest. Harsh Vardhan, scion of Vardhaman empire – sought after by the rich and the powerful, a respectable member of the high society whose meteoric rise in the business world was stuff that legends are made of – was in reality a scumbag. What a colossal shame!

Next morning there was complete mayhem outside the Vardhan bungalow, with the otherwise peaceful lane chock-a- block with media vans, reporters scurrying around like excited mice and women’s rights groups shouting slogans lustily. When a member of the staff ventured out to take the dogs out for a walk, news reporters pounced on him like thirsty bloodhounds.

For the first time in his life, Harsh had become a prisoner in his own house. But he was far from feeling repentant. On the contrary he was fuming – livid at the media’s intrusive ways, annoyed that his close friends had not risen to his support. He was angry at everyone but himself – typical!

Lavanya surprised him with composure and it was at her suggestion he called a press conference. That evening, it was not Harsh Vardhan but his wife who appeared before the sea of reporters and the sounds of frenzied flashbulbs. With her noticeable baby bump and misty eyes, she cut a touching picture as she took to the dais. I know for a fact that my husband is innocent. This is a conspiracy by his rivals to bring him down and we will not let them get away with it! I have information that the CD was doctored in a lab in Patiala and will soon furnish proof. Our legal experts have already filed a defamation case against channels for airing the offending footage. And I humbly request you all from refraining from salacious speculations about my husband’s character.

But before the reporters could sit down to compose the fresh breaking news for the day, they had a shocker waiting for them. Harsh Vardhan had just been admitted to Vedanta’s Intensive Care Unit after his wife found him unconscious in his study room: he had suffered a near-fatal paralytic attack.

When he was finally discharged from the hospital, his daughter Smridha was a bonny baby of nine months. Harsh didn’t even have facial expressions to articulate his joy – all he could do was caress his only child with his eyes. Paralysis had rendered his limbs and vocal chords useless and doctors had expressed very little hope of his recovery. Harsh Vardhan had the rest of his life to sit and stare from his wheelchair.

13 years later it was from his wheelchair he was seeing his wife collect Business Network’s Indian of the Year award, 2011. Ever since she had taken over Vardhaman enterprise, their turnover had escalated from 65 to 2000 crores. But it was with her social activism that she had endeared herself to the nation – reaching out to thousands of oppressed women, providing them with education and financial assistance to be independent. Today as she went up to the stage to collect the award, she looked radiant. It’s because of my husband’s unflinching support and my daughter’s love, I am what I am. Tonight I feel like the luckiest woman alive. As she finished to a thunderous applause, Smridha ran up to her and encircled her with her arms, her eyes filled with love and pride. But, it was the woman who hugged Lavanya warmly that sent a cold chill down Harsh’s heart – wasn’t it that bitch, Sumita?

Even after all these years, Harsh hasn’t been able to get rid of that niggling doubt. Lavanya had poured him a peaty single malt to celebrate that successful press conference. It did taste unusually smoky and smelt slightly odd. And, then he had blacked out.....

The Luckiest Woman Alive

2011-11-20T19:00:00.000+05:30

Courtesy -gw-bw.com

You are such a lucky girl. The last few months this expression had been following Lavanya like a pesky fly. That she found it annoying will be putting it mildly. Lavanya wished she had a giant roll of duct tape to seal off those mouths that were busy telling her how she should be feeling. Fine, no one had bothered to consult her before making the biggest decision of her life but at least she had the right to be left alone to wallow in misery! Imagine being woken up one fine morning only to be told that your life is about to change forever! Not even being given a minute’s notice to bid adieu to dreams that you have nurtured for so long.

Lavanya felt cheated out of a life she could have had.

Her face slathered with fruit pulp, body glistening with turmeric-mustard oil paste, Lavanya was getting beautified for the most eligible bachelor in town. She felt like a marinated fowl ready to be thrown in smoking oil.

Having just given her civil services examinations, she was waiting eagerly for the results. A student with a brilliant academic record, Lavanya was confident of cracking the exam. Ever since she was a child, she had wanted to be an IFS officer and travel all around the world. “Maa! I don’t want to get married now and that too to a complete stranger. Couldn’t we have waited a few more years? “

“It’s not every day that a middle class girl gets a marriage proposal from one of the richest families in Delhi. Do you realize how lucky you are! “

Her parents had just clipped her wings and she was expected to erupt with joy.

That evening the women of the house tired her out with the constant fussing – should she wear a Bandhej or chiffon in a wine shade? Will she look better with her wavy hair left open or should it be tied in a bun to show off her cheekbones. Lavanya couldn’t care less! When she finally came face to face with the man she was expected to spend the rest of her life with, she felt no emotion. When he looked her up, his eyes lingering a little longer on the curve of her breasts, she felt a shiver of revulsion run down her spine.

Yes, Lavanya was the luckiest girl alive. Harsh Vardhan, the multimillionaire, debonair scion of the Vardhman empire had chosen her over thousands of women ready to swoon at the mere mention of his name, women whose sole ambition was to be his soul-mate. How ironic that he had handpicked a girl who had no interest in his stature or wealth.

The next few months passed in a daze. Lavanya’s spectacular performance in the civil services exams went uncelebrated but her parents made sure that the news was passed on to the groom’s family. After all, her achievements were for them to flaunt as another feather in their cap. Harsh’s fiancée was not only beautiful but intelligent as well. When the interview letter finally did arrive, Lavanya was already married to Harsh Vardhan, living in their 16 bedroom mansion, with ten servants and four dogs and a life partner who was never home. She soon found out why, her husband was a compulsive womanizer.

