satiricalcitizen

Then & Now

2011-12-11T22:05:00.000-08:00

India's Evolution Revolution
By Rupa Gulab

(Published in Brunch Quarterly, Hindustan Times, November 2011)

India is changing so fast, I can barely catch my ragged breath. In the last twenty years alone, these are just a few of the changes I’ve noticed.

Fitness
Then: The motivation to exercise came not just from the desire to look good but to protect ourselves from bullies at the beach who kicked sand in our faces – we were deeply influenced by foolish Charles Atlas ads in our parent’s trashy American mags. Our work-out was very simple: Hold a copy of a telephone directory in one hand and a copy of Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy in the other hand. A few months later, you looked as menacing as an armoured truck.

Now: The motivation to exercise comes not just from the desire to look smoking hot but to save ourselves from public humiliation. Come on, who hasn’t been accosted at a ‘Medium’ section in a clothes store by an obsequious assistant with an invisible megaphone who helpfully hollers, “Madam, please go to the ‘Large’ section.” That’s the most important reason why, for most middle-class urban Indians, a personal trainer or yoga teacher is as vital as toothpaste. We’re willing to sell our kidneys to hire them and fortunately there are lots of buyers in the market these days: the millions who’ve damaged their kidneys on certain terribly fashionable high-protein, low-carb diets.

Porn
Then: It mainly consisted of backdated, well-thumbed issues of Playboy, Penthouse et cetera, usually discovered in the bottom shelf of your father’s cupboard under piles of income tax papers and government bonds. Also, books by authors like Harold Robbins, Jacqueline Susann, Sidney Sheldon and a Mills & Boon author called Anne Mather whom every girl in school suspected was a man – who else but a dirty, filthy man could write such steamy stuff, they agreed in awe-struck tones. And, of course, that Sharon Stone scene in Basic Instinct. Those were such innocent days, sigh.

Now: It’s mainly on the internet. We have no time for traditional porn – and no time at all to be moralistic about it either. All our scathing criticism is reserved for poverty porn, particularly after the movie Slumdog Millionaire and Aravind Adiga’s White Tiger. The only porn we universally approve of is food porn, which is on our channels 24x7. Hands up all those who haven’t ever flung their sensible calorie-restricted dinners into the bin while watching MasterChef Australia and ordered wicked takeaway instead.

Food:
Then: We had Indian, Chinese and Continental cuisine to choose from. The Chinese food tasted Indian (unless you lived in Calcutta) and the Continental food was mainly English with Fish & Chips, Roast Chicken/Mutton as the stars of the show. They were accompanied with soggy over-boiled veggies that even pigs would turn up their snouts at. Baked Alaska was the hottest item on the dessert menu and it makes me weep just to think of it.

Now: We have practically everything including French, Italian, Greek, Lebanese, Japanese, Thai, Malaysian, Vietnamese and American food. Real English food, strangely enough, has dropped off the menu. I have to confess though, that life without Roly-Poly Pudding is not unbearable.

TV News Channels:
Then: We had just two news channels. The government-run channel was lacklustre, and the private channel was excitable. However, when we really wanted to know what was happening in India during the, say, Babri Masjid riots, we watched BBC and CNN.

Now: We have one terribly hush-hush colossal candle-manufacturing corporation that owns all the English news channels. Why else would news anchors repeatedly exhort us to light candles daily to protest against injustice? I can tell you this: once I find out the name of this secret company, I’m going to invest all my money in it and buy a pretty island somewhere.

The truth about Arvind Kejriwal

2011-11-14T01:10:00.000-08:00

ANGST IN MY PANTS
(Published in Hardnews, Nov 2011)

I’m not particularly fond of Arvind Kejriwal, but I have to give the devil his due. For starters, he’s got everyone in the nation (corrupt people included) talking passionately about how corruption must be eradicated. I think that’s absolutely fantastic, even though I do not approve of Kejriwal’s flawed Jan Lokpal Bill or his shockingly dictatorial and undemocratic methods.

Kejriwal has other sterling qualities as well that have gone largely unnoticed, so I’d like to draw your attention to them:

1. He’s a magnificent con man: Way better than some of the brazen characters Leonardo DiCaprio frequently plays on screen. He fooled us beautifully by calling his movement India against Corruption, when it really should be called India against Secularism. Some of us suspected this for a long time – and we have to thank the RSS (god bless their bigoted souls) for confirming our worst fears in public. Along the way we discovered that several people associated with the movement belonged to a group called Friends of the BJP, my my! Eventually, Kejriwal let the cat out of the bag himself by exhorting people not to vote for the Congress in Hisar, since there were so many other delightfully corrupt politicians from other parties to choose from. Pay no heed to Kejriwal’s indignant squeaks of protest and denial. If we all had noses like Pinocchio that grew by inches every time we lied, Kejriwal’s would be longer than Mount Everest. Though less scenic, mind you.

2. He deserves full marks for creativity: Instead of getting a cute baby elephant or tiger cub as the mascot for his pan-India movement, he thought out of the box and got a doddering old man. Such a relief to move away from India’s predictable Appus and Sheroos to an Anna, isn’t it? Even better, Kejriwal declared that his mascot is above the Indian Constitution. Terrific – he’s made him so much more magical than a fairy tale character!

3. He makes Sonia Gandhi look timid: Kejriwal is not a man to be trifled with, make no mistake. First he forced his mascot to stop eating for days on end to twist the government’s already bruised arm. And now that his mascot keeps making embarrassing statements, he’s ordered him to stop talking altogether (of course Kejriwal has made it all fancy and honourable by calling it a maun vrat). And we call our prime minister Mrs. Gandhi’s puppet? Hah. I would really love to see Kejriwal in a remake of that fabulous Charlie Chaplin film: The Great Dictator. He would fit the hero’s role so well, down to his bristly little moustache.

4. He can spend hours with Kiran Bedi: Anyone who has witnessed Ms Bedi’s insanely wild side at the Ramlila grounds will understand just how much strength of character it would take to willingly spend even one second with her. Gosh, my poor dog whimpers and races out of the room when he sees her on TV these days. What I want to know is, where is that ghoongat Ms Bedi was horsing around with on the Ramlila stage? She needs it desperately, now that details of her grossly inflated airline bills to NGOs have emerged. And she has the cheek to say that she was just being a do-gooder by putting that money in her NGO! Hmm. Pinching money from other do gooders to make her own NGO better than theirs, huh? Now that’s a very interesting lesson in ethics for India’s youth.

5. He is already being treated like a politician: Sure, it was only a humble slipper someone hurled at Kejriwal and not a sophisticated shoe, but hey – many people dislike him already - that’s definitely a move in the right direction.

6. He can turn Rakhi Sawant into a super star: Kejriwal’s PR skills are amazing. Look how he’s got all the major news channels eating out of his hands – okay, we know that most of the news anchors are idiots, but even so. And ever noticed how quickly he reacts to the mood on social networking sites and tries to swing it back into his favour again? I’m dead certain that if he handled Rakhi Sawant’s career, she would outshine Bollywood A-listers and earn much more than them.

Honestly someday I’d like to meet Arvind Kejriwal, shake his hand warmly, and tell him what I really think of him.

When all else fails, try PR.

2011-10-05T00:40:00.000-07:00

ANGST IN MY PANTS
(Published in Hardnews, October 2011)

Aha - the BJP has finally decided what cutting-edge strategy they’re going to use to win the next general elections: cosmetic surgery and PR services. Taking a cue from TMC party leader Mamata Banerjee who literally ran for the West Bengal elections on a treadmill to ensure that no unseemly triple chin marred her victory photographs, BJP Party President Nitin Gadkari recently signed up for bariatric surgery. His stomach has been stapled so that he can just about manage to consume one samosa with his evening cuppa instead of his usual 307 (I’m putting a modest estimate here). I’m dead certain no one is happier about this than his over-worked family cook – my heart goes out to the poor chap who has slaved over a hot stove from dawn to dusk to feed a bottomless pit. Several critics have sneered at the surgery, but of course: they’ve pointed out that Gadkari’s a lazy man with no self control - he just wants the easy way out. Hmm, they do have a point but let’s look on the bright side too: there may be no more food shortage in the country, hooray!

Gujarat Chief Minister Narendra Modi wants an easier way out: an instant image makeover without surgery. Sad, because the only way secular Indians will even consider him as a human being is if he has a heart and brain transplant. A little bird on a news channel told me that he’s hired an American PR firm to whitewash his image – I think the PR dudes got the brief wrong because it seems more like an exercise in hogwash. Anyway, a report from the US Congressional Research Service has suddenly surfaced that says glowing things about Modi’s skills at development, including the fact that they expect to see him as one of the frontrunners for the post of prime minister in the 2014 general elections. If this really is true (you can never tell when PR agencies are involved), all I can say with a smirk is, America loves dealing with dictators. They’ve lost quite a few they were rather fond of in the oil-rich Middle East recently and replacements are required. Autocratic Modi would be an excellent choice, there’s no doubt about it. Admittedly he can’t deliver oil, but he’s got tremendous reserves of natural gas.

As a result of this PR exercise, the nation has been cruelly subjected to a couple of open letters from Modi, announcing his Sadbhavana Mission in terrible English. This Sadbhavana thingie turned out to be a public fast-for-harmony which was performed on a stage with deathly dull speeches by some of India’s creepiest fascists. I valiantly tried to watch this event on TV but it was the most boring freak show on earth ever. All my school girl notions about fascists being electrifying speakers have been dashed to smithereens. Weirder still, the nation was expected to applaud as controversial politicians like MNS leader Raj Thackeray gave Modi wonderful character certificates. On the final day of Modi’s extravagant party, one thing was clear - it’s not working. For starters, he looks like he needs bariatric surgery as well – his clothes still fit him rather too snugly for comfort even after three days of fasting – tsk, he’s probably been snacking on the sly. Also, let’s not forget that the 2002 riot victims and several activists who attempted to protest were detained - so much for mutual understanding and harmony, hah! And I’m not even going to get into the fact that some of the BJPs alliance partners like the Janata Dal-United absolutely refused to participate in this sham. Or that the VHP and RSS were not exactly enthusiastic about it either. Those are just minor details.

And now on to yet another wannabe prime minister from the BJP: LK Advani. He’s proved to be the laziest of them all by riding piggyback on the India against Corruption movement with grand plans for an anti- corruption rath yatra, yawn. If he really wants to make us sit up, he should participate in the Formula One Grand Prix in Noida instead. That will be more fun and who knows, it may do wonders for his image as a doddering old sod as well!

Ah well. Typical, isn’t it, that the BJP has to con us with tacky PR initiatives in an attempt to win elections?

BJP come back!

2011-09-03T21:42:00.000-07:00

ANGST IN MY PANTS
(Published in Hardnews, September 2011)

I just can’t wait for the Bharatiya Janata Party to come back to power again! They have proved to be a shockingly lazy opposition that prefers to disrupt proceedings rather than let Parliament function – if in power those shameless slackers will have to put in some amount of work whether they like it or not. Also, it may be wildly entertaining to have them in the spotlight, particularly if senior leader LK Advani is not made prime minister this time round again. I bet the jealous man will continue to make the same nasty personal remarks he frequently makes about prime minister Manmohan Singh against his party’s prime minister too. After which their erm, pleasantly plump party president Nitin Gadkari may have to squash him. I recommend a simple method: Gadkari should sit on him. Not a squeak will be heard out of Advani thereafter, I’m pretty sure of that.

However, the most important reason why I want the BJP back in power is because I have all these wonderful plans on how to fix them good and proper – I still haven’t forgiven them for their role in communal riots, and I never will. They’re beautifully pompous and sanctimonious right now with these jaw-dropping scams exploding in the UPAs face and the noisy Anna Hazare-led anti-corruption movement. They’ve even succeeded in fooling themselves that Hazare’s movement is targeted only at the UPA - and that’s so not true! I’d love to see the BJP in a position when the shoe is on the other foot.

For starters, I’m launching a movement called India against Communalism because I fervently believe in a secular India. It’s not difficult really –my panel will be made up of squeaky clean former Supreme Court/High Court judges, a former cop with a decent reputation and of course I’ll hire a professional faster like Anna Hazare as well. Not Hazare himself - it wouldn’t be appropriate considering that he has several right-wing buddies. Sad, because now he’s the nation’s hero - his caps are selling like hot cakes and many babies born recently have been named after him. I will have to find someone else who can effortlessly fast for many days so I guess I’ll have to settle for a professional model. Someone who already buys size zero will be shockingly skinny after a few days of fasting and this will make the government terribly anxious.

We will politely ask the BJP if we can hold a peaceful demonstration of over 5000 people at Rajghat – and we’ll warmly assure them that we won’t do vulgar things like dancing on Mahatma Gandhi’s symbolic grave like senior BJP leader Sushma Swaraj (even though we dance much, much better than she can). If they deny us permission, perhaps their young leader Varun Gandhi will graciously offer us his house for our demonstration – hey, he did that for Anna Hazare. Oops no, I doubt it – I’ve just remembered some particularly vicious remarks he made about a certain religious community some years ago. Okay, so we’ll get a fab PR agency and go to the media who will scream and shout ceaselessly (particularly the nation’s permanently outraged superhero: Fatman of Times Now TV) and the government will eventually cave in and we’ll be offered many demonstration venues to choose from.

I’ve already written down two non-negotiable demands that Indian against Communalism will insist on:
1. A bill must be passed that ensures that any politician with even the merest whiff of a communal taint will be given life imprisonment. Only because I don’t believe in the death sentence. All their assets must be confiscated and handed over to families who have been victims of communal riots. We will not budge on this. Nasty people must not be allowed to roam freely in society – we must protect not just our innocent children but their innocent children as well!

2. All right-wing supporters who leave filthy messages on blogs and articles by secular citizens must be punished for profanity. Equally importantly, they must be arrested for their lousy grammar. I have never understood why their grammar is so dreadful, but then I cannot pretend to understand why people are bigots either. Perhaps it’s because only brainless people are bigots? That makes sense, somehow.

Right, I’m working very hard on my India against Communalism bill. I do hope you will join my movement, because personally I believe communalism is a more serious threat to India than corruption.

India against Blackmailers, Dictators, Annarchists & Fasters

2011-08-24T11:43:00.000-07:00

I've had it up to here with the blackmail, mass hysteria and mobocracy unleashed by the India against Corruption team. First they try to shove a bill down our throat by blackmail rather than serious debates in Parliament, then they lie with grandiose statements like, "All of India is with Anna" - the morons can't even do simple mathematics. Even worse I've been innundated with annoying text messages urging me to join their idiotic marches and yell that jingoistic Wagah border nonsense.

Hello, I'm as anti-corruption as they come and I do want a Lokpal bill but not their flawed one - and definitely not this slimy way.

After their movement dies down, here are a few suggestions for books they can write:

1. My Experiments with Blackmail by Anna Hazare

2. Get back at your former boss by making an old man starve to death by Arvind Kejriwal & Kiran Bedi.

And as I write this, I'm aware that supporters of this creepy movement will hurl insults at me. But I don't care - I live in a democracy and I too have the right to air my views. Meanwhile, please donate your old civics textbooks to India against Corruption. The poor things haven't a clue about parliamentary democracy, tsk.

Great-Grandson of Godawful Poetry Fortnight

2011-08-08T21:53:00.000-07:00

http://zigzackly.blogspot.com/2011/08/great-grandson-of-godawful-poetry.html

(Go to zigzackly.blogspot.com for the sordid details)
And now (after I clear my throat) my humble contribution for 2011:

Cockroaches to the left of me, cockroaches to the right,
My blood it froze like popsicles at such a fearsome sight.
“Oh Romeo, Romeo wherefore art thou,”
I screamed like Bianca Castafiore in my fright.
The sod was dive-bombing angry birds, and ignored my plight.

How not to turn a Bloody Mary into a Bloody Mess

2011-08-02T05:00:00.000-07:00

Rule no. 1: Stay calm - I learnt this the hard way.
My hands were trembling with so much excitement as I prepared the mix, so inadvertently half a bottle of Worcestershire sauce sloshed into it. What I'm drinking now is not Bloody Mary. And, interestingly, not exactly a Bloody Mess either. I call it a Wooster Booster. It has its charms.

Hell & damnation!

2011-08-01T07:38:00.000-07:00

Changed my hotmail user id to gmail on the blog and now it says that my 2008 blog began today and my profile data et cetera have vanished! Really annoying. Fortunately the dates on all my posts remain the same, whew. Sometimes, just sometimes, I hate technology.

Delhi Belly rules!

2011-07-08T21:54:00.000-07:00

Everyone who knows me knows that I have a gag reflex when it comes to Bollywood. I'd much rather have my toe nails pulled out, thank you very much. And everyone's given up on me apart from my husband. He accuses me of being an incurable snob (I'm not a snob really, I just have a different sensibility) and insists that I get a dose of popular culture every now and then. Thrice a year, is what I've reluctantly allowed him (marriage is about making compromises, innit?). Of course, I've NEVER forgiven him for dragging me to see that weird Dil Chahta Hai, which, critics raved, was a turning point in Indian cinema. I thought it was puerile, dishonest, lame, and wannabe cool. Hell, it still had that dreadful Bollywood sensibility - the first half of the movie was upbeat, the second half everyone was beating their breasts and weeping. Ew.

Admittedly, there are a few Bollywood flicks I rather liked in the recent past: Omkara, Welcome To Sajjanpur, Peepli Live and Love, Sex aur Dhoka. I walked out halfway through the first Munnabhai flick when the breast beating and mournful violins began - but I enjoyed the second Munnabhai movie - perhaps because Raju Hirani dumped that annoying half-half formula here. That's just five movies over a decade.

Naturally, I didn't want to see Delhi Belly. Particularly since critics were raving, once again, that it's a (yawn) turning point in Indian cinema. I was dragged, nonetheless, by a very determined husband and holy shit - I absolutely loved it! I loved EVERYTHING about it. Yes, it's gross and outrageous but it's also side-splittingly hilarious and so intelligently put together. Some of the scenes are amazingly memorable, I have a feeling I'll still be giggling over them in the years to come. The bread stick and paper bag scene is one of my favourites. And as for the profanity that's got many people pursing their lips grimly, I think I should quote my brother-in-law here, "The language in the film took me back to college. It all came back, the imagery and stuff. Shit we were so creative!"

The script writer (Akshat Varma) and the director (Abhinay Deo) did a fantastic job, the casting was superb, and now perhaps I won't let out a squeak when I'm forced to see a Bollywood flick again. But I'll only go if it's a collaborative effort between Akshat Varma and Abhinay Deo - what can I say? They've set the bar so high, it's going to be a tough act to follow. And why should I settle for less?

Baba Black Money

2011-07-03T21:51:00.000-07:00

ANGST IN MY PANTS
(Published in Hardnews, July 2011)

A couple of months ago I earnestly wrote in this very magazine that I support Anna Hazare’s ‘India against Corruption’ movement. I take it back, and I have sent them a terse letter withdrawing my support. I’m not fickle by nature, but a rather peculiar man called Baba Ramdev made me see the light. He decided that he wanted to go on a fast against corruption as well, and who can blame him because fasting has become terribly fashionable in India these days.

For all those who were in a coma while Baba Ramdev went on a fast and trended on Twitter, here’s a brief bio:
Baba Ramdev is a TV actor who plays a shirtless yoga guru (sort of like a Bollywood hero in saffron robes) and promises his fans that he has a cure for cancer, homosexuality, blood pressure and oh my god practically everything apart from tennis elbow. I’d like to underline the fact that he has never ever mentioned tennis elbow - we absolutely must congratulate him for that admirable show of restraint. However, never forget that he’s just a TV actor, okay? Come on, he couldn’t control his own blood pressure after fasting for a few days. Even worse, he couldn’t continue his fast for more than eight days, for shame. This is shocking in a nation that has grown up seeing pictures of meditating Sadhus covered in gigantic anthills in Amar Chitra Katha comics. We now know that believing in Baba Ramdev’s yoga is as foolish as believing in Santa (Claus, not Singh).

Baba Ramdev is also a great comedian who specialises in spoofs. Instead of a solemn fast-unto-death, he delivered a hilarious farce-unto-death by raising completely ridiculous demands and acting like a buffoon. After this, I don’t imagine anyone in the country will take fasts seriously. I certainly won’t, and if Anna Hazare does carry out his threat of going on yet another fast in August, I may be tempted to call Domino’s and get piping hot pizzas delivered to him every hour on the hour. Just to remind him that there’s a large part of civil society that does not believe in blackmail. I’d urge Anna Hazare to try dialogue instead and stop behaving like an annoying diva.

But back to Baba Ramdev. Far from being a calm and spiritual person, Baba Ramdev is shockingly bloodthirsty. He believes that naughty people should get the death sentence instead of being served bread and water in jail for the rest of their sorry lives. Death by hanging is what he recommends, with a maniacal gleam in his eyes. It’s not surprising then that some of his friends include nasty people who destroy masjids and instigate communal riots that stain India’s streets with blood. His friends were there of course, cheering Baba Ramdev on when he refused to eat. That’s when I stopped laughing at Baba Ramdev’s antics and started weeping for India. Oddly enough, the sight of the saffron-clad Taliban at Delhi’s Ram Leela grounds evidently didn’t upset Anna Hazare and his gang as much as it upset me.

To be fair though, Baba Ramdev does have a softer, more feminine side. Sometimes he likes to dress like a girl and is extremely partial to pretty pink salwar kameezes. That’s perhaps why four senior UPA leaders were so eager to pick him up from the airport and begged him to spend quality time with them at posh hotels. Sorry, but I can think of no other explanation for their strange behaviour. Oh, and I guess we can safely assume that Baba Ramdev can’t cure cross-dressing either.

Finally, I’d like to remind you that while Baba Ramdev may have lost hundreds of yoga fans, he’s won thousands of saffron fans who more than make up for that loss. I’m dead certain his fan mail will continue to give Indian postmen severe back-aches. I may as well confess that I’m a huge fan of Baba Ramdev too. This man will go down in the history of modern India as a hero because he showed us how dangerous fasting as a blackmail tool can be. Not just for the health of the individual but the health of the nation.

No Reality in Realty.

2011-06-30T05:44:00.000-07:00

ANGST IN MY PANTS
(Published in Hardnews in Dec 2009 or Jan 2010. Can't remember which.)

Over the last few years, I’ve spotted more grimy cement mixers than posh Mercs and BMWs on the streets of Mumbai. The majority of the advertisements in leading dailies are from builders, promising ridiculously extravagant, never-experienced-before luxury and flamboyant amenities not just in metros but in small town India as well. Realty professionals seem to have completely lost touch with reality.

I thought I’d talk to a few builders to find out what the near future would be like for real estate in India. Excerpts from a few meetings are given below – I could not reproduce them in entirety because Hardnews is a respectable family magazine. Incidentally, the names of the builders have not been revealed to protect myself from brutal murder. I’m not taking chances - hello, I have a fair idea who their real partners and/or promoters are!

Prediction No. 1: 5-star hotels are going to look like shabby municipal playgrounds compared to Mumbai’s plush new building complexes.
(In conversation with Mr. A)

Me: These days a lot of builders, including you, are offering private swimming pools in every apartment.

Mr. A nodded, looking smug. I caught him admiring his reflection on his laptop screen.

Me: Why swimming pools? There’s a desperate water shortage in the city, with 15 to 30% cuts. Even 5-star hotels and malls haven’t been spared anymore.

Mr A: (Impatiently) So what’s your point, Madam?

Me: Those people who buy apartments with swimming pools, well, what on earth are they going to fill them with? Champagne?

Mr. A: (Bristling). Well, if they can afford to buy my fancy flats they can afford to splurge on truckloads of champagne as well!

Suddenly, Mr. A’s frown vanished. He broke into a wide grin and whacked an old-fashioned bell on his desk. A tie-clad flunky appeared within seconds.

Mr. A: Rao, tell the advertising agency to add ‘Private plunge pools filled with wildly expensive champagne’ in the advertisements. Not Indian made sparkling vinegar mind you, but the real thing from France, got it? Tell those lazy copywriters to browse the Internet and put the name of some expensive brand like Dom Perignon or something equally swanky.

The flunky let out a low whistle. His eyes were filled with admiration for Mr. A. ‘Sir,’ he gushed, ‘that will give us such a wonderful edge over the competition!’
Mr. A nodded, and rubbed his hands with glee. He turned to me with softer, gentler eyes, this time.

Mr. A: Next question, Madam?

Me: (Gasping) Do you have any idea how much one bottle, just one bottle of Dom Perignon costs? You’ll need about a trillion bottles to fill each darn pool. This is ridiculous! If I know anything about you builders, you’ll probably get some cheap white wine produced by some big shot politician who owns acres of vineyards. That way, he’ll be eternally grateful to you and you’ll get away with murder!

Mr. A didn’t bother to reply. He was enthusiastically summoning the tie-clad flunky by whacking the old-fashioned bell with great force again. His eyes were gleaming. I’m certain now that even if his children recklessly kill policemen while driving under the influence, they will spend more time partying out on bail than repenting in jail!

Prediction No. 2: The sales of Roget’s Thesaurus will go through the roof in India.
(In conversation with Mr. B)

Me: India’s builders have already pinched all the lovely words 5-star hotels and resorts use like serene, tranquil, plush, refined, sophisticated, distinguished, indulgent, luxurious, extravagant, well-appointed - (I paused here to catch my breath).

Mr. B: (Stifling a yawn). You’ve left out under-stated, ambience, privileged, senses, opulence, gold-standard, platinum-standard, world-class, regal, royal et cetera et cetera.

Me: Gosh, thanks. Okay, look, these words have been so shamelessly overused we don’t react to them anymore; they’re like a blind spot. How are you going to make us sit up and gasp with wonder in 2010?

