See, I'm a good girl. I wait till the very last day of the year to review 2009 as it happened to me. Not like the articles you see in newspapers and magazines, which basically ignore whatever happens in the latter half of December, because they cant meet their deadlines otherwise. So here goes...
Plus: Promotion! For what its worth, I am thrilled to have got it. Even though I am flummoxed when people ask me 'So what are your new responsibilities?' or 'So who's reporting to you now?'. Er..
Plus: I have stood on my head. And I can report that the view is infinitely better the other way round.
Plus: The cauldron doth boil and toil. The other Two Witches at work are alive and well. And kicking. Bless them! Simply cannot face work without them.
Plus: La dolce vita in bella Italia! And the Golden Temple. Definitely worth going to Punjab for!
Plus: I love love love 'aqua con gas'. Tastes better than anything else on earth.
Plus: New friends, particularly my Man United loving pal from the UK, who makes it that much easier to get through the day, and who also brings me stuff from...
Plus: ...the wonderful and miraculous eBay UK! Completely engrossing and addictive. Where else can one find old Enid Blytons, discounted perfumes and all manner of completely desirable things.
Plus: Facebook, Gossip Girl, Rapidshare. Tremendous contribution to my life and to the internet bill.
Plus: Lady Gaga, Amy Winehouse and indie music (maybe a little too much indie music).
Plus: I dont seem to have put on any weight. Tra la!
Minus: I dont seem to have lost any weight. Its becoming my holy grail. Unhealthy.
Minus: Cant get no water with gas in India.
Minus: Lady Gaga. She gave me many an ear worm. So bloody hard to shake off.
Minus: I kind of lost one of my best friends. Not in a mortal sense, but in that we're no longer best friends. Just people who once knew each other. Which is definitely sad.
Minus: I didnt get to go on some other trips because I was the only female in the group. Grrr.
Minus: Didnt make it to page 3 even in Thinathanthi. More grrrrr.
A most splendiferous new year to all of my incalculably vast reading public!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
A book was launched but not my career as a page 3 girl alas!
Last week,I went with a pal to the launch of Nine Lives by William Dalrymple at the Connemara. I really should learn to be laid back and arrive at these dos at half an hour late. Becausing arriving on time (or 15 mins before, which is what I normally do) means you get to soak in a mausoleum-like atmosphere for a good 45 mins. At the end of which you feel distinctly ghoulish. And since my pal managed to confuse Connemara with Coromandel, I had no one to joke for a goodish while. A drink or two at this point would have helped, but the Connemara people (unlike the smart, kind people at Coromandel) chose to withold the life-restoring elixir till the reading was over. Grrr.
At first the 'ballroom' was sparsely populated, only by people strictly over the age of 90. Some of them were in waterproof rain gear, which was quite incongruous in the 'ballroom'. But slowly a few bedraggled looking journo/lit students turned up and I didnt feel like some completely out-of-sync young(ish) person who's gatecrashed some Senior Citizens event.
Anyway, eventually WD showed up, in kurta and pyjamas with a veshti wrapped around him for good measure. The first thing I noticed was that he got a nice tall glass of beer. Sigh! He spoke and read from his book for about an hour. It was entertaining in places but the mind tended to wander in others. He talked about three of the nine lives (though it felt like a lot more at the time). After the usual inane questions at the end of the reading, my pal and I got our copies signed for each other. We also found out that in Scotland, its pronounced 'D'rymple' not 'Dalrymple'. We thanked him for the signatures and he thanked us for coming. All very civilised,if rather dull. Then it was off to the bar! At last!
But before we could get there, several photogs stopped us and asked us to pose for them. We even gave them our names. I think we were the only young(ish) people there, hence the interest. In fact, come to think of it, some of them interupted us mid-drink and got us to pose, claiming to be from 'a popular national paper'. But did that mean our photos were splashed about liberally on the page 3s and party pages? Did we get calls from loved ones enviously asking us about our glamourous lives? Nope. Not a whisker. Nothing. I wonder where the photos went. Into some void where they never see the light of day? Hopefully not to some internet porn site. Its such a tragic waste of posing and needless delay in getting to the drinks. Never will I let this happen again.
But the pal and I, sweetly unaware of the dastardly behaviour of these callous men who trifled with our innocent child-like faith in the universe, spent an hour or so swapping gossip on people we know (and hate). Have torn these people apart, we finished our wine (it would be more accurate to say that I finished our wine) and traipsed back home quite happily.
