I fear that I have gone all* domestic.
And when I do the whole distance-yourself-from-the-situation thing, that fear turns into horror, and then that's me in the corner, cowering in fear, expecting to be hit over the head, by the rabidly feministic eighteen year old, that used to be me.
"Look", I try to reason with her**, "put that cudgel down. I'm sure we can discuss this like adults", and I'm praying like hell that the hormones blazing through her veins haven't taken over all her brain cells.
"You've changed", she says, accusingly..."You used to be strong-willed...and free spirited...and, and you HATED housework!"
"I know, I know! I've been a little...different lately, but it's not what you think", I say, in weak defense. "Look...I'm still a feminist***...and just because I've started spending time...doing...other things...well..."
"Last night, you told the SB that you needed more counter-space in YOUR kitchen." she says, with such scorn in her voice, that I wilt. "You went to bed smiling, and don't think I don't know why!"
What do you mean!? I went to bed smiling because...well...I was happy, okay!? I'd had a good day and I'm allowed to smile when I'm happy, dammit!
Ha! Rubbish! I *know* why.
What?! I mean...I don't know what you're talking about!
You checked the fridge before you went to bed! You smiled...at the bread and cheese and eggs. You even patted the packet of mushrooms fondly. Don't lie to me! I saw you!!
"Alright alright! It's true...all of it! It...It's like a disease okay? I can't help myself! I wake up in the morning, and I want to *make* things. Fluffy, cheesy omelettes with little mushroomy bits of goodness, served up next to slices of toast in melty butter shawls...stacks of golden brown pancakes dripping maple syrup...stuffed-to-the-seams parathas with cold yoghurt and mint chutney..."
Don't try to distract me! You don't fool me with your little tricks you know. I know you! Hell, I AM you! Or, used to be at least...until you turned into this.
Don't talk like that! You don't know what it's like! You don't know how it feels to walk into the fresh foods' section and see all the produce just sitting there...the plump, juicy tomatoes...mocking you with their sheer availability...and the iceberg...so fresh that your teeth almost ache with wanting to crunch it up.
And I can't stop! I see these things...and then I see everything they could be. One minute I'm looking at shiny purple aubergines and the next minute...I can almost taste the baingan ka bharta. Smoky, with the slight tang from the tomatoes...scooped up with pieces of flour-dusty rotis...
"You're doing it again, you're trying to distract me..." she says, but with less scorn now and more...is it hesitation? Hunger?
I see my chance and take it.
"Wait", I tell her, as I rustle up something. I place the dish in front of her with all the flourish of a magician pulling out doves from silk scarves. She eats one spoonful, then another and soon the plate is empty, and she's full.
After a long silence, she asks, "You...enjoy doing this? Making food? Feeding people?".
In between broken sobs, I confess. "I do...but please, *please* don't tell anyone!
The look on her face says, "You're WEIRD woman, but as long as you can cook like that? I'll live with it."
We're aware that it's an uneasy truce, but we shake hands all the same. I breathe a sigh of extreme relief - I have my kitchen back and she has her hormones.
*Okay, not all domestic...I don't do any of the other stuff.
**Yes, I have conversations with my past selves. You ought to try it sometime.
***See, I used to be the kind of person who thought cooking implied domestication implied encouraging gender stereotyping. Yes, well, I wasn't the brightest teenager in the box back then.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Things that make me go - Aaaarrgghhh! Stop!! Somebody! Make it go away!!
1. Koel Poorie
Or Puri. Or Pourrie. Or Puree or whatever. A puri by
any other name, is just as heart-attack-inducing. But I'm rambling.
This is a pretty woman. With fabulous skin and lovely, lovely arms.
An immensely talented one too. How many women do you know, who have the ability, to make you want to curl up into a foetal position, and run away screaming and tear your hair out, strand by excruciating strand, all at the same time*?
Yeah. She's that good.
I watched the film Mixed Doubles recently, and while it's a decent enough movie, the aforementioned Koel Poorie, froze the blood in my veins. Now, I can understand, that she's playing a slightly eccentric character, but even if you are eccentric, I would assume that if you are doing the whole role-playing deal, you will be a little...well...involved in it? And okay, maybe she's not really into role-playing, but isn't that where this little thing called 'acting', enters the picture? I have heard more passion and longing infused into a "Pass the salt please", than in her throaty and (purportedly) seductive, "Come here and kiss me".
She played a similarly eccentric character in the completely obscure movie, called White Noise which was where little seeds of despair and disbelief were first sown.
"This woman is allowed in front of a camera? Which has a real person at the other end of it? And which will eventually lead to many more people seeing her awful impersonation of a person acting? Will mankind's propensity for sadism never cease?"
I wonder if there's a reason why she's consistently offered woman-completely-off-her-rocker roles. Could it be that she has to be offered a role (maybe filmdom works in mysterious ways?) and the producers reason that, since there are few definitive traits of women-completely-off-their-rockers, maybe no one will notice?
Well I have news for you producers...people notice. And they feel pain. And to paraphrase Shylock’s plea: Hath not a movie-goer eyes? Hath not movie-goers hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? And if you show them Koel Poorie acting, do they not gouge their eyes out?
But perhaps she's not all to blame. Perhaps a long long time ago, when she was a just a little disaster...ummm...I mean, girl, someone (probably a kind old-completely-off-her-rocker lady) told her, that she ought to become an actress. Now, being young and impressionable (and minus any signs of brain activity), she took that suggestion seriously. And damn the glaring lack of acting talent! Who needs acting talent when you're facing a camera? Absolute humbug, I tell you!
Kind old-completely-off-your-rocker lady, I'm coming after you. With a hatchet.
I thought of two more! -
1. Madhuri Dixit, in the abyss of her Sooraj Barjatya-ness...wearing red frilly dresses, and singing wince-inducingly tuneless songs about 'Chocolate, Lime Juice, Ice-cream and apparently, 'Toffeeyan'. Aaaarrgghh!!
2. Kareena Kapoor, as 'Poo' (well, at least THAT part's true) in the Karan Johar conducted, three-hour painfest, deceptively titled, Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham.
*weeps silently*
2. Fashion Designers...
and phrases like 'White is the new Black'.
What?? And I mean, what?!
What ARE you, people-who-make-such-statements? Blind as a small, winged, nocturnal marsupial?
Okay, I *get* that this is what the 'Global Fashion Forecast' says but when, o when, are Indian Fashion designers going to realise, that the GFF is essentially a bunch of white skinned people (not that I have anything against them, mind you), making colour and silhouette forecasts, for other white skinned people? Makes sense, doesn't it? That you wouldn't really design for people, who cannot wear your clothes, without looking like something that crawled out of UFO wreckage?
Indian designers, on the other hand, consider the GFF, the word of God.
If lemon yellow has been declared (by the GFF) the 'New Black', then screw the fact that it makes brown skin look choleric! Who cares about looking good! Let no one accuse us of not being 'With It'! Let there be a sudden profusion of lemon yellow pants, shirts, blazers, skirts, sunglasses and ties in every single designer boutique! Fill the streets with with people sporting The Cholera Look!
