A soap opera

An aggrieved teen uses her "dry sense of humour" to appeal to your out-of-the-bucket thinking. Tee, my guest blogger pours her heart out.

Today, I speak for a cause. I speak on behalf of millions of repressed people. I speak to protect our heritage.

I must confess that my reasons for this soliloquy are a little selfish. Why mum, why must you always treat me like a pigsty if I don’t bathe for a few hours? Whyy??? It’s not like I’ve grown festering sores and flaking scabs!!

*Ahem*

I apologise for that outburst. I have been in the grips of such gross injustice for most of my life *sobs quietly*. But I, no WE, must hold our own. My compatriots and I are all that stand between humanity and complete destruction! Without us, the rest of the world would have already run out of water, and succumbed to some horrific disease! We shield our less-able brothers and sisters from a viral onslaught. Due to our constant efforts to save water and soap (some of us have even sacrificed the luxury of shampoo- my heart goes out to those brave heroes), there is enough for those *cough* over-zealous, neurotic *cough* individuals who have declared a life-long vendetta against those microscopic denizens of the natural world.

Ever wonder why allergies are so prevalent in the western world? Why a little mosquito bite can turn into a swelling the size and shape of Australia? Without a little bit of detritus in our lives, we become weak, diminished! Man and nature, living together- that was how God intended it. If He really wanted us to be dirt-free He would have had soap grow on trees (“And on the eighth day, there was anti-bacterial soap”). Better still, He wouldn’t have created dirt in the first place! We must not deny our natural state: we must rebel against the norms imposed on us by society!

I admit that if my kindred were to ascend to power, many bystanders would suffer. Laundromats come to mind. But that is a small price to pay for humanity’s survival. I implore you, my comrades, raise your arms (Or rather, don’t. We need our audience to be conscious)! No longer shall we be called ‘barbaric’ for our sacrifice. No longer shall we be shunned by our family and friends. We shall make them realise our great contribution to the march of civilisation. Let the world hear our roar, we are revolting! We....wait, where are you taking me? I’m not finished yet! No! How dare you try to oppress us! No keep that thing away from me! I will not bathe, I tell you. Mooooomm, noooooooooo!

Courtesy Google Images

Rakhi’s haart goes dhak-dhak

Courtesy - news.in.msn.com

Mere Pyaare Mohan,

Last night you came in a helicopter in mai dream.  Your kale ghane baal flying in the wind, your patli kamaar playing lukka chhupi with me - by God ki kasam I feel like putting big black tikka on your face. Najjar naa lag jaye mere baanke bihari ko! 

When I see you, my haart went dhuk dhuk loudly like Madhuri Dixit.  I think the loud sound wake up my good for nothing boyfraand.  But not to worry that bloodyphool sleeps like a saandh. Woh to bole jo bullshit walla bull.

Haan... I was saying in my dreams you were looking handsomer than Salman Khan.  Toh aur khyaa – I grabbed you and looked deep into your fadaktee hui eyes.  I could feel your stomach shaking violently like mixie – I ask pet kharaab hai jee?  You move your head violently, blush and say behenjee what to do – it is my habit.  I was so filled with gussa, I had tears in my eyes like Meena Kumari.  Dil ke armaan asoowon mein bah gaye - I sing loudly.  I immediately fall at your feet and scream... Who behenjee?  I am your charan dasi and you are mai swami.

Bring back the lungi I say...

Baba, this one is for you

In India, most of us sweat buckets most of the year.  Rivulets of perspiration, trickling down our back is an all too familiar feeling. In Delhi’s scorching summer, I start sporting the tomato-trapped-in-a-hot–sauna look. With my back permanently soaked with sweat, the face a flaming red and my hair frizzy beyond belief, I look quite a sight.  I refuse to meet most of my friends in summer – what if they start thinking I’m ugly? What if they don’t recognize me at all??

This is the season when I discard all my noble endeavours towards energy conservation, carbon footprints and gleefully help burn some more holes in the ozone layer.  I’d rather keep my cool than save the environment! But what gets my goat is when I see people attired in skin-tight summer unfriendly clothes.  As the mercury hits the roof, the last thing you need is squeezing yourself into your jeans or wearing trousers with full sleeved shirts. Just the sight of it makes me break into a sweat.

