Me Me Me!

Ten days ago, I completed a quarter of a century as a living being. In this lifetime, that is. I have no idea how long I've spent as a living being with all my lifetimes put together. Or even if I have had other lifetimes. Which really isn't the point of this post.

What is the point of this post, you ask? I'm not entirely sure myself. I got a new laptop you see (and before you start, that is PURPLE, not pink - the lighting was poor). And I wanted to put up a post from it simply because I can.

Anyway, so as I was saying, I turned 25. Now as a rule, I love birthdays. This year, for some reason, I was totally depressed about my birthday, to the point that I didn't even make my usual very detailed wishlist handed over to the family two months before the day arrives for them to treat as a shopping list.

I mean, 25. Isn't there something just so... milestone-y about it? Shouldn't I have done far more than I have by now? Or at least figured out what the hell my life is about? A bit?

Well, whatever it was that I was supposed to have done by now, I clearly haven't. I am therefore going to instead write this post. 25 facts about myself. Which you didn't know. Or did. Depends on who you are.

You may leave now, you know. If you're still here that is.

*drumroll*

1. I love Hrishikesh Mukherjee's movies. There is no other film-maker in the world about whom I can say that I have loved each and every movie made by him/her. My life's ambition is to get hold of the DVDs of every single movie he ever made.
2. My one regret in life is giving up singing classes as a kid.
3. Gmail's Label feature is the best thing that ever happened to me. I label everything. I have two Gmail accounts - one official, one personal. The official ID has just short of 250 labels, and the personal one has 450-odd labels. Seriously.
4. My favourite colours are blue and purple. Hence the laptop. Dell's blue option was too electric for my liking.
5. I know nothing about English music. Or any music actually. Unless... Does Bollywood music count as a genre?
6. I perpetually feel cold. The family hates having meals with me in the summer because I whine about the fan being on.
7. I have had a godawful allergy since childhood as a result of which I get these awful marks on my arms and legs. The dermatologist once described it as "hypersensitivity to mosquito bites". I call it a curse.
8. I love numbers. And Excel sheets with numbers in particular. Playing with them gives me a joy like no other. Back in school I used to get this joy when I would solve a particularly tricky math or accounts problem.
9. I wanted to be a teacher as a kid. Nursery teacher. Mainly because I thought Rani Ma'am, my Nursery teacher was the greatest thing since sliced bread.
10. As a teenager, this ambition changed to being a librarian. I thought it would be awesome because I could sit and read all day long.
11. I am not a people person. By which I mean the company of others annoys me no end. Spending more than a few hours with even my closest friends exhausts me. Which makes my choice of career a mystery to pretty much everyone who knows me. In my defense, I hadn't realised how much of a non-people person I am till I took it up.
12. If it wasn't for the fact that I love my near and dear ones, I wouldn't like them much.
13. No one, but no one, is allowed to criticise my family. Other than me. Even if you are my best friend, and I have spent two hours cribbing about them, you do not say anything against them. Ever.
14. As a kid, it was instinct for me to look at every single vehicle passing by on the roads, add up its license number, and check if it's divisible by 3. I still do it sometimes.
15. Sanjeev Kumar is the greatest actor to have ever lived. In my very humble opinion. Exhibit A: Koshish. Exhibit B: Angoor.
16. I'm a sucker for spoilers. The only two things I have always refused to look up spoilers for are the Harry Potter books before they released, and Lost. Yes, I'm a huge fan of both.
17. I hate yellow gold.
18. Equality of the sexes is a huge deal for me. Not just in terms of women getting the freedom to do what they want, but also in terms of men contributing more when it comes to household matters. I think it's important, and I have been known to get onto a soapbox about this issue fairly often.
19. The moon, butterflies, and rain are the themes figuring in most desktop wallpapers or site templates I choose. Which I'm guessing you know if you've been following my blog for a while now - you may remember the trauma I went through when I had to give up my rain template when "New Blogger" came into existence. I had to choose between keeping the labels option or the template - toughest decision in my blogging life so far.
20. Rounded off numbers are the most awesome thing ever. My obsession with rounded off numbers was at one point so intense that I would SMS friends last thing at night just so my pre-paid balance would be a rounded off number. Even today, the radio and TV volume has to be a rounded off number, and I refuse to stop the microwave till it's showing a multiple of 5. In fact, the only blessing I see about turning 25 is that not only is it a rounded number itself, but it's the square of a rounded off number. How cool is that?!
21. I have never quite got used to the whole concept of telling the whole world who you are, where you are, and what you do via your blogs and your tweets. It's something I'm still uncomfortable with, and most of my friends know that I'd prefer they didn't use my real name in the blogosphere.
22. I have a thing for tall and fair guys. And lawyers. I think it comes from watching way too much of The Practice growing up.
23. Imtiaz Ali's movies, in some ways, remind me of Hrishikesh Mukherjee. I have no idea why.
24. I can't read or write Bengali. In fact, when I visit Calcutta, my cousins make fun of my accent when I speak in Bengali. I am, in some ways, to Bengal what an ABCD would be to India. A born and brought up probashi, forsooth.
25. I have gorgeous hair.

