Like a Bird

(Note: This post has been selected as one of BlogAdda's Tangy Tuesday Picks, here. That's a second pick from this blog. Thank you guys... I'm honored!)

I was on the cliff. With every quivering step I took towards the edge, skittish pebbles rolled off the steep precipice, into the vast abyss below. Although it was impossible to watch them plunge all the way down, I could imagine them hitting several mean boulders along the way and bouncing off them, glinting in the setting sun as if performing their last dance, and then touching terra firma; at a drop of some 2000 feet from where I now meekly stood. But I was planning to go this very way and that was certain. A few more centimeters now away from the edge... a few more pebbles skittle away. Now... anytime now I would join them. Suddenly, something pushes me forward with gusto. I jerk violently, my feet now slipping, screeching swiftly off the steep slope. I reach the edge, run out of land and then.... I LEAP!

The post mid-day sun was cruel, scorching down on us with all the heat it had in store for the day. The landscape was equally unforgiving, with the flat, plateau-like land absent of any vegetation, save for a lone tree at a spot someone had dispiritedly named - 'One Tree Point'. Nonetheless, our rickety carriage trundled along, a spirited equine named 'Saajan' (?!) leading the way. The guide rattled on, for the thousandth time perhaps, his rehearsed speech of the history of this forsaken, baked-land. I was thoroughly disinterested as anyone could be; the only thing I looked forward to was the guide's assurance that he would help us make contact with a man who could fly. And who would eventually help us fly too.

The miserable tour was finally over; but not without cheerful sayonaras and some corn-feed to an exuberant Saajan. Now we get to met THE man. Half imagining a dude with biker-gear, spiky gelled-mane and a fake accent to match; we follow the guide to the dude's hangout. Comically, the hangout turned out to be 'Anna's Fast Food'; the dude replaced by a portly, deeply-tanned man with an opposite color on his pressed shirt, oiled curls for the hair and a heavy accent that frequently used the phrase, 'Come you here!!' (?!) I tried to ignore that. After all, he knew some useful people who could paraglide, and that's what we focused on. "We want to paraglide tomorrow. Could you give us details?" we asked him. To which he replied, rolling tongue and all, "Czee, if you waaant to do it naw, then I have my men parraglidingg naw. It is sunzet and the wind is perrfekkt. Toomaarrow, no garrantee." We looked at each other, "NOW?!!!" None of us were ready for NOW! We weren't psyched-up enough, not loaded with the required adrenaline for this sport, not at that moment. But we had no time, it was now or never. One said yes, the other followed and the third's aye made it a trio of wannabe-paragliders. Whooppeee!

The wait was most excruciating. Awaiting your turn on the cliff, watching other mortals plummet off the edge and then craning your neck to see their progress in the sky... it was frightening, especially for someone (read yours truly) who loathes heights. And I don't even want to recall the terrifying drop below. It nearly paralyzed me to watch trees and buildings the size of lego-blocks. I tried not to look down and fixed my eyes on the sky. If I get through this God, I know for certain you exist. Let me survive this, please!

And so I found myself being called out (again)- COME YOU HERE!! In a few seconds I was strapped on with all the safety gear; these guys were nimble. I was going to fly in tandem with an instructor, 3 times my weight (for obvious reasons). Soon, I was all buckled up and ready to go, all this time my legs trembling quite embarrassingly. Now, all that was needed was a gentle breeze to set the wings in motion. The breeze would give flight to the wings, and would tug me and the instructor alongwith it. I was told to move forward, towards the edge of the cliff. Sure, I must've died a few times out of fright alone as I advanced forward... but move ahead I did, and not without solid resolve.

I was on the cliff. With every quivering step I took towards the edge, skittish pebbles rolled off the steep precipice, into the vast abyss below. Although it was impossible to watch them plunge all the way down, I could imagine them hitting several mean boulders along the way and bouncing off them, glinting in the setting sun as if performing their last dance, and then touching terra firma; at a drop of some 2000 feet from where I now meekly stood. But I was planning to go this very way and that was certain. A few more centimeters now away from the edge... a few more pebbles skittle away. Now... anytime now I would join them. Suddenly, something pushes me forward with gusto. I jerk violently, my feet now slipping, screeching swiftly off the steep slope. I reach the edge, run out of land and then.... I LEAP!

You know what they say about having an out of body experience. Well, this must be something like that. It felt as though I'd left my body behind and it was just me, my thoughts and soul in the sky. I couldn't speak (I didn't even yell when I jumped off the cliff), I couldn't even form an 'O' with my mouth. So this is how birds must feel. Light but powerful, vulnerable but safe, gliding steadily, yet soaring higher and higher. It was magical, simply astounding. With the setting sun as the perfect backdrop, the hills and the valley engulfed me in their endless beauty. We soared in the sky for a few more magical minutes - defying gravity, flouting nature's laws for some more time. Soon, the sun would go down. So it was time to land. Hesitant as I was, I complied.. remembering the landing instructions. So I pulled my legs up, holding them straight before me. We were descending swiftly now. And I could see two men running towards us. Before I knew it, we were down.... my feet grazing ground zero. Ah, Mother Earth! Never have I been so glad to touch down! The men helped me off my gear.. I was entangled in all those wires! I found myself thanking my instructor profusely - he risked his life for my fix of adrenaline too. Then, I sprinted off towards my friends... never before being so glad to be alive. Though it may sound dramatic; I can honestly say the entire experience was like being born again - being liberated from the womb of your fears, as you touch down. Definitely worth trying again.

As for you, dear reader, you have to fly first to feel that way. Wouldn't you?

