Tag

I hated playing tag in school. Alas I can not avoid it in the blogosphere. Promises of fondue and some 'buttering up' have forced me in to playing.

So here is my book tag 30in2005 and Mumbaigirl.


1. What is the total number of books you've owned?

About 300.

2. What are the last books you bought?
From The Oxfam Bookstore at Heretfordhsire and Welywn Garden City

Vikram Seth – Two Lives
American Psycho – Bret Easton Ellis
The Complete Book of Vegetarian Cooking
The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
The Penguin Book of International Women's Stories - Edited by Kate Figgs

3. What is the last book you've read?

American Psycho- Bret Easton Ellis

Scary, funny, gory.

4. What are you currently reading?

Eragorn - Christopher Paollini

Book 2 in the story of a boy, his dragon, elves, dwarves and great fun.

A long, long way – Sebastien Barry

World War I through the eyes of a young Irish soldier.

Back issues of Smoke a London Peculiar

An indie magazine full of stories, poetry and art inspired by London.

5. What are the 5 books that have meant a lot to you or that you particularly enjoyed?

Mr Men Series – Roger Hargreaves
Where would I be without Mr. Jelly and Little Miss. Naughty?

Revolting Rhymes – Roald Dahl. Illustrations Quentin Blake
Would recite these poems to my parent’s friends when they came round for dinner. I never knew if their red faces were because of the ‘rude bits’ or too much whisky.

Are you there God it’s me Margaret – Judy Blume
Perfectly captures growing pains. Ah how we all yearned to get our periods as young 10 year old girls . If only we knew.

Little Women - Louisa M. Alcott
First book that made me cry.

Wuthering Heights – Bronte

The prototype for every Mills&Boon hero ever created. Sadly the dark, conniving heroine didn’t catch on.

100 Hundred Years of Solitude - Marquez

The buterflies!

Hey whipple squeeze this – Luke Sullivan

Read as a young trainee living in the bubble world of advertising.

No Logo – Naomi Klein

Burst aforementioned bubble.

6) What book(s) would you wish to buy next?

Shantaram - Gregory David Roberts
The Entire Calvin & Hobbes Series
Delta of Venus – Anais Nin.

7. What book(s) caught your attention but you never had a chance to read?
Gulag Archipelago - Aleksandr Isaevich Solzhenitsyn
Waiting for Godot - Samuel Beckett
A Clockwork Orange - Anothony burgess

8. What book(s) that you've owned for so long but never read?Grapes of wrath - Steinbeck
Catch 22 – Joseph Heller
Roots – Alex Haley
The Tin Drum - Gunter Grass
Mrs. Dalloway - Virginia Woolf

9. Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?

sorry for doing this to you guys. Please feel free not to comply :)

Falstaff - have you read his blog?
Sonia Faleiro - have you read her blog?
Kaaju Katli - have you read her blog?

flake

kamikaze fairies
swirl down
on wings of frozen water
avoiding
gloved hands
and matching raspberry tongue.
there is no glory
in a soft death

She's got the look

Well that's what I thought with the red lacy template. Some people liked it and some hated it. And then there were the ones who couldn't read the posts. Oh and the family members who threatend to divorce and disown me. So I have changed the look. But remember, I may change my template but never my taste in music. Hail Roxette!

Update

Ok so I changed the look again. I blame the black and blue anomaly on the cold. It's numbed my brain. But please. Don't take Roxette away from me.

To market to market - 2

The smells – roast chestnuts in EC2 and frying vadais in Matunga. The people – Jamaicans, Bangladeshis or masala dosais (as I was once referred to by a Bombay cabbie). The goods – Reebook shoes with slightly askew Nike swooshes (slowly and sadly being replaced by annoying near perfect replicas), plastic buckets and miracle window cleaners that need divine intervention to work at home. The feeling that you’ve outwitted and outpouted your friends and scored the bargain of the century. Aren’t markets wonderful?

My love for them has taken me from sulking in Maadavidhi to being delighted in Camden and robbed in Matunga. While shopping on Oxford Street gives a buzz that’s better than too much Benadryl, there’s nothing like a trawl through Portobello, Greenwhich or Camden Lock.


How Vulgar

One of the oldest London street markets, Petticoat Lane was established over 400 years ago by The Huguenots. The prudish Victorians changed the name of the Lane and market to avoid referring to women's underclothes! I wonder what they’d think of the Union Jack thongs that flutter in the wind now?

Glitzy shoes, last seasons must haves or ‘genuine’ leather coats for just £24.99? Sinatra or reggae? Fried seafood or hot sausage rolls? Just the white turtleneck or the brown cable knit too? Shall we keep going straight or turn right here? This market throws a volley of questions at you. The hawkers smile, cajole and call out. In the midst all the colour and fun a sullen brown council estate. Behind it the tip of The Gherkin juts out. Should I stand there and ponder on this juxtaposition of rich and poor? Before I decide I’m jostled by a burkha glad girl with an East London accent and a glittering nose pin – ‘Scuse me!’ I sing along with Frank – ‘Strangers in the Night, exchanging glances…’ I’m surrounded by people I don’t know. And fall a bit in love.

S&M at Spitalfield

A Patisserie Valeria. The cult makeup brand Benefits. Organic burgers for £10. ‘Old’ Spitalfields Market is anything but. It’s cleaner. Upmarket. Affluent. International. ‘Vietnamese’ bamboo bags. Hungarian food. Japanese stall owners. No one calls out. No one pushes. No puddles to jump over or ugly bags to make fun of. It’s cool, trendy and achingly hip. Like the S&M café (Sausages and Mash) – carefully framed yellowing posters and gleaming red and white chequered tablecloths. Old fashioned. But new. I shop. We eat.

My mind keeps going back to Petticoat Lane. Two streets and a world apart.

Dialogue

“Take me hoooome country roooooads to the plaaace where I be-”

The off-key crooning reached her through the ageing bathroom door.

“Are you done?” she enquired tentatively.

“-looong! West Virginiaaa Moun-”

“Hey! Are you done?”

“Nope! Mountain Mamaaaa-”

“Well how long are you going to take?” She asked hopping from one foot to another.

“I just got in. Another 45 minutes maybe?”

“45 minutes? Look I really need to go”

“You always do this. Every fucking morning. What’s the point of waking up early-”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry but please just today” she whined placing her forehead against the door.

“Fine. But you’ve got to wait. I’m halfway through Greenspan’s interview on Econo-“

“I’m about to soil myself and you want to – look just get out! Get out! Get out! Get out!” she screamed not caring if the neighbours heard through the thin walls of the apartment.

“You know that attitude won’t help you.” Even though she couldn’t see him he raised his nose snootily as he said this.

“Fine. 5 minutes. I’ll be back”

“Hasta La-”

She stomped off not waiting for the rest of his taunting comeback.

“Ok. Keep walking. Take your mind off it. Don’t think about it. Dust something. Plump a cushion. What should I make for dinner? Maybe I should call Mom. Maybe I should pack my lunch. Maybe I should do the dishes. Maybe I should have married someone who could afford a flat with two bathrooms.” She muttered as retraced her steps back to the bathroom door. “Right. Time’s up!”

“You’ve been gone exactly 30 seconds… and all your screaming has frightened my bowels. I get another extra minute.”

“I hate you. After I go I’m leaving you.” She hissed as she rattled the doorknob.

“But after you go won’t you already be – gone?”

“Ha Ha! Smarty pants”

“Since you’ve been goooone”

“Kelly Clarkson? That’s it! You’ve had it” She screeched pummelling the door with both hands.

“Are you trying to break the door down? How very Jack Nicholson…the axe is in the airing cupboard. Heeeer’es Johhnie!”

His bellowing laugh shook her out of the demented door banging and she backed away.

“I’ll teach that lying, sneaky, smug, two face-”

“There. All yours.” The narrow passage reverberated with the whooshing of the noisy cistern and his voice.

“Ass hole.” She muttered kicking him as she entered the bathroom.

She sat down and sighed in relief as the anger flowed out.

“You there? I love you.”

“Me too”

THE ASSIGNMENT

STAGE 1
Two characters are 'talking'. Pretend it's a script, with no prose at all in between. Your characters are in conflict (that doesn't necessarily mean an argument.) Make the dialogue work very very hard. Consider the possibilities of irony, misunderstanding, humour, subtext, differing perspectives, contrast between voices... What is NOT said?

STAGE 2
IF you have time, go back and add only the most necessary prose in between the speaking parts:
-- to identify or locate characters (eg "she was still in her school uniform", "he was sitting on a pile of pumpkins", "they had reached the top floor where the view...", "It was 1789 and Paris was...")
-- to clarify important or unspoken action (eg "he dropped the gun", "her perfume reminded him of his stepmother", "the car didn't stop", "the chandeliers shook with the first roll of thunder"...)

STAGE 3
Please bring clear copies to class next week. Your work will be read out by others.

Senses

The first thing she notices when she enters the room is the way it smells. Not a strong signature scent but apple-jilebi. Banana-rose. Milk-disinfectant. Whifflings born from the copulation of several distinct odours. She inhales the bouquet deeply and in return offers the room her own – a mixture of fear, sweat and sickly sweet perfume.

The door shuts gently behind her. Blocking out the girlish giggles of the family's 60 year old matrons and draping the room in darkness. She shuffles forward and makes a haphazard left, unsure of her way. Her soft feet squish against the worn, grimy floor, seeking out the well-defined borders of each square tile. She pauses and fingers (toes?) a tiny crater she chances upon at the corner of a slab.

Her jangling anklets are halted as she bumps in to something hard. The bed. Her mother-in-law had pointed at this ageing four-poster behemoth earlier and cracked a ribald joke that had made her blush.

A quilt has been thrown over the mattress in an attempt to disguise its hard and lumpy terrain. The bed is high and she is forced to clamber inelegantly upon it. She puts a tentative hand out to explore the quilt. Softness and then a little bump. Softness. Another bump. It is embroidered. She seeks out the trail of tiny thread hillocks trying to decipher what they form. A blue elephant? A gaudy pink paisley? A mythical white swan? She turns her face and is gently slapped by a long, snakelike garland of flowers – rose, jasmine, marigold. They wind their way across the beams of the bed. Benign serpents that cast off their perfumed skin on every available surface.