Mr. B: (Stifling another yawn) Arrey, no problem, Madam. What is Rajat’s Thesaurus there for?

Me: (Thinking to myself: should I tell him all the synonyms have been used? Or should I let Dr. Peter Mark Roget’s royalty-receiving descendants enter the Forbes list of the richest people in the world?) Indeed. What is Rajat’s Thesaurus there for!

Prediction No. 3: Indian brides will be reduced to wearing imitation jewellery on the most special day of their lives – the price of gold will hit scary, inaccessible new heights.
In conversation with Mr. C, the most polished builder I’ve met so far. I mean, never once did he say, ‘Chad yaar,’ or utter crude alphabets like M,C,B & C during the interview.

Me: (Eyeing the brochure of Mr. C’s latest residential project, Silver Acres, with reverential awe. Heck, the cover is made of sterling silver – I can melt it and wear it!). So do you have any new projects coming up?

Mr. C: (Genially) Of course, of course. Six more in the pipeline, to begin with.

Me: (Suppressing a groan) Will they be for normal people like me or for the really, really, obscenely wealthy lot?

Mr. C: (Dismissing me as an eejit) For the really, really, really, really, really, obscenely wealthy lot, of course! I don’t believe in resting on my laurels. After Silver Acres, I have to attain new heights, right?

Me: You mean, like, Gold Acres and so on and so forth?

Mr. C: Absolutely!

Me: (Sarcastically) So your brochure cover for Gold Acres will be made of gold, I assume?

Mr. C: (Without blinking) 24-carat, sweetheart!

Me: (Not giving in without a fight) Correct me if I’m wrong, but after you’re done with gold and platinum, you still have 4 projects left to name?

Mr. C: That’s right.

Me: I hate to give you sleepless nights, but what astronomically priced metals are you going to name the remaining four projects with? After platinum, what?

Mr C: (Without blinking an eyelid) No problem, sweetheart. Faux French and Italian words are as up-market as expensive metals. Add a ‘la’ or a ‘beau’ or some fancy –sounding rubbish and you’ve got the public salivating.

Me: (Resolutely unconvinced) Give me an example.

Mr. C: (Doing a great imitation of Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau) How about this: Le Beau Laitue.

Me: Wow! What was that?

Mr. C: (Looking excessively pleased with himself) The Good Lettuce. Sounds a little more posh than Platinum Acres, right? And who knows and who cares what it really means in English.

Me: (Challenging him) Okay, so what will your brochure cover be made of, then? Lettuce leaves?

Mr. C: Now then, don’t be silly. I’d go with the colour, of course. Emerald or jade, perhaps.

Prediction No. 4: Skyscrapers will be old hat. Master plans will be on the anvil to create colossal Sky Impalers instead.
(In conversation with Mr. D.)

Me: (Trying hard not to giggle) I believe you’ve got a tiny, handkerchief-sized plot of land for your new project.

Mr. D: (Taking offence) It’s not tiny at all, Madam. Each apartment will be 3000 square feet.

Me: (Incredulously) How is that possible? According to the report, with the tiny space you’ve got, you can just about accommodate one 1000 square foot flat on each floor.

Mr. D: (Sniffily) So what? We must learn to be creative about space. First of all, I’m not selling down-market apartments - I’m selling villas! And each villa in my building will be an exclusive 3000 square foot triplex.

Me: (Silent, because I’ve got my comeuppance)

Mr. D: (Warming up to his triplex villa scheme) My building is going to be at least 400 storeys tall. It’s going to make Burj Dubai and Taipei 101 look like Snow White’s dwarfs!

Me: (Horrified) You can’t do that – what about planes?

Mr. D: (Disinterestedly) Planes can jolly well fly higher.

Me: What if they can’t fly higher – physics has to come into this, isn’t it?

Mr. D: (Playing a game on a hideous ivory and gold cellphone) Then people will just have to travel by spaceship.

Prediction No. 5: IT organisations will have branches in practically every building complex in India.
(In conversation with Mr. E)
Me: Your ad says IT professionals who buy apartments in your project can walk to work in about 5 minutes.
Mr. E: Yes, they can.
Me: (Scoffing) Are you telling me that all the IT companies on Planet Earth are a hop, skip and jump away from your 12 acre building complex?
Mr. E: (Icily) Most of them, yes.
Me: (With a hint of a sneer) Name them!
Mr. E: Infosys and TCS.
Me: And?
Mr. E: (Defiantly) And Infosys and TCS.
Me: Thought as much! So people who work at Wipro, Cognizant, Accenture, Satyam, HCL or Polaris, will have to live elsewhere then, I guess.
Mr. E: (Stubbornly) They could always join Infosys or TCS instead, if they know what’s good for them!

Pritish Nandy vs Unbeloved Husband

2011-06-29T21:42:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, Pritish Nandy wrote a rather insightful piece on fear in TOI. What he said (briefly) is that one man’s fear of creepy crawlies can induce the same gut-wrenching, heart-stopping anxiety as another man’s fear of say, rejection/failure/whatever. I appreciated it deeply because he understood that my anxiety over roaches/lizards/rats et cetera is not to be scoffed at. And particularly not with that idiotic testosterony line, “Stop acting idiotic, they’re smaller than you.” Good to know that not all men believe size matters.

And then last night I spotted a baby lizard in the bedroom. Baby lizards are worse than adult lizards because they’re horribly bouncy and leap all over the place in a frenzied manner. Sometimes (shudder) they also leap on you. Unbeloved husband ignored my piercing screams of terror – and the sod cannot be excused because Federer had already lost the match. Hell, I could have been murdered for all he cared. By the time he reluctantly got to the room the lizard had ducked for cover and that was that. He didn’t look remotely sorry (unbeloved husband, not the lizard) and raced back to watch more mindless crap on the telly. I was FORCED to spend the night in a room with a lizard, imagining its beady eyes staring at me while wondering if my toes tasted as good as moths. Had to pop an extra strong sleeping tablet to get through the damn night.

The morning after, my head hurts, my eyes are burning, my heart is still pounding dangerously, I have low grade fever and I’m seriously contemplating calling a divorce lawyer. After I call Pest Control India, of course – still waiting for their office to open. The lizard is more important than my sodding marriage. Thereafter, I shall figure out some way to punish unbeloved husband for his unsympathetic response to my trauma. Something that will hurt him even more than a smashed television set.

Not gushing over Mamata Banerjee - not yet!

2011-05-15T23:57:00.000-07:00

Not everyone in West Bengal is thrilled that Mamata Banerjee has emerged as the Red Dragon slayer. Some of us find her hugely annoying and pretty much worthless when you consider that she did sweet f-all as Union Railways Minister. However, I'm really really glad that the Left was humiliated, and I'm willing to keep my cynicism in check and give her a chance to prove my misgivings wrong. I re-read an article I'd written in 2007 for Hardnews post Nandigram, and felt a little better about Mamatadi thereafter. 2007 article pasted below:

The shocking Nandigram massacre triggered memories of Arindam (name changed), a dreamy-eyed member of the All Bengal Students Association (ABSA). Arindam and his gang burst into a terrifically boring lecture on Old English poetry and demanded 10 minutes. The professor wearily consented and Arindam took centre-stage in an officious manner. He informed us in thunderous tones that ABSA had not been responsible for the soda-bottle bombs a few days earlier and really, people should stop giving them a bad name because they were working for the people, see? His fiery speech woke me up; it was more riveting than the professor’s lacklustre recitation of Beowulf. Truth is, at that exact moment in time, I’d have even found Chairman Mao’s ‘Let a hundred flowers bloom, let a hundred schools of thought contend’ speech way more inspirational than ‘Grendel gongan, Godes yrre bær’ (yup, those are real Old English words, not gobbledegook). And my god, Arindam’s passion almost wiped the ‘Yeah, right!’ smirk off my face. Fascinated, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Mid-way through his oration, he caught my gaze and looked deep into my eyes. A cynic and an idealist had made a connection.

To the amusement of my filthy capitalist pig friends and the absolute horror of his red cronies, Arindam developed a crush on me. Sadly, it was a case of unrequited love. While I truly admired his passion for Lenin, I personally preferred Lennon, so it could never be. But we exchanged smiles and pleasantries when we chanced upon each other in college. The connection ended when he invited me out for a dirty weekend with the most original pick-up line I’ve heard yet: ‘Come with me to the village to educate the peasants.’ A soda-bottle bomb went off in my head when he said ‘educate the peasants’. Sorry, I don’t do brain-washes. I’m not that kind of girl.

Which brings me back to Nandigram. At the risk of annoying People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA), I have to say this: I would have more respect for the CPM if they did elitist things like pheasant shooting instead of peasant shooting. Ironically, it took a Mamta Bannerji, a non-commie at that, to protect the people from the people’s party. For shame!

I’m no Luddite, but while Special Economic Zones (SEZs) may be great way to develop industry and accelerate India’s economic growth, they should not be implemented until the government comes up with a solid plan to minimise the inevitable human after-shocks. And an equally strong plan to drastically increase productivity in the leftover arable land. I’m terribly worried that with so much agricultural land going away, we’ll have nothing to eat! As a precautionary measure, I’ve decided to uproot my decorative potted ferns and replace them with wheat. And I guess I’ll have to germinate kidney beans on cotton wool like they taught us in junior biology class, for protein.

Till then, I think we should come up with other ways to develop the economy. After the success of the hurly-burly Arun-Liz wedding celebrations in Rajasthan, wedding tourism would be a good idea. We can even create a special package for Big Brother contestant Jade Goody in an honest to goodness slum, she really deserves it. Sure, an influx of wedding tourists may cause traffic jams and odd protests from the odd person or two, but I’m fairly certain that no human being will be harmed in the process. I’m not too sure about the pheasants though; I leave it to animal rights groups to save them from the big fat Indian wedding tandoor.

Marriage means worrying about the person who gets left behind

2011-05-15T10:21:00.000-07:00

Every so often, Dad calls to reassure himself that we will look after Mum when he goes to that creepy place in the sky. And every so often, Mum calls as well to make sure that Dad will be taken care of when she goes to that creepy place in the sky - we have even been given the names of his vitamins. Erm, in all fairness, Dad has absolutely no clue what vitamins Mum takes, so we cannot foolishly assume that he loves her less.

And I worry about Beloved Husband too. Hope he still has a sense of humour - enough to charm some woman into living with him who lovingly ensures that he takes his tablets and scrubs his piggy filthy feet before he goes to bed after I join my cadaverous ancestors. Which could be as soon as tomorrow (she said in a gloomy voice). Have been listening to Pink Floyd in a fit of teen nostalgia and I know for sure that I'm "Shorter of breath and one day closer to death." Also that "One day you'll find, ten years have got behind you, no one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun" - or some such deep shit about the meaninglessness of life. All this has hit home a little harder because a friend's wife has been rushed for a brain tumour surgery and he's a gabbling mess.

Fortunately, I played The Who soon after, and am feeling decidedly exuberant (they always make me feel upbeat about life).

Recent Prozac moments across the world

2011-05-02T02:52:00.000-07:00

Tunisia and Egypt sent dictators packing. India won the cricket world cup. The UK celebrated a royal wedding - and for a change both the bride and the groom weren't hideously ugly. And today the US announced the death of Osama bin Laden in a secret operation. All terrific flag-waving, national anthem-singing, beer-guzzling moments.

I don't think anyone in India was remotely astonished that Osama bin Laden wasn't found in a dark dank cave doodling mountain goats on the walls to alleviate over 9 years of boredom. We KNEW he'd be living in the lap of luxury in Pakistan, possibly in the ISI chief's guest bedroom getting foot massages daily. We weren't far wrong were we, considering that he was discovered in a posh neighbourhood with retired Pakistan army generals as neighbours. Personally, I don't believe that those retired generals were blind.

So Pakistan can holler as much as they want about their being part of the Kill Osama operation. Like hell Indians believe them. My theories:

a)Pakistan is shrieking that they were part of this operation as a face saving measure.

b) Pakistan was desperate for even more dollars. Perhaps the ISI chief's children/grand children need to study in the US? The fees are shockingly stupendous.

c) Osama died a natural death, so the greedy things handed his now useless dead body over for cash.

d) He's alive and still getting foot massages in the ISI chief's guest bedroom - possibly wolfing down biryani and kebabs as well to celebrate his 'death'. The entire operation was staged. Hey, the US needed to do something to gracefully exit Afghanistan and make its citizens feel happy. Or else explain the secret burial at sea! But we'll never know, will we? Wikileaks can't tell us anything about it because US diplomats have become a little more cautious about how they exchange information with each other these days.

Oh well. US President Obama can graciously say that it wouldn't have been possible without Pakistan's co-operation for all I care. He HAS to, because he still needs their help. He can fool practically everyone in the world into believing that the worm has turned. Except Indians. Heck, even if it's true, we wouldn't, couldn't believe it. We understand Pakistan better than America can.

And now I'm feeling very very very sorry for all those virgins in paradise. Osama was not exactly a hottie.

Voldemort lives in Maharashtra, India

2011-03-25T10:08:00.000-07:00

The media is evidently petrified of NCP leader Sharad Pawar. When scams surface every two seconds and it's glaringly obvious (even to my dog) who is behind them, 'He Who Must Not Be Named' is coyly referred to as 'Senior Maharashtra Politicians'. The use of the plural is a polite way of referring to his size. After all, our local Voldemort takes up two airline seats, remember? Plush generously sized Business Class seats at that!

Fair & Lovely aka India's Snow White

2011-03-13T21:40:00.000-07:00

Written for and posted in unboxedwriters.com
http://unboxedwriters.com/2011/03/fair-lovely-aka-india%e2%80%99s-snow-white/

(And pasted below as well)

Once upon a time, in a sleepy little kingdom in the Deccan plateau, lived a tall, dark and average looking King, his dusky Queen and 365 concubines (one for each day of the year). This arrangement worked rather well because the Deccan Queen complained of headaches every night and claimed that her European doctor had advised complete single-bed rest. So the King and Queen happily went their own way, till disaster struck one day. The Queen was pregnant.

Now let’s establish some vitally important facts. The Queen wasn’t tall. Nor was she fair. Or even homely. And the less said about her tea-making and sitar-playing skills, the better. But she was ‘convent educated’. And it was this education that helped her to convince the King that it was Immaculate Conception. Since the King himself had gone to a Catholic day school instead of a posh boarding school for Indian princes, he bought the argument. And invited three wise men from the Vatican and the press from the Western world to witness the Second Coming.

The day dawned bright and clear. The King and Queen huffed and puffed out their natural birth lessons. When suddenly, a shrill cry rent the air. It was the King, who, thanks to his vantage point, first saw the baby’s head emerging from the womb. It was covered with tight blonde curls. And its eyes were emerald green.

Admittedly, the King had failed his Chartered Accountancy exams seven years in a row. But he could put two and two together: The European doctor had abruptly left the country nine months ago + he had tight blonde curls and emerald green eyes = Adultery.

The Queen was beheaded. And the baby was called Fair & Lovely. The King couldn’t bear to look at the Queen’s love child and packed her off to boarding school before she could say Papa. The courtiers tut-tutted and said that if the baby had been a boy, perhaps, but well, in his place they’d probably do the same thing.

The King remarried a fair skinned Anglo-Indian with English, Portuguese and Dutch blood flowing in her veins. Of course, she also had her fair share of Tamilian blood, but she kept that a dark secret.

She bore him a son and made him very happy. She was reasonably happy too, till Fair & Lovely returned at sweet 16 from boarding school. The cold mountain air had whipped up a gentle blush in her cheeks. Her blonde curls glittered in the sun. And her green eyes made the Step Queen turn green with envy. What really got to her, however, was the fact that it was whispered that her skin was at least three shades darker than Fair & Lovely’s.

‘Mirror, Mirror on the Wall,’ she screeched, ‘Who’s the fairest of them all?’ The mirror gulped and stuttered a reply. ‘I cannot tell a lie, it’s Fair & Lovely.’ The Step Queen turned purple with rage. She called Chota Elaichi in Dubai and agreed to pay him a king’s ransom (well, actually, the princess’s dowry) to do away with Fair & Lovely.

One dark evening, Chota Elaichi’s hoods arrived at the palace gardens and kidnapped Fair & Lovely. Unfortunately for the Step Queen, there was a shoot out with a rival mafia gang in the concrete jungle outside the palace and Fair & Lovely managed to escape. While fleeing, she sought refuge in the house of seven Sherpas who willingly took her in because their last maid hadn’t yet returned from a day’s leave six month’s ago. So she cleaned and cooked fancy meals for them and in return got a pittance as salary and free accomodation.

Meanwhile, the Step Queen had got a new consignment of Jolen bleach, sun screen with 50 SPF and a range of skin lightening creams from her smuggler sources. After taking the prescribed seven-day fairness course, she decided to consult her mirror for the latest beauty update. Once again, the answer was Fair & Lovely. She turned purple with rage yet again. And jetted her way to Dubai to confront Chota Elaichi. After getting her money back (with interest), she hatched a plot to get rid of Fair & Lovely herself.

She filled a vacuum cleaner with pest control spray, disguised herself as a door to door salesman and knocked at Fair & Lovely’s door. ‘Try this, Meddem,’ she said, ‘It sure takes the aches and pains out of a broom.’ Saying thus, she switched it on and accidentally knocked off her false spectacles, nose and moustache. Fair & Lovely exclaimed, “Why Step Mama…” but she was cut short by the noxious pest control spray. The Step Queen watched with glee as Fair & Lovely writhed on the floor convulsively, coughing and choking. And when, after a final twitch she lay prone, the Step Queen cackled and let herself out.

To say that the Sherpas were dismayed when they saw her lying on the floor would be the understatement of the century. She was a model maid. No salary. No leave. No demands. She even cleaned the ceiling fans without being asked. The best part was, she didn’t pinch their razors to shave her legs.

Sadly, they placed her body in a glass casket and put it in the garden as a lawn decoration piece. They stood back to admire it and were fairly pleased with the effect. Indeed, it looked far better than hedges shaped like giraffes and lions. They wrote to Better Homes & Gardens and a photographer, Raj Kumar, was sent forthwith to cover their new garden ornament for the magazine’s next issue.

The photographer instantly fell in love with Fair & Lovely’s high cheek bones. He opened the casket to take a closer peek, when a whiff of his strong cinnamon scented after-shave jolted Fair & Lovely awake. She opened her emerald eyes, thought she was in heaven and he was god. Needless to say, they got married and she worshipped him till she discovered that he spent quality time surfing the net for porn. After that, she treated him like an equal, which worked out much better for both of them.

As for the King and the Step Queen, they lost all their money at the races and put the palace up for sale. Fair & Lovely and Raj Kumar bought it with a housing loan and turned it into a 3 star hotel with hot and cold running water. They hired the 7 Sherpas as hotel staff and they all lived happily ever after.

Moral: Don’t bother to fret over the colour of skin- remember it’s the dark horses who always win!

God, what fools some mortals be!

2011-03-08T22:43:00.000-08:00

Was part of a panel discussion yesterday on how women are depicted in contemporary Indian (English) literature. Met a number of interesting women, some of whom I'd enjoy spending time with - and one insufferably pretentious woman I'd enjoy sparring with. She contemptuously trashed chick lit - not just the genre but the writers as well: "All of them write badly", she sneered. The poor judgemental dear probably also believes that all men beat their wives, all Muslims are terrorists, all Punjabis do the bhangra, etc. What do you say to foolish people like that?

Didn't have the heart to tell her that I'd struggled to read a rambling piece of fluffy rubbish she'd written a few days ago. Even bad chick lit writers are more engaging than this wannabe intellectual can ever be. And thank heavens for that!

Why are distressingly earnest people not offered euthanasia?

2011-03-08T09:17:00.000-08:00

Why?

A Simple Desultory Memoir

2011-03-04T01:24:00.000-08:00

(Published in 2009 in the Bandra festival mag)

Much as I shrink from opening sentences with the pompous ‘Contrary to popular belief’ cliché, I have no choice but to give in here. So, contrary to popular belief, I never heard the cheerful Birdie song even once during the year I lived in Bandra. Heck, I didn’t even hear Eric Clapton’s Wonderful Tonight. I’m still in deep shock. Why weren’t the stereo players in the Catholic neighbourhood spinning stereotypes? Had the world changed so drastically when I wasn’t looking?

Oddly, it’s Simon & Garfunkel who always come to mind when I think back (fondly, of course) on my days as a ‘Bandra bugger’. I like to believe that I stumbled upon the inspiration for 7 O'Clock News / Silent Night in a leafy lane one evening. Christmas was round the corner, and choir singers were enthusiastically giving nightingales a terrible complex in one of the buildings on St. Cyril Road. A listless chauffeur in a car parked below was dreaming of dinner while listening to the Hindi news. The swell of the choir, the crackle of the radio and a staccato voice urgently delivering grim news, ooooh. It gave new life to a tired old phrase: Art Garfunkel imitates life. (Sorry Paul, deeply regret that I couldn’t fit you in).

Every bit as precious as the snatch of music I’ve waxed eloquently on above, is a snippet of conversation I overheard on another of my evening perambulations in the neighbourhood: an irate father sternly threatening his downcast son that he’d give him ‘good pasting’ when they got home. I struggled to contain the insane urge to hurl myself into the irate father’s hirsute arms. While that remark didn’t quite make up for the Birdie song, it reassured me that the good old Bandra was still there - somewhere.

Those experiences go into my crammed memory chest, along with my first meeting with Ernest Fernandes - who, incidentally, does not live up to his name, hallelujah. Mr. Fernandes was mine host in a charming Catholic quarter of Bandra, strategically situated within walking distance of Hearsch, Café Andora, Candies and Mac Craig – a prime location for incorrigible snackers like myself. We eyed each other wearily and warily as I entered his house. I’d seen about 50,896 unsuitable apartments in Bandra, he must have met an equal number of unsuitable prospective tenants, and really, we weren’t in the mood to have a cosy chat about life, the universe and everything. But God, as always, has other plans, and that’s exactly what we found ourselves engrossed in while the broker glanced frequently at her watch. She wasn’t doing it surreptitiously either, but I ignored the hint. It’s not every day that you enjoy stimulating conversations with complete strangers, after all.

What did we talk about? Mr. Fernandes’s karmic fear of being caught in dark alleys by vengeful copywriters he’d gleefully tortured during his marketing career. Wives of the stung copywriters would tearfully plead with their children to pay attention to Messrs Wren & Martin and Strunk & White or else that dreadful Mr. Fernandes would box their ears when they grew up. Legends get around and he was justifiably wary when it came to light that I happened to be a (shudder) copywriter too. I warmly assured Mr. Fernandes that I don’t carry nail files in my handbag, leave alone steak knives.

The conversation lazily drifted to the habits of nuns (my lips are primly sealed), and a book I’d just reviewed: Nalini Jones’s What They Call Winter. When Mr. Fernandes knowledgably informed me that the fictional Santa Clara in her book was based on this very area, and that her ancestral home was spitting distance away, those were not goose bumps I experienced, but goose hills. My inner Hindu surfaced and threw some soul-stirring questions at me: Was it the spirit of one of Nalini Jones’s ancestors who led me to this lovely house as thanks for the glowing review? And, more importantly, was it a Casper the Friendly Neighbourhood Ghost sort of spirit or more like something in The Exorcist?

Chez Nous (Our Home) - that was the name of well, our home in Bandra. It went down a treat with our Bordeaux and Brie friends, but it didn’t go down at all with many others. Picture this: it’s 3 am, a Meru cab is on its way to escort my drowsy husband to the airport, and the confused driver calls up - he’s been going round (and round and round and round and round) in circles looking for a building called Shaynu. He’s not exactly affable at this point – can’t blame him, can you? After dealing with that tedious issue, we brace ourselves for the next inevitable stumbling block: ‘Not Sant Squirrel Road, it’s Saint Cyril Road,’ we groan. Gosh, that was a terribly frustrating experience, but we giggled effervescently through it each time it happened. Admittedly, we laughed a lot that year.

When we eventually decided to a hunt for a home of our very own, we were extremely picky and choosy about certain things - for starters, we made darn well sure that even non-Alliance Française alumni could pronounce the name without stumbling. I have to wryly confess though, that when Meru cabbies come calling these days, it isn’t as much fun anymore. Sigh. Fortunately, Bandra is walking distance away, and if you see a shadowy figure lurking pensively around St. Cyril Road every now and then, please don’t give me good pasting - I’m just waiting to hear the Birdie song.

Scowling Buddha

2011-03-01T02:01:00.000-08:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
(Published In The Bengal Post, 28th February 2011)

Do you really believe that Buddhadeb Bhattacharjee will emerge as the Laughing Buddha and that Mamata Banerjee’s high decibel banshee-like wails will be reduced to a piteous whimper after the results of West Bengal's assembly elections are declared? Do you also believe that little green men from Mars will take over Planet Earth?

Despite the fact that I’m not exactly crazy about Mamata Banerjee, I’m putting all the money in my piggy-bank on the Trinamool Party. I’m trying very hard to forget that once upon a time she did a stint in the communal BJP – hey, we all make terribly embarrassing mistakes. I’m also consoling myself with the fact that I thoroughly enjoy her wacko conspiracy theories, and I’m hoping that her team is relatively less cynical than members of the ruling Left and pretty much raring to go. Finally, in keeping with the spirit that’s sweeping across the Middle East and parts of Africa, leaders who do not deliver much apart from misery deserve to get lost.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder if life really will be very different in West Bengal if Mamata’s Trinamool party wins? Consider the recent happenings in Barasat. I’ve been clucking so much since then, I sound like a hysterical hen. It began with the attempted molestation of poor Rinku Das and the murder of her brother Rajib. The apathetic cops and security guards she sobbingly appealed to in the vicinity could have saved him but hell, why bother? Come on, everyone knows that they’re not paid to work!