And this despite the many options we women have. Saris for the breezy feel, skirts of all shapes and sizes, sarongs for convenience and shorts if you don’t mind men gawking at your legs! Men sadly only have a choice of length – short, mid way or full length. 

A few days back as I was twiddling my thumbs and counting the cobwebs, I came up with a designer of an idea!  And believe me it’s far better than Baby B’s - the one that he keeps hawking on national TV.

Men-folk can now expect deliverance and break free from the tyranny of their trousered existence.  Guys!  time is ripe to go back to your roots and embrace the preferred attire of our forefathers.  It’s time to say yes to our desi lungi.  

Courtesy : Google images

Look how our Mallu brothers and our Tam uncles fearlessly show off their hairy legs in their mundus.  This one-size-fits-all-bottoms garment is simple, down to Earth and extremely pocket friendly. 

As a kid I used to find its north Indian counterpart, the lungi, truly appalling.  A lungi which usually comes in flamboyant floral or window-curtain patterns has an instant eww appeal.  Ask me, I know.  My Dad in his heydays had a vibrant collection, each one more colourful than the last and no amount of glaring or cajoling worked.  At home when he was relaxing, Baba was surgically attached to his lungi!  When my fiancé and I were courting each other, I was plagued with thoughts of my guy in a lungi.  One day I finally managed to stutter “I hope you don’t wear a lungi’?  Naah I prefer shorts.  It was only when we started co-habiting I discovered his stunning collection of shorts – each one more hideous than the last.   Why he even had a pair in red with something in French printed on it!

Will-Kat need me....

The last few days I have been hovering around our letter-box.  Every time I pass it by, I look at it longingly, peep inside anxiously.  My tiny mail-box is tired of me.  Can you please leave me in peace, even I need my privacy!

Our building’s security guard has been eyeing me suspiciously.  Madamjee ka lagtaa hai finally dimaag kharaab ho gaya hai.  Waise bhi saraa din kuch na kuch likhti rahti hai.  Sahab bhi pareshaan hai. 

Courtesy -ohgossip.com

What he doesn’t know is, ever since I read in the papers that Will-Kat have posted invites (1900 to be precise) for their hotly anticipated royal wedding – I have been getting anxiety pangs.

My guest authors on A-musing have led me to believe that I am a celebrity blogger. Some even went to the extent of imagining an entire interview with me.  All this gushing has turned me to mush. My head has been looking a little swollen lately. 

But now I am plagued with self-doubt.  I am neither royalty, far from diplomatic - in fact I am too common for comfort.   What if I don’t get invited at all – what do I tell my million fans.  I am answerable to them, after all.  Weren’t they looking forward to my spicy coverage of this Royal event!  Who wore what?  Did Elton John come wearing a gown?  What is the secret behind Victoria Beckham’s pout?  How will the world come to know if I am not around!  Will-Kat need me, yes I believe they need me more than I need them.

An Ode That Stinks...

Cartoonstock.com

They are like a whiff of stale air and leave you gasping for oxygen. You dare not breathe in their presence and prefer staying a mile away. If you are stuck in the elevator with them you are doomed. They emit toxic fumes, yet are kind to the environment. In a water starved future, if you accidently stumble upon 15 buckets of water, please say a silent thanks to them. They inadvertently saved water for you with their non-bathing ways.

Water is their enemy, soap so last century. The Deo Empire thrives on their largesse. Why smell fresh when you can have the killer axe effect. Bathing is so proletariat, my animal magnetism is enough to make people swoon. People have been swooning in their presence but for reasons they rather not know.

And they have hallowed company, like Mao, Indian idol of revolutionaries. Mao’s passion for books and banning them was surpassed by his fetish for women and hatred for baths. In his 27 year rule, Mao didn’t bathe even once. He would get himself wiped with a hot towel and considered a swim a bath. Obviously, if you are busy stirring up a revolution and founding communism in China, you don’t really have time to indulge in trivial pursuits like bathing. And when you are powerful, do you really care what the women think about you? Naah...Strangely he found enough time to read his many books and getting them banned, so that the rest of China could not read them. His logic – the more books you read the more stupid you become. Bathing, perhaps for the great Mao was another manifestation of stupidity.

