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.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Of the great Indian Sport...and the Greater Victory
For the past few weeks the brand new fast food avatar of Indian cricket and the grand old juggernaut that is the Indian democracy, though colonies apart, have managed to keep us hooked, despite rising temperatures, shrinking pockets and other circumstances that make you feel like the biggest loser if you are still alive. When cricket and politics vie for your attention in what may in the agonizing Dickensian parlance be termed as the best and worst of times, it becomes interesting to draw parallels between both.
For starters there is enough drama in both to give the now ubiquitous daily soap a run for its money, or to teach the most emotionally challenged person the meaning of hysteria. Obvious cracks in a hitherto perfect team or alliance, followed by days of speculation, accusations and denials, and then a moment of revelation-could we ask more from even the longest running, most adrenalin pumping, tear jerking joint family saga?
Both have leaders who, by example, lead their team to reign or ruin, and wannabe leaders who wonder how the rest of the world could have missed the halo around their heads; leaders past their prime looking for the final encore and those in their quixotic salad days, taking risks that would put the most adventurous gambler to shame.
Both have upstarts that suddenly capture popular imagination with their skills on the field or their campaign capers, pulling rabbits out of an innocent looking hat; and old war horses that live down titles of 'has been' or 'might have been', but aren't ready for their last bow just as yet.
However well begun, it is the slog overs -the "death overs"- that matter in both. It is then that the proverbial slip between the cup and the lip or the kursi and the …never mind… is as likely to occur as not. It is then that the underdog suddenly reveals that he is after all, Superman behind those horn rimmed glasses and can, with a grand sweep of his bat or a subtle political sleight of hand or play of words quite turn the game on its head, leaving the formidable adversary to wonder just what went wrong.
Both in the end are about winning- and hence about losing; about realizing that tons of publicity and propaganda, of thumping your chest and patting your back, aren’t enough to move you from where you started-at the bottom. That you might as well, while you are at it, mint the moolah as long as it comes-and guts and glory be damned.
Not to forget that both while they last give the average Indian the feeling that he is about to witness the "Hand of God" at work. That while he may pray for his team and vote for his leader, he might as well leave it at that, as the ancient scriptures remind him not to worry about the fruits of his action. That he might as well enjoy a good game while it lasts, cheering for his favourite, and keeping the faith through it all. That when the winner finally surfaces, the spectators, the electorate applaud not because their choice has been vindicated but because, all said and done, it was a fight to the finish.
Till next time…
For starters there is enough drama in both to give the now ubiquitous daily soap a run for its money, or to teach the most emotionally challenged person the meaning of hysteria. Obvious cracks in a hitherto perfect team or alliance, followed by days of speculation, accusations and denials, and then a moment of revelation-could we ask more from even the longest running, most adrenalin pumping, tear jerking joint family saga?
Both have leaders who, by example, lead their team to reign or ruin, and wannabe leaders who wonder how the rest of the world could have missed the halo around their heads; leaders past their prime looking for the final encore and those in their quixotic salad days, taking risks that would put the most adventurous gambler to shame.
Both have upstarts that suddenly capture popular imagination with their skills on the field or their campaign capers, pulling rabbits out of an innocent looking hat; and old war horses that live down titles of 'has been' or 'might have been', but aren't ready for their last bow just as yet.
However well begun, it is the slog overs -the "death overs"- that matter in both. It is then that the proverbial slip between the cup and the lip or the kursi and the …never mind… is as likely to occur as not. It is then that the underdog suddenly reveals that he is after all, Superman behind those horn rimmed glasses and can, with a grand sweep of his bat or a subtle political sleight of hand or play of words quite turn the game on its head, leaving the formidable adversary to wonder just what went wrong.
Both in the end are about winning- and hence about losing; about realizing that tons of publicity and propaganda, of thumping your chest and patting your back, aren’t enough to move you from where you started-at the bottom. That you might as well, while you are at it, mint the moolah as long as it comes-and guts and glory be damned.