Typically the next day, members of practically every single political party rushed to the grieving family and offered condolences, money, jobs, flowers, cigars, a life time supply of cornflakes, whatever. The resourceful Trinamool party even offered a hearse and sweetly decorated Rajib’s stretcher with their colourful party flags. Good heavens - what a macabre way to get God’s blessings for the elections! A family friend, horrified at this crass display of political opportunism, tried to remove the flags on the stretcher. Upon which, a Trinamool party member (who is evidently an ardent fan of the Tom & Jerry School of Slapstick Violence) hit him repeatedly with a flagstick. Such a delightful playful chap, isn’t he? Oooh, I’m quite looking forward to the Trinamool ruling West Bengal – my nephews and nieces will love watching their hilarious antics on TV!

What I found most endearing though, was what local Trinamool MP Kakoli Ghosh Dastidar earnestly told Rinku as she tenderly patted her hand: “Why didn't you call me that night? Everyone has my number.” I silently wiped away a tear from my eye when I read that. What an absolutely wonderful, generous spirited woman, giving out her phone number to all the people in her constituency, is what I thought. Even my friendly neighbourhood doctor whom I’ve known since I was this high isn’t as forthcoming with his cell-phone number.

I was truly inspired to write a long flowing poem dedicated to Kakoli Ghosh Dastidar – a worthy successor to West Bengal’s warm-hearted Mother Teresa. It’s just as well that I never got around to it because a few days later, I did my alarmed hen imitation again when I read that a female constable was threatened, verbally abused and almost molested in Barasat about a kilometre away from the spot where Rinku was attacked. It was her fault entirely. The foolish woman had dared to stop Mamata Banerjee’s supporters (on their way to a big fat huge Trinamool rally) to make way for an ambulance. Imagine, she tried to save a life while Mamata was drumming up support – how naive.

What really upset me though was the shattering realisation that this cop was yet another person in Barasat who didn’t have Kakoli Ghosh Dastidar’s phone number! I must warn her that the people she hired to hand out her phone number did not do the job! The poor thing will be terribly disappointed – I feel her pain. I tried to find it on google but oddly enough, all I came up with was a telefax number. Not very helpful in an emergency, is it? But I shall not give up my search.
\
So you see, even a hard-boiled cynic like me is pretty impressed with Mamata’s gang. Look at it this way, West Bengal is already in such a mess, nobody can possibly make it worse.

Following Twits

2011-02-02T02:12:00.000-08:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
(Published in The Bengal Post, 1st February 2011)

When I read in the newspapers that senior BJP leader Sushma Swaraj was on Twitter, I couldn’t stop myself from gasping, “There goes the neighbourhood!” And I’m ashamed to confess that barely a second later, I logged on to the internet and became her follower. See, I’ve been an ardent fan of Ms Swaraj ever since she was Union Health Minister during the NDA regime. Her take on condoms in the fight against AIDS delighted me. The sweet old puritanical lady virtuously said who needs condoms when abstinence and fidelity is better? If the NDA had stayed in power longer, I’m certain she’d have graciously handed out free chastity belts to every Indian citizen with a charming Princess Diana smile.

Anyway, now that I’m a follower, I do not have to read the comics section in the papers everyday for a giggle. Swaraj’s tweets on the BJPs needless Tiranga Yatra drama had me in splits. Particularly the indignant one she posted on Republic Day: “Is it not unfortunate that both Leaders of Opposition were in jail on Republic day?” Jail, my foot! We’re well aware that both Swaraj and Arun Jaitley were cosily secured in a hotel with access to room service, TV and possibly a wifi connection. Perhaps a swimming pool as well! Not exactly on the same level as Gandhiji’s austere jail stints during the freedom struggle. Oddly enough, Swaraj can’t tell the difference – the poor dear is not exactly bright, is she? Gosh, I do so enjoy foolish people – as long as they’re not in a position of power, of course.

Which is why I’m terribly distressed that the ruling scam-ridden Congress party has put us off, and the largest opposition party in India is tightly controlled by regressive, troublemaking Hindu fundamentalists. What hope is there for our future?

I fell into a troubled sleep last night and woke up screaming. I dreamt that beautiful, wonderful secular India had become a Hindu rashtra and fundamentalist crazies were heavily influencing government policies – just like they do in Pakistan. Most of the nightmare was hazy but I clearly remember being offered a tetrapack of cow’s urine instead of the usual orange juice by a smiling flight attendant on an aircraft. I also recall using the air-sickness bag immediately thereafter.

This got me thinking what if (god forbid) India really does become a Hindu rashtra? I’ve sketched out a brief scenario and I fear that Indian women will suffer the most:

1. Matrimonial ads for wannabe brides would change drastically – convent-educated would be a big no no. “Husband wanted for tall, fair, non-convent educated girl who can recite the Bhagwad Gita backwards if need be” would be the buzz phrase.

2. Indian women would most likely be size zero, because we’d be forced to fast for our current husbands or future husbands several days a week. Throw in walks to temples daily, frequent treks to steep hilly places like Vaishnav Devi, bending down to touch other peoples feet ever so often, and what’s the bet our abs would be as flat as ironing boards? Hey, all of us could easily take part in the bikini round of the Miss India beauty pagent! Sadly however, we probably won’t be allowed to wear bikinis. Or skinny jeans. Or skimpy lycra tops. Even worse, Sushma Swaraj would be India’s version of international supermodel Kate Moss.

3. The glam Page 3 sections of newspapers would feature modestly-clad socialites and Bollywood stars touching the feet of Sadhus or sipping room temperature cow urine in elegant champagne flutes. The more daring, of course, could wear skimpy strapless blouses and low slung sarees just like sultry heroines in Amar Chitra Katha comics.

4. Indian girls will not have cool international-sounding names like Anya, Tanya or Sanya anymore. Deep and meaningful names like Damayanti, Draupadi etc would be back in fashion.

5. Indian chick lit will not feature hilarious adventures of sassy single women in search of Mr. Right. The books will be collections of prayers to help find a good husband.

So what I’m saying is, please can a bunch of citizens across the nation get together and form another secular party? The job isn’t very demanding, you can have a criminal background – hey, that’s normal, you can earn lots of money under the table, and better still, India will remain reassuringly secular!

Cosmetic Changes

2011-01-19T00:46:00.000-08:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
(Published in The Bengal Post, 18th Jan 2011)

I absolutely love the beginning of a new year because there’s so much hope in the air. Not just for us personally, but for the country’s future as well. I’m sure politicians make New Year resolutions as well – some of them do reveal human traits, after all. I mean, look at all the lovely things they steal from us to give to their beloved children – that’s solid proof that at least they care deeply for a few citizens!

We’re still in January and I’m delighted to report that changes have already started happening. Take a look at just a few:

The RSS has virtuously declared that it will give up leather belts for synthetic ones to hold up their baggy khaki shorts. Sources say that the change follows reservations expressed by members of a certain community about the use of leather as it is made from animal skin. I, however, have always been suspicious of the fundamentalist RSS and its dubious motives. No matter what they may say, I firmly believe that the real reason for the belt switchover is to accommodate a loyal foot soldier’s expanding girth. BJP President Nitin Gadkari makes Santa Claus look pathetically under-nourished - only super-resilient elastic belts will do for him.

And while on the subject of weight, Bollywood star Kareena Kapoor may not be India’s Size Zero poster girl anymore. Rumour has it that Trinamool Congress chief Mamata Banerjee is running for the West Bengal assembly elections on a treadmill! All that huffing and puffing may well blow the ruling party away. I don’t blame her for wanting to look her best when she finally wrests power from the Left – so many wonderful photo opportunities as cover girl! I do have a few words of caution, though: I urge her to give up that strict diet she’s on or else she’ll be scowling furiously in all her photographs – hey, I know I would if I had to give up delicious mishti doi and fish. Now, if only she’d give the Indian Railways (a portfolio she aggressively fought to acquire in her capacity as union minister and thereafter studiously ignored) a badly needed makeover as well. For starters she could consult the same numerologist who advised her to add an extra alphabet to her name – yes, she now spells her name as Mamataa, sigh. Frankly, I don’t care if she re-names it Indiaan Railways or Indian Raailways as long as it runs without glitches! Bad spellings are more tolerable and forgivable than bad accidents.

And still on the subject of weight: India is increasingly becoming a desirable nation. Not just because it’s well on its way to becoming a heavyweight in the international political arena. With food prices shooting far north, we’re a nation of featherweights too. Indians today are as slender as wands with the freshest of fresh breath, untainted by stinky expensive onions and garlic – in short, we’re more attractive than we’ve ever been. Hollywood, here we come! And while I know that a lot of people secretly suspect that BJP president Nitin Gadkari has been hoarding our food supplies in his tummy (and who knows, they may be right), I think the ruling UPA can be equally blamed for this sorry state of affairs.

And finally, on to a ray of hope in the big bad world of politics. Political parties looking for fresh non-dynastic blood have reason to rejoice: a new talent has been recently discovered in India. A charming young man who goes by the name of Shivraj Puri swindled about 300 crore rupees from corporate houses and individuals while working as a relationship manager with Citibank. Pretty impressive, huh? He may eventually wind up in jail and I feel terribly sorry for him because the poor chap missed his true vocation in life. After he serves his sentence, I’m dead certain that the Congress, BJP and DMK will make desperate attempts to woo him. He may as well join one of them – that way he can continue to brazenly steal money from the public without fear of being banished to jail ever again. In my humble opinion, however, the BJP is his best option – they don’t even bother to sack corrupt party members. Take Karnataka Chief Minister Yeddyurappa, for example. He’s still there, smiling widely and cheerfully lining his deep pockets despite the shocking land scam expose.

Cheers to Colaba!

2011-01-19T00:42:00.001-08:00

(Published in The Bengal Post, 16th Jan 2011)

“What, no Kalyani Black Label? Bah! ” Those six little words were expostulated frequently during my early days in Bombay in the mid 1980s. Hey, I was a good Calcutta girl – you can’t blame me for desperately missing my favourite brand of beer! And god knows I needed my beer badly because I was in a new city, struggling to come to grips with my first job in advertising as a copywriter – it didn’t help that I had a boss who just about barely managed to conceal her canine parentage. Admittedly, sometimes I did toy with the idea of telling her to roll over and play dead, and then I’d remember that the most important thing I wanted in life was the ability to pay my way through it. Grim realisations like that demand chilled beer. Lots of it!

It was just as well then that I was staying at a hostel in lively Colaba, within spitting distance of fine and not so fine establishments that serve alcohol. Oddly enough, I never took to the iconic Cafe Mondegar. It was and still is a cool place to hang out - but somehow I never connected with its soul. Leopold was pleasant but way too Tower of Babel touristy with a shabby hippie hangover. Besides it was a tad too expensive for trainees valiantly attempting to live it up on a shoe-string budget. Fortunately, my fellow impecunious hostelites had already cased the joint thoroughly and offered to introduce me to a watering hole in the neighbourhood with a seriously uncool name: Gokul.

“God no!” I protested vehemently, wrinkling my nose. “That sounds like a disgustingly wholesome place with the aroma of freshly churned butter and lassi wafting in the air. And I bet the tables are littered with ‘Get thee to the temple young lady!’ Hare Krishna pamphlets. Let’s go someplace else!” But I’m really really, really, really glad that they dug in their heels and refused give in to my petulant demand, because Gokul aka Gokul’s aka Gokes became one of my favourite haunts in the city.

I fell in love with Gokul at first sight! It looked like the sort of place where disgruntled clerical staff knocked back a quarter to forget their nit-picky superiors at work. It was a dank, dark, windowless basement thick with cigarette smoke that hung in the air like dense monsoon clouds. And when the clouds occasionally parted (very, very occasionally) you got a glimpse of yes, disgruntled clerical staff and, hold on – trendy young professionals mainly from the media as well! This to me was the real charm of some of Bombay’s popular and delightfully unpretentious bars and restaurants in the 1980s – clientele from almost all sections of society sat cheek by jowl. Robespierre, the mastermind of the French revolution, would have enthusiastically nodded his approval.

I didn’t faint although the stench of dead rat overpowered the reek of stale spirits. Hey, I was made of sterner stuff. After three years of stoically consuming what I strongly suspected were rat cutlets at the Presidency College canteen, the mere whiff of rat was nothing! And while on the subject of rat cutlets, the food at Gokul was pretty decent. Particularly if you enjoyed seafood. However, you didn’t have to order a morsel to feel as stuffed as a plump Thanksgiving turkey at the end of the evening. The snacks were on the house – and were promptly replaced with even more snacks and even more snacks and gosh, even more snacks till you paid the bill - the rickety tables groaned under the weight of chipped quarter plates. Gokul was a freeloader’s paradise – which is why it was the preferred dating destination of stingy mingy boys who cared more about money than love sweet love!

I have to confess though that I almost had a minor heart attack when, after my second beer, I discovered that Gokul was run by die-hard male chauvinists - there was no restroom for ladies on the premises! “No big deal,” my fellow hostelites informed me with smirks, “we powder our noses and touch up the lip-gloss in a far more hygienic and luxurious place than this grungy establishment can ever dream of offering.” And off we lurched to the Taj Mahal Hotel, a two minute walk from Gokul, with instructions to the amused waiters to keep our table. We received warm, conspiratorial smiles from the female staff at the Taj lobby – those were innocent terror-free days then, and they probably frequented Gokul on their nights off as well! Besides they were used to playing host to hostelites – every other night about ten of us would visit the Shamiana (the old 24-hour coffee shop) and split a pot of hot chocolate between us. It worked out to about a tablespoon and a half each. Ambrosia!

Many giggly walks to the Taj and back were made that night – it felt wonderful to inhale unpolluted sea breeze instead of cigarette smoke every now and then. And all agreed that it was a super way to keep beer calories down! But perhaps the most marvellous surprise of the evening was the bill. I gasped at how little it was. I was a regular thereafter (but of course) and spent many happy evenings unwinding there, particularly during the last week of every month while pining for pay day. On our more obstreperous nights, some of us would gang up and accost the mild-mannered manager with a stern lecture on the necessity of equal restroom rights with the fervour of Emily Pankhurst – the fiery leader of the women's suffragette movement. It is with deep regret that I inform you that he remained unmoved. He’d blush deeply though, to our immense satisfaction. We were only kidding, of course – we really enjoyed those walks to the Taj!

And then, in the early 1990s, pub culture took the city by storm. I shifted my loyalties to other watering holes in Colaba, like Tavern at Fariyas hotel and Leopold (the first floor was converted to a pub and the last of the hippies never went there despite the fact that the DJ occasionally played Woodstock classics). Call me fickle but hell, nothing beats the combination of hard liquor and hard rock! Many years have passed since and I haven’t been back to Gokul yet. You know what, I probably won’t ever. Only because my memories of my wild times there are so terrific, I want nothing to so much as gently ruffle them. Besides, I hear that they’ve got a restroom for ladies now and they’ve put on a few airs and graces as well. Now that’s what I call vandalism!

In search of Intelligence

2011-01-06T01:27:00.000-08:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 4th Jan 2011)

I enter 2011 with the startling discovery that our Intelligence officials are smarter than I thought. They’ve recently issued a nation-wide terror alert – a clever way of disguising the fact that they have absolutely no idea where on earth terrorists may strike, and in the unfortunate event of an attack they can look superior and gravely say, “I told you so!” And perhaps even get a fat bonus for their superior sleuthing skills in the process, bah!

Every other day we read in the papers about how the USA, UK and other European countries successfully foil terrorist plots, and my frustration deepens. All we get (and that too, only occasionally) are sketches or photographs of a few Lashkar-e-Taiba terrorists who have reportedly sneaked into our country and are never found! Not astonishing, because the sketches are vague and the photographs faded beyond recognition. Even if posters were nailed on every tree in India and pasted on every available inch of wall-space (which they’re not), we’d never recognise them. Not even if they sat directly across us at a dining table and asked us to pass the salt.

I guess that means we all have to look out for each other. So here’s how we can do it:
1. Don’t let security personnel flatter you: Never foolishly assume that they just about barely peer into your bags at banks, malls, cinema halls etc because you look beautifully innocent like a Botticelli angel. Most of the security guards are bone lazy, period! And don’t bother to feel sorry for them because their jobs are so tedious – proof-reading is as much a pain in the neck, okay? What has to be done must be done well! I do my little bit for the security of the nation by threatening to report slackers to management. As a result, my handbag is checked so thoroughly I sometimes find long lost treasures in its crevices like tiny squares of refreshing tic tac. Rest assured after you scrape off the lint, they taste pretty good.

2. Don’t feel embarrassed about reporting suspicious objects: I have on one occasion loudly (and sharply) remarked on an abandoned backpack while refuelling at a popcorn counter during the interval of a Harry Potter film. A young man guiltily picked it up and, scorched by the fiery glare in my narrowed eyes, hastily shrank into the crowd. My husband disappeared before you could say ‘Poof!’ as well – clearly embarrassment is as effective as Potter’s invisibility cloak. He continued to pretend he didn’t know me till we left the cinema hall later. But hey who knows, I may have saved many lives that day!

3. Choose your restaurants wisely: After the horrible Mumbai carnage I have learnt that terrorists keep changing their tactics, and that it’s best to stay in constant touch with family and friends because you never know when you will be saying your last goodbyes. I have also learnt to appreciate dining establishments that sport opaque table-cloths that gently swish and sweep the floors. Very, very important - just in case you need to duck and hide.

4. Always remember that terrorists come in all colours and accents: Consider David Coleman Headley, one of the conspirators in the 26/11 Mumbai attacks. He didn’t look remotely like Osama bin Laden. His accent was a Donald Duck-ish drawl. His ‘United Colours of Benetton’ DNA never reflected on the outside. Can you blame the people he became chummy with in Mumbai for believing that he was as American as apple pie? Frankly the only thing stood out about him was the colour of his eyes – one blue and one brown, sort of like a cat. I really wish America had warned us about him before the attacks but evidently they don’t love us enough. However, even if they had, and a photograph had been helpfully inserted in the papers, it probably would have been in black & white, tsk – I fear there is no intelligent life out there! Look, I’m not saying don’t become friends with strangers, but do use Google search frequently. It’s not foolproof, but it may make your antennae twitch.

5. Think like a terrorist: To defeat your enemies, you’ve got to think like them. Oh my god, on second thought, please don’t! It is a truth universally acknowledged that Pakistan-sponsored terrorists are hopelessly insane.

Useful Christmas Presents

2010-12-22T00:14:00.000-08:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 21st Dec 2010)

Christmas is the season of goodwill, and in keeping with the cheerful ho ho ho spirit I have presents for many people – including those I may have had some differences with. Unlike Santa Claus, I do not discriminate between who’s been naughty and who’s been nice.

For US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton: The only time my respect for Hillary wavers is when I see her in hideous egg-yolk yellow pant suits and fire-engine red pant suits – heck, why fuddy-duddy pant suits to begin with? I admire the way she skilfully masks her hypocrisy in plain speak and I’m deeply distressed that WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange’s revelations may have put paid to her favourite hobby – a vast international collection of DNA strands to help her, erm, get to know foreign diplomats better. To cheer her up, I’ve decided to give her a pretty heart-shaped plastic locket (it’s recession time, she’ll understand) with a fragrant ,freshly-shampooed lock of my hair. Okay so I’m not a VIP, but who knows some day I may well be. These days with so many whistleblowers around you can never tell who’s going up in life and who’s coming down with a resounding thud, right?

For Sarah Appalling (aka Palin), former Governor of Alaska: The race hasn’t ended for John McCain’s vice-presidential running mate – she still believes she’s got a good chance of becoming the next president of the USA, ha ha. Part of me hopes that she succeeds because she’s more entertaining than George W. Bush – he’s seems sombre, distinguished and remarkably erudite in comparison. I propose to send her a prospectus of a good school because it’s apparent that she’s in desperate need of education. While I can’t refudiate (sorry, repudiate – pardon my Palinisms) the fact that she’s an expert on Russia since she can see it from her bedroom window on a clear day, I have to reasonably point out that she can’t see every single country from all the windows in her house, can she? So suggestions on a good nursery school (for starters) will be welcome – baby steps, remember?

For WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange: Hugs, best wishes, lots of support, a pack of industrial-strength prophylactics and a few tips on understanding women better. Starting with, never get cosy with two women who know each other – especially within days of each other. That only works in James Bond movies!

For Pakistan: Even a beauty contest bimbo will agree that a stable Pakistan can lead to peace on earth – or in India, at any rate. Which is why I’m planning to gift wrap a team of international psychiatrists to help Pakistan’s politicians, generals and intelligence chaps get over their unhealthy obsession with India. I sincerely hope that they will stop thinking of us from the time they wake up to the time they kiss their possibly toxic Made-in-China teddy bears goodnight. This creepy stalker-like mentality has got to stop. Get over us, guys – concentrate on thinking about your own citizens instead. That way lies progress!

For the UPA Government: Sigh. What can you give people who have so much of everything that belongs to us? Nothing more, right? The scam-rich UPA is off my X’mas list this year – in fact, off it for my lifetime. My stony heart will not melt – not even if the charming Rahul Gandhi flashes his dimples at me.

For the BJP: I wish I had the power to grant them a JPC on the 2G scam. Not because I love them (oh please - perish the thought!) but because I simply cannot bear to see and hear the pompous Arun Jaitley go on and on and on about it on every single news channel practically every second of the day in the most annoying self-righteous manner. Thanks to him, I’ve stopped watching Indian news channels completely. I’m seriously considering giving them a miniature glass house instead, with a framed photograph of their corrupt Karnataka chief minister Yeddyurappa. Just to remind them that Indian citizens aren’t stupid.

For Arnab Goswami, the talking head of Times Now: A pair of lycra superhero tights, a pair of lycra underpants and a collapsible mobile telephone booth to hastily change in – Goswami is certainly working hard to earn them. He evidently believes that he can do for India what Batman did for Gotham city. Now that’s what you call the audacity of hope!

Eek another leak!

2010-12-08T01:59:00.000-08:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 7th Dec 2010)

This is possibly the hottest winter the US has ever suffered in my lifetime – and it’s got precious little to do with global warming or comely PETA activists bravely shedding designer wear to fight for animal rights. Once again, WikiLeaks is slowly and tortuously making the US sweat with the gradual release of about a quarter-million diplomatic cables that expose back-room bargaining by US embassies around the world, and assessments of nuclear and terrorist threats among other things. Revelations so far have proved that the whistleblowers are not just whistling Dixie. Better still, the cables are liberally sprinkled with candid and often witty impressions of the most powerful people in the world.

India’s Silk Smitha and the Beatles’ Polythene Pam can take a backseat: we now have Teflon Merkel – a mildly unflattering portrait of the allegedly unimaginative German Chancellor. French President Sarkozy is referred to as ‘the emperor without clothes’ – and if you remember that grim fairy tale you’ll agree that as character assassinations go, this is terrifically brutal. The kindest barb is the moniker for Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin: Alpha Dog. That sounds pretty cool because it’s sort of like a name of a heavy metal band or a thriller starring Bruce Willis. Heck, I wouldn’t take umbrage if I were him. Now if they’d called Putin Alpha Rat instead, he’d have reason to complain. My, don’t you just love it when poker-faced diplomats reveal their tactless sides?

The gossipy tidbits on Pakistan so far have been the most boring of the lot. We have always known that America regards it as a ‘headache’, a ‘nightmare’ and other synonyms under the word ‘troublesome’ in Roget’s Thesaurus. We also know that no amount of dollars will persuade Pakistan to stop funding terrorist groups. Tell us something new!

Naturally, I’m waiting longingly for more steaming hot gossip (on India in particular) as the rest of the cables are released. Shockingly, some people are outraged at America’s double standards – hey, weren’t they aware of this before? Others are worried about the repercussions these disclosures could have on their own foreign policies – a little bit of tweaking may be called for. And then you have shamelessly irresponsible people like me rolling on the floor with mirth. Honestly, this is the most I’ve laughed since Bill Clinton inadvertently made cigars sexy. I still maintain it’s a shame that the cigar industry didn’t reward him handsomely for free global advertising.

Meanwhile, India has had its own version of WikiLeaks playing out for a few weeks now: recordings and transcripts of PR goddess Niira Radia’s telephone conversations that expose somewhat unsavoury links between political parties, hot shot corporate houses and star journalists are available on the internet. As a result of which social networking sites became unbearably sanctimonious for a few days. I must say that I find this expose disturbing for several reasons too:

1. I always thought my teenage niece would win the prize for nattering incessantly on the phone. She has been beaten hollow – and by a middle-aged woman at that, tsk. I will never let her live this down!

2. It’s just as well that Ms. Radia was working for two of the wealthiest corporate chiefs, Mukesh Ambani and Ratan Tata. Good heavens, her phone bills must have been staggering – perhaps even more than the loss India suffered thanks to the telecom scam.

3. This expose has been a truly humbling experience and I must say I feel the most humbled of the lot. I’m hanging my head in shame as I confess that Niira Radia did not call me – not even once as a wrong number. I’m just a tragic nobody.

4. Never ever be smug because Fate can play cruel tricks. Just a few days after Ratan Tata gave a disarming speech on how staunchly ethical he was by refusing to bribe a minister to get clearance for an airline and all that goody goody moral science class blah, the Niira Radia lobbying-for-an-amenable-telecom-minister tapes surfaced – and his name came up. His shiny halo faded gently with her husky hello. He may still be regarded as Mr. Clean by the bemused Indian public, but certainly not Mr. Squeaky Clean.

5. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: Do not take numerology seriously. Hands up all those who still believe that the extra ‘i’ in Niira’s name brought her good luck!