Was my life a big fat lie?

Credit:cartoonstock.com

Since last week I have been in a state of distress – should I stop crouching under the table searching for cobwebs, bid adieu to my critically critical state and let go of my fetish for “out damn spot”. The whole purpose of my life has gone for a toss. The world doesn’t seem perfect anymore. Why should I be a stickler for punctuality now? Who cares! I now spend hours in front of the mirror asking myself the purpose of my life – who am I, was my life a big fat lie?

All because the Earth is wobbling and can’t get its act straight, the zodiac signs seem to playing musical chairs. The world is caught up in an astrological mess not of its own making. Earthlings are busy proclaiming their loyalty from their desktops – I am a fish, will always be. I thought I was hot, what went wrong with me. The Gemini is acting bullish and is worried that he will have to clean up his act – Are you telling me I can’t flirt with Miss this and that? Karan Johar is appalled that he might have to shift his loyalties from his favourite letter K. My Name is John? Much Much Hota Hai? Hrithik’s Roshan has dimmed – Papajee, will Krrish now be Eeesh? Ministers are running to their favourite astro baba – Has my ring of destiny changed. Shall I shift from sapphire to jade? Bejan Daruwala is huffing and puffing all the way to his neighbourhood water tank, only to stand on its top and scream....Sooooooside

I am trying hard to make a transition from the virtuous Virgo to the confused Leo. Err...should I gargle and practise my roar. Perhaps I should sharpen my claws and change my gait to a menacing prowl. Start lording over and act like a queen.

Then there is this added stress of an undesirable 13th. Wasn’t twelve enough? The name is a spelling bee champ’s dream come true – Ophiuchus! It’s a vowel overload and how the hell does one pronounce it. I prefer big – O. Sounds kind of cool, no? Actually I would have preferred being that opi something . Apparently Big-O traits include being a seeker of peace and harmony, interpreter of dreams, inventive and intuitive. This attractive species can either rise in life and find untold fame and wealth or be completely misunderstood and lead a miserable life. Almost like a character from an Ayn Rand book. Maa, couldn’t you have waited till November. What was the big hurry, really!!
 

But at least one thing is making sense. The husband and I had a doomed Virgo-Aquarius pairing. After reading Linda Goodman, I had tears in my eyes. Darling, Linda says our marriage will not survive. And now thanks to the tilt, my marriage is destined for a long innings. It will break my heart though to see my witty, classy, experimenting, water bearer become a fierce determined Capricorn. But the fun part is, now I am the lion and he is the goat. By God - what a union it will be.

And guys before you sign off..I have some good news to share. Err not THAT good news - my blog has been shortlisted in Best Of Blogosphere (Humour and Satire) category by blog junta. The bad news is, I am expected to canvass for votes. So here's the deal if you vote for me, jannat awaits you and if you don't.... remember that text you were expected to forward to at least 155 contacts (forward or else your are doomed to eternal damnation!) Jannat is just a click away.

To vote for me in Personal category click here http://apps.facebook.com/polldaddy-polls/?view=poll&id=4428045

The Big-O Crisis

Pic courtesy:Ifood.TV

The Big-O crisis has sent the Indian junta into a tizzy. The hottest topic of debate, our netas are raising hell over it (Wireless Radia can heave a sigh of relief). CNN-IBN reporters have shifted bag and baggage to mandis, not for their new-found love for subzi but to clandestinely film seedy hoarders spilling the beans. The Onion is now breaking news. It has made Sharad Pawarless.

The great Indian leveler, the most egalitarian of vegetables – the onion is sought after by Aam Admi to Ambani . Every palate craves for it, unless you have renounced the world. Our kitchens whisper softly into its pink glistening skin …you complete me. The poor peasants’ meal is incomplete without a bite of the pungent bulb. It adds chutzpah, that crunchy zing to our meal. Of course the wicked veggie it is, it is layered to bring out the tears, but do we mind?? Naah.