You'll see one lemon yellow clad body...then two...and then, lemon yellow clad bodies everywhere you turn! Like some genetic mutation experiment gone horribly, terribly wrong.
If skin-hugging has been declared the silhouette of the year, then every single designer outfit will be designed on the basic premise of, 'hug skin or die', and never mind that what it's hugging looks more like the Venus of Willendorf, rather than any of the sculpted bodies walking the Paris ramps. Can you imagine? Lemon yellow fertility figurines everywhere you look? It's like a bad dream. And one that you can't wake up from, until the next bloody season!
And if that isn't bad enough, these Lemon Yellow Skin-Hugging abominations will have price tags, the likes of which you can probably find on the Kohinoor diamond. Or sleek red sports cars.
The logic behind this kind of pricing, is apparently that, you're paying for exclusivity.
What I want to know is, doesn't the fact that an *individual* is donning the garment, give it 'exclusivity'?
But then, there are people who pay for these things and so what if I think they're a bunch of daft buggers. Stupid rich people exist, so people cater to them. Seems like a fairly sound business proposition - Get the SRP's to pay gazillions, for something you've spend twenty bucks on...brilliant actually!
Career option number two, here I come.
Or Puri. Or Pourrie. Or Puree or whatever. A puri by
any other name, is just as heart-attack-inducing. But I'm rambling.
This is a pretty woman. With fabulous skin and lovely, lovely arms.
An immensely talented one too. How many women do you know, who have the ability, to make you want to curl up into a foetal position, and run away screaming and tear your hair out, strand by excruciating strand, all at the same time*?
Yeah. She's that good.
I watched the film Mixed Doubles recently, and while it's a decent enough movie, the aforementioned Koel Poorie, froze the blood in my veins. Now, I can understand, that she's playing a slightly eccentric character, but even if you are eccentric, I would assume that if you are doing the whole role-playing deal, you will be a little...well...involved in it? And okay, maybe she's not really into role-playing, but isn't that where this little thing called 'acting', enters the picture? I have heard more passion and longing infused into a "Pass the salt please", than in her throaty and (purportedly) seductive, "Come here and kiss me".
She played a similarly eccentric character in the completely obscure movie, called White Noise which was where little seeds of despair and disbelief were first sown.
"This woman is allowed in front of a camera? Which has a real person at the other end of it? And which will eventually lead to many more people seeing her awful impersonation of a person acting? Will mankind's propensity for sadism never cease?"
I wonder if there's a reason why she's consistently offered woman-completely-off-her-rocker roles. Could it be that she has to be offered a role (maybe filmdom works in mysterious ways?) and the producers reason that, since there are few definitive traits of women-completely-off-their-rockers, maybe no one will notice?
Well I have news for you producers...people notice. And they feel pain. And to paraphrase Shylock’s plea: Hath not a movie-goer eyes? Hath not movie-goers hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? And if you show them Koel Poorie acting, do they not gouge their eyes out?
But perhaps she's not all to blame. Perhaps a long long time ago, when she was a just a little disaster...ummm...I mean, girl, someone (probably a kind old-completely-off-her-rocker lady) told her, that she ought to become an actress. Now, being young and impressionable (and minus any signs of brain activity), she took that suggestion seriously. And damn the glaring lack of acting talent! Who needs acting talent when you're facing a camera? Absolute humbug, I tell you!
Kind old-completely-off-your-rocker lady, I'm coming after you. With a hatchet.
I thought of two more! -
1. Madhuri Dixit, in the abyss of her Sooraj Barjatya-ness...wearing red frilly dresses, and singing wince-inducingly tuneless songs about 'Chocolate, Lime Juice, Ice-cream and apparently, 'Toffeeyan'. Aaaarrgghh!!
2. Kareena Kapoor, as 'Poo' (well, at least THAT part's true) in the Karan Johar conducted, three-hour painfest, deceptively titled, Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham.
*weeps silently*
2. Fashion Designers...
and phrases like 'White is the new Black'.
What?? And I mean, what?!
What ARE you, people-who-make-such-statements? Blind as a small, winged, nocturnal marsupial?
Okay, I *get* that this is what the 'Global Fashion Forecast' says but when, o when, are Indian Fashion designers going to realise, that the GFF is essentially a bunch of white skinned people (not that I have anything against them, mind you), making colour and silhouette forecasts, for other white skinned people? Makes sense, doesn't it? That you wouldn't really design for people, who cannot wear your clothes, without looking like something that crawled out of UFO wreckage?
Indian designers, on the other hand, consider the GFF, the word of God.
If lemon yellow has been declared (by the GFF) the 'New Black', then screw the fact that it makes brown skin look choleric! Who cares about looking good! Let no one accuse us of not being 'With It'! Let there be a sudden profusion of lemon yellow pants, shirts, blazers, skirts, sunglasses and ties in every single designer boutique! Fill the streets with with people sporting The Cholera Look!
You'll see one lemon yellow clad body...then two...and then, lemon yellow clad bodies everywhere you turn! Like some genetic mutation experiment gone horribly, terribly wrong.
If skin-hugging has been declared the silhouette of the year, then every single designer outfit will be designed on the basic premise of, 'hug skin or die', and never mind that what it's hugging looks more like the Venus of Willendorf, rather than any of the sculpted bodies walking the Paris ramps. Can you imagine? Lemon yellow fertility figurines everywhere you look? It's like a bad dream. And one that you can't wake up from, until the next bloody season!
And if that isn't bad enough, these Lemon Yellow Skin-Hugging abominations will have price tags, the likes of which you can probably find on the Kohinoor diamond. Or sleek red sports cars.
The logic behind this kind of pricing, is apparently that, you're paying for exclusivity.
What I want to know is, doesn't the fact that an *individual* is donning the garment, give it 'exclusivity'?
But then, there are people who pay for these things and so what if I think they're a bunch of daft buggers. Stupid rich people exist, so people cater to them. Seems like a fairly sound business proposition - Get the SRP's to pay gazillions, for something you've spend twenty bucks on...brilliant actually!
Career option number two, here I come.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Rang De Basanti
We're back!
And most happy to be so.
Ah! To be met each morning, by the fragrance of coffee (brewed sinfully strong) and a crinkly newspaper (forgive me Emerald Isles, I could not love thee so much, loved I, not caffeine more)!
And though there are probably a million better ways for a comeback, we shall go the obligatory-post-on-Rang-De-Basanti way (since that's what we most gleefully, hopped, skipped and bunked office for. A whole hour and a half early too!).
There there, Mr. Prufrock...shush now. We have watched, hence we must review, but we promise to make it short.
We liked the movie.
And we *loved* the title track.
For Prasoon Joshi's beautiful lyrics.
"Thodisi dhool meri, dharti ki mere watan ki
thodisi khushbu bahurai si, mast pavan ki
thodisi dhonkani vaali dhak-dhak dhak-dhak dhak-dhak saansein
jin mein ho junoon junoon voh boondein laal lahu ki"
For Rehman's authentic (as sarson-da-saag te makki-di-rotti) music.
And for Daler Mehndi's earthy, bursting-with-energy rendition of it.