Lavanya often wondered why he had married her in the first place. It was not as if he was missing a feminine presence in his life. And given his insatiable appetite, he could never be happy with just one. Perhaps he wanted a woman in his house - just like his fleet of cars in the garage, the expensive sculptures in the living area, his hundred crisp white shirts behind his glass-doored wardrobe. One of his many underlings constantly at his beck and call, only this one was bound by a contract called marriage! A trophy wife who could play the gracious hostess to his business associates, charm them with her wit, impress them with her awareness about world affairs.

Two months into the marriage, when Lavanya suggested that she should join him in his office, she got an icy glare from her husband. Later in the evening her parents reprimanded her bitterly for behaving so unreasonably. She was expected to reconcile to the bitter fact that she was but an extension to her spouse and had no right to seek an identity of her own.

But Harsh made sure his wife looked like a million dollars – a personal trainer who kept her in fab shape, a stylist who made sure she flaunted the best designers. After all Lavanya was Harsh Vardhan’s investment and he expected good returns.

Mr and Mrs Vardhan were the toast of Page 3 – the dashing millionaire with his stunning wife. Lavanya’s parents loved showing off pictures splashed in newspapers to their envious neighbours. What they didn’t care to know, how unhappy their daughter was – that their daughter’s marriage to Harsh Vardhan was merely a business deal.

And when he did demand his conjugal rights, he was an insatiable beast.

Lavanya made this shocking discovery on her nuptial night itself. That beneath that suave veneer was a monster who derived pleasure by inflicting pain. And when she did try to fight back, Harsh would turn even more violent.

Strangely it was she who felt ashamed – embarrassed of being the silent victim, petrified that someone might notice the angry scars. The last thing she wanted was pity. So she never let anyone get close to her – she met them at parties, attended their fund raising events, oohed and ahhed at their latest Souza but never let them invade her personal space. People called her aloof, arrogant and she never tried to change their opinion.

Lavanya often contemplated suicide but life had other plans for her......

To be continued.......

In Pursuit of Eternal Happiness..

2011-11-13T18:39:00.001+05:30

Google Images

The wind played a soulful symphony as it tousled his hair. Black, wavy, it glistened furiously under the moonlight. Suvo was surprised at how stunningly beautiful the city looked from the terrace of his building, where he had spent some of the most eventful years of his life. The street lights that looked like gems strewn on an inky carpet, were winking mischievously at him. The roads looked like a crazy zigzag… the sounds of lives in motion – a distant echo… the worn out mountains in the horizon – mute spectators to life and death, happiness and sorrow – it all seemed so surreal. All he could hear was the sound of his laboured breathing, sweat trickling lazily down his forehead despite the chill. He had to use all his will-power to curb the urge to wipe it off, but didn’t. Tonight of all nights he should be above such frivolities.

The last six months had been the happiest in Suvo’s life. Not that he had been unhappy before. At 38, he had everything a man could ever ask for – successful, rich, devilishly attractive, happily single and never short of women ready to mingle. After a wild night of partying to celebrate his promotion as Vice President of his company, he stumbled upon a realization that took him by surprise. Suvo Sarkar had finally achieved all that he had ever wanted and oddly that did not fill him with elation but a strange sense of emptiness. Why? Is it because I have nothing left to pursue anymore?

When he presented the Board of Directors his letter of resignation, they were shocked. When he told them that he wanted to live a life as if he’s never going to die – they were convinced that he had gone bonkers. Are you okay? I think you need counseling; do you want me to fix up an appointment for you?

Suvo had read somewhere that eternity is a succession of moments in time. He wanted to dedicate the next few months in quest of those special moments. Suvo Sarkar wanted to get drunk on life. And he did and how – sailed for weeks on the coasts of Greece, skied down the Alps, spent a month in a remote monastery in Leh, trekked to Mansarovar Lake. And in his grand pursuit of the extraordinary, he discovered the ordinary – the joy of finding a tea stall in the middle of nowhere, sighing as the hot sweet beverage warmed his insides, the feel of icy cold rain on his face, chants that filled him with unbearable melancholy, ripples in a crystal clear lake that made his heart sing with joy, making friends with a complete stranger, sitting all night just talking to her….. All these years of climbing the ladder of success, consumed with an overwhelming desire to succeed, Suvo had missed out on all these little moments that make life big.

How uplifting it was to live without the burden of a future. For the first time in his life, Suvo felt alive.

And now he was back home to fulfill a promise that he had made to himself six months back. It was late evening, Suvo was smoking his favourite cigar when he was jolted out of his reverie by the shrill sound of the door bell. With his eyebrows crinkled with annoyance he opened the door only to face his best friend Smita. “Funny! You get back home and don’t even bother to give me a call? Or is it that his highness has decided to drag and drop our relationship to the recycle bin just like the rest of his life!”

Suvo chuckled. “Sweetheart…do you always have to sound dramatic?“

“You expect me to sound breathy and husky when I tell you that you have been behaving like a selfish asshole lately? One fine day you decide that you have achieved it all and go gallivanting around the world without even a thought to your loved ones! Who gave you the right to give up on a future that has so much to offer! What about your social responsibilities, your spiritual fulfillment – you have not even gone down the road. Isn’t it ironic that a man sets out to discover the world and refuses to explore his own life? You Mr Sarkar are such a loser.”

“Don’t you give me all this hogwash about my responsibilities! I have always depended on myself to keep me happy and fulfilled. Your loved ones die, relationships come with an expiry date…When it is only me who I can completely depend on, why should I be answerable to anyone but myself! And just because I want to lead and end my life the way I want to, I qualify to be a loser? Aren’t you funny Smita?”

“Ha! With no job and a bank balance that is heading southwards, of course you should brace yourself for The End…”

“No Smita..I am not bracing myself for the The End...I am embracing it…”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Smita was looking really alarmed now.

“Bye, Smita it’s getting really late now and I need to rest.”