Not to forget that both while they last give the average Indian the feeling that he is about to witness the "Hand of God" at work. That while he may pray for his team and vote for his leader, he might as well leave it at that, as the ancient scriptures remind him not to worry about the fruits of his action. That he might as well enjoy a good game while it lasts, cheering for his favourite, and keeping the faith through it all. That when the winner finally surfaces, the spectators, the electorate applaud not because their choice has been vindicated but because, all said and done, it was a fight to the finish.
Till next time…
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Indians By Chance
We are today's people...people who could have been born in any country...it would make no difference whatsoever...we would still be the same...we are men, women, children, rich, not-so-rich, beautiful, ugly as hell, stupid, smart, everything...but hello, Indians? Yup, that too, by chance.
What else would explain why we do so little about things we feel so much? Why Mumbai and Mangalore, inflation and intolerance, crime and corruption that are so much a part of our with-it generation speak suddenly take a hiatus when we go voting? O sorry, that should have read "...when we are supposed to go voting" , because, hello, when was the last time you, or I, voted?
I am in my late twenties...and I haven't, as yet, "seen the inside of a voting booth"*, nor the queue that leads to it...no. And neither have most of you, my friends, because you like me, are everything but Indians...except by chance.
But then, what am I talking about...aren't we too busy with our careers, our love lives, our children or parents, our clubs, holidays, pets, cars and gizmos to be worried about voting? Isn't it enough that we stand for every (at least public) screening or playing of the national anthem, that we buy tiny flags to decorate our dashboards or workstations from those dirty little children on the street every republic or independence day, that we forward patriotic messages (okay, cheesy sometimes) to each other on those days, that we wear tricolour clothes to theme parties thrown on those occasions? Haven't we at least heard of Bhagat Singh and watched at least one Manoj Kumar movie with tears in our eyes? And most importantly, aren't we paying taxes?
We are citizens, but non-committal, opinionated but ineffective, intelligent but indifferent...is it any wonder that our leaders are the same?
* Quoted from The White Tiger , and correctly as far as I remember
What else would explain why we do so little about things we feel so much? Why Mumbai and Mangalore, inflation and intolerance, crime and corruption that are so much a part of our with-it generation speak suddenly take a hiatus when we go voting? O sorry, that should have read "...when we are supposed to go voting" , because, hello, when was the last time you, or I, voted?
I am in my late twenties...and I haven't, as yet, "seen the inside of a voting booth"*, nor the queue that leads to it...no. And neither have most of you, my friends, because you like me, are everything but Indians...except by chance.
But then, what am I talking about...aren't we too busy with our careers, our love lives, our children or parents, our clubs, holidays, pets, cars and gizmos to be worried about voting? Isn't it enough that we stand for every (at least public) screening or playing of the national anthem, that we buy tiny flags to decorate our dashboards or workstations from those dirty little children on the street every republic or independence day, that we forward patriotic messages (okay, cheesy sometimes) to each other on those days, that we wear tricolour clothes to theme parties thrown on those occasions? Haven't we at least heard of Bhagat Singh and watched at least one Manoj Kumar movie with tears in our eyes? And most importantly, aren't we paying taxes?
We are citizens, but non-committal, opinionated but ineffective, intelligent but indifferent...is it any wonder that our leaders are the same?
* Quoted from The White Tiger , and correctly as far as I remember
Monday, December 8, 2008
Of the Ideal Holiday
O I know this totally isn't the right time to talk about holidays...what with tourism sharing an alliterative brotherhood with terrorism and relaxation with recession...with "taking a break" becoming a euphemism for the pink slip syndrome...with the world being too busy doing nothing to worry about holidays. Moreover for an unemployed ...ahem...homemaker... also pretending to study...a holiday is so totally unnecessary...and even wasteful...after all, do I not get enough of "standing and staring" to want more of it, on additional expenditure and without any additional returns except the all too visible ones on my already expansive wasteline (sic, and all puns intended)?
