I'm not here, am I?

Have barely got the time to relax this past month - so blogging is a remote possibility. Allow me to tell you why (as if you, poor reader, have a choice). There's always a price to pay for being efficient. And one must inevitably and quite deservedly pay for being an insufferable workaholic. By the latter kind I refer to one of those smart-alecs you may bump into: the omnipresent geek, the irritating prissy or the self-righteous know-it-all -- take your p(r)ick. They're all equally disastrous. Now, I don't know which category I fall into, but I certainly know I am not a geek (atleast not anymore), I barely have the bodily-constitution to make my scrawny-self available at any occasion that may or may not demand my presence and neither I am a full-of-myself-know-it-all. In fact, I am just a beginner. Still the new-kid-on-the-block. Yet, I am given responsibilities way beyond my calibre and capability. Why? Because I am good at what I do. Organized work is my forte. Shabby jobs, incomplete reports or missed-deadlines are out of question. Blame the Virgo in me for being a tad too finicky (to the point of manic obsession). And this very inherent trait is taken advantage of by all who are aware of these vulnerabilities. 'Avanti kar legi,' is the widespread assumption. Avanti is the one you dump your worldly worries upon. Avanti is the one who will make life easy for everyone around her. And Avanti is inadvertently THE damsel who will respond to distress. Unflinchingly. Gee, I feel like Mother Teresa already.

In all fairness, I consider myself fortunate that I am the first person that comes to the stumped mind in the event of dire straits. Still, I'm tired of being the fallback gal. I'm tired of being the resident, local dump. I must learn to protest. I must learn to say 'No'. And most importantly, I must give myself more of my own attention. Till then, the object of my all-too-frequent rants should be me. No one else.

So if I don't fade away into oblivion soon, see you at the next post.

My Baby Shot Me Down

Nancy Sinatra for Beatrix Kiddo. Two incongruous personalities, yet this song is befitting both.

I was five and he was six

We rode on horses made of sticks

He wore black and I wore white

He would always win the fight

Bang bang, he shot me down

Bang bang, I hit the ground

Bang bang, that awful sound

Bang bang, my baby shot me down.

Seasons came and changed the time

When I grew up, I called him mine

He would always laugh and say

"Remember when we used to play?"

Bang bang, I shot you down

Bang bang, you hit the ground

Bang bang, that awful sound

Bang bang, I used to shoot you down

Music played, and people sang

Just for me, the church bells rang

Now he's gone, I don't know why

And till this day, sometimes I cry

He didn't even say goodbye

He didn't take the time to lie

Bang bang, he shot me down

Bang bang, I hit the ground

Bang bang, that awful sound

Bang bang, my baby shot me down...

Quiet please!

After a fitful sleep last night, I woke up this morning to a rather dubious headline on page 2 of The Times of India - 'City wakes up to a quieter celebration'. Unless you were encased in a soundproof padded cell, let me assure you that this claim is wholly unfounded. Mumbai did not have a quieter Diwali; it never has, and at the rate it is going every progressing year, it never will. In all fairness, a celebration must be a merry affair, and not a muted one. But atleast don't make me feel as though I am right at the epicenter of a war-zone, with every exploding bomb threatening to rip my ears apart. At the rate some maniacs in my locality were letting off crackers, chain bombs and other such deafening monstrosities, I for one, was left a disturbed (and severely hearing-impaired) person at the end of it all. One horrifying chain-bomb lasted a full 10 minutes. At the ungodly hour of 2 am. I can only hope the aged managed to keep their meek hearts in check. I had half a mind to open my windows and direct a well-aimed rocket at the heartless fiends. But they had already achieved their purpose and I would only be adding to the din. So yet again, Avanti suffered, without protest.

Diwali is essentially a festival of lights. Not noise. How lovely it is to see our houses lit with flashing bulbs, lanterns and diyas during this joyous festival! The well-designed rangolis, kids scampering about in new clothes, exchanging sweets and reminisces, lighting up diyas and not forgetting the basic premise of Diwali - that of the destruction of all that is dark and evil through light and bonhomie.

Sadly, these days people are more interested in destroying the tranquility of homes and minds. I humbly exhort all to please refrain from undue noise. Let us celebrate this festival in the right manner - for what it symbolizes. As Ranbir Kapoor wisely says in that ubiquitous Panasonic ad - let us turn down the volume :)

Gimme some Space, yaar!

My friend Shikha asked me something interesting today - "After the fight for oil, what could the next big fight be for?" I pondered over the query for a while. What indeed could scuffles and wars break out for? Nuclear weapons? The right to clone humans? The cure for AIDS? Or perhaps emissions regulation? I am no prophet; neither do I possess a whacky imagination that could spin tales to boggle rudimentary minds. I count myself amongst the latter lot - I am plagued by simpler ordeals that could very likely snowball into unmanageable complexities if gone unchecked. Like parking spaces, for instance (don't laugh). Since times immemorial, space has always been a subject of great dispute and minor powwows. Great, long wars were fought over land, spaces. Today, we are still battling it out for space - primarily for shelter, for that ground beneath our feet and the roof over our heads. But, also consider other trifles like the fight for space in the Great-Indian-queue, for that fourth seat on the Mumbai local train, for atleast a square centimeter on the board of the overcrowded-BEST bus, for a 2-second darshan at Siddhivinayak/ Tirupati temples, for a tiny area on the rocks at Bandstand on a Sunday evening etc. etc. The more creative ones will even demand 'space' in relationships (I never quite understood that phrase).