It made me want to get up and *dance*. With utter abandon. And utter disregard for - 1) the fact that I don't have a punjabi bone in my body, and non-punjabi bones just cannot do the bhangra, and 2) the accompanying picture of five feet zero-inches of chocolate pudding, giving the impression of being electrocuted. Oh you can laugh! But just try telling me that you heard the song and your shoulders didn't start going bop-bop-bop to the beat (however subtly). And that your feet didn't show a sudden aversion to being in contact with the floor. Go on, try.
Ha! Knew you couldn't!
We also really liked the track 'Khoon Chala'. Soft, sweet and fist-sized-lump-in-throat evoking. Somewhat reminiscent of Mirza Ghalib's-
"Ragon main daudte rehne ke hum nahin kaayal,
Jab aankh hi se na tapka, to phir lahu kya hai."
One of the more poignant parts of the movie is a sepia scene between Kunal Kapoor (as Ashfaqullah) and Atul Kulkarni (as Ram Kumar Bismil). Kulkarni is trying to convince Kapoor to escape to Iran (or some Islamic country, I can't remember which one), saying "Vo tumhare apne hain", and Kapoor, burning with angst, and hurt and heartache that you can hear in his voice, asks, "Main tumhara apna nahin?".
This is a man to watch out for.
The fact that we have trouble disguising our drooling, is of course, a trivial and irrelevant matter (another post on this, soon).
So, to conclude an immensely un-analytical and un-informative review, we say, we loved it. It's a really good movie and if you haven't already, go watch it now. (See Mr. Prufrock? *Short*)
**I don't know what this word means. Can anyone help, please?
Update:
Apparently, there's more than that one word I didn't know the meaning of.
1. Baurai - No such word.
The word is Bahurai, and is derived from the urdu Bahr (or bahur) which means, 'of the sea'.
Hence, Thodisi khushbu bahurai si = The smell of the sea
2. Dhonk Nirali - No such word
The word is dhonkani, which means, bellows.
So, Thodi si dhonkani vaali saansein = The bellows of breath (or the breath used as bellows).
You live, you learn.
And most happy to be so.
Ah! To be met each morning, by the fragrance of coffee (brewed sinfully strong) and a crinkly newspaper (forgive me Emerald Isles, I could not love thee so much, loved I, not caffeine more)!
And though there are probably a million better ways for a comeback, we shall go the obligatory-post-on-Rang-De-Basanti way (since that's what we most gleefully, hopped, skipped and bunked office for. A whole hour and a half early too!).
There there, Mr. Prufrock...shush now. We have watched, hence we must review, but we promise to make it short.
We liked the movie.
And we *loved* the title track.
For Prasoon Joshi's beautiful lyrics.
"Thodisi dhool meri, dharti ki mere watan ki
thodisi khushbu bahurai si, mast pavan ki
thodisi dhonkani vaali dhak-dhak dhak-dhak dhak-dhak saansein
jin mein ho junoon junoon voh boondein laal lahu ki"
For Rehman's authentic (as sarson-da-saag te makki-di-rotti) music.
And for Daler Mehndi's earthy, bursting-with-energy rendition of it.
It made me want to get up and *dance*. With utter abandon. And utter disregard for - 1) the fact that I don't have a punjabi bone in my body, and non-punjabi bones just cannot do the bhangra, and 2) the accompanying picture of five feet zero-inches of chocolate pudding, giving the impression of being electrocuted. Oh you can laugh! But just try telling me that you heard the song and your shoulders didn't start going bop-bop-bop to the beat (however subtly). And that your feet didn't show a sudden aversion to being in contact with the floor. Go on, try.
Ha! Knew you couldn't!
We also really liked the track 'Khoon Chala'. Soft, sweet and fist-sized-lump-in-throat evoking. Somewhat reminiscent of Mirza Ghalib's-
"Ragon main daudte rehne ke hum nahin kaayal,
Jab aankh hi se na tapka, to phir lahu kya hai."
One of the more poignant parts of the movie is a sepia scene between Kunal Kapoor (as Ashfaqullah) and Atul Kulkarni (as Ram Kumar Bismil). Kulkarni is trying to convince Kapoor to escape to Iran (or some Islamic country, I can't remember which one), saying "Vo tumhare apne hain", and Kapoor, burning with angst, and hurt and heartache that you can hear in his voice, asks, "Main tumhara apna nahin?".
This is a man to watch out for.
The fact that we have trouble disguising our drooling, is of course, a trivial and irrelevant matter (another post on this, soon).
So, to conclude an immensely un-analytical and un-informative review, we say, we loved it. It's a really good movie and if you haven't already, go watch it now. (See Mr. Prufrock? *Short*)
**I don't know what this word means. Can anyone help, please?
Update:
Apparently, there's more than that one word I didn't know the meaning of.
1. Baurai - No such word.
The word is Bahurai, and is derived from the urdu Bahr (or bahur) which means, 'of the sea'.
Hence, Thodisi khushbu bahurai si = The smell of the sea
2. Dhonk Nirali - No such word
The word is dhonkani, which means, bellows.
So, Thodi si dhonkani vaali saansein = The bellows of breath (or the breath used as bellows).
You live, you learn.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
All hail...
...The Strand book sale!
For the twin nieces :
There's a Wocket in My Pocket! - Dr. Seuss
It's Not Easy Being a Bunny - Marilyn Sadler
Little Miss Twins + Little Miss Sunshine - Roger Hargreaves
For non-twin nieces:
Matilda, Dirty Beasts - Roald Dahl
The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
For the mother of twin nieces:
At Wit's End - Erma Bombeck
Love and Marriage - Bill Cosby
For the mother of the mother of twin nieces:
Every Living Thing - James Herriot
For Me:
Wodehouse and Marquez.
Many thanks, Uma, for showing us The Way.
On another note, today's the day when we're leavin' on a (spice) jet plane, and if all goes well, will be back in the middle of February.
We shall miss you, blog-world. Please don't change too much while we're gone.
For the twin nieces :
There's a Wocket in My Pocket! - Dr. Seuss
It's Not Easy Being a Bunny - Marilyn Sadler
Little Miss Twins + Little Miss Sunshine - Roger Hargreaves
For non-twin nieces:
Matilda, Dirty Beasts - Roald Dahl
The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
For the mother of twin nieces:
At Wit's End - Erma Bombeck
Love and Marriage - Bill Cosby
For the mother of the mother of twin nieces:
Every Living Thing - James Herriot
For Me:
Wodehouse and Marquez.
Many thanks, Uma, for showing us The Way.
On another note, today's the day when we're leavin' on a (spice) jet plane, and if all goes well, will be back in the middle of February.
We shall miss you, blog-world. Please don't change too much while we're gone.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Close but no Cylindrical Brown Bundle of Dried Leaf
This is so ridiculously stupid, that I'm past my usual routine of foaming-in-the-mouth and have settled at the 'lord-these-children' shakings of the head.