You're still here? Wow. And you're not one of the two people I force into reading my blog everytime I put up a post? Double wow. And I thought I didn't have a life.

Believe

You can't blame people for being cynical in this day and age. Our politicians are crooks, the protectors of the law are no better, you can't do well in life unless you choose to take shortcuts, our favourite actors prove they're complete twits (literally) by joining twitter - what is there to make you feel good about the world? Really?

I’ve been guilty of it oh-so many times in the past. Despite being pro-Obama during the 2008 US Presidential elections, the day after he won, when a colleague mentioned that he seems to be “clean” I remember looking at him and asking him “But how do you get where he has by being completely clean”? I don’t any of us are capable of believing that the biggest successes came the “right” way.

Occasionally, however, you come along an overly cynical comment, which either makes you wonder the author is either trying too hard to sound cynical because y'know, it's the done thing, or whether he/she is simply blinded to anything else.

Exhibit A: A tweet during yesterday's World Cup match between India and Pakistan, where we were nicely thrashing the visiting side:

Seems almost like a fixed match, no? #hockeyworldcup

To which I responded "Why think that? Just enjoy the fact that our guys did a good job no?". And called an optimist for my pains. An optimist. Me. Gah.

Exhibit B:

Rehab, whose blog I have recently discovered (as in, some hours back), put up this post about a month back about Conan O'Brien's farewell speech where Conan essentially talks about how he hates cynicism. And there is, on that page, the following comment:

you should never take to heart what a guy who makes millions an hour tells you.

of course, he would advise against cynicism.

note: cynicism is not equivalent to pessimism.

My issue with both these comments was their refusal to acknowledge the message behind what they were observing, and look for hidden, darker messages. India can’t play so well, the match must be fixed. The guy earns millions, who is he to talk about the softer emotions?

But then again, I’ve been guilty of this as well. A friend and I were recently discussing a series of blog posts a fairly popular tweeter puts up – on her gratitude for various things in life. I was wondering if it was just me who though that far from sounding beautiful, the posts just ended up sounding preachy and priggish in nature. My friend, as it turned out, agreed with me, but I still wonder, have we completely closed ourselves off from acknowledging niceness, for lack of a better word, in people?

In our angst against “the system”, in our frustrations at our lot in life, in our tendency to hide our love and gratitude for near and dear ones, have we completely lost the ability to allow for the fact that others may not be the same way?

I get that there are times when we look around and see utter darkness. But does that mean we stop waiting for the light to come back? Is it so hard just to believe?

Confessions Part 1: Subodh, tumhe time yaad nahi hai?

Quick, have you seen Dil Chahta Hai? Of course you have, you weren't born yesterday.

D'you remember Subodh's character? You know, Sonali Kulkarni's boyfriend till Saif and she got together in what was the weakest part of the movie?

There was a brilliant scene in the movie where Subodh's tendency to remember exact dates and times of event was brought to light, like so:

The family literally howled with laughter the first time we saw this scene because, quite frankly, this is exactly how ze father is. Ever since, the brother and I have taken to interrupting some of his more boring stories with the line "Subodh, tumhe time yaad nahi hai?"

What has struck me recently, however, is the fact that I am in fact as bad as, if not worse than, him (the comma usage in this line needs checking). Case in point: this post. I mean, who remembers such stuff? Me, apparently.