The Storm

There were five of us, seated around a table. It was late in the afternoon, and we were making arrangements for the dinner to be held at the grand table tonight. "Don't place me next to the womenfolk, please," Ed was saying. "They'll babble a lot, and I would be thoroughly tortured." The others gave a nervous laugh. No one spoke against Ed. He was broodier than usual today. So they nodded in agreement. And I, very hesitantly and slowly, put a comforting hand on his hand, which was resting on his lap. I would ask him later, what was bothering him? And then, just as I was framing the possible questions in my mind, to my astonishment, he too, almost reluctantly, placed his other free hand on my hand, covering it. I turned to look at him in surprise. Ed never wore his emotions on his sleeve, leave alone on his hand. This was wildly different. It meant Ed trusted me. And it meant a lot to me.

Suddenly, we hear shouting. It was Giri. He was now streaking across the room, the curls of his hair flying amok, like Medusa's serpents. "It's Mischa," he almost yells, breathlessly. "He's not to be seen anywhere. I've searched the entire mansion. He's not here!" By now, the occupants of the house have all gathered around, alarmed by the shouting. Maa speaks up, "Mischa must've gone out somewhere... he'll be back. Why are you so worried?" And why would Maa be? Maa - the reason I was with Ed and not with Mischa. "He's been missing for 8 hours now." Giri replies, flustered now. "I don't think he's 'gone out' for that long. Besides, there's nothing around here except for the desert. Where would he go?" He had a point. Soon, we were all searching for Mischa, his name echoing in the mansion. I was getting restless. This was not like Mischa. He didn't disappear just like that, without informing anyone. I remembered his face, with that silly, crooked smile spread across it - the one I fell in love with, many years ago. Apart from his spirited ways, funny one-liners and I-give-a-damn-attitude. I was very, very fond of Mischa. And I would still do anything for him, Ed or no Ed.

And then it struck me. The temple adjoining the mansion! Mischa's favorite hangout. Not the temple itself (Giri must've already looked in there), but the temple towers housing the mansion's 2 tanks. I began to sprint towards the temple. In that godforsaken outfit they call the saree. Maa had insisted I wear it today and I had, in hindsight, foolishly agreed. I was running like a crazed woman now. Towards the temple and towards the tower housing the dual tanks. Suddenly, Maa was behind me, yelling at me to stop. I turn back to face her. "Where do you think you're going? You're not climbing those tanks. Its dangerous." I began to tell her that I've climbed the tanks with Mischa many times before. But she didn't know that and I didn't plan on informing her now. "Maa, I have to go. Maybe Mischa is hurt or even worse, unconscious up there... I HAVE to go check!" Maa, on any other day, would've retorted back with a plethora of replies to that, especially in matters concerning Mischa. But she didn't. "Go," she said. Like the father to his daughter in Dilwaale Dulhaniya... But this is no movie. And I do not wait for the director to say, "CUT!" So I run again, with Maa yelling behind me to be careful. I hike up the godawful saree to my knee and climb onto the first step of the ladder. The first tank was easy. It was only a few feet high. The second was the toughest. And it didn't help that I feared heights. True, I had easily negotiated the tanks several times with Mischa, several years ago; but that was with HIM. When he was around, I could even challenge Goliath and easily come out winning. But now I was alone, and the height scared the daylights outta me. I took a deep breath and shut my eyes partially. I can do this. For Mischa.

The late afternoon sun glinted mercilessly in my eyes. This was more difficult than I thought. Almost instinctively, I turned to look down. Bad idea. I was in a very, very precarious position. Several, several feet above ground zero. My legs began to tremble and my palms began to sweat. But the thought of Mischa up there kept me going. I yelled out his name, but there was no answer. Slowly, but steadily, I reached the top of the ladder and climbed on to the second tank. Relief! But that was short-lived. There was no one here. I was dejected. Where are you Mischa? I yelled out his name again. And then, to my great comfort, I heard his voice. His beautiful, wondrous voice. "What do you want?" It was coming from the loft above the tank. How the hell did he get up there? "You come right down now, Mischa," I shouted, desperately wanting to see him. "Who sent you here?" he asked. I thought about this for awhile and replied, "Maa". To that he laughed, "Which one?" "Both," I said. The mortal and the immortal one. I needed both to reach here. "Go back. I'm not coming down," he stubbornly said. "Come down, please Mischa. Whatever you want to talk about, lets talk down here. Its not safe up there." No reply. I yell out his name again, pleading and begging now. And again. And again. And yet again. But the silence was deafening. Mocking. Silently chiding.

And then, I hear a thud.

It sickened me to the core, that sound. It was so loud, it pierced my eardrums, traveled all the way down my throat and pounded at my chest. I wanted to throw up, but I couldn't. I stood there, transfixed on that damn tank. I stood like that, the pallu of my saree bellowing around me like a cape, for 10 whole minutes. From far away, I could hear a mild commotion, maybe someone yelling out my name, but those voices were immaterial. Insignificant. Just like me, a speck of dust in the whole wide universe. Mischa would know, he was one with the universe now. Leaving me alone here. Just a speck of unimportant, atomic dust. I collapse down to the floor. The sun has given way to clouds now, the sky darkening swiftly. A storm is arriving, maybe. But nothing as dark and turbulent as the one that has just arrived at the hole in my heart. I shut my eyes and began to pray slowly, like a monk chanting a silent verse..... waiting for the storm to pass. Waiting for the world to end. Waiting for the darkness to descend. Infinity awaits..... and I can hear its mild chuckle now.

Note: The above is an excerpt from a dream I had last night. The characters in this fictional account have no semblance whatsover to any person living or dead. My dream was so vivid, I had to put it down. Yes, it is dark and depressing. But not all dreams are happy, bubble-gummy, right?