NOTE (National Organisation for Tobacco Eradication) secretary Shekhar Salkar, a Goa-based cancer surgeon, has served legal notice, to Superstar Amitabh Bachchan for featuring on a film's poster with a cigar in his hand. Says NOTE secretary Shekhar Salkar, "Bachchan, being the icon that he is in India, is bound to have an indelible influence on youth."
I have two issues with this painstakingly-cultivated-bonsai-molehill:
1. Mr Salkar is obviously incredibly well-informed about the working of the film industry, and knows that every movie poster that is made, is made wholly in concurrence with the whims of the actors featuring in the film. Of course that's how it works. You didn't know? Well silly you!
I can just imagine it, Mr. Bachchan's sonorous voice saying - "Yes, yes. This is exactly how it should be. I shall sit, leaning back a little, radiating power and charisma, and the cigar shall be captured in the frame 'just so'. We just have to ensure that the *first* thing every young man or woman does, after seeing this poster is, hop around to the corner store and pick up one of these little babies! Now don't forget, boys! Focus! On the cigar, if you please.".
2. By the blindingly brilliant logic of Mr Salkar's argument, a large number of Indian youths ought to have started out in life as dodgy con-men, graduated to train robbery, served time in jail and then become the good guys.
They ought to have been inspired to start out their careers as coolies (with pet eagles), taangawallas (with proclamatory tattoos across their chests) and anthropomorphic-taxi drivers.
There ought to have been scores of anti-establishment, angry young men and women stomping through this country's roads everyday, and shooting angry glares at the population at large.
There ought to have also been much wooing of damsels through song, dance and soulful poems, recited in honey-on-gravel voices (that voice, sweet jesus, that voice!).
Sadly, there have been no activities on these lines.
There has also been, no evident increase in the number of cigar smokers, even after the sightings of the much-maligned posters.
So what do you think this tells us, Mr. Salkar?
It tells us, that while the youth of India are impressionable (like youth anywhere in the world, really), they're not bloody stupid. And the minority that are, are going to stay that way, whether or not you choose to persecute a man who has led his life (mostly) exemplarily.
It also tells us that you are the kind of strange and confused man, who is likely to serve legal notice to grass, for not tripping up a lion who was running along, looking for his lunch in some distant jungle, in a far away land.
Mr. Bachchan has apologised for the advertisement and has made it known, that he has not touched wine or cigarettes for the last thirty years, except for film shots.
Mr. Bachchan - hero, first love, for whom copious tears were shed by a certain red-nosed, four-year old - firstly, don't apologise for something you obviously had very little to do with. Secondly, please go ahead and smoke that damned cigar. And down a couple of large pegs of something oaky to go with it.
Thirty years is too long to deny yourself life's little pleasures.
NOTE (National Organisation for Tobacco Eradication) secretary Shekhar Salkar, a Goa-based cancer surgeon, has served legal notice, to Superstar Amitabh Bachchan for featuring on a film's poster with a cigar in his hand. Says NOTE secretary Shekhar Salkar, "Bachchan, being the icon that he is in India, is bound to have an indelible influence on youth."
I have two issues with this painstakingly-cultivated-bonsai-molehill:
1. Mr Salkar is obviously incredibly well-informed about the working of the film industry, and knows that every movie poster that is made, is made wholly in concurrence with the whims of the actors featuring in the film. Of course that's how it works. You didn't know? Well silly you!
I can just imagine it, Mr. Bachchan's sonorous voice saying - "Yes, yes. This is exactly how it should be. I shall sit, leaning back a little, radiating power and charisma, and the cigar shall be captured in the frame 'just so'. We just have to ensure that the *first* thing every young man or woman does, after seeing this poster is, hop around to the corner store and pick up one of these little babies! Now don't forget, boys! Focus! On the cigar, if you please.".
2. By the blindingly brilliant logic of Mr Salkar's argument, a large number of Indian youths ought to have started out in life as dodgy con-men, graduated to train robbery, served time in jail and then become the good guys.
They ought to have been inspired to start out their careers as coolies (with pet eagles), taangawallas (with proclamatory tattoos across their chests) and anthropomorphic-taxi drivers.
There ought to have been scores of anti-establishment, angry young men and women stomping through this country's roads everyday, and shooting angry glares at the population at large.
There ought to have also been much wooing of damsels through song, dance and soulful poems, recited in honey-on-gravel voices (that voice, sweet jesus, that voice!).
Sadly, there have been no activities on these lines.
There has also been, no evident increase in the number of cigar smokers, even after the sightings of the much-maligned posters.
So what do you think this tells us, Mr. Salkar?
It tells us, that while the youth of India are impressionable (like youth anywhere in the world, really), they're not bloody stupid. And the minority that are, are going to stay that way, whether or not you choose to persecute a man who has led his life (mostly) exemplarily.
It also tells us that you are the kind of strange and confused man, who is likely to serve legal notice to grass, for not tripping up a lion who was running along, looking for his lunch in some distant jungle, in a far away land.
Mr. Bachchan has apologised for the advertisement and has made it known, that he has not touched wine or cigarettes for the last thirty years, except for film shots.
Mr. Bachchan - hero, first love, for whom copious tears were shed by a certain red-nosed, four-year old - firstly, don't apologise for something you obviously had very little to do with. Secondly, please go ahead and smoke that damned cigar. And down a couple of large pegs of something oaky to go with it.
Thirty years is too long to deny yourself life's little pleasures.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
The first star on the right and keep straight on till morning...
I don't understand directions.
I'll say it again in case you missed it the first time around, I don't understand directions.
I don't understand east or west or north or south. I mean, alright, I know what they look like on a map, but I am completely incapable of translating that into real life. It took me three months of sheepishly asking - Excuse me bhaisahab/aunty/scary looking person/obvious druggie, east kis taraf padega?" - to figure out that it was the railway line which delineated east from west and not the western express highway (and I have no idea where I got THAT idea).
I don't know that roundabout at Bhulabhai Desai Road. I've never seen the footbridge near Chowpatty and I definitely do not know how to get to the Barista at linking road. Hell, I don't even know how to get to blasted linking road!
And people, it's not that I don't try, I do. Honest, truly I do! It's just that, when you spend all of your traveling time day-dreaming while looking out of windows, you don't end up registering things like roundabouts and footbridges and the like.
The thing is, my brain (for reasons best known to itself) registers as landmarks, things which unfortunately don't fit any previously known definitions of that word. Like bill-boards. Now those, The Brain remembers. Directions like - "straight down from the Tanishq board with the woman with Amanda-the-panda eyes, then the left after the Lays Chaat Street board with Preity and Saif" - will get me there everytime! But you see the problem with that don't you? Tanishq lady? Preity? Saif? For the love of anything you hold sacred, wouldja please stay on those damned boards? Bill-board-people, I'm begging you! Help me, lest I spend the rest of my living days in bewildered wandering, through the streets of bombay.
This impairment is not restricted to Bombay though. I've been equally tried in Delhi - The city where it's perfectly normal to find house no. 42 happily rubbing red roof-tiles with 'The Baweja House' at no.103 which in turn, chummily shares a boundary wall with 'Shanti Van' at no. 7.