Is book launch season upon us? Looking forward to more such evenings!
At first the 'ballroom' was sparsely populated, only by people strictly over the age of 90. Some of them were in waterproof rain gear, which was quite incongruous in the 'ballroom'. But slowly a few bedraggled looking journo/lit students turned up and I didnt feel like some completely out-of-sync young(ish) person who's gatecrashed some Senior Citizens event.
Anyway, eventually WD showed up, in kurta and pyjamas with a veshti wrapped around him for good measure. The first thing I noticed was that he got a nice tall glass of beer. Sigh! He spoke and read from his book for about an hour. It was entertaining in places but the mind tended to wander in others. He talked about three of the nine lives (though it felt like a lot more at the time). After the usual inane questions at the end of the reading, my pal and I got our copies signed for each other. We also found out that in Scotland, its pronounced 'D'rymple' not 'Dalrymple'. We thanked him for the signatures and he thanked us for coming. All very civilised,if rather dull. Then it was off to the bar! At last!
But before we could get there, several photogs stopped us and asked us to pose for them. We even gave them our names. I think we were the only young(ish) people there, hence the interest. In fact, come to think of it, some of them interupted us mid-drink and got us to pose, claiming to be from 'a popular national paper'. But did that mean our photos were splashed about liberally on the page 3s and party pages? Did we get calls from loved ones enviously asking us about our glamourous lives? Nope. Not a whisker. Nothing. I wonder where the photos went. Into some void where they never see the light of day? Hopefully not to some internet porn site. Its such a tragic waste of posing and needless delay in getting to the drinks. Never will I let this happen again.
But the pal and I, sweetly unaware of the dastardly behaviour of these callous men who trifled with our innocent child-like faith in the universe, spent an hour or so swapping gossip on people we know (and hate). Have torn these people apart, we finished our wine (it would be more accurate to say that I finished our wine) and traipsed back home quite happily.
Is book launch season upon us? Looking forward to more such evenings!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Party Whirl
A chronicle of the parties I attended recently.
Party No 1
A professional party. Park Sheraton. Maharaja-Maharani Nite, the invitation said. So at the entrance to the venue was the ‘set’ of a Rajput gateway, flanked by two big-mustachioed ‘guards’, who proclaimed something in hindi (or rajputanese) when you entered. Instead of a garland, they gave us ID cards on a string of pearls. The men were led off to the turban area, to get dressed into rajput gear—shervani, turban and pointy slippers--and then sit on a throne to get their picture taken. The women had to entertain themselves with kili josiyam (didn’t know that was a rajputi habit), stick-on mehendhi tattoos and jiggly, sparkly bangles. Then they brought on the song and dance show, with a break for an ‘AV presentation’ about our kind corporate hosts. My enjoyment increased exponentially with each drink (needless to say). So I went home thinking very kind thoughts about the kind corporate hosts. So mission accomplished for them.
Party No 2
A non-party. Presidency Club. Greeted by deafening round of crackers. Just when you think its all over, they start it up again. Very nice tennis court. Strange battalions of nannies, looking after endless streams of kids. If they have a club only for adults I’m going to do my darndest to get in. Host very late but charming as always. Other guests (apart from self and Dad): 1 NRI, 1 MBA who made the evening memorable by fainting, 1 lawyer (the said charming host), 1 overly anxious mother, 1 silent food-crumbler husband. Quite a rocking party, as you can imagine. Anyway, mustn’t grumble. Drinks helped, as always. Went home musing about the frailty of man (not the general man but the male of the species).
Party No 3
An imaginary party. Its not a complete figment of my imagination. Just that it was in another continent and I couldn’t be there. But knowing the party organizer, I’m sure it was fabulous! Rather eager to hear about it.
Party No 4
A family party. Sanjeevanam. Good food: jeera water, cream of cucumber soup, red rice dosa, etc. Great company – my aunt and uncle. Matters of great import were discussed: the healthcare reforms, upcoming weddings, offensive vs defensive medicine. Intellectual stuff. Amazingly no C2H5OH. Just good clean living, peace on earth and goodwill to men! Went home with no thoughts whatsoever.
Hmm. Maybe the songs are right. Life is a party. So where do you go when the party’s over? Someplace quiet where you can reflect on what has passed I hope.