Trouble

My car's idling at yet another traffic signal. I'm stuck at the red lights for the third time already. I want to whack someone, yell my lungs out at the bumbling rickshaw ahead to move his rickety ride, godammit! Traffic in Mumbai can test the patience of a saint. Just as I was thinking of new ways to vent my anger, John-McEnroe-style, there's a knock on the car's window. I roll the windows down and see a suave, criminally gorgeous fella - smile on his lips, hope in his eyes. I had a sullen look on my face and swiftly try to repair it, replacing it with mild incredulity. "Yeah?" I manage. "Are you going to Malad?" he asks me. Incredulity is now replaced with disbelief. That's the last thing I ever expected him to say. I continue to give him a dumb look. "Could you give me a ride to Malad, please?" he persists. 'Yes, yes yes!' my mind shrills. I mean c'mon! He's a Greek God, for crying out loud. I would be but a mortal fool to refuse. I began to reply in the affirmative. And then, swift as lightening, a voice creeps into my head. It is the voice cultivated out of years of education that is indoctrinated into every girl. 'You fool,' it admonishes. 'Are you out of your mind? Don't you know that thing they say about talking to strangers? This guy could look like a fashion model right off the rampwalk, but that doesn't mean he couldn't be a mugger. Or a rapist. Or a serial killer. Or a psychopath. Or a dangerous combination of all. Refuse right away! And roll up those windows. Lock your doors. Yell out loud if Greek God lashes out. Do you have a sharp object that you could use? A knife, a filer, a scissor? Nothing? ARRRGH!'

I draw a deep breath. Had I let that control-freak-of-a-voice possess me, I would have been classified as a nutty oddball and landed myself in a room full of padded walls. Instead, a calm voice takes over. "I'm awfully sorry," I say, "but I have friends to pick up at the next signal. I can't help you." Greek God looks dejected. "Its okay," he politely says and moves away to search for alternatives. I kick myself. Had I not been a girl, I would never have faced this quandary. What does that station master say in Jab We Met? Akeli ladki ek khuli tijori ki tarah hoti hai. Sad (and slightly crude) stereotype. Substantiated by countless horror stories of women being victims of brutal crimes, simply because they were careless or just plain unlucky. No matter how well trained you are in self-defense or are Wonder Woman yourself, you don't go around talking to strangers, even if it means genuinely helping a person in need. You don't take risks. That's what we are told, and most of us dutifully follow.

Not that I regret I was born a girl. It doesn't matter much whether you are from Mars or Venus, not in today's world anyway. However, more often than not, we become subjects of stereotype, which forms the basis of gender prejudice. You're a girl. So it is presumed you are weak and vulnerable. No late nights, no traveling alone, no talking to strangers. I find it highly regressive; although, it would be premature to conclude that the premise behind these restrictions is entirely wrong. Some of us may know how to take care of ourselves. There are countless women who party late at night, travel to far-flung destinations alone or can confidently handle a conversation with a stranger, without getting the heebie-jeebies. Good for them; I wish there were more of their kind. But maybe, just maybe, our parents are right Maybe that voice in our heads, control-freak or not, has some credibility. You can't push your luck too far. Its an insane world out there, increasingly unsafe for women. And sometimes, perhaps just sometimes, you need to take a step back. Even if you're raring to go. Take precautions. always. Better to be safe than sorry. After all, its only for your own good, as our parents love to say :)

Man vs. Food

Have you ever lunched/dined out with that remarkable species on earth - the insatiable, ravenous, voracious, mindblowingly incredible, true-blue Punjab da puttar? No? Count your blessings then. Yes? Pat... no, thump yourself several times on the back, 'cause you've come out of the tribulation alive and have survived to see another meal - a humbler version of course, the kind that befits the average homosapien. It may not mean such a great deal for the more piggish kinds out there who impulsively develop multi-appetites (and consequently, multi-tiered bellies) at the mere glimpse or scent of food - the ones who can down the entire menu in one tremendous gulp; BUT to a barely-there, gangling, tweedy weed like yours truly, the sight of an acre-wide dining table grandly laid out in its full, leg-wobbling glory makes me weep, even furiously chanting silent prayers in yesterday's case, because it may have very likely been *My* Last Supper.

Goosebumps. I have several of them now. Its all replaying in super-slow-mo in my mind. The said Punjab da puttar thundering in a guttural voice - 'AUR LAO!!!' and Auntyji running... no, flying to the rescue - like a Goddess with several arms - each bearing a dish more sumptuous, more greasy and more fattening than the other; she apparitating in front of my pleading (for no more) self, and again, like a Goddess that is mighty pleased with her disciple, bestowing more of the dreaded, sinful stuff on my quivering plate, meanwhile beaming a splintering smile that is akin to a thousand arrows puncturing my feeble body; what's left of it atleast. My stomach's at war by now, my mouth is so stuffed that no requests for mercy are able to escape it and my brow is lined with fine sweat; while Auntyji is on a blitzkrieg of sorts - serving scoops and mega scoops of her largesse (both food and that smile.... oh that wicked, wicked smile), making me fervently wish I was stranded in the bleak Saharan desert instead. As if in endorsement, my stomach gives a low rumble now. In testament to all the wadis, dhoklas, 3 tiered rasmalais, pistachio cookies, dry fruits, crispy veggies with schezwan sauce, veg seekh kababs, paneer manchurians, paneer makhanwaalas, dal fries, aloo parathas and veg kadais that I downed yesterday, ALL within a tormenting span of 2 hours. Burrrrrp. Its a record of sorts for me. Something I can brag to my grandchildren about.

HOW does one eat so much? And make it look SO easy at the same time? I mean, you can't have bottomless pits for stomachs, can you? The said puttar, his wife, his son and the latter's wife - all fine Punjabi folks - the most amiable, genial, gregarious and friendly lot that I have EVER come across (they can even make a grumpy bear feel at home) - they have appetites the size of the Himalayas (they mauled the ENTIRE menu), while mine huffs and puffs its way to a measly 10% of theirs. The said hosts looked down at me with the slightest hint of pity, making it a mission of sorts to kinda beef me up before I leave their abode. They tried their best to stuff me, and were wildly successful too, obedient child that I am. But whatever aspirations they had to land a spare tyre on my belly, it failed. The waiflike Avanti reigned supreme and still does, neither lard nor fibre able to flab her up. In the case of my well-meaning, generous hosts, the food always wins, while for moi - it is always me thoroughly beating the food by a couple of miles any given day! So go ahead Auntyji, beat that! Or should I say, catch me if you can! ;)

And the show (down) begins!