But these days the modest onion is bringing tears of the other kind – tears of frustration. The naughty little bulbs have been playing truant and prefer the cool comfort of dark-dank godowns. This has sent prices spiraling skywards and has raised a stink so strong that the government had to wake up and smell the onions (coffee is so passé). They have been tardy as usual, while the onion mafia is laughing all the way to the bank. Traders have been hoarding stockpiles of the smelly bulbs while the government is pottering around with ad hoc fixes. Thanks to an official missive, onions will cease to be globetrotting veggies and will be homebound till mid-January.

The onion deprivation has done a lot of good for our neighborly ties. For once we are looking forward to something from Pakistan – 40 truckloads of the humble bulbs all the way from Sindh to ease our Big-O predicament.

Inflation-hit onions have also been taking on the role of the great Indian unifier with aplomb. For once there is no north-south divide. If dosa makers down south have bid adieu to the bulb, then Mughlai chefs up north are using bread crumbs to thicken their gravies. And it has given way to some unique dishes like the Mutton no pyaaza.

Since our breaths are far from oniony, the sparkle is back into our conversations. We welcome this temporary reprieve from holding our breaths and not choking on our own words. Breath freshener companies are far from amused though about this new development and are now banking on garlic to come to their rescue. Another not-so-amused person is Graham Onion, the English cricketer. TV presenter Gaurav Kapur has been insisting the cricketer choose his reserve price per kilo for the IPL auctions.

But the elusive onions are rediscovering themselves in various avatars.

Pic courtesy - Reuters

• As the new ice breaker. Alone and getting bored at a party? Just say the magic words where are the onions at the buffet table and Whoa! you will have hordes clamoring to voice their opinions and don’t forget to pitch in with the choicest of gaalis for the government to keep the passions ignited.

• As a sought after accessory. Many BJP workers are using them as a fashion statement and are now wearing them as garlands. Behen Mayawati has also been making surreptitious enquiries about 3-ton onion garlands (who wants currency notes anyway).

• Sheila, the not so jawaan edition, has squarely laid the blame on the media for fuelling the onion price scare. But just when our kitchen austerity has nearly succeeded in bringing onion prices down to Earth, the ubiquitous tomato is demanding its share of limelight. The tomato is on its way to becoming the new onion.

So if you still haven’t decided on a Christmas present yet – ditch that box of chocolates. A kilo of onions snuggling on a bed of tomatoes, wrapped in red and gold, is priceless!

It happened one night

Image Courtesy :Squidoo.com

You have been her silent worshipper for months. And why not, she’s smart, almost beautiful, sassy. The office Casanovas and aging Lotharios have been circling her cubicle furiously, in the vain hope of catching her attention. Yet, she said yes to YOU – silent (mostly), strong, brooding, forehead crinkled in worry, surgically attached to your Blackberry. Almost like her Mills & Boon hero, if you concentrate on the strong silent part and ignore the slightly paunchy, thinning hair look. Of course it helped that you are somewhere at the top of the corporate ladder. Hard work always has its perks.

You have a dinner date tonight at the new Japanese joint that food critics have been raving about. You wistfully think of the divine butter chicken with garlic naan at your favourite Moti Mahal Deluxe. But what to do, she is on a raw diet. Ahh…sushi is but a small sacrifice for office goddess.

The Men In My Life

My life would be incomplete without them. Every time things go wrong, I reach out for them. They are not one, but many. My needs are not one, but far too many. Just one man is not enough.

Oh, they are a pain. They make me go on a wild goose chase, they make me wait, they make me stew and fret. Just one call is not enough. Heartless, insolent, smooth liars – yet I can’t survive without them. What they do, the husband can do better, but he is so busy and always short on time. I don’t want to stress him any further. Sometimes I wish I could do it myself. My life would be so much simpler.

I have a daily morning guy. At the crack of dawn, the first person I think of is him. Does he know how impatiently I wait for him? Peering anxiously over the balcony, the sight of his parked scooter sends me into a frenzy. My heart leaps with joy when I hear the sound of his shuffling footsteps and I rush to open the door just when I hear the gentle thwack on the foot mat.

What’s In A Name?

For the longest I didn’t like my name, I thought it was a big headache. Very few would get it right the first time and it became my responsibility to educate the world. It was too unique for my comfort.

