Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Notes to self #1
So, last weekend, I overcame my scruples and years of inertia to finally chop off my locks. Chop chop went the hairstylist and the mane which was well…long, became about shoulder length. To the collective dismay of the cook, maid, babysitter, my sister and mother.
A day later, on a random weekend errand, my husband notices a lady on the road and goes “Wow, she has waist length hair”. Having taken the plunge, my heart is still crying for the locks, so I immediately retort, “Wow, I had hair longer than that since before we met till yesterday, how come you never noticed?”
He goes, “Really?” and then, ”oh, I remember you had long hair before we got married!” Eureka moment for him.
Me :Yes, but it was even longer when I got the haircut yesterday”. Somehow I just couldn’t back off.
He says, “Really?” again, and sits up straight, suddenly realizing, apparently, that he needs to concentrate on the road ahead, on which he has been driving for the last 15 minutes.
Note to self: Don’t ask.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Just Because...
Sometimes you want to do things just because. Given the hormonal upheavals, I have been feeling like that quite often these days. I want to eat horrible junk just because, want to bawl my eyes out just because, want to watch romcoms, shop for extra-large clothes and home stuff just because. And read-read as if all books will soon vanish in the deluge and leave me in a book-less world.
Because I am in an extremely self-indulgent mode (and the most important person to myself) these days, I give in to these whims without a thought. Which is why, when, among the myriad books-enriching, self-motivating, deep-in Crossword, my eyes picked out “Those Pricey Thakur Girls” by Anuja Chauhan with the cover showing bare legs, anklet and chappals and immediately had to have it, I picked it up straight away. And was thoroughly glad, the next morning that I had. Having grown up with Austen, Dickens, Scott, Trollope and moved on to Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Rand among others, my tastes are purist to say the least. If its mystery, it must be Holmes or Poirot, short stories-Maugham, O Henry or Saki, comedy-Wodehouse. Even Indian writing in English was restricted mostly to Vikram Seth, Amitav Ghosh and the like. You can skip this part if you think I am being snobbish, just wanted to create the context for what I am about to say next. Which is that I never thought something that genre wise qualifies as chick-lit would bring such a wide smile to my face and warm the cockles of my heart.
The story is cute, romantic with a predictable happy ending. An “Austenesque” family in eighties Delhi, a handsome, brooding hero, a motley of characters-a weight lifter, his paranoid mom (also given to routine vituperative outbursts), mongrels and tortoiseshells, roguish children, a Sikh Christian family, a crafty editor, and numerous others make this a colourful, breezy, warm and funny read. The humour is desi, the dialogue witty, sometimes veering on profane, deliciously and wickedly scandalous. The language, with lots of vernacular, won’t impress English aficionados, but it serves to add the typical “Dilliwalla” spice to conversations which frankly wouldn't cut much ice in staid English. There is a gloomier track of the anti-Sikh riots post Indira Gandhi’s assassination, which looms in the background and adds substance to the hero’s character and some more twists to the story. The highlight is an entirely bizarre, rib tickling climax when you are haplessly wondering how this will end.
It ends well, however, with the lovers reunited and all ends tied up. What stays with you is the eighties flavor-Doordarshan, no mobiles or internet, Halo shampoo, Maruti-800, evening card parties-some really funny dialogue, some genuinely heartwarming moments. Whatever this is, it isn't fake-the author doesn't try to be unusually smart or make a very deep observation on life. She writes a simple, playful tale and expects the reader to enjoy and accept it for what it is.
I did- I even re-read bits of it to make me feel better during some horrid moments I had that week. It made me get a pedicure and a long overdue pampering in the salon (don’t ask me what the connection is-someone once said, in a book, that Pickwick Papers made her hungry, well this makes me want to pamper myself). Maybe it’s the humour, maybe the handsome hero and the fairy tale romance. Or maybe it’s just the happy ending, but I haven’t enjoyed something that much in quite a while. Maybe it is chick-lit-but who cares.
