Wake up, Karan Johar!

Karan Johar must have had an impossibly happy childhood. So he refuses to grow up. And paint a contrived, over the top view of the world.

A cute 20 year old who wears t-shirts with cartoon characters. The first time, it's cute; the fifth time, Grow up!

A spoilt 20 year old who does not understand that money does not grow on trees watered by tequila & vodka? Grow up!

An unemployed, middle class 27 year old stumbles upon a vast apartment overlooking the sea in one of the most expensive cities in the world. So much for all the Bombayites who break their backs for decades, trying to own their tiny little piece of heaven!

A 26 year director who decides to make his first film based upon, guess what, his own trials and tribulations (spoilt kid belonging to a top film family who obviously grew up believing money is watered with beer and girlfriends).

A young 'serious cinema' actress who has taken her intellectual label so seriously that she carries a perpetual sulk in all her movies. It looks fresh the first time, but by the tenth time, you just feel like straightening out her mouth with both hands so she looks less like the Joker. WHY SO SERIOUS Konkana?

The redeeming moments - the tension between the hard-at-work girlfriend and stay-at-home younger boyfriend. The music - the beautifully worded Ektara and the breezy Kya Karoon. And Ranbir Kapoor a.k.a. Sid, who has surely inherited his dad's genes as he infuses the main character with a believable innocence.

It's finally sinking in!

After months of anticipation and excitement, the day is almost there - in another 4 days & 4 hours, I leave for Beijing on my onwards journey to Chengdu for my Corporate Service Corps assignment.

As I inform my project and department teams about the away-time, I can sense their excitement. I am flooded with follow-up emails & ST's - how do we apply; do you know what you will do; do we get to choose a country; who are the other team members; Wow, you'll be involved in some of the earthquake reconstruction work; etc. As friends from outside work who are aware of the assignment also email me, I realize what a unique opportunity IBM has presented us with!

For now, my life revolves around checklists – and the entries are increasing by the day!

- Passport & Visa: Green
- Complete background reading on Chengdu & China: Yellow – you can never read enough about this vast and fascinating land, can you?
- Collect previous team experiences on my assignment: Yellow – again, so much information, so many different places.
- Plan travel in other parts of China: Almost Green :-) I just need to choose between Lijiang and Wuyi Mountain for the last leg of the journey, and make bookings accordingly.
- Shopping: Red. Guess I’ll save this for when I get to China.
- Scream from the rooftops that I’m off to work with a global, cross functional team on social and economic issues: Green, font 100

It’s difficult to stay focused when I can barely contain my excitement - 7 weeks - hurrray!!!

Tokyo, Interrupted

My first impression of Tokyo is of a city straight out of a child’s toy box – block upon block of glass and concrete, packed together, competing with each other to touch the skies. After the charming houses and vibrant hues of Bangalore, the surfeit of identical skyscrapers and complete absence of greenery comes as a shock – the first stretch of trees I saw was in front of the Imperial Palace on my third day in the city!

But walk the streets and you realize that there is more to Edo than simply the race to the top. The restaurants with their brightly colored signs, the pretty lamps, and the quaint door and window curtains are a complete delight. The famous Japanese efficiency and perfection leaves you spellbound when you encounter if firsthand. But like a mature woman resplendent in her red lipstick and bright rouge, Tokyo is best encountered in the evening - with its makeup of bright lights full on to dazzle and captivate the visitor.

So here are five things about Tokyo that I liked:

1. The food, definitely. The Japanese are known for their innovation in technology, but their food is equally, if not more, creative! Most of us know Japanese cuisine by our sushi & sashimi and teppanyaki, but there is so much more the country has to offer – I sampled Hitsumabushi, an eel meal with special eel from Nagoya ; Shabu-shabu, the Japanese hot-pot; Izakaya – casual Japanese dishes, which include hand made udon (thin, grey-brown noodles) and soba (thick wheat noodles) ; Kushiyaki – meat, fish or veggies on skewers; raw chicken sashimi (I was feeling adventurous, and it turned out to be quite nice! ), Okonomiyaki (pancake stuffed with cabbage, seafood and/or meat) and its variant Hiroshimayaki; Monja – veggies in soup cooked on a hotplate at the table; Yakitori – baked chicken; and finally, Ramen – Chinese style wheat noodles in a thick broth with veggies/seafood/meat. And of course, the crowning glory – the best sushi in the world at Tsukiji fish market.

2. The technology, obviously. Simple things that amaze you – like how the radio would magically turn on the moment I’d turn on my bathroom lights. The cute little mini-projector. The little hand-held devices on which the waiter takes the order which automatically gets transmitted to the kitchen – one of the restaurants we visited had a little machine on our table through which we could directly place our request! I was also told by my Japanese colleague that technology is intensively used in agriculture – which explains how the country continues to produce amazingly fresh fruits & vegetables. Is our agriculture minister listening?

3. The efficiency and abundant display of common sense. The best example is the cafeteria at office – a lady with her small battalion of helpers would so efficiently allot tables to a patiently waiting queue of 50-100 people at peak hunger hour! For a land prone to typhoons and storms, rains are common, but that doesn’t interrupt life in any way. Each office and restaurant has a little machine into which you stab your dripping umbrella – and voila, it emerges packed in plastic so you don’t bring the rains indoors. Such simple stuff that you wonder why no one’s thought of it before.

4. The quaint little customs. It is considered rude to leave the restaurant door open after you have entered. But please don’t be a stupid foreigner as you try to open or shut your taxi door – it is remote controlled, silly! The immaculately well turned out taxi drivers in their gray coats and white shirts. The extreme politeness in official and social interactions – the most commonly heard phrases in Japan are hai (Ok/I agree) and ‘arigato gozaymasu’ (Thank you for your support) – even business leaders will start their meetings with you with the latter phrase! And it’s still fairly common to see people in offices bowing deeply and not showing their backs to people considered more senior.