Chances are therefore, that if I've known you for a really long time, and if you're kinda important to me, I not only know your birthday and phone number by heart, but also remember exactly how and where we met/became friends, and have at least one weird memory which you would have totally forgotten about.

I also totally have a memory ready to relate as an example about ze father but a, he may not approve, and b, it is really long and boring.

I see potential in entering the blackmail business though.

Friends?

This popped up in my Google Reader's Shared items this morning.

I've always cribbed about Facebook's and Twitter's terminology - there's got to be a more applicable nomenclature given the nature of these sites, and the people I interact with on them.

The irony here, however? The two people who shared this post? I have no idea who they are. They somehow follow my Shared items, and so I follow theirs. And Reader tells me the post was shared by "two friends".

Sweet indeed.
NB: I'd forgotten how prolific (by my standards) my blogging becomes just before an exam. And yes, I know I really should be banned from blogging on a Sunday morning.

Empty Vessels

Vulturo writes on Desicritics:

"It is you who voluntarily decides to travel on the crowded bus or train, fully aware of the fact that there is not enough space for everybody, in the first place. The choice of traveling using more expensive means, or buying a car is always open to you."

Seriously? Seriously?

I was actually appreciating the author’s point of view till I got to this paragraph.

My friends call me a feminist, but I tend to disagree with them, because while I do get annoyed when I see women getting the short end of the stick, I don't necessarily believe that we need any extra favours either.

I was lucky enough to be given the car by my father to go travel from Gurgaon to JMC and subsequently South Campus, but there were days when that option wasn't there and I had to take a bus. So yeah, I’ve had my “personal space” invaded more often than I’d like to recall. I’ve done the whole crowded Delhi buses routine, I’ve also done the crowded stampede-in-the-metro routine where my classmate fell on the ground and had people trampled her – I’m pretty sure this guy has never been on the West Delhi-Dwarka metro route. I’ve had guys grope me, I’ve had a guy stick right next to me for the whole journey – the bus was really crowded when I got on and because he was much taller than me and had me backed into a corner, I couldn’t see that he had two feet of empty space behind him till it was too late, the ass.

By the end of those five years, I realised it was preferable to spend two hours taking the longer route via Safdarjung than the much faster and cheaper Dhaula Kuan/highway route, simply because the bus was familiar, and the crowd was safer. So yes, I had that choice to make and I made it, even with exams round the corner and each minute counting as precious time lost.

But then, I’ve been stopped by a guy wearing the fancy watch and driving the big car, asking me in excellent English what my name is because he thought I “looked good”. All a street away from my house, while I was walking home from the market, in a fairly upmarket locality in Gurgaon. In broad daylight. You want me to take the car every time I go to the market?

A lot of people don’t have even those many choices. Scrolling through the comments, I see the author is one of those who is big on making “choices” – walking out of an unhappy marriage, not getting married if you don’t want to, using more expensive means of transport. I envy this guy in some ways, because he has either never faced, or never cared about familial pressures, societal pressures, or any of those concerns that tend to rule our lives. And he is therefore able to sit in his glass castle and pass judgment on the many women in this country who don’t have those choices.

So no, I don’t blame the girl he sat next to one bit for looking at him warily and turning away from him. I say more power to her because she made her discomfort obvious – a lot of girls don’t even have the courage to do that.

Oh and for the record, that whole bullshit about speaking up loudly and embarrassing a guy into backing off? Doesn’t work. Not unless there’s a substantial number of women in the bus. Which, in Haryana Roadways buses, is rarely the case. DTC Bus No. 517, on the other hand, which goes from Aya Nagar to Safdarjung, is highly recommended - both in terms of punctuality and safety. I miss that route.

NB: It's been a long time since I wrote a post that could be given my old label of "feminist rants". The irony, given Vulturo's strong dislike of feminism as a concept, doesn't escape me.

NB2: For that fellow in the comments of that post who talks about "Bra burning feminism" - he would do well to actually read up on the history of feminism. The actual act of bra burning as it's described never happened - it's a myth that's got perpetuated over the centuries.