Suvo could feel the bile rising up his throat, singeing his insides, his legs shaking in anxiety. This is not how he had envisioned it – his death was supposed to be a celebration of a destiny he had carved for himself. The dying sun in a sudden burst of creativity had covered the sky with stunning hues of molten orange. Flocks of birds were flying back to their nests. Did they ever stop to admire this beautiful sight? Had these birds become immune to this breathtakingly beautiful spectacle of the setting sun! What is life – a madness? What is life – an illusion, a shadow, a story? Was I dead long before I decide to live? No! Smita was wrong…I did explore my life these last few months and unearthed the truths that had to be discovered.

I did not wait for death to choose me… I am proud that it will be me who will decide…

When Suvo eased off the ledge, looking heavenwards with his arms outstretched, his entire life played like a film in a hurry to finish, in front of his eyes. Sitting on the kitchen slab watching his Mom bake cookies, his first sighting of the sea, when his dad pushed him at the deep end of the swimming pool to make him learn to swim, his first kiss, how he had cried when his girlfriend ditched him for the basket ball star, the grim promise he had made to himself to be second to none...His Mom’s death, how angry he was when his Dad chose to settle with his wife’s best friend…Tonight, on his last day of his life, Suvo was ready to forgive and forget.

He had now clenched his fists, bracing himself for the blinding pain. But wait! Instead of his body crashing into the pavement, he felt weightless like a floating feather. Suvo opened his eyes only to look into the kindest pair of eyes, the giant wings flapping in slow motion. He let out a whoop of delight. Strangely no one heard it – not Mrs Mehra who was busy watching her favourite soap on TV, nor Mr Khan who was hunched over his laptop… nor Smita who had secretly loved him for years. It was a young couple on their way back from work who discovered the dead body. They couldn’t take their eyes off that face, so calm and serene. Tucked in his pocket was his suicide note

“ I have lived a very eventful and happy life. I've travelled the world, lived in different countries, made more money than ever thought possible, and enjoyed spending as much of it as I could on things that gave me joy and satisfaction. I believe in the philosophy that my life belongs to me and only me, and I have the right to choose to die as much as I have the right to live."

A man lives as if he’s never going to die and then dies having never really lived – The Dalai Lama

In remembrance of the couple in Goa who chose death happily....

I’d rather be a Bitch!

2011-11-04T19:00:00.000+05:30

All through our lives we are confronted
with mysteries that play hide and seek with us. 
Some reveal themselves in boring Science chapters, while others unravel
with age.  

Let’s take flirts.  I was in my early teens when I first heard the
word (no, I am not kidding, I was a tad behind my times).  They commanded so much respect that my
friends would speak in hushed tones while discussing the exploits of this alluring
species.  Not being aware of their
mysterious ways, I was intrigued.  I
would look at my friends with puppy eyes and implore them to explain what one
has to do to earn this elusive title. 
They would hem and haw and try to fob me off with vague explanations but
nothing was good enough to satiate my curiosity.  I finally got enlightened when someone tried being
one with me, but I was too embarrassed to deal with it and far from being
deliriously happy at the revelation.    Now,
in this information fuelled era even a 12 year old can give a lucid explanation
of what flirting means while the elder brother will readily part with helpful
tips on sexting. 

But there are certain mysteries that prefer
to remain in hiding – Do football matches have a hypnotic effect on men, does
cricket induce coma among its spectators, when a baby smiles – is it gas or is
it love – and why we prefer calling certain type of women a bitch!  

I actually happen to like dogs.  They don’t sulk, rarely throw tantrums, are
fiercely loyal, undemanding and brimming with love.  The female of the species is no
different.  Agree it can be quite a pain
to keep her suitors off her trail but that’s not really her fault is it?   So when they call a woman a bitch – is it
meant to be an affront to the canine species or insult women who have fine
tuned meanness into an art? 

I understand it is damn convenient to have
an easy to comprehend and easier to spell word that describes a woman whose
attributes you are not particularly fond of. 
 Imagine having to plumb the
depths of your vocabulary mine to look for suitable words like puerile, vile,
despicable, belligerent...  All her mephitic being can do is spew
venom... Her unpleasant demeanour gives me acidity...She is nothing but a
malodorous swamp who makes me nauseous....She is like Math - she adds trouble,
subtracts pleasure, divides attention and multiplies ignorance...Phew! I
spent over ten minutes and a little help from google to coin these deprecating
remarks.  On the other hand you have this
all encompassing, universally understood phrase that elicits instant sympathy
from your audience.  Gawd! She’s such a bitch! 
See it took exactly 5 seconds, I didn’t have to stress my gray cells and
all of you got the gist.   

In this is the age of intellectual laziness
why should I be any different? 

Like any responsible parents, my own
extolled the virtues of being a good girl. 
In mythologicals – the good always triumphed over evil.  In movies, the baddies got bashed up and
stewed in hell while the hero drove into the sunset with the love of his life.  So I had absolutely no reason to question the
wisdom of my parents.  But what I saw
around me told me otherwise.  I often
felt that it was the bitch who was having all the fun.  She could speak her mind, not feel guilty
about her evil ways and people
generally kept a safe distance from her. 
Isn’t it less stressful to be the tormentor rather than the tormented?   Who is less stressed out, the scheming
sister in law or the beleaguered bahu! 
Joker or Batman? It was Mogambo who got to wear weird costumes and go
hahahaha all through the movie while Mr India dealt with a dozen hyper kids and
a squeaky Sridevi.

And if we are consoling ourselves with the
karma theory and how Mr Divine Justice will ensure that the wicked will land in
hell – I beg to digress.  You are dead godammit,
so does it really matter where you land up?  And since you have managed to annoy so many
people courtesy your scheming ways, your death will be an occasion to celebrate.  Imagine dying a guilt free death – not leaving
behind memories that will have your loved ones dissolve into tears?