5. The different faces of the city by day and by night. Tokyo early morning is best witnessed at the Tsukiji fish market – as locals and tourists head to their favorite sushi place for breakfast, then stop by at a tea shop to sip their favorite brew in pretty little saucers, stopping by on the way to pick up some colorful plates and essential herbs for the house. During the day, the city is a hub of activity as suit-clad men and women go about their business And in the evening, the bright lights and skyscrapers of Ginza, Shibuya and Roppongi dazzle and beckon the onlooker into their embrace.

Talk to a local and you will notice many similarities with India – the craving for a son in the family, the tendency to continue living and caring for your parents, the glass ceiling for women in the workplace ... In many ways, the Japanese are much more rooted in custom than the average city-bred Indian is.

The notorious quirkiness and loneliness of the average Japanese is not hard to miss as you walk the streets. Most people walk alone, with their heads bowed or buried in a newspaper – the younger set is lost in their PSP’s or music players. 15-20 hour days are common at work, which undoubtedly would take a toll on family life, especially over an extended period of stay. While I was in Tokyo, the Democratic Party ended the historic 50 year old rule of the Liberal Democrats – but my colleagues did not expect any real change and said the results just showed that the people were fed up and wanted some change – which in itself is extremely uncharacteristic of the stoic and patient Japanese. The IHT proclaimed that no government could bring about a real change till the Japanese opened their doors to foreign immigrants and allowed major reforms in their all-power bureaucracy.

Japan to my mind is at a unique crossroad– the stagnation in the economy has also raised questions about the adequacy of the traditional Japanese values of consensus, hard work, quality and team work. The political change is the first indication that their legendary patience is running out, but are they ready for the big change?

Saturdays

Last Saturday

Wake up at 8 after eight full hours of sleep, thank you Hypnos!
Scrambled eggs, ham and toast for breakfast. Satisfied burp.
Train to Kamakura.
Hot, hot, hot …daintily wave my Japanese fan and slurp on iced tea.
Say hello to the resident deity at the Shinto shrine.
Hike to the beach and catch a view of the Pacific Ocean.
Go to german café, ignore surly owner and chill on German beer, sausages and potato wedges.
Hop to Italian café next door. Stretch out at the ocean-facing bay windows. Nibble on dainty little starters and pizza.
Greet the bronze Budha.
Back to the hotel – run 5 km on treadmill. Attagirl!
Okonomiyaki and Monja dinner at Shibuya. Yummmmmy. Chatter and laughter as we make the pancakes. Enough time for me to finish a bottle of sake
Delicious sleep at hotel – Monday is still a night away!

This Saturday

Three hours of sleep, constant snoozing of alarm, panicked waking up – I’m sure my flight has taken off already!
Throw up airport sushi breakfast in the flight. Feverish sleep for 5 hours. Horrible to fall ill on a flight.
Another 5 hours of flying from Singapore to home. Dinner is fish again – hope it doesn’t mean another trip to the loo :-(
Looong wait for suitcase at the carousel. Obviously.
Crazy cab driver with F1 aspirations on Bangalore’s roads. Tick him off.
Our man takes revenge by refusing to carry my suitcase up the stairs despite my offer of generous tip. Bluhdy. Pant, heave, yikes
Midnight. My bed beckons. What a terrible, terrible way to spend a Saturday!

No free lunch if you're a woman

Afghani women who refuse to have sex with their husbands will not be given any food. And they can go out to earn their food only if the darling husband provides permission.

And who do they have to thank for this benevolence? Not the Taliban, but the moderate Prime Minister Hamid Karzai. You see, Mr Karzai needs to win over minority hardliners in order to secure another term in power. And if this grand mission requires sacrificing a few more rights of women, so be it - they are used to suffering anyway.

Again, I count my blessings. And again I wonder how it comes to this - how governments that are meant to represent our best interests rub our noses into the dust. And we wait for it to pass, without a whimper or a whisper of protest.

Book Review: Half of a Yellow Sun

2 Oct 2007

I enjoyed reading Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

Set against the backdrop of the Nigerian-Biafra Civil War of 1967-70, the book follows the lives of Ugwu, a bright African house boy employed by Odenigbo, the brilliant socialist reformer; the dissimilar twins Olanna and Kainene - the former stunningly beautiful and compassionate, the latter ugly and brilliant; and finally Richard, Kainene's British born fiance who feels more at home in Biafra than in his native land.

The book chronicles the impact of war on the lives of the protagonists- the loyal and innocent Ugwu rapes a bar girl when he is forced into army service (only to learn a year later that his favorite sister Anulika was raped by five Nigerian soldiers); the changing dynamics in the relationship between Odenigbo and Olanna as the latter emerges from needing Odenigbo to providing strength to the family as they witness the deaths of their relatives; how Olanna and Kainene overcome their differences and rediscover the sisterly warmth that they missed out on during their youth; and finally, the softening of Kainene in the presence of the mild, besotted Richard.
One of the reasons I enjoyed the book was that, as an Indian, I could relate with the context - the British colonization and divide-and-rule policy that deepens the suspicions between the Yoruba's and Igbo's (the North and the South) is reminiscent of the Hindu-Muslim divide. Adichie treats her characters with realism and empathy - gently portraying their warts and blemishes without passing judgement. Her choice of characters is also interesting - the poor Ugwu who is educated by his masters and goes on to write a book; the stunningly beautiful but surprisingly insecure Olannna who comes into her own during the war as she displays a Melanie-like courage; the handsome and reformist Odenigbo, so good with words but utterly helpless when faced with adversity; the brilliant and acerbic Kainene, evidently resentful of her twin's beauty and yet unable to ignore her enigmatic presence; and handsome but meek Richard who aspires to be a writer and ends up 'belonging' to Biafra.

This is a book about not forgetting, even though "how quick leaving had been and how slow returning was". The descrpition of the war, of how politicians use people's passions to their own ends, is moving without being melodramatic -"He (Biafran leader) would come back with justice and salt" - Olanna's belief when she hears that His Excellency is going abroad to look for peace is a poignant commentary on the common man's feelings about war.

