THE NEXT TIME AROUND

This one's all about the reincarnation theory. Or maybe my lack of faith in it. Sometimes, I wonder if there's anything to even mull about here. Truth to tell, I'm sceptical almost all of the time, because I don't see how it matters! Lemme explain...

They say that you need to be 'good' in this birth, the current cycle of life and death you're going through. When you ask why, the most common (and miffed) response is that 'so you reap the benefits in your next life'. Huh? Come again?

To counter that, I'd put forth my view: First, let's assume this whole reincarnation theory to be true. I'm not gonna be around then (the way I am now), to know or understand that when 'X' happens to me today (this is the next birth talking), it's all due to my deeds / actions / thoughts that were part of my life in the previous birth! How, then, does it matter how I am today?

Agreed, it counts if you believe that you're gonna reap the rewards / make things miserable for yourself, right here, right now - or okay, maybe ten years hence, but in this very life cycle! How can my karma today dictate my so-called next life?

NEW YEAR

Okay, so it's New Year's again... What?! I mean, it sure isn't the first of January! But anyways - this is something I'm not sure I'm ever gonna get. How can a New Year come back in, right bang smack in the month of March / April, just when you've finally settled in with January?

Time I learnt to read more than the English calendar.

TRAIN TRAVAILS

Convenient, on time (well, almost always), brilliantly networked... And you still can't sell me the local trains. For each of the pros above, you have the cons: your nose shoved into your neighbour's face (if nowhere else that's more gross), or you're jostling for space - and that's only to keep one foot on the ground, since the other one is being stomped by somebody else already.

To add to the chaos, the train pulls into the station (not that you can figure out which one it is, since your vantage point is not one to sing about) and what appears to be half the continent rushes in. And the other half rushes out, almost taking your bag, scarf and sanity along with it. Ouch.

Vendors. Ah, now things get interesting. From hair accessories to stationery, you'll find all you've ever wanted to purchase, but couldn't care less to take the time out to pick up! Bargain, of course (it's in the blood), but whatever the price, you can rest assured it's a steal. Introduce a PYT (Pretty Young Thing for the uninitiated) with her dainty little nose in the air. Now, she can't buy something - what if the uppity neighbourhood platinum blonde whom she's trying so hard to be sees her, even on the off chance? - outright. Hence, you'll notice a furtive glance being cast in both directions, before she reaches out a freshly manicured hand to examine a hair clip.

Beggars (who earn more than most of us do annually) romp in, blissfully unmindful of the stony looks and turned up noses, and sing (read: screech) at the top of their lungs. Whew, what power. They earn their buck from those people who want them out of the compartment, right that very minute. What better way than to part with a shiny new coin?

As your stop arrives, you'll be pulled along with the mass of humanity, and have no need to make the effort to get off. But oh, do make sure your sandal hasn't been left behind.

SOME PICTURES TO SHARE...

The great outdoors... A mindboggling display of colour.

THAT CRICKET LOOK

For the enthusiast, this might be akin to a horror movie - how can someone dislike (note: 'hate' being too strong a word) those cricket matches on television? For someone not so enthusiastic about cricket (me! me!) - I can see heads nod in full agreement (read: sympathy) already.

If you stop and take a moment out to think, you'd wonder what's with men (who can, sometimes, be sensible) - they go all starry-eyed and drown mesmerized in the television screen... It's with almost the same passion as being in the throes of first love, if not more. It's the kind of look not even given to the women in their lives. Reserved specially for the game, it shrieks 'love at every sight'. Always. The love story just doesn't end.

The word seasonality doesn't apply here. On second thoughts, it does: if you're talking about the increasing hysteria around what is popularly termed as 'Cricket Season'. (If you ask me, there isn't a time of the year that doesn't fall under that category - reruns of some godforsaken matches that took place even before you were born count.)

Right now, though, the title belongs to the World Cup. From a schedule lovingly put up in the house, and plans being made to watch the game with the boys, from where I see it, it's gonna be sheer unadultrated torture until the madness dies down.

But... does it ever?