Party No 1
A professional party. Park Sheraton. Maharaja-Maharani Nite, the invitation said. So at the entrance to the venue was the ‘set’ of a Rajput gateway, flanked by two big-mustachioed ‘guards’, who proclaimed something in hindi (or rajputanese) when you entered. Instead of a garland, they gave us ID cards on a string of pearls. The men were led off to the turban area, to get dressed into rajput gear—shervani, turban and pointy slippers--and then sit on a throne to get their picture taken. The women had to entertain themselves with kili josiyam (didn’t know that was a rajputi habit), stick-on mehendhi tattoos and jiggly, sparkly bangles. Then they brought on the song and dance show, with a break for an ‘AV presentation’ about our kind corporate hosts. My enjoyment increased exponentially with each drink (needless to say). So I went home thinking very kind thoughts about the kind corporate hosts. So mission accomplished for them.
Party No 2
A non-party. Presidency Club. Greeted by deafening round of crackers. Just when you think its all over, they start it up again. Very nice tennis court. Strange battalions of nannies, looking after endless streams of kids. If they have a club only for adults I’m going to do my darndest to get in. Host very late but charming as always. Other guests (apart from self and Dad): 1 NRI, 1 MBA who made the evening memorable by fainting, 1 lawyer (the said charming host), 1 overly anxious mother, 1 silent food-crumbler husband. Quite a rocking party, as you can imagine. Anyway, mustn’t grumble. Drinks helped, as always. Went home musing about the frailty of man (not the general man but the male of the species).
Party No 3
An imaginary party. Its not a complete figment of my imagination. Just that it was in another continent and I couldn’t be there. But knowing the party organizer, I’m sure it was fabulous! Rather eager to hear about it.
Party No 4
A family party. Sanjeevanam. Good food: jeera water, cream of cucumber soup, red rice dosa, etc. Great company – my aunt and uncle. Matters of great import were discussed: the healthcare reforms, upcoming weddings, offensive vs defensive medicine. Intellectual stuff. Amazingly no C2H5OH. Just good clean living, peace on earth and goodwill to men! Went home with no thoughts whatsoever.
Hmm. Maybe the songs are right. Life is a party. So where do you go when the party’s over? Someplace quiet where you can reflect on what has passed I hope.
The Greatest Show on Earth
Sometimes its very easy to create a slave. Someone to fetch and carry for you. Someone who wont go to the loo for fear of annoying you. Someone who’s willing to eat lunch at her desk so she can keep an eye on your purse (because you asked her to look after it while you were away).
Sometimes there’s no holding people back. People marry and move to another town. Then they come back and divorce their husbands because they don’t get along. Then they run away from their parents and leave a note in a diary, saying ‘Don’t look for me; I want to make a life for myself on my own terms’.
Surely the greatest show on earth is what we call Life.
Sometimes there’s no holding people back. People marry and move to another town. Then they come back and divorce their husbands because they don’t get along. Then they run away from their parents and leave a note in a diary, saying ‘Don’t look for me; I want to make a life for myself on my own terms’.
Surely the greatest show on earth is what we call Life.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
The polar bear song
I want to go there
To the snow and the ice
I want to be a polar bear
Its no great sacrifice
Inspired by these pictures
To the snow and the ice
I want to be a polar bear
Its no great sacrifice
Inspired by these pictures
Monday, September 7, 2009
Quick Gun but Poor Shot
Sigh. I had such hopes for this one. The movie version of Quick Gun Murugan. Five minutes into the movie and it all became clear: what was a funny and rather wacky two-minute Channel V sketch character had been put on some medieval rack and stretched to nearly two hours, with the result that poor Quick Gun was a thin as paper.
To give him credit Rajendra Prasad is quite good, but everyone else hams it up in a way thats painfully unfunny. Nassar stomps around chewing the scenery and playing a caricature villain. My classmate Anu Menon does what she can, but being trapped inside a locket does pose some limitations. Rambha plays the usual bad-girl-with-heart-of-gold-redeemed-by-love. Prabhu Deva's brother is another one for shouting at the top of his voice and generally overdoing everything.
I think the main problem was the plot, which starts off sounding very promising: cow protecting cowboy tries to save vegetarian tamil villages from being forced into becoming meat-eaters; but then there's death and rebirth and all manner of rambling and the plot loses any vestige of sense it ever possessed: cowboy takes revenge on evil meat-only dish purveyor who wants total world domination through dosas (arent dosas veggie food? its quite confusing). So the first half is set mostly in the south, with english subtitles for the tamil dialogue and the second, fully in bombay, with no english subtitles for the hindi dialogue. How's that for North-South prejudice?