I was born “Purva”, against much opposition. No, nobody had a problem with my being born but everybody had a problem with that name. Didoon(my maternal grandmother) preferred Shayanti, the dusk-born. Her wilful, first-born (my mum) imperiously thumbed it down with a “nobody will get it right and she will end up being Shanti”. Thamma (paternal grandmother) didn’t even bother to ask and went ahead and got “Chandana” carved on a pendant meant for me. So, Purva flaunted a Chandana around her neck for years while patiently explaining the nuances of her name.

In school I probably had the shortest name with the longest surname - Bhattacharya. A surname that transcended all barriers and margins in the attendance register, coupled with a short but tricky name. A new class, a new teacher and I would brace myself for the pregnant pause, the inevitable fumbling....Apoorva?......Purrrrr?.....Apoorbo? I would sigh dramatically and correct my teacher. Once our anglicized Geography teacher tried a heavily accented Pushpa with me, I almost hissed back at him. By Xth, I gave up and changed my name to Purba, it sounded much simpler. My friends playfully shortened it to Baa and spent the rest of the session searching high and low for a suitable Bapu for their Baa. I snootily turned down all suggestions.

Your Underwear Is Now Smart

What do you do when you have invented everything worth inventing? Organs can now be harvested, crops genetically modified. Youth is just a scalpel away. Technology is your personal genie, everything material made available with just a flick of a button.

So does it mean that our Scientists and Researchers are sitting idle and vacationing in Honduras? Of course not! They are now fruitfully engaged in making cuddle sprays that make men feel like women. Conducting path breaking research on how cats react to various fragrances. Designing broadband connected bathtubs and mirrors that monitor your health. In future, you and your mirror will be engaged in meaningful conversations - Mirror, mirror on the dresser, is my cholesterol any lesser?

And now brace yourself for the latest breakthrough in the Scientific world. US scientists in response to growing need for wearable healthcare have designed smart briefs. These extra savvy briefs can measure your BP, heart rate and other vital signs via an electronic bio sensor in the waistband. Apart from life saving functions these underpants will have educational features too! Are Scientists conspiring to make Education a pants down affair? But hey look at the bright side. All along it was Superman flashing his red undies and now it is your turn to flash your super-undies.

A Feline Obsession

All these years we have been lead to believe that it is Axe, the deodorant that makes women lose reason and maul decidedly ugly men, with their olfactory senses driving them to insanity. Calvin Klein’s Obsession, which was launched way back in 1986, promises you way beyond just hot-looking chicks. Just a generous spray and you will have tom cat, smelly cat, this cat, that cat and a stray jaguar or two (if they are visiting your neighbourhood) following you around in a mesmerized stupor. Just imagine this spectacle, you- the Pied Piper of Hamlyn with a bunch of frenzied cats? Way hotter than an Eva Mendes writhing and rolling around in the dirt in her Calvin Kleins or a Brooke Shields purring, Nothing comes between me and my Calvins.

In case you are thinking that Obsession’s feline charm is a figment of my fertile imagination, I’d like to clarify that this startling find is actually backed by hard core research. Researchers at the Wildlife Conservation Society’s Bronx Zoo, New York experimented with a range of different fragrances and how two cheetahs reacted to them. The results left barely a whiff of a doubt. Estée Lauder’s Gorgeous occupied the cheetahs on average for just two seconds. Revlon’s Charlie managed 15.5 seconds. Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps took it up to 10.4 minutes. But the musky Obsession for Men triumphed: To their surprise the cats spent more than 11 minutes sniffing and nuzzling up to a tree sprayed with CK’s top selling fragrance. Unfortunately the tree did not reciprocate. So what if we can’t save our tigers and cheetahs, we can at least keep them happy.

How to lose weight...in eight easy steps

1. Crib, whine and complain to anyone and everyone even remotely willing to listen. How can she be so slim, she hogs all the time. Why don’t I fit into my skinnies anymore? I hate my genes, I hate my jeans...Do it loudly and try to pack in as many expressions as possible. Helps you shed fat from your cheeks. If after a few days, your friends start running in the opposite direction the moment they spot you, catch up with them, you could even try out-running them. Don’t forget to turn around to catch their puzzled expression. Do it at least 5 times a week.