Its back! And it promises to be larger, louder and meaner than its previous two outings. On the flip side, it also guarantees (embarrassing) situations where grown men behave like a bunch of tribal Aborigines hollering and dancing at their annual jungle grassraiser event. You would not be wrong in saying that one could, in all probability, witness a rise in divorce cases (or atleast separations) during this dratted season. Because wars erupt at home. Over something as humble as the modest remote, God bless its existence for lazy-loafs like us. The charged up, tongue-hanging-out, jumping-on-the-sofa, dumb-as-a-pin bloke, along with his entourage of boisterous, unruly and equally brain-dead buddies, refuses to zap channels from Set Max while the thoroughly repressed and depressed woman insists on her daily antidose of tear-jerking, over-the-top family, ageless (literally) family dramas. Tensions are bound to rise and tempers are liable to be lost. Soon, before he could realize what's just hit him, the poor guy could find himself biting the bullet and signing a hefty alimony cheque.

Ohkay. Maybe I've over-dramatized the entire sequence of events that may occur during the IPL season. But wouldn't you agree you'd find the sexes battling it out, throwing abuses (and dishes, perhaps) at each other, mainly because they cannot STAND the other's preferred choice of idiot-box-entertainment? I don't know why the women-folk are complaining though. I mean, you just have to switch on the TV whenever you want and watch one of them regressive, numbing daily soaps; never mind if you've entirely missed last week's episodes. I guarantee you will STILL understand every single scene. You may even be in the applaudable position of predicting what's gonna happen next. No replays needed, no sleepless nights mulling over who cheated on whose domestic donkey, who married whose toothless grandmother, who slapped whom (with 3, it is ALWAYS 3, back to back slow-mo repeats and fake 'chaata' ka sound) and who returned back from the (ir)reversibly dead lot, for the three hundred and forty seventh time in the show's short history.

That said, one cannot deny or for that matter, ignore the tremendousness that IPL brings alongwith its flashy, glittery arrival every year (although this year's opening was a damp, flop affair). The eclectic crowds, the shenanigans, the star team owners, cheerleaders (aren't they, by far, THE biggest draw?), the ridiculous pay packets, the jumbo prize money and the 2-month-elaborate-shindig conducted by all possible media worth-their-salt, going gaga over the teams... it really is, at times, larger than life. Everything else comes to a screeching halt for these 2 months. Producers shy away from releasing their movies, travel plans are delayed, the workplace/college canteen is a riotous place full of heated discussions and school-children beg to stay at home on match-days. Even non-fans of the game have switched loyalties. Mention the word cricket in India and you're bound to get flashed by a toothy grin that starts from one ear and ends at the other, like a drunkard does on spotting a bottle of his favorite rum. We are a mad, mad nation of cricketophiles.

Speaking of madness, I was witness to one such insane IPL match in its inaugural season. At the magnificent D.Y. Patil Stadium in Navi Mumbai. Started by cheering for the home team - Mumbai Indians and ended up rooting for the winning team - Deccan Chargers. Who the heck cares anyway?? Spectators were only interested in dancing and yelling every time some batsman (never mind which team's) hit the boundaries or a bowler took a wicket, hooting at the cheerleaders and making paper planes and throwing them from one stand to another. Match gaya bhaad mein. People were there to enjoy themselves and scream as though the Texas Chainsaw-wielding baddie himself is chasing them, baying for their collective blood. No wonder the firangs consider us a weird lot.

Here are some of the pics I took of Mumbai Indians vs. Deccan Charges match at the gorgeous D.Y. Patil Stadium, a place best experienced at night when it is in its full floodlit glory. Stunning!

I'm gonna visit again this year, this time - the Brabourne stadium. Which teams, you ask? As if it matters! ;)

Not Again :(

If another soul even as much mutters 'Women's Day' another time, I might just break into a dance. Not a happy jig around a tree, mind you. A very elaborate tandav is what you'll have to endure. Bhagwaan ke liye, stop marking this day on your calendar every forsaken year, to patronize, validate and venerate us. A woman these days, atleast in civilized parts of the world, is NOT defined by her gender anymore. Now, before you brand me as another impractical, star-gazing, dissing, humbug idealist, think again. Yes, I am aware that many of us are still ill-treated, pushed around and bossed about today because of our very sex... the menace of dowry, physical abuse, denial of education, mental trauma still haunting countless women, even in the present, much-hailed 21st century. Yet, half the women I know despise the very idea of having a hot summer day per annum dedicated to pseudo-venerating them... their TVs, newspapers, radio stations and even workplaces densely dotted with a bunch of oddball czarinas talking through their heavily made-up mouths about 'empowerment', 'winning-against-all-odds' and 'liberation' - SO BORINGLY done to death now. All this should no doubt happen. But not just because you're a woman. Why, I know so many men too who have won against all odds. Whether the odds in question are a caste issue, a coming-out-of-the-closet issue, a class issue or a medical issue. Why doesn't anyone celebrate such individuals? Why focus on women, apparently the 'weaker' lot, who have defied convention and carved a place for themselves in society? That's not to take credit away from them... all I'm saying is DO NOT chant for us or pedestal-ize us, because we're women. If need be, go educate those sections of the society - the socio-economic backward regions, about how its not fashionable to ostracize women anymore. Because it simply does not make sense in the world of today. There's nothing a man can do that a woman cannot and vice-versa. (yeah yeah... except for the you-know-what stuff, of course). I think many of us have realized that and can relate to that.