In Delhi, my brain remembers bus stops. Bus stops, which the Delhi Municipal Corporation, happily demolishes every now and then. This penchant for merry destruction, had caused me to walk up and down a street so many times on one dark winter evening, that an ancient panwaala stopped me to ask, "Beta, tum dhoondh kya rahi ho!?". I couldn't very well say, "Yahan ek bus stop huaa karta tha", and look like a complete doofus now, could I? And so the story continued.
Back then, I'd try really hard to understand the directions people gave me. There'd be smoke coming out of my ears with all the effort of mental mapping going on in my head. I'd start out okay, but the mental map would last no further than the first five steps in the right direction. Then everything would just melt like jelly left out too long. Buildings would morph into each other and the streets would just run into each other and merge, like so many rivulets just dying to get back together for a jolly little reunion.
Nowadays, the first thing I do when people start giving me directions, is tell them that I'm seriously navigation impaired and that nothing they say will make any sense to me - but it doesn't help. The result will be extreme enthusiasm and even more intricate directions, which ensure, that inside my head I'm weeping with frustration, while outside, I'm putting on my earnest-listener-and-genuinely-try-to-understand-er face. I have been known to nod enthusiastically and acknowledge (fake) understanding with cries of "Oh, that roundabout/footbridge/barista! Of course I know it!", just so that The Direction Giver would just, please, stop already!
I've even gone to the extent of telling The Direction Givers that I'm going to feign understanding and nod at appropriate times - you'd think that that'd dissuade them, but no. Their next step is to look at me fondly and say, "Look it's really simple. All you have to do is, *insert incomprehensible directions here*"
So, imaginary people, If there ever comes a day when we decide to meet, do me a favour and let me pick the place. Or just tell me where to be, but don't, please don't tell me how to get there.
I'll say it again in case you missed it the first time around, I don't understand directions.
I don't understand east or west or north or south. I mean, alright, I know what they look like on a map, but I am completely incapable of translating that into real life. It took me three months of sheepishly asking - Excuse me bhaisahab/aunty/scary looking person/obvious druggie, east kis taraf padega?" - to figure out that it was the railway line which delineated east from west and not the western express highway (and I have no idea where I got THAT idea).
I don't know that roundabout at Bhulabhai Desai Road. I've never seen the footbridge near Chowpatty and I definitely do not know how to get to the Barista at linking road. Hell, I don't even know how to get to blasted linking road!
And people, it's not that I don't try, I do. Honest, truly I do! It's just that, when you spend all of your traveling time day-dreaming while looking out of windows, you don't end up registering things like roundabouts and footbridges and the like.
The thing is, my brain (for reasons best known to itself) registers as landmarks, things which unfortunately don't fit any previously known definitions of that word. Like bill-boards. Now those, The Brain remembers. Directions like - "straight down from the Tanishq board with the woman with Amanda-the-panda eyes, then the left after the Lays Chaat Street board with Preity and Saif" - will get me there everytime! But you see the problem with that don't you? Tanishq lady? Preity? Saif? For the love of anything you hold sacred, wouldja please stay on those damned boards? Bill-board-people, I'm begging you! Help me, lest I spend the rest of my living days in bewildered wandering, through the streets of bombay.
This impairment is not restricted to Bombay though. I've been equally tried in Delhi - The city where it's perfectly normal to find house no. 42 happily rubbing red roof-tiles with 'The Baweja House' at no.103 which in turn, chummily shares a boundary wall with 'Shanti Van' at no. 7.
In Delhi, my brain remembers bus stops. Bus stops, which the Delhi Municipal Corporation, happily demolishes every now and then. This penchant for merry destruction, had caused me to walk up and down a street so many times on one dark winter evening, that an ancient panwaala stopped me to ask, "Beta, tum dhoondh kya rahi ho!?". I couldn't very well say, "Yahan ek bus stop huaa karta tha", and look like a complete doofus now, could I? And so the story continued.
Back then, I'd try really hard to understand the directions people gave me. There'd be smoke coming out of my ears with all the effort of mental mapping going on in my head. I'd start out okay, but the mental map would last no further than the first five steps in the right direction. Then everything would just melt like jelly left out too long. Buildings would morph into each other and the streets would just run into each other and merge, like so many rivulets just dying to get back together for a jolly little reunion.
Nowadays, the first thing I do when people start giving me directions, is tell them that I'm seriously navigation impaired and that nothing they say will make any sense to me - but it doesn't help. The result will be extreme enthusiasm and even more intricate directions, which ensure, that inside my head I'm weeping with frustration, while outside, I'm putting on my earnest-listener-and-genuinely-try-to-understand-er face. I have been known to nod enthusiastically and acknowledge (fake) understanding with cries of "Oh, that roundabout/footbridge/barista! Of course I know it!", just so that The Direction Giver would just, please, stop already!
I've even gone to the extent of telling The Direction Givers that I'm going to feign understanding and nod at appropriate times - you'd think that that'd dissuade them, but no. Their next step is to look at me fondly and say, "Look it's really simple. All you have to do is, *insert incomprehensible directions here*"
So, imaginary people, If there ever comes a day when we decide to meet, do me a favour and let me pick the place. Or just tell me where to be, but don't, please don't tell me how to get there.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Old Friends
Old friends are like jelly moulds. You start out like a half-formed, amorphous mass of a person, and then you meet these people. These people, who, by virtue of being who they are, mould you, change you, even create you a little. Their ideas wriggle into your brain like persistent worms (okay, that's not a very cosy image, but you get the idea) and take up permanent residence. Essentially, you'll still be jelly, but you'll be part-friend-shaped jelly.
This moulding works both ways - your friends are moulded by you as well. So both of you have a set of the other's idea-worms living in your heads. I'm part N, and she's part me.
The great thing about meeting old friends, is that there's never any awkward settling-into-roles to be done - we might not have met in years but when we do, we're back to how we used to be - thrilled, at the first cold day of the year, despairing of our weight and our complexions (just me here), in tears about our sister's weddings and laughing hysterically when our (back then) befuddled notions of male anatomy were trashed by our horrified male friends.
We meet each other with friendly character-assassination -
"So bitch, how much of Delhi have you done yet?"
"Only the parts you didn't, which are few and far between, my slutty friend!"
She's still one of the rare people I'm comfortable using hindi swear-words with/on. Even if she does fall off her chair laughing at my stilted pronunciation (so I didn't grow up in Shalimar Bagh, woman! I'm still going to swear like a blue-line bus conductor...or die trying!).
That's the good part of meeting old friends.
The bad part is, that these friends were also witness to the sheer idiocy that was you. And they never fail to remind you of it. Especially when you're doing your best to shed the residual image of gauche, socially inept teenager.
Like the time when in conversation with the Kashmiri-Greek-god classmate, you piped up, "You know A, you've got such pretty eyes*. I wish I could scoop out your irises and make ear-rings out of them."
Yes. THAT'S how incredibly charming I was at eighteen. Yes, N. I remember.
*deep sigh*
Somedays I think youth is highly overrated...not true for jelly moulds though.
*To be fair, he did have beautiful-blue-green eyes...and they would've made lovely ear-rings.