FIRST DAY, FIRST SHOW

There's this tiny kick associated with watching a movie the first day, first show. Not that you go back and do much about it: no reviews dashed off on to a Web site or an SMS sent to your favourite newspaper, it's just that oh-I've-seen-it-what-about-you thing.

Sounds especially good when you're discussing the weekend's latest release over lunch at work, or at a coffee bar evening with friends. Still more fun - dissing the star cast (more so when the hero / heroine looks good enough to eat, depending on which way you swing) and conjuring up the smallest flaws... Dunno about alcohol, but this can create a buzz more satisfying than chocolate.

Go figure!

MARRIAGE GAMES

Wanted bride: Smart, homely, good looking, fair, minimum graduate, willing to live in joint family, should be willing to adjust.

Reads like a grocery list. All for the cattle fair, oops, marriage market.

WHAT'S IN A NOSE?

Apparently it's the epitome of perfection. Of perfect noses, that is. But does it really matter what Cleopatra's nose looked like? Whether she really had poker straight, jet black hair falling in this smooth curtain down her back?

Or do we go with the new findings that show up Cleo's supposedly true colours, or rather, her looks: the hooked nose, less-than-perfect features...?

Painted onto papyrus, gleaming gold and vegetable dye, the figment (is it?) of somebody's imagination comes vividly to life. Best untouched, undiscovered, let romance rule!

Here's to you, Cleo!

GOOD-BYES

She sat by the window, watching the sun go down, inch by beautiful inch. A pallette of warm colours streaked the sky: golden yellow, crimson, fiery orange... No two seconds were the same. A lone tear glistening down her cheek, she didn't take any of this in. Listlessly dropping the knitting in her lap, she rocked herself back and forth in her favourite rocking chair. The one he'd gifted her, chosen so painstakingly, knowing she's always wanted one.

He always knew what she'd be thinking, and by now had learnt to anticipate her every move. The both of them were a support system for each other, and reading the other's mind wasn't much of a task.

No wonder then, she defended herself, she'd been so reluctant to see him go. Wondering when he'd return. After all, traversing halfway across the globe put in an immeasurable distance between them, for the first time in their lives. He was her soul, her reason for living.

It's only for a while, he'd consoled her. A posting from work, and before she'd even know it, he'd be back with her, he promised. Right by her side, watching her knit, the needles clicking away tirelessly as she created a cable knit sweater for him.

He'd insisted she didn't come down to the airport, seeing him off at home itself was an ordeal for her. One more last hug, the nth good-bye, and he was gone. Out of her life for what seemed to be an infinite period.

Ansh, her son. All she could do was wait.

COMMERCIAL BREAKS (AND TELEVISION SHOWS)

I've decided that these are the best parts of any television show. (Err...okay, so there may be a couple of exceptions to that. Three, at max.)

You derive more entertainment (and information) from a commercial, rather than those inane soaps, where the mother-in-law (MIL, to the uninitiated) is scheming against her DIL (no prizes for guessing that one now!), while her MIL is out plotting against her. To add to this mêlée is the neighbourhood baddie who has the hots for her daughter and is going all out to ensure that his attempt at kidnapping her is successful, while the nerd from across the road injures himself while attempting to foil that very same bid... *whew* Pause for breath. Figure if you turn on the TV set some six-odd months later, it'd all look the same. At the most, you can expect a generation leap of some twenty years. Of course, the storyboard doesn't change.

To put things into perspective: You have one auntie from a daily soap, fake eyelashes et al. Also a potted plant. IQ level's significantly higher in the case of the latter.

As for the commercials, they teach you to bargain at your local greengrocer's, invest for your future, dream of a new car (and hope that you have a rich uncle in the Bahamas), zap up some astonishingly succulent looking, ready to cook in a jiffy meal for the famished family... all in a span of a total of 120 seconds, all told.

Bring 'em on! At least they don't insult my intelligence.

HIC!

Will get right back soon!

COLOURS OF LIFE

Well, so what if they get under your nails? Leave your skin with a (healthier?!) than usual warm fuschia glow? So what if your scalp's screaming vermillion? It's once in a calendar year, anyway!