But lets just say, that I, for sometime ignoring my work ( or the lack of it) do aspire to a holiday...here are the set of rules that I mean to follow
But lets just say, that I, for sometime ignoring my work ( or the lack of it) do aspire to a holiday...here are the set of rules that I mean to follow
- For starters, going to the right place at the right time...the right time being decided not by the lonely planet guide, but by yours truly...for example, most people would advise against going to Shillong in Dec-Jan, totally forgetting that these harrowing winters that chill your bones and freeze every drop of blood in your body also bring the most delicious smells, sights and sounds with them...Christmas carolling on streets, the smoke of coal angeethis, the mist travelling across hills, the lights of festivity, the red cheeked native infants in their colourful winter wardrobe, the oranges, O I could go on and on. To me Shillong in winter, rocks.
- Avoiding anything remotely to do with fashion, style, glamour etc. I just feel the entire point of a holiday is lost if you turn it into a narcissistic rendezvous with yourself in the mirror. For one, it wouldn't do me any good...as far as looks are concerned I have reached a point where the law of diminishing marginal utility begins to operate on any additional effort that I make to look anything better...for the other there are just too many interesting things to do on a holiday to bother about something that is , well, beyond help.
- What interesting things, you ask? Loads. Reading, for instance...anything at all...old classics that have been read several times can take on a new feel in a different place...my personal experience. Also, some of the best books I've read were while I was on the move...on flights, airports, railway stations, even at homes of more accommodating relatives.
- Which brings me to the other point: visiting-relatives, friends, old flames (kidding), friends of friends-anybody at all...is a strict no no for me on a holiday. As a kid I couldn't help it...my parents made sure, whenever they were in any particular place for a supposed holiday, that they visited everyone staying within a logistically convenient radius...even people whom they had to squint and blink at several times to recognize... meeting similar responses at the other end. I remember hating the inevitable exclamations on how I had grown ( as if I was expected to remain a prenatal embryo all my life), the polite yeses and nos and even politer smiles with which I was asked to respond to some of the most asinine questions and the absolutely humongous amounts of food, especially mishti, that would almost be pushed down my unsuspecting oesophagus. So, no offence, but NO visiting.
- As for company, well reads are good enough for the most part, but I wouldn't mind human presence if it doesn't find a need to make its presence felt ( my apologies for using the neuter pronoun...nothing personal)...when on a holiday, I prefer doing as the Martians do (by which I mean doing whatever I feel like and calling it Martian culture...nobody will then assume you are trying to do anything unconventional...if that doesn't work, I might call it moonstruck madness, surreal schizophrenia...anything that sounds grand).
to be continued if my footloose mood continues
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Painting a city red
I didn't want to write this ...I know it serves no purpose other than to relieve my mind of the burden that it has borne since last Wednesday, a burden miniscule, nothing compared to those of countless people touched in innumerable ways by the sheer magnitude of the tragedy...but a burden nevertheless. It is strange how a world that is globalised and cosmopolitan finds itself torn apart in more ways than one...what is it about differences that they linger after centuries and generations have shown us that we ought to know better...what is it about pain that manifests itself in violence and leaves behind the foetus of hate to create a deadlier antagonist in the future...what is it about some causes that supersede very other claim, even that of human life...what is it about some interests that refuse to give way even after their fatal repercussions are felt far and wide...what is it about us that we see some truths as clear as crystal but refuse to see some others even if they stare us in the face...
My phone rings...a friend calls to ask if I am in for a movie over the weekend. I say yes, of course...only, one doesn't know anymore...
Praying for life and liberty...
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Of the best...and lesser things
It is the world of aspirational tastes...for almost everyone, more is better...greed is good...it is your life, make it as large as you can...never be "santusht" ...and never mind the "green monster" gnawing at your soul...pushing it to the end of its tether...it is what drives you on...gives you the kick...
As we converse intelligently-if a little nonchalantly-about prices hitting the roof, the latest gizmos, the fastest cars, the biggest apartments fly quietly out of their 'shelves' and into our humble harem. Our 'quality time' with family is measured in multiplex-hours, mall-hours, resort-hours...our 'catching up with friends' in pub-hours and disc-hours. Our conversations are "ohs", "aahs", "reallys" over pints and pegs, our gestures are diamonds, our smiles photo-ops. Our music is stiletto-tapping or manicured hands swaying, our health a heady concoction of designer diets, gym memberships, yoga instructors, salsa sessions and exotic therapies. Our ambitions are managerial, our debates international, our travels global, our cuisine continental...our children are summer campers and e-learners, nannied and foreign dictioned to perfection...our pets pedigree and exclusive.