This moulding works both ways - your friends are moulded by you as well. So both of you have a set of the other's idea-worms living in your heads. I'm part N, and she's part me.
The great thing about meeting old friends, is that there's never any awkward settling-into-roles to be done - we might not have met in years but when we do, we're back to how we used to be - thrilled, at the first cold day of the year, despairing of our weight and our complexions (just me here), in tears about our sister's weddings and laughing hysterically when our (back then) befuddled notions of male anatomy were trashed by our horrified male friends.
We meet each other with friendly character-assassination -
"So bitch, how much of Delhi have you done yet?"
"Only the parts you didn't, which are few and far between, my slutty friend!"
She's still one of the rare people I'm comfortable using hindi swear-words with/on. Even if she does fall off her chair laughing at my stilted pronunciation (so I didn't grow up in Shalimar Bagh, woman! I'm still going to swear like a blue-line bus conductor...or die trying!).
That's the good part of meeting old friends.
The bad part is, that these friends were also witness to the sheer idiocy that was you. And they never fail to remind you of it. Especially when you're doing your best to shed the residual image of gauche, socially inept teenager.
Like the time when in conversation with the Kashmiri-Greek-god classmate, you piped up, "You know A, you've got such pretty eyes*. I wish I could scoop out your irises and make ear-rings out of them."
Yes. THAT'S how incredibly charming I was at eighteen. Yes, N. I remember.
*deep sigh*
Somedays I think youth is highly overrated...not true for jelly moulds though.
*To be fair, he did have beautiful-blue-green eyes...and they would've made lovely ear-rings.
Friday, December 23, 2005
I want...
I want to go back to school. No, not the uniform-wearing, homework-skipping days; I want to go back to Art School.
I want to attend my first class and be told by the sweetest professor *ever*, "Bachche, Aapne idhar aane ke liye pichle janam mein moti daan kiye honge" (you must have given away pearls in your last life, to have made it here) - It doesn't translate well.
I want to feel puzzled at that...and realize five years down the line, how much sense it makes.
I want to sit in the canteen, and through the rain-bead curtains, watch the red and gray stone sculptures glisten.
I want to be a little scared...at the newness of it all.
I want to be taught the right way to *hold* a pencil (between the thumb and the forefinger), to sharpen it (never to a point and never, ever with a sharpener), to move it.
I want to be taught the difference between a good paintbrush and a bad one - dip the head in water, if the bristles stick together in a conch-shell-like shape, with a single hair point, take it. Flat brushes with plastic bristles are for children.
I want to use watercolours for the first time...and with such trepidation that my first painting looks more like the ghost of a painting. I want to be gently told, that there's no reason to be scared, that it's only colour.
I want to stay up nights, squinting with the effort of creating fine typography.
I want to do what every student of art does at least once; dip my paintbrush into my tea-cup instead of my water container, and not realize it till I taste my tea.
I want to learn about Michelangelo and Botticelli and Caravaggio. About Aristotle, Plato, Kant, Hegel...about line and colour and form. And the different ways that light can fall...and I want to be amazed.
I want to go back to the college library, and drink in all the books there. Their maroon and black, hard-bound covers with gold lettering. I want to read every book I didn't in four years.
I want to walk around Purani Dilli (Old Delhi) with my drawing-board, and my roll of cartridge sheets. I want to find a shady spot and find a good composition - a bucket and a broom, under a tree growing out of an ancient mossy wall. I want to paint the worst watercolour ever - with the leaves of the tree looking like coriander leaves - and only the bucket looking relatively real.
I want to laugh at that painting with my friends, but inwardly worry, that I'll never, ever master watercolours.
I want to not be able to hide the sparkle in my eyes, when a professor I worship, looks at my work and smiles his approval.
I want to be impressionable, I want to be gullible, I want to be naive.
I want to be awed.
I want to attend my first class and be told by the sweetest professor *ever*, "Bachche, Aapne idhar aane ke liye pichle janam mein moti daan kiye honge" (you must have given away pearls in your last life, to have made it here) - It doesn't translate well.
I want to feel puzzled at that...and realize five years down the line, how much sense it makes.
I want to sit in the canteen, and through the rain-bead curtains, watch the red and gray stone sculptures glisten.
I want to be a little scared...at the newness of it all.
I want to be taught the right way to *hold* a pencil (between the thumb and the forefinger), to sharpen it (never to a point and never, ever with a sharpener), to move it.
I want to be taught the difference between a good paintbrush and a bad one - dip the head in water, if the bristles stick together in a conch-shell-like shape, with a single hair point, take it. Flat brushes with plastic bristles are for children.
I want to use watercolours for the first time...and with such trepidation that my first painting looks more like the ghost of a painting. I want to be gently told, that there's no reason to be scared, that it's only colour.
I want to stay up nights, squinting with the effort of creating fine typography.
I want to do what every student of art does at least once; dip my paintbrush into my tea-cup instead of my water container, and not realize it till I taste my tea.
I want to learn about Michelangelo and Botticelli and Caravaggio. About Aristotle, Plato, Kant, Hegel...about line and colour and form. And the different ways that light can fall...and I want to be amazed.
I want to go back to the college library, and drink in all the books there. Their maroon and black, hard-bound covers with gold lettering. I want to read every book I didn't in four years.
I want to walk around Purani Dilli (Old Delhi) with my drawing-board, and my roll of cartridge sheets. I want to find a shady spot and find a good composition - a bucket and a broom, under a tree growing out of an ancient mossy wall. I want to paint the worst watercolour ever - with the leaves of the tree looking like coriander leaves - and only the bucket looking relatively real.
I want to laugh at that painting with my friends, but inwardly worry, that I'll never, ever master watercolours.
I want to not be able to hide the sparkle in my eyes, when a professor I worship, looks at my work and smiles his approval.
I want to be impressionable, I want to be gullible, I want to be naive.
I want to be awed.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?
We've been catching the trailers of 'Bluffmaster' every morning at breakfast for the past ten days, and heaven help us people! That Bachchan boy just goes on getting gorgeous-er and gorgeous-er!
The only wince-inducing detail in this picture, is The Boy's unnerving resemblance to one's younger sibling. Not so much in appearance (although there's that too), but so very much in mannerism, that they might almost be brothers. *horrified gasp*
This disturbs us greatly.
For, in the true tradition of older sisters since the dawn of time, we have consistently failed to see the younger male sibling as anything but a motley collection of germs. An occasionally funny, and even-more-occasionally intelligent collection of germs, but germs, nevertheless.
On the rare occasion that The Brother has had a phone call from a human of the opposite sex, the greatly worried family has congregated around the telephone, expecting to hear snippets of conversation on the lines of, "Your best friend is in my custody. Now say 'yes' or else...!" and "Of course I've gotten rid of the body!". Now, these conversations are obviously conducted in some devious secret code because, we have not, till date, overheard anything, that can be classified as incriminating evidence.
On the even rarer occasion of our actually meeting a girlfriend of The Brother's, we have fought hard, the temptation, to examine the said girl's head, for signs that it's been hit with a blunt instrument.