The
dictionary defines bitch as a slang to describe an unreasonably nasty female. 

Ironically in this universe where the good
and bad have no clear definitions but merely a matter of perspective, who are
we to pass judgement on someone’s character! 
If suffering in silence is considered a virtue, I’d rather sin.   I’d rather hurt my friend with the truth
instead of agreeing that the fault lies with the world and not her.  Putting up with injustice is not an act of bravado.  Being assertive or unapologetically ambitious
is not unfeminine.  Who I sleep with is
none of your business!  

If someone is making you unhappy with her
evil machinations, it’s because you are letting her get away with it.  Give it back to her instead of cribbing!  If you find her an insufferable opinionated
wretch, wear her out with a verbal duel. 
Ignoring or shutting yourself out from unpleasantness doesn’t help but
aggravates it.  

And if all you can do is snigger behind her
back and call her names, how are you being any different! 

Courtesy - cartoonstock.com

Delhi is turning modern jee

2011-10-28T19:00:00.001+05:30

Sheila Dixit dreamt of it, our taxes paid for it and DDA in collaboration with MCD almost ruined it. Delhites caught in the daily grind of generator fumes and traffic snarls shrugged it off as yet another gimmick. But the megapolis with its many implants and cosmetic surgeries, courtesy fairy godmother CWG almost managed to make it. If a few strategic implants can make Rakhi Sawant India’s hattest item garl, surely apni Dilli can become a world class city!

Mumbaikars might try to dismiss it as yet another Behenjee-trying- to- be- modern endeavour but we know it’s a classic case of sour grapes. Mere pass Ring Road hai, Metro hai, flyovers hai - tumhare pass kya hai Mamu?

And to further strengthen our case, Delhi will have billionaire drivers vrooming on Budh International Circuit in nearby Noida this weekend. I am petrified that some Dilliwasi will misconstrue it as broom...broom and reserve a seat at the grandstand for his maid as a Diwali bonus. If Shiney, according to Spice ads, can buy a mobile for his bai, why can’t the cash-rich Delhizen book a seat for his?

I am told they call it Formula 1 and no, it’s not another Govinda movie with Shakti Kapoor’s naadha grabbing eyeballs. Neither does it have any correlation to Maths and Chemistry formulas which have eluded me all my life. Formula 1 racing is actually a high adrenaline event, where one gets to race long-nosed cars at insane speeds, minus the headache of a traffic cop chasing you with a challaan. Plus you get to crash cars just like in the movies, get an obscene pay check and carouse with the most glamorous women.

Hey! My husband drives menacingly and scares the living daylights out of people. And all he manages is pleas for mercy and petrified looks.

But I am not the type that goes on a fast against the unfairness of it all, especially when there is a plethora of stuff vying for my attention. Gosh! There’s so much I can choose from. I can do some head banging to The God of Metal- Metallica- playing in my neighbourhood, or burn a hole in my pocket watching drivers put their lives at risk on a race track. Giddy with fun, my throat hoarse from all that screaming, I can then proceed to Arjun Rampal’s Lap. Of course I’d love to spend the rest of my life in Rampal’s lap, but this is LAP the club, host to post-F1 parties. And Delhi knows how to partyyy especially when drunk. To facilitate the procedure, the club will have Champagne Sky Bars where firang apsaras will dangle from the ceiling, to top up our Champagne flutes. Wowie...getting drunk was never this fun!

Wait, the fun doesn’t stop here. To make Halloween seem real, Lady Gaga will be performing this Sunday covered in spinach & cabbage leaves. She has been kind enough to ditch her meat dress for our vegetarian sensibilities. The audience has been requested to keep their guns outside. You never know what excitement can do to Delhites.

But I wonder why the organizers spent millions on a race track when all they needed was Delhi’s MCD maintained roads. It would have been such an epic experience watching Lewis Hamilton and his ilk drive on our crater like potholes, deal with high on testosterone drivers ready to flash their guns at the honk of a horn and keep their calm in our legendary traffic jams. Also the winner should be made to watch Ra-One with SRK himself explaining the fine nuances of his masterpiece.

Now that would have been such a perfect paisa vasool!

Heart Breaking News - Metallica experienced Delhi first hand after fans broke through the barricades at the venue. The concert was cancelled much our dismay!

Courtesy - Akshar Pathak

An obituary for the dear departed Sari

2011-10-23T19:00:00.000+05:30

Courtesy -> Desicolours.com

I have fond memories of the sari. Coming home to bury my face in the softness of my grandmother’s customary white un-starched taant, keys dangling at its end, inhaling the scents – a heady mix of incense sticks, and paan and kitchen spices. Watching my Maa wrap herself in silken splendour, the intricate motifs shimmering under the lights, the aanchal flowing over her shoulder like a cascading waterfall.

For me it was not just a sari but a six yard fantasy. As a young girl, I badly wanted one for myself, to feel the swish of the silk as I would glide around the room feeling like a princess. It is in a sari that I took my first step into womanhood, ready to take flight from my cocooned existence.

There was a time when I used to wear one everyday – not because I was a six yard fanatic, but simply because it was the dress code at work. Initially I found it a menace. Having to get up early in the morning, spending anxious moments in front of the mirror to get the pleats right. Walking in an ungainly manner, tripping over the pleats at the most inopportune moments. I felt it cramped my natural athletic style of climbing three stairs at a time. So petrified I was of my sari coming undone that I would overdose on safety pins. Yes, I singlehandedly managed to make even the lungi look elegant. One look at me and my friends would shove me into the cabin, bang the door shut and re-tie it for me. Slowly I mastered the art of draping - a tuck here, a nip there, the subtle dip that brings out the essence of femininity so beautifully.