2. Stand outside the bakery shop and drool. You know you can’t have that sinful tiramisu or that absolutely divine dark chocolate orange cake, but can definitely salivate. Inhale deeply and to make it more effective you could try a few reps of “kapal-bhati”. Your quivering stomach might attract curious stares, pay no heed to them.

3. Be more active and make it fun. Hide the remote from your family members. If they try and snatch it from you, run around the dining table. Ten rounds should be sufficient. Take the stairs, but do it with a difference. Two steps up, three steps down-time consuming but very-very effective. In office no more e mailing instructions & memos, insist on hand delivering them. Will help you bond better with your colleagues and you also get to hear instant reactions.

Ten Ways To Hitch A Ride To Heaven

“Concerned at the drastic drop in violence levels in Jammu & Kashmir, Pakistani authorities are now offering a pay hike to Kashmiri terrorists....from 5000 a month to 8000-10000 now” The Times of India


Think about it, people. It is 48 degrees in Gurgaon. There is no electricity. There is no water. Your European vacation is waylaid by this volcano in - of all places - Iceland. Might as well just give up and go back to your roots. To the One who plonked you in the middle of all this. India offers a unique blend of traditional and modern ways of making this trip, aided in part by our friendly neighbours.

1. Shop till you drop. Go hunting for that noodle strap top in Sarojini Nagar, or that killer choli in Lajpat Nagar on a crowded weekend, preferably near festival days. You have the option of a Hindu or a Muslim bomb going off in the garbage can next to you just as you are polishing off that plate of steaming hot momos with the lethal red sauce. Spicy!

2. Contact Ram Sene for Rent-a-riot services. Let’s say, you are an artist looking for that big break. For a fee, Muthalik will arrange a riot-worthy chief guest at your exhibition, conduct the riot to your specifications, fracture your leg (the break that you needed), and offer a complimentary ride in an ambulance to the farthest government hospital. If the riot did not kill you, the hospital will. A perfect frame.

3. Try the railways. Of the several options available, the latest one is to just go to the station and wait for the announcement that your train is now coming in platform 23 instead of platform 1, leaving in 5 minutes. What will ensue is not a stampede, as you may think. It is merely Indians, who are prone to ‘tripping’ as Mamata Didi has so eloquently put it, that will trample on you, crushing your bones, lungs and heart into dough that can be easily transported to your loved ones in a Maggi Noodle carton, by Registered Post, Acknowledgement Due.

Love Manufactured

You met at the gym. He was pumping iron, you were on your 53 rd crunch, counting furiously, panting. Your eyes met and he smiled, your heart skipped a beat. You fell in love with beefcake. Ok, you first fell in love with his muscles, the soul followed later. By that time it was too late. You’ve been together for over 5 years now. His favourite position is umm... in front of the television. You always fight over the remote, why he can’t pitch in household chores, why he’s such a slob and how dare he forget your mum’s birthday. You can’t remember the last time he brought you flowers or even gave you a big warm hug. His idea of celebration is a raucous night out with boys, while you would rather have a quiet dinner with Bach playing in the background. Damn he can’t even spell Bach right. You are as different as chalk and cheese. Too bad there’s no such thing as an exchange policy.

But wait, there’s good news. Researchers have just answered your prayers and come up with a magical oxytocin spray. This nasal spray popularly known as the cuddle spray is capable of turning the most macho hunks into mushy, gooey creatures. What exactly is oxytocin in the first place? It is a mammalian hormone which evokes feeling of contentment and reduces anxiety - capable of transforming your low-on-EQ man into an empathetic soul, happy to be in touch with his feminine side. From pain in the ass to the highly coveted metrosexual man in 5 seconds flat. No more fighting for the remote, he will now be only too happy to watch “Gray’s anatomy” with you. The other day you spent nearly 3 hours at the Mango store, trying on their new summer collection - how can you decide, without trying all of them? He smiled through the ordeal and even made faces when he didn’t like the outfit. He looked so cute. And when you told that to him later over a cup of coffee, he hugged you so tight, you almost choked on your coffee.

Femmes will be Fatal

Female libido just got a pop-a-pill solution. Pfizer, the pharmaceutical giant that saved mankind (well almost) with Viagra, will soon be launching its female counterpart, the yet unnamed UK-414495. Women all over the world will now be literally on top and why not? Why should men have all the fun!