The resemblance of The Boy to The Brother, however, is forcing us to look at the younger sibling, in a new-ish light. A maybe-there's-a-person-under-all-those-germs-kind of light. A maybe-there's-more-person-and-less-germs-now kind of light.
Actually, it's the he-just-got-me-an-iPod light, which SO brings out the good-ish looking chap he's always been!
The only wince-inducing detail in this picture, is The Boy's unnerving resemblance to one's younger sibling. Not so much in appearance (although there's that too), but so very much in mannerism, that they might almost be brothers. *horrified gasp*
This disturbs us greatly.
For, in the true tradition of older sisters since the dawn of time, we have consistently failed to see the younger male sibling as anything but a motley collection of germs. An occasionally funny, and even-more-occasionally intelligent collection of germs, but germs, nevertheless.
On the rare occasion that The Brother has had a phone call from a human of the opposite sex, the greatly worried family has congregated around the telephone, expecting to hear snippets of conversation on the lines of, "Your best friend is in my custody. Now say 'yes' or else...!" and "Of course I've gotten rid of the body!". Now, these conversations are obviously conducted in some devious secret code because, we have not, till date, overheard anything, that can be classified as incriminating evidence.
On the even rarer occasion of our actually meeting a girlfriend of The Brother's, we have fought hard, the temptation, to examine the said girl's head, for signs that it's been hit with a blunt instrument.
The resemblance of The Boy to The Brother, however, is forcing us to look at the younger sibling, in a new-ish light. A maybe-there's-a-person-under-all-those-germs-kind of light. A maybe-there's-more-person-and-less-germs-now kind of light.
Actually, it's the he-just-got-me-an-iPod light, which SO brings out the good-ish looking chap he's always been!
Monday, December 19, 2005
Rebel without a pause
The SB* and I, have a pit stop of one day in Chennai before we can go a-honeymoonin' to the (pretty, pretty!) Andaman Islands.
As an act of pure defiance, we shall NOT be doing the horizontal tango (because that would be state-government-sanctioned-sex and WHERE'S THE REBELLION IN THAT?) and we SHALL use condoms.
So THERE, Chennai!
Update: We shall also be using the word 'vagina' at the slightest excuse.
Random Person I - "Here's your luggage!"
Us - "Vagina! And thank you so much!"
Random Person II - "Which way is your hotel, sir?"
Us - "Vagina! It's next to the airport."
*SB= The Suitable Boy
As an act of pure defiance, we shall NOT be doing the horizontal tango (because that would be state-government-sanctioned-sex and WHERE'S THE REBELLION IN THAT?) and we SHALL use condoms.
So THERE, Chennai!
Update: We shall also be using the word 'vagina' at the slightest excuse.
Random Person I - "Here's your luggage!"
Us - "Vagina! And thank you so much!"
Random Person II - "Which way is your hotel, sir?"
Us - "Vagina! It's next to the airport."
*SB= The Suitable Boy
Friday, December 16, 2005
Morning
Today.
Walking along Marine Drive in the cool, almost-light hours.
I'm walking next to two silver-haired gentlemen. Both walk a little stiffly...you can tell that their knees are acting up.
I'm not close enough to hear their animated conversation, but as I walk past them, one of them bursts into song. The song? 'Kajraare kajraare' - the saucy, sexy, 'item' song from the movie 'Bunty Aur Babli'.
Old ladies, walking slowly with their prayer beads in hand. Young men and women, jogging carefully, dodging around the walkers, teenagers racing each other.
Everyone turns...to look...and smile. He stops his song, and responds with a sheepish grin.
No one breaks their step, but we're all stepping a little lighter now.
Good morning Mumbai.
Walking along Marine Drive in the cool, almost-light hours.
I'm walking next to two silver-haired gentlemen. Both walk a little stiffly...you can tell that their knees are acting up.
I'm not close enough to hear their animated conversation, but as I walk past them, one of them bursts into song. The song? 'Kajraare kajraare' - the saucy, sexy, 'item' song from the movie 'Bunty Aur Babli'.
Old ladies, walking slowly with their prayer beads in hand. Young men and women, jogging carefully, dodging around the walkers, teenagers racing each other.
Everyone turns...to look...and smile. He stops his song, and responds with a sheepish grin.
No one breaks their step, but we're all stepping a little lighter now.
Good morning Mumbai.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
What next, Chennai?
First it was The Vagina Monologues, then it was pre-marital sex, now it's condom vending machines.
Can someone please tell me, is there something intrinsically wrong with Chennai*? Is it trapped in some weird neanderthal quicksand that pulls it in deeper the more it struggles to get out?
Does Chennai have a larger-than-normal population of bored housewives? I'm quite sure that no self-respecting, educated, working woman (and I'm not excluding housewives from that list) would actually have the time or the inclination to go out and protest (with slogans, posters, crowds, the works) against anything with a hint of progressiveness about it.
To the protesters in Chennai, if you must protest against something to alleviate your boredom, why, why won't you pick an issue which:-
1) might actually do some good if brought to public attention?
2) does not display to the world what blithering idiots you are?
Let's start with the protest against The Vagina Monologues being performed in your city.
Tell me, what precisely is the issue here? That women have vaginas? Or that some of them actually acknowledged it by mentioning 'the V word'? Are vaginas not part of your definition of 'Indian Culture'? Here's a bit of news for you. Y'know all that lying-prostate-worshipping of the shivalingam that you do? All that reverential pouring of milk and honey? Guess who's one of the main stars in THAT little movie? Yes. That makes protesting a little difficult doesn't it? Taking into account, that you'd have to -
(a) go to a mythical mountain top
(b) protest against a representation of a god, to the god, who obviously had no problem with being represented thus.
Then, the protest against Khushboo.
For voicing her opinion that pre-marital sex was okay, as long as adequate protection was used. Notice that word there? O-P-I-N-I-O-N? An opinion, is a thought that an INDIVIDUAL believes in. Notice, she did not issue a command that pre-marital sex was to be practiced by the population at large. She did NOT say,"Go forth and copulate!" in a clear, commanding voice. But maybe that's what she should have done. Because you seem incapable of independent thought anyway. And you insist on picking on people who can't fight back. Because they voiced an OPINION (oh look! there's that word again!) that did not mirror yours.
Now, condom vending machines.
Chennai has the highest population of HIV positive people in India. See that little piece of statistical information there? H-I-G-H-E-S-T. It is NOT a good thing (for those of you having fond memories of that word being associated with 'first in class' or 'topped so and so exam').
Your beleaguered state government decided to do something about it. Something that would stop you from dying horrible deaths.
So of course, since that would be a sensible, logical course of action, you go the exact opposite way. Claim that condoms promote promiscuity. And not just that, condoms, apparently, do not check the spread of the HIV virus...because only God can do that.
(God? Are you listening? Do you realise what this means? It means, that in your next avatar, you're expected to be a prophylactic. Now THAT'S a pretty picture, innit? The places you'll go, dear, dear lord.)
*To the people of Chennai:
I realise that perhaps *all* of you do not agree with the protesters. But my question to these people, to the people who are dismayed when they see this face of Chennai, is, will not one of you raise your voices against these fools? Will no-one stand up and tell these protesters-against-progress, that what they need to do is, shut the fuck up and get to work?