On the beach, a riot of people. Not literally; it's myriad individuals ingesting sea water (tainted with scores of other unmentionables) and tossing fistfuls of colour at each other... Intrepid small-time photographers, "Madam, ek photo ka tees rupiah. Sauh ke chaar." (Ma'am, one photograph for thirty rupees. Four for a hundred.) woo you, to score one over the other guy jostling for space. And your okay.

Obscure news channels from across the globe (yes, really!) plying their camera and related equipment, snatching sound bytes from an ever-willing audience, to later treat their viewers to "Holi, the Indian Festival of Colours", drawled for the benefit of the camera, lurk around.

Intrepid street, oops, beach vendors hawking their ware: samosas (triangles of pastry filled with spicy potato and fried golden brown), ice-gola (a ball of ice dipped in sorbet, to be slurped up noisily), idlis (steamed lentil cakes)... all this, of course, garnished with grains of sand. The variety is seemingly endless, and it's up to your insides to get tough and survive.

Cops and the life guards work in tandem, ensure there's no unruly incident and the resultant chaos, and warn people away from the water once the tide starts to rise.

Families (kids of the single-digit age group in tow), couples (oblivious to most other things around them), carloads of friends out to have a good time - you'll find all sorts have a rollicking day out on the beach.

In other parts, you'll find people guzzling bhaang. But that's another story. Another post.

ENNUI SETS IN

So much so that you wanna do just about nothing.

GREENS

I've always wondered WHY green vegetables taste so...well, boring. (There's no other way to put it politely.) Look at the rest of the bunch (pun unintended) - potatoes, onion, tomato, bell peppers (now these even manage to look good as a bonus)... Nowhere on their résumé do they inscribe: Pick me up, I'm boring to the taste. Unlike all greens. Now, they sure do a brilliant job of it.

Okay, okay, so they play up on their 'healthy' angle, promising you some zillion benefits they claim potatoes never will provide, wax eloquent about pumping up your iron levels and the like... Somehow, they can never convince me.

I'd rather a pair of bright red and yellow bell peppers did the salsa on my kitchen counter.

OF CAKE AND CANDLES - II

Where's the party tonight? Hmm, good question - for me, that is! Actually, maybe the previous post needs to be amended a notch: the family goes all out to make you feel special, too!

Here I am, trying every devious little scheme in the book to figure out what's on the agenda, hee hee. Not much success. Grumble. Hmm, looks like everyone's been coached well. Whatever information I do glean points towards a dinner out or something of the kind.

Nothing, though, prepares me for this - a surprise birthday bash, right here in my own living room! Loads of friends, family and fun make for quite a heady combination! More cake (whatever are calories?) and still more conversations...

For my family: A thank you would just about start to cover it... Just about.

OF CAKE AND CANDLES - I

Friends have a way with things. At work, they can make special days even more so. Cake (chocolate, of course: it's a religion), a birthday card (inscribed by all, which is the point to be noted here) and loads of warm hugs and still warmer birthday wishes.

The highlight being a whiteboard, specially adorned for the occasion. Is it festive, or what! And hey, don't miss the arrow. If you were clueless as to where my desk at work is, well, now you know!! Clichéd but true: a picture does say a thousand words, doesn't it!

To my friends: a big thank you.

JAZZ IT UP, BABY!

"Dhadak dhadak
Dhadak Dhadak
Seeti bajaye re..."

This is the first of many songs in a loop, and then some. I've always wondered where on Earth do Mumbai's rickshaw-wallahs (drivers, to the uninitiated) get their music from. As I hop in to a rick en route from work, I'm uhh... treated to some such delightful numbers. The prerequisite for this is the word loud, and I do mean LOUD. I have a firm belief that they're remixed to the Rickshaw Beat purely for them. Blaring from torn speakers, delightfully distorted sound...you know, the works. Basically, the cute guy in the rick three lanes away should hear the din. And you'll cringe when you notice just how cute he is, and that he notices you in a 'singing' rickshaw. That's one. Second, the 'ambience' in most such ricks...