Somewhere, not very far way, perhaps, people-not like us, o no-fight over a packet of food, their homes and lives destroyed by floods. Not designer food, not health food...just food. Somewhere close by, maybe, people-again, not like us in the least-without an inch of land to call their own and no money to pay rent, encroach on our landscaped pavements, begging and peddling dubious wares, till the cleaning-drive-before-foreign VIP-visit purges the roads (and our collective conscience) of their presence. Somewhere, a family struggles to protect its land from a multinational juggernaut...somewhere a child offers herself up for casual labour (and other, scarier professions) to feed younger siblings...somewhere the difference of a rupee in the price of rice is the difference between life and death. Somewhere around us, there are people who do not want to be the best...they just want to be...and can't.
But why are we talking about these people...it isn't as if we can do something about them, is it...and besides what difference would it make to us...we'd rather watch reality television...
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Of dreams, disaster, destiny...and a larger perspective
A certain person I greatly admire once said, " What is life but a series of inspired follies?" Although that man's genius is only a part of the dramatic repertoire of one of English literature's best known cynics, his witticisms are anything but. Sometimes comforting as two minute noodles or a cup of coffee, sometimes painful as the guilt-hurt pangs that plague the junk-filled stomach...and always pithy...it is as if you were on your 'high horse' and were brought down to the ground with a thud, so strong that your legs jar even though it is only a 'dream sequence'.
Well, inspired or not, to life's follies I am no stranger. In fact I happen to be blundering my way through life in a manner that suggests "learning mistakes" rather than learning from them:). Nevertheless, it helps that I am blessed with a sense of humour that, however quirky, gets me out of my scrapes; I am thankful to God that I discovered it in time.
Do you know, I once almost reached school when I realised that the one vital requirement-namely, the school bag, had somehow been given a miss by my plump shoulders? Or that I once started brushing my teeth in the afternoon, blissfully unaware that all I had set out to do was wash my hands? The number of hankies (I am sorry, I cannot call it handkerchief, purists may turn up their noses) I have lost would supply material for at least a dozen-ok, exaggeration-half a dozen scarves and my contribution to those "saving for a rainy day" would amount to-let me see-around five umbrellas? Ditto jewellery, money, once an entire purse, keys-things, in short, whose price more than made up for the underlying unintended but utterly altruistic motive for my actions.
I also note, with pity, that mundane objects -combs, phones , matchboxes, specs,what not-somehow seem to enjoy my ...ahem...forgetfulness...with a vengeance...they will have to repose just in the vicinity of my substantial person, with an innocence so deceptive that I am absolutely clueless as to their position, until I hear a crack or another such heart-wrenching sound and realise-well, that 'another one bites the dust'. Add to that a near fatal encounter with the immersion rod (water heater), burning my mom's precious pressure cooker to a ripe burgundy in my zeal for helping around the kitchen, allowing boiling milk to spill over countless times, making a fall over or trip on every bump-on the road or the carpet or steps a weekly ritual , and you may conclude-like I do , sometimes-that the much maligned word, "carelessness" is just my middle name.
As for roads , I have never figured out how any road leads anywhere at all...to me they all look the same...and hence in every sense imaginable "they all lead to Rome". That I haven't, as yet, lost my way in my own house is a great comfort to those in the know-among them my dear, harassed husband, who vows that he has never seen such a recipe for disaster.
To sum it all, it is a bad idea to ask me for directions...it is worse to depend upon my navigation skills and follow my instructions...and if you expect that I will remember the way to a particular place and thus leave me to my devices...well all I can say is, a more delusional person there never was since Hitler.
So much for my follies...I think some of them are rather original...but make no mistake (pun intended)... I ain't one bit proud about making them except that it gives me a little more room for rubbish reminiscences...you are probably saying...what a clumsy, forgetful, irresponsible...ahem...etc.