A Weight-Watcher’s Diary

2010-12-06T21:23:00.000-08:00

Written for Verve, published July 2010
Read it here for the nice illustrations:
http://www.verveonline.com/87/life/fiction.shtml

Also pasted below:

11th June
Have discovered Mothercare! Stepped in to buy pressie for Bubbles' baby and saw fab clothes. In my size, hooray! Rushed to changing room with 13 clothes – at least. Skinny Salesgirl very annoying, though. Smiled widely and asked how many months preggers I was. Did not want to embarrass self so lied and said seven months. She gasped and said I looked ready to pop, was I going to have twins? Pretended I was deaf and sailed to billing counter with purchases. Nasty Skinny Salesgirl followed and asked if I’d like nursing bras as well. I could hit her! Was in such a hurry to get away from her, forgot to buy pressie for Bubbles' baby after all. Damn.

Nasty Skinny Salesgirl’s rude remarks rankled, so decided to go on strict fruit diet. Consumed: 4 bananas, 6 mangoes and 6 chikoos for lunch and dinner. Halo shining. Can’t wait to check my weight tomorrow morning!

12th June
Help! Weighed self and almost wept – am now 1 kg heavier than yesterday! Bloody diets don’t work, that’s what! Called Fatty and whined. She sneered and said I ate the wrong fruits – mangoes, chikoos and bananas are sugar rich. Should have eaten watermelon instead. Don’t like Fatty very much. Think she patronises me because she weighs just 85 kgs. Shan’t hang out with her anymore. She probably uses me so she can look slim in comparison.

So depressed, decided to have a diet club sandwich without bread for brekker: ham, bacon, cheese, half fried egg, lettuce, tomato and cucumber. To make it exciting, had low-fat chips with it. Boiled potatoes first, then cut them in thick slices and lightly fried them in non-stick pan. Yum! Maybe I can write diet cookbook called Tasty Way to Lose Weight, and become famous Bollywood dietician. I will be rich, rich rich! So rich that I can buy Mothercare Franchise and sack Nasty Skinny Salesgirl!

21st June
Bloody, bloody diets don’t bloody work! Been starving self on breadless club sandwich with chips and have put on even more weight. If Nasty Skinny Salesgirl sees me now bet she’ll want to know if I’m having triplets! Hate everybody, especially Fatty. She called yesterday to say she’s on new diet and has lost 2 kgs in 3 days. Show off! Know that she’s DYING for me to ask for the diet, but won’t give her the satisfaction. She laughed meanly when I told her about my low fat chips and said even monkeys know that carbs are a big no no. Will go for one hour walk in evening and lose more weight than her, so there! I’ll show her!

22nd June
Could not bring self to go for walk yesterday. Too hot. Put AC on in living room and decided to walk up and down like caged tiger through an entire episode of cooking programme, Jamie at Home, and succeeded, yay! Ran up and down for a few rounds as well but had to stop because neighbour in flat below intercommed and screamed because I ruined her afternoon nap: she sternly reminded me that we are not permitted to shift heavy furniture during 2 to 4 pm and has threatened to complain to the building society secretary. Told her to go to hell!

Felt much thinner and decided to treat self to what Jamie was cooking: chicken in rich cheese sauce. Both proteins, so should work. Fatty called and wanted to come over to show off her new thin self: she says her tummy is one inch thinner. Coldly told her I was going out. Do not wish to associate with creeps.

29th June
Have stopped taking Fatty’s calls altogether. She can’t take a hint though. Has started sending me text messages of her new weight: According to the latest one, she now weighs 79.6 kgs. Wants to know if we can go out to celebrate. Will not respond. Am in despair, though. Weight-loss pacing sessions with Jamie Oliver not working. Looking at all that lovely food inspires me to cook it too. Haven’t lost an ounce. Think perhaps I have thyroid problem. Called friendly neighbourhood doctor for details on thyroid test. Very easy, just a blood test. Will do it first thing tomorrow.

2nd July
Gloom and doom. Got thyroid test report. My thyroid is fine, damn. Friendly neighbourhood doctor is not very friendly. Says I should go on strict diet and exercise daily. Told her I already am, and she scoffed when I gave her the details. Told me to stick to watermelon for a week and walk in the park for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening – at least. Did not like the tone of her voice. Hate everybody, especially Fatty. Her latest text message says she now weighs 76 kgs. Cretin!

3rd July
Tried watermelon diet for half a day and felt dizzy and sick. Had to call Dominos for pepperoni pizza. Ordered a small and then had to order a large an hour later. Feeling slightly better now. Diets make me ill.

7th July
There’s hope yet! Page 2 of newspaper carried article of lady with 8 kg cyst in stomach. Was successfully operated on and is 8 kgs lighter in less than two days! Am certain I have cyst too. That’s why diets and exercise don’t work for me. Will fix appointment with doctor – not unfriendly neighbourhood doctor but another one. After surgery will take Fatty’s calls and invite her over to see MY new body. Will probably weigh 50 kgs then, yay!

11th July
New doctor very warm and sympathetic. She said I must certainly do ultrasound and recommended a few more tests as well at her husband’s clinic. Had to pay hefty sum of money (now Rs. 25,000 poorer) but who cares? I will be thin and sexy!

13th July
Ultrasound horrible. Was made to drink gallons of water and not allowed to pee till examination was over. Asked sourpuss technician if she could see the cyst but she refused to tell me. Said to wait for report tomorrow. Treated self to biryani and gelato. Have to be strong for cyst surgery. New text message from Fatty. Says she’s now 71 kg. Hah! Wait till my surgery is over. Then we’ll talk!

14th July
Sympathetic new doctor even more sympathetic. No cyst, but she recommended bariatric surgery at her brother-in-law’s nursing home. Almost fainted when she told me how much it costs. Told her I’d think about it. Very depressed. Had 55 pani puris to feel better. Noticed that pani puri-man has bad cold and uses the same cloth to blow nose and wipe his hands on. Don’t care. Maybe I’ll get his germs, fall ill and lose weight. Or maybe I’ll get worms from eating unsanitary roadside food and they’ll eat my weight away. Desperate now. Fatty called at least 11 times today. Ignored all calls. Sent 20 text messages too, begging me to see her. Says she’s very ill, possibly dying. Ignored text messages. Hah! This is just a ruse to get me to view and envy her new 71 kg body. People can be so slimy.

17th July
Fatty called at least 50 times today. Ignored her calls.

21st July
Am in shock! Read newspaper article today that says that people put on oodles of weight if their friends are fat! Now nobody will talk to me ever again! Not even Fatty! Will die alone and friendless! Maybe I’ll have to rob bank and have shockingly expensive bariatric surgery.

22nd July
Whew! Fatty called this morning, and this time I answered phone at first ring. Relieved to have at least one friend in the world. She cried and cried and cried. Says she is almost bald – her new diet has made her hair fall in clumps. Rushed to meet her. God, she looked awful. We both agreed that diets are silly and we are happier being fat. Ordered four large pepperoni pizzas – to help Fatty’s hair grow back faster. Told Fatty about Mothercare’s roomy XXXXXL clothes and we’re going to go there in August. Will just have to tell Nasty Skinny Salesgirl that the twins were safely delivered and am pregnant again!

Today is Annual Make Nasty Jokes About Pakistan's ISI Day

2010-11-25T19:35:00.000-08:00

26/11 anniversary. Hindustan Times Mumbai has thoughtfully given a little candle with a copy of their paper today. Wish I could light mine up the ISIs arse. Yes, I said arse. It is not nice. Neither is Pakistan's ISI.

I'm going to spend the ENTIRE day making nasty cracks about those evil muscle-brained lunatics, since we can't bomb them. India is a responsible nation. Unlike other Western nations we cannot attack countries that attack us because only Western countries are allowed to be irresponsible, see? Some like the US are so irresponsible they even supply truck-loads of money and arms to countries that breed terrorists. Hmm.

Anyway, here's an article I wrote a few months ago when talks between India and Pakistan collapsed. It was published in Hardnews in my monthly column Angst in my Pants.

The Shah of Blah

Every time the papers and news channels excitedly announce peace talks between India and Pakistan, I shake my head sadly. Particularly after I saw Pakistan’s Foreign Minister Shah Mehmood Qureshi on TV a day after the 26/11 attacks in Mumbai. He was in New Delhi when the attacks occurred and he delivered the usual over the top Pakistani bluster, of course: roared with rage, clenched his fists dramatically till his knuckles turned white, and thundered that we had no business to blame Pakistan for the attacks – it was very mean and small-minded of us, he fumed. He was terrifically angry and I suspect that it’s because the poor chap had no time to buy DVDs of the latest Bollywood flicks for his family and friends since he had to leave in such a tearing hurry. Tsk. Too bad the ISI never warned him in advance – they were way too busy directing the horrific attacks to waste time on pathetic little puppets.

Since then we have reams of evidence, but the Pakistani government absolutely refuses to believe us. We even have audio tapes just in case they can’t read - hey, I’m willing to bet their President Asif Ali Zardari can’t. He makes former US President George W. Bush seem like an intellectual. After watching him lead his nation, I’m beginning to believe that his nickname, Mr. Ten Percent, still holds true – he just has 10% of a normal human brain, that is.

Despite the fact that David Headley, one of the chief 26/11 planners, is singing soulfully like an American Idol contestant in US custody, Pakistan is stubbornly playing deaf. During the recent ‘peace’ talks, Qureshi metaphorically jammed his pudgy little fingers in his ears and screamed “Nyaah, nyaah nyaah, I can’t hear you and you guys are mean and nasty too la la la la, so there!” He pretended to be really upset that Indian Foreign Minister SM Krishna got a few phone-calls from India and accused the Indian government of directing the peace talks. Hello, Mr. Qureshi, they were not instructing SM Krishna to brutally murder everyone in the room like your beloved ISI. If it was them at all, they were probably saying, “Just because these ISI puppets are uncivilized boors, don’t stoop to their level and lose your sophistication and cool.” Or perhaps they were merely translating Qureshi’s weird ‘clipped Brit meets guttural Punjabi’ accent? I don’t blame Mr. Krishna – it takes me ages to understand what Qureshi’s saying.

Honestly, the only positive thing I have to say about Qureshi is that he’s a natty dresser. But fine feathers don’t always make fine birds and I think a few classes in manners are what he desperately requires. For starters, will someone please teach Qureshi how to shake hands nicely? The moment a hand is extended, he assumes it’s for a hand-wrestling match and eagerly starts playing panja with it. Not exactly ‘mine host’ material.

I have a pertinent question: What is Qureshi so arrogant about? Everyone in world is aware that Pakistan is a failed nation and it depends on hefty hand-outs from the gullible US to survive.

While I love the idea of peace with a neighbour, particularly an extremely nasty tempered one with more nuclear weapons than sense, I don’t believe I’ll be ringing his doorbell with a bottle of chilled wine and a peace pipe. I’d much rather avoid him instead and go so far as to take the stairs if he’s in the elevator. It’s not possible to have rational discussions with irrational beings, is it? Sort of like locking yourself in a cage with a starving, snarling man-eating lion and soothingly saying, “Here kitty, here, here kitty, I’ve come to discuss the possibility of peaceful co-existence.”

And in case you’re wondering, I’m not against the Aman ki Asha citizens for peace initiative. I will continue to read books by Pakistani authors I enjoy like Mohammed Hanif. I will continue to encourage cricket matches between India and Pakistan. I have nothing against the people – even the brain-washed, uneducated ones who spit out anti-India epithets. It is Pakistan’s machivellan ISI and their weak, prevaricating politicians who make me sick. And so, I have one fervent plea for the Indian government: please don’t get into a ‘Have you hugged a Pakistani politician today?’ mode. Not till they deliver justice on the 26/11 attacks, at the very least.

Barack Obama's India Diary

2010-11-25T03:29:00.000-08:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post,23rd Nov 2010)

6th Nov
Landed in Mumbai and boy, was it hot! Was greeted by a gangsta dude wearing dark glasses – it was Maharashtra chief minister Ashok Chavan. Briefly wondered if wearing dark glasses is against protocol but charitably dismissed it. Remembered that Secret Service fellas had discreetly informed me that the dude was accused of pinching apartments from war widows and would be axed soon after I left – he’d probably spent the entire night diluting his glass of Bourbon with tears. Nonetheless, checked back pocket after we got into the chopper for the Taj. My wallet was still there, whew.

Made pretty speech at the Taj to survivors of the 26/11 terrorist attack – it was so moving I felt tears rush to my eyes but brushed them away in case vision got blurred and I couldn’t read the teleprompter. Was warmly applauded.

Visited Mani Bhavan, my idol’s (Mahatama Gandhi’s) former house. Deeply impressed everyone by not mispronouncing Gandhi as Ghandy.

Made pretty speech to win business for America at Trident hotel. Was applauded a little less warmly.

Elation faded when saw self on TV later that night. Indian news channels were attacking me like a pack of savage wolves for not calling Pakistan a terrorist state. Particularly a chap called something like Doorknob. Have they absolutely no idea of US foreign policy or are they shockingly naive?

7th Nov
Spent the morning with children. First went to a school in Colaba and was treated to a cultural program by the students. Got the fidgets after 2nd song and dance - jaws were also aching from bestowing wide smiles of appreciation. Fortunately this was not as long as Bollywood films. Michelle got the fidgets too and leapt up to dance – she’s still got it!

I was dragged to floor and gamely imitated their moves. Heard kids snigger behind my back. They said something like, “Pappu can’t dance saala”. Poor Pappu, whoever he is.

Met Mumbai University students at St. Xavier’s College. It was so hot, had to take off jacket. Wished I could take off shirt as well. Now I know why male Bollywood stars frequently bare their chests. Michelle wowed them first with her usual heart-warming spiel on her humble beginnings and then I was introduced. Made pretty speech and then took questions. Was thrown. Must warn America yet again that Indian kids are v. smart – more forcefully this time. Had to skirt question on Pakistan of course, and was made to pay for it. Indian News channels started attacking me viciously again, particularly Doorknob. He’s started pouting as well, quite like Marilyn Monroe.

Boarded Air Force One for Delhi. Looked forward to meeting my buddy Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. Hoped I wouldn’t meet a fella called Suresh Kalmadi who referred to Prince Charles’ current wife Camilla as Princess Diana. He’s quite capable of addressing me as President Osama.

Was warmly greeted by the Prime Minister and his wife. All four of us exchanged hugs and kisses. On the way to Humayun’s tomb, Secret Service hissed that we made a big faux pas. Effigies of Richard Gere were burnt because he planted a chaste kiss on the cheeks of some Bollywood starlet a few years ago. Ooops!

Indian News Channels still maligning me. Thought I’d escaped from the battering at home, but I get even worse treatment here! Nobody loves me! Must give India something to make those news hounds shut up.

8th Nov
Had lots of important meetings today. Shook so many hands I fear that my shoulder may be dislocated.

Met a v. strange lady called Sushma Swaraj from the BJP. She sternly and repeatedly told me that the BJP had initiated friendship with the US first. That is the only thing she had to say.

Grand finale: my address to both houses of parliament. Over 50% of the politicians present looked like thugs – wouldn’t ever want to meet them in dark alleys. Made v. pretty speech about India, threw in lots of Indian words and gave them a grand present that cost me nothing: support for a permanent seat at the UNSC. Now everybody in India loves me, including Doorknob!

Lovely dinner and now have to pack for our trip to Indonesia. It is a nightmare. Every VIP I met gave me big fat coffee table books. Thank god I don’t have to pay for excess baggage!

All cleaned up for Diwali

2010-11-25T03:23:00.000-08:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 9th Nov 2010)

As I write this, Mumbai is gearing up for Diwali like never before. We’re expecting two very important guests this year: our all-time favourite Laxmi, the Goddess of Wealth, and Barack Obama, the President of the USA as well. Security is going to be tight with many annoying restrictions in place and people who live in the area around the Taj hotel (where Obama is staying) are particularly bitter. So many fattening mithais to eat and nowhere to walk them off! We’re hoping that all the president’s men do not prevent Laxmi from entering our freshly spruced up homes. And while on the subject of cleanliness, the state government claims that it’s going flat out to clean up the city. Sadly, the only clean up we can see is of the city’s coffers.

Mumbaikars are bristling with rage at the Adarsh Housing Society scam where a bunch of greedy politicians, bureaucrats and (golly gosh) defence personnel in Mumbai joined hands to snatch homes from Kargil war widows. A number of interesting observations have emerged from this:

1. Suresh Kalmadi, President of the Commonwealth Games organising committee, has started smiling widely again. He is not alone in his ignominy, hallelujah. Overcharging for toilet paper is not as big an offence as stealing from war widows, see? His future in the Congress party may well be secure again.

2. Ashok Chavan, prime suspect in the Adarsh scam and Maharashtra chief minister, raised a very important point when he was accused of nepotism for allotting a flat to his mother-in-law. He grimly stated through gritted teeth that his mother-in-law was not a part of his family, how dare anyone even suggest it! For the first time since the scam was exposed, he looked more outraged and offended than TV reporters who were interviewing him. Not surprisingly, he has endeared himself to innumerable men with insufferable mothers-in-law.

3. If you believe in numerology, pay attention to this: never consult Ashok Chavan’s personal numerologist. The chap urged Chavan to add the word ‘Rao’ to his name to improve the quality of his life. Accordingly, a shiny new name plate was attached to his front door. A few days later, the Adarsh scam was exposed. To be scrupulously fair, perhaps the numerologist was not to blame – there’s always the possibility that Chavan mistakenly spelt the word ‘rao’ as ‘row’.

4. This scam brought home the fact that bureaucrats would make excellent waiters. They’re so used to the larger part of their income coming from lavish tips. Besides, they’re so well-educated I’m sure they can pronounce the names of French dishes like Coq au Vin and Ratatouille without stumbling.

5. The retired defence chaps who were interviewed on TV sounded truly devastated that the army had a few rotten eggs. I don’t know about you, but I found their reaction astonishing. Come on, had they not heard of the Kargil body bag scam or the more recent Sukhna shocker?

6. Union Home Minister P Chidambaram may learn something vitally important from this: perhaps the best way to defeat Maoists is not to arrest them but to arrest his own party members who steal from widows, the helpless and the homeless, and as a result turn sane people into insane Maoist sympathisers.

7. And, just in case the Congress does eventually decide to send its guilty politicians to jail (ha ha, as if – despite the fact that we’re reminded every now and then that Sonia Gandhi and Prime Minister Manmohan Singh have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to corruption), I make one humble request: please, please, please build a state-of-the-art hospital in the jail they’re housed in too. Or else, strange flutters of the heart may occur and the party’s criminals will once again inconvenience citizens by occupying precious hospital beds throughout the duration of their sentence.

8. The BJP of course is over the moon with joy. With the Congress party in a scambolic state (CWG, telecom and now this), they are filled with the fond hope that the next general elections will bring them joy. I hate to rain on their parade, but let’s not forget that their mother ship (the RSS) is alleged to have terror links. So the next time you cast your vote, do consider this: would you prefer a party that snatches money or a party that snatches lives?

Nearer my god to thee

2010-11-22T21:33:00.000-08:00

Was cleaning up a cupboard and laughed myself silly when I discovered the things we'd acquired in recent years:

1. A neck brace
2. A back brace
3. A knee sock
4. A wrist brace
5. An ankle brace
6. Sundry physiotherapy aids
7. Kgs of X-rays and MRI scans

Soon Beloved Husband and I will have supports for each and every body part including the index finger (which I tend to exercise so frequently it's bound to get fractured or at least severely sprained). We can go to fancy dress balls dressed as exo-skeletons. Growing old and decrepit can be rather amusing! So far, the 40s have brought much mirth. Hope the 50s and 60s will be as entertaining. Am not thinking about the 70s. Not yet!

A day in the life of Arundhati Roy (As imagined by the writer)

2010-11-02T19:07:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 2nd November 2010)

Alarm went off at 6 am. Leapt out of bed and rushed to the mirror. Screeched when I noticed several ugly red spots on my face. Swore never to visit those nasty mosquito-infested jungles without carrying Odomos. This is just too bad, considering that I have to give a speech to other like-minded intellectuals this afternoon - like-minded when it comes to issues only, of course. Intellectually I’m far more superior than those morons can ever hope to be - have they won the Booker ever, ha ha? Jumped back into bed – more beauty sleep is urgently required. Must live up to my reputation of being beautiful inside-out.
***
Great Revolutionary Leader called at 7.30 am, interrupting my sleep. He sounded more outraged than Arnab Goswami of Times Now. ‘Have you read today’s papers?’ he spluttered. ‘The Government of India is building a school in a tribal village. Those creeps, how dare they!’ he thundered. Really, how dare they? After all the hard work we’ve put in to persuade tribals about the wickedness of the Government of India, they’re now trying to show us up! The cheek! Consoled Great Revolutionary Leader. Told him he could always bomb it after it’s built. Preferably while school children are in it. That will make superb headlines, and I will be invited as guest speaker to many more intellectual dos. Great Revolutionary Leader chuckled. He told me how beautiful I was inside-out.
***
Had toast with honey (good for skin) for brekker – not commercial honey but the real McCoy stuff from the tribals. Had to fish some wings and hairy legs out of it, yuck. Glanced through newspapers. Am filled with rage – not a single article on me, not even a teeny-weeny mention! What is this country coming to? No wonder it’s a failed State!
***
Consoled self by Googling my name. About a zillion mentions on blogs, yay! Clicked a blog at random. The blogger said that someone called Adrian Mole was a more convincing and likeable intellectual than I am. Googled Adrian Mole – he’s a thirteen and a half year old fictional pseudo-intellectual who writes a diary. Read an excerpt of the diary: He has acne, loves ABBA, writes lousy poetry and sounds like a half-wit. How dare that nasty blog writer say that Adrian Mole is better than I am? Browsed through another blog also written by a fool - she says that I should be called a megalomaniac anarchist not a selfless activist. Another stupid woman has said that, “If she hates India so much why doesn’t she just get the hell out and leave us in peace.” Rot – I have as much right as she has to live in this country and overthrow the State if I wish – this is a democracy after all! They’re just plain jealous that I’m beautiful inside-out. Will fix these people when we crush India and create our own beautiful country. Will torture them before we behead them. Dissent will not be tolerated.
***
Was v. depressed all afternoon. Just as well that these heckling bloggers are never invited to events where I make speeches. They are not intellectuals - they just don’t understand that ideas are more important than people losing lives and limbs. Bimbos!
***
Turned on TV news and discovered to my joy that I may be booked for sedition because I echoed a hardline separatist’s views on Kashmir! More publicity, hooray! Phone never stopped ringing thereafter, with other intellectuals warmly congratulating me. They’re so insincere really – I could not fail to detect envy in their voices. Wonder what to wear when the TV wallahs come calling with their cameras for my reaction?
***
Put a Beatles CD on while going through my extensive wardrobe. Have selected several pretty saris and some ethnic skirts with lots of chunky tribal jewellery. Cannot be photographed in the same outfit for different TV channels after all. Have also applied foundation to hide the ugly red mosquito bites. Doorbell rang, so I hastily changed the music to a rousing tribal beat before I opened the door.
***
Celebration party tonight! Have got several jerry cans of heady mahua from the tribals. Will serve mahuatinis (dash of mahua and lots of sweetened orange juice to disguise the terrible taste). They are super potent and in the eyes of my inebriated companions I will look even more beautiful inside-out!

Much ado about nothing

2010-11-02T19:02:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 26th October 2010)

We can never thank young Aditya Thackeray enough for helping Mumbai rediscover the joys of reading fiction – particularly Rohinton Mistry’s Such A Long Journey. A friend has been kind enough to lend me her copy, so I’ve been spared the trauma of fidgeting, sweating and fainting in serpentine queues outside bookshops. Let this be a lesson to all authors who want to hit the bestseller list – get rabble-rousing politicians to ban/burn your book, instead of begging glitzy filmstars to launch it.

I have to confess that I didn’t gasp loudly the way people do at the sight of a hairy cockroach floating lazily in their soup when I read some of the passages in Mistry’s book that the thin-skinned Shiv Sena violently objected to. Sure, his fictional character raved and ranted about things that annoyed him – everything from the Congress to the Shiv Sena to different communities, but so what? Everyone has the right to his opinion. And frankly, his ‘insulting’ remarks were mild compared to the vitriolic statements the Thackerays frequently (and loudly) dish out about people and communities – a lot of it is uncalled for personal remarks like ‘Rahul Gandhi is a frustrated bachelor’ and some very unsavoury things about prime minister Manmohan Singh which I do not choose to repeat here.

Honestly if you take that into account, Mistry has every right to burn copies of the Shiv Sena mouthpiece Saamna in return for the shabby treatment doled out to his book. Fortunately, Mistry is such a good hearted chap, really. Instead of criticising Aditya for not actually reading his book before burning it, he is being rather paternal about it by playing mentor to him. Mistry has warmly urged Aditya to read a couple of books to become a better political leader instead of following the same old fuddy duddy tactics as his grandfather: Joseph Conrad’s grim Heart of Darkness ‘in order to consider the options: step back from the abyss, or go over the edge’, and Rabindranath Tagore’s Gitanjali, particularly for the stirring lines of this verse, ‘Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free.’ I doubt that knowledge will seep in however, since every time the young lad is given a book he excitedly fumbles in his pockets for a matchbox.

Incidentally, Aditya Thackeray is a writer himself – he’s got two volumes of poetry under his belt, one of which is set to music (by some of India’s finest musicians and singers, of course – they loved it so much they just couldn’t say no) and launched by Bollywood star and chief Shiv Sena aficionado Amitabh Bachchan a few years ago. If you haven’t heard of them, it’s because his loving family thoughtlessly did not ban/burn his book and album. Tsk. One would think that they’d have figured out marketing tactics by now, considering that almost everything they ban/burn turns to gold. Even that forgettable movie, My Name is Khan.