So you may be wondering what is a (scary-looking) Rihanna video doing in this crusading post of mine. For me, women like her symbolize how the woman of today has truly arrived. She is confident, aggressive, even a tad brash and abrasive (qualities we usually tag men with) and does not expect brownie points for being a woman. Oh, and she made life miserable for her jerk-of-a-boyfriend who physically abused her. I'm sure we will soon have her clones everywhere. We don't need a special day in the year to applaud all this. Let this be a continuous phenomenon - day in and day out.

PS: For those of you who've dozed off by now, I apologize for this humdrum topic that I've chosen to rant about. Its just that I'm being harrowingly stifled by all this talk about Women's Day around me... today there is this workshop on the same being organized by my organization and I'm SO dreading it. Not the gaseous talk, of course. The ensuing tandav is what I'm worried about ;)

A Tale of Two Traffic Violations

This was my second run-in with the law. However, I don't think I will garner any empathy if I insist that I was innocent both times. As Morgan Freeman says of the prison in The Shawshank Redemption - "Everyone in here is innocent..." The first time I had to swerve into the first lane to avoid colliding with a materializing-out-of-thin-air jaywalker, streaking across the road when the green signal was on for us motorists. He was gone at the speed of light and obviously, the Pandu on the prowl at the corner did NOT notice him. Sweet. His bakra-mila-antennas stuck right up and you could almost see the $$ sign flashing in his eyes. What's more, its a lady driver! Even better. Another $ can be added to the previous two, already doing the bhangra in the sockets. He is quick to come and park himself right in front of my car, signaling fiercely to step aside. Trust me, there's nothing more embarrassing than a cop stopping you, making you look and feel like a petty criminal. Wretched feeling it is. But its no time for assessing one's feelings. I aim to wriggle out of the mess. I put on an are-you-serious look on my face. And brandish it to the pot-bellied cop. "Did you see that guy running across the road when the green light was on for me?" I asked the cop. He is not amused. "Madam, fine bharna padega... aapne lane change kiya..." I am incredulous. "But I did that only to avoid colliding with that moron!" Imagine my surprise when he tells me, "Woh toh hai 'maidam'... par aapne rule break kiya.... ek kaam karo.... sau rupaiyon ka chota-sa fine bharo." I was fuming by now. Had I broken the rules with dubious intentions, I wouldn't mind paying up for my mistake. But this was completely irrational. Bordering on exploitative. The guy who put me in trouble must be thanking his stars right now while I was left counting them over the cop's thick head. I reason with him again. "That means I am getting punished for saving someone's life. How can you do that, Sir?" No use. "Fine bharo 'maidam' (again! ugh!) ... phir aap jaa sakte ho..." What the heck? This guy was turning out to be dumber than Paris Hilton. "Tell me one thing Sir," I say patiently. "Had I not switched lanes and continued on the original happy lil' one, you would probably be booking me for murder right now. I chose breaking traffic rules over killing someone. Now you decide which one's wiser." (I wanted to add - grow a brain, you idiot!!) He thought over that for a while. Almost as if it finally dawned on him, he let me go. Whew. Did someone say the truth will set you free? Well, not after you've had to really fight for it. Round one to me.

The second time, I admit I was the dumb one. I have this stupid habit of following the car immediately before me at a traffic light, even if the lights turn red. I don't bother to check the lights. My (senseless) reasoning being - If the car ahead is moving, then so should I. But lights do turn red when you are at the zebra crossing, regardless of whether the car ahead has moved or not. Something similar happened, only this time there was this huge truck in front of me. Blocking my view of the signal. So I happily follow him. Me and a few cars next to me. What happens next is anyone's guess. Enter jet-black-sunglassed Pandu, materializing like my worst nightmare in front of me. Ordering me to stop. Not again, I think!! I am getting (in)famous for this now. Said cop has this smirk on his face that I was determined to wipe off. Whether I was in the wrong or not. So the entire gig repeats itself. You broke the rules, pay up and blah blah. Only this time I adopt a different approach. I asked him why he targeted only me when there were atleast 4 other cars that also jumped the signal. When that didn't ruffle him, I used the one card that was sure to get me out. Not a fair thing to do... but hey, it was important to save my arse too. So I put on a victimized face and accused him of harassing me only 'cause I was a woman. This threw him totally off guard! Sensing a possible winner here, I went on. Told him how we women are always careful while driving (the Haveliwala incident notwithstanding) and how my record was clean (lie, lie!). This seemed to perturb him and he let me go! But not without a repartee - "Agar main aapse fine le leta, toh aap mujhe aur bhi gaali deti...." I gave him my most winning smile and told him how much I respect the police and I would never abuse them. That seemed to inflate his already inflated belly and he laughed. Hasa toh phasa.....! I was a free bird, again! Round two to Avanti, very well done!

There isn't a round 3 (yet) and I hope I NEVER get caught again. I barely got away the last two times and I can't expect to push my luck too far. Besides, after the horrific Noori Haveliwala accident, I am much more careful. Proof? Didn't cross 100 km/hr while on empty streets at 11 pm, all the way from Marine Drive to Borivali via the Sea Link this weekend, though I was itching to go faster. Proud of myself :) Guess I won both rounds, but the cops had some good effect on me nonetheless ;)

Oh Really?