As she lets out a soft sigh a stronger gust of air blows through an open window behind the bed. It brings with it dust, clues about the neighbour's dinner and the strains of an old film song. She jumps off her perch, boredom driving her to explore her new surroundings. No longer afraid she makes her way around the bed. Keeping one hand on it though. Just in case.

The bed ends and she puts her arms out front. Playing blind mans bluff with the dark. She stops when her fingers find a wall and gropes the surface. It is flaky and leaves her fingertips coated with a chalky powder. Cheap distemper. A half-hearted attempt to spruce up an old room for a new bride. She walks on dragging her fingers over the wall leaving in her wake paint slivers and the occasional stray flower from her headdress.

The wall gives way to a surface of smoother finish. A cold, metallic handle forces itself in to her hand, begging to be pulled. She pauses waiting for the room to give her – its new mistress some indication of its approval. But it remains dark and silent. Almost hostile. Taking this as a sign she moves on, leaving the mysterious door for another day.

Her nose guides her to where the sweets and fruits have been kept. She knows that they are arranged on the ornate silver plates that are a part of her dowry. Sweets rich in milk,ghee, saffron and coconut. Ripe bananas, guavas and apples.
The banana doubling as an incense stick holder. Hungry, she reaches out touching sticky, soft treats until her fingers close over the coiled body of a jilebi.

The door suddenly opens and she hears the click of the light switch. She shuts her eyes blocking out the two intruders. Her new husband. And the light.

The assignment

Describe a room. It can be any room. Imagined, remembered, dreaded, loved, public, private, empty, full of people, fictional, personal...

Know your room before you start writing about it.

Your audience should be able to know your room as well as you do. They should be able to see it, smell it, feel it. If you don’t know your room inside-out, your uncertainty will leak through tiny cracks in the prose.

Each student has the additional task of writing within specified stylistic restrictions.

Mine was to write WITH ALL SENSES EXCEPT SIGHT (BUT NOT BLIND)

Not sure if I've managed to carry out the task fully. I feel as though something is missing. Feedback as always is appreciated!

Indignant

I’ve been lying for hours here in the bushes. On my back. In the cold. My legs up in the air and held in place by invisible stirrups. If my mother saw me right now she would hang her head in shame. But she isn’t. So I feel shame on her behalf. For lying on my back with my legs in the air.

Understandably I am upset. Not just because of my situation. But because no one seems to have realised that I’m missing. Now don’t go jumping to conclusions. I’m not some antisocial recluse. In fact I go out of my way to get to know people. To help them. Sometimes I think people take advantage of me. Push me around. Tell me what to do. But I don’t complain. I know my station in life. I do as I’m told. And this is what I get in return. I end up lying on my back in the cold with my legs up in the air.

I can see my so-called friends from where I lie. They’re only a few hundred yards away. Huddled up and gossiping about the day. The strong boasting about how much work they got done. The old and the lame standing at the fringes quietly remembering their own glory days. None of them have realised that I’m missing. When I get out of this mess they’re going to find out just what I think of them. But right now, I’m lying on my back in the cold with my legs up in the air.

Quite a few people have walked by. Some of them have seen me. But they avert their gaze before our eyes meet. Once eyes meet a person feels bound to come over and help. A strange human trait. So to avoid the inconvenience they look away. “Why bother.” They’re all thinking. “It’s not my problem. Why get involved.”

I wish I could feel indignant. But what right does an overturned Tesco Trolley have to feel indignant. So I lie there. On my back. In the cold. With my legs up in the air.

Assignment 2

The 5 minute interview
Dirk Dawson
Actor

The Independent
December 12th, 2005
I wish people would take more notice of…

How hard it is to look sexy


As his grapefruit coloured eyes took an easy morning walk over his naked frame, Dirk Dawson decided with authority that he was still gorgeous. Which was quite an achievement considering the fact that he'd just celebrated his 47th birthday for the third year in a row. He was pretty sure that he could pass off for younger, but his agent was adamant that 47 be the official number.

As he stepped in to what his decorator had called a Brad Pitt meets Dalai Lama shower (serene but sexy) Dirk's thoughts wandered to last week. He'd been having a suit fitted at a store on Savile Row when a young couple had breezed in. He'd waited for the inevitable hovering and hesitant "Excuse me, but aren't you…?" but it never came. The young woman had walked straight past him as though he were a pinstriped mannequin and her boyfriend had been too busy convincing her that pinstripes were for old farts.


Dirk Dawson – the next 007?
Rolling Stone
January 1994

"Well fuck them. I'm 47 and don't need Viagra" Dirk muttered as he towelled himself dry. He thought of telling his agent Martine about what had happened but he didn't want another earful about reality shows giving him a younger fan base. There was no way he was going to get on TV in a red lycra cat suit and drink milk out of a some transvestite's hand. Or eat bugs and then defecate his lunch in front of a camera. He'd acted with Chevy Chase and presented an Oscar in the 80s for God's sake. He would have been James Bond too if that mick Pierce Brosnan hadn't agreed to work for a couple of million less. So what if a bunch of snot nosed kids didn't know who he was?

Supermodel's 'Dirky' little secret
The Daily Mail
February 14th, 1999


Dirk fumbled with his microdermabrasion kit. But it wasn't just the kids. There were the producers that promised to call but never did. Writers who seemed to write parts solely for faggot actors. So a few years ago Martine had started to carefully orchestrate 'scoops' that managed to keep him in circulation. There was the affair with the under age model. The stint at The Priory in '97 – even though it'd been about 12 years since he'd jacked up. There was the column he 'wrote' for a women's magazine on how to figure men out. But it was all PR bullshit and favours Martine pulled with editors who thought he was cool in a retro way. ("You used to wear Levis? No waaay!") None of it was real. Except The List.

Small town boy with big city dreams
Esquire
June 1985

Every year middle aged women who had once taped his picture over their bed and thought of him in the shower voted him on to The100 Sexiest Men of the Year list.
Those women probably lived in Swansea now in some crap semi-detached with kids named Chardonnay or Chastity. But once upon on a time they used send him pictures of themselves in nothing but leg warmers. He reminded them of what it was like to be young and sexy and in return they voted for him. The List always got him work - a small role in a period production, a Panto during Christmas – even the odd commercial. He was hoping for something at the West End this year that didn't involve wearing harem pants and shaving his chest though. Dirk dressed with care. The List was going to be out today and he and Martine were meeting for a celebratory lunch.

David Cameron voted to 100 sexiest men list
The Independent
February 2nd 2006


Dirk sat in disbelief. His risotto was as cold as the feeling that weighed down on his heart. Edged off the list by that pudding-faced Tory prat? Because he cycled to work and had a slow son?

"I'm sorry Dirk - it isn't just about having a great ass anymore"

He glared at Martine. "Call them up. It's mistake or something. I can't be off the list."


Dirk Dawson tipped to win Celebrity Big Brother.
The Daily Mail
June 15th 2006

Update

The assignment:

To choose a newspaper or magazine article that makes an impact on you. It can be a frivolous little bulletin from page XX or a major feature. The article can be about anything, but it should tell a factual story with a beginning, middle and end. Use the article as the basis for a fictional story of your own.

Nine yards of memories

To me a wardrobe is more than a structure that stores clothes, bags and accessories. I like to think of them as a repository of memories – happy ones, sad ones, funny and bittersweet ones.

Some clothes have such strong associations attached to them that long after they have ceased to fit or be fashionable I’ve still held on to them. They form tenuous if somewhat threadbare links to my past that I’m loathe to sever.

Like the tiny waistcoat I’ve had for a good 20 years now. In a lurid rani pink, it’s embellished with Chinese symbols and lined in white faux fur. Hardly a look for Spring/Summer 2006. But I remember wearing it to a birthday party (of a person who I can no longer remember) when I was five years old. It reminds me of a carefree time in my life when I could eat all the ice cream I wanted and not worry about the consequences. That’s the beauty of clothes - I may forget faces and names but I’ll always remember what I wore.

There’s the white dress my father bought me after a business trip to London. It hangs in my cupboard, the cellophane covering from a dry cleaning 12 years ago untouched. A denim jacket from my terrible tweens covered in lovingly collected buttons and badges that proclaimed I was ‘Single and ready to mingle’ or ‘One atom bomb is all it takes to ruin your day’.

There are the dresses I no longer possess but still remember. Like the beige and cream salwar I wore on my first day of college. And the leather Fab India satchel I had slung over my shoulder. Desi but not dehaat. Or at least I’d hoped so. The sari I wore for my school farewell. 6 metres of maroon organza dress material that were so transparent I still can’t show anyone the pictures.

There are the good, the bad and the ugly. Brand new, hateful hand me downs and delicious booty stolen from my sister’s cupboard. Atrocious denim capris embroidered with letters of the alphabet circa 1987. A black and red bandhini skirt that I wish I still had. The white chikan work dupatta my sister bought me from Lucknow. Too beautiful to actually wear but regularly taken out and caressed.

And then there’s my wedding sari. Nine yards of peacock blue juxtaposed with a startling red and gold border. Awkward and uncomfortable. Hard to sit and walk in and difficult to drape. It hangs in the dark confines of my cupboard now, taken out once year for Varalakshmi Nombu. During this annual airing I like to pretend that the smell that clings to it is actually from the smoke of the agnikundam and not eau d’mothball. That the small dark stain in the corner is one of the many tears I shed that day and not payasam (kheer). And that every crease and fold that stubbornly stays in place represents a memory that can never be ironed out.

fact or fiction?

Note This is for a creative writing class I'm taking. The brief - to write two 500 word strong stories told in the first person and set in the past. One must be fact and the other fiction.

Both stories are now up.

FACT?