Do read Such A Long Journey. Not only for the sensational bits, which, like I’ve said before, aren’t remotely sensational at all. I recommend it because it truly is a warm, engrossing and well-written story. Such a pity that it had to be sacrificed to launch Aditya’s political career. Couldn’t the Shiv Sena have hired the chaps who put together the fantastic opening ceremony for the Commonwealth Games to launch the Yuva Sena instead? That way, we may have appreciated the show and the grandson of (yawn) yet another political dynasty better. Spunky messages on T-shirts with a spin on the Shiv Sena’s tiger symbol (like ‘You bring out the tiger in me’) are not enough to prove that you’re cool and with it, dude! As the En Vogue song goes, ‘Free your mind, and the rest will follow.’

So what I’m wondering now is, what will Aditya Thackeray’s estranged uncle Raj Thackeray do? Raj (leader of the dreaded Maharashtra Navnirman Sena) is highly competitive and pretty much given to ‘me too’ tactics. Will he make his young son burn another book? Yippie, I’m dying to know which one so I can buy it before the bookshop queues begin! Also, since the MNS symbol is a railway engine, will his son sport T-shirts with the message, ‘You bring out the choo choo train in me’ or, ‘Let me take you for a ride’? Ooh, just can’t wait!

Rahul Gandhi

2010-10-20T04:57:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
(Published in Bengal Post, 19th October 2010)

I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m growing fonder and fonder of Rahul Gandhi with every passing second. And it’s got absolutely nothing to do with his dimples! He’s been like a Jack-in-the-box over the last few years, popping up in different parts of the nation, sometimes armed with a toothbrush for a surprise pyjama party in a village. His mere presence makes his political rivals (and also his allies, as we’ve seen recently with Trinamool Congress chief Mamata Banerjee) feel terribly insecure. Which, in a way, is a good thing. Hopefully, they’ll feel threatened enough to do a better job.

I started taking him a lot more seriously after he dropped in to Mumbai during the ridiculous My Name is Khan fracas and smoothly ensured that Bollywood actor Shahrukh Khan did not have to massage the Shiv Sena supremo’s XL ego. One whispered word in the dithering Maharashtra chief minister’s ear and practically the entire state machinery was deployed to foil the Shiv Sena ban. It worked like a charm, hooray, and it certainly showed the local bullies who’s the boss! If he can do this for a silly movie, imagine what wonderful things he can do with more important issues? We desperately need him back in Mumbai right now because the Shiv Sena supremo’s grandson has just got Rohinton Mistry’s Such A Long Journey withdrawn from the university syllabus; apparently Mistry made unflattering remarks in the book about the Shiv Sena. He got copies of it burnt as well. Don’t waste your time wondering if pyromania runs in the family. Some people burst crackers to launch their political careers, other people burn books.

Anyway, back to the scion of the genteel Gandhi family. Now Rahul Gandhi’s gone and said exactly what I’ve been thinking for years: “I know only that both SIMI and the RSS are fanatical and hold fundamentalist views.” It was great fun listening to the BJP, RSS and other Hindutva parties respond to this statement. I analysed their irate comments deeply and this is what I’ve come up with: Hindutva parties aren’t really in tune with each other. Some called him immature, others said he was senile (good heaven’s, they think he’s LK Advani’s age) and a few others called him insane. Surely they don’t think all three words mean the same thing, do they? Granted that if you browse through Roget’s Thesaurus you’ll find all these words on the same page, but they do have different meanings. I find it very worrying that they don’t get nuances, and this is the ten thousand and thirty first reason why I will never subscribe to Hindutva.

RSS spokesman Ram Madhav pompously added that people who make such statements have to first understand India and Indian society well. “It’s not enough to know only Italy and Colombia,” he said, smirking at his own jibe. Or maybe he was just grinning from ear to ear because he got a fabulous chance to be on TV and look frightfully important. By the way, in case the Columbia bit escaped you, he was slyly referring to one of Rahul Gandhi’s former girlfriends. Tragic, isn’t it, that foreign blood is the only stick they can beat the Gandhi family with - I don’t know about you, but it’s beginning to bore me to tears. Also, has it escaped his notice that Rahul Gandhi has Indian blood as well and was born and brought up in India? But then you never can expect fundamentalists to be rational, tut.

Interestingly, during the last few years, Rahul Gandhi has just given us a trailer of what he can do for the country. He’s left us (well, me at least) waiting eagerly for the actual movie to begin. Oddly enough, I hope that he’s not starring in it as prime minister of India. His mother has proved that the Gandhi family does much, much better work back stage - I believe they really do care about the nation, perhaps as much as the other legendary Gandhi whom they’re not related to. There are still loads of things to be accomplished and they should not waste precious time shaking hands, drinking tea and making small talk with leaders of other nations. I also believe that not becoming prime minister ever is Rahul Gandhi’s secret plan – fully endorsed by his mother. I may be wrong, but I hope I’m not.

People Watching

2010-10-20T04:54:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
(Published in Bengal Post, 12th October 2010)

It’s been a few days since the grand Commonwealth Games opening ceremony, and I’m still feeling incredibly warm and fuzzy. Unlike the fickle media though, I’m not fuzzy enough to forgive Suresh Kalmadi (chairman of the CWG Organising Committee) with all my heart, liver, kidneys, pancreas and lungs. Call me Ice Maiden, but I still want all those allegations of corruption to be microscopically examined. Inflation notwithstanding, a roll of toilet paper cannot cost Rs. 4000. Not even if has been designed by say, Louis Vuitton.

However, I must give the devil his due. So I thank Kalmadi from the bottom of my heart, liver, kidneys, pancreas and lungs for outsourcing the spectacular opening show to slick professionals from the entertainment industry. If his bumbling core team had been in charge, the superb aerostat may have come crashing down on our hopes, dreams and credibility. Oh, and ego, as well!

The theme (unity in diversity) was not just warm and inclusive – it was also very, very clever. Bunging most of our states together in a series of events was a smart move: it shortened the proceedings considerably. That’s perhaps why all the Indian politicians present stayed wide awake during the show. I’m so used to seeing them yawning shamelessly or snoozing through Republic Day parades, particularly when floats representing each and every one of India’s twenty-something states (frankly, I’ve lost count) trundle down. That’s when I’m dead certain that vociferous demands for new, separate states will be deviously squashed. Incidentally, I’m with the sleepy politicians on this!

But I digress. Back to the CWG opening ceremony. I think we are all agreed that it was a show that did Indians proud. Even more heart-warming, it was the Indians at the show who did India proud.Here’s why:

1. Consider the loud cheers that went up for Pakistan’s contingent. Do you think Palestinians would have done the same for their traditional enemy Israel, or vice versa? Either the India-Pakistan citizens for peace initiative (Aman ki Asha) is working wonderfully well, or we’re just exceptionally lovely people. Apart, of course, from a few local political parties in Mumbai who are trying to stop Pakistani nationals from participating in idiotic reality shows. What a tragic way to attempt to get your photograph in the papers!

2. Also consider the deafening applause that went up for former president Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam. Proof that it doesn’t matter what religion anyone in our secular nation belongs to. Young Indians respect achievers - more so if they’re honest and humble. Our divisive politicians would do well to remember that! Since Kalmadi is fairly hard-boiled, let’s give him an easier task: he can start by remembering Kalam’s correct name, at the very least! My jaw dropped to my knees when he got it wrong at the opening ceremony. But I forgave him a few days later when he got Prince Charles’s name and sex wrong. He referred to him as Princess Diana at a press conference– and no, I’m not making this up! The poor chap is so stressed he appears to be losing his mind. I think we should be compassionate and relieve him of all his duties the second the games are over. Let us donate generously towards his retirement fund – oh wait – he’s got loads of our money already, right?

3. As far as I’m concerned, the CWG Delhi opening ceremony was a bigger treat and more memorable than the inauguration ceremony at the Beijing Olympics. Not just because of the show, but because of the enthusiastic jeers reserved for Kalmadi alone. If public criticism against a politician had happened in Beijing, China’s jails may have be packed sardine-tight throughout the entire duration of the Olympics. I do hope that all the hawk-eyed international economists and investors who (we are repeatedly told) are watching these games closely, have taken note of the loud booing. It speaks volumes about India’s healthy democracy. Of course, some Indian citizens are muttering “tsk tsk” and primly saying that the spectators made a spectacle of themselves. They maintain that it was in bad taste, particularly with foreign dignitaries around. I disagree. I was bought up to believe that corruption is worse than irreverence. And I’m glad young Indians are being vocal about their displeasure. This is a brave new India and I salute it!

Cry, the beloved country

2010-10-06T09:50:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal post, 5th October 2010)

Not all of us are as fortunate as senior Congress leader Manishankar Aiyar aka Suresh Kalmadi’s bête noire. Aiyar has cheerfully announced that he’s “getting the hell out of the country” before the Commonwealth Games begin. I assume he’ll be going in disguise as an Arab sheikh perhaps, to cleverly conceal his Indian identity. It’s not nice to go abroad and have the natives sniggering at you.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are thinking of creative ways to punish Kalmadi for making us look like a third-world nation – mainly because we are dead certain that Kalmadi will never be brought to justice. The wily old Congress party loyalist has been given enough time (he already has the money and resources) to destroy all evidence of corruption. Perhaps that’s why he says with so much conviction, “Hang me if you find me guilty.”

Hopefully every unimaginative school teacher’s favourite essay subjects (1. What I did on my summer/diwali/winter holidays, 2. My cow, 3. The elephant is a wondrous animal) will be replaced by a lively ‘What should we do to make Suresh Kalmadi cry like a baby?’ Children come up with the most marvellous out-of-the-box solutions.

However, there is one thing we must acknowledge and appreciate while we’re passionately flinging shoes at the TV screen every time Kalmadi shows up: The exercise is good for our arm muscles – our biceps and triceps may never sag. Seriously though, the shoddy organisation of the CWG games has thrown up valuable lessons that every Indian would do well to remember:

1. Pakistan is not India’s Enemy No. 1 – this title belongs to our inept politicians.

2. When working on a project always keep in mind that the execution must be as good as the idea. By which I’m definitely not implying that Kalmadi should have a grand execution ceremony, inaugurated jointly (after acrimonious TV debates) by India’s President Pratibha Patil and Britain’s Prince Charles. I would much rather have him alive and squirming like the rest of us are right now.

3. Corruption can be forgiven and forgotten – only if the corrupt deliver!

4. Money can’t buy you class. Approx. 70,000 crore has been squandered on the games (and still counting – remember, housekeeping hasn’t been accounted for yet). At the end of which we look third-world (I’m never going to get over this, sigh).

5. Always double-check every little detail no matter how tedious it may be. Environment minister Jairam Ramesh has just discovered that the elephant featured in an Incredible India ad is African and not an Indian tusker! Fortunately, heads are rolling for a change.

6. It is much healthier to spend time outdoors – ceilings fall.

7. Never hire Sports Minister MS Gill to organise a wedding in your family. Never! Not even a child’s birthday party.

8. Delhi Chief Minister Sheila Dixit is the ideal person to endorse anti-anxiety pills. Bridges may collapse, ceilings may fall yet she continues to smile sweetly, warmly assuring us that there’s nothing to worry about. What is she on?

9. The next time India dares to host another sporting event, we should not just sell broadcast rights to news channels – channels like National Geographic and Animal Planet should be part of the media package as well. Thus far, we’ve seen Great Indian Mongrels frolicking on beds, a snake in the residential village and a cobra in a stadium. Pretty impressive, huh? And it’s getting much better: Langoors have been hired to chase smaller monkeys away from the stadiums (incidentally, these small monkeys are the ones that bureaucrats depend on to eat and destroy vitally important government files, which is why the poor things can never be given a holiday). Anyway, I’m certain that other species of Indian wildlife will find a way in. Rest assured that if sportsmen won’t go to Corbett National Park, Corbett National Park will have to go to sportsmen. We are Jungle Book country, after all!

10. When you spend the night in a government rest house, place a feather on your guest bed to test its strength. It could save your life.

These are lessons we must never ever forget. So, let’s give the devil his due and put up statues of Suresh Kalmadi across the length and breadth of India. I think it would be appropriate to let pigeons do to him what he has done to India’s image.

Going Cuckoo

2010-10-06T09:43:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 28th September 2010)

When I think of the current state of the nation, I fall into a deep gloom: There’s Kashmir, Maoists, other terrorists, inflation, poverty, scams, and so much more to moan and groan about, sigh. Which is why I’m so grateful to a couple of politicians who have made me smile over the last few days.

Political analysts don’t often agree with each other, but there seems to be a general consensus when they air their lofty views on Trinamool Congress chief and Railways Minister Mamata Banerjee:
1. She is moody and unpredictable: she changes her mind as often as pop-star Madonna changes her hairstyle.
2. She is a terribly insecure person: her favourite words are “conspiracy” and “sabotage”.
3. She screeches like a banshee.

And now, ever since Congress General Secretary Rahul Gandhi paid fleeting visits to Kolkata, a fourth trait has come to light: Mamata Banerjee is a poet. An honest to goodness ‘nature’ poet, in the noble tradition of William Wordsworth and other Romantics.
Inspired by her muse (Rahul Gandhi), she has kept me very amused. She hath verily said:

- There are people who come like a koel (cuckoo) before an election and disappear after chirping ‘kuhu kuhu’ once spring is over. (Now imagine if she’d said this in iambic pentameter, what a beautiful poem this may have been?)

- I am not a seasonal flower that is rarely seen. (Sadly, she did not specify which flower, but since Wordsworth has already taken daffodils, I do so hope she chooses something else – a local flower perhaps?)

- I do not do politics from a bed of gold, I do it standing on the ground round the year... holding rallies in the summer heat and the monsoon rain. (Hmm. A bit like the three witches in Shakespeare’s Macbeth, you know the, “When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning or in rain,” part.

I’m just ashamed that I hadn’t figured out before where Mamata’s true talent lies. It was so glaringly obvious, really. Put together temperamental, insecure and banshee, and everybody knows that what you get is a gifted poet, not a politician. Another dead giveaway is the fact that Mamata is wildly rebellious and unconventional. She sounded almost like a hip beatnik poet when she defiantly said, “I wear hawai chappals because I like wearing them and not because someone says so.”

I think it’s time for political analysts to bow out and literary critics to start commenting on Mamata’s illustrious career. I’m sure West Bengal’s jittery ruling party would be delighted to encourage Mamata’s true calling. Incidentally, Rahul Gandhi is absolutely certain that Mamata Banerjee wasn’t referring to him because (he firmly says) he does not look like a bird. The prosaic chap just doesn’t get literary allusions, tsk. But this must be said: if Mamata continues to write poetry on him, I’m certain he’ll go cuckoo.

***

Suresh Kalmadi (chairman of the CWG Organising Committee) had better get Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak as soon as possible or else he’ll have to face the music – not just AR Rahman’s dead boring anthem for the Commonwealth Games, but India’s entire population hurling invectives at him. Do you recall that he promised us that the grand show he’d put up for the Commonwealth Games would make India proud? And that all the Indians who were relentlessly criticizing him for the shoddily put together games were shockingly unpatriotic? Well, the supposedly world-class Commonwealth Games Village was recently unveiled, and New Zealand, Canada, Scotland and Ireland have expressed grave misgivings at the horrible mess the accommodation is in. They insist that their contingents be put up in hotels instead. It seems that Kalmadi squandered so much money on the toilet paper (Rs. 4000 a roll, remember?) that he couldn’t afford to hire housekeeping to clean the toilets. Meanwhile a foot over-bridge leading to the Nehru stadium has just collapsed and a false ceiling has caved in. I have a strange feeling that all the foreign teams will run away before the games even begin. I wonder if they’ll make new sprint records on the way to Indira Gandhi International Airport? Okay, I know I really should be crying with shame but I’m rolling on the floor with mirth instead. My friendly neighbourhood psychiatrist has warned me that this is a classic text-book sign of hysteria.

Bookworms of the world unite

2010-09-23T01:17:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 21st September 2010)

I grew up in a house that had more books than furniture. Sometimes when guests came over, we had to offer them stacks of books on sit on. Only the ones we didn’t love, mind you, and were dead certain we’d never read again - not even if we were paid.

Now that e-books have entered the publishing fray, tsunami-like waves of nostalgia are sweeping over the bookworm fraternity. The aroma of paper, fresh ink and the rustle of pages are being romanticised to ridiculous extents. If it carries on like this, we may soon have passionate sonnets dedicated to paper books: “Shall I compare thee to an e-book? Thou art more rustly and smell more divine.” I thoroughly disapprove of this mawkishness. The debate is pointless because e-books can never ever replace paper books. There are practical reasons to own paper books. Consider a few of my arguments:

1. What do you slap a blood-sucking mosquito against a wall with, huh? Try it with an e-book and you’ll hear a sickening crash instead of a satisfying splat. That’s about 13 grand down the drain. It’s cheaper to cure Malaria. Even when you add up those little thank you boxes of chocolate for the hospital nurses.

2. How on earth can you prop up rickety legs of tables or chairs if there are no paper books handy?

3. You can eat like a slob while reading a paper book. It rests so beautifully on the table when aligned with your plate - you don’t require a stand to hold it up. You can’t ever dream of doing this with an e-book, can you? Particularly not if splishy sploshy soup or dal is on the menu.

4. If everybody switches to e-books, how can we tell what people are really, really like? Homes without bookshelves offer no vital personality clues. For example, if you see a line up of books on serial killers, like say, A Criminal History of Mankind, Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper etc, on a colleague’s bookshelf, would you really want to be alone with this person after dark?

5. When you really love a book, you want to share it with your family and close friends. And you can’t lend an e-book unless you part with the entire device. What if the people you’ve lent your Kindle or iPad to are annoyingly slow readers?

6. Can you imagine swearing on an e-book in a court of law?

To be scrupulously fair though, I have to concede that e-books do have some positives. For starters, there are no nasty wriggly silverfish squished between the pages (whew). They are also a boon for people with transferable jobs. You won’t have to pay the packers a small fortune to transport your books – you can carry thousands of them with you in your handbag. You can order them from the comfort of your home and get them instantly, without moping at home for weeks, ageing considerably while you’re waiting for the tardy courier chappie to deliver.

But the most important advantage to my mind is, you may never have to visit a bookshop again. Whenever I visit a bookshop these days, I’m reminded of the movie, You’ve got mail, in which a small independent bookstore run by a family of charming bookworms goes out of business because of competition from a mega bookstore chain that pops up in the neighbourhood. That movie brought scalding tears to my eyes – not because of the soppy love story (well, not just), but because those impersonal bookstore chains are mushrooming in India as well. None of the uniformed assistants at India’s largest bookstores appear to have read any of the books – and when they irritably do a search on the in-house computer for a book you’re looking for, you begin to wonder if some of them can read at all. Sad, because you lose out on warm recommendations and cosy chats and perhaps even an introduction to a brilliant, quirky book you’ve never heard of – that’s what it used to be like in the good old days.

The truth is, it’s not technology that may eventually drive me to e-books, but unhelpful, uninformed bookstore assistants. Bring the cosy bookstores back, and I swear with my hand on a holy paper book that I will never even flirt with the idea of e-books again.

Let there be light

2010-09-23T01:14:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 14th September 2010)

I spent most of last week in quiet meditation. Not under a tree like Amar Chitra Katha yogis though – please, I do not wish to be attacked by soldier ants and other creepy crawlies. Take my word for it - lying on the bed staring at the ceiling fan can lead to enlightenment as well. Okay, so I haven’t hit upon an inspiring new religion yet, but I have had a few startling revelations.

Tony Blair will be remembered for owning more shoes than the entire female cast in Sex and the City: Everyone and his dog is writing a book these days. Why, George W. Bush’s poodle has just published one too. Former British Prime Minister Tony Blair’s tell all memoirs (Tony Blair: A Journey) was recently launched. When Blair appeared for the first leg of his international signing tour at a book store in Dublin, anti-war protesters hurled shoes and eggs at him. There are a lot more anti-war protestors across the world eagerly waiting for him with shoes polished and poised. The Queen of England will probably toss her royal slippers at him too for revealing private conversations and exposing her inner-housewife. Why he had to tell us that Her Majesty dons rubber gloves and does the dishes every now and then, beats me. Fellow Labour Party member Gordon Brown is bound to hurl army boots stuffed with rocks at Blair as well for making him look ridiculous while pretending to praise him. From the excerpt I’ve read, I have to concede that Blair cleverly did to him what Mark Anthony did to Brutus. It’s a win-win situation for Blair, really: if the book’s royalties eventually don’t add up to much, rest assured he can make a killing by organising a quaint English jumble sale with all those shoes.

Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi would have approved of Facebook: I have been giggling appreciatively at the non-violent protests of a Facebook group that has recently sprung to life. It urges people to "subversively move Tony Blair's memoirs to the crime section in book shops" and has over 7,000 enthusiastic members so far. The protest is a huge success and members have uploaded cheeky shots of the book in the fantasy, true crime and horror shelves at bookstores, tee hee. Now, if only I’d thought of this when BJP leader LK Advani’s autobiography (My Country My Life) was launched! It’s never too late though - if ever I chance upon copies of Advani’s memoirs, rest assured I’ll put them where they really belong. That’s the least I can do as a secular Indian.

There’s a glaring typographical error in Indian medical textbooks: Admittedly I haven’t seen it myself, but I strongly suspect that the solemn term ‘Hippocratic Oath’ is misspelt as ‘Hypocritic Oath’. I have always been opposed to the idea of doctors going on strike while patients (particularly the underpriviliged ones) suffer. Sure their problems must be addressed but there are humane ways to settle scores, for God’s sake. As I write this, a strike by 1200 resident doctors in Rajasthan has entered its third day. I have just been informed by a breathless and justifiably horrified TV reporter that over 50 ailing people have died so far thanks to medical negligence. The charming Dr. Nitin Dwivedi (President of the Resident Doctor’s Association) was interviewed and he airily brushed aside the reporter’s concern saying that the figures were titchy and absolutely nothing to worry about. More people than that die every single day when the doctors are on duty, he calmly assured her in his most comforting bedside manner. Hmm. I’m pretty certain now that if I so much as sneeze while holidaying in Rajasthan, I’m taking the next flight out.

There’s a new star on the horizon: While I was idly surfing through television channels the other day, I caught sight of a disgruntled middle-aged woman with eyes scrunched into slits shrieking into the camera. I shuddered, assuming that I’d stumbled upon one of those dreadful saas-bahu serials. And then I recognised her – it was BJP leader Sushma Swaraj live in Parliament! My God, Ekta Kapoor absolutely must sign her on as a TV mother-in-law – Sushma’s a natural. She’s got the right expressions, the right tonal pitch, the right clothes and the right manhole-sized bindi, as well. Why should only members of parliament enjoy her fabulous histrionics?

A chick’s-eye view of cricket

2010-09-08T19:04:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 7th September 2010)

I remember the good old days when cricket was regarded as a gentleman’s game. The only vulgar and ungentlemanly thing about it is was the groin guard batsmen used to protect their erm, manhood (helpful tip: when squeamish about referring to certain parts of the human anatomy, always fall back on idiotic Mills & Boon euphemisms). I always found it terribly embarrassing when players would nonchalantly adjust their groin guard mid-game. Had they forgotten that many viewers were carrying binoculars? Or were they merely sickos? That’s why, I guess, I never had even a fleeting crush on a cricketer. Heroes don’t fidget with their underwear in public. Superman never did that - and if he ever got the urge, he discreetly disappeared into a telephone booth.

Admittedly what I know about cricket can be written on a grain of rice by a ham-fisted amateur calligraphist: it’s a deathly dull game where sweaty men wearing shiny lip-gloss get paid loads of money to hang around on a field all day adjusting their underwear when not trying to hit or throw a small hard ball – it’s sort of like playing ‘fetch’ with a dog. During off-season those sweaty players are still on our television screens (they never ever go away –sigh) telling us what brand of toothpaste they use – like I care! Why that inspires crowds of gorgeous women to fling themselves at the feet of mainly appearance-challenged men and lustily beg, “Take me, take me!” beats me. Perhaps because they are assured that the players have good dental hygiene?

When the term ‘Aussie sledging’ came about, the picture that immediately popped into my head was the Aussie team dramatically thundering into the cricket pitch on a sleigh while cheerfully singing “Jingle bells”. I was a tad disappointed when my husband corrected me with a sneer – ah come on, players skidding on reindeer droppings would have been vastly entertaining. I had to amuse myself by peering at the TV screen trying to lip-read instead: was it the nasty F-word or the innocuous S-word an irate player muttered?

My faint interest in cricket flickered to life again during the ‘racism’ scandal implicating members of our own team. I recall thinking that Harbhajan Singh could have been a great replacement for Jade Goody on Big Brother. Since then, I have sternly warned my three nephews and only niece that the F-word is okay, but if they ever use the M-word (m**key) I will make them gargle with a harsh toilet cleaner. They are not even allowed to use it at a zoo.

And now another match-fixing or rather, spot-fixing scandal has reared its ugly head. This is way more embarrassing and ungentlemanly than those gosh-darned antics with groin guards. While the cricketing fraternity is up in arms against a few allegedly guilty Pakistani players, I wish they’d concentrate on corrupt cricket boards, betting syndicates and all those politicians sneakily involved instead. Go after them. Throw those nasty spoil sports into vats of boiling oil. Better still, lodge them in an Indian jail – they’ll boil there just as well during summer, because there are no fans. Since we’re on the subject of betting, I’m willing to bet there’s an Indian connection to this (we’ve seen this before, remember) despite what ICC president Sharad Pawar claims. I have never had reason to believe a single word Pawar has said in his political avtaar. He plays his own game. And that game, I’m afraid, is not cricket.

That’s why I didn’t mutter darkly about racism when former English captain Mike Atherton said that a total eradication of corruption from the game is highly unlikely because of financially strong countries like India's dominance in the International Cricket Council. Like him I really wish cricket could be cleaned up. Hey, I may not love this game but my husband does - and without the assurance of fair-play he’ll probably wither away and die broken-hearted.