The relationship between the twins is also well explored - when Kainene comes to meet Olanna after a long estrangement, the sisters are taking tentative steps towards a reconciliation. As they talk, Kainene leans against Olanna, and then suddenly, as if remembering something, straightens up. Olanna then feels the "slow sadness of missing a person who was still there".

The element of surprise, that essential spice of life, remains intact in Adichie's writing. Some of the chapters end with a short extract from a book titled The World Was Silent When We Died. We read about Richard working on a book by this name, but the true author is revealed in the end, dedicated "For Master, my good man" - 'my good man' being the reformist Odenigbo's name for Ugwu. Kainene's disappearance and the author's refusal to divulge her whereabouts - is she dead or alive? - keeps the reader hooked.

There is no happy ending, but there is hope - of renewal, of survival and of life carrying on, despite all odds.

London bus rides, National Gallery and British Library

13 Aug 2007, London

A visit to London is incomplete without a ride in the red double decker buses (made more famous in India thanks to Rahul serenading Simran in one of those!). I thought it would be a good idea to see a bit of London through these buses - after all, a good traveller has no plans and is not intent on arriving!

So I boarded the Number 15 at Bond Street, went down Oxford Street, past Hyde Park Corner and onto Edgware Road, which seems to have a strong Muslim presence - there are numerous places selling Lebanese food, and there is the the Islamic Bank of Britain, Al-Mustafa, and surprisingly, Ladbrokes!

We took a left onto leafy Sussex Gardens, with shaded trees, hotels, inns and lodges. Then onto St Mary’s Hospital, to the left of which is Sir Alexander Fleming’s house, and to its right the Imperial College, London.

We went further down to reach Paddington Underground, with the Hilton Paddington next door, and further down to Eastbourne Terrace, with the old Paddington station on one side, and a dull brown, Russian looking building (London seems to have several of those!) on the other. In contrast, Westbourne Terrace further down is prettier, with pale yellow old buildings and pubs with the trademark basket of many hued geraniums hanging on the front door.

The bus ended at Old Paddington Station, which, contrary to my expectations, appears on the outside to be dingy and unprepossessing – more like a warehouse than a train station. No wonder so many of Dame Agatha’s murders were committed on trains out of Paddington!

While I was poring over the bus map to decide where to head next, No 205, which goes by the British Library, arrived. I had been debating whether I should visit the Library, and the arrival of the bus made up my mind. We rode up Liverpool Street, past the trademark London red colored houses with white windows and white arches, onto Hyde Park and then the Edgware Road Underground Station, further onto Marylebone Road.

The Marylebone Underground Station is an old building in reddish brown and skin-brown bricks with white doors and windows. Further down is the extremely old Westminster Council House, next to which are the fortress-like red and white mansions.

Further on is Baker Street, peppered with several old buildings and mansions in red brick and white trimmings. Madam Tussauds is also situated on Baker Street, close to the old building that houses the UG Station, as also is the old St. Marylebone Church.

Baker Street leads onto Harley Street, famous for its doctors and physicians. The Regent’s Park UG Station is situated here, and further north is the Portland Street – Euston Square crossing which has several modern glass and chrome structures, an aberration in London’s ancient skyline.

Euston Road is peppered with several historical structures, but the contemporary red bricked British Library, set against the backdrop of the St. Pancras Parish Church which is currently being converted into a five star hotel, is striking.

Europe, here I come!

8 Aug 2006, 5:45 am, Blore HAL Airport

So here I am – ready to board British Airways flight no BA 118 to London. Though it still hasn’t completely sunk in that I am on my way to London, France & Netherlands – I guess that will happen only after I reach Heathrow. John Steinbeck says in Travels with Charly that in long range planning for trip, there is a private conviction that it won’t happen. In my case, for some inexplicable reason, I have been almost wanting it not to happen.

Not surprising, considering that this trip was decided on an impulse, and that my travel plans have changed at least five times a day over the last ten days! Thanks to which, I am now well versed with the geography of France, Germany & Belgium – no mean accomplishment given my intense dislike for the subject.

So to begin at the beginning. Flashback to three weeks ago, sitting in P’s car, listening to her block tickets for London. She’d told me about V’s plan of picking up a BMW in Munich and driving around Europe, and while it had sounded exciting, I really hadn’t thought I would take up the offer. Now, however, the prospect of Europe on top-class BMW wheels appeared to be just the break I needed.

So tickets were booked; A, my school friend in London informed, who also decided to take a week off and join us. The question now was – should we follow V’s itinerary or plan our own? After all, I had already seen Munich, Berlin and a few other places in Germany, so it didn’t make sense to spend more time there. Anuja mentioned she had a friend in Belgium, and since it appeared to be relatively easy to get a Schengen for Belgium, we decided in two minutes to travel to Belgium. And thus began the game of musical chairs.

For I had to get to Netherlands ultimately, since I was booked on a return flight from there. The original concept of ‘BMW driving in Europe’ now put in the parking lot (I still harbored dreams of having a spin in the car), I came up with new itineraries very day, each enthusiastically embraced by A, and equally enthusiastically discarded upon presentation of the next dream route. So one day it was the Belgian village route, another day a discovery of Rhineland, a third following the German cuckoo route through the Black Forest, and so on.

Finally, we settled on a driving holiday in France. Since we were limited by geography (I had to enter from Belgium and exit into Netherlands), it wasn't too difficult to narrow our dream destination to the Normandy regions of France. So while A arranged the car, I now concentrated my energies on identiying a suitable chambre d'hote (bed & breakfast) in Normandy, with the intention of driving along the English channel for a while and then venturing further inland.

A concurred (as she had been doing to all my mad cap plans over the last week!) and volunteered to arrange the car - so now, I will be driving in Europe - DDLJ, main aa rahi hoon!