My family and I spent the summer of 1990 with my aunt in the small and sleepy town of Gorakhpur. She and her husband - a professor of biology lived in squat, ugly staff quarters on campus with their two daughters. Approaching their late 20s, my cousins were still unmarried – earning their mother the collective sympathy of friends, relatives and even the occasional stranger. Like products close to their expiry date, they were nearing the end of their shelf life and people were wary of taking them home.

Though my cousins had all the girlish notions of love and romance they were to marry men their parents chose. And till that time they were to preserve their virtue at any cost. So their pent up fantasies and longings found release in an ageing almirah that stood in the corner of their bedroom its shelves weighed down by romance novels of every kind. Books called ‘McGowan’s Woman’ and ‘Branded by Passion’ emblazoned with images of attractive people who looked both angry and aroused. I was fascinated. A sentiment heightened by the knowledge that I was forbidden from reading them. I remember the burning resentment I felt towards my elder sister and cousins. Why should they get to read ‘Viking Lover’ while I had to make do with the Famous Five?

So one hot afternoon as the soporific combination of a heavy lunch and the
heat-burdened air took its toll on my family, I lay in wait. The house was
soon silent but for the indignant droning of the fans that seemed to be
protesting that others rested while they worked.

The illicit almirah stood in its corner, one door half open as though it
knew I was coming. I fed a plump arm in to the narrow opening and rummaged silently for a book. I tugged one out at random and made my way to the balcony where the prolific creepers and potted palms shielded me from prying eyes and the heat.

I finally looked at the cover. ‘Blackmail’ - a story of betrayal and revenge. At first I wondered why the book was forbidden fruit. It seemed so – normal. And then Giles swept Felicity in to his arms and began making passionate if somewhat violent love to her. I couldn’t understand most of the words and phrases but something about them told me that this was the part I wasn’t meant to read. This alien tangling of arms and legs, the hurried disrobing and mute protests. Was this what my eyes were shielded from when we watched television? Nauseous excitement coursed through my body. The fear of being caught is a potent aphrodisiac.

As their love scene reached its climax, the sweet smell of soon to be wet earth tickled my nose. Clouds of a freak summer storm gathered with alarming speed and relieved themselves over the campus forcing me indoors, where I kept the incomprehensible book for adults aside. And fell into the open arms of my waiting childhood.


OR FICTION?

I remember everything about the day I first saw him. The bright sunshine. The sky a real sky blue. The bare trees and overdressed pedestrians that ruined the illusion of a perfect summer day.

He was standing inside one of those dinky life style boutiques. You know – the kind that sells empty coconut husks as salad bowls for £150. My eyes were drawn to the lean muscles that strained under his perfect black skin. Angular. That was the word. Even in such a feminine environment he exuded a masculinity that made me a little week in the knees. A sudden, vicious gust of wind jolted me out of my reverie and I hurried away, not wanting to be caught staring.

A week later I found myself taking a walk in the same area. I stopped to tie my shoelaces and as I straightened up realised I was standing outside the shop again. He was there and just as beautiful. I remember being relieved that he wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

It took me two weeks to summon the courage to go inside. I agonised for hours over what to wear – like it was our first date or something. I wore my best jeans, a crisp white shirt and a beige trench. He seemed the clean and classic type and I wanted to make a good impression. I couldn't bring myself to walk up to him though, so I pretended to be absorbed by a candleholder in the shape of a turbaned native. After throwing a few furtive glances in his direction I left.

I dreamt about him that night. His strong arms. That lean body that I knew would be soft and almost liquid to curl up against. I could see the two of u together – we were a perfect fit.

I soon settled in to a routine. I would visit the store once a month - usually in some kind of disguise. Funny but not outlandish hats, oversized glasses, sometimes just a newspaper. Once a week I would walk by, slowing down as I passed the store and casually look for him. I even managed to take a picture of him, which became my desktop wallpaper at work. Friends and colleagues teased me and called me a stalker. They said I was obsessed. But it wasn’t like that. Honest.

It was during one of my monthly visits the self-imposed restraining order was breached. I couldn’t help it - after so many months of knowing him I just had to. I was so close I could smell his earthy scent. Before I knew what I was doing I had extended a trembling hand and was lightly caressing his back.

"Lovely to touch isn’t it? It's hand crafted Italian leather. Would you like to sit down and see how it feels?” a helpful assistant asked.

I don’t remember what I said. But I do remember the sense of loss I felt as I walked away. And the smell of his skin.

neither here nor there

From my window i see

Green marzipan
Dusted with icing sugar.
Frosted golf green for dessert
Anyone?

Delivery

I am warm
In this by now familiar womb
Comforted by the soft dark shapes that surround
Me
I know it’s time to leave but
I don’t want to
Not yet
I am just getting comfortable

A great big heave
A headless voice
And I am pushed out
Silently kicking and screaming
In to the cold

My station has arrived


Musical Chairs

They shuffle uncertainly
To a noise that has over time
Become music
It comes to a sudden stop
And a confusing scramble ensues
No one playing by the rules
‘Cheater’ hangs unspoken in the air
and
glares strain the eyes of the disgruntled
The train pulls out
And those standing continue to play
But never by the rules

Sharing is for Care Bears

Your wedding day. Waking up at 4am. Having 20 of your near and not particularly dear female relatives watching you get dressed - passing a critical eye over your jewellery, cup size and hair (none of which match up to that of their daughter/daughter in-law). That funny feeling in your stomach – is it nerves or that extra vadai you had last night? The fake hair gun stapled to your head. Weighed down with enough flora to enter at The Chelsea Flower Show. Jewellery. More jewellery. Still not enough. Add some more. Heavy silver anklets designed to make you take tiny shuffling steps that will pass as coyness. Ooh! Some more jewellery! The need to pee immediately after the last safety pin of your intricately tied nine yard sari has been fastened in place.

Now with all this going on is it fair to expect anyone to know exactly what wedding vows they’re agreeing to? Now I’m ok with the whole thing about fidelity, honesty, etc. But with everything going on at the wedding itself (refer paragraph 1) I said yes to sharing. And after almost four years of marriage I think it needs to be re-evaluated.

I was warned about it by well meaning friends and colleagues – “Whatever you do don’t share the duvet.” I heeded their advice for the first 2 years and a bit. But after coming to this country of sub zero temperatures I in my naiveté decided that one queen sized duvet would be so much cosier than 2 singles. In anticipation of the divine, down filled creations imminent arrival matching duvet and pillow covers were bought. What a pretty picture our bed made. Until we got in to it.

Conflicts zones are never pretty – especially when combat takes place between husband and wife. It started off a gentle tussle – honest. A tug from me reciprocated by a tug in the other direction by Beelzebub – I mean my husband. A rather substantial yank in exchange for a whack on the head. All in good fun. Until I felt the bitter cold begin to creep up my exposed calf. And war was declared.

Like most battles, ours has dragged on indefinitely with no sign of peace. Sure we call truces once in a while. Summer. Birthdays. Religious holidays. But the next night all is forgotten and the battle lines are drawn again. It’s not always violent. Psychological warfare can be just as effective. Threats and bribes work equally well too. Using toxic gases was ruled illegal in the Human Rights Convention of 2004 (unless beans had been on the dinner plate that night).

My advice to those of you taking the plunge is this. Sure - promise to be faithful, honest and loving. Heck promise to share if you have to. Share pretty sunsets, chocolate fudge sundaes – your toothbrush if you’re not hygienically inclined. But do not share a duvet. Put it in your pre-nup. Have it cast in stone. Get it tattooed on your foreheads (so much cooler than matching rings don’t you think?) Just don’t share the duvet. Learn from my experiences.

Now if you will all excuse me it’s time to go to sleep. And kick some ass.

In love with an older woman

Update

I realised the piece needed a bit of pruning. Here's the result with a few pictures thrown in (courtesy the sherpa)


“Don’t forget to sing that song from Great Gambler” instructed my father, and proceeded to show us how in a rather off-key way before ringing off. With these words of wisdom ringing in our ears my husband and I set off to the Serene Republic.

“Venice! Now?” was perhaps the most oft asked question when we told people of our impending plans. Traditionally January-March is a time when most people in England head out for a spot of winter sun. Fuerta Ventura, St. Barts and The Maldives is where it’s at. Venice with its cloak of mist and icy temperatures isn’t exactly welcoming. But we were firm – Venice it was. While going off-season may have meant no carnival or listening to live jazz bands in the city’s many piazzas, it did mean that the only beings we would jostle for space with were the well-fed pigeons of St.Mark’s Square.

From Marco Polo Airport, Venice is an unhurried one hour water bus ride away. For the well-heeled who don’t want their monogrammed Louis Vuittons rubbing shoulders with the Delseys of the world, the water taxis are always there. They take just 20 minutes and pipe in the Dynasty theme tune for free. However the water bus does provide a wonderful build up to Venice as you chug by the islands of Murano, San Michele and Lido.

Our hotel - the Cavaletto e Doge Orseolo wasn’t as grand as its name. But a minute from St. Mark’s Square - a beguiling mix of history, art, high style and avian droppings - made it an ideal base for exploring the city. A 5 minute walk along narrow alleys where Cartier rubs shoulders with traditional tabbachios lead us to the Rialto Bridge. Some of the best views of the Grand Canal can be had here – that is if you can squeeze past the cordon of ubiquitous Japanese tourists. They line the bridge taking pictures as though Venice was going to sink any moment. After a quick snoop through the Rialto Markets we decided to take the plunge and do what everyone does in Venice. Take a gondola ride.

Following our guide books advice we went to an official gondola stand. But even here nothing is fixed and you can – no you must haggle. When we walked away from an exorbitant demand of €100 for a 30 minute ride, we were followed with calls of “Scusi, scusi senor senora”. (For those of you have shopped at Fashion Street in Bombay, it’s reminiscent of the hawker’s beseeching ‘Behenji’). If you have any notions that gondola rides are cheesy – remove them now. A slow meander along the lesser known and smaller canals of Venice will take you past the homes of some of history’s most notorious and illustrious names – Cassanova, Napolean, Mozart. The waterways are silent but for the rhythmic swoosh of the oars and the gondoliers cry of ‘Stai’ and ‘Oyve’.