Moral of the picture* above: If you thought bosses belong to the Mesozoic era, you couldn't be more mistaken. They have caught up fast and how! Its not that employees have run out of novel excuses to bunk the day off (one ex-colleague said he injured his left toe and hence could not drive down to office... WTF!! What is your left toe expected to do at work anyway? Do the samba with the office hottie?) The point being - employees will continue to be at their innovative best... the trick is how to make your excuse look genuine and back it up with facts. It certainly won't help if said colleague turns up in the pink of health at the annual sack-race the next day and goes on to beat the others by a mile. A little limping about and a thick bandage around the 'unfortunate' toe (for added effect) will serve the purpose adequately. Also don't take the day off saying you have constipation and end up posting pictures of you and the gang at the local pizza parlor, ODing on your tenth cheese-burst pizza. The cure for constipation isn't aiming for some more constipation. So folks, faff if you want to... but be careful.... your boss is lurking about in your facebook/twitter profile... keeping count of how many animals you bred in your zoo in Farmville (the most irritating game on FB) or how many mafia members you 'iced' in Mafia Wars (irritating again, but highly addictive!).... beware guys! The big boss is always on the prowl for lil' tidbits on you and your virtual hang-abouts! ;)

*Pic courtesy: http://krishashok.wordpress.com/

Confessions of the Honest kind

She isn't here, again. That naturally means I HAVE to fill in her unwanted shoes - this woeful predicament including cleaning/mopping the house, tossing up some godawful-preparation-that-more-or-less-resembles-chapatis, feeding salty bhajis/watery dals to dad & sis (they're probably pleading for mercy by now), filling empty refrigerator bottles (bottomless pits, I tell you), washing utensils, drying clothes, buying vegetables from the swindling bhajiwaala, attending the door (incredibly irritating especially when you're in the midst of burning a perfectly rhombus-shaped chapati), picking up the screaming telephone (ok ok.... I ignore 9 out of 10 calls) and what not! And to top it all - it is such a thankless exercise. Retribution is merely a mirage. Exactly 10 minutes after you've transformed the kitchen into a sparklingly clean place (no magic wand, mind you.... a humble mop does it after 20 minutes of back-breaking effort), devoid of the colossal mess it was half-an-hour ago, it reverts back to its original dumpy state. Classic case of the Midas un-touch. How tremendous is that? Even for someone with the patience of a saint (me), it is extremely exasperating! By now I passionately *hate* household chores, cooking topping the list.... I'm a disaster, you'd rather starve than gulp down any of my pathetic culinary attempts! I wasn't born to do it (yeah yeah... silver spoon and all). My friends tell me with profound wisdom, "Accha 'training' ho raha hai...." Deep, huh? Lord help the unfortunate recipient of all this 'training' that I'm undergoing. He should go jump off a cliff right now and save himself some serious constipation.

So there it is.... I feel SO much better, now that I've got it down in writing and you, poor reader, as usual have to bear the full brunt. The whining 'ol Avanti is back with a dustbin bag.... err.... I mean - bang!!

Anyway, coming to brighter, more promising things.... I have been tagged by the lovely, much-too-generous Anu. Why she (or anyone else) should consider me tag-worthy boggles even the smartest of minds; and since I've hardly ever been famous for having one, I'll cut the needless ruminating about. So, without further ado, I hereby obediently respond to Anu's tag, the awful delay notwithstanding:

Here's the deal - I must enlist 10 honest things about myself. Ha! I think I've been more honest than a real estate agent trying to palm off a haunted house to you. People often ask why I disclose so much about myself in such a public forum. I say it is because I have nothing to hide. Quite simple it is.

I might as well compile the list rightaway. Statutory Warning: If and when you reach the end of this post, most of you will think I'm a freak. Its tough to pick only 10 of my freakiest habits, but a list must end somewhere. So here it goes:

1. I obsess. Over inconsequential things that I ought not to obsess over. Like that renegade drop of water on the floor or the oil ring that a bottle of oil leaves behind (mop comes out immediately, fierce scrubbing ensues). Also other stupid, silly things like which side of the bed sheet covers my face (I tie a little knot at one end to identify the side, so that the side that shrouds the legs will never cover my face the next time), the number of times I should wash my hair in a week, cleaning of own plates/spoons with a paper-napkin before dining at a restaurant, flushing a public toilet even if it has been flushed clean by the previous occupant, the placement of things on my desk (can't leave their slotted place) and other such freaksome habits. So yeah, I suffer from a mild bout of OCD. Painful stuff.

2. I love compliments. Who doesn't? But wait, here's when it gets funny. When I do get a generous word of praise or two, I just don't bluhdy know how to handle it! Sample this -

Instance 1:

Person A: "Nice earrings, Avanti!"

Avanti: Oh, they are? I think they make my ears droop....

(*wouldn't mind if you'd slapped me right then*)

Instance 2:

Person B: " Wow! You drive the car really well"

Avanti: "Yeah well, you see that dent there - I bumped into a big bad bus the other day....."

(*you can shoot me too now*)

Instance 3:

Person C: "That was a brilliant report, Avanti!"

Avanti: "Yeah, but I don't like the 2 spelling errors I made... I just don't know HOW it happened...!"

(Did anyone say modesty is a virtue? Well, I should be hanged for it)

3. Despite the alleged 'opulent' lifestyle I lead (my only claim to extravagance being a car, a Macbook Pro and a closetful of clothes that I own), I honestly will not fret over loss of the same. Neither do I mind being married to a pauper. I do not crave for the material world. Its just that when I have the means, I go ahead and buy insanely expensive stuff. I'm only too happy to let it all go if need be. (this is not some monk-who-sold-his-ferrari crap... I really mean it).

4. If I see a similar outfit (that I also possess) on any other chick, I will NEVER wear it again. Duplicity is unforgivable!

5. I don't drink tea or coffee. Only bhais ka doodh for me. Go ahead and laugh now.

6. Despite the intimidating, fiercely-independent image that I tend to project, I'm still old-fashioned. If I ever pen a romantic tale, in it guys would chase girls and girls would be coy and shy. Darcy remains my favorite hero till date. They don't make more like him anymore!