Judging by the sheer number of cars and other four-wheeled monsters that ply on our over-burdened roads, I will not be surprised if we soon run out of spaces for parking our four-wheeled indulgences. Not so long ago, I was walking through the upscale neighbourhood of Hill Road (perennially in a traffic jam) and was mildly amused to see several cars (each more ravishing and more expensive than the other) lined alongside the narrow streets. Most were parked bumper-to-bumper. I wonder how the drivers got them out. Parking lots in malls/theatres are filled within minutes on weekends. Even aircrafts circle the airport for hours, just for that elusive area to land. Such is the dearth of spaces in our city. The parking lot in a SoBo neighbourhood will make you poorer by anywhere between (hold-your-breath) Rs. 15-25 lakh!! Such preposterousness! One also witnesses brawls breaking out if someone else captures your parking space, even though legally - it ain't yours. The other day, Mom got ultra-defensive (and almost abusive) as a smartarse tried to sneak in his car while I was busy negotiating a turn into the narrow space between two cars! Tempers are already flying thick and fast over (hitherto) trivial things such as parking spaces! So much so that, ghar rahe ya na rahe, parking space toh hona hi chahiye!

It also doesn't help that every family these days preens about in more than one car. This has added severe pressure to the already-cracking infrastructure of the city. I see a day not so far away when our newspapers will flash the headline - Mr. Poonawaala wins the case against Mr. Jhunjhunwaala, thereby winning the right to park his Audi Q7 in the disputed area (which incidentally happens to be two kilometres away from his residence... since the building's parking lot already accomodates the very chap's 2 BMWs & 3 Lamborghinis)! Indeed, in the future, parking spaces are going to be much rarer commodities than housing spaces.

God save us all then.

Fine Dine Pantomime

(From Wikianswers)

Fine dining restaurants generally have the following services and requirements:

Dress Code: In most cases a fine dining restaurant will not permit jeans, t-shirts, hats and may even require a suit jacket and tie.

Service: The service at a fine dining restaurant will generally be top notch. Expect each table to have no less than two servers directly responsible for it and a Maitre 'D overseeing service.

Menu: The menu at fine dining restaurants tends to be extremely classy with high quality ingredients and prepared by a well-known and talented chef with years of industry experience.

Food: Top quality produce treated delicately with respect. Small portions paid with extreme details. Combining food and art concept together. Making food taste good and look good.

Price: Expect to pay a little (to substantially) more for the extra attention to detail. This could range from $30 per person to hundreds - depending on menu and wine selections.

Valet Parking: Many fine dining restaurants offer valet parking for their dining guests.

Reservations: You will likely need to book ahead of your dining experience to ensure you will have a table upon your arrival.

Whoaaaaa!! Such elaborate glitz over something as elementary as feeding a hungry stomach??

I don't understand 'Fine Dining'. I really don't. I also don't comprehend why such ado is made over the 'fine dining experience'. And why the ones who haven't been through this bothersome ordeal are looked upon as neanderthals or worse. No, I'm not writing this piece out of angst or contempt for having been given the bum's rush out of a swanky 5-star restaurant... instead, I have just observed those who 'fine dine' regularly & wax eloquent (not without the accompanying theatrics) about the whole blessed-event. You'd be forgiven to think they've been to paradise and back. I too have been to several swish hotels during my present work tenure. I was at the Leela recently, on a lunch-out with my office colleagues. But frankly, the food was dismal. First of all, the choice was limited. I am spoilt for more alternatives at the local Udupi restaurant. Then, I am forced to pick from some bizarrely-named offerings. They don't even bother to mention the ingredients. I might as well be eating sponge. On second thoughts, atleast it didn't make my throat feel soapy or bubbly. Small consolation that was. For the the food was not even hot. While I was painfully gulping down the chilly fare, my brain was wickedly propping up images of piping hot rotis (dipped in a bowl-full of ghee) I had at a roadside dhaba on the Delhi national highway 2 years back (Yumm!!!) Dessert was the only respite. But wait, that made us toil too. For each offering was in a bowl so tiny, I could play Barbie with it. Granted that dessert is not to be eaten in tubs, but atleast don't make me feel like I'm with Ken out-for-lunch!

Don't get me wrong, the ambiance at these hotels is fabulous. You've got colossal buildings adorned with the most expensive carpets, sculptures, antiques, chandeliers, artificial waterfalls and exotic furniture that money can buy. The inside of the hotel is a labyrinth in itself. Several rooms leading to other rooms. And each more beautiful than the previous. The valet salutes you, the doorman greets you (a man more than twice my age calls me 'Madam') and the waiters fuss over you. But isn't that all so superficial & hollow? Who knows, the doorman might personally think you're a grand old fart. Yet he salutes you, overpowered by the money jingling in your pocket. I say, cut all that jazz and bring on the food mate! That is what concerns me.... not if you call me Madam or not.

Maybe I'm just not hardwired that way - to appreciate the 'finer' details of life or to demand exclusivity. I have nothing against the suave, I'm-sure-they're-important lot who dash in and out of these hotels, shelling out ridiculous amounts of money on a simple lunch that can be had for under 100 bucks. Good for them. They see something I clearly don't. As for me, I'm dashing to my favorite panipuri-wallah tomorrow. His humble (and a thousand times tastier) dole-outs will receive maximum appreciation from me atleast!