While gondolas are a charming way to see Venice they’re not exactly the most practical. Or economic. So we walked and walked. And walked. With maps, without them, sometimes just following people who looked like they knew where they were going. We often found ourselves in quiet, residential neighbourhoods where ageing buildings with their terracotta and lemon meringue yellow paint peeling stood sombrely. Almost every window framed by frayed lace curtains and decorated with lush window boxes. The epitome of shabby chic. Here we escaped the touts and tourist shops and pretended we were strolling home from mass at Santa Maria Gloriosa Dei Frari.

Our tired feet got a well deserved break at the Café Quadri back at St. Mark’s Square. A former hang-out of the Austrian Army the outdoor café provides unobstructed views of the basilica, the Campinale and the fat pigeons that wield more power than the erstwhile doges. Pretty soon we lost track of time and realised we’d been there longer than the four horses that imperiously look out from the front arches of the basilica.

Almost as famous as Venice herself are the lagoon islands of Murano, Burano and Torcello. We jumped on a boat and did a half day island hop exploring them. While Murano’s glass industry and Torcello’s ancient church are wonderful, my favourite was Burano. This fishing village catches your eye from afar with its rainbow coloured homes and lines of fluttering clothes left out to dry. Keen to buy the intricate lace Burano is famous for, I almost fainted when I saw a delicate table runner priced at €350. Maybe some other time.

Back in Venice, I practised some of my best critic lines before checking out the city’s wonderful art collection. The Titians and Bellinis got ‘Wonderful patina’ and when it came to Klimt, Rothko and Dali at Ca’Pesaro and the Guggenheim it was ‘Wonderful use of light and space’. For those in search of some al fresco art a walk along the Grand Canal will do where oils, watercolours and pencil sketches vie for attention. And your wallets.

If investment art isn’t your scene don’t worry – money can be put to good use here. From the iconic interlocking G’s of Gucci to the understated elegance of Bottega Venetta. Murano glass blown in to life size trees with multi-coloured parrots perched on the branches. And if none of these make you reach for your wallet how about an apron printed with a close-up of David’s well coiffed pubis?

I hope that’s not put you off your food – it didn’t dampen our enthusiasm one bit. Our gastronomic tour of Venice included Capuccinos at St.Marks, risotto at a small trattoria in the Rialto and crispy, thin pizzas in San Polo. But the highlight of this junket was dinner at Harry’s Bar. From Truman Capote to Ernest Hemingway this unassuming establishment has hosted the rich, not-so-famous and everyone in between. The bellini cocktail was created here and visitors from around the world drop in for a drink or two and a fabulous meal. But all this does come at a price. So while our food went down a treat, the bill was a much harder to digest.

Our last day in Venice was spent wandering about Campo di Ghetto Nuovo. The deserted squares we walked through looked like they hadn’t changed in decades. I wouldn’t have been surprised if an army regiment came marching out. That’s the wonderful thing about Venice – everything seems to be from another time. The houses, the gondolas, the calm, unhurried air that permeates the city. The modern tide that has swept the rest of the world has left Venice literally untouched.


The Lonely Planet calls Venice an old courtesan. While I first thought that rather unflattering, I now realise the title is anything but. Venice has aged gracefully and wears her wrinkles and grey hair with a quiet dignity. Unlike other cities that get brighter and glitzier as they get older, Venice has not rushed in for a face lift and some botox. This old courtesan will seduce you and let you take your time exploring every inch of her. And the pleasure my friends, is like no other.

Arrividerci

For those of you who haven't read comment 21 of the previous blog - my good mood has been largely recovered thanks to

1. Everyone being so nice to me (I have no money if that's what it's all about :))
2. A trip to Venice that begins tomorrow morning

I'm sure I'll find the rest of my good mood on a gondola or buried deep in some risotto.

See you all next week. Have a wonderful weekend

Lost

I have lost something. I really can’t remember when I lost it, somewhere around the 2nd or 3rd perhaps? I have no idea where to start looking for it either – the Lost and Found counter at Euston Station? In the dark recesses of my cupboard – under a pile of crumpled shirts and trousers that don’t fit (but were a real bargain)?
Or should I rummage through the garbage – maybe I threw it out with the one million Pizza delivery mailers we get every week.

Perhaps you’ve seen what it is that I’ve lost. How do I describe it to you? It has no definite shape, size or colour – in fact you really can’t even see it. Neither can I for that matter. But I can sense it. When it’s there, it acts as an invisible cocoon against the cold, the bad news that’s on the television every day and the fact that I’m what seems like a million miles away from home. When it’s not there… I feel cold. Alone. I burst in to tears every now and then and drink too much coffee. I sit at work and think about being at home – snuggled under the duvet, drinking hot chocolate and watching bad, daytime television.

I’m peeling an orange right now. Maybe I’ll find it in the middle of one of the juicy, squashy, citric segments. Masquerading as a pip. Nope - not there either. I rummage through my bag – but all I find are old bills and even more pizza delivery flyers (they seem to be everywhere – telling me my New Year Resolution to avoid them is futile).

Should I go out and search in its favourite haunts? Maybe it’s window-shopping on King’s Road or having a big, fat cappuccino and buttered croissant at Patisserie Valerie.

Maybe I should put up some posters. Except instead of the usual adorable puppy or fat, one-eyed cat there will be a big blank space. And it will say

Missing:




Last seen on 2nd January at 10:16 am.
If found please return to owner.
Considerable reward on offer.

So if you sense a shapeless, colourless, weightless, odourless something lurking in a shoe shop or eyeing a double cheese pizza – it’s mine.

It’s my good mood. And I’d like it back.

Written on the 09:36 to Peterborough

I have been forced in to writing.
An empty page lined in banana leaf green stares at me.
Mockingly.
Taunting me.
Because it knows as well as I do that I even though I have nothing to write, I must.
Because I have uncapped my pen
With a grandiose flourish that was perhaps too grandiose for a standard, blue Bic. Which is perhaps undeserving of flourishes of any kind.
By now, the other passengers are staring at me with unveiled curiosity.
Waiting to see what I’m going to write.
So I pretend to think.
And write down ‘So I pretend to think’.
I look at my co-passengers.
They seem to be satisfied with my scribbling and have gone back to reading the paper and sending text messages.
So I begin to make secret little notes about them.
About the man’s scuffed leather briefcase and the girl’s blue scarf.
I soon tire of that, but I can’t stop
I’m in the groove now
I have to keep writing
So write I do
‘Google’
‘Faircloth Ltd.’
‘Blue elephant’
Words and phrases linked only by the pen that inked them.
I look up.
And see the man with the scuffed leather briefcase.
He’s writing in a cheap spiral notebook with an expensive pen.
Our eyes meet.
We give each other what we think are subtle once-overs and then look away.
We both write something down.
I write ‘Funny lime green shirt’
I hope he’s written something nice.

art

What will the critics say?

‘Light as air?’

‘Heart achingly delicate?’

‘The empty spaces speak volumes?’

‘The curves of the piece glide effortlessly?’

The milk boils over

Forming an ephemeral sculpture

Of light, delicate, empty bubbles

Framed by the microwave window

What will the critics say?




P.S Happy new year everyone!

Dear Diary

In another 3 days the year 2006 will begin its 365 day life.

I like all the hoopla surrounding the birth of a new year. The parties, the countless resolutions that everyone will keep for a few months (or a few hours), and the general feeling of hope, that this year will be different and better somehow.

But my favourite New Year thing by far is buying a new diary. It’s something I’ve been doing since I was 8 and it’s one of the few childhood things of mine that have stood the test of time (the Mickey Mouse filo fax lasted about 6 months).

The first diary was a freebie – one of the many my father would be inundated with at the beginning of the year. I won it guessing the bill amount after one of our family lunches at Bombay Palace. The prize was getting ‘anything I wanted’. I beat my sister and asked for the diary. The relief was evident on my parent’s face. (Thank god she’s too stupid to ask for that kitten she’s been pestering us about). But on that day was born a tradition that has continued for more than 16 years.

Now when I say diary I don’t mean the ‘Dear Diary, today he finally smiled at me or at least he squinted in my direction’ kind of diary. I had those too but stopped when my sister found one and amused herself with the pathetic outpourings of my tortured soul. No. This was a proper diary that grown-ups used. It had a world map on the first page. The STD and ISD codes of every place on that map (very handy if I ever needed to make a call to Angola). Metric conversions. SI Units. Fahrenheit to Celsius conversions. Each day was split up in to tiny one hour slots to pen in appointments and important working lunches. In short, it was everything an 8 year old girl needed.

Most of my initial diaries were like the one above. Covers in vile dark blue or depressing grey with the year stamped on the cover in a gold that would peel away if your finger brushed against it. But it was nothing a quick nip/tuck couldn’t fix. So armed with left over wrapping paper or tiny pots of my sister’s Camel paint (remember those?) I would give my diary a face lift. Tiny sprigs of spring blooms, Cindy Crawford in those Omega print ads, multi-coloured stripes – whatever could be spared and that no one would miss found its way to the front of my diary.

Of course, every year I would try my luck and see if my parents would buy me those expensive diaries at Landmark. For Rs. 125 a gorgeous CRY diary with lovely pictures or abstract prints. Even my ‘it’s for a good cause’ argument didn’t work.

Then in 1998 I met The Tulika Celebrate India Diary. Colourful, vivacious and so Indian – it was fuchsia slap in the face of all those dull grey tomes of the past. I was in college then and could afford it with some of the money I’d won in inter-collegiate debates. I fell in love with each page of the diary – peppered with a little illustration and snippets of trivia.

Since 1998, every December the Tulika Diary finds its way to me. Some years as gifts to myself and some times from a loved one. When I moved to Bombay my mother started sending them to me as little year end pick-me-ups. Always with a little note of love and luck from her inside. It’s something she still does even though I now live in London. Every day of the last few weeks of year are filled with a delicious anticipation till it arrives.

Some people can’t understand this love affair of mine with diaries. Why not get a Palm Pilot they ask? How old fashioned they say.