Did you know Viagra was an accidental discovery by doctors looking to treat angina-pectoris, a heart condition (But haven’t we known all along where a man’s heart lies, whoever said it was the stomach was a big fat liar). So Big-V fortunately or unfortunately was much like Columbus’s stumbling upon America on a voyage to discover India. History repeats itself and how!

Researchers have suggested that Viagra is a noble discovery which has inadvertently proved to be a boon for endangered species (no, not the witty, intelligent kind). Research at the University of Alaska and University of Wales reveals that trade in exotic body parts used as aphrodisiacs has fallen dramatically since Viagra hit the market. Rhinos love it and can now flaunt their horns without a care in the world. Reindeers feel more secure about their antlers and fewer goats are walking the roads with their legs crossed!

A Well Connected Generation

Lady Gaga released her new music video “Telephone”. When the lady decides to sing, you thank “You- Tube”, promptly download her video and contribute to the one million hits she gets. For the faint-hearted there’s always an “official clean version available”.

Long, long ago the telephone was used to, well... just talk. The invention of this device is mired in controversy and a confusing collection of claims and counter claims. When we were young, life was simple. We were told Graham Bell invented the telephone, we didn’t question it. The closest we came to a controversy was Marconi and his radio (it is alleged that our own Jagdish Bose invented the radio but was too lazy to go and file a patent). We now have Google and a million idle scholars. We are no longer sure of anything in this world.

Coming back to the telephone, it was an ugly instrument and the numbers had to be dialled (Nowadays my husband just barks a “Call John Mathew” on his Blackberry). Getting through was half the battle won. People spoke, they complained, made polite enquires. Cross connections were the rigueur de norm, intermittently a love story blossomed. I heard my first Nazia Hassan number on my phone courtesy a friend who played her hot new track for me. The cordless phone soon made its’ debut. We could now walk around the house, go up and down the stairs and discuss the hot new guy who had just joined college.

The 90’s ushered in the telecommunication revolution. The telephone became cellular. For a few years it was a status symbol. I have witnessed people having imagined conversations on their mobile, only to have it ring a few minutes later. My dad often used to run his car over his device. No, he wasn’t testing it for resilience. On their way out of the car, the mobile would drop off my mom’s lap where she would keep it for safekeeping. She had yet to get used to its size.

People found new uses for it, when they were bored they would make hoax calls and occasionally get arrested. Then there was this exciting new feature called texting. Furiously texting creatures were fast becoming part of the city’s landscape. Couples were breaking up on the phone, much awaited movie storylines were getting leaked and circulated, pathetic jokes were getting forwarded. We also started getting harassed by telemarketers. Everything from credit cards to would-you-like-to-support-a-few-causes is being promoted through the phone. The MMS feature heralded a sleaze phase. Voyeurism was now scaling new heights.

My mobile is an extension of my arm. It stores and plays my favourite tracks, I sometimes click photos with it, use it to surf the net, check my mails and text my buddies. Occasionally I use it to make phone calls and keep in touch with the men in my life (the milk vendor, veggie guy, gas walah and the husband). On our recent trip to Copenhagen, the GPS feature came to our rescue in zeroing on the Railway station exit nearest to our hotel. It saved us a long walk and, believe me, it’s not easy when you are lugging two mammoth suitcases and a couple of handbags (the Rays do not believe in travelling light).

Shoaib Malik gave a new dimension to this ubiquitous device. He went ahead and had a telephone nikah, suffered amnesia and made a miraculous recovery. If people can use the phone to flirt (ask Tiger Woods), serenade, break-up, why can’t they use it to marry?

Recently a blogger friend of mine typed an entire post on his device (his mobile). So what will people think of next? A phone that gives you a back-massage, tames your frizz and has an inbuilt pepper spray?

What a brilliant thought! I’d better hurry and file for copyright. I wouldn’t want the origin of my path breaking ideas to be mired in controversy and confusion. At least some things should be crystal clear to our future generations.