Because I am in an extremely self-indulgent mode (and the most important person to myself) these days, I give in to these whims without a thought. Which is why, when, among the myriad books-enriching, self-motivating, deep-in Crossword, my eyes picked out “Those Pricey Thakur Girls” by Anuja Chauhan with the cover showing bare legs, anklet and chappals and immediately had to have it, I picked it up straight away. And was thoroughly glad, the next morning that I had. Having grown up with Austen, Dickens, Scott, Trollope and moved on to Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Rand among others, my tastes are purist to say the least. If its mystery, it must be Holmes or Poirot, short stories-Maugham, O Henry or Saki, comedy-Wodehouse. Even Indian writing in English was restricted mostly to Vikram Seth, Amitav Ghosh and the like. You can skip this part if you think I am being snobbish, just wanted to create the context for what I am about to say next. Which is that I never thought something that genre wise qualifies as chick-lit would bring such a wide smile to my face and warm the cockles of my heart.
The story is cute, romantic with a predictable happy ending. An “Austenesque” family in eighties Delhi, a handsome, brooding hero, a motley of characters-a weight lifter, his paranoid mom (also given to routine vituperative outbursts), mongrels and tortoiseshells, roguish children, a Sikh Christian family, a crafty editor, and numerous others make this a colourful, breezy, warm and funny read. The humour is desi, the dialogue witty, sometimes veering on profane, deliciously and wickedly scandalous. The language, with lots of vernacular, won’t impress English aficionados, but it serves to add the typical “Dilliwalla” spice to conversations which frankly wouldn't cut much ice in staid English. There is a gloomier track of the anti-Sikh riots post Indira Gandhi’s assassination, which looms in the background and adds substance to the hero’s character and some more twists to the story. The highlight is an entirely bizarre, rib tickling climax when you are haplessly wondering how this will end.
It ends well, however, with the lovers reunited and all ends tied up. What stays with you is the eighties flavor-Doordarshan, no mobiles or internet, Halo shampoo, Maruti-800, evening card parties-some really funny dialogue, some genuinely heartwarming moments. Whatever this is, it isn't fake-the author doesn't try to be unusually smart or make a very deep observation on life. She writes a simple, playful tale and expects the reader to enjoy and accept it for what it is.
I did- I even re-read bits of it to make me feel better during some horrid moments I had that week. It made me get a pedicure and a long overdue pampering in the salon (don’t ask me what the connection is-someone once said, in a book, that Pickwick Papers made her hungry, well this makes me want to pamper myself). Maybe it’s the humour, maybe the handsome hero and the fairy tale romance. Or maybe it’s just the happy ending, but I haven’t enjoyed something that much in quite a while. Maybe it is chick-lit-but who cares.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Of THE Pujo...
(Written in October 2010, finished just now, with some edits and some additions...)
Its been a while since I put pen to paper-or rather my finger to the keyboard- for who, other than the most old fashioned (euphemism for loser) would put pen to paper nowadays-to write. yes I've churned numbers, answered mails, written messages, processed payments and the usual drill-but I haven't written for months. No sir.
Why do I write now- because a memory is fresh in my mind and I want to write before all its impressions have been overwritten by the more mundane (and, sadly, more important) things in my life.
I am just back from the Kolkata of Durga Puja- and no, unlike most Bengalis I am not connected to Kolkata by an umbilical cord , the raw reality of Kolkata's dirty roads and wet weather, its much ado about nothing and unashamed acceptance of an organized chaos doesn't move me to tears-it always puts me to mind of an exposed jugular waiting for the end.
And yet this oldest of Indian cities, this most stubborn edifice of the roundabout way, almost has a catharsis every autumn, when all that matters to the Kolkatan rises as one to defend the Kolkata way of life- its time for a little more rush, a little more crowd, a little more confusion,a little more poetry, some more music,loads more food,and hours more of aimless conversation- "adda"-did I mention. its Puja time- time for good old Kolkata to arrive-all over again.
As I stepped on to the familiar roads and the even more familiar traffic and noise, I noticed how everything in the city spelled Puja time-hoardings of every size and shape, selling everything from toothpaste to newspaper, to real estate and education, recreated images of the Goddess in various forms- after a few dekkos I scouted for one hoarding that didn't have the Goddess on it- and found none! even advertising in Kolkata seems to be futile unless it gets a Puja makeover.
