Do me a favour, let’s not play Holi

There was a time, not too long ago, when I used to dread Holi.  We were staying in this busy locality, located in the heart of Delhi, where everybody took more than a healthy interest in each other’s lives. Kitnaa kaa liyaa was their catchphrase.  The boys loitered on the streets, trying to extend their hand for friendship to anything that walked by in a skirt.  Yes, they were a friendly lot and I don’t think they ever passed any exam.

And there were kids – lots and lots of them.  They would spend most of their afternoons outside in the gullie so that their Mummy jee could sleep in peace.   Come festival time (especially Diwali) and the kiddos would be seized with festive fervour that would start weeks in advance. You didn’t need reminders, you could trust them to drill it in your head. The bachha party would go phaat...phut...phit all afternoon with their strip of cartridge.  But instead of the damn thing going into the pistol, the kids would burst it one by one, in slow motion, till one got a splitting headache.  My expressions of rage were apt enough to get me the lead role in Anaconda (no, not the Hindi version on UTV)!

If Diwali was a headache then Holi was the time when our neighbourhood would turn into Disneyworld’s Big Splash fun.  The air would be rent with loud screams, with the Tom and Jerry chase enacted live. Come March and I would start dreading the newly-acquired hygiene fetish of the kids.  They were intent on giving me a bath, every time I stepped out of the house.  On my way back from school I was like a Ninja warrior, ducking balloons and water pistons from all possible angles. I am convinced Keanu Reeve copied my moves for his Matrix series! 

Image via Wikipedia
In the evening as I would go for my walk, I had to do a complicated hop-scotch-jump, to avoid the steady stream of water balloons. It more than took care of my warm-up.  On the way to the grocer, dry-cleaner, any damn place, my head was perennially craned upwards scanning for those watery missiles.  And the little devils had mastered their skill from Houdini – excited chatter – loud splash and voila the miscreants would disappear into thin air.  There were times I was tempted to give them a loud round of applause.

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.

Time to sex it up.....

Sex talks and how – look how it worked for this write-up.  All of you came looking for a steamy write-up and look what you ended up with! Yet another edition of Jhalmuri Times - Tch tch... But since I didn’t want to disappoint you too much, I decided to keep this three lettered word that makes the world go round as the theme.     

 If you thought only our leaders are a class apart here’s good news for you.  Politicians are the same the world over.  Look what’s happening In Belgium, its leaders still can’t agree on forming a government, even though then went for elections 263 days ago.  Senator Marleen Temmerman has proposed an age old remedy to break this impasse – a sex strike.  No, you don’t strike people with sex, you simply say no to it instead of faking a headache.  Ask any woman and she’ll tell you how effective it is.   In Columbia, girlfriends of gang members held a widely publicized “strike of crossed legs” until their partners gave up violence.  In Naples, women went on a similar strike to protest against notoriously dangerous New Year fireworks display. From Kenya to Turkey, women have protested against political infighting – even lack of running water – and it has always worked wonders. 

Ladies, the future of your country does not lie in your hands, but elsewhere!  But before you start popping champagne and your ego starts inflating, here’s a reality check.  A male passenger travelling by Indigo refused to let the plane to take off, the moment he heard it was piloted by a woman! Marna hai kya? Ghar nahi sambhalta, plane kya sambhalegi!!  And we all know what he WON’T be getting when he gets back home to his wife.

But in India, things don’t always work the way you would want them to.  In fact, a Delhi-based man had to seek court’s intervention to rescue him from his over-sexed wife. He was finally granted divorce on humanitarian grounds.  He couldn’t keep up so he asked for a way out!

I know, most of you must be thinking what an asshole that guy must be!!  She should have been anointed with the title of Savita Bhabhi. Yes, India’s favourite bhabhi, Savita is making a comeback. Bhabhi jee who became an online rage with her unconventional antics is now making her onscreen debut in Sheetalbhabhi.com.  Did I hear a loud yaayy from all the cubs?

Chatpati Batein

Delhizen is the typical Punjabi kurhi from the city of Chandigarh.  Fearless, passionate, she speaks her mind and writes from her heart.  A busy career woman who has now shifted her loyalties to Delhi, she lives to eat and in this post lets her taste buds do the talking.....

 

There are few things Purba and I  have in common; our names start with the letter ‘P’, we are Virgos, we can ‘talk’ and most of you who know her would know what I mean. We also share our love for writing, (though I am not half as good as her) Delhi and of course FOOD!  

Since no celebration is complete without good food and to keep up with the spicy content of A-Musing, my post is dedicated to ‘Street Food of Dillli’.  I read this ode, a 55er actually written by someone who is a foodie by heart & soul and thought it’s the right recipe to start my post which being with food and ends with it too.