To which I will just reply, "Who knows...maybe I was born for greater things...":)
Well, inspired or not, to life's follies I am no stranger. In fact I happen to be blundering my way through life in a manner that suggests "learning mistakes" rather than learning from them:). Nevertheless, it helps that I am blessed with a sense of humour that, however quirky, gets me out of my scrapes; I am thankful to God that I discovered it in time.
Do you know, I once almost reached school when I realised that the one vital requirement-namely, the school bag, had somehow been given a miss by my plump shoulders? Or that I once started brushing my teeth in the afternoon, blissfully unaware that all I had set out to do was wash my hands? The number of hankies (I am sorry, I cannot call it handkerchief, purists may turn up their noses) I have lost would supply material for at least a dozen-ok, exaggeration-half a dozen scarves and my contribution to those "saving for a rainy day" would amount to-let me see-around five umbrellas? Ditto jewellery, money, once an entire purse, keys-things, in short, whose price more than made up for the underlying unintended but utterly altruistic motive for my actions.
I also note, with pity, that mundane objects -combs, phones , matchboxes, specs,what not-somehow seem to enjoy my ...ahem...forgetfulness...with a vengeance...they will have to repose just in the vicinity of my substantial person, with an innocence so deceptive that I am absolutely clueless as to their position, until I hear a crack or another such heart-wrenching sound and realise-well, that 'another one bites the dust'. Add to that a near fatal encounter with the immersion rod (water heater), burning my mom's precious pressure cooker to a ripe burgundy in my zeal for helping around the kitchen, allowing boiling milk to spill over countless times, making a fall over or trip on every bump-on the road or the carpet or steps a weekly ritual , and you may conclude-like I do , sometimes-that the much maligned word, "carelessness" is just my middle name.
As for roads , I have never figured out how any road leads anywhere at all...to me they all look the same...and hence in every sense imaginable "they all lead to Rome". That I haven't, as yet, lost my way in my own house is a great comfort to those in the know-among them my dear, harassed husband, who vows that he has never seen such a recipe for disaster.
To sum it all, it is a bad idea to ask me for directions...it is worse to depend upon my navigation skills and follow my instructions...and if you expect that I will remember the way to a particular place and thus leave me to my devices...well all I can say is, a more delusional person there never was since Hitler.
So much for my follies...I think some of them are rather original...but make no mistake (pun intended)... I ain't one bit proud about making them except that it gives me a little more room for rubbish reminiscences...you are probably saying...what a clumsy, forgetful, irresponsible...ahem...etc.
To which I will just reply, "Who knows...maybe I was born for greater things...":)
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Of art, obscenity and escape
A few days back, Hyd played host to 'Manto Ismat Haazir Hain', a play based on a repertoire of works by two Urdu writers, Sadat Manto and Ismat Chughtai.The play was staged as part of the TOI Hyd festival, hence free passes were all one needed to get in. Yet, I couldn't help being a little (albeit, happily) astonished by the turnout at the venue. Methinks, "Wow, that many people, on a Sunday, for a play...wow!!!" of course, I knew that having Naseeruddin Shah's name on the pass (he directed it) must have helped the cause quite a bit; nevertheless it was oddly reassuring to see a mixed crowd for a theatre event. Evidently, this was one occasion not just meant for the 'arty types'. Seemed like the cynic in me would have to give this one do a miss.