The Goddess, I thought, probably waits to be invoked every year-family and all. She waits to do her part in adding yet another Pujo to the city's memory, in the process, quadrupling the profits of its businessmen and boosting its otherwise soporific economy.
For at least a month prior to the Puja (and at least a week after it) one cannot be in Bengal and elude the Puja spirit. It is omnipresent- as I realised when, sitting in my quiet abode on the outskirts of Kolkata I was nevertheless treated to the creativity of Pandal artisans and idol sculptors, the dhak and arati competitions and the ceaseless hordes-people waiting to have a glimpse of the Goddess in this or that form, people emerging from a pandal created with this or that concept, using this or that substance. To all this I was privy, without having any intentions likewise, because every media (and one cannot escape media) was at its "Pujo covering" best.
Pujas are also the time when the larger than life culture assumes colossal proportions...it is everywhere and there is no escape.Before you ask, let me clarify that culture in Bengal is Bengali- and at a time when "cosmopolitan" is the favorite word of the cosmos, I am surely not stating the obvious. The Bengali expects every person in Bengal to be an adda-enthusiastic, food-loving, rabindrasangeet-singing, political cause-espousing, quirky, querulous "intellectual". He is not fanatic, not even clannish- he just cannot conceive of a non-Bengali way of life, cannot help pitying the non believers and subconsciously attributing to them a sense of regret at not having lived or bred on the hallowed soils of "sonar Bangla".
That the outsider is, in fact oblivious of what he is missing is anything but obvious to the Bengali...how can you not revel in the food, which in its piscine abundance cannot be compared to any other cuisine in the world...how can you prefer vegetarian over fish (o, the hallowed ilish and bhetki, no less),cricket over football (especially sans a certain past his prime Bong captain), how can you like doi that is not mishti…and how can you go through the day without debating on the current topic scorching political circles…pray, where do you belong? Certainly not in Bangla.
As an outsider just beginning to consider a long run relationship with Bengal, these oddities ( in a very benign and non offensive sense)amuse, entertain and even irritate me. After all, so much passion can and does often become too much of a good thing. Then I just remind myself that, at the end of the day,this is the one spirit that Bengal always holds on to;that of celebrating ones roots, forgetting the mundane, abandoning the maudlin, and believing that in the end, good always wins over evil... Time to leave...or as they say in Bengali...be right back...
Why do I write now- because a memory is fresh in my mind and I want to write before all its impressions have been overwritten by the more mundane (and, sadly, more important) things in my life.
I am just back from the Kolkata of Durga Puja- and no, unlike most Bengalis I am not connected to Kolkata by an umbilical cord , the raw reality of Kolkata's dirty roads and wet weather, its much ado about nothing and unashamed acceptance of an organized chaos doesn't move me to tears-it always puts me to mind of an exposed jugular waiting for the end.
And yet this oldest of Indian cities, this most stubborn edifice of the roundabout way, almost has a catharsis every autumn, when all that matters to the Kolkatan rises as one to defend the Kolkata way of life- its time for a little more rush, a little more crowd, a little more confusion,a little more poetry, some more music,loads more food,and hours more of aimless conversation- "adda"-did I mention. its Puja time- time for good old Kolkata to arrive-all over again.
As I stepped on to the familiar roads and the even more familiar traffic and noise, I noticed how everything in the city spelled Puja time-hoardings of every size and shape, selling everything from toothpaste to newspaper, to real estate and education, recreated images of the Goddess in various forms- after a few dekkos I scouted for one hoarding that didn't have the Goddess on it- and found none! even advertising in Kolkata seems to be futile unless it gets a Puja makeover.
The Goddess, I thought, probably waits to be invoked every year-family and all. She waits to do her part in adding yet another Pujo to the city's memory, in the process, quadrupling the profits of its businessmen and boosting its otherwise soporific economy.