Very few attires hold as much mystery and allure as a sari. One can wear it a little low to show off our newly discovered washboard abs, pair it with a backless blouse to bring out the diva in us. And on days we feel like Mother Teresa and crave for world peace, we can drape it to cover every visible inch of our body. Now which other garment can match such versatility?

And the mind boggling variety of patterns, weaves and hues it comes in – each with its distinctive legacy. From flirty Chanderis, to elegant Gadhwals, to the opulent Banarasis, to the gorgeous Dhakai Jamdanis, to colourful Ikkats, we are spoilt for choice.

Nothing can parallel the joy of buying a sari – beautiful cottons that bring alive the magic of weavers and their looms, the feel of silk as you trace the intricate patterns with your fingers and the silent gasp as the showroom salesman unfurls the pallu with a flourish – just like a magician, presenting his grand finale.

A well draped sari is a sure fire head turner. In fact it is the only garment that does full justice to the Indian woman’s curves. Your belief is reinforced when you see a firang lady draped in one – she looks like a pencil wrapped in a kerchief! Then why is it that the cosmopolitan naari prefers giving it a miss? You will find her in pants, harem pants, hot pants, jodhpurs, shorts, skirts long and short and the occasional churidar kurta, but she will invariably give the traditional yarn a skip.

In my glamorous village Gurgaon, spotting a woman in a sari is akin to spotting a tiger in the forest reserves of Sariska! Strangely, when she gets together with her friends, all she does is crib about saris collecting dust in her closet.

I understand one has to adapt to changing times and for everyday wear, the sari is getting cumbersome. It is no more a practical option. It is far more convenient to slip in to a pair of jeans. I am no different, even my closet is crammed with pants and dresses.

The jooda is almost extinct, tying your hair in a plait is considered too behenjee and we wear saris only on special occasions. Sadly our tastes are veering towards the gaudy, heavily embellished creations that will make even a peacock blush. In our slavish pursuit of brands and bling, numerous textile arts are dying a slow death. Isn’t it ironic that at the state Emporia Complex which showcases our country’s distinctive handicrafts, I see more foreigners than Indians!

Thanks to lack of patronage, weavers who created fantasies with their skilled hands are compelled to take up other professions.

Maybe the death of the traditional sari is more of a big city phenomenon, where the sophisticated femme is eager to conform to global trends. She’d rather blend in than stand out. So how can we expect our gen-next girls to be any different! For most of them the six yard fabric is an alien concept. How many of them can differentiate a Pochampalli from a Patola or for that matter kuchipudi from kathak? I don’t think my daughter will ever wear one until she is threatened with dire consequences. When I was her age I would forever be pleading with my Maa to let me wear one of her gorgeous saris to a family wedding. I can’t foresee my progeny doing the same.

Agreed, as an evolving society we cannot afford to waste time on bemoaning a past that had to be sacrificed at the altar of progress. But isn’t it our ethnicity and cultural roots that sets us apart from the surging mass of humanity that drinks coffee from Starbucks, drools over Haagen Dazs ice creams and swears on Calvin Klein jeans?

I am aware that a lot of young college going girls read my blog. Allow me to sound like your Mom this time. Agreed that change is the essence of life, but why let go of your Indianness, your rich heritage! Yes, we have brown skin, we put on fat at all the wrong places, we love our food spicy, our festivals are loud, our movies even louder – so what? It’s time we felt proud of how different we are from the rest of the world.

And remember, it’s only when our foundations are strong can we survive all odds – just like a well-rooted tree that can withstand the stormiest of weather and still hold its ground.

Dear Sari, you can trust us to not let you down. You are too beautiful, too majestic to let go of. There will come a time when we won’t wait for a Diwali or a wedding to air our Paithanis...a time when wearing a sari itself will be the cause for celebration....

So don’t you fret – I know you will be back with a vengeance.

This is Sita Reporting Live

2011-10-17T18:04:00.000+05:30

Concluding Episode

Epsd 1,Epsd 2

Mommy love,

I can safely say that today was the most miserable day of my life. Yes, I had a head on collision with the moment that every woman dreads so much. We try hard to avoid it with yoga, zero carbs and botox. Yet there’s no escaping its cruel inevitability.

I believe the animal kingdom, in collaboration with foreign hand, has hatched a conspiracy against me. First a deer pretending to be golden gets me abducted then an ape-man dressed in Super- man gear, crashes my vanity into smithereens.

Maa you won’t believe this, that Hanu-man called ME, Matajee! Imagine a grown-up ape-man calling me that! This is even worse than Aunty. When I heard that god damn awful word, my entire neuro-sensory system stopped responding. My world came crashing down. All I could hear was the sound of my sobbing heart. “Does he think I am old?” “Have I aged overnight?” “Is this the end of my youth?” “Why me??”

Sitasingstheblues.com

Just as I was
preparing to launch into a tirade against men with juvenile aspirations, Hanu-man
flashed his ID as Ram’s search engine.  My
heart was split in half now- one half wanted to continue crying for a lost
youth and the other half wanted to go “Yahooooo!”  Imagine my Ram, actually making efforts to send
a snail-male to trawl for his missing wife! 

Guess all those hours on his laptop playing mindless games did not damage his brains after all.

But when Hanu-man offered me a free ride home on his back, I had to put my foot down. What makes Ram think he can take a shortcut and outsource his responsibility to a vanar in red chaddi! I expect my husband to turn up, challenge Ra-One to a duel in the sun and take me back honourably. And I have promised Ra-One that my Mister will set his ass on fire. I can’t go back on my word can I?

I tell you, my simian savior is one senti chap. One look at my tear stained face and he went on a tree uprooting rampage. Sadly the CCTV’s caught Hanu-man’s emotional outburst and he was promptly arrested. But it was only when he was threatened to be deported to Big Boss 5 to give Shakti-man company, did he completely lose his bearings. He set Lanka on fire with his ignited tail.