7. As a kid, I was a tomboy. Right from cropped hair to an astute dislike for barbies, there was a point in time when I excelled at all things boyish. Playing cricket, strumming the guitar, a craze for video-games (Wolf 3D, NFS Underground, GTA3, Quake 3, Ghost Recon and Formula 1 Racing '99 were my forte), watching WWF, F1, having a weakness for sneakers.... you see.... pretty much everything except whistling or hooting at girls (thank God for small mercies). I'm pretty much reformed now, behave more like a girl and do nothing that I did as a kid. Not that I regret doing them. We all have our phases.

8. The best gift to give me is a book. Fiction only, mind you. The thicker it is, the better. I love the smell of new books. Also fresh newspapers, paint and kerosene. That's it. No more weird stuff.

9. I've had 3 serious crushes till now. One lasted a good 4 years. Never spoke to ANY of them till date. Never found the spunk to.

10. I'm not easily amused. Santa-Banta jokes won't work on me. Nope, not even a polite laugh. Only Rakhi Sawant makes me laugh. She never fails. I admire her for that.

There you go! Whew! That was tough. I have weirder stuff up my sleeves, but I'll save it for another time (can hear collective sighs of relief). After all, I still need to maintain my scarce audience, don't I?

Oh, I need to do one more bit - here are the sweethearts that I must tag (rules, what can I do?). Go ahead, darlings! Confess!

Deepti

Shikha

Indy

Ankit

Arslan

And another year...

Wishing all my readers (even if its only a few of you) a spectacular 2010! Be good, y'all! Thanks a zillion for visiting this blog, bearing with its myriad nuances (good, bad and the pagli) and cont ributing with your valuable comments..! Love you all so much :)

Music and Lyrics

Those who know me well might be surprised by what I'm going to write next. Can't blame you, I was stunned myself when I found myself swaying and humming along to an old song that was playing on TV - a handsome Dev Anand (yesteryear's of course) was serenading Simi Garewal with the melodic 'Khwaab ho tum ya koi Hakeekat'; perched on a piano and doing his famous, trademark head-nods. It brought back memories, some 22-odd years ago, when Dad would sing this beautiful song to the kiddo-me. Dad was a huge music-enthusiast in those days - he knew every popular Hindi song by heart (the older the song, the better) and showed off his vocal skills by singing to us, whenever we cried or were being particularly moody. My sister and I lapped it all up with joy... no wonder we still know these songs, despite they being churned out several decades ago. You still can't beat Dad at that so-ingrained-in-our-picnic-culture game of Antakshari, the mere mention of which evicts an agitated cry from me, mostly because I suck at it. A profound hate for this game is the sole reason why I don't travel by bus anymore, because you inevitably end up reflecting, 'Baithe baithe kya karein?' (how about sleeping, guys? Sigh, no takers!). Then someone gets a brainwave... the 'bright' idea of playing Antakshari has magically popped in his/her heavily constrained head, praise be the Lord! What follows next is anyone's guess. Very reluctantly, you are dragged into the silly charade, meanwhile fending off several allegations (don't be a spoilsport yaar/ so what if you have a sore throat/ so what if you don't know Hindi songs?/ don't worry, you are in 'both teams'). Then somewhere between Mumbai and Pune you find yourself singing horribly out of tune, clapping to imaginary drums, and making a colossal fool of yourself, because you know only the first 2 lines of the song, even fumbling with that. Almost immediately you hear wild cries of 'Cheating, cheating!! Minus 10!! Minus 10!!' Hey now, wait a minute.... WTF!! Didn't I tell you... no... INSISTED that I didn't want to play this dumb game before?!? Hmmmpf!! Bhalai ka zamaana hi nahi raha :(
PS: Note how effortlessly I have grossly digressed from the point of this post. Well, what can I say? Antakshari has that sort of an effect on me.

Anyway, I was saying.... that this appreciation for music (except Antakshari, of course) has passed on to me as well. During my teenage years, I underwent this metal/rock music phase (like most teenyboppers... in my time LP, and The Rasmus, for some reason were considered cool). However, sadly, this almost always had a disturbing and throbbing effect on any peace-loving soul that had the misfortune to co-habitat in my vicinity. Pounding headaches, cardiac arrests and even a burning desire to commit grave, multiple murders could not be ruled out; especially when Chester Bennington (of the LP fame) & Rob Zombie were yelling their lungs out from the confines of my speakers. My neighbour Uncle George, while passing by our house quipped one day, "Yeh Shastriji ka ghar nahi, koi Fernandes ka ghar lagta hai," then guffawing aloud at his own lame joke. Very funny uncle, HA HA HA. You couldn't get more stereotyped than THAT, even if you tried really hard to prove otherwise.

Fortunately, I have grown up (duh!) and am a much calmer and restrained version of the previous me. Uncle George now sleeps less fitfully and Mom has broken two coconuts at the local temple, as a symbol of great gratitude for rescuing her hearing faculties from total annihilation. Since this post began with a mention of one of my favorite songs, allow me to enlist a few more - songs that I can listen to at any hour of the day.

1. Home (Michael Buble) "Another aeroplane, another sunny place... I'm lucky, I know... but I wanna go home" Everyone of us can relate to that!

2. Starry, Starry Night (Josh Groban): "But I could've told you Vincent, this world wasn't meant for one as beautiful as you..." *goes weak in the knees*

3. Strawberry Swing (Coldplay): "Now the sky could be blue, I don't mind.... without you, its a waste of time" Awwwwww, Chris Martin... when you're around, everyone else is a waste of time!

4. Apologize (One Republic): "I loved you like a fire red, now its turnin' blue... And you say, sorry like the angel, heaven let me think was you... But I'm afraid its too late to apologize" Another broken heart? Too many of them these days! Misery loves company though!

4. Say it Right (Nelly Furtado): "No, you don't mean nothing at all to me... but you got what it takes to set me free.... Oh you could mean everything to me" Nelly says it right!