Sadly, all that we can realistically expect those inept cricket boards to do is keep feeding us hogwash till we’re bored to tears. The only thing I’m eagerly looking forward to is a face-off between the Pakistan Cricket Board and the International Cricket Council. What’s the bet that the president of the PCB will aggressively tell the president of the ICC, “We will not discuss anything till the issue of Kashmir is settled.”?

Donate generously to the rich.

2010-09-08T19:01:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 31st August 2010)

If you have loose cash to spare, I have a hot tip for you: invest it in companies that manufacture antacids and you may become as gloriously rich as the members of India’s Commonwealth Games organising committee. Sales of antacids have been going through the roof ever since members of parliament proposed a massive, massive, massive wage hike for themselves. These days, ordinary tax-paying citizens like me are way too bilious for a morning cuppa – most of us morosely glug Digene or Gelucil while reading the newspapers instead. I must say that I’ve grown rather fond of the orange flavour– it tastes a tad less chalky than the rest.

But tell me again, why do our MPs need a wage hike? Honestly, I wouldn’t be up in arms about this if their salaries were all they earned. But as even innocent little children know, many of them (apart from an honourable handful, admittedly) liberally help themselves to everything they can grab: disaster aid, food for the poor, cattle-feed etc. Many have become obscenely wealthy despite their shocking lack of education because they’ve sneakily gained control of India’s biggest money spinners: real estate, mines and cricket, to name a few. Every week we hear of a new scam being exposed. Heck, corrupt MPs could always afford the exclusive Suresh Kalmadi brand of CWG toilet paper at Rs. 4000 grand a roll!

Gosh, the thought of much more of my hard-earned money going into, say, Suresh Kalmadi’s crisply starched khadi pocket is making my bile rise again. Perhaps we should organise a national citizen strike the day the bill is slated to be passed to register our protest against corrupt MPs getting more cash. We must keep in mind, however, that the tone of the strike is all important and must be debated seriously on Twitter or Facebook. Here are a few options we could consider:

1. We could wear black arm-bands and perform a silent march from India Gate to Parliament bearing lit candles. Very beautiful and dignified indeed but the only hitch is, it’s way too subtle for them. Remember, some of our MPs are not particularly bright and they’ll probably assume that we’re celebrating Diwali earlier this year. Also, dripping wax can cause severe burns.

2. We could do to corrupt MPs what their party goons do to us: scream slogans, burn effigies, bar their entry, torch their cars etc. We can also do what they enjoy doing to each other: hurl shoes (only old torn ones, mind you – why waste good things on those rotters) and shatter flower pots. Don’t worry, we won’t be arrested for this – well, not for over a few hours at any rate. All we have to do is solemnly give the judge the regular goonda political party spiel: say (in an aggrieved tone of voice, of course) that it was a spontaneous reaction and we did it because our sentiments were severely wounded. Add the bit about inflation as well (in thundering, self-righteous tones this time). And bingo, we’ll be scot free and home in time for dinner and champagne!

3. Alternatively, we could speak to corrupt MPs in the only language they understand: Rupees. Suppose, just suppose we refuse to pay our taxes till all the tainted MPs are axed? It could spark off another freedom struggle with jails bursting at the seams, and culture reaching new heights with fiery songs of revolution replacing rubbishy Bollywood hits. Oh, the works! Better still, at the end of it all, at least a dozen statues of UP Chief Minister Mayawati determinedly clutching a handbag may be demolished to make way for ours!

4. What may really work, however, is if we forget the strike (too tedious) and concentrate on shaming them into doing their jobs conscientiously. For starters, identify corrupt MPs and organise a film show in their individual constituencies. On D-Day we tie the corrupt MPs to chairs and make them watch Peepli Live (Anusha Rizvi’s fantastic film that exposes India’s sickeningly slimy politicians and supremely indifferent bureaucrats) with their voters. A Q&A session must follow, with the voters grilling them in the manner of CNN-IBNs Karan Thapar: very ,very grimly, through gritted teeth. Of course, this may not work either, but the joy – oh the joy of watching them squirm! I’m willing to pay their hefty salaries just for that.

White Lies

2010-08-25T19:03:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 24th August 2010)

I’m really superbugged about the superbug The Lancet is going to town (or rather, the universe) about. That a nasty superbug may have originated in India is one thing – it’s a dead serious allegation and must be investigated as soon as possible. Naming it after New Delhi, however, is discriminatory. A sneaky and spiteful way of putting us down, isn’t it? Personally, I don’t care if patients from the western world stop coming to India for high quality (and relatively cheaper) medical treatment – it’s more their loss than ours. What makes my blood boil is the public slur that has been cast on India as a bug-infested nation - by one of the world’s most respected medical journals at that! I don’t have one racist bone in my body, but I’ve just had it with this ‘white is supremely right’ nonsense. Hello, we can be as finicky about their germs as they are about ours - fair’s fair, right?
So here’s a helpful little travel advisory for Indians who holiday in the west. And, might I add (in a dignified and mature manner) so there!

1. Do not use community washing machines or hotel laundry services: Keep in mind that you’ll temporarily be living with people who use flimsy toilet paper, not good old hygienic soap and water. That, erm, streaky underwear lands up in washing machines – get the picture? There is a good reason why very few Indians have affairs with whites – and honestly it has very little to do with race or religion! If this doesn’t demystify sexy Hollywood actors, nothing will. Anyway, do personally wash your clothes by hand if you travel west.

2. Do not dip even your little toe into swimming pools for one second: Perish the thought. Desist even if it’s boiling hot and the swimming pool looks very inviting. Remember two formidable little words: toilet paper.

3. Avoid physical contact with natives of western countries: Rumour has it that they bathe as many times in a week as we do every single day, particularly during winter. Sure, perfumes mask odours - but do they kill germs? If you must shake hands, do make liberal use of a hand sanitizer (as discreetly as possible, of course – we must be polite). Better still, execute the traditional germ-free Namaste.

4. Carry several family-size packs of antiseptic liquid: Sure you may have to hand out fistfuls of money for excess baggage but trust me, it’s worth it. Suppose, just suppose, your hotel doesn’t have a shower? Do scrub the bathtub down with gallons of antiseptic liquid. And if you’re feeling lazy, remember four shudder-inducing words: ‘toilet paper’ and ‘infrequent baths’.

5. Watch what you eat: Supermarket shelves in the west are packed with heat and eat convenience foods. These contain vast quantities of preservatives. Do you really want to ingest nasty chemicals that could do horrible, terrible things to your body? Heck, you may as well do your grocery shopping at a taxidermist’s.

6. Order your food wisely: When we cook meat in India, we cook it thoroughly and add a pinch of turmeric because of its super antiseptic properties. People in the west, however, appear to prefer undercooked meat. Even well done steaks are not as well done as they are in India. Stick a fork into a rare steak and chances are all that blood may make you feel squeamish and faint. If you can deal with it, why not just take a bite out of a live animal’s juicy rear instead and order sauce on the side?

7. Take all the tips I mentioned above with a generous pinch of salt: I’m just angry and I needed to let off steam, okay? Mainly because of the unfairness of it all. There is a mathematical explanation for the hysteria being generated in the west: a bypass surgery in India costs about $8000 while in the west it’s approximately $30,000. Now do you understand why droves of intelligent (and clearly there are many) western patients flock to India leaving lots of over paid, under-skilled speciality doctors in the UK with nothing to do but invent new germs when they’re bored of hanging out on Facebook? The doctors/researchers who named the superbug after New Delhi must be made aware of the fact that people who live in glass houses (even white people, darlings) shouldn’t throw stones!

It's godawful poetry fortnight

2010-08-24T03:47:00.000-07:00

For the sordid details, visit: http://zigzackly.blogspot.com/2010/08/grandson-of-godawful-poetry-fortnight.html
My annual contribution:
GORD ORFUL POTTERY
Death by BMC

T’was not the soppy nightingale nor the wet-blanket lark
When the life insurance agent espied her limp, lifeless body
Under the hideous gilt-touched plaster-of-paris monstrosity –
- A ridiculous, shamefully tacky, cringe-inducing faux-Gothic arch.

‘Bloody BMC philistines have ruined this park,
Do these morons think this crap is high art?’
While examining her pulse his thoughts were like Bourneville
- intensely and horribly, terribly dull and depressingly dark.

A sweaty, smelly doctor wheezed and jogged past,
Then reversed his steps to deliver a life-saving blast.
He administered CPR in vain, then glared at the arch,
- ‘These sods have killed her – haven’t they heard of Zay Zay School of Art?

Mercy me!

2010-08-17T21:09:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 10th August 2010)

Golly! That’s what I yelped when I read that Enid Blyton’s publishers are set to update the language of the original Famous Five series so that today’s children don’t find 1940s British slang a stumbling block. To cite a few examples, "mercy me!" will now be a dull "oh no!", "fellow" will be replaced by the dreary "old man" and "it's all very peculiar" will be "it's all very strange". If you ask me, it’s a ghastly idea, and when I recover from the shock, I plan to send a stinker to her publishers with the stern message, “You will jolly well not change a word!” Chances are that they will ignore my pleas (sadly, profits are more compelling than sentiments), and the only consolation I can hang on to is the fact that the publishers have stated, hand on heart, that they will make the changes “sensitively” and will not replace dated slang with its modern equivalent or text message language. Whew! Honestly, I think I’d throw up if I read the following:

“OMG,” Anne clutched George’s arm, “I hear this, like, rustling in the, like, undergrowth or something.”
“Hey chill,” George replied, “That’s just Timmy doing his thing. I guess, like, it’s time to get the pooper-scooper out.”
“Cool!”Anne heaved a sigh of relief and got back to checking her cellphone for text messages. Her brow creased as she pondered deeply over a cryptic message from Julian that stated, “Lmao n rotf - ttyl.”
She sent him a terse reply: WTF?

In all seriousness though, I really am very alarmed at this move. After they finish cleaning up the text, all we’ll have left is a racy story without Blyton’s unique flavouring that makes it all the more special. Sort of like unsalted popcorn. Am I the only one who believes that today’s children are being cheated instead of pampered?

Dash it all, if we allow this sort of thing to happen, PG Wodehouse’s publishers may do likewise – and imagine reading Wodehouse without all that “Pip pip and tally ho old chap” stuff. Will a staid “I feel good” make you giggle as much as “Feeling boomps-a-daisy”? And will the lovely phrases from hymns like “As pants the hart for cooling streams” (when one of the characters is yearning for a spot of alcohol) be changed to a prosaic, “I feel like a drink”? I can assure you that vultures will gnaw at my bosom if this happens!

By Toutatis, this modernisation disease could spread to Asterix comics as well – all the Latin phrases (like “alea jacta est”) will probably be deleted and clever puns may be brutally bumped off too. Who knows, Shakespeare may follow (to the delight of zillions of frustrated students) and one of Lady Macbeth’s most memorable lines may well read like this: “Out out damned stain, out I say! All the perfumes manufactured by France will not make my hands smell nicer.” Zounds!

It doesn’t end there - once people start fiddling around, everything eventually goes wrong. A few years ago, golliwogs were removed from Blyton’s Noddy series on the grounds of “racial offensiveness.” I remembering thinking that it was rather odd, considering that the golliwogs were not shown in a poor light at all – they were just as charming as Noddy himself! In fact, I loved them so much, my mum even made me one for my 7th birthday. So be warned: more silly politically correct acts are bound to follow. Here are a few of my predictions:
1. First the ham sandwiches that the Famous Five love so much will go – in case, in the new multicultural Britain, it may offend certain religious sects. They will probably be replaced with chicken sandwiches since beef is also taboo. (Please note that the bread will be whole wheat, of course.)
2. Then the chicken sandwiches may be replaced by cheese if groups like People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals win more converts.
3. Dairy-eschewing vegans may object, and the starving Famous Five may be left with boring cucumber sandwiches. Or mustard and cress.
4. And so on and so forth.

I have one small question for Blyton’s publishers: Have you forgotten that today’s children have the Internet? Hey, if they can learn to make bombs from their mums cosmetics in 5 minutes, they can jolly well go to Google and discover that peculiar means strange!

The Other Rahul

2010-08-12T05:57:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 10th August 2010)

I remember BJP leader Pramod Mahajan’s funeral clearly, as though it happened yesterday. It was aired lived on TV and as BJP members were tearfully bidding farewell to the great man who taught them how to make power point presentations (yes, apparently this was his most noteworthy achievement), they were also shrewdly wondering how they could use his tragic and sensational death to their advantage. Serendipity was at work - they discovered the answer at the funeral itself. A stoic Rahul Mahajan performing his father’s last rites was eerily reminiscent of Rahul Gandhi doing likewise when his father was assassinated many years ago. So what if Pramod Mahajan was shot by his own brother in a petty family squabble and not brutally murdered by a suicide bomber? The BJP was absolutely certain that waves of sympathy votes would sink the Congress and immediately drew up grand plans for their new crown prince, Rahul Mahajan.

The BJPs fond dreams went up in smoke soon after, when Rahul Mahajan was discovered deliriously happy on coke (not the innocuous cola – heck, he’s a big boy) on his way to immerse his father’s ashes in the holy Ganges. I must add here that I was terribly worried about the fate of his father’s ashes. Raving Rahul was apparently so far gone, could he have told the difference between two pale powdery substances? It’s quite possible that the fish in the Ganges were tripping the light fantastic for weeks thereafter and listening to Pink Floyd’s Dark side of the moon.

A few years later, Raving Rahul’s first wife walked (sorry, ran) out of the marriage with tell tale bruises. It is rumoured that the poor girl was too frightened to press charges of domestic abuse in case Rahul’s brash political buddies brutally pressed the living breath out of her in retaliation. That’s when the BJP finally gave up and started distancing itself from him. Whew - I must thank them for that from the bottom of my heart.

Raving Rahul, however, lived happily ever after and reinvented himself on a TV freak show where he had a dalliance with a dreaded gangster’s moll among other weirdos. He made such an ass of himself that the media naturally fell madly in love with him. TV channels were so excited, they vied with each other to get the moron on their shows. So Raving Rahul got a freak show of his very own where he was made to choose a bride – imagine, a prize idiot was being given as a prize! To our astonishment, many pretty little Indian girls were urged by their pushy, exploitative middle-class parents to participate in it - despite Raving Rahul’s much publicised notoriety. Girls would have turned up in droves even if the TV producers had been honest and called the show, Who wants to marry an alleged schizophrenic wife-beating drug addict? Sad, isn’t it, how many Indian parents want their daughters to get killed?

As we all know, Raving Rahul chose a comely Bengali lass called Dimpy Ganguly but alas, Dimpy made her great escape a few days ago and coyly lifted her skirt to show the media a few bruises. Then her loving, caring father intervened and ordered her to get right back to her alleged schizophrenic wife-beating drug addict husband. What’s he waiting for – Raving Rahul to murder his daughter first before he contemplates the idea of divorce? With fathers like these, who needs sadists.

The TV channel that produced Raving Rahul’s wedding show must be over the moon with joy. They’re hunting for a new freak to do a swayamvar this season, and if Dimpy goes against her loving, caring father’s wishes and bravely divorces Raving Rahul, they can use him again, and perhaps every season thereafter, seeing how often his wives run away screaming. I even have an appropriate title in mind: Who wants to be Rahul Mahajan’s next victim?

My plea to all General Entertainment TV channels, however, is please may we have a little integrity? If you must use Raving Rahul, create fabulous shows with leading psychiatrists and rehab councillors as contestants. I have some concepts to toss at you: Who can reform a nasty wife-beater? Or, Who can rehabilitate a crazy coke-head? Now, those are the sort of freak shows I would definitely watch with great satisfaction and buckets of popcorn!

All that glitters is not 24 Karat gold

2010-08-12T05:47:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 3rd August 2010)

Of all the preachy proverbs we were made to learn at school, the one that frightened me the most was, “Pride comes before a fall.” I continue to have deep respect for it because I actually saw how dramatically it worked in July 2008, after the Left had arrogantly (and utterly foolishly) withdrawn support to UPA-I over the Indo-US nuclear deal. Now, while we didn’t understand much (okay, why lie - we didn’t understand anything) about the nuclear deal, one thing was crystal clear: the America-unfriendly Left had absolutely no idea that the Cold War was over! How much faith can you have in a party that hasn’t bothered to read the newspapers for years? Naturally, we backed UPA-I, and to our great joy, the Left lost not just that battle but many more to come. Better still, CPM General Secretary Prakash Karat, he who was most stridently and vociferously against the deal, was left with a generous helping of egg on his face. Most of us agreed that he looked so much more attractive this way - and not just because egg white tightens unseemly pores.

During the lively vote of confidence drama on television it was clear that while Prime Minister Manmohan Singh was the victor (yay) and Rahul Gandhi and Omar Abdulla were decidedly the best looking chaps in Parliament (sigh), the real hero of the day was Lok Sabha Speaker, Somnath Chatterjee. We were aware that he had been sternly ordered by his Left comrades to resign from the post of speaker before the vote of confidence. We were also aware that he’d spent several sleepless nights mulling over this arbitrary decision – racoon-like dark circles tell tales.

To our amazement, Chatterjee conscientiously stayed on, staunchly maintaining that a speaker plays an impartial role, so that was exactly what he was going to do, yah boo sucks to you! This thrilled the nation to bits. Good heavens, a man with integrity in Indian politics! Was he an alien? Was this a dream? As the highly charged drama unfolded on our television screens, we were delighted by Chatterjee’s unique style of humour (so much more entertaining than a 2000th re-run of Friends), enjoyed his lovely old fashioned reprimands, and applauded the commanding way in which he violently thumped the table to silence raucous dissent. And how we gasped with outrage when soon after the Left (well, Karat really) viciously expelled Chatterjee for upholding the principles of the constitution instead of toeing the petty party line. Such poor losers, tsk.

A year later, in the run up to the general elections, someone (it evidently wasn’t God) came to Karat in a dream and inspired him to create the Third Front: a rag tag bunch of regional parties who were naive enough to believe that they would knock out all chances of the UPA coming back to power. Karat had such delusions of grandeur – he really, really believed this would work and it gave us so much amusement to see him huffing and puffing in a self-important manner. Of course, when the results were declared, he avoided answering questions and mumbled some rubbish about the party getting into introspection mode, while wiping a fresh batch of eggs off his face. I don’t know if you noticed, but there was a shortage of eggs in the nation for weeks thereafter. I suppressed the overpowering urge to dash off a letter saying, “What's to introspect, Dude? You're the biggest problem in the party!”

But back to my hero, Somnath Chatterjee. His tell all autobiography, Keeping the Faith: Memoirs of a Parliamentarian, is set to be released on 21st August. To rub salt into Karat’s egg-encrusted face, it will be launched by his bête noire, Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. If we go by the pre-launch excerpts, Chatterjee has some rather interesting and unflattering things to say about Karat. Gosh, this is one book I’m certainly going to smash my piggy bank to buy – and I hereby solemnly declare that I will not rest till I get it autographed as well!

Poor, poor Karat. Pride indeed does come before a fall. And what a fall there was my countrymen! All along I merely believed that he would go down in history as the walking, talking omelette. Chatterjee’s memoirs, however, may make him toast.

It's steaming hot soup weather, yay!

2010-07-29T03:58:00.001-07:00

Oh why can't it be lovely and rainy and grey every single day of the year! Have decided that I hate the sun more than I hate paneer - much, much more. Cannot even bear to listen to the Beatles cheerfully singing, Here comes the sun. Want an Indian version, Here comes the rain! Any of our made-in-India bands up to it?

Grim Fairy Tales

2010-07-29T03:21:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 27th July 2010)

As I write this, US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton has landed in Pakistan, and this image of Little Red Riding Hood just popped into my head. There goes Hillary innocently tripping through terrorist-ridden terrain with a basket packed with goodies for an ailing country. Of course, just like in the original fairytale, the ailing country won’t get the goodies – it will be intercepted by Pakistan’s ISI who do an Oscar-worthy impersonation of the big bad wolf (way better than Robert De Niro possibly can). Hillary still hasn’t arrived at the suspicious, “Grandma what sharp teeth you have,” stage. We have to wait and see if she eventually figures out who she’s really dealing with. Tell me again, why do so many Indians want to study in America? Americans are not that smart, see?

Well, that got me thinking about how a lot of our politicians are like characters in children’s stories as well. Here’s a list of a few:

The Sleeping Beauty: Nobody plays this as soulfully as Trinamool Congress Leader Mamata Banerjee. There have been 7 gruesome railway accidents since she took over as Union Railway Minister last May. Sadly, whenever the noise of a crash disturbs her sleep, she sleepily mumbles something incoherent about sabotage and goes right back to the Land of Nod. To be fair, maybe she’s just muttering ‘collision’ and cynics like me hear it as ‘collusion’? What is most endearing about her is that the poor dear can’t even stay awake long enough to make a grand gesture: offer to resign from her post. Perhaps it’s time for someone to wake her up with coffee? Anyone brave enough to give her a kiss? Ah, go on – do it for the country!

Cinderella: Once upon a time there was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed little girl called Mayawati who met Kanshi Ram, a people’s prince. He invited her to his party, and she’s been having a ball ever since! We don’t know if she carelessly left one of her shoes behind when the clock struck midnight, but fortunately, Kanshi Ram was even more chivalrous than the prince in the fairytale: he gallantly asked her to step into his shoes. The UP chief minister lives happily ever after and possibly owns more diamonds than the Queen of England. She’s become a trend-setter as well and wears garlands made of rupee notes when she goes to parties – so much more stylish than Armani, wouldn’t you agree? Now if only the people she represents were living happily ever after too, her story could have been as magical as a fairy tale.

Little Lord Fauntleroy: This has just got to be Shashi Tharoor! Affected, mildly pompous, privileged, a natty dresser, and ever so charming. Okay, so he doesn’t have divine ringlets, but his hair looks pretty good too! If ever I get to interview him, the first question I’m probably going to eagerly ask (in the interests of the nation, of course) is, “What shampoo and conditioner do you use?” Don’t you just love the way his glossy hair bounces and gleams, just like in a shampoo ad? The man has never had a bad hair day – heck, not even when he was politely induced to resign over somewhat shady IPL deals. Bring him back Mr. Manmohan Singh, please bring him back – he’s such a joy to look at – so much more attractive than the Bollywood actresses in Parliament!

The Prince and the Pauper: Rahul Gandhi in a classic Bollywood double-role, of course. While desperate apple-polishers in his party project him as the future king, and jealous opposition parties who are stuck with his grumpy, non-dimpled cousin sneer that of course he will be king, dynasty politics and all that mutter mutter, our hero appears to have different plans for himself. For starters, he would rather play the pauper and stay in village huts rather than the posh 5-star hotels most politicians prefer. Well, well – this has started out as a rather interesting story and I hope it has a happy ending for the nation.

Robin Hood: Ha ha, bet you thought I was foolishly going to say the Left parties, right? Sorry, but as we all know, there are no Robin Hood clones in our country. All our politicians are very democratic - they steal from both the rich and the poor. Some like RJD leader Lalu Prasad Yadav have even stolen fodder from cattle. Bah!

Mera Bharat Mahaan

2010-07-29T03:18:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 20th July 2010)

Life’s strange. Apart from Paul the charming psychic octopus, who would have thought that I would exhale into a ‘Made in China’ Argentina-branded vuvuzela to cheer Spain on in the FIFA World Cup 2010 finals? Even more staggering, who would have believed that thoughts of Indian politicians would cross my mind while holidaying in South Africa? If anyone, including Paul the psychic octopus had predicted this, I’d have delivered my favourite quote from one of the most memorable characters in English Literature: “Go’an boil yer ‘ed and fry yer face too!” No, it’s not Shakespeare’s Macbeth, but Blyton’s Ern Goon from the Five Findouters and Dog series.

Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi is an exception, of course. I’m always reminded of him when I’m anywhere in the West because he still hasn’t gone out of fashion on trendy t-shirts and spectacle frames. But to see photographs of him in Johannesburg’s Apartheid Museum made me feel 10 feet tall and oh so proud to be an Indian. It really was more inspiring than seeing his signature on exclusive, expensive non-khadi Montblanc pens.

The streets of South Africa have another inspiring story to tell. You spot about as many Mahindra Scorpios and Tata Indicas as you do in India – and they look so much more impressive there because the roads are wider and spotlessly clean. Locals said the most flattering things about these cars and praised them sky high for being trustworthy. They’re waiting now with bated breath for the Nano, perhaps the world’s most affordable car. I suspect my husband drove them to binge drinking when he told them (regretfully) that they had a long wait, since the demand in India is exceeding high. That’s when Trinamool Congress chief, Mamata Banerjee, popped into my head. I clenched my fists at the thought of how her spine-chilling banshee-like wails had driven this little money-spinner out of my state. Yes, West Bengal is desperately seeking a change of governance, but shouldn’t that change be a positive one? Seriously, one of the most important reasons why I shudder at the idea of Mamata Banerjee reigning over West Bengal are her screechy wails. Worse than a chorus of vuvuzelas, oh infinitely worse. If she does manage to overthrow the Left, I’m certain sales of ear-plugs will rise in West Bengal. Oh well, at least the state will have some business that way. Every cloud has a silver lining, and all that!

Interestingly, IPL creator and former chief, Lalit Modi, has achieved what all the aggressive Mumbai Thackerays combined couldn’t do: stop us from using the word Bombay! When in South Africa, my husband and I dared to say the word ‘Bombay’ out loud – we said it frequently and fearlessly without looking over our shoulders for fear of being thrashed to pulp by the Sena and MNS. It was a super emotional release! Astonishingly, we were corrected by locals, who firmly told us it’s Mumbai. Most of them were fans of Mumbai Indians, see? Perhaps after Lalit Modi finishes his IPL war he should run for elections in Maharashtra. Sure he may be a crook, but then aren’t 99.8% of our politicians criminals as well? And least Lalit Modi doesn’t wear ugly safari suits – such a relief!