Harlem

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the Sun?
Or fester like a sore -
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over-
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load

Or does it explode?

Countee Cullen

Frankfurt Diary

2 Oct 2004, 12:30 PM

So here I am. After telling Dad to take me along on an impulse, not really believing I'd make it after he said Yes, later hoping that the trip wouldn't work out (mind over impulse?), and finally getting my visa at literally the last moment (while I was boarding my flight to Delhi, with planned departure the very next day!) - I am finallydisembarking Air India's flight at the Rheine International Airport, Frankfurt. Someone please pinch me.

Of course I have butterflies in my stomach - after all, this is no client visit where I'll be escorted around, can hop, skip & jump into and out of cabs to my heart's content and have the luxury of splurging on the exotic locla delicacies (thankfully, exotic food in Germany probably means dry, dry meat, so I'm happy to pass). I am on a personal visit to earth's most expensive continent, with zilch planning or background research (I was busy winding up work you see!). It's not something I'm very comfy with, but that's what makes the trip exciting too! Achtung baby.

The airport's typically German - no frills and supra efficient. I personally believe that airports reveal the character of a country (you only need to look at IGI for verification) - here, I completed my customs clearance in a mere 60 secs - ohmigosh!

So all signs in German when we step outta the airport! Hunting for a cab (too much luggage, and Dad is paying :-)) - ah, there's a cute driver - kinda intellectual looking. The weather's nice and bright - what am I going to do with all the heavy wollens I lugged along! OHMIGOSH - the cab driver has a PALM installed next to his steering wheel. No not a tree you duh, but a palmtop - ohmigawd, ohmigawd, ohmigawd - can I swap places with you please? Ok, lets' concentrate on the view outside (envious glance back every minute at the Palm - sigh)


Hotel Intercontinental, Room 1614

Our room overlooks the Maine River and the view is breathtaking. I can see a jogging trail running parallel to the bank (of course I will plan to go jogging at 6 am, and OF COURSE I will never do it), a scating ring teaming with kids, a few cruisers and a pictursque bridge begging to be walked on. The waters are placid and clear (or is it just the '360 feet view') and the banks beyond are a lush green, but right now my soft bed beckons!

Evening

Walked to the Haupbahnof (central station) - what a pretty building teeming with life and yummilicous smells - I wander around and see all kinds of cuisines - Chinese, French, Sushi, Lebanese, Italian - yummmmy.

Walking back to the streets actoss the Haupbahnof in search of dinner, Dad recalls a good Turkish restaurant that he frequented on previous visits (every second eatery in Germany is probably Turkish).

Let's go beyond the crossing, says Dad.
H: Look there Abs, that part seems to be full of life! I'm sure your restaurant is there
D: (squirming in discomfort) No, that's where the live bands are
H: Oh really, WOW, Let's go there then!
D: (half turning away) You can go, Not me
H: (Since when did dad become such a frump?) But WHY?
D: Coz they are live bands
H: Even better, I love live music!
D: (half shouting) don't you understand - its nude shows, striptease..
H: Ohmigosh, I thought you meant people jamming away
D: (Do-you-really-belong-to-this-world look) Can we turn back NOW?

Sigh. But now I'm tempted to explore the 'live bands' (Big evil grin). We turn into a side street, and my eyes light upon an Eros Center - rooms aglow with a warm red light, the sign of a heart outside. Looks nice and cosy - not the dingy and dirty hovels we seem to have back home for these services. We continue to walk down the street, which is lined with discrete places advertising peep shows (entry free - wah, wah). But you can't see a thing or hear a sound outside - this is definitely not Patpong! There are also numerous sex shops advertising toys, aids, the works. My curiosity is piqued - I'm dying to see what's inside! Gotta come back here sometime. Sigh, wish I wasn't alone.

3rd October

Decided to take up the advice of the Tourist Info lady and walk around the city center. The streets are deserted, most shops are closed, but everything's working to Germanic precision. Ogled at the Merc showroom - took a pic of the sexy Black Beauty inside (C Class - only Euro 90K). Frankfurt has some mouthwatering cars - sexy convertibles (BMW, Merc, Jaguar), cute Opels and Audi's, sleek VW's - you name it. sigh. Wish I could marry a German. Sigh. Miss A terribly.

Walk, walk, walk...after several diversions, finally stumbled upon the Old Opera House - Alde Oper. And it's worth the 30 minute walk - a beauty that commands attention! The statues of a demonic man & woman, the beautifully carved lamp posts, the entire facade - I catch my breath. There is a fountain close by, and an open air restaurant with red seats (fitting for an opera cafe I must say!). I walk around the building, admiring the facade and the engravings. Time to capture this for posterity - ouch, my roll's reached its end, and the backup rolls are in the hotel. Bloody careless. Trudge back home.

Finally going for my walk down the bridge on the river Maine. As I wait for the lights to turn, my eyes rest upon a couple across the road - arms entwined around each other, kissing and hugging, even as the lights turn green. As we pass each other, I can't help notice the girl glowing with happiness.
Shit. I wanna go back home. Miss A sooo much. Sigh sigh sigh.

A typical weekend

For the single and fancy free, the frenetic planning starts mid week (and often on the previous Sunday itself). So here are some options that we discuss, debate, embrace and discard:

Louis Banks is playing jazz at Alliance....we MUST go and listen to him

There is a play at Rangashankara, or at Chowdiah…or a festival of movies at MMB or AFI or….

Bangalore School of Music is organizing a Mozart tribute, a piano recital or a symphony orchestra

Hey, how about the Odissi performance tonight…or the Karnatic Music concert (never tried that before)

Let’s wake up early on Sunday, go to Cubbon Park to listen to the morning ragas, jog around for a while (15 minutes) and top it up with breakfast at Koshy's or yummy omelettes at Lakeview (we've switched loyalties to Ants now)

Where should we go for dinner tonight? I’ve tried virtually every dish in Herbs & Spices already…Mainland China – nah, just had the buffet the other day….