For at least a month prior to the Puja (and at least a week after it) one cannot be in Bengal and elude the Puja spirit. It is omnipresent- as I realised when, sitting in my quiet abode on the outskirts of Kolkata I was nevertheless treated to the creativity of Pandal artisans and idol sculptors, the dhak and arati competitions and the ceaseless hordes-people waiting to have a glimpse of the Goddess in this or that form, people emerging from a pandal created with this or that concept, using this or that substance. To all this I was privy, without having any intentions likewise, because every media (and one cannot escape media) was at its "Pujo covering" best.
Pujas are also the time when the larger than life culture assumes colossal proportions...it is everywhere and there is no escape.Before you ask, let me clarify that culture in Bengal is Bengali- and at a time when "cosmopolitan" is the favorite word of the cosmos, I am surely not stating the obvious. The Bengali expects every person in Bengal to be an adda-enthusiastic, food-loving, rabindrasangeet-singing, political cause-espousing, quirky, querulous "intellectual". He is not fanatic, not even clannish- he just cannot conceive of a non-Bengali way of life, cannot help pitying the non believers and subconsciously attributing to them a sense of regret at not having lived or bred on the hallowed soils of "sonar Bangla".
That the outsider is, in fact oblivious of what he is missing is anything but obvious to the Bengali...how can you not revel in the food, which in its piscine abundance cannot be compared to any other cuisine in the world...how can you prefer vegetarian over fish (o, the hallowed ilish and bhetki, no less),cricket over football (especially sans a certain past his prime Bong captain), how can you like doi that is not mishti…and how can you go through the day without debating on the current topic scorching political circles…pray, where do you belong? Certainly not in Bangla.
As an outsider just beginning to consider a long run relationship with Bengal, these oddities ( in a very benign and non offensive sense)amuse, entertain and even irritate me. After all, so much passion can and does often become too much of a good thing. Then I just remind myself that, at the end of the day,this is the one spirit that Bengal always holds on to;that of celebrating ones roots, forgetting the mundane, abandoning the maudlin, and believing that in the end, good always wins over evil... Time to leave...or as they say in Bengali...be right back...
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Vignettes-II
Earlier you had to look at your neighbors to feel the green monster surging up your chest…now a quick peek at your social networking site does the trick; one click and you suddenly realize yours has to be the most God forsaken, trite, mundane, non happening life on earth…and here you were quite satisfied with your own sweet existence until the fatal click happened…pouf!!! all your self esteem is out of the window-your pudgy,dowdy schoolmate of yester-years has suddenly metamorphosed into a total Goddess, the happy go lucky loafer in your locality is now something of a jet-setter, the most inane colleague at work is suddenly hobnobbing with the who’s who of the whatever world you associate with…even your ex boyfriend/girlfriend/ crush/ spouse who you thought was stuck in some primeval evolutionary quagmire is posting mushy status updates with idiotic smileys and utterly soppy pictures with the new found love of their lives…and here you are-back where you started. All that you had built up carefully over the years-job, relationship, lifestyle-crumbling under the collective weight of albums, status updates, tweets and scraps which seem more real to you than your own life.You do a double take on the site...all of you that wanted to remember and be remembered is now desperate to forget...at least until you can pay back,with the greenest monstrosity ever-and then it is time for someone else to call it quits. A simple idea that is rewarding beyond measure to millions can leave you feeling emptier than ever.Ironically though, all this was meant to bring people together…the worry is, in creating too small a world, we might soon be treading into each others private spaces-when everyone is everywhere, no one is quite all there, methinks...
(Written after a conversation with a Facebook phobic)
(Written after a conversation with a Facebook phobic)
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Vignettes-I
You are at a departmental store...the one stop for your multiple needs...even the humble lauki, aloo, baingan have received a makeover...they now stand stacked in clean shelves...milk in tetrapack, pulses, cereals, varieties galore...all well packed and stored...wow, when you have the opportunity to make even vegetable shopping a sublime retail- therapeutic experience , can you be blamed for giving the humble sabzi mandi a miss?