The period and genre details were pretty good. Some of the dialogue was rather funny. And Rajendra Prasad says 'My name is Murugan. Quick Gun Murugan. Mind it' with surpiring verve and style. But I'm really struggling to find something positive to say about this movie. I suppose the problem is that it was meant to be a spoof of the 'curry westerns' of the 70s but one of the prerequisites of spoofs is that they be funny. And this movie was only fitfully so. Thats why it was about as appetising as warmed up leftovers. Or in this case, yesterday's dosa and sambhar. Now that is surely something I do mind!
To give him credit Rajendra Prasad is quite good, but everyone else hams it up in a way thats painfully unfunny. Nassar stomps around chewing the scenery and playing a caricature villain. My classmate Anu Menon does what she can, but being trapped inside a locket does pose some limitations. Rambha plays the usual bad-girl-with-heart-of-gold-redeemed-by-love. Prabhu Deva's brother is another one for shouting at the top of his voice and generally overdoing everything.
I think the main problem was the plot, which starts off sounding very promising: cow protecting cowboy tries to save vegetarian tamil villages from being forced into becoming meat-eaters; but then there's death and rebirth and all manner of rambling and the plot loses any vestige of sense it ever possessed: cowboy takes revenge on evil meat-only dish purveyor who wants total world domination through dosas (arent dosas veggie food? its quite confusing). So the first half is set mostly in the south, with english subtitles for the tamil dialogue and the second, fully in bombay, with no english subtitles for the hindi dialogue. How's that for North-South prejudice?
The period and genre details were pretty good. Some of the dialogue was rather funny. And Rajendra Prasad says 'My name is Murugan. Quick Gun Murugan. Mind it' with surpiring verve and style. But I'm really struggling to find something positive to say about this movie. I suppose the problem is that it was meant to be a spoof of the 'curry westerns' of the 70s but one of the prerequisites of spoofs is that they be funny. And this movie was only fitfully so. Thats why it was about as appetising as warmed up leftovers. Or in this case, yesterday's dosa and sambhar. Now that is surely something I do mind!
Monday, August 10, 2009
Weekend thoughts
On browsing through back issues of Architectural Digest
The only way I am ever going to live in these kind of houses is if I get a job there as a maid! Still, its nice to know that its possible to ive in an all-white house or to build a home perched above a waterfall. Or that there are 30 different shades of beige. Gives one hope somehow.On meeting a whole bunch of my friends, all from previous IT jobs, but with whom I am very close
Why are so many of my friends Brahmins? They form less than 5% of the population but sometimes it feels like I know the whole 5%. My Brahmin side of the family hasnt prepared me well in handling overt displays of Brahmin-ness either. They either talk in English or a sort of urban Tamil. And they arent seriously into major rituals etc. With the end result that when I do get together with tradional Brahmins, I feel completely smothered!On meeting two of my oldest friends (they arent old in themselves - they are the same age as me - just that I've known them since the third standard)
I love that they are still honest and honourable and decent and cheerful and utterly full of life. And that we all still understand each other. Maybe which school you go to really or limb.On meeting two of my oldest friends
I cant believe it! Finally someone who spends more than me!Yay! I'm not Satan's little helper after all!On watching the movie Milk, which is about the gay rights activist Harvey Milk
At first it's weird watching men kiss but over time (in this case two hours) it doesnt look so strange after all. Wonder what Madras would be like if we had men kissing on the streets! Even more radical: straight people necking in the streets!On attending a friend's engagement
I cannot believe that it takes two hours to get two people engaged! Or how absolutely tacky and tedious the whole procedure is. As long as I move around in a world of my making everything is alright. Once I come up against the real world, real India, its like I've suddenly been pitchforked into some new alien country, where everyone looks like me but they all think and speak and behave in a completely baffling way. Total disconnect.Why didnt I get out earlier? Do I even have a chance now?On wondering if I was going to get caught by the police for buying wine and vodka in Pondicherry
How does this work? Even when I come from abroad I can bring in two litres of alcohol so why should I be scared to buy something in my own country?On getting back home, hot, tired, with a crick in my neck, to see my dog jump up to greet me
There really trully is no place like home.
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