Strangely Lanka with all its riches doesn’t have a fire brigade.

Now that Ra-One is pretty much aware that I have Bodyguards who can do much more than sing songs sans their shirts, I have been granted certain privileges; like getting newspapers every morning with my morning tea. And thanks to Hanu-man’s daredevilry, Ram has acquired a cult status here. If the man’s courier boy is such a bomb, the man himself has to be an A-bomb.

Since Ram is now a bonafide rockstar, Times of Lanka has started publishing his tweets. I am thrilled to bits that my man is now an international celebrity and rubbing shoulders with the likes of Paris Hilton and KRK. And last week his follower list crossed the 1 million mark – isn’t that awesome Maa!

Anyhow I can now keep tabs on what Ram’s up to.

In talks with monkey engineer, Nala.

Nala to build a bridge that will put even the Worli Link to shame

Just signed a peace pact with Varuna, the sea God

Man, do these monkeys love “We will rock you”! Freddy would have been so proud!

Completed the bridge in 5 days flat -try beating that China! #monkeyingaround

On my way to Lanka with my funky monkeys to save wifey.

@Ra-One If you have drunk your mother’s milk, come and show me your face you Rascalaa!

Laks-man knocked senseless by Ra-One’s missile.

Lanka’s stock of missiles will put even North Korea to shame.

Ra-One’s son Indrajeet is an awesome illusionist. #respect

@ Indrajeet WTF are you doing in Lanka, you should be in Las Vegas earning fat wads of dollars.

Laks-man in coma #Oh-no-not-again

@ Hanu-man Need Sanjeevani booti ASAP

@ Hanu-man Did you really have to bring the entire mountain? #dumb antics

Finally managed to fell pesky Ra-One with my Brahmaastra #ikickass

;) RT @ Paris Hilton…Ooh that’s hot!

Gawd! Can Ra-One talk, even on his death bed the man insists on giving gyaan #Yawn

Ra-One enroute to heaven, Lanka seized, honour restored, time to go back home, sweet home.

Oops I forgot all about Sita, where the hell is she?

The moment I read his last tweet, I booked an appointment for an image makeover. The least I could do was look my prettiest best for my Ram.

Maa, what I’ll write now will break your heart. The husband for whose sake I left the Palace, didn’t think twice before following him to the jungles, cooked and cleaned all day in a poorly ventilated hut, got his name tattooed on my nape, pined for him, followed his idiotic tweets religiously - the same man greets me with a dead fish look and says since you’ve been with my enemy for a year, I shouldn’t be taking you back! What cheek! As if I took a luxury cruise to Lanka! As if I invited Ra-One to come and kidnap me! As if staying in a vatika with ugly women for company was one big party! As if it was fun eating grub cooked in coconut oil! Dear Hubs, do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to keep my sanity intact, living in a hostile country, fending off an amorous king – I did it all for your sake, you self righteous moron!

No, you don’t deserve me, my love or my respect. Goodbye Ram. And before you trudge back to Ayodhya to lead a sad, lonely life, let me share this piece of news with you. Thappar-Colin has offered me a multimillion dollar book contract to write my memoirs. I just said yes to them and guess who the villain will be in my book?

Now if you will excuse me, I have a book to write.

I can’t believe I said it Maa. Gosh, this feels so good!

Your liberated daughter

Sita

Sita Travels Abroad

2011-10-09T19:00:00.001+05:30

Episode 2

Episode 1

Mommy dearest,

First the good news – I finally managed my first ever foreign trip and that too without a visa. The bad news – I have been kidnapped.

Remember the golden deer I was soo excited about? It turned out to be as fake as Aunty Sumitra's Louis Vuitton bags. And trust Ram and Laks-man to go running after it. Before I could scream Come back you imbeciles, I spotted that weird Abhishekh Bachhan lookalike winking wildly at me. God! I was so mad that I had to come out of my eco friendly hut to give him one tight slap. And you know what that moron does? Pushes me straight into his private jet. Damn! Why did I leave my pepper spray behind?

Sometimes the universe conspires to give you hell.

Weirdo’s private jet was kinda strange – an open topped thingy that totally messed up my hair. Of course I was screaming and throwing a royal fit and that ass kept going hahaha. Incidentally my dear abductor has a bizarre name – Ra-One. Bwahaha!

Sitasingstheblues.com

Ra-one is such a heartless slob. Great, that you found me so irresistible that you had to kidnap me. The least you can do is make the girl happy, right? But what does he do instead? Turn a deaf ear when I plead with him to make a stop-over at the ATM in Smaller- Kailash so that I can withdraw some pocket-money. Brute. But I got my sweet revenge soon. A giant eagle, Jatayu, flew over our jet and pooped right on his head. Serve you right! And guess what the barbarian does, he chops that poor birdie’s wings off. Why I ask? When you could have simply offered Jatayu a few diapers instead...

Men, I tell you.

Then it suddenly struck me, what if Ram can never ever find me again? What if he says...”Oops I lost my wifey” and proceeds to live happily ever after? I can’t let that happen, can I? So I start dropping my trinkets (only the cheap ones if you please) and leave clues for my husband.

Ha! Now hubby dear can’t claim to be clueless.

Ra-One has brought me to this strange land, Lanka and he’s like the king or something. And man! Is he loaded! You should see his city. All that glitters is gold here. Can you imagine, even their buildings are made of it! Their gold fixation can put even Bappi Lahiri to shame. But I found it too blingy for my taste. And the afternoons here are torturous. The dazzle hurts my eyes and I don’t even have my Versace shades.