The UPA gave me reason to feel good too, when locals enviously told us how wonderful it was that the global recession hadn’t hit India that badly. And oh, I have something valuable to contribute to that Incredible India tourism campaign that’s being aired: instead of just talking about cold monuments, we should talk about our warm hospitality – because it really is incredible. We’ve stayed at some of the best hotels around the world, but the courtesy and facilities pale in comparison to what India’s second best hotels offer. Perhaps the reason why we treat guests so well in India is because we fear they may be some God or Goddess in disguise testing us by ringing our doorbells and asking for a glass of water or some rubbish. Whatever the reason, however, we truly excel in the field of hospitality. This is our strength and we must never lose it!

So all in all, I went abroad and came back feeling immensely pleased to be an Indian. Of course, when we landed and drove out of the airport, the smells and sights on the streets made me want to take the next flight out of the country!

A Bandh to Bandhs

2010-07-29T03:16:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 13th July 2010)

As I write this, I’m thinking fondly of Marie Antoinette. At least she had the grace to offer cake to starving French peasants when bread was hard to come by. All that our opposition parties generously offered us was a nation-wide bandh to protest against the price rise. We don’t even get cake crumbs! And now they’re blushing with pride because the bandh was an astounding success despite the fact that the prices weren’t rolled back. Here’s why:

• Very few humble citizens stepped out on the streets. Not because they staunchly supported the pointless bandh, oh no. They were merely cowering at home for fear of getting stoned to death by the very parties that claim to love them dearly. Countless citizens got severe flesh wounds by brutally kicking themselves for not having the foresight to stock up on beer and chips the day before. Dare I say that they deserved it?

• The nation’s economic loss was a staggering 13,000 crore (source: FICCI). Wonderful news, considering that now prices may rise even higher to make up for that shameful loss, and the opposition can call for another Bharat bandh soon – one more delightful opportunity to tell us that they care for us, yay! This time round, please do remember to stock up on beer and crunchy finger food. You have been warned.

• The opposition parties have proved beyond doubt that they are not wimps and are certainly not afraid to play with fire. Look at how fearlessly they burnt buses! And don’t you think that the colourful leaping flames burning buses cause are more spectacular than the ones that come from boring Diwali sparklers and rockets? Oooh, I’m inspired to launch an email campaign urging CEOs of all the Sivakasi fireworks factories to make miniature inflammable buses this Diwali. Come on, it’s patriotic to burn buses, right?

• I’m not that frightened of anti-State Maoists anymore. They seem almost the same as our patriotic Left and Right parties now. Honestly, after watching the violent bandh rampage on TV, I’m beginning to wonder if Maoists have infiltrated the opposition. Shouldn’t we mention this to the Union Home Minister?

• The bandh gave us a few good laughs too, particularly the TV footage of BJP leaders practically pleading to be arrested. I don’t know about you, but I was giggling helplessly while watching them smile smugly at the cameras when they were escorted to the police station by reluctant cops. I do feel a twinge of regret, though, that these arrests were just a sham. Come on, they must have pulled strings to go to jail, just to experience a beautiful Gandhiji moment. Too bad that they weren’t given rock-breaking duty like other convicts. Such a shame, considering that they’re so good at breaking bricks – take the Babri Masjid, for instance. Oh, how I wish we could keep them in jail forever! That’s the only positive way they can serve the nation.

• Finally I know who exactly to vote for in the next general election. The UPA government, of course! After watching the Left and the Right parties recklessly and gleefully destroying our nation in just one day, I shudder to think what they’d do over a period of 5 years. Also, I firmly believe that our cerebral Prime Minister Manmohan Singh understands economics better than that muscular lot! The way I look at it is, if there’s a price rise, there must be a darn good long term reason for it. Admittedly, I never understood the nuclear deal either or why Shashi Tharoor was briskly thrown out because of the IPL scam and yet Sharad Pawar was hugged and retained, but my faith in our prime minister remains unshaken.

• Frankly, unless someone comes up with an intelligent, non-destructive way to tackle this issue, we have no choice but to deal with the price rise in a positive manner. Who knows, it may be a good thing for diabetes-prone Indians. We will be forced to walk more and drive less. And to eat more raw salads instead of oily cooked food. Why, in a few months, we may actually be physically stronger, so the next time some self-righteous, begging-for-attention parties try to upset our nation with a bandh, we may be brave enough to defy it by stepping out of our homes and standing up to them!

Babla & Maradona

2010-07-29T03:11:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 6th July 2010)

Dear friends, please join me in proposing hearty three cheers to our very own Babla.
Babla is being very loyal Argentina fan and bhadralok also.
He is swearing and swearing to God that he will never eat ilish maach again
If God’s hand is making Argentina win 2010 FIFA world cup in exchange.
Just you think, how many Bengalese people will barter their souls like that?
His mother is bragging that now only the fairest girl in 24 Parganas will be worthy of him.
Only naturally born ‘before’ fair girl, mind it - not ‘after’ Fair & Lovely cream girl!

Babla is being very adventurous young lad – like Christopher Columbus.
He is going to South Africa to get Diego Maradona’s autograph –
Not just for himself (he is not shellfish boy) but for everyone in the para!
Tublu, Poltu and Mintu are begging him to get Shakira’s autograph also,
But Babla is getting very angry and calling them rascals and scoundrels.
Why for he will get autographs of non-Argentina peoples?
You see how hardly his heart beats for Argentina!

Babla’s loving mother is worrying very much because it is winter in South Africa
And Babla may get bad cuff and cold.
‘Maago, stop this nakami,’ Babla is arguing, ‘I have superior quality monkey cap, no?’
His loving father is very sanguine and fully agreeing that it is only little bit nippy in the air.
So many ladies is wearing just only bra and panties in stadium, he is nodding sagely.
He is urgently reminding Babla to carry extra film roll to get stadium shots also.
You see how supportive parents can shape a child’s character and destiny?

Babla is so brave, baba, he even got his ears pierced from top to bottom,
And filled them up with plastic diamond ear-rings from pavement stalls.
His mother is crying, and saying that her khoka has become cheap transvestite
And will shake his hips in vulgar Bollywood manner, eesh!
She is not listening to common sense: Babla has done it to protect his hero Maradona,
So that muggers in South Africa will leave Maradona alone and rob him instead.
What I can say - only Bengal can produce such noble souls!

Babla is very learned cultured boy, sanskriti always comes first for him.
He is very angered that people are calling vuvuzelas nonsense things.
He is saying that vuvuzelas are more advanced than truck horns cricket fans blow.
Dakh, vuvuzelas are not just breaking cultural barriers but sound barriers also!
Plus, vuvuzelas will give better boost to general knowledge than Horlicks.
If it wasn’t for them, how people would know that mosquitos are worshipped in South Africa?
By God, I am simply not understanding why Babla never got scholarship to Oxford or Cambridge!

Babla is not dreaded Maoist but has very strong social conscience – God promise.
He is carrying one extra-large empty suitcase - not for duty free mishti,
But to bring back hazaar vuvuzelas.
He is telling to me that he will organise fiery rally for humble citizens in Kolkata,
And blow vuvuzelas outside municipal corporation offices to remind authorities about mosquito menace.
With twinkle in both eyes he is saying, after that they surely can’t be deaf to our pleas, tai na ki?
Shoti, he is only committed fellow who can bring Nano back to amar shonar Bangla!

So let’s sing he’s a jolly good fellow for Babla,
And wish our son of Bengal a happy and safe journey towards Africa and backwards also.
One last thing I have to reveal with too much pride in my voice:
Even though Babla has mishti doi-coloured safari suit, he is not going on safari – na re baba, na!
He is loyally telling why he should see common loins when our Bengal has royal tigers?
Lastly, if you see photograph of Babla kissing Maradona on the cheek in foreign newspapers,
I am begging of you, don’t condemn it as immoral act and use big big words like moral turpitude.
Let us write aatel epic poems to celebrate Babla’s most glorious moment instead!

Schools of Thought

2010-07-29T03:02:00.000-07:00

OUT OF MY HEAD
By Rupa Gulab
(Published in Bengal Post, 29th June 2010)

I have to confess that I’m not on any of the ‘Support La Martinière’ groups that have suddenly mushroomed on Facebook. I must hasten to add that neither am I against La Martinière and I promise, hand on heart, that I’m not distorting the school song by lustily singing, “Hail, hail the name we disown”. I firmly believe that a couple of bad apples won’t spoil the whole bunch. La Martinière is a grand old institution and all that’s required is a spot of weeding. While a heated debate is raging, I’d like to toss a few random questions in as well. There are some things I really, really, really want to know!

1. Shouldn’t school teachers read newspapers? If Sunirmal Chakravarthy (the principal of La Martinière for Boys) had torn himself away from say, Homer’s Iliad, and focussed on current affairs occasionally, perhaps he’d have known that corporal punishment is banned (whew!) in India. Tsk. I certainly hope he doesn’t coach students for general knowledge quiz contests!

2. Should teachers be forced to attend anger management classes?

3. Admittedly, the principal broke the law and broke a cane, but is it fair to imply that he ran La Martinière like it was Guantánamo Bay? Is the media getting carried away?

4. Is this incident a wake-up call for parents as well? Shouldn’t families have dinner together with the television off – even if the latest hit series Castle is showing? Sometimes, desultory conversations like “pass the salt” can lead to more meaningful discussions on life, the universe and everything.

5. In addition to the school song, the canticle and sundry other uplifting hymns, shouldn’t La Martinière include a more contemporary song in the founder’s day celebrations? Like, the iconic song from Pink Floyd’s Wall. Consider these two lines: “No dark sarcasm in the classroom, teachers leave them kids alone.” Okay, so the grammar is a bit iffy (the teachers could gently tell the students that, without pinching canes from the blind) but the message certainly is strong. And even if teachers don’t read the papers, at least they’ll know that caning is very, very bad.

6. Where did Sanjay Smart, the teacher who allegedly demanded a laptop from a student in exchange for test papers, work before he joined La Martinière? Tick the correct answer:
A) The government, as a customs department official.
B) The government, as a home registration official.
C) Any other post in the government.

7. I was brought up to believe that bribery is worse than setting off stink bombs in class rooms. My parents and my moral science teacher at La Martinière taught me this. So tell me, did the principal cane Sanjay Smart as well? If yes, how hard? Did he make Sanjay smart?

8. Do you think Sanjay Smart knew the entire school song by heart? Or did he just go ‘Tumpty tumpty tum tra la la tiddly pom’ when the following line came on: “May our founder’s name endure, ever spotless, ever pure.”

9. Somehow, I don’t trust people who believe in the ‘spare the rod, spoil the child,’ maxim. If they’re mean to children, wouldn’t they probably be the sort to kick dogs as well - and set fire to their tails? In which case, shouldn’t we send a list of the names of corporal punishment offenders to PETA as well?

10. Some people (oddly enough, parents too) argue that caning is a character-building tool. Wouldn’t punishing naughty children by making them memorize really long and boring poems also build character and lots more? At least they’ll be able to insert quotes into corporate speeches when they grow up and make their colleagues feel inferior, insecure and illiterate in comparison?

11. The principal has warmly assured the media that he sleeps like a baby at night, despite the fact that he’s been implicated in the suicide of a child. Can I please have the name of the tranquillizer he’s taking? (What can I say, sometimes I have insomnia.)

12. The final question, now: The more I read Wordsworth’s Daffodils, the more I wonder whose couch he lay on in ‘vacant and pensive mood’. Was it his own? Or was it his shrink’s? The ecstasy he expressed over a bunch of flowers was unnatural and bordering on insanity. Do you think teachers are being viciously cruel by making students learn this poem?

Briefly seduced by Facebook

2010-07-28T03:05:00.000-07:00

Yeah, so FB kind of distracted me in a big way. But less than 3 months later, I'm not sure if I even want to be on FB! Tired of the 'join this club and that club' and 'like this or dislike this' shit. And am not remotely interested in gawping at pictures of old friends - even if the women have grown moustaches and the men wear lipstick. I prefer to remember how they look in my head.

Miss the blog madly - because that really records how I think and feel - and I'm not playing to an audience here. Just writing for myself. To re-read when I'm old (okay, older) and practically dead (almost there!). Have made better friends on the blog, besides, like Saltwater Blues, and connected with my astute sister's friends, like Hornswoggle.

Have been busy, busy, busy on my next book and writing my new weekly column, Out of my Head, for a new newspaper, Bengal Post. Since they don't have a website yet, am going to paste my articles here.

Suddenly I'm smoking hot!

2010-06-06T07:39:00.000-07:00

Sunday Mid-day carried an excerpt of my book (a para on toy boys) as an add-on to an article on cougars. Some fun cougar related questions were thrown at me as well, and woven seamlessly into the article. As a result of which, excited little boys want "frandships" with me on Facebook.
Should I break their hearts and tell them the boring truth? That I'm married and terribly fond of my middle-aged husband, despite the fact that his hairline is not where it used to be? Or should I be mean and call their mummies?

No monsoon watch this year

2010-05-29T10:20:00.000-07:00

Don't have the heart to - not after Cyclone Aila literally stole the thunder last year. Hoping for the rain, but not banking on it. Only joy in my life is that BH's self-imposed vegan fad ends on Tuesday. He insists on fried eggs (sunny-side up) for brekker, chicken curry for lunch and the BEST mutton biryani available In Mumbai for dinner. Can't wait to live like a normal person again!

Not a decent cloud in the sky - only wispy pretenders

2010-05-25T18:13:00.000-07:00

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Where are the dark grey clouds? Where are the pre-monsoon showers? Where's my sanity? If there's a rain god, he's slacking off. Sack him!

Damn! Blast!

2010-05-13T10:53:00.000-07:00

Got my printed copy of my latest novel, The Great Depression of the 40s and am terribly depressed. This was the first time I've edited a book on the comp, and I swear it's the last time. Six blooming typos (spelling, wrong tense, missing word etc) and one horrifying factual error (I squarely take the blame for this one). Mortifying! It's NEVER happened to me before. Going to stick to good old fashioned editing on hard copies in the future. Boo hoo.

Reema Moudgil - may your tribe increase!

2010-04-29T03:29:00.000-07:00

Never judge a book by its cover - really! Just read Perfect Eight by Reema Moudgil. Never met her, only communicated online (intermittently at that) for years. The depressing cover filled me with dread. The back cover blurb was as intimidating, promising all the rot that pretentious, dead serious Indian English writers witter on about. You know, the usual lofty shit.

I promised myself I'd read the first chapter and junk it if it sucked - but the story sucked me in. Found it difficult it put it down. Almost gave up an evening filled with Long Island Iced Tea. Almost.

It's about a relationship - with great sexual tension. Chick lit in real life without the Jimmy Choos and evil bosses and shit. The low life scum was there. The imperfect girl. The longing. The unfinished business. All in flesh and blood. Modern and contemporary as well. And, ahem, not in Chetan Bhagat English!

Am hugely relieved to discover one dead serious Indian English writer who is not just readable but enjoyable as well! Hail to thee, Reema Moudgil! May your tribe increase!

Weighty issues

2010-04-08T06:29:00.000-07:00

Sania Mirza had better not get pregnant for two reasons:
1. The way things are going, silly idiots in India and Pakistan will probably fight over which country the foetus will play for. There may even be a war!
2. She'll become fat - well, for 9 months at least - and Shoaib may pretend he never married her at all.

Lions, muggers and football hooligans - shiver

2010-03-14T21:03:00.000-07:00

Yeah, we're going to South Africa. BH is worried that he may be living with pious, fully-clothed non-Charlie's angels within the next 4 years, so he has to see the world cup this year and fulfill his last death wish. Usually people on death row ask for a cigarette or something nice to eat like tiramisu, but BH is bloody difficult!

Am going with him ONLY to ensure that he doesn't do anything silly like leap out of a jeep when he sees lions at the one of the many wildlife parks on his wish list. The last time we went to Corbett he leapt out of a moving jeep to shoot a leopard! The guide had to race after him and drag him back while, of course, I was doing a Bianca Castafiore. BH informs me that there are 1600 lions at Krueger. Friends inform me that there are zillions of muggers in Jo'berg. Am not a happy person these days.

Rock chicks never win!

2010-03-12T03:13:00.000-08:00

This season's Idol is a bit sad. Just like two people worth rooting for in a sort of half hearted way: Crystal the rock chick (no point in rooting for her is it, unless, of course, the Idol chaps take a leaf out of our book and put 33% reservations in place for rock chicks), and a guy who sang Hinder's Lips of an angel rather nicely but menacingly last week. Dunno his name but he looks rather interesting, like an axe murderer. God, how I miss Adam Lambert!

BH and the Kingfisher calendar

2010-02-23T03:03:00.000-08:00

On Saturday, BH was the proud owner of the Kingfisher calendar. I say 'was the proud owner' because it doesn't bring him joy anymore. I scoffed at it so much and forced him to concede that while it wasn't cheap and smutty, it certainly wasn't art, or hot either, for that matter!
Also told him in no uncertain terms that there was no way I would allow him to put it up on our walls. Hello, don't want my house to look like a licqour store! Besides the maids may think he's a Shiny Ahuja in the making. I think that devious line of argument made him wearily give up on it completely.

Poor BH, the calendar now lies in its original wrapper at the top of the cupboard. He promises to give it to someone who will appreciate it more. Like a hormonally-charged teenager for example!

Here kitty, here here kitty!

2010-02-12T17:36:00.000-08:00

The Shiv Sena came out as losers in the state elections, but that's nothing compared to what they're looking like now: domesticated cats. Am shocked (and delighted) that CM Ashok Chavan called their bluff and delivered. Now I'm looking at him (AC) with interest and a spot of respect as well. So much better than former CM Vilasrao Deshmukh, who would have wrung his hands helplessly like Lady Macbeth after she lost her marbles and made us suffer. I'm thrilled that Mumbaikars rushed to see MNIK - not only because it showed the Shiv Sena how little we care about them, but because I'll never have to see the movie myself as a gesture of citizen support, whew. Fact is, I'm more frightened of Karan Johar movies than of the Shiv Sena.

Getting fonder and fonder of Rahul Gandhi

2010-02-03T00:51:00.000-08:00

His milk teeth have finally been replaced, and he has revealed his bite. Good showing! And while I'm getting fonder of him, I'm getting progessively sicker of our TV news anchors. Have decided that I cannot bear their yelping anymore. Nor can I bear the usual suspects they trot out for debates and sound bytes. Alyque Padamsee looks like he's been soaked in formaldehyde and has an ancient skunk carcass draped over his head; the very sight of Shobhaa De makes me gag after her old interview with Karan Thapar on the MNS issue - she came off very poorly in that one; Prahlad Kakkar's standard unconventional act bores me to tears; Mahesh Bhatt is okay - at least he sounds intelligent. The problem is, the minute we see them, we know EXACTLY what they're going to say about ANY issue.
Why can't we see different faces and hear different voices?

waiting for Godotay

2010-01-20T11:10:00.000-08:00

Waiting impatiently for Raj Thackeray to ring my doorbell and urge me to speak in Marathi. I shall have a lot to say to him - in English or Hindi, of course. Will touch upon on the holocaust and the Indian constitution, as well. Wondering whether to offer him a nice cuppa - but not sure. That depends on the number of Y security men he comes with - only have 4 teacups at home. My inner cynic tells me that I'll be waiting in vain, though. Bet his door-to-door beat will be restricted to Shivaji Park and Parel.

20th Jan - a landmark in my life.

2010-01-17T01:22:00.000-08:00

On Wednesday, I say goodbye to working in an office forever! Am absolutely certain that I'm done with it for life. No more alarm clocks, no more snapping, snarling and screaming at tardy BH to hurry up, no more dashing to autograph an annoying muster and no more smiling politely at clients I would love to pour steaming hot coffee on - with sugar, so ants bite them. I'm free to do what I want with my time till I die. There's nothing more precious than that in the world. The strains of Born Free are playing in my head. Luverly!

Oh duck!

2009-12-31T02:18:00.000-08:00

Ordered roast duck for dinner tonight. The restaurant manager recommended that I order half a duck for 4 people. Wish I hadn't listened to him, when I went to collect my duck - there it was, my wannabe piece de resistance, in a tiny box. Bigger than a matchbox, yes, but smaller than a size 5 shoe box! Oh well, the duck has now been downgraded to hors de oeuvres status. Prawns are lording it tonight. Not that anyone cares, it's the silly drinky season, after all!

Sunday Bloody Sunday

2009-12-20T20:25:00.000-08:00

Never let your hands shake while administering Tabasco. My Bloody Mary turned out to be a Bloody Bloody Bloody Mary! Added so much Tabasco, I burnt my lips. Switched to Vodka and Sprite thereafter. Needed the cooling effect so badly, I lost count after 3 drinks. No matter, since everyone, including BH, were in high spirits as well. Two wine drinkers consumed a bottle each, a solitary beer drinker generously left 4 bottles for the kabadiwalla, and a turkey was demolished as well. Have sailed to office today on extremely choppy seas.

Can you read too much?

2009-12-18T00:34:00.000-08:00

My poor little 6-year-old nephew has been accused of reading too much. His teacher told my sister that he even reads during 'break-time' instead of playing with his class-mates. So what? He's just discovered Harry Potter and the Famous Five, for heavens sake!

Snapped at my sister for not reprimanding the teacher. She snapped right back at me, and said that she didn't want Rohan to be like our family. She wants her children to be gregarious and 'well-rounded' and not terminally dysfunctional social misfits.

Technically, I could box her ears, because she's younger than me and we live in India where family elders can do exactly what they want with, well, family youngers! Held myself back, though. Trying to be Gandhian except when it comes to alcohol, nicotine and seafood.

Y has Raj Thackeray been given Y security?

2009-12-16T20:44:00.000-08:00

This is ridiculous! A man who instigates mobs to attack 'outsiders' has been given security? Hell, we need security from him and other politicians and rabble rousers!

There's a theory going around that the little coward must have sent himself a letter saying that he'll be attacked on the 25th of Dec by a bunch of North Indians. I wouldn't put it past him. He's been shivering in his shoes ever since his security was taken away. Bullies. Cowards. Same difference.

Am seriously considering lurking around Mantralaya singing, "I want my Y security" to the tune of Knopfler's "I want my MTV".

Back to adult fiction with Juliet Naked

2009-11-22T02:34:00.000-08:00

Moved from teenage fantasy/romance to middle-aged angst in a few days. Nick Hornby is consistently enjoyable. And his latest, Juliet Naked, is his best - so far. Not about a boy (geddit?) but a reclusive middle-aged former rock star and alcoholic. An acoustic, bare-bones, untextured version of his first hit, Juliet, is dicovered and packaged as Juliet Naked (I'm a good girl, I am,, I don't read porn!). And when news of this spreads to his internet-groupies, a lot of interesting things happen. It's hilarious - and dripping with irony. Trying to stretch it out as long as I can, but only have a couple of chapters left, damn. Fortunately BH has returned with 2 and a half kgs of books from Landmark.

Don't knock it till you've tried it.

2009-11-18T05:18:00.000-08:00

So there I was, flat out on my back yet again, doing the bed-rest thingie and bored witless. Re-read two Wodehouses in a row - not a very good idea because my back hurt everytime I laughed out loud. And then I wondered about Stephanie Myers - my physiotherapist had been whining and moaning about her 12-year-old's ghastly reading habits. "She's addicted to some rubbish about vampires," she muttered darkly. I was curious - all the little girls I know have been lapping these books up.
Since I was at a loose end, I asked BH to get me one of the books, and he dutifully handed me the very first in the series (Twilight) with a visible sneer.
Hell, I loved it for many reasons:
1. Well-written, not trashy like most best-sellers are
2. Sparkling wit
3. Exciting sexual tension
4. Dead sexy hero - hot, dangerous, witty and noble- sigh. I want! I want! I want!
5. Clumsy heroine with self-deprecating sense of humour
6. And, of course, the thriller bits starring other evil vampires
I'm DEFINITELY going to buy the rest!
P.S. Wish a vampire had sunk his fangs into me when I was in my early twenties - no need for anti-ageing unguents and freedom from frail, creaky bones and all that crap.

And then there were nine.

2009-11-09T23:44:00.000-08:00

The MNS may have won 13 seats, but four of their not-so-gentle men have been suspended from the assembly for an act of sheer stupidity for 4 lovely long years. God certainly does move in mysterious ways! I'm a born-again believer.

A stern message to owners of all fine dining establishments

2009-11-05T22:52:00.000-08:00

Please do not put regular brands of alcohol on your menus and then blithely inform me that they're not available and attempt to tempt me into drinking seriously expensive upmarket piss instead.

Hello, I smoke Wills Navy Cut. Which, my darlings, also implies that I DO NOT HAVE self-esteem issues. Do understand that some people select a particular brand because they enjoy the taste, not because of the stupid hyped marketing shit it stands for!
Hopping mad. Hate, hate, hate wannabes! And sneaky, pushy restaurant-wallahs.

Food glorious food

2009-10-26T22:16:00.001-07:00

Saw Julie and Julia DESPITE the fact that I kept falling asleep while I was reading the book. Finally gave the book the boot after ariving at the midway mark. I woke up with relief, thereafter! What drew me to the movie: Nora Ephron and Meryl Streep. And I'm glad I saw it because Ephron has cleverly put in large chunks of Julia Child's life - that was the highlight of the movie, really, together with the loverly food. Ooooooh the fish swimming in a wicked sauce in the restaurant scene - loved the skillful way it was deboned too. And the evil chocolate cake with almond slivers, the pork chops, the sinful fried bread - drool. Not surprised that my popcorn tasted like thermocol while I was watching the movie.