But my cynicism always proves that it has ample reasons to exist...is what I realised barely 10 minutes (or was it even less?) into the play. The first short story, "Boo", ( meaning smell, scent)
involves a narrative which is anatomically explicit, a man describing the scent of a woman he had once had an encounter (of the physical kind) with. The play had just about started, when I suddenly heard an odd, unnecessarily loud rustle on the seat next to me. My neighbour, middle aged, chiffoned, pearled and well rounded, had just taken upon herself the task of disentangling a pair of earphones from her bursting- at- the -seams purse, apparently to give to her son, a small boy, possibly just starting school (maybe a little older, don't know) who was suddenly seized (was probably made to seize) with a manic urge to listen to music on his "mama's" cell phone. Now, I have, unlike most women, almost a uni-directional flow of attention. I simply cannot concentrate on two things at a time- add to that a myopic vision and you will perhaps sympathize with my predicament...for a short while, I was neither here nor there. After what seemed like ages, the disentangled earphones finally went to soothe the young tympanic and chiffon-and-pearls mama directed her substantial neck and vision (and thereby my attention) back to the stage. However, no sooner had I managed to clue back in, when the very same rustle returned, this time brandishing its loudness. Chiffon-and-pearls mama, son and company were suddenly on their feet, and filtering out of the auditorium at a pace which, given their trappings, was incredible. And they were not the only ones...soon heads bobbed up, feet clattered, and the entire auditorium seemed to be experiencing the biggest exodus since the days of Moses. People were literally fleeing the sudden onslaught of "obscenity" that they had unknowingly sought to embrace as culture. Run...before your souls are contaminated, your sensibilities violated, your day-out-with family turned into an embarrassing sojourn to the underbelly of human thought. Run...before that dirtiest of words pollutes your holier-than-thou senses, before your sight and hearing and memory are impressed upon by brazen hedonism...before the 'bhadralok' in you is stripped naked ...run, in other words, because you've suddenly realise that these could be your thoughts or mine...
After at least one-fourth of the auditorium had been vacated, there was peace again...and the rest of the evening passed delightfully...not without some inkling of discomfort however...somehow the cynic in me doesn't want to be proved right all the time...
On another note, I ardently request all the people who have and will organise events like these in the future, to please make an entry fee ( however nominal) mandatory...it keeps picnicking at bay ( I am convinced that people were only kept from bringing their pets along by the fact that animals are not normally allowed in an auditorium)....
At the end of the day, there is no such thing as a free lunch...someone always ends up paying the price...or maybe we all do...in one way or the other...
disclaimer:- I am not an art critic...at best an aficionado...all art forms are made meaningful to me in as much as they touch me...that is it...
But my cynicism always proves that it has ample reasons to exist...is what I realised barely 10 minutes (or was it even less?) into the play. The first short story, "Boo", ( meaning smell, scent)
involves a narrative which is anatomically explicit, a man describing the scent of a woman he had once had an encounter (of the physical kind) with. The play had just about started, when I suddenly heard an odd, unnecessarily loud rustle on the seat next to me. My neighbour, middle aged, chiffoned, pearled and well rounded, had just taken upon herself the task of disentangling a pair of earphones from her bursting- at- the -seams purse, apparently to give to her son, a small boy, possibly just starting school (maybe a little older, don't know) who was suddenly seized (was probably made to seize) with a manic urge to listen to music on his "mama's" cell phone. Now, I have, unlike most women, almost a uni-directional flow of attention. I simply cannot concentrate on two things at a time- add to that a myopic vision and you will perhaps sympathize with my predicament...for a short while, I was neither here nor there. After what seemed like ages, the disentangled earphones finally went to soothe the young tympanic and chiffon-and-pearls mama directed her substantial neck and vision (and thereby my attention) back to the stage. However, no sooner had I managed to clue back in, when the very same rustle returned, this time brandishing its loudness. Chiffon-and-pearls mama, son and company were suddenly on their feet, and filtering out of the auditorium at a pace which, given their trappings, was incredible. And they were not the only ones...soon heads bobbed up, feet clattered, and the entire auditorium seemed to be experiencing the biggest exodus since the days of Moses. People were literally fleeing the sudden onslaught of "obscenity" that they had unknowingly sought to embrace as culture. Run...before your souls are contaminated, your sensibilities violated, your day-out-with family turned into an embarrassing sojourn to the underbelly of human thought. Run...before that dirtiest of words pollutes your holier-than-thou senses, before your sight and hearing and memory are impressed upon by brazen hedonism...before the 'bhadralok' in you is stripped naked ...run, in other words, because you've suddenly realise that these could be your thoughts or mine...
After at least one-fourth of the auditorium had been vacated, there was peace again...and the rest of the evening passed delightfully...not without some inkling of discomfort however...somehow the cynic in me doesn't want to be proved right all the time...
On another note, I ardently request all the people who have and will organise events like these in the future, to please make an entry fee ( however nominal) mandatory...it keeps picnicking at bay ( I am convinced that people were only kept from bringing their pets along by the fact that animals are not normally allowed in an auditorium)....