I will just oil my hair, plonk myself on the balcony and attack my unread pile of books.

Hey, I haven't seen a movie in years (read, 5 days)....lets catch the last show at Lido today

Let's watch War of the Roses or the latest movie we downloaded on the laptop

.....Sooo many choices, so many decisions. And unsaid, just beneath the surface, a wish to not have so many choices, to have something more concrete to fill up the void…whatever that might be.

Curious about what the happily married DINKs and the hum-do-humaare-do talk about!

Wanderlust - the road beckons!

I'm applying for the Great Driving Challenge sponsored by Mitsubishi Cedia. Those of you who have enjoyed reading about my journeys over the past 3 years, please to show your support by voting for me at http://www.greatdrivingchallenge.com/application/Hina/

Spread the word, thanks in advance :-)

The perfect wife

We were having lunch last week when we heard about the Shiney Ahuja rape case. "Why a maid, when he just had to bat his eyes at me", a friend joked, and we laughed in agreement. We thought it was a frame-up or the latest media grabbing breaking news. But when there appeared to be some truth to the charge, our immediate reaction echoed the sentiment that has dominated public space - what was the need to do it with a maid when he could have put one in with virtually any girl (of better social standing than a maid - but that was the part that's left unsaid).

But this post isn't about class distinctions. This post is about Shiney' loyal wife - Anupam. A wife who has been in a long distance relationship with her husband for the past several years. An educated and successful career woman who has by now mastered the art of turning the other way on reports of her husband's affairs. But a woman, who, despite being 10,000 km away in New York, can state with conviction that her husband is incapable of committing such an act and is being framed. A conviction that every perfect wife has uttered over the past zillions of years, the honorable US Secretary of State included.

I can't understand women like her. I can understand the need to stand by your partner and forgive his infidelities, but this is rape for chrissake! What, I wonder, would she have said if Shiney was accused of raping her sister? In all probability, she would have still supported her husband. When will we women break away from these misplaced shackles of loyalty and duty, and learn to stand up for the truth instead? Why couldn't Anupam say something like - I find it difficult to believe that my husband committed such a crime, but I will let the law decide. And if he is found guilty, I will publicly condone the act - for I can understand a man who cheats, but I cannot understand a man who has to force himself upon a helpless little girl to satisfy his urges.

But that is not what good wives do.

Customer Service

Overhead, a lady calling a guy in the US at what must be close to 11.30 pm his time.

Hi Sir, this is XX from ABC, this is about the customer service complaint you ...hello, hello....can you hear me Sir, hello, hellooooo, is it too late for you Sir?...this is about the customer service....hello Sir....SIR, SIR....oh, you were sleeping. I'm sorry, I will call you in the evening...what time should I call you...

I am very curious to know if the poor bloke continued the conversation, and if he decides to to continue his patronage of ABC after this 'service' call. Duh.

I have a dream...

...of meeting this SUPER DUPER rich man. Who doesnt stink. Who's reasonably nice and funny. Who likes travel and adventure, sometimes. And maybe, just maybe, he digs something more than Jeffery Archer or Sydney Sheldon. Dare I dream that he knows who Vikram Seth or Pablo Neruda is? No, I'm getting beyond myself now.

So, he's reasonably nice & funny. and VERRY rich. That's all.

He likes me. and I like him.

We get married (ok, Im not too particular about getting married, as long as I have legal rights over his money!)

I wake up every morning and make orange juice for him. no added sugar.

We go jogging in the park (I can just about manage 7 am, though 8 would be much nicer, thank you).

We both have happy, fulfilled lives. He's busy amassing his riches. I'm busy blowing them up on big rocks of diamonds, little black dresses and pointy red shoes. Just to keep HIM on his toes, you see.

We give each other space. Over the years, he falls for my best friend. And i fall for his brother.

But, this too shall pass.

And we live happily ever after....

Dear Roger

Dear Roger,

I should have paid heed to the age old wisdom of watching my words when I expressed sympathy with Rafa after the French Open final. I thought he was content being the greatest Number Two in the history of the game. I suppose you thought so too.

Looking back, the warning bells rang in the 07 Wimbledon final, when he took you to five sets. Granted, the courts at Wimby are getting slower (I am told this is a deliberate tactic – slower courts mean more long rallies and hence, hopefully, more interest in tennis – no one is talking about the quality of play of course), but let’s also admit that we under-estimated Rafa by assuming he was happy with the tag of clay court specialist, shall we?

After the disappointment at Melbourne and the humiliation at Roland Garros (forgive me, but I still cannot erase the memory of the final set), I was looking forward to redemption at SW 19 . When you lost those first two sets, I was ready to flee to the Swiss Alps. As the third set started, one thought played repeatedly in my mind – Oh God, please don’t let him lose in straight sets, please God, pleeeeeease.

Luckily, God heard our collective pleas, and you drew upon your deepest reserves to fight off the challenger. Your scorching backhand pass when Rafa held match point in the fourth set will remain a part of “Federer Magic Moments” tales to my grandkids. When you pushed the match into the fifth, I was screaming with joy – the Emperor was not going to cede his crown easily, and I was already celebrating a record-breaking sixth.

Oh what a heart breaker the last set was. Just as you seized the momentum after the first rain break, the pendulum appeared to shift towards Rafa after the second rain interruption. I suppose you were taken by surprise too – for who before this gutsy Mallorcan had dared to battle so long and so hard against The Great One, and that too at your spiritual home?
But we consoled ourselves – perhaps it was fair to the prince, given how well he had fought these two years. Did you sense then that the luck was turning away from you? I have to admit that I did not.

Things just seemed to get worse from there, didn’t they. Suddenly you were losing to the likes of a much improved Andy Murray and Giles–who-Simon. The very people who had idolized you now called for your head – he’s lost the fire, he should just retire graciously while he’s on a high. Comparisons with Bjorg were ominously invoked. I’m sure you laughed at their folly – forgive them for they know not about perfection. Yes Roger, Ed Smith was bang on when he said that your motivation is mastery, not competition. Unfortunately, this may just turn out to be your greatest liability against Rafa.