There’s something about the blank pages of a diary that fascinates me. It’s almost as though I’m presented with a fresh start and that only the ink of my pen will charter my path. I know - it sounds so silly. But I love writing down the birthdays and anniversaries of friends and family. And I love making little lists – the mundane – grocery lists, things to do lists, guess who’s coming for dinner lists. Other’s rather baffling even to me, with just – CHANGE YOUR LIFE FROM TODAY on them.

And as the year draws to an end I like looking back through the pages of my diary. The first few months of 2005 were filled with job application information – later angrily scratched out when I didn’t get interview calls. A little later there were job interviews pencilled in (with fingers crossed written in brackets). There was a big smiley on the day I got my job. There were lists of things I wanted to buy with my first salary. Accounts. Promises to lose weight. Books that friends had recommended to me.

What strikes me is that even during October and November when there wasn’t much of the year left – I was still making resolutions and promises to myself. And that’s the beauty of a diary. There’s always one more blank page. Waiting to be filled with happy thoughts, promises and most importantly - with hope.

childhood

She was tiny.
Translucent skin.
Hair as soft as down.
A helpless baby.
Bathed, fed and burped at regular intervals.
Nappies changed when she soiled herself.
Put to sleep with lullabies.

… ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything

Stayin' Alive

This post is no ode to the Bee Gees. Neigh, it is in fact a tribute to one woman’s bravery and courage in the face of a man-made disaster so sinister my hand trembles as I type its name. The Boxing Day Sale.

The 26th of December began like any other day. The sky was a delicate shade of oyster and a steady drizzle fell - well steadily. There was no ominous sign - no black cat no one eyed kangaroo that told of what was to come. She watched the breakfast news and caught stray reports - £ 5 billion would be spent over the next 5 days, 250,000 people expected at Bluewater Mall. She looked at her sherpa (her husband) “ We should take part in this pagan festival that celebrates the indiscrete spending of money”. The sherpa looked doubtful but she brushed aside his worries with a threat to cut off his free food supply.

The streets near their home were deserted. The trains sparsely populated with other adventurers – their faces set in steely determination. At each station though their numbers grew, and by the time the iron worm carrying them stopped at Oxford Circus there was hardly room to breath. The sherpa’s eyes begged her – lets turn back. No! We’ve come too far she silently told him by stamping on his foot.

Outside it was like the earth had vomited human. Everywhere she looked people were being pushed forward whether they liked it or not. She tied herself to the sherpa and they set off – careful not to step on the toes of the already irate mass of humanity.

After a couple of failed attempts at shopping (The Gap, River Island) she drew herself up to her full height (5ft2) and strode in to Zara. It was bedlam. Women were willing to kill, maim and jab in the chest to get that silk blouse at 50% off. After an hour of staving off such physical attacks she emerged triumphant with a shopping bag filled with treasures in silk and 35% cashmere. She had been separated from the sherpa though. She found him crouching in fear near the entrance.

Next on the list was Selfridges. Imagine if you will well coiffed Chelsea women carrying Prada bags and wearing row upon row of Mikimoto. The vision of grace and good breeding. Until they see you admiring a Mulberry bag they want. Then it’s good bye good breeding and hello take your hands off that you bitch it’s mine. The shoppers in the luxury bags department of Selfridges are about as well mannered as a bunch of stampeding elephants. Serpentine cues wound around the ground floor – just to gain entrance in to the hallowed spaces allocated to the brands. Their founders no longer alive to see the hysteria their creations arouse.

It was the same story everywhere. Debenhams. House of Frazer. Nike Town. And the hundreds of other stores that she didn’t venture in to. The roads seemed to get more and more crowded with every passing hour. But she refused to let a pesky few hundred thousand people scare her off. The sherpa wasn’t as sure. But she bought his support with a wool and cashmere coat. Sucker.

Feet aching, hair resembling a bird’s nest and weighed down by the shopping equivalent of a small nation’s GDP she and her faithful sherpa dragged themselves back home. They had appeased the pagan consumer gods and -

‘OOH! Marks and Spencer start their sale tomorrow! Leave your snow boots on sherpa!”

Tips to make your sale shopping a success

1.Know what you want. Do not think you can window shop during Boxing Day and January Sales. You will find yourself being scraped off the sidewalk by a loved one if you try.

2.Have a plan. Decide where you are going and do not get sidetracked. Even if the sparkly sweater calls to you from The Gap as you stride purposefully towards your patent leather heels at Faith – Ignore it!

3.Forget your manners. Don’t be polite and say ‘Lady, please take your hands off the trousers I’m holding’. Just snarl instead. Watch a few Vampire flicks for tips.

4.Feel no guilt. Very important. You’re helping the economy. Or so you tell yourself.

5.Wear comfortable shoes.

6.Don’t forget your sherpa.

The top 100 prime numbers of all time

Is it just me, or have there been a lot of Top 100 shows lately? Every time I switch on the television there seems to be some countdown or the other. The Top 100 Movies of All Time. The Top 100 Stars of All Time. The Top 100 Family Movies of all time. The Top 100 hottest stars of all time. Get the picture?

Some of these countdown shows aren’t all that bad. The movie ones give me a list of flicks that I haven’t seen or heard of. Unfortunately neither has Blockbuster. But many of them seem to have been created because the creators couldn’t get any other ideas through the network.

“Damn! They trashed our idea about former dope addicts who have found god. What should we do? I know – how about The Top 100 celebrity dopers of all time? Who have found god.” And before you know it you’re watching Pete Doherty smash a £50,000 vintage guitar on stage after doing a few lines.

So far I’ve seen at least 4 different Top 100 Celebrity Fashion Mistakes shows. And they all have the same people in the same weird clothes. Bjork and her Swan (or was it goose?) outfit at the Oscars. All the clothes ever worn by L’il Kim. Christina Aguilera’s ode to hot pink ostrich feathers courtesy Mr. Cavalli. And how can we forget Vin Diesel in a leather kilt?

Celebrities are always the subject of these shows. Which makes sense, because no one would want to see The Top 100 fashion crimes of the smelly old lady next door.
Back to celebs though – very few of these programs show them in good light.
Like the top 100 Celebrity Oops of All Time. It’s nice to know that people who make millions of dollars and get to wear free designer clothes screw up this much. But after running the show for what seemed like a century, E! decided it was time to update the list. So now we get to see The Top 100 Even bigger Celebrity Oops. How original.

As a famous physicist who had a lot of time on his hands (no top 100 shows back then) once said ‘For every action you have an equal and opposite reaction.’ So if you have a Most Beautiful list you have to follow it up with a Top 100 Mingers show. If you list the Top Hollywood Hook ups, you can be sure of catching The Juiciest Hollywood Break-ups the week after.
Best sex scenes, best villains, best hot bodies, best cribs, best pre-nups, best scandals. The list is never ending and no topic has been left out.

Some topics that I’d like to see covered

Top Turner Prize recipients that no one understood but everyone agreed should win

Top 100 Bushisms of all time (though I doubt 100 would be enough)

Top 100 Celebrities who are famous for no particular reason

And my favourite - The Top 100 Top 100 lists of all time.

Any more suggestions?

In my head

Beginnings (so hard)

The first line after a beginning (even harder)

Turns of phrase

Jokes (or so I think)

Characters

Endings

Awkward middle bits

All sit in my head

Waiting to be chosen

Like a mixed bouquet in the 1.99 bucket at Tesco

Hoping to be bought before it wilts

What use is a wilted, awkward middle bit?

Of clogs and cannabis

If one has less than 24 hours to explore a city what should one do? Hop on and off a city tour bus and see as much as two eyes can possibly see? Run from one monument to another and take as many pictures as one can – ‘This is at so-and-so bridge’, ‘Here I am at what’s-its-name Palace’. Or should one merely walk about – armed without maps or guidebooks but some good old fashioned wanderlust instead?

I chose the last option when I found myself on a 5 hour date in Amsterdam. This year, the city of windmills and clogs found itself hosting my agency’s annual Christmas shindig. And what a do it was!

Roused at the ungodly hour of 5:30am to catch a flight from London Luton to Amsterdam Schipol, I found myself sharing a cab with J and M. The former an over-enthusiastic account exec in the early stages of pregnancy and the latter my boss whose usual eloquence had been replaced by ‘I’m-not-a-morning-person’ stoicism. So while J twittered on about pregnancy caused wind, nausea and incontinence, I feigned sympathy and tried to decipher what M’s occasional grunt meant.

4 cups of coffee and a rather lesbian body frisk later I found myself on the flight. Sandwiched between K and M1 (the other big boss) I fended off questions about the caste system, female infanticide and dowry. And all this even before breakfast. Thankfully the flight was short and K’s panic attack prevented me from having to answer anything in great detail.

On landing, the big bosses insisted on doing a quick head count and roll call. At least we didn’t have to wear flashing neon badges that would identify in case we got lost. A smooth train ride later we found ourselves outside the Central Station. The map indicated that the restaurant we lunching at was a short 10 minute walk from the station. The map was lying. After trudging for half an hour along the docks through the freezing cold we finally found the place – Onassis. An Italian restaurant with a Greek name in Amsterdam. Oh well.

The lunch was lovely. Raspberry Bellinis, freshly made pastas, wine, heavenly ice creams and Babboon - the sweetest dog in the world. I hasten to add that Babboon was not on the menu but did wander about looking working hard for scraps from the table.

After a very long lunch we stumbled in to waiting cabs and were whisked off to DeWaag. Built in 1448 this old building now houses a trendy restaurant in the heart of NieuwMarkt. The big bosses M and M1 wanted to shop and N – the quiet studio boy offered to drop them off at the mall and rejoin us. We didn’t see him again till we boarded the flight – causing much debate over which nefarious activities he’d been indulging in.

Our group began ambling along the tiny back streets near NieuwMarkt and rather soon we found ourselves in Amsterdam’s famous red light area. While SoHo is in-your-face and seems a bit crude The Rossebuurt, as the locals know it, is unlike any other place and rather – nice. A lovely canal runs down the street. Old fashioned street lamps soften the red lights that illuminate the windows behind which the girls stand. Some girls sat still. Some did their nails. Others were chatting on the phone. Apart from the few gawking tourists (like us) everyone else were walking about nonchalant - as though passing a live window display at a lingerie store. Not at all the seedy, sordid place I had thought it would be.