So here you are on your fridge-stocking expedition, almost nearing the end of your list...when you are suddenly attracted by a brand new product...fruit juice with zero percent sugar, breakfast cereal that can help you overcome weight woes, anti-ageing cream that promises to bring your absconding/ fleeing/philandering or just plain absent minded husband back in your arms, hand and feet lotion, contraceptive/ abortion pills, body wash with some exotic ingredient from the savannas or the arctic or God-knows-where, cheese (slices, spread, low fat, mozzarella, cheddar),milk-(both bovine and soy varieties, with/ without flavour, toned, double toned, skimmed, condensed)..what have you. And you suddenly have an epiphany- this is the one thing without which your hitherto nearly perfect life is incomplete. So you add it to your shopping cart,pay your bill, and smile...another days work done...Success is about having the money in your wallet to pay for something you don't know you need...
So here you are on your fridge-stocking expedition, almost nearing the end of your list...when you are suddenly attracted by a brand new product...fruit juice with zero percent sugar, breakfast cereal that can help you overcome weight woes, anti-ageing cream that promises to bring your absconding/ fleeing/philandering or just plain absent minded husband back in your arms, hand and feet lotion, contraceptive/ abortion pills, body wash with some exotic ingredient from the savannas or the arctic or God-knows-where, cheese (slices, spread, low fat, mozzarella, cheddar),milk-(both bovine and soy varieties, with/ without flavour, toned, double toned, skimmed, condensed)..what have you. And you suddenly have an epiphany- this is the one thing without which your hitherto nearly perfect life is incomplete. So you add it to your shopping cart,pay your bill, and smile...another days work done...Success is about having the money in your wallet to pay for something you don't know you need...
Thursday, September 10, 2009
On ...nothing in particular
Love is what keeps me awake
As you lie asleep beside me
Choosing dreams from a concrete sky;
Like a breath struggling to escape from a constricted chest
And struggling to remain,
Knowing that the moment of cowardice
Is the end
Less in showers, in storms and drizzles,
More in the musty, dank smells of afterward
When your arms are no longer around me
I face the woman and the stranger alone.
Love is a game we both play
For our own prizes, our triumphs
Yours is the business of life
Mine a wait for life to start.
But meanwhile, I have you
The spaces between us
The togetherness of cramped bodies
The conversations, the quiet
The need, the apathy
Me and you
Partners in a cosmic crime
Ending as it began
With love…
Monday, July 27, 2009
On why the HBP movie is a complete waste of time...
Yes, I am a fan of the HP books...one of the few things I would readily pledge my allegiance to. Perhaps that is the reason why HBP the movie failed me...miserably.
To turn a riveting, ingeniously plotted, magical saga with deep emotional and philosophical undertones into an equally fascinating movie is no mean task...but HP 6 on celluloid doesn't even try. Instead one is treated to awe inspiring visuals, replete with state of the art effects and dark picturesque landscapes which come together to tell a story that contains less than one half of the original plot and misses out on its deeper meanings altogether. It could have been Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince or Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley or Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy or even Death Eaters, Horcruxes, Teenage Romance and Slughorn....big difference.
For starters, the screenplay writers, for reasons best known to themselves decided to play havoc with the story. Certain key portions entirely omitted and absolutely inane bits of originality supplanted make this a travesty of a plot. Indeed, I pitied those of the audience who hadn't read the book- even the most discerning among them would fail to realize what was going on and why. For that matter those who had read the book were as likely to forget what the original story was like, thanks to the exasperating alterations that hit you even before you can say Merlin's Beard!!!
For those of us who know Rowling's version of the story, HBP is as much about Voldermort as about Harry. The most intriguing parts of the book are those that involve tracing Tom Riddle's journey to becoming the most menacing dark wizard of all time. In the movie however, much of these trips through the Pensieve are dispensed with- the result is a disconnected narrative where one is supposed to take most of what happens for granted.
Also, the book is about growing up in more senses than one- it traces the coming of age of Harry as well as Draco, and the inevitable choices that one must make once and for all. But while Draco's anguish, his desperation and weakness is fairly depicted in the better bits of the movie, the narrow, almost puerile depiction of Harry's sojourn to adulthood disappoints the avid fan. Giggly, blushing, tearful adolescence is all very well in a small measure...but here we have dollops of it in the most unlikely places, diluting the essentially dark portents of the book besides giving the impression that Harry is the average teenager periodically embarking, superhero like, on a save-the-world-from-Voldemort mission. It is the heroic in Harry and the reasons that go into making him so that endear fans to the HP series...somehow those reasons are never clear in the movie.