Can someone please tell me, is there something intrinsically wrong with Chennai*? Is it trapped in some weird neanderthal quicksand that pulls it in deeper the more it struggles to get out?
Does Chennai have a larger-than-normal population of bored housewives? I'm quite sure that no self-respecting, educated, working woman (and I'm not excluding housewives from that list) would actually have the time or the inclination to go out and protest (with slogans, posters, crowds, the works) against anything with a hint of progressiveness about it.
To the protesters in Chennai, if you must protest against something to alleviate your boredom, why, why won't you pick an issue which:-
1) might actually do some good if brought to public attention?
2) does not display to the world what blithering idiots you are?
Let's start with the protest against The Vagina Monologues being performed in your city.
Tell me, what precisely is the issue here? That women have vaginas? Or that some of them actually acknowledged it by mentioning 'the V word'? Are vaginas not part of your definition of 'Indian Culture'? Here's a bit of news for you. Y'know all that lying-prostate-worshipping of the shivalingam that you do? All that reverential pouring of milk and honey? Guess who's one of the main stars in THAT little movie? Yes. That makes protesting a little difficult doesn't it? Taking into account, that you'd have to -
(a) go to a mythical mountain top
(b) protest against a representation of a god, to the god, who obviously had no problem with being represented thus.
Then, the protest against Khushboo.
For voicing her opinion that pre-marital sex was okay, as long as adequate protection was used. Notice that word there? O-P-I-N-I-O-N? An opinion, is a thought that an INDIVIDUAL believes in. Notice, she did not issue a command that pre-marital sex was to be practiced by the population at large. She did NOT say,"Go forth and copulate!" in a clear, commanding voice. But maybe that's what she should have done. Because you seem incapable of independent thought anyway. And you insist on picking on people who can't fight back. Because they voiced an OPINION (oh look! there's that word again!) that did not mirror yours.
Now, condom vending machines.
Chennai has the highest population of HIV positive people in India. See that little piece of statistical information there? H-I-G-H-E-S-T. It is NOT a good thing (for those of you having fond memories of that word being associated with 'first in class' or 'topped so and so exam').
Your beleaguered state government decided to do something about it. Something that would stop you from dying horrible deaths.
So of course, since that would be a sensible, logical course of action, you go the exact opposite way. Claim that condoms promote promiscuity. And not just that, condoms, apparently, do not check the spread of the HIV virus...because only God can do that.
(God? Are you listening? Do you realise what this means? It means, that in your next avatar, you're expected to be a prophylactic. Now THAT'S a pretty picture, innit? The places you'll go, dear, dear lord.)
*To the people of Chennai:
I realise that perhaps *all* of you do not agree with the protesters. But my question to these people, to the people who are dismayed when they see this face of Chennai, is, will not one of you raise your voices against these fools? Will no-one stand up and tell these protesters-against-progress, that what they need to do is, shut the fuck up and get to work?
Mirror mirror
The expression on my face right now is a mix between the 'sheer-puzzlement-half-smile' and the 'oh-really-left-eyebrow-raise'. Put them together and you get the look that's on my face a WHOLE LOT these days.
What brought about the wild-dance-of-the-facial-muscles today, was a chance encounter. In the ladies' room. The room which has recently been divested of its' full length mirror.
No, the WDoTFM was NOT due to the disappearing mirror, but because I was apparently the reason it went AWOL. Or so I was informed. By psycho-short-haired-girl-in-the-art-department (who will henceforth be referred to as psycho-arty).
Now psycho-arty, has, on many occasions*, witnessed the ongoing battle between The Haircut and I. The Haircut, which insists on adapting an uncanny resemblance to roadkill, and I, who refuse to look like I've been crowned with the remains of a road accident. This battle, it may be noted, takes place ONLY in front of the SMALL mirror in the ladies' room, because that's the only time I see what vile conspiracies The Haircut has been hatching behind my unknowing back (or above my unseeing scalp if you're a stickler for precise phraseology, in which case, boo to you).
Previous ladies' room encounters with psycho-arty have usually been on these lines:
1. Me - Flustered but trying hard to ignore psycho-arty staring at me in the SMALL mirror.
Psycho-arty - mMMmm! EddMiring!! *with smug-I-know-it-all-look*
2. Me - Flustered but trying hard to ignore psycho-arty staring at me in the SMALL mirror.
Psycho-arty - mMMmm! NaarSeesis!!
And then, today:
Me - Flustered but trying hard to ignore psycho-arty staring at me in the SMALL mirror.
Psycho-arty - See? They took out the mirror because of YOU!
So yes, I've got that face on again.
*Yes, the ladies' room is the ONLY place these close-encounters-of-the-psycho-kind take place. I have NEVER, actually seen her around office. Maybe she's not real. Maybe she's like Moaning Myrtle. At least that way it makes some sense.
What brought about the wild-dance-of-the-facial-muscles today, was a chance encounter. In the ladies' room. The room which has recently been divested of its' full length mirror.
No, the WDoTFM was NOT due to the disappearing mirror, but because I was apparently the reason it went AWOL. Or so I was informed. By psycho-short-haired-girl-in-the-art-department (who will henceforth be referred to as psycho-arty).
Now psycho-arty, has, on many occasions*, witnessed the ongoing battle between The Haircut and I. The Haircut, which insists on adapting an uncanny resemblance to roadkill, and I, who refuse to look like I've been crowned with the remains of a road accident. This battle, it may be noted, takes place ONLY in front of the SMALL mirror in the ladies' room, because that's the only time I see what vile conspiracies The Haircut has been hatching behind my unknowing back (or above my unseeing scalp if you're a stickler for precise phraseology, in which case, boo to you).
Previous ladies' room encounters with psycho-arty have usually been on these lines:
1. Me - Flustered but trying hard to ignore psycho-arty staring at me in the SMALL mirror.
Psycho-arty - mMMmm! EddMiring!! *with smug-I-know-it-all-look*
2. Me - Flustered but trying hard to ignore psycho-arty staring at me in the SMALL mirror.
Psycho-arty - mMMmm! NaarSeesis!!
And then, today:
Me - Flustered but trying hard to ignore psycho-arty staring at me in the SMALL mirror.
Psycho-arty - See? They took out the mirror because of YOU!
So yes, I've got that face on again.
*Yes, the ladies' room is the ONLY place these close-encounters-of-the-psycho-kind take place. I have NEVER, actually seen her around office. Maybe she's not real. Maybe she's like Moaning Myrtle. At least that way it makes some sense.
Ta-daaaahhh!!
Hello, O Imaginary Readers (you're imaginary. You shall jolly well be in the multitudes because that's what we jolly well want. And you're in OUR heads. So there.)!
We're here! *drum roll*
And YOU'RE here too! *even bigger drum roll*
DARlings! It is SO nice to see you!
*air kisses all around*
We're here! *drum roll*
And YOU'RE here too! *even bigger drum roll*
DARlings! It is SO nice to see you!
*air kisses all around*
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