When wishes come true

Thamma used to repeatedly ask my parents to do two things: build a house, and gift my brother a dog. She wanted her son to have a roof of his own over his head, and her grandson to have a dog of his own.

I was in my final year of school when my parents decided to go ahead and build a house. On 10th February, 2002, the chhat-dhalai of the house took place - the structure was complete, now only the interiors remained to get started. My parents' dream was close to coming true.

My father reached the site by early morning, and spent the whole day there. My mother, brother and I reached slightly later in the morning, bringing with us mithai for the construction crew etc. Halfway through the morning, Mamma got a call from a vet we occasionally used to ask about getting a pet - he knew someone who just brought home a golden retriever, and was bringing the pup to his clinic. We promptly went down to his clinic to see the tiny one, and immediately fell in love. Turned out the little one had sisters who were also looking for homes. The three of us looked at each other - a female golden retriever? For the past so many years, we had had our hearts set on getting another cocker spaniel, one who would take the place Ruff had left behind him. For some reason, which I have never understood till today, we decided to go for it.

On the way to the house the pups were staying in, we discussed possible names. I won; Lion King was my favourite movie, our dog would be named after Simba's daughter (with a cooler spelling though). On reaching there, my mother looked at the 3 tiny ones, and turned to my brother and me saying she knew which one she wanted, we had to choose. The brother and I looked at each other; he pointed to one and said "that one?", I nodded. We turned to Mamma, who had a grin on her face. For some reason, the princess was ours the second we all saw her.

We brought her home to meet Baba, and so began a love affair that hasn't ended till today - the father remains Kyra's favourite no matter what.

We came home that evening, tired but exhilarated. A house and a dog, what more could one want? Mamma refused to cook, I was asked to order Chinese for dinner. Just as I got through to the restaurant, I heard my dad calling my mum urgently. The news had just come in; on the day her two wishes came true, but before she could even find out, Thamma had passed away.

I never know how to feel on 10th February every year.

On a far more cheerful note, 10th February is also the heppy burday of the fantabulous Puneet, who blogs here and here, and tweets here. If you haven't been following these, I really don't know what you've been doing. Go wish her! And then follow her!

Oh Calcutta!

When friends, particularly non-Bengali ones, visit Calcutta, I'm usually filled with feelings of jealousy. But when they come back with tales of Park Street, the best continental or Italian restaurants in the city, partying nights, or having luchi-aloo at Oh Calcutta (!!), I invariably feel like they're talking of a city I've never been to.

In all the years I've been to Calcutta, I've visited Park Street exactly twice, and the promised visit to Flurry's has never yet happened. Calcutta for me has always been about relatives and my mother's college haunts. Visits there tend to get restricted to the same beloved places.

It's about the pavements of Gariahat and the maze that is New Market. The Sardarji at the purse shop who always smiles in recognition when he sees the mother, remembering vociferous arguments and long-drawn negotiations in the years gone by. The rolls at Bedouins, the jhal-muri at Nandan. Convincing my Mam, my grandmother, to skip cooking a heavy Bengali meal for one day at least so we can take her to the Chinese shop at the corner - which we enjoy far more than any 5-star restaurant my uncle wants to take us to; I get that from her. Strolls down College Street, and cutlets at Coffee House. The tram rides where my uncle insists I sit in the Ladies section of the compartment, away from him and the brother - even though we three are the only passengers in the compartment. Riding the metro to Esplanade simply to ride up the escalator and come down again - it was the only station with an escalator in those days. Stopping to pick up Ujjaler chanachur on the way to the airport or the station, with the father looking grimly at his watch.

Visiting my mother's numerous relatives, all of whom exclaim how much I look like their niece - even though my mirror tells me I take after my father. Speaking on the phone with the numerous relatives I haven't been able to meet - and hearing in great detail every ailment they and their spouses have had in the past year. Hearing my grandmother's neighbours yell at each other from corner of their house to another - all of which can be heard through the open walls between the two houses. Going to her neighbour's house to visit Doctor Dadu and Didu - the elderly couple who've been in that house for as long as I can remember and who always manage to make me feel so loved, even though there is no blood connection between us.

I love Calcutta, I do. But more than four days there, and I'm yearning to get away from all the questions. But those four days are usually a little piece of heaven.