I soon broke away from the group. I wandered alone about a small market and haggled unsuccessfully with the stall owners for some rather Dutch milk maid skirts (No corsets though). I found stores that sold cannabis lollies and drug paraphernalia of every shape and size – from the phallic to Hello Kitty Bongs. Boutiques with cutting edge Dutch design. Hippy hang outs that sold kalamkaari beadspreads and lambadi embroidered bags. A little bit of Goa in the heart of Amsterdam.

I bumped in to R and C outside a shop specialised in rude and bizarre gifts. Pen holders fashioned from plastic men bending over with their pants pulled down. The pen fits right in the… well you can guess where. A little rubber woman the size of my index finger. The packaging claimed that if you put her in water she would grow 600% in size - ideal for nights when the Mrs has a headache.

Half listening to R and C discuss N’s sexuality (they both think he’s gay) I dodged manic cyclists ( there are more chances of being mowed down by a cyclist than a tram or car) and came to the conclusion that I liked Amsterdam as much as I did the edam cheese it’s famous for.

Amsterdam doesn’t overwhelm you as Paris does with its grand buildings and boulevards. It isn’t as large and impersonal as London can be. It doesn’t make your head spin as Rome does with fountains, obelisks and stunning chapels on every street corner. Amsterdam is lovely in a quiet but quirky way. Unassuming but certainly not unprepossessing. It makes you feel welcome, at ease and at home. It allows you to soak up its ambience at your own pace. It doesn’t impose itself on you.

I suppose I’m rambling. But somehow that seems appropriate for a day spent doing nothing but just that.

Tube travel 101

One would think that there is nothing simpler than travelling by the tube. The maps are easy to read and the tickets can be bought from the helpful staff who man the booth or from the not so helpful, not-so-fast, coin-swallowing fast ticket machines. However, tube travel seems to really stump some people. So my good deed of the day is to provide some basic tips to make travelling by the underground easy. (Yesterday’s good deed was eating all the chocolate biscuits in the office tea room. There were none left for J who is struggling to stick to her diet and hence the action is labelled ‘good deed’.)

Do not buy tickets in the aforementioned fast machine booth. They are not fast. They will consume all the change that resides in the netherworld that is one’s bag. They will usually be out of order. But there will be no out of order sign. So you’ll carefully count out all the change, put it in one by one and then wait for the better half of a day before a friendly soul will come and tell you – ‘Tha ain’t workin luv’.

So you then stand in queue to buy your ticket from the man at the booth. You wait. And wait… and wait. You wait behind screaming children. You wait behind amorous couples. You wait behind old people. With flatulence. And then finally your turn comes. By then friendly man at the booth has gone for his tea break and the fast tickets machine has been fixed. And not wanting to be left out, it too has a long queue.

Hopefully you’ll be able to purchase a ticket sometime in this century. Next is to find a map. Now London Underground is wonderful. They print these lovely pocket maps with Underground Art on the cover. These maps are free and can be found at every station. Not really. Where they can be found is in the fist of the child who was wailing in the queue. Remember her? The cute little critter who spit on you? In order to shut baby darling up, Mummy dearest has taken all the maps left in the dispenser and given them to her to play with. Try stealing a map from a kid. Candy is easier.

Ticket? Check! Map? Check! Poster of you as a suspected paedophile and map stealer everywhere? Check!

You are now ready to embark on your journey. Walk towards the electronic turnstiles. Put your card through the slot provided and walk through once the gates open. This sounds easy right? However some people find this the most challenging part of tube travel. Their card will go through and proceed to flash a red sign– PLEASE SEEK ASSISTANCE. Now for most of us these words are rather self-explanatory. One must go and seek assistance. Yet some people interpret this statement as PLEASE STAND ROOTED TO THE SPOT WITH YOUR MOUTH OPEN AND CREATE ANOTHER QUEUE BEHIND YOU. Which is precisely what they do. They will look up, down, left and right but will be too proud to ask for help. They would prefer it if the next commuter put their card through by mistake so that they can slip through with them. I urge you not to do that. There is nothing worse than being sandwiched in an electronic turnstile in a position that you wouldn’t even get in to with your husband.

So now you’re on platform 5. It’s crowded. People are pushing. An old lady comes and stands next to you. You’d like to do the right thing and let her get on the train first. You need to make enough space to let just her through. An inch more and you’ll have all of platform 5 squeezing past you without a ‘cheers’ or ‘thanks’ in sight.

On the Aldgate fast? Good. If there isn’t a Triwizarding tournament on for a seat and you have a number of them to choose from, choose with care. I once spent half an hour on the train listening to a strange man tell me about the corns on his feet. The only reason the conversation ended was because I got off two stations early. If all the seats are taken avoid standing near the doors. They tend to be crowded and you’re more likely to be elbowed, kneed or the victim of some egregious bodily blow. Someone dropped a bag of heavy books on my feet today morning. One should really practice what one preaches.

Off the train? In one piece? Excellent. Glad to see that you’re doing so well. Now, when exiting, please follow the signs. There will usually be two sets of stairs. One, an exit and the other an entrance. There will be signs saying ENTRY and NO ENTRY. Here again, we find people confused. They think they can use whichever stair they please and that NO ENTRY is some clever guerrilla advertising done by the promoters of the recent Hindi film of the same name. It is not. If you decide to brave the No Entry side (as many people chose to brave the film) be prepared for perambulators gone wild and the opportunity to learn a few new swear words. It’s wonderful to be in a country where education is free for all.

So you’re out in the open now. Take a deep breath! Fresh air! Blue skies! Twittering birds. You deserve a pat on the back. A gold star. A purple heart. Or is it cross? Class dismissed! Walk forward with confidence my friend for… What? You need to catch a bus now you say?

That’s another post for another day. I need to soak my feet in hot water.

Trigger

Date: 8th June, 2001

A day old bride. Back in her parents’ home. Her sister is leaving the next day. The house is full of family and friends. They all decide to walk the sister back to her husband’s home down the road. The new bride and her two best friends dawdle along, enjoying the sweet evening breeze. They remember walking down the same road countless times before. To catch an auto to Satyam. To buy ice cream. To nowhere in particular. They wonder if things will ever be the same again. When will they meet next? Is it out of sight, out of mind or absence makes the heart grow fonder? They instinctively reach out for each other’s hands in the darkness.

Date: 8th December 2005

A married woman of more than three years steps out of office. It is dark and the air is cold and wet. She walks to the station and thinks of another evening from her past. She doesn’t know why she is reminded of it. Perhaps it is the single lamp post illuminating the street. Or the Sri Lankan Tamizh boy at the shop who hums Rajnikant songs under his breath. Whatever it is, it brings salty, sharp tears to her eyes that take her by surprise. She reaches out instinctively in the dark. But there are no hands to hold.

After all, tomorrow is another day

Today will be the day I change my life.

‘I will exercise more’ I say to myself as I catch the bus to the station.

‘I will eat the recommended 5 portions of fruit and veg a day’ But let me finish this Mars Bar first.

‘I will start my job hunt today’ I decide. Perhaps I should wait for my bonus.

‘I will control my temper, be more patient’ I vow and silently curse the woman before me as she negotiates stairs, cell phone and wheelie suitcase at the same time.

‘I will watch less television from today’ I promise and settle down for The Simpsons, The F Word and Friends.

‘I will look after my skin’ I pledge and fall asleep with my mascara on.

And tomorrow becomes today.

The day I will change my life.

They lay on the cold stainless steel surface. Bodies that once throbbed with life now lay inert and limp.
The sterilised tools of his trade impeccably arranged to his right.
He looked at the fingers. Long and slender.
Like an artist’s he thought.
‘Well not in this lifetime’ he muttered, cutting viciously into them.
Eyes were gouged.
Hearts cut open.
Skin peeled.
Blood mingled with flesh.
He stepped back, surveying the carnage.
‘Everything done?’ a voice barked from behind.
‘Chef, yes Chef’

One flew over the couture nest

I have come to the conclusion that my agency is not really an agency. That my job is not a job, but a form of therapy designed to exorcise me of my love for shopping. My shrink – my ‘creative director’, the chosen form of therapy – ‘100cc of shopping centre direct mailers – non diluted’ and the evil nurses that chain me to the bed and force the bitter medicine down my throat – ‘the account team’. All of them I’m sure in cahoots with my husband who figured that paying for such an elaborate set up would be far more cost effective than having to shell out for a life time of my extravagances.

Like all sods lured to the loony bin under the pretence of a visit to the Zoo or a day at the beach, I was promised the chance to do cutting edge work on high fashion brands and premium centres. I had visions (what they call hallucinations in here) of Alexander McQueen, Roland Mouret and Bill Blass.

I should have realised that things weren’t ok when I was given Primark instead of Prada. This isn’t want I’m meant to be doing I protested! I’m destined for bigger, better things I claimed. Of course you are the nurses cooed as they ruthlessly hosed me down. Soaked to the skin and trembling in fear I went to my boss. ‘What’s going on? This isn’t how it’s meant to be’ I said. He made me lie down on his couch (another clue) and asked me about my childhood. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’ I said. ‘Oh everything’ was the reply.

‘Don’t worry’ my husband said when I complained ‘they know what’s best for you…just listen to what your Doct… er I mean boss says.’

In the last 6 months they’ve been working quietly on me. The brochures, the Sale ads, the radio commercials with the jingles that remind me of women with triangular haircuts, blue eye shadow and shoulder pads. A sample ‘It’s got the look, it’s got the hook, it’s got style, it’s got space. It’s got the look, it’s got the hook.’ Words that will make even the most intrepid shopper quake in her heels.

I try to protest. I try to write interesting, witty copy. But I look up on the screen and see ‘have a bright, glittering Christmas with Randy the Reindeer. Move over Rudolph’. I try to delete the words but the key seems jammed. The words cannot be taken back.