5. Aaoge Jab Tum (Ustad Rashid Khan): "Aaoge jab tum saajna... angana phool khilege.... barsega saawan jhoom jhoom ke… Do dil aise milenge" You can't go wrong with lyrics like these!
6. New Shoes (Paolo Nutini): "Hey, I put some new shoes on and suddenly everything is right" How many of us have felt THAT way one Monday morning?

7. Oxford Comma (Vampire Weekend): "Who gives a f**k about an Oxford comma? I've seen those English dramas too, they're cruel. So if there's any other way to spell the word, it's fine with me. Why would you speak to me that way, especially when I always said that I haven't got the words for you? All your diction dripping with disdain... through the pain I always tell the truth " Smartest lyrics I've heard in a long time!

8. In Da Club (50 Cent): The lyrics are too profane to be included here ;) But I'm positive that the whole world and its uncle LOVES this groovy hip hop number!

9. Kiss Me (Sixpence none the Richer): "Kiss me beneath the milky twilight, lead me out on the moonlit floor, lift your open hand strike up the band and make the fireflies dance, silver moon's sparkling, so kiss me" Mushiness rules!

10. Hello (Evanescence): "Don't try to fix me, I'm not broken... Hello.... I'm the lie living for you so you can hide" How the HELL do they come up with lyrics like these?

There are so many more.... but that's all I can think of right now! And yes, I have included one Hindi song so don't accuse me of being the angrez wannabe. I relate to the Queen's language more... not Hindi, not even my mother-tongue.... so run off, naysayers!

Kaleidoscopic Kerala

Its not for zilch they call it 'God's own Country'. Needless to say, Kerala transports you to a verdant landscape, some untouched by the vagaries of ruthless mankind. And you revel in it, allowing the scenic beauty, and not too seldom - the simplicity of it, to captivate and overwhelm you. In many ways it is very similar to Karnataka, my native state, however more lush and beautiful than the latter. Stately coconut trees and lavish churches are conspicuous by their multiplicity, you'll find them in every nook and corner. The people of Kerala are an amiable lot too - simple and extremely helpful. And special mention goes to the men (no, this is not about their potbellies and giant moustaches)... chivalry is their code! Every man, right from the bellboy to your taxi driver is so respectful towards women! This is evident in their behaviour - little things like holding the door open, not gawking/staring, passing rude comments.... I have never come across a disrespectful man in Kerala, yet - not even the hippies on their religious journey to Sabarimala (I saw hordes and hordes of them, clad in black). Hats off & more power to you guys!

As for Kerala - I'm coming back again!! I've not had enough of you! :) I miss the banana chips, home-made chocolates and the heavenly smell of spices already! Here are some snapshots of our stay at Thekkady, Munnar, Ashtamudi & Kollam.... Madurai too, but that's in Tamil Nadu. The pics defy the mere 6 MP Kodak camera that I was armed with. That's because each place is so beautiful, you don't need a fancy camera to capture their beauty!

Is any trip to Kerala complete without an elephant ride? Here's the beloved Bhagya (that's what our elephant was called) giving us a tour of a spice plantation... look at her posing for the camera....!

When we asked a firang who also rode the elephant to describe the experience, he replied, 'It was nice, it was funny.... it is kinda hard to explain'..... lol.... that aptly sums up our experience as well :)

The verdant spice plantation - the guide gave us a very detailed explanation of all the spices growing there - right from the king of spice (pepper), queen of spice (cardamom), price of spice (saffron) and princess of spice (vanilla).... phew! Bet you didn't know that too! :)

The mahout and his giant, but gentle ride... elephants are such docile animals!! But then, who wants to annoy them too?

The famous Kathakali mudra-dance - the costumes and face-paint are intriguing.... I wonder how the performers handle the complexity of it all!

The beginning of Kalaripayattu - the famous martial art from Kerala. They had dimmed the lights at the beginning of the performance giving the entire stage an ethereal feel.... beautiful, glowing diyas!

The performers were brilliant, each performing stunts more dangerous than the other, with swords, knives, spears and burning rings. What were their names??? Can remember only 3 - Muthu, Saijju and Kinchu (funny, na?)

Gladiator, anyone? These guys are menancing... swords clashed so hard and swiftly that they created sparks!

The very agile Muthu jumped through 2 fiery rings simultaneously. And I thought this sorta thing only happens on TV.... watching it live was unnerving. Brilliant stuff, though!

The breathtaking view from our resort at Munnar - a place well known for its numerous tea plantations

A tea garden at Munnar

A hill bedecked with tea plantations (Munnar)... the tea shrubs are short and stubby, and need constant tending to.

Whatta view! (on the way to Munnar)

I want to be on that little island!

The waterfall at Chellarkovil (near Thekkady).... we walked a good kilometre, through a narrow winding path, just to spot it

The view from Chellarkovil hills

That's the entrance to our resort at Ashtamudi - wondrous, wondrous place!

Our restaurant was on one of these rafts

I SO wanted to stay at Ashtamudi for much longer! Love the clouds in this pic...

Postcard-perfect!

Coconut trees and Kerala - you can't separate them!

Lazing in a hammock

The stately lighthouse (functional one) at Kollam

Why does this remind me of a candy bar?

The spiraling staircase to the top of the lighthouse. 200 steps in all. To the ones suffering from Vertigo - beware!

The view from the top of the lighthouse - see that church (in the middle) engulfed by coconut trees around it?

View of the Kollam coastline

Another spectacular view

And another...

Isn't this just beautiful? The Kollam coastline - pure and unadulterated!

Kollam beach

Mom insisted on visiting the Meenakshi temple at Madurai.... disinterested at first, my stance changed as soon as I spotted the temple - a magnificent, massive structure with so many details, it will stump you... indeed, God IS in the details!

Each sculpture of the massive structure tells a mythological story

You have to crane your necks to capture a picture of the Meenakshi temple, here - the South Tower

From aboard the aircraft, back home!