There are embellishments to set the ambience:
a. Pom-poms and sundry other danglers gaudy enough to put a belle at a local fair to shame.
b. Holographic stickers, the more gross, the better: pouty red lips, hearts with arrows stuck through them, knives through hearts replete with drops of blood dripping off the edge and the like.
c. Social service messages roughly translated from the local language would read thus: A girl educated signifies progress, A small family is a happy family, yadda yadda.
d. Now this is a classic: Names. These can include anybody and everybody that the rick guy dreams of / includes in his list of family and friends. (Pappu, Monty, Sonu, Chinky being favourites, whoever they may be. Sometimes I think they're arbit generic names, like Xerox for a photocopy.)
e. Posters of Bollywood stars, mostly female with loud makeup (specially enhanced for the said poster).
f. And traditionally, last but not the least, lights! Now these have to be in flourescent colours, running the gamut from pink and green to a sickly (and sickening) yellow. If some of them can be programmed to march, blink, flicker... Wow. Err, whatever.
g. The horn. Tinny, bullfrog, bass... It doesn't matter, as long as it's effective to make meandering cattle (both human and four-legged), other unsuspecting vehicles and various other life forms jump out of their skin and incidently, out of the way of Mr. Dashing's three-wheeler autorickshaw.

The rick flying over potholes, the speakers screech:
"Meri haathon mein nau nau choodiyaan hain..."

HMMM...

Always wondered:
1. Why it takes longer to cook than it does to eat the stuff you've made.
2. Why if a guy swears, it's okay. If a girl does, she's using language more colourful than a sailor's.
3. Why lying is accepted if you're being politically correct.
4. When the fish in my fish bowl sleep.
5. Why most of us are so afraid to change. And maybe of change as well.

WHAT'S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT?

Borrowed title. But so very apt. As I type, we're slowly inching towards a brand new day here by IST. February 14, 2007 is (almost: 30 minutes to go) officially over. Finis.

A quick poll would probably reveal stats that look somewhat like this:
a. Moths flying outta empty wallets. (When'll payday roll around?? Despair.)
b. Rejected flowers (and wannabe lovers) scattered around.
c. Cash rich card companies / gift shops and their kith and kin.
d. Stray angry protestors lugging along remnants of burnt effigies / cards / V-Day symbols, feebly singing their angry songs.
e. Lovesick puppy dog looks (tails wagging et al) on some teenybopper faces. And don't miss the teddy bear tucked away under one arm...

I rest my case.

LILIES

She got to know him in her teens. Until then, he was the tyrant of her summer holidays. Use the fork. Don't pick at your food. Sit straight: you'll get a hunch. She used to dread visiting him, not knowing when the next reprimand would fly at her. She was little, single-digit age group, and understood softer words (and toys!) better.

Reprimand? Or was it affection? Just that he couldn't express himself, tell her in so many words how much he loved her?

One evening, she was to drive down to meet him, a good four hours away from her home. She was late, the result of an event at her management school. She was flooded with endless calls en route, where he'd enquire, gruff-voiced: Where are you? It's late. Don't you have any concern at all for me? She reached his home to find him waiting up for her, at the ungodly hour of 1:00 a.m., with her favourite coffee blend bubbling away in the percolator. Her hug was brushed away with an abrupt, Thank God you're here: I can get some sleep at last. She couldn't know that he was watching for her from his bedroom window, waiting for her car to drive in, struggling to stay awake.

Sigh. Some things don't change. Don't they? She got to know him that weekend the way she never had before. That under his gruff manner lay his affection and concern for her. Every little gesture spoke a million words. He made her feel special.

They spent a lazy Saturday browsing through old family albums, he acquainting her with aunts and uncles she'd never known existed. Regaling her with countless stories. Having her roll around in mirth at the funniest anecdotes brought guffaws to his lips, too. She made him feel young again.

As she knelt by his grave, his face seemed to smile up at her. Carefully, she placed the lilies on the stone. Cold, as he was in death. She'd never forget that one, heart-stopping moment. As she'd never forget him.

I miss you, Grampa.