It could have been so easy for you to give up. I have often wondered – What does a gymnast do when she realizes one morning that her body no longer bides her command; what does the marathoner do when his feet do not obey his exhortations to run FASTER, FASTER! ? The fire is still there, but the midas touch is cruelly snatched away. The Gods had blessed you, but suddenly, just before the coronation, they decided to look the other way.

But then, these are the obstacles that separate the boys from the men, ain’t it? And forgive us silly mortals Roger – but we love triumph in the face of adversity. And for the greatest glory, well, a few tumbles, a couple of injuries, a near-death experience – that makes the tale so much more entertaining. If you win it all too easily, like you did, we are a bit disappointed (and jealous). We attribute it to good luck, choosing to ignore the extraordinary effort that you had put in over the years to hone your phenomenal talent. But throw in a slice of bad luck, a run of losses, and we’re back to loving you again – “what an extraordinary talent – he should have got to 20 Grand Slams by now, had it not been for ….” – we say with misty eyes.

So you valiantly fought on. And you celebrated the small victories when the big ones eluded you – the Olympics Doubles being a case in point. You still didn’t look your old self – the magical feet seemed be a trifle slower, the precision reflexes just a wee bit off target – but you persevered. Fittingly, you got your reward when you annihilated Djoker & Murray to win a record fifth US Open.

I was more relieved than delighted – The Great One was back. So were you. 2009, and a record equaling 14th Grand Slam title, beckoned.

Let us not talk about the Australian Open final, shall we? Let us not talk about faith misplaced, about the ogre in your head, about being faced with your mortality. But, dear Roger, the facts are these:

- I know you want to reclaim your Number One ranking, but it is going to be exceedingly difficult, if not impossible – not with Rafa’s current form and Murray, Djoker and the young set breathing down your neck.

- You are 27, five years more than Rafa and the Young Brigade. In a sport that gets younger each year, you are a veteran (albeit a much loved and much revered one)

- Undoubtedly, you are the most inventive player in the history of the game. But the Rafa Cavalry can read your game, and if they can’t match you on talent and beauty, they CAN blunt you with raw power. More importantly, they are not in awe of The Great Federer – they step on court to beat you, not to give you a good fight.

- You CAN still win many more Grand Slams, including the French Open (though I do not see you beating Rafa to win it – and it kills me to admit this!). You are physically fit, have looked in much better touch in 09 than the whole of 08, and you still have the fire and desire for ascendancy.

But – there is no doubt that Rafa has improved his game much more over the last two years than you have. True, your game is almost perfect, and your biggest strength has always been that you have no apparent weakness – but the Mallorcan draws out the devil in you, doesn’t he? Over the last year, you have looked uncertain against him – both in your tactics and your execution. Should you try and bring him more to the net? Maybe, but certainly not at the French Open. Should you try and outlast him from the baseline? But you like finishing your games quickly – so you usually run out of patience much before he does. As a result, you have failed to capitalize on precious opportunities and repeatedly allowed him to wrest the game away from you. In short, you have let him do to you what you have done to numerous other worthy players over a career of breathtaking brilliance.

So is there no solution to the Rafa conundrum? Of course there is. But acknowledging that there is a problem is the first step towards addressing it. And I get the feeling right now that you are simply not willing to admit that, possibly for the first time in your life, you are faced with a challenge that you cannot unravel on your own (or with the help of the former Swiss Women’s No 1).

So, why not forget the No 1, why not focus on the Grand Slams, and get some help while you’re at it? Why not get a good coach that you can stick with for a while? Why not visit a shrink who can help bury the demons? (Many years ago, you and Marat Safin had two things in common – prodigious talent and a volatile temper. You sought professional help at the start of your career – and look where you are now compared with the equally talented Russian). And why not borrow a lesson or two from your opponents, especially the one that reads “Don’t give up”?

There is nothing any tennis lover wants more than to watch you play, if possible for ever. And we would much rather see you surprise the challengers with your beauty and guile than hear your views on the WTA rankings. Bring back the belief, the glory will follow.

No Country for Western Wear

Amongst the many attractions of Bangalore when I first landed here five years ago was the security and freedom it offered to young, single women like me. This was especially true of Indiranagar, my adopted neighbourhood in the city. I could drive back from work at 3 or 4 in the morning, every day. I could walk back home after dinner at 10 pm, 11 pm or midnight. I could stop to rescue a puppy at 1 in the morning while driving the wrong way up a one way road. I did not have to think twice before booking the 10 pm movie show (heck, this has become my preferred movie show now!). I could hop into an auto at 11 pm, and be assured of safe delivery. All while wearing jeans (or a skirt) and a t-shirt. Unlike in Delhi, I was not constantly worrying about my safety - no longer did my environment remind me that I was vulnerable.

For the last four days, as I drive back from work, from the late night movie or from a late dinner at a friend's house, I seem to notice many more clumps of men hanging around street corners. Each time I see such a group, I clutch the steering tighter and reach our for my cell phone. If Im walking, I look downwards and quicken my pace. Will they think my jeans are too tight, my t-shirt too short? Or that my dress is inappropriate, unsuitable to Indian culture? Will they heckle me and humiliate me for forgetting my roots and values, even as a vast hoarde of my countrymen will speed past, ignoring my predicament, glad that their wives and daughters and sisters are safely at home?

And then we snigger at Pakistan ceding ground to the Taliban in Swat valley.

Here comes the spring again

The sky is a brilliant blue, reflecting the color named so aptly after it, watching indulgently as the clouds play their quiet but violent tug of war.

The trees are proudly flaunting their newly acquired coat of shimmering green leaves, gently swaying to the music of the wind.

The African tulips have disappeared. The rich-red flowers of the Gulmohar are being roused from their sleep, yawning as they prepare for their glorious profusion all over the country. Already, the jacaranda is stretching its lavender wings towards the sky.