But I believe every cloud has a golden lining. The other night when I was busy swatting mosquitoes, I got an idea that can change Paa’s life. All he needs to do is accuse Ra-one of hiding WMD’s and then he can invade Lanka and finally get rid of his debt crisis. Brilliant, right!

Lanka may be friggin’ rich but I am being made to twiddle my thumbs under a tree. Imagine getting abducted from a jungle only to be put in another one. So tragic naa? Agreed that the forest is kind of well cared for and has a fancy name, Ashok Vatika, but why can’t I get a plush suite instead - with a plunge pool, soft bed and room service? Isn’t a beautiful woman like me entitled to some tender loving and care?

What a lousy host this Ra-One is. Royalty, my foot, is this how you treat your guests!

Strangely people out here are rather dark. Hello people, don’t you ever use Fair and Lovely? And remember that bitch Surpanakha. I finally saw her without makeup and a seriously messed-up nose job. Gosh! Doesn’t she look ugly. Thank God! I didn’t accept her friend request on FB.

It’s been two weeks since I landed in Lanka and I am already bored to death. I urgently need to be rescued. Why, I’m even missing my FB friends! Maa, can you please ask Ram to turn his GPS on? It will be so much simpler for him to locate me.

And I suspect his highness, Ra-One, suffers from a serious multiple personality disorder – sometimes loony, sometimes moony, sometime giggly, mostly sulky. How on Earth do I manage to attract such creepy specimens all the time?

Oh and today was epic, the loony bin actually had the nerve to ask me to marry him. What cheek! I shouted Shakal dekhi hai apnee aine mein? And don’t you know I am MARRIED? Once my Mister gets here, you ass will be on fire, mind it!

You know Maa, I almost threw up on his face. It’s not so difficult you know; as such the food here makes me pukey. Every damn dish of theirs has kari patta and coconut! And the other day someone served me something with claws. I think they call it a crab. Eww...

Hey! Isn’t that a cute creature with a tail staring at me from behind the bushes! Aww...he looks just like one of those characters from Planet of Apes. Come ...come...want a banana? Ahh you have a name too- Hanu-man did you say?

When Sita Clicked Write

2011-10-03T18:56:00.003+05:30

Episode 1

Since Dusshera is round the corner, I thought I’ll give Sita a modern twist.

Maa,

I am kicking
myself for being so goody-goody.  I
should have stayed back and gotten fat. 
But no! I had to act like one those dumb belles in the saas-bahu serials
and follow my husband to the forest like a loyal puppy.  What was I thinking!  Sigh… Life was so much cooler at the Palace –
all those maids, the soft bed, the scented massage, the gorgeous Jacuzzi…I miss
it so bad.  And guess what! I am even
missing my MILs.   Yep, the same old hags
I took such pains to avoid.   And it
wasn’t that tough you know.  They mostly
stuck to their rooms and all they did was play cards and watch TV. 

Actually it’s
Paa-in-law’s fault.  He and his fetish
for collecting wives!   Which dork sends
his heir to the jungles just because he made a promise to his pretty young
wife?  Promises are meant to be broken
right? And if everything else fails you can always feign memory loss.  But no! You have to act all upright and send
us packing to hell. Gawd! I am so maaaad at him! 

 Maa, next time when you meet that jealous bitch
Kaikeyi at one of your Kitty parties, just give her a tight slap will ya?  You know what, I often dream that I am
pushing K and her ugly hunchback Manthra off a cliff.  They go down screaming as I grin widely.   I wish I could do that.  Will you ask Dad, if he can arrange someone
to crush that bitch under a speeding BMW? 
Please, pretty please? 

sitasingstheblues.com

I was such a
fool to think that life in the forest will be like one of those iDiscoveri camps we attended in
school.  And that the raw diet would do
wonders for my skin and size zero dreams!  
I am soo sick of my vegan diet. 
If they make me eat another banana, I swear I’ll puke.  And guess what! Even Dominos refuses to
deliver here. What cheek! Saying no to royalty. 
Wait till I get back, I’ll make sure their license is revoked. 

Life here is
even worse than Ram Gopal Varma’s Jungle. 
The connectivity is so poor. 
Every time I try to log in, I get disconnected.  I haven’t chatted to my FB friends since ages
and when I finally managed log in, there was not a single message waiting for
me on my wall.  Har ek friend traitor
hota hai! Just because I am not rich anymore they think they can treat me like
trash! 

Wait till I
get back, I will unfriend them all.

I wish I hadn’t
fallen in love with Ram at first sight.  This
is what happens when you read too many Mills & Boons.  It’s all your fault, you and your hugest
collection of those trashy sweet pills which are nothing but a pack of
lies!  In reality the strong silent types
are crashing bores who prefer laptops to their wives!  Gosh! Maa he’s such a video game junkie.  All he does he play Angry Birds, Assassin’s
Creed and pump iron.  I admit that it was
his six packs that I actually fell for and he kinda looked cute with his long
hair in a bun.  And yeah!  The way he stringed Pa’s ancient bow was
kinda hot.  But a woman needs to talk and
feel special.  And does he do that?  No sire.  All he does is criticize and sulk when I snap
back.

To think I
sacrificed the admiration of my hundred admirers to face the criticism of one
idiot.  

And that
bro-in-law of mine Laksh-man, he kinda freaks me out – acting like my
bodyguard, flexing his muscles and giving me that “I’m watching you girl”
look!  Yeah! Right!  Get a life dude.  Ram and I could have had a second honeymoon,
but for you and your annoying habit of following us like a shadow!   That stupid hut doesn’t even have enough
rooms and I keep crashing into that jerk all the time.  And does he eat!  All I do is cook all the time. Nobody even
has the decency to ask if I need help.  

Men I tell
you.  