The Christmas rush is over. A quiet has descended over the agency. I try and drum up enthusiasm for the Boxing Day sales. 50% off Chloe blouses at Selfridges. Tweed jackets a steal at Monsoon. But my brain refuses to co-operate. The latest edition of Vogue sits unopened on my desk. ‘They’re winning’ the last, sane refuge of my brain whispers to me.

Snatches of conversation reach my ears. ‘Easter promotions …’ ‘… next Father’s Day’ ‘ Summer sales’. The words surround me like a designer straight jacket binding my arms to my sides. They’re mounting their next and final attack.

Dear Santa

Growing up, my sister and I were lucky enough to have a part of our education abroad. Lucky, because it gave us the chance to experience different cultures, cuisines and classroom politics.

One of the things we managed to bring from classroom to home was Christmas. Every year, we would dress the fake, silk palm tree that stood in the corner of the lounge with tinsel. An angel fashioned from aluminium foil would be perched precariously on the top of our make shift fir. My sister and I would be given a small allowance to buy gifts for each other with and there’d always be a gift for us from our parents too.

The years progressed. We returned to India. The silk palm tree was stowed away in the attic and long forgotten. Our Christmas tradition along with it.

In the last 6 months I have been reunited with this festival. And unlike in India, where Christmas is more about Midnight Mass and family lunches here all I see around me is mass consumerism. Gift guides, top 10 lists and must have presents. I should know – I’ve written enough of them myself. Since April, I’ve worked on brochures, radio spots, TV commercials and direct mailers for over 15 clients. I’ve encouraged people to buy Homer Simpson shower radios, cranberry scented candles and naughty, Santa’s little helper lingerie. While there’s nothing like receiving a well thought out gift, I’m sure people would rather get no gift at all than an electronic, singing trout.

This year, the average Briton will spend an average of £450 each on Christmas gifts.
That’s enough to feed a family of 6 in Sudan for a year. Now I’m not suggesting that
all of you return the gifts you’ve already bought or don’t buy the ones you’re planning
to. But I am suggesting this.

I’m sure the establishments many of you work for send out Christmas cards and gifts to
clients. Mine do. This year the agency had a budget of £2000 for corporate Christmas
gifts. A fine wine perhaps? Handmade chocolates flown in from Paris? Food hampers
from Fortnum and Mason? Donkeys? Donkeys!

A visit here gave us a wonderful list of unusual, Christmas
Gifts. Gifts that can be made on behalf of friends, family and business associates.
Donkeys, goats, school books, mango plantations – even a motorcycle. All of which go to
people who need
them the most in countries devastated by war or natural disaster. After much thought we
decided that the money would be used to build a classroom – replete with roof, toilets and
clean drinking water.

If your organisation is in the UK and hasn’t decided what to send clients yet give this a thought. Apart from Oxfam, The Independent has chosen 3 charities as part of its
Make a Difference initiative which are doing fantastic work across the globe. If you’re in India you can make a contribution to CRY, Project Why, ASha or any other charity that your organisation would like to support. Then send an e-mail out to your clients telling them what you’ve done in their name.

So maybe clients won’t get a chocolate walnut log this Christmas. But they’ll get to feel good knowing that they’ve made education a possibility for a child somewhere. And that’s something you can’t put a price on.

Paati

They used to fight over her. They would fight about who got to lie on her lap. Who got the first and last vaai (mouthful) of food when she fed them. About whom she would bathe that day. They even fought over who she loved the most. And which one of them loved her the most.

“My house is too small” says the eldest daughter-in-law

“My son needs the extra room to prepare for his board exams” says the youngest son.

Silence from her daughter.

“How was I to know that she slipped and fell in the bathroom?” says her other son.

They still fight over her. Who will keep her. Who will pay for her hospital bills. Who will clean up after she wets herself.

Her granddaughter looks at her. The wrinkled skin. The worn, gold bangles. The frilled nightgown from Pondy Bazaar that has replaced the regal, nine yard sarees she once wore.

“Amma, we will keep paati” she says.

They take her home. She sees her two grand daughters fight for their mother’s affection and attention. They fight over which one of them she loves more. Who gets the last vaai of food. Who gives her the last kiss goodnight.

And she hopes that history does not repeat itself.

People on the platform

He went round and round stamping his feet
Arms crossed over his chest
A clumsy, whirling dervish
Trying to dance away the cold

Blonde where there was once black where there was once brown
The pink velour tracksuit proclaimed that she was No Angel
Juggling cell phone and crisps
She pushed the pram with her free hand.
Child and mother at the same time

‘Hello! How are you? How’s Sue?
Has she had her baby yet? What are you doing for Christmas?’
The old lady chatters away
But only the cold December wind listens

It's a kind of magic

Magic. It’s about pulling rabbits out of a black top hat. Sawing people in half. It’s knowing that you picked the ace of hearts from the pack.

Or is it?

Ask most women (and please note that I say most and not all) what magic is to them and they’ll talk to you about violins playing in the background, frissons of excitement coursing down their backs, that ‘look’ from across a smoky bar. P.C Sorcar’s brand of abracadabra just doesn’t cut it anymore.

Apparently, love these days is all about magic. It’s about a je ne sais pas that’s harder to describe than the need for salmon flavoured ice lollies. (which do exist, I assure you). And it’s driving a lot of guys up the wall.

Male friends of mine in love, float along on cloud number 9 until they’re brought down to terra firma when told ‘I like you… but I just don’t feel it. You know, that feeling in your stomach?’ And there’s no point telling them that feeling in their stomach is the lunch they had at the dubious road side stall – they think it’s love.

‘What about commitment? What about friendship? A sense of humour?’ ask these men. Why do all these sterling qualities pale when compared to a light headed feeling that could have more to do with skipping breakfast than meeting Mr. Right?

Now there’s nothing wrong with wanting these things. I wouldn’t expect a woman to settle for Nine West when she could buy Manolos. But what if the Nine West shoes were great? What if they let you catch trains, run a marathon and looked great with trousers and skirts? I’d recommend giving the Nine West’s a shot.

I know girls who have said no to wonderful guys based purely on a fairytale notion of love. They hope that like Snow White, they won’t have to choose from Grumpy and Sneezy, and that Prince Charming will come one day. And who’s to say he won’t?
But remember girls, if Mr. Prince Charming is a no show – don’t go looking for Grumpy or Sneezy. They’ll be with a girl who knows that most magic tricks are illusions. And that real love can’t be pulled out of a hat.

To market, to market

Isn’t it funny how things you once abhorred become wonderful and romantic as your memories are tinged with sepia?

As a child, there was nothing worse than Maadavidhi market. I hated tagging along with my Mother as she bought Leo Coffee Powder, vegetables, sugar and the other sundries that a middle class family run on. If I whined too much and seemed to be on the verge of a temper tantrum she would leave me in the car and wind her way through the thronging mass of shoppers, cows and TVS Champs. I would look out the window and pass the time by counting the number of white 800s that drove by. It would amuse me for about 10 minutes and then I would get fidgety. I would keep a lookout for my mother among the sea of faces. Sometimes I would perk up at the sight of a woman in a similar sari, thinking it was her. But as the woman walked by the car, weighed down by her purchases and who knows what else, my heart would sink.

I would be angry with my mother when she finally turned up. But the anger would evapourate as soon as she produced the glass bottle from Ambika that held 5 minutes of pure pleasure. Flavoured milk. Badham. Pista. Rose. And I would greedily gulp it down – not a thank you or smile in return for her efforts. How rude children can be.

My antipathy towards Maadavidhi came down marginally as the years progressed. I was a regular at Vijaya Books stores as a student. And as a bride-to-be, I loved the silver shops and bangle stalls that dotted the cramped by-lanes. The withered faces of the old women selling fresh flowers. The magnificent Kapaleeshwarar Temple seeming that seemed to expand to accommodate the faithful.

Marriage was followed by Mumbai. And could markets be far behind? My first year in Bandra meant regular visits to the fruit and veg stalls at the base of Mount Mary. I never had a chance to flex my lean linguistic muscles there as all the stall owners spoke English. There was also a fruit seller who would come home every morning and try to sell over priced papaya and ‘import straaabeerries’.

Shifting to town meant goodbye to the sad bruised straaabeeries and hello to the shiny, sticker bearing apples that regally sat outside Premsons. Buying vegetables and fruits here seemed to be all right if we wanted to declare bankruptcy, but as that wasn’t the case I soon began to look for alternatives. And that’s how I found myself back in Maadavidhi. Well, almost.

Matunga. How can one visit Matunga and not fall in love with it? Ram Naiks. The Guruvayoorappan temple. Concerns. Manis. It even has a Giri traders.
Once a week, I would leave behind the cloak of my modern, Bombay lifestyle. Abstain from the alcohol and the swearing. Wear a crisp, starched saree, pick up my green plastic basket and head to this Mecca for displaced Mylapore Maamis. After asking God to forgive me for the sins of the past week and those that I was about to commit in the week to come, I would inexpertly haggle with the vendors and buy strands of fresh malli. I began to enjoy visiting the market. The vendors to whom my face had become familiar. The inexplicable satisfaction that lugging home fresh produce gave me.
So it was with much sadness that I read recently that Tesco would like India to open up it’s markets to the supermarket giant. I know very little of economics and I’m sure that the investment can only do good. But if the impact of supermarket chains on markets and home-grown produce in the UK is anything to go by, I fear for the future of the Mount Marys, Matungas and Maadavidhis that are such a wonderful, colourful and noisy part of India.

I look forward to my next visit to Maadavidhi. It won’t be such a tiresome thing. I am no longer the little girl in the blue uniform waiting impatiently for her mother. I won’t need to count red cars to pass the time. But I will drink the flavoured milk. And I will remember to say thank you this time.

Disappointing Dutch

How much can you tell about a country and it’s people by a trip to the Visa Section of the said nation’s Embassy? Quite a lot I like to think. I’ve had the (mis)fortune of having stood in line in a number of embassies and it’s always given me a rough idea of what to expect in the country I’m about to visit.