Mam moved last year from the tiny little house she's lived in for nearly three decades to a high-rise building. I haven't visited her there yet, and in some ways I'm dreading it. Calcutta with no music coming in from the neighbour's houses in the morning and the evening? What is that like?

[PS: This post has also been posted over at Desicritics.]

The day the Sur died

If you haven't seen the "new" version of Mile Sur Mera Tumhara, you clearly haven't been on twitter or Facebook all day. Both sites have been full of updates lambasting Zoom's attempt to modernise the classic we grew up watching on DD 1 on a regular basis.

I sat through it, all 16-and-a-half freaking minutes of it (which is nearly thrice as long as the original), and have the following thoughts on it:

1. As I said on twitter, in the original one, you felt you were watching Indians sing about their country. In this one, you never, for one second, are allowed to forget that these are the stars of Bollywood you're watching. I mean, did anyone look at Priyanka Chopra in that suit with the kids and think, "awww, look how sweet and loving she is"?!? And what the heck were Shahid and Deepika doing?!?
2. Some of the acts were truly cringe-worthy. I love Aamir Khan, but his whole act with the kids was totally uncool. And SRK at the end, with his trademark spreading arms out. Really? What was this, a promo for your next movie?
3. The original had mixed India's two passions, movies and cricket. This one, being made by Zoom, naturally focussed on move stars and movie stars alone (with a few musicians thrown in for fun). For some reason, however, they decided to then also throw in a few sportspersons at the end, all people who've made it to the papers in recent times. Firstly, the way it was shown seemed utterly patronizing and there-for-the-heck-of-it. Secondly, and interestingly, not one from cricket. What happened, was Lalit Modi not entertaining their calls?
4. The singing, oh, the singing. The original had Lata Mangeshkar's gorgeous voice for all the actresses. I know she's not singing anymore, but really, could they have at least tried to match the singer to the face? And didn't someone tell Shiamak Davar years ago that he should never, ever sing in public again?
   
5. The original had managed to show glimpses of India, the country. This simply couldn't. This was nothing but a bunch of actors being taken to a bunch of sceninc spots, and asked to smile at the camera.

This is yet one more reason why I have no respect for the TOI group.

For some more excellent points on why this new version is such a disaster, you may read the tweets put up by @mojorojo. (Update: He's put them all in one place here, so you may just head there.)

And now, for your viewing pleasure, the old:



And the new:



Tell me you didn't feel like a little piece of your childhood died.

(PS: A modified version of this post was also published on Desicritics.)

An open letter to Sajid Khan

Dear Sajid Khan,

I am right at this very moment unfortunate enough to be forced into watching the telecast of an awards show not only being compered by you, but where you have also just sang an utterly ridiculous "qawwali" on movie critics.

Amongst other things, one of your complaints against them seems to be that they have no "business sense", because movies they trash go onto do very good business.

I sincerely hope you didn't mean this seriously, because it would mean you are majorly overestimating the intelligence of the average Indian movie-watcher. I mean, come on, they made your movie a hit (what was with those spellings by the way?). Which I was again unfortunate enough to be dragged into watching (no, I really don't know how I find myself in these predicaments), and quite frankly, it was one of the crappiest movies I had seen in a long, long time.

So while critics may be overly harsh from time to time, it really isn't their job to have business sense. They're there to give their take on movies. Whether the public chooses to listen or not is a different matter altogether.

Capisce?

Morning conversations

The princess' days' highlights, other than her meals and naps of course, come from the car rides she gets when the father is dropping me somewhere (no, I don't drive, thats another story altogether, shush now). Sample a conversation that took place this morning:

Princess: *wags tail while drinking milk-flavoured water after her walk*

(she refuses to drink plain water, don'tcha know?)

Moi: Bye mommy, I shall now depart for the day.

Mother: Are you taking the princess with you?

Princess: *ears prick up, turns to look at me*

Moi: Does she want to come with us?

Mother: She's very dignified, she will only ever go with you if you ask her to....

Princess: *bounds down the stairs, and reaches the gate in two seconds flat*

Mother: *mouth hangs open*

Father: The only time this girl is ever dignified is when she is snoozing.

I had no further part in the conversation, I was too busy giggling uncontrollably.