At the end of the day, there is no such thing as a free lunch...someone always ends up paying the price...or maybe we all do...in one way or the other...
disclaimer:- I am not an art critic...at best an aficionado...all art forms are made meaningful to me in as much as they touch me...that is it...
Monday, June 30, 2008
Night
At night...you arrive
Your promises make fun of you
They know your time is gone...
and theirs will never come...
The motley images you call dreams
become questions
you are glad you don't have to answer...
Your hero meets his nemesis...
And life is just about to begin...
Your sins cavort around a parched throat...
Blood curdles in veins past each punished pulse...
and the seconds keep rhythm to a labored breath...
Till another day brings its excuses...
Turns confused creases to toothless smiles...
Teaches fools to hope...
For a happiness they don't deserve...
For a success they've done nothing to earn...
But then, at night...
You arrive again...
Your promises make fun of you
They know your time is gone...
and theirs will never come...
The motley images you call dreams
become questions
you are glad you don't have to answer...
Your hero meets his nemesis...
And life is just about to begin...
Your sins cavort around a parched throat...
Blood curdles in veins past each punished pulse...
and the seconds keep rhythm to a labored breath...
Till another day brings its excuses...
Turns confused creases to toothless smiles...
Teaches fools to hope...
For a happiness they don't deserve...
For a success they've done nothing to earn...
But then, at night...
You arrive again...
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Musings
Sometimes when you are caught between having too much to do and not wanting to do anything, ideas (not the life-changing kind maybe, but still) flood your mind (or that pretence of a mind that I have) as if they've been hunting for something to lurch on to. At this moment, for example, I am thinking a million things like...
...have to study...
...what do I cook...
...have to study...
...how much fatter will I become...
...have to study...
...tomorrow is mom's b'day...
...have to study...
...why won't my hubby keep things in their place...
...have to study...
...when will we book tickets for the holiday...
...have to study...
...prices are hitting the roof...
...have to study...
...why am I writing this stupid piece...
Now you know why...
...have to study...
...what do I cook...
...have to study...
...how much fatter will I become...
...have to study...
...tomorrow is mom's b'day...
...have to study...
...why won't my hubby keep things in their place...
...have to study...
...when will we book tickets for the holiday...
...have to study...
...prices are hitting the roof...
...have to study...
...why am I writing this stupid piece...
Now you know why...
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Of Santa and the questions we don't ask
The other day a certain oft-forwarded piece on the follies of 'Santa' (of Santa-Banta fame) showed itself in my inbox...and a certain joke...another of Santa's supposedly funny reactions...lead me to write what is now turning to be my first blog. It goes like this:-Santa walks into a computer store and the guy, who is a salesperson, I think, tells him, "Sir, here is a machine that can reduce your work by half." The laughs come at the end of Santa's spontaneous riposte," Well then, can I have two of those?"You may or may not choose to laugh at this, depending upon the brand of humour you espouse. Frankly speaking, to me it seemed quite lame. But it generally led me to think, you know, that very often, the ones who get made fun off, or labeled as something or the other, are always those who ask questions. Santa is foolish, is what we all know and you may have read many of his exploits that testify to this fact...but this question in particular, seemed quite the obvious to me. If I didn't know what comps were all about, if I didn't belong to the generation that is more comfortable with a laptop in its bed than a human being, I'd probably say the same thing. It reminds me of how as children we would always wonder where babies came from and were told that Mom had to go to the hospital to get one from God. Or the time when my baby sis confused my parents by saying that they should have bought a wall clock instead of a refrigerator, because she thought the commercial on TV said the latter was free-it was actually the other way round. Or when my brother thought that the very fact that he was sitting in a restaurant would mean that the waiter would automatically bring up a 'rosogolla' to him...and was hurt when no such thing happened. It leads me, in other words, to conclude that it is perhaps the way we react to things or circumstances or even people we are not aware of that is considered foolish...and also leads me to think of the typically typical typifications that our world is accustomed to...
Disclaimer:-This is not a harangue against sardar jokes
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