So lost were the makers in their own version of HBP that they forgot to include the battle at Hogwarts. Without this crucial climax, the build up provided by Draco's clandestine activities, several accidents befalling Hogwarts' students and the gradually growing unrest about death eaters and dementors on the loose, seems redundant. The end is almost tame...very unlike the book where the supreme tragedy of Dumbledore's death, Snape's flight amidst the raging battle bring in their aftermath an indication that things will never be the same for Harry again.
The only watchable bits are those involving Draco, because they manage to grip the audience with his sense of urgency, hopelessness and desperation which were so evident in the book. Also, the makers get the dark atmosphere of the book right...at least in the visuals. Montages are creative, technical elements (at least as far as I understand) brilliant, tempo, sound and pace good, actors competent...I only wish it was more of a story and less of a superhero-romcom gimmick.
So if you ask me, give this one a miss- go waste three hours on some more satisfying pursuit. Better still, spend it going back to or even discovering for the first time HBP the book...worth it.
To turn a riveting, ingeniously plotted, magical saga with deep emotional and philosophical undertones into an equally fascinating movie is no mean task...but HP 6 on celluloid doesn't even try. Instead one is treated to awe inspiring visuals, replete with state of the art effects and dark picturesque landscapes which come together to tell a story that contains less than one half of the original plot and misses out on its deeper meanings altogether. It could have been Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince or Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley or Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy or even Death Eaters, Horcruxes, Teenage Romance and Slughorn....big difference.
For starters, the screenplay writers, for reasons best known to themselves decided to play havoc with the story. Certain key portions entirely omitted and absolutely inane bits of originality supplanted make this a travesty of a plot. Indeed, I pitied those of the audience who hadn't read the book- even the most discerning among them would fail to realize what was going on and why. For that matter those who had read the book were as likely to forget what the original story was like, thanks to the exasperating alterations that hit you even before you can say Merlin's Beard!!!
For those of us who know Rowling's version of the story, HBP is as much about Voldermort as about Harry. The most intriguing parts of the book are those that involve tracing Tom Riddle's journey to becoming the most menacing dark wizard of all time. In the movie however, much of these trips through the Pensieve are dispensed with- the result is a disconnected narrative where one is supposed to take most of what happens for granted.
Also, the book is about growing up in more senses than one- it traces the coming of age of Harry as well as Draco, and the inevitable choices that one must make once and for all. But while Draco's anguish, his desperation and weakness is fairly depicted in the better bits of the movie, the narrow, almost puerile depiction of Harry's sojourn to adulthood disappoints the avid fan. Giggly, blushing, tearful adolescence is all very well in a small measure...but here we have dollops of it in the most unlikely places, diluting the essentially dark portents of the book besides giving the impression that Harry is the average teenager periodically embarking, superhero like, on a save-the-world-from-Voldemort mission. It is the heroic in Harry and the reasons that go into making him so that endear fans to the HP series...somehow those reasons are never clear in the movie.
So lost were the makers in their own version of HBP that they forgot to include the battle at Hogwarts. Without this crucial climax, the build up provided by Draco's clandestine activities, several accidents befalling Hogwarts' students and the gradually growing unrest about death eaters and dementors on the loose, seems redundant. The end is almost tame...very unlike the book where the supreme tragedy of Dumbledore's death, Snape's flight amidst the raging battle bring in their aftermath an indication that things will never be the same for Harry again.
The only watchable bits are those involving Draco, because they manage to grip the audience with his sense of urgency, hopelessness and desperation which were so evident in the book. Also, the makers get the dark atmosphere of the book right...at least in the visuals. Montages are creative, technical elements (at least as far as I understand) brilliant, tempo, sound and pace good, actors competent...I only wish it was more of a story and less of a superhero-romcom gimmick.
So if you ask me, give this one a miss- go waste three hours on some more satisfying pursuit. Better still, spend it going back to or even discovering for the first time HBP the book...worth it.
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