I haven’t
told you this, have I?  A woman,
Surpanakha had been stalking Ram.  I
understand my man is quite a chick magnet until he opens his mouth.   So,
she was bombarding him with texts and acting all cheap and desperate.  But I know my man, he played cool and
disinterested even though she was kinda pretty. 
I know coz I checked her albums on FB.  What an amazing wardrobe that woman has and
look at me, a walking fashion disaster in my one piece saffron wrap!   It’s been so long since I shopped at Dolce
& Gabbanna.  Sigh….

Anways you know
naa, Laks always had anger management issues. 
One day when Surpanakha was trying to get all hot and heavy with Ram, that
joker took out his Swiss knife and chopped her nose off!  Of course she got mad, with plastic surgery
so expensive and the poor girl doesn’t even have a medical insurance that
covers her nose. I guess shit happens all the time.

I wonder if
she’s planning to sue us.

And now even
I have managed my very own personal stalkers, not one but two of them. They are
dark and one of them is a lil weird. 
Remember Abhishekh Bacchan in that ridiculous movie Ravan? One of them
kinda looks like him.   I am not too sure
whether I should tell Ram.  As such he’s
so stressed about that Surpanakha episode. 

Wait!  I just spotted a deer outside of my
window.  Hey! It’s a golden colour.  Shit! Where is that damn camera of mine.  I better click some awesome pics and upload
it on FB so that all my loser friends know what a good time I am having.  

Maa, I gotta
run, will call you tonight.

Mwaah

Sita.

In Love With Paris

2011-09-27T19:00:00.000+05:30

The child in me still alive and kicking and has been dreaming of Paris Hilton for years. So imagine my excitement, when I read that Paris Hilton will be coming to Mumbai. I couldn’t stop myself from getting into paroxysms screaming OMG OMG OMG, till my daughter came to my room and said Maa will you stop it.

It was a Saturday night when I crash landed at the Chhatrapati International Airport. What else can you expect when you travel Air India. My journey was rather eventful. First I got stuck in the aircraft’s toilet. Then the airhostess who reminded me of my Math teacher in school, scolded me for waking her up from her siesta. I guess I was being greedy when I asked for a second helping of Rasmalai and look how God punished me! He sent me scurrying to the toilet. By the time I arrived at Mumbai, I had already lost 3 kgs.

I was weak at my knees not because of reasons diarrheal but at the prospect of finally feasting my eyes on my American Ideal –Paris Hilton. I have a feeling that Paris must have been conceived at Hilton Paris. Why else would anyone name their kid after a city? Her parents deserve applause for their imagination. Has anyone ever dared to name their kid Jabalpur Jain, Patna Puri or Brussels Barua? You require a special IQ for such unfettered creativeness.

Hilton’s Parisian progeny certainly didn’t let her illustrious parents down. It was she who singlehandedly spearheaded the use of live accessories. Who on earth could had thought of a Chihuahua poking out of a purse! And it was the awesomest idea for anorexic divas. They could now share their meal of three carrots with their pooch nuzzling right under their underarms.


courtesy pinkvilla.com

When the super duper Diva – Paris did arrive at the airport, wearing all shades of blue and a bicycle chain on her head. I fainted right there. But not before I screamed Parisssssssss, you are so hot. The dumb ass next to me commented, but the weather at Paris is just perfect! Men I tell you.

And some confused souls wanted to check in, when they read Paris Hilton is in Mumbai. What’s wrong with you people!

I read somewhere that Paris Hilton has come to India to peddle her purses. What can a girl do when her meanie grand dad disinherits her. A girl has to pay her bills no? How long can she depend on panting men on the lower side of the evolution, to pay for her extravagances! But I wonder why she calls her accessories store PHpurse. Isn’t PH something that shampoos build up? Why didn’t she settle for her trademarked – That’s Hot!

And that’s what Paris said when she stepped out....That’s hot but only after she had said I love India 297 times. Ask me, I counted. PH is a simple girl, who leads a Simple Life and finds everything that she sees awesome, amazing and wow. Wow! What an amazing turnout/ Wow! Such a long day/ Just had an amazing press conference.

Yes, Paris Hilton - singer, socialite, porn educator, businesswoman - is a woman of many talents. Unfortunately those talents do not include public speaking, or speaking in general. A woman can’t have it all, can she! Two tight slaps to all you evil souls who insist that the world would be a much better place if Paris were to seal her lips forever and never speak again. Her vocabulary may be limited but her heart is extra large. How many of you can give a hundred dollar note to a beggar woman in Mumbai, on a mere whim! And all that stupid cow could say was Isskaa chhutta milega kya?

And if PH is so awesomely dumb, why would gossip queen Karan Johar want to have coffee with her? All that cheapo wanted to talk about was sex! Has Paris Hilton ever bothered to ask KJo who he has sex with?

Ms Hilton is a diva in her own right and doesn’t need cheap publicity, she’s already so famous. Why! she even received two Bollywood offers. Paris is sooo excited. She loves Bolly movies you know, especially their chhamak chhallo clothes. But I doubt whether she will be expected to wear much of them.

And if she really wants to wear saris, bindis and jewelry, she can always say yes to evergreen Dev Anand’s once in a lifetime offer – the chance to play the role of his Mom in his next movie - Main solah baras kaa.

Paris, please don’t go! Bollywood with its ham & cheese superstars is just purrfect for you. You can keep saying that’s hot…I love you…that’s awesome…all the time and nobody will mind. If we can put so many talentless actors and actresses on a pedestal and worship them, what’s a Paris Hilton? Plus you can drink and drive, run over a few pedestrians and shoot toll plaza attendants for fun. Our jails are so cool that even our political class prefers staying there, with western toilets installed on request. I think they even give your free toilet paper.

And once you open a PHpurse store in Lucknow, their hand bag obsessed Chief Minister will take good care of your bills. Now where will you find such an incredible country, Paris?