550 Days Of Summer

The sinking feeling starts towards the end of February; just when the season ending sales start. Don’t get me wrong. I love sales and love stocking up on stuff I won’t need for another eight months. The chill in the air starts waning, the sweaters come off and you discover you have acquired an extra tyre (damn those sinful pralines). The final nail in the coffin is Holi. Spring makes a blink- and- you- -will- miss appearance and sooner than you can let out an anguished aah, you are face to face with the longest, harshest season of the year, summers.

Whoever sang “Those were the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summers” was not an Indian and definitely not a Delhite (actually it was Nat King Cole). The season makes you lazy and robs you of a social life. The sun is out, bright and shining 6.30 in the morning, the afternoon heat is scorching and the evenings are no better. You sweat, you curse. The humidity makes it worse, it saps you of energy, makes your tresses look like Jimmy Hendrix on a bad hair day and your face like an oil smeared pan. (Imagine Mamata Banerjee on an election campaign).

Granted, you get to wear pleasing summery dresses. It’s a nice excuse to shop, check out the new season collection. Your limbs are out for airing. As long as you are in air conditioned environs, it’s manageable. Try an open air rendezvous. It’s a lost battle. Within minutes you manage sweaty patches on your pristine white outfit and your face starts looking like an overheated tomato. You look hot, but of a different kind.

The fruits make summers vaguely tolerable. You gorge on watermelons, litchis, mangoes (the list is quite long). You guzzle tall glasses of chilled drinks and make Baskin Robbins/Walls a richer company. You try to drown your sorrows in the swimming pool and realize a little belatedly that 40 other people have hit upon the same idea. You bang into over excited kids and wonder how many of them have pee-ed in the pool. You beat a hasty retreat.

Summer is also the time for the school/college break. You are choked to the gills with announcements for summer camps and hobby classes. Hurry now, limited seats available. From taekwondo to jazz you have it all. Parents send their kids in the vain hope of turning them into overnight dancing stars with karate skills. The long summer break also makes it possible to plan a summer getaway. You manage a respite even if briefly. The monsoons make a guest appearance. In Delhi you read about it in magazines: skin care for monsoons, 10 smashing looks for the rains (white sari not included), mouth watering snacks for the season. The odd day it does rain we contentedly watch the downpour come down in sheets from our apartment window.


It’s April and the countdown has begun. The Met department made it worse by announcing normal rains this season (they always manage to be accurately inaccurate). We have already started planning our long awaited vacation. Sour green mangoes have made their dazzling debut. I am sipping my chilled glass of nimbu pani and counting the days. It may just be seven months, but feels like eternity, much like 550 days of summer.

An Egg-alitarian Society

Young women take to selling eggs. On a leisurely Sunday, sipping my morning cuppa, this headline grabbed my eyeballs. Selling for as high as 50 grand! Where, when, how, can I too? I was all agog until I finished the entire sentence (Patience is not a virtue that I possess). Women are now selling their own eggs and the moolah depends on their looks an qualifications.

Ok, now I am too old to make a killing vending my eggs. But what a colossal waste of years I spent slogging, stressing and ranting over a job when I could have simply shed my inhibitions and eggs and led a carefree life.

Will people be now shopping for eggs, albeit of a different kind? One egg please, 5.6 ish, fair, convent educated, with an IQ higher than 120. Or can I have a homely egg, with creative inclinations. Imagine a world where eggs are tailor made to perfection and a happily ever after future with a genius of a baby.

So, will marriage soon become an obsolete concept? Something that our future generations will read about in their History books! Men and women won’t be requiring each other for procreation anymore. Wombs are on rent, eggs on sale, so why bother. Let’s observe a two minute silence for all those marriage martyrdom jokes that will wilt away to extinction.

Many will argue, this is yet another milestone towards gender equality and empowerment. If alpha males can sell their sperm, can alpha females be far behind! A woman can make thousands by donating just a single egg. Sperm donors on the other hand are paid much less. But the process entails no risk and is hardly any trouble for the men. They get to watch “stimulating visuals” and do what they have to in a private cabin. Egg donation on the other hand is far more risky. Hormones are injected to increase ovulation and the extraction is invasive. This can lead to medical complications in the future. We women never have it easy. All the good things for us always come with a rider.

Can I have a Megan Fox egg and a Lalit Modi sperm please? What a potent combination of beauty and enterprise. Although I do run the risk of having a daughter with His looks and Her brains.