Here comes the spring again.

The Friends Scavengers

I can choose my friends no longer.

In many ways, FB is a blessing. I am connected to most of my Masters batchmates and seniors & juniors, thanks to which I know how old their kids are, the international vacations they took, the re-unions they had with their families, what they thought of the latest flick in town, whether they think Rafa owns Fed, ....... and vice-versa. I've also reconnected with zillions of school friends on FB - almost all of who I had lost touch with, thanks to the lets-pretend-school-never-happened phase that all of us go through (I have been in regular touch with precisely four friends from school over the years - and this is a much better number than most!).

But what do I do when a random colleague from work (as opposed to a work-friend) sends me a request on FB? Or when the guy I've just been introduced to over lunch wants to be friends on FB (and leaves a comment on my pictures just 5 minutes after I accept his virtual hand of friendship - I shuda followed my instinct to ignore his request!). Can I be friends with my ex-ed on FB while not being friends with them in 'real' life? And how do I react when someone from my team wants to be my friend on FB? Just stay away from the website, I guess.

Not surprisingly perhaps, this is not just limited to personal networking sites. At work, I have been occasionally pursued for 'friendship' by co-workers who I have bumped into at a cafe or a restaurant, or who have 'discovered' my profile on the intranet. These un-gentlemen then make it a habit of pinging me every day, refuse to catch subtle and not so subtle hints to bugger off, till I have to finally tell them in no uncertain terms to clear off or else...

Time was when we were choosy about who could be called a friend, a close friend or a best friend. Friendships would be forged over shared moments of laughter, madness, tears, bitching, pranks, music, books, nite-outs and drunken driving. A friend was not the cheap commodity it has turned into today. Good friendships were hewn over years, often over decades (I just realized that K, S, A & I have known each other for two years short of two decades, whoa!).

Have we turned into such a lonely people that our social quotient is measured by the size of our 'friends network' on FB or Twitter?

Just another day

Chopin. Polonaise. Mazurka. Etude. Prelude. Waltz. the Funeral March. And the Fantaisie Impromptu.

Eliot. Love songs. Lost city. The yellow fog that curled once more about the house. Souls etherized against the sky. Measuring life with coffee spoons. Coversations that slip between velleities & carefully caught regrets, attenuated tones of violins mingled with remote cornets. Lilacs. Hyacinths. The drinking of tea. Preludes. A heap of broken images, fear in a handful of dust. HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME. Tirisuis. The third who always walks beside you. Hypocrite lecteur. Datta, Dayadhvam, Damyata.

A rocking chair.

Neruda. I can sing the saddest lines tonight. Isla Negra. Slowly dies who. Something of yesterday clings to today. The spans of cements, two breasts, two abysses...held by the concrete calligraphy that writes on the page of the river.

Seth, too. All you who sleep tonight. The Room & the Street. A kind of loving. Unstated intentions. Plums. Red suitcases. A helve of dares, a loaf of shoulds. Sit, drink your coffee. Chinese sunsets. Perhaps, this could have stayed unstated...

And maybe, just maybe, The Who. Run, run, run. A quick one.

A touch of spring.

Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn

My dear X:

Thank you for wanting to wish me on my birthday. And for wishing me on new year's. And telling me about your vacation plans. And your reading list. And the name of your poodle.

And the name of your wife. And the link to her blog.

What exactly were you thinking? Was it a case of one upmanship, a so-what-if-you-write-so-does-she and look-what-a-kool-wife-I-got? If that's the case, good for both of you, says moi.

But if I know you (and I could be horribly mistaken here), this wasn't about scoring a point. So what, then? Possibly it was just a polite bringing-two-bloggers-together. But did you really think that I would visit the link, read her posts, drop her a note about her Wodehouse-ish wit or Kafka-esque insights? And she would reply in kind, one of us would invite the other for coffee, and we would soon become bossom buddies who would exchange notes on a myriad topics ranging from the best way to make prawn curry to how you are in bed? And we would all live happily ever after.

Of course. Except that you forgot to pay heed to Ms Parker's wise words : Shoot if you must, but hold in view; Women and elephants never forget.

Through the looking glass

I started blogging towards the end of 2005 at what seemed, at that point at least, to be a particularly low time in my life (yes, some clichés are true, all it takes is pressure and time to forget, if not forgive). Till then, my pet strategy when faced with such difficult situations had been to run away to a new place - and it had always worked. This time, however, I was faced with a dilemma – I liked Bangalore and did not want to abandon it. More importantly, I did not want to run away.

So I dropped anchor. But shorn of my usual armor, I needed diversions to cope. A friend suggested blogging. What will I write about? I wondered aloud. It comes on its own, you’ll find it therapeutic, he reassured me.

Short on options, I decided to give it a shot. I certainly did not believe I would last beyond a few posts, much less that I would have a little less than a hundred posts over three erratic years of blogging (yes, I am trumpeting my perseverance ;-). So I am tempted to indulge myself by reflecting on the years since my first declaration that “2005 will go down as the year of losing faith for me”.

2006 was the year of renewal. The unexpected shock – learning to cope with its presence; constantly preparing ourselves for the worst; desperately, desperately hoping for a miracle each time we met a doctor; the relief and joy at survival… it challenged how we would function as a family, and in doing so changed our lives and each one of us in incontrovertible ways. Looking back, I realize that it also provided me with a much needed ‘new battle to fight’ - something that occupied my energies so completely that I had neither opportunity nor inclination to dwell upon the past. The disappointments of the previous year appeared insignificant, even ridiculous, compared with what we were facing now. And so overcoming the disease also came to represent a symbolic victory of sorts…as S rightly remarked, this was the year I found myself.

2007 was certainly the year of celebration. I was so exhausted with the stress – both physical and mental – of the previous year that I just wanted to go out and celebrate life. I had never come this close to mortality – and while it made me not afraid to die, it also made me happy to be alive. So we did numerous places in and around Bangalore and of course – Kanha, London, Normandy, Belgium, Amsterdam, Thailand & Singapore. Most certainly the year of travel.