Streep was marvellous as Julia Child with an annoying loud excitable voice, frumpy hairdo and dowdy clothes - she managed to be charming inspite of the drawbacks. Now, if only the entire movie had been about Julia Child I'd have recommended it warmly. But that Julie Powell bit bored me to tears. Such a whiner and moaner without a sense of humour at that. Unforgivable. And all that rubbish about feeling Julia Child with her and listening to Child's voice in her head while she was assiduously following her recipes. When people tell me they hear voices in their head, I urge them to lie down on a nice comfy sofa - in a clinic.

A big hand to the hand!

2009-10-22T04:00:00.000-07:00

We've shown the finger and got the hand in return! Feeling immensely satisfied today. Maharashtra, Arunachal Pradesh and Haryana are with the Congress, yay. And ha ha, going by the numbers across the 3 states, I can now look forward to the day when Indian citizens say, 'BJP who?' Not that I feel even the slightest twinge of affection for any member of the Congress party in Maharashtra - no way.

Office is stuffed with Marathi manoos and its great fun watching the 'score' on the TV in the canteen. Howls of 'Jai Maharashtra' rent the air everytime the MNS gets a seat. Oddly enough, not a single cheer for the Shiv Sena. Raj has evidently done a great job of purloining their party propaganda. Besides, as the Marathi bai manoos' in the office sigh, he's better looking than his cousin!

3 day weekends zindabad

2009-10-19T21:18:00.000-07:00

-Saw Roman Holiday for the 15th time on Diwali. Loved it just as much. Have a bone to pick with the Smirnoff guys though. Got a free ugly keychain with my bottle - think they adjusted the cost of the keychain with the percentage of alcohol in the bottle: 5 drinks, zero buzz, not even a vague hint of a buzz. Criminal offence, if you ask me.

-Saw the end of the last Indiana Jones flick, and the beginning of the first. Enjoyed the silly jokes almost as much.

-Saw Inglourious Basterds. Like everyone else, loved the movie and Christpher Waltz. Was also delighted that Hitler was made uglier than ever before.

-Saw Wake up Sid, and unlike everyone else, yawned through the flick. Where was the humour, dude? However, have to concede that it was way better and way more honest than that dreadful Dil Chahta Hai - remember that movie where Amir Khan pretended to be a teenager? EEEEK. Evidently Botox was not around in those days.

Have sternly informed BH that I cannot take popular culture anymore. It doesn't agree with me and till Bollywood gets real cool instead of this wannabe cool I will not suffer it.

Wearing a sexy status symbol on my finger

2009-10-12T23:23:00.000-07:00

Not a ring, but a purple mark that says I've voted. A tad disappointed though - this time the mark is not on the rude finger. Sad. I really enjoyed flaunting that. Guess assembly elections are not as flamboyant as general elections.

Had big fat huge row with man at polling booth, as usual. He was too lazy to find my name and tried to send me back home. Gave him a stern lecture on kantala in the time of democracy. He cowered and with fumbling fingers found my name in the log book. Jerk!

Now at work, muttering darkly under my breath about whip-wielding employers who deny virtous democratic souls a holiday after they keep the wheels of democracy moving. Sigh.

Old song, new twist

2009-10-09T04:49:00.000-07:00

Been singing an old REM song today (under my breath, of course), with new words:
'Would you believe they're bombing the moon?'
And on to another subject: While all our intellectuals and activists are making scathing remarks about the Maharashtra government for declaring EVERYTHING shut on election day, I'm NOT with them. Hey, I want a holiday!!!
And yet another subject: Obama gets the Nobel Peace Prize for what? Hello, he hasn't done anything remarkable yet! That prize should go to American citizens who voted him in. They deserve it.

Arms and the Woman or begging for arms!

2009-10-03T19:10:00.000-07:00

In one of my daily 'It's your turn to deal with the plumber/carpenter/ bills/cook, you lazy sod' squabbles with BH, I realised in a flash why Hindu goddesses are depicted with more arms than Hindu Gods - we work harder and it's got NOTHING to do with female emancipation. Our ancient Goddesses evidently slogged like crazy in the days when women didn't have to do the 9-9 and run the house. Hell, I want more arms - I need more arms!

I'm back - for 5 secs!

2009-09-29T06:06:00.000-07:00

So got up at 5 am (yes, A.M. i.e. in the morning, before the bloody birds sing and the sun is still in deep slumber) to go to the gym. Why? Because I'm working again, boo hoo, and I rarely get back home before 9 pm and I desperately need to de-stress. I WISH I WERE A DOG - THEY DON'T GO TO OFFICE, DO THEY?

God is great!

2009-09-03T03:08:00.000-07:00

Office shut at 3 pm coz of ze Ganpati immersion today, yay! Am now a convert. Fervently chanting "Ganpati Bappa Moriya, phudchya varshi lavkaar ya."

Safely ensconsed at home now with chips and Thums Up for company. Must confess though, that while I don't enjoy being stuck in traffic jams, I love the music, particularly the drums. Some of the Ganpati and Durga puja drummers I've heard are so bloody fantastic, it's such a pity they don't have the opportunity to jam with Carlos Santana. Now, that would be music to my ears!

My inner Lady Macbeth

2009-09-01T02:07:00.000-07:00

Flipped through Macbeth (my favourite play, and one of my favourite heroes - Batman and Winnie-the-Pooh are part of my unholy triumvirate). Never realised this before but it hit me real hard today - I have a wee bit in (ulp) common with Lady M. Check out this line, it's one I repeat (in modern English, of course) to BH every night. "Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale..."

Jeez! My astute sister is right -I'm a freaking control freak!

Vir Sanghvi - sigh.

2009-08-22T23:26:00.000-07:00

Yet, yet, yet again, Vir Sanghvi has made me gush like a lovesick teen. He's every writer's rockstar, he's just got to be! At this very moment if you ask me to choose between drinks with Roger Waters, Kurt Cobain's ghost or Vir Sanghvi, I'll take Sanghvi!

A few years ago, I felt a warm glow spreading through me when he likened Raj Thackeray to Mini Me. And today, I laughed uproariously at a sentence in his HT Sunday column, Counterpoint: '...any suggestion that Sardar Patel can't walk on water is anathema to the BJP...' Fanfingfastic - it's not what you say, it's how you say it! The rest of the article is brilliant too, but of course. Ooh, what a writer!

Wistfully told BH that if he wrote like Sanghvi, I'd be the happiest woman in the world. For a change BH didn't sneer. He looked wistful too - not because he gave a rodent's posterior about making me the happiest woman in the world, but oh, to write like Sanghvi! Had to reassure him that he wrote wonderfully well too. I mean that's why I had the hots for him, because of all those amusing notes he'd pin up on my softboard in office.

And now for a spot of perspective. I don't lurve Sanghvi's Rude Food column in Brunch. It's hit or miss, and frankly, I don't live the high live (nor wish to - ew) so I can take it or leave it.

I don't think we agree on music either. Frinstance I love Tull (and always will), he scoffs at Ian Anderson's Flamingo act on stage - which I rather like, hello, it's iconic. But when it comes to politics, Sanghvi's my man - my main man.

And while on the subject of music, my ex-colleague and bore-buster Pearl the Perilous One, sent me an mp3 clip of an early '80s Brit band - The Cult. Great sound, sexy lyrics. Almost like The Doors without Ray Manzarek. Yum.

The Griffin has announced that it's godawful poetry fortnight, YAY!

2009-08-19T00:13:00.000-07:00

Should you have the urge to spout some godawful pomes, click this link: Son of Godawful Poetry Fortnight - 19th - 31st August

BTW, my humble contribution to this fantastic, much-looked-forward to annual event:
Banished
They dragged me with brute force to the door,
Callously kicked me down the stairs below-
And screeched like the oft quoted Raven, “Nevermore!”

I staggered to my feet and limped my way across the street,
With fumbling fingers groped for my pack of woe,
And struck a match - Ah, even in adversity life can be sweet.

So now I wander lonely spewing dark, belligerent clouds,
That lurk on high o’er the stained cityscape,
And insidiously creep into the lungs of the teeming crowds.

All I ask for is Keats' Grecian urn to tip the ash,
While contributing generously to the city's smog,
It wouldn’t hurt would it, that dead sexy touch of dash?

To go or not to go - that is the question.

2009-08-16T10:07:00.000-07:00

Got a bad case of the sniffles on Thursday night. By Friday morning, low grade fever had set in. Followed family rule and drank vodka that night - to kill the germs. These germs were made of sterner stuff. Hastily browsed through swine flu symptoms on the net the next day. Heck, they're the same as normal flu! Who can tell? Generously gave BH the sniffles and fever too. We have decided to be noble and skip office tomorrow. Well, BH insists on keeping his colleagues out of Kasturba Hospital. I'm still the new girl in school so am not quite sure what I should do. Let's see how I feel in the morning. Damn. Hope throat swabs are not required.

Excuse moi garcon, there's a dragon in my fruit!

2009-08-10T01:09:00.000-07:00

Tried dragonfruit for the first time. Apprehensive (as always) because it looks kind of like an armoured vehicle, and was persuaded that it would taste metallic. T'was scrum, though. A tinge of sweetness and a tinge of tartness - perfick, tres refeshing! The nicest thing about it is that it's so easy to eat. Cut it in the middle and scoop it out, period. Cherries, however, remain my fav. fruit. Nothing can beat it on the tastometer, not even chocolate.

Can't work in my nightie anymore, WAAAAAAAH!

2009-08-09T02:59:00.000-07:00

Whenever my bank balance dips to shocking levels, I exchange my pretty, faded nighties for work wear and do full time at an office. Can't rely on the dribs and drabs I get from freelance to fatten my piggybank, or even make it pleasantly plump.

So, I've been working full time for one week now, and I must say I miss my nighties so bad, it hurts! Trying hard to be stoical about it. Sternly reminding self that when bills have to be paid, even jharoo-pocha assignments are a blessing. Consoling self that the people I'm working with are rather nice, but know deep down inside that even if I worked in an office with a pub and live rock acts and a Belgian chocolate dispenser, I would hate it because it eats into my time. God, working from home is such a joy- was such a joy. Sniff.

Life's a bitch and other buzz phrases

2009-07-26T21:25:00.000-07:00

I warmed to the phrase, 'Life's a bitch,' when it did the rounds. This rolling phrase gathered a fair amount of moss, and became 'Life's a bitch and then you die.' Nice. But even better, far better indeed, was the counter phrase, 'Life's a bitch and then you don't even die!' Sums up my personal philosophy nicely.

I enjoy counter phrases best of all. Like 'chicken poop for the soul' instead of that icky sticky 'chicken soup for the soul.' Have lost count of the times I've been asked to contribute to the Indian edition of the 'chicken soup' series. "Sorry," I've said firmly, "nothing remotely fuzzy or heartwarming has happened to me ever, thank heavens. But I have loads of material for a 'chicken poop' edition, if you so desire." They never desired that, tragically.

Which brings me to Chinua Achebe's lovely book, Things Fall Apart. Read it over 10 years ago, and was very moved. Have forgotten the story by now, but what remains deeply embedded in my mind is the title. So philosophical and stoic and strong. Things fall apart. Love the implication: So what? Deal with it!

I smell a dog - and rats too.

2009-07-16T21:32:00.000-07:00

Right. so I'm one of those shameless Mumbaiphiles who can witter on (and on and on) about how special this city is - particularly during the monsoon. Tragically, my enthusiasm has been curbed somewhat this year. Went to fancy restaurant with Best Friend last night. Crinkled nose in the posh foyer: 'Ew- there's a doggy smell here,' I complained. Best Friend sniffed and snorted. "Damp carpets, that all.'

And the rains have been flushing rats out of their burrows and into our homes. Not bashful at all, these rats. BH was watching TV one night when Rat the First scurried in from the window and squeezed its flexible body into a crevice the ways only rats and roaches can. Driver got me a rat trap and it had an occupant the very next morning! Driver, BH and househelp marvelled at its size while I refused to take a gander. Thereafter, Driver deposited the rat at Carter Road, near the sea. Rat the Second (even bigger) sauntered in last night while BH was watching TV again. BH's hackles rose and he displayed an alarming tendency for raticide. A chase began (cannot report it because I'd hastily locked myself in the bedroom) . Half an hour later BH entered the bedroom sorely disappointed- the rat had eluded his murderous attempt. We have now concluded that BH was a cat in his past life - the hair on his limbs stood on end for a couple of hours thereafter- not with fear but with intent to kill. His wish was granted soon thereafter - he swatted a housefly to death. Ah, those are the other pests the rains bring with them. And fruit flies too. Vomit!

BTW, the rat menace threatens to take on serious proportions. Best Friend has reported several in her home in Santa Cruz, my neighbour says he saw a mouse scampering near his computer mouse at his office in Haji Ali - the office bought 14 rat traps and all were packed to capacity the next morning. This is a plague warning for Mumbai city. Where on earth are the BMCs rat catchers?

P.S. BH now is threatening to get a pet snake to deal with the rats much more exciting than rat traps, he insists. I'd much rather have a transmigrant soul that's currently in its feline avtaar.

The bag lady to end all bag ladies

2009-07-15T22:34:00.000-07:00

UP CM Mayawati may go down in history as the bag lady of the century, but I’m giving her a run for her money. Despite the fact that my figure can be described as a jolly sight more statuesque than hers (which is not saying much), and despite the fact that I have not commissioned statues of myself carrying ugly mummy handbags, I beat her hollow in the frump stakes. Faded tracks and tees are my thing. The more ghissa-pitta they are, the softer they feel and I lurve them. Better still, they make me look desperately poor and when I go for a haircut, the parlour ladies don’t make an attempt to coax me to get highlights, a perm, a platinum facial, whatever - they probably assume that my haircut was paid for by collections in my tin can at traffic signals. Very liberating!

Of course, on the rare occasions when I venture out for dinner or a movie, I dress up spectacularly – in my best faded pants and faded tees. Of late, Beloved Husband has started gasping, ‘You’re going out in that?’ He feels so strongly about it that a few weeks ago he tossed his ATM card at me (it missed me by a whisker) and gruffly said, 'Go to Esprit, go to Mango, go anywhere apart from Nike or Adidas, use all the money you need and BUY SOMETHING REMOTELY DECENT AT LEAST!’

I was shocked - never has he flung vast amounts of money at me before. Almost felt like a glamourous bar dancer. Meekly followed his instructions though, and bought a couple of things. Was too dazed to go the whole hog as instructed. Later, asked Best Friend if his reaction had been OTT. ‘Nope,’ she shook her head sadly while fiddling nervously with her fork (and refusing to look me in the eye), ‘I’ve, um, been meaning to talk to you about it too.’ A crushing et tu Brute moment for me.

So now, I’m seriously contemplating a makeover. Haven’t acted on it yet coz I’m still sulking with both of them (hey, it’s MY life), but mean to. Someday this year, perhaps. Let’s see.

The new babalogs in town

2009-07-13T04:18:00.000-07:00

Monica, our new cook, insists on calling us Baba and Baby! Beloved Husband blushed prettily the first time she indulgently cooed, 'And how would Baba like his tea?' but now gets terribly annoyed. Have been ordered to instruct her to address us as something else, heck anything else, even rotters from hell would do very nicely for us indeed, but no luck. Monica forgets and then gets into a flap when I politely remind her that we're past our prime (and gone off possibly too).

Damn. Too old to be called baby, way too old to be called babe as well (sigh). But now have come to the conclusion that perhaps Monica estimates ages from an emotional rather than physical point of view. For eg: shoe drawer fell on foot this morning and cracked a nail on one of my toes. Almost fainted when I saw the blood. Hobbled to the doctor who did what doctor's do: whipped out a syringe for an anti-tetanus shot. Howled, screamed, wept, had to be held down by the hefty receptionist and, most importantly, did NOT feel a twinge of shame when the doctor sarcastically asked, 'How old are you?'
Monica's right. I am a baby!

Doggone it!

2009-07-05T21:10:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, Best Friend and I experienced a deliciously crazy impulse on a Sunday- decided to take a walk down Marine Drive while it was pouring - not just cats and dogs but man-eating tigers and nasty werewolves. Lingered for a few hours there because it was so beautiful - the sea was angry with muscular waves lashing against the tetrapods, the sky was hazy - oooh it was mindblowing. Tragically it wasn't high-tide or we could have cheerfully showered in the gigantic waves that energetically leap out of the sea.

Thereafter, we walked to Westside in Kala Ghoda to buy towels and a change of clothes. The doorman let us in with a broad grin despite the fact that we were leaving puddles the size of Powai lake in our wake. No one in the store darted curious looks in our direction either. See, that's what I love about Mumbai!

This was followed by tea at Leopold (boring - and the food is trashy too!) and then the nicest part- a longish stop-over at The Ghetto to keep us warm and cosy for the drive back home.

Yearned to repeat the experience yesterday but Best Friend said no - politely but firmly: 'Wimbledon finals. Federer. The monsoon can wait. Besides, we've got to go during the day to watch out for Tavleen Singh's dog poop,' she cannily added, to ensure that I didn't attempt to persuade her to change her mind. I was silenced.

Heck, why can't the Marine Drive party-pooper Tavleen Singh get off her high horse and buy a pooper-scooper? Her doggone battle with the BMC is raining on my parade!

Have become a twit - officially

2009-07-03T05:05:00.000-07:00

Signed up with Twitter and feel like quite a twit coz I have no idea what to do. I had to hastily stop it from gaining access to my email lists - gosh, I don't particularly wish to tweet to clients and the billing chaps at vodafone and tataindicom and my chartered accountant! Tried to send a tweet or whatever it's called to the friend who urged me to check it out, but failed. Called her. She tried to tweet or whatever me, and that failed too. Instead I discover that I have 2 followers who wish to know if I would like to earn money by conducting online surveys and suchlike. Bah! I bet the Viagra and Cialis guys will be my next ardent followers! My tweeting life is over - I have seen the light.

Spent last evening with said friend who urged me to join twitter- t'was fun. Once a week I leave my lovely reclusive lifestyle behind and venture out to see the world.
First stop: Rhythm House- just had to buy a Tears for Fears album or my heart would have stopped beating. Haven't stopped listening to Mad World and Shout since.
Second stop: Dingy, grungy restaurant in Colaba that has reinvented itself as a rather lively resto-bar. Used to hate this place during my hostel days but the makeover is pretty decent. Smirked when I caught sight of a pompous TV news anchor who is better recognised as the soggy umbrella-weilding sod commenting on the monsoon in depressing Milan subway every year. 'It's raining again,' he says in an alarmed voice that never fails to make my astute sister turn an unflattering shade of purple. 'Of course it's raining. you eejit,' she snarls at the TV screen, 'it's the bloody season for rain. Moron!!!'
Anyway, the drip was attempting to muscle his way into the crowded joint. 'Do you know my name,' he haughtily asked the doorman and sundry waiters who yelled ' No room, no room'. He demanded to speak to the manager. Dunno whether the manager knew his name, but honestly doubt it. Who recognises him when he's dry?
Stop 3: A tedious one-hour traffic snarl on the sealink. Thought it was supposed to be a seablink- a dash over the sea and then land ahoy and all that, but nope. We crawled - snails would have outpaced us. Never again, shudder.

Pop goes the King of Pop

2009-06-25T18:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I've laughed at Michael Jackson a fair number of times - not at his music, though. He was one of the best in the Pop genre -he frequently pushed the envelope with ease. It may not have been my thing, but whatever it was, he did it well. It was the hair and the face and skin jobs, his wacko behaviour and the thing he had (allegedly) for little boys. Feel a twinge of sadness now that he's at the pearly gates of heaven.
Here's a little piece I wrote inspired by him in the mid-eighties, when he was at the height of his career and I was just embarking on mine. Goodbye Wacko Jacko and thanks for all the fun!

SO WHITE
Once upon a time there lived a black queen who had a mulatto step daughter called So White. He disliked her with a passion because she was far prettier than him, and all his gay friends became straight the instant they saw her. This made him feel like the odd man out, a terribly uncomfortable feeling if you really think about it.

After a great deal of sleepless nights alone, he hired a punk to lure her into the depths of Harlem, and to do away with her there. Once in Harlem, So White’s womanly intuition took over, and she escaped. The punk didn’t bother to pursue her, because, as the old Harlem maxim goes, 'Why chase girls when you can chase cocaine?’

So White clambered up a rusty drain pipe, pushed open a window, and tumbled into a room belonging to an acid group called ‘The Dwarfs’. The seven men – Junky, Dopey, Stony, Drunky, Hippy, Snorty and Cokey accepted her immediately as they desperately needed someone to play the tamborine because their woman, Moll, had taken off with a New York Philharmonic cellist. And So White took to them instantly because she saw in them the realisation of her favourite fantasy : Seven at one blow.

The Queen happened to see her playing at his favourite gay bar in the Bronx, and immediately made enquiries. Having extorted her address, he injected some more female hormones into his veins, singed his hair, wore white socks with black shoes, dark glasses, and, armed with a syringe containing an overdose of heroin, he rang her doorbell determined to mainstream her. The minute she opened the door, he shot the needle into her arm, and sang ‘Beat it’. On returning home that evening, the Dwarfs found her lying in a stupor. ‘Dipsomaniac broad’, snarled the disgusted Dwarfs (no doubt due to the influence of their strict mormon upbringing). They dragged her out into the porch, and set out in search of a tamborine replacement for that night’s gig at Brooklyn.

A few days later, America’s chart-buster Prince, happened to stumble over So White on one of his nostalgic walks down Harlem. He fell over and in love with this mulatto vision, and rushed her to hospital. Several hours later she opened her baby blue eyes to find him perched at her bed side. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered weakly, ‘Prince’ was his modest reply. ‘Oh you’re shamming’ she chuckled, ‘and cute’. Upon which he French kissed her, and she passed out again, but for a shorter period this time. After their marriage and subsequent divorce, they lived happily ever after.

Finally - finally, finally, checked out Savita Bhabi

2009-06-24T07:11:00.000-07:00

Read so much in the papers abt Savita Bhabi, Bharat ka comic book porn star, but never felt inclined to check out the site. Porn is not a turn on. Till my only nice (niece) told me that her boyfriend wrote an article on SB and the response was astonishingly overwhelming. Gosh, popular culture demands a dekko. Imperiously ordered said nice to open the site -she obediently followed my instructions but I noticed (with pathetic tight-arsed auntly relief) that she averted her eyes from the screen- my big sis has brought her up well. Okay so she doesn’t play the sitar, but a guitar is good enough to mollify potential conservative in-laws, innit? You can always play Jumping Jack Flash in the deathly dull and boring Ananda Shankar style to keep them happy. No crazy, irrational joy in that version. Sorry, but that’s how I feel. Owned the record once, only because Stones was not available in Cal. Snowflakes (also on the album) is infinitely worse. Don’t even go there.
Gasped when I browsed through episode one - SB’s torrid encounter with a door-to-door bra salesman. Man, SB is amazingly purty and smoking hot! BUT the artist currently known as her creator is hotter still. Fantastic eye for detail, even the wall paper in SB’s house is laboriously detailed. Haven’t laughed so much in ages- the situations are ridiculously corny and cater to age-old adolescent fantasies. This is Nancy Friday, Indian ishtyle- why do ghissa-pitta doctor-nurse scenarios when the cricket-playing young lad next door has more resonance? Have to admit that I hastily skimmed through episode one- too yucky for my taste.
Must reluctantly concede, however, that it’s a good job. The apna haath zindabad lot now doesn’t have to rely on alien blonde, blue-eyed wenches to keep them happy!

Who moved my monsoon?

2009-06-23T00:19:00.000-07:00

It finally rained today for 10 full minutes. And then the sun (sodding spoilsport) came out, sob. Just when the ambience was perfect for Jet's Look what you've done (my current fav song). Listening to it anyway but it's sort of lost its magic. Need dark moody clouds, a steady stream of rain and billowing curtains to enjoy it to the max.
Aila and El Nino be damned - bring my monsoon back!

The latest addition to my bookshelf

2009-06-18T04:26:00.000-07:00

Ever since I decided to quit working full time and panhandle as a miserable freelancer instead, I've been at my sister's mercy when it comes to books. She buys them, I borrow them and we have a fantastic agreement: if I like a book much much much more than she does, I get to keep it forever. Yay!

My latest freebie is Tarquin Hall's The Case of the Missing Servant. Giggled appreciatively through the book, didn't feel remotely slighted by his satirical take on Indians and Indian-English - thought it was done very affectionately. Loved his hero Vish Puri, India's 'Most Private Investigator' almost as much as I adore Andrea Camilleri's grouchy, commitment-phobic Inspector Montalbano. And enjoyed Mummy too - she was quite a character! The story was okay - but the way it was written was very engaging. Hall's tongue-in-cheek style lifted it out of the ordinary.

Can't wait for his next book on Vish Puri - am willing to panhandle with a little more determination so I can buy it myself!

An update on my 'Songs to get over cretins' list

2009-06-05T06:00:00.000-07:00

This selection features my top 5 'getting over it' songs from the chick brigade only:
1. Carly Simon's You're so vain still tops my list. Think it always will.
2. Pink's So What I'm Still A Rock Star deserves second place. Never been a Pink fan but this is such a fun getting over song. Enjoy the 'you're just a tool' part the most! Hats off to her - she got him back despite the song! Way to go!
3. Lily Allen's Smile. Love it!
4. Amy Winehouse's Back to Black. Super smokey voice, great lyrics, great music. It's 4th on my list only because I prefer 'sit on this, jerk' getting over it songs to dark intense emotional outpourings. That means you STILL haven't gotten over it, Ms. Whinehouse.
5. What's Up by 4 Non-blondes. Okay, so it isn't a getting over it song but still it's a great chick anthem!
And as for Gaynor's I will survive - well, it's so fuddy duddy in comparison, innit? Yawn.