“People eat out for various reasons: hunger pangs or for a change,

Some want to try what’s new while for a few it’s about taste,

There are also God’s chosen ones ‘who eat because it makes them happy’,

Food to live or food for mind; I chose the latter which adds zing to my life!”

Google Images

First draft of this post was trashed, so was the second and third. I realized its time to bunk the gym and instead walk down to Sriram Sweets, Malviya Nagar (btw they have the best Gol Gappas or GGs in South Delhi) for some inspiration.

Six gol guppas, 2 deep fried aloo tikkis and a plate of shakarkandi ki chat later I was ready to write about the second love of my life, food!

Just like a wine connoisseur can differentiate between a Sula and a Vintage. A gg Gulper can tell a good guppa from a regular one… Take the whole filled-up to the brim guppa to your mouth, bite into it, did you hear the pucchak sound? A burst of flavors, sweet followed by tangy and then the teekha-pan tingles the throat and you have just sampled a perfect gg, go on don’t stop at one!

Mrs. Ray, I Am Banning You....

His online moniker is Snow leopard... At 23, he is just a cub but with a mind of his own. Nopes, he takes no garbage but composts it instead.  A budding environmentalist, passionate about photography, a comic freak and with many dreams. Presenting Prateek Varma to you.....

That was one of my earlier jokes with Purba and I was wearing my Ray-bans....

When I came to know that A-musing will turn a year old by the end of February, I had to write something.  But then I was stuck. What do you write for a blogger who is so good and popular? You can be a damn good blogger and not be popular.....or sometimes you write shit but are quite popular.  But Mrs. Ray here...writes excellent stuff and is equally popular.  So what do you do? I couldn't rip her writing apart for the fear of being lynched by her fanatic fans (there must be a handful of them). And I couldn't write a humour post for her, since she is damn good in that department and I would have been ripped apart by the readers.

So, what do I write? I remember the first post I read at A-musing. It was about her driving lessons she was taking. And my first reaction was....ho hum....till I started reading. And then I came back. There was a strange force that compelled me to come back...again and again. A hypnotic effect, something ethereal.  I was having a hard time, trying to fathom the reason, but to no avail. And then I read a guest post by Miss Ray, which told us how her dear mother is actually a vampire.  And all the scattered pieces of the puzzle came together. 

Mad About Me.....

When Bryan Adams wrote “18 till I die” it was with him in mind.  A finance guru nurturing his myriad interests in amchi Mumbai – life is a celebration for him.  Today in honour of A-musing turning 1, he descends from his pedestal (or rather the golf course)  to take pot-shots at me.  Presenting what goes on in Madhusudhan(Mad) Menon’s mind........

Maxmayur is a lucky man. He beat me to the punch by interviewing the eastern sun before I woke up. And he being a recognized blogger got access to the award-winning celebrity blogger. I am sure he was assisted by the Blogger Gods. While licking my wounds, I decided not to feel sorry for this perceived blogger apartheid, and do my own interview. So what if she is not available for the interview? I have read all her posts, and feel I can answer all my questions, on her behalf without inconveniencing her and insisting on her presence. So the interview, with apologies to maxmayur, and the famous A-Musing blogger went like this:

Me: Madam, can I call you madam?
Purba : Of course not. That is what you call school teachers and the ones who run bordellos. I have also heard that that is what they call the fearless leader of the party that rules our country.

Me: Then, is it ok to call you Behenji?
Purba: Arre, are you insane? That is what they call Mayawatiji, the fearless leader of our downtrodden.

Me: Then maybe I can call you Purba ji?

Purba: I hate the Jee word. It makes me sound like a scam..2G, CWG and Blogger G

Now I already am at my wits end. I rule out Mataji, Rayji, Bloggerji etc. Now I have a brainwave.

Me: Why should I call you any names? Let me just ask my questions then. How do you select what you blog on?

Purba: That is a trade secret. It is like asking Coca cola for their secret recipe. But I will tell you this much. I have my eyes and ears in very high places. The last post for instance was inspired by a late night telephone caller from Lucknow. She was upset about the media furore over her simple desire to keep her footwear clean. And I felt that nobody should be deprived of his right to remove dhool from her Bata sandals.   

Me: How did you get started on blogging?
Purba: Arre, Menon...what kind of a blogger are you? If you are one, you should know how one starts. The problem is not how one starts, it is where you finish that is important. I always think of the end before the beginning. And if you know your Indian philosophy, the beginning is the end, and the end is the beginning..
(Now I feel like calling her Guruji, but am afraid to start on that track again)

Me: Have you ever suffered from writers block?
Purba: What is that? No blocks. Only blogs.  Anyway if there is a block, one can always bypass it and I’m not suggesting surgery!