At the Italian Embassy one can hope to be greeted by some rather handsome, curly haired David-esque men. They will spend more time looking at you than at your documents, converse with you in a manner that can only be described as flirtatious and will largely ignore the man standing next to you, who you happen to you’re your husband. When we (my husband and I – David look-alike number 20,003 couldn’t make it) were actually in Rome I found that this was a trait quite rampant in the Italian gene pool. All men - from the stewards on the Alitalia flight to the Immigration officers to the cabbies and waiters – can spend a full half hour explaining how to get to the Via Sacra if you’re a woman. If you’re a man they’ll grunt and nod in roughly the opposite direction.

The French however are a completely different ball game. Until you dredge up long forgotten French phrases from the dark and dusty corners of your brain, the straight line that is a French Embassy employee’s mouth will not turn up in the corners in to what is French for smile. However, if you can answer ‘Parlez vouz Francaise?’ with a breathy ‘Un peu’ and not ‘You speak English?’ accompanied by a vapid look you have temporary access to the rather exclusive ‘People the French like’ club. Temporary because you must exhibit more knowledge of their beloved language – humming Edith Piaf song’s under your breath is recommended. Humming ‘frere jacques’ is not. Parisians are the same - as a rule they dislike foreigners – but if they think you aren’t making any effort to speak their beloved language – God help you. Or should I say ‘aide d'un dieu vous’?

And how can I leave out our very own country’s visa and passport office? Like India herself, our embassies are grossly overpopulated. There are people everywhere – most of them taking a tea break that started at 9:30am and that will end at 4:00pm. Ask anyone a question and they will scratch their head for a while and then hand you over to someone else. This will be repeated until you find yourself with the same man who set the ball rolling. Name dropping and conversing in a common tongue will get you far – but act too big and a lowly flunky will extract revenge by making you wait forever. They will be rude to the country’s subjects but fawningly attentive to those who not long ago lorded about us in crinoline skirts and tight breeches.

Today morning I found myself outside the Dutch Embassy shivering not only because of the cold but also with anticipation. Would there be seemingly innocent brownies on offer that left people with more than a chocolate high? Would the employees be sitting behind glass-fronted booths in their underwear? Would I get my first taste of a Dutch accent?

‘Morrrning!’ twanged the blonde as she took my papers. Not only was she disappointingly dressed in tweed but she also had – could it be – an American accent? I mumbled a ‘Good morning’ back and looked around her desk for brownies or at least some suspect looking powder in a plastic bag. But there were no recreational drugs to be found – NOTHING. I sighed in resignation and paid my fee – which I thought was steep considering that there were no drugs or dubious women.

So with no new Dutch insights I made my way back to the station. En route I treated myself to a brownie and paused at the lingerie display at M&S. Pretending the mannequin was called Gerta (sound’s Dutch doesn’t it?) and that my brownie induced euphoria was caused by something more interesting I convinced myself that I now knew what to look forward to in Amsterdam. So what if I was in the heart of Kensington.

seeing but not looking?

Has it ever happened to you - you're passing by the familiar landscape of your daily commute - houses, office complexes, football fields and then all of a sudden something you've never seen before pops up. A glass fronted homage to the modern, an art deco mansion, a gigantic, leafless tree - its bent limbs trying to protect itself from the elements. And you think to yourself - "When did that come up?" "How could I have missed that lovely red brick all these days?"

It's the same with people. Friends, siblings, lovers, parents, spouses. You can spend your entire life thinking you know everything about someone and then discover something startling and new in their personality. Prejudices, fetishes, kinks and quirks come creeping out of the woodwork.

Or were they always there like the redbrick? And we had just never noticed?

Ticking away

Apparently we’re all short on time. Our lives are so full, so busy and so wonderful that we no longer have time to – well do anything.

There was a time when our mothers and grandmothers would head out to the market, haggle with vendors and return bearing tiny mangos, lime and maahali. They would sit outside and make jar after jar of pickle. Once a year the children would stand guard on the terrace – mobile scarecrows that shooed away the crows brave enough to inch their way towards sheets of drying vadaam.

Good skin and hair were things that took a healthy diet, weekly oil baths and massages to achieve.

Love was the outcome of years spent peeking through the bedroom window at the boy or girl next door. Or waiting at the turn of your of the road watching the object of your affections head to tuition. It meant spending hours at Landmark finding the perfect card with just the right amount of hearts, puppies and synonyms for love on it.

But who has the time for all these things? Today it’s meal in minutes, better skin in 2 weeks, yoga in bed, speed dating, crash courses and quickies in the elevator. (And if you don’t have time for that there’s always the power shower.)

Now this isn’t some rant to get people back to making pickle at home. This isn’t a call to get back to the good ol’ days. That would mean tights and Doc Martens. And that wasn’t a great look on me - or anyone else for that matter. This isn’t even a call to people to slow down and sample life’s simple pleasures.

All I’m wondering is this. What is that we’re doing that’s taking up so much of our time?

We aren’t in deep Tibet finding ourselves. Reading Deepak Chopra over a latte is more popular than sitting in a commune somewhere eating bean sprouts and not taking any hot showers.

We aren’t spending years training our minds and bodies to be focused and flexible. There’s Meditation for Dummies and Speed Tai Chi for that.

We certainly aren’t sunning ourselves on the back porch and making pickles that are as hot as the neighbourhood gossip. The only ladies who do that are a certain Priya and Ruchi. (And I have a very sneaky feeling that they’re men in safari suits.)

So what’s taking up all our time? Work? Has the ladder of success turned in to one of those giant exercise wheels that hamsters and mice are forever running on? Are we spending so much time trying to get ahead that everything else in our lives has been relegated to the instant category?

So what you say. What’s the harm in jumping the line a bit? Why can’t we find love in a 60 seconds? What’s wrong with looking for beauty in a jar? Nothing really.

But then today morning I spotted a woman on the train reading "A crash course in Paediatrics".
And there’s something very unsettling about that.

Please mind the gap

I-pods. Cell phones. Burberry. Blackberry. PDA of the electronic and human kind.
Reports that were meant to be read last night, skimmed through while trying to peek the headlines on someone else’s Daily Mirror.

If you can overlook the unscheduled stopovers at Willesden Green. The signal failures at Farringdon. And line closures on weekends which can leave you marooned at home, travelling by tube can be rather wonderful. The people watching alone makes up for a 30 minute wait at Kennington.

There are the Japanese women. Poker straight black hair, perfectly tweezed eyebrows and smooth, poreless skin make these women a delight to watch. Whether they’re dressed in severe black suits or jujube coloured leggings and bizarre t-shirts you can be assured that the bag dangling oh-so-casually from their arm will either be an Louis Vuitton or Gucci.

The young couples surgically attached at the lips, hips and every other joint and crevice of their bodies. One such pair had me examining a wad of chewed gum on the floor from Finsbury Park to Heathrow. That’s more than 14 stations. It was either discover the myriad textures of used gum or discover the myriad kissing techniques of East European backpackers.

The City types in black, navy blue and charcoal grey. Pin striped perfection with suitable arm candy – sudoku, the FT/Economist, palm pilot or an Ice Blonde Consultant.

The second and third generation Asians with their mocha coloured skin, pierced noses, bleached hair and low rise jeans. Not all that different from their cousins back home till they open their mouths and out spills a torrent of in-nits, wassats and other words that have made half the alphabet redundant.

Ageing parents from the sub-continent out to see the sights of London. Men in heavy jackets borrowed from sons pouring over maps and trying to make sense of new fangled cameras. Women in bulky sweaters that clash with their silk saris, feet encased in woollen socks and brand new Clarkes sandals. They look out of the window on the overline. Gazing at the never-ending stretch of identical, grey, Dickensian suburbs. In the dark of the tube they try not to stare disapprovingly at the cleavage bearing, body pierced youths and draw them to their husband’s attention with an indiscreet foot nudge. Only to be snapped at and told to look out the window.

Sleek Somalis women in their fake Dior headscarves and bright skirts. Ruddy cheeked Germans. English roses. Asian lilies. The tube is perhaps the best representation of multi-cultural London.

But one person from all my train journeys stands out in my mind. It was on the way to a play after work one night. I was on the Circle line to Sloane Square. The train had been emptied of the rush hour madness and there were but a few of us in the compartment. An old Englishman stood by the door in a suit that looked as tired as he was, holding a Guinness in his hand. His cheeks were bright red and he had what seemed to be a bad cold. Till I noticed that he was crying. Every now and then he would take a swig of his Guinness and fresh tears would course down his cheeks. Everyone in the compartment would look at him and then look away lest he tried to off load his tale of woe on them. Everyone was thinking the same thing - Why was he crying? Remembering his dead wife? Thinking of the daughter that didn’t call anymore. Maybe he just had a few more months to live. Or maybe it wasn’t anything so dramatic at all. Perhaps his favourite team had lost another football match.

I always keep an eye out for the old man on the Circle line. Silly I know. I’m not sure why I do it. If my life was a movie I will see him again a few months from now. Laughing and talking with his young daughter. Holding hands with a his wife (how pessimistic of us to think that she was dead). Or maybe drinking another beer and celebrating his team’s 2-0 victory.

Careful what you ask for

Her ‘best friend’ from college was visiting (perhaps only women will understand how much meaning those single quotes contain). The house was cleaned. The 300 count Egyptian cotton sheets were brought out. The air was heavy with the fragrance of fresh lilies. The children looked their doll like best and her husband’s nose and ears were carefully pruned. “Remember to be very romantic when she’s around” she instructed her husband. Her friend came.
And left with her husband in tow. “You’re the one who told me to be romantic” he reminded her.

Happy Deepavali!

To all the NRI's, POIs and other strange abbreviation people out there who are wishing they were 12 years old and stuffing their face with jangri. And being cajoled by Amma to take sweets to the crotchety old widow next door and spend some time with her. Who wish they were watching inane petis of Ilaiya Dalapathi so and so. Who wish they weren't sitting in front of a computer in an office thousands of miles away from home. Happy Deepavali. I feel your pain. :(