Which brings me to 2008. A tough cookie, this one – for I still can’t figure out what 2008 was about. Singapore, Costa Rica, Coorg, Tranquebar & Shekhawati notwithstanding, this certainly wasn’t the year of travel - I’m extremely disappointed at not having traveled to a new country this year, the first time this has happened in six years! No life changing love, and so no losing of faith; no insurmountable obstacles, and so no major triumphs to be proud of. Yes, there were some challenges on the home front, but I guess I’m getting used to them now. I hate to admit it, but it was a year that was possibly more interesting on the professional front than on the personal one. It was a year of driftwood…a very ordinary year.

Hasta la vista, baby!

One of the craziest weekends I’ve had in a while – here’s remembering a wonderful November weekend!

Friday evening : Rock Nights at Opus, did the place groove !!! I was completely bowled over by the guy who rendered ‘What’s Going On’ and the lovely guitar riffs by the Kunal Kapoor lookalike. Had a fantastic, rocking time after ages !!!

Friday Midnight – Saturday Night : Driving, Driving, Driving !!! A few watered-down drinks ( I had a Caipirinha-cousin and two Margarita’s, D some beer and gin/vodka tonic) + totally groovy rock music + another weekend stretching ahead + two nutty people who love driving = INSANITY. On an impulse, close to midnight on Friday, we decided to drive 400 km to Jog Falls. Why Jog Falls? I have no clue – but I do know I would have agreed to drive to Kandahar if you had asked me!

800 kilometres of driving across twenty hours, endless cups of sweet coffee, the hunt for clean loo’s, idli-vada for breakfast, dhaaba made dal-roti-egg bhurji (my favorite road meal!), Kurkere, Bingo, the same tape playing repeatedly for hours, random conversations (how else would you describe talk about cuff-links!), the stupendous stretch between Sagar & Shimoga, the non-existent roads in many stretches (will the Karnataka government pleeeease wake up – I don’t mind paying more than 23 rupees for real roads!). A looong drive, that too unplanned, with someone with whom there is no memory of the past and no possibility of a future – this was just what I needed to beat the blues !

Sunday – Surprisingly, I am up at 9 despite not having slept the night before! Rush to Giri’s house warming ceremony – the drive to Bannerghetta National Park (well, almost) should only be undertaken on a Sunday morning! Rush back to Chinnaswamy for the India-England ODI. We lead the series 3-0, so I am secretly hoping for an English win to keep the series alive.

We reach the stadium around noon. Get our faces painted, buy the tiranga jhanda and troop along to our stand, FURIOUS to discover that the one-hour queuing up and the considerable ticket price has got us a seat behind the camera crew, cutting off the view of the pitch completely ! Luckily, this is Bangalore, the organizers are helpful and we are two abla naari’s – so there is some adjust maadi and we get some vintage seats at the corner of the stands.

Chinnaswamy is a wonderful stadium to watch a cricket match in. The grass is a freshly painted green, and since the grounds are not very large, you get a fantastic view of all the action. Of course, the buzz at a cricket match in the subcontinent is a must-have experience – even Ravi Shastri draws big applause (certainly much more than his ignominious World Cup days!)

The weather looks dubious – there are a few raindrops occasionally, followed by a hint of sunlight playing peek-a-boo with the clouds. Fingers crossed.

We are delighted when KP puts India in to bat, and Sehwag sets the pace with a cracking boundary on the first ball! He has to be seen to be believed – standing nonchalantly with his bat slung over his shoulder (almost like he is at a dhobi-ghaat) and then plundering the ball in all directions. Annihilation at its finest. Sachin joins in the fun at the expense of Broad, but looks tentative thereafter.

The first showers arrive unexpectedly, but in full force. I don’t mind it too much – after all, this is part of the fun! We take cover in the hall behind the stand (I’m sure the coffee man is sick of me by now – if the organizers discontinue with the practice of free ‘High Tea’, I am partly to blame). The downpour gets heavier, and we are suddenly faced with the depressing prospect that there may not be any further play!

Luckily, the Bangalore showers are true to form, and depart as unexpectedly as they made their first appearance. We rush back to our seats to catch 30 minutes of the supersoakers in action – I must say I am mighty impressed with their performance in soaking up the water! Broad runs in to resume the proceedings, and there is a stunned silence when Sachin is dismissed in the fourth ball of the over. However, Gambhir continues the party by flicking the first ball he faces for a four.

The run making feast continues, much to our delight, but the clouds want to join in the fun. A light drizzle soon turns into a torrent. It appears highly unlikely that the match will resume. Just 11 goddamn overs – this is worse than a T20! We decide to drown our sorrows by indulging in a sumptuous dinner at the Only Place. Our painted faces attract the attention of the oh-so-good looking owner – there is some compensation for having missed the cricketing fireworks after all! Hot soup, some delicious fish and lots of creamy pasta – with deep sighs for you-know-who - do their bit to revive our spirits. As we get into the car, D sms-es saying match is likely to resume. We decide to ‘chake a tance’ and head to Barista to kill some time – we’ve just ordered when D calls to say match will resume in 10 mins – hurray! Coffee in hands, we rush back to Chinnaswamy – complimenting ourselves on our brilliant foresight of dining close by : -) Our seats have been occupied by the stadium guards and there are more officials than spectators in the stands, but who cares! The English batsmen do not disappoint – they display admirable efficiency and commitment in making a complete hash of a simple job. When KP walks in, P & I just can’t resist cheering for him – what a hunk of a man! Both of us are secretly hoping for a long innings from him – but our man disappoints and is out before we can say hello. Bluhdy. The old saga continues, England continues to lose wickets regularly and do a great job of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. It is midnight, I wave goodbye to the camera crew. My fantastic weekend has come to an end - look forward to many more!