Desicritics Category: Culture: Humor

Comic Strip: It's Not A Lie If It Makes Someone Happy

IdeaSmith — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 10:30:22 EDT

Well, what else is a woman to do?

(Click on thumbnail to view idea-toon on a new page)

Ishq-Mohabbat-Pyaar-Vyaar: A Tribute to Filmy Love

Seema Dhindaw — Sun, 8 Mar 2009 03:42:39 EDT

Now that the controversies surrounding Valentine’s Day are in the past, I thought it would be fun to have a glimpse at the strange, comic and unusual things that love compels us to do. Catchy toe-tapping Bollywood tunes, the occasional romantic comedy, and sometimes corny poetic expressions have encouraged many of us to perform otherwise unthinkable, highly embarrassing acts of love. We can look back and laugh at spectacles that love or the illusion of it has inspired. The influence of the film industry, particularly Bollywood, hasn’t made matters any easier for those who have been pierced by Cupid’s arrow. In fact, many a times it is the sole culprit for implanting those bizarre and unrealistic ideas about love during those vulnerable, young growing years.

I grew up listening to Hindi film songs and religiously watched one Hindi movie a week with my family. When we were too young to know the implications of romance or love, my brother and I would act out the parts of hero and heroine, using trees at the park to play hide and seek which was followed by a high speed chase. We would eventually find ourselves running towards each other only to end the charade in a playful sibling fight instead of breaking into a song. When we didn’t know lyrics we would make them up. If we didn’t know the steps to a dance, we would choreograph our own crazy moves and our parents would watch sometimes in shock and at other times in dismay.

At home, it often felt like our parents were either villains in our lives or the stars of an ongoing Hrishikesh Mukherji film about complex marriages. When mom got upset over something, dad would sing and dance in a comical attempt to cheer her up. My brother and I would laugh in amusement, squeal in embarrassment or even play along. On Saturday mornings, mom made delicious parathas while melodious tunes played on the weekly Indian radio program. We anxiously counted the minutes, our eyes on the clock for the parathas and for the eagerly awaited weekly Namaste America television program that aired with previews of latest Bollywood movies, top ten songs and sometimes a special treat: an interview with one of the stars. Every week, I had a new crush depending on who was being interviewed and my brother had a new fight scene or dance move to play out. When Prabhudeva came on the screen we lost quite a few porcelain items. One of my first crushes was Salman Khan. I had a shirtless poster of his on the wall of my bedroom. That poster made a long journey with me from a small back alley in Rourkee, India and lived through my teen years in L.A. I remember my cousins hollering at me then for picking Salman over Shah Rukh. Today, if I make it back to Rourkee, I know for sure I will bring back a Shah Rukh poster instead. Tastes have changed.

In my teens, thoughts of how I would meet my knight in shining armor and what he would be like were always at the back of my mind. When I looked at Bollywood films for answers, the romances and love stories were fun and exciting, full of song and dance sequences, offering me hope but none or little practical advice. Hollywood portrayed a completely different perspective. Issues surrounding religion, career, premarital sex and race were at the forefront. Titanic, Father of the Bride, Sliding Doors, Sleepless in Seattle and many of Woody Allen’s films made things either too simple, fairytale-like or way too complex for me to grasp. Movies like Silsila, Lamhe and Chandni gave me hope that even if my soul mate was much older, married, missing after an accident or suffering from a predictable bout of amnesia, somehow miraculously and by defying every righteous principle, moral value and perhaps by way of nothing short of a miracle, he would end up being with me.

After watching Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, the prospect that I could have a guy best friend who would suddenly start to develop feelings for me years later when I grew my hair out, lost some weight and played basketball in a saree was extremely exciting. After a few years of shooting hoops, it didn’t take me long to realize that wasn’t happening. You’ve Got Mail offered hope of a promising fairytale romance which began after meeting a faceless stranger in an internet chat room. Thereafter began my brief and dangerous love affair with virtual chat rooms. I had my share of terrible experiences and realized that in the online world everything wasn’t as perfect or safe as the movies portrayed. As an adult, when I watch my nieces online, I feel a protective urgency come over me.

I slowly began to lose hope of finding my Prince Charming when one day I watched Dil to Pagal Hai. It suddenly all became crystal clear to me. Learning how to dance would lead me to the love of my life. I had to become just like Madhuri Dixit. A famous Kathak teacher was coming to Southern California for two months and taking her class was my only hope. I begged and pleaded with my parents. My dad made a few ill-timed jokes about California being earthquake prone and my mother politely suggested alternate hobbies that did not require much grace or rhythm. But they finally gave in to my childish whims and soon I was practicing tapping my feet to “tha thayi thayi” and undulating hand movements.

I observed in dismay that the Kathak classes were going too slow and I wondered if all this foot-tapping would break into a full-fledged dance any time soon. I figured I would have to be dancing to a song and not just these random beats in order for the love story to proceed smoothly. Nothing of the sort happened of course and the lessons were aborted within six months. I was left dolefully massaging the blisters on my soles.

After watching Maine Pyar Kiya, I turned to my amused parents and asked them if we had family friends that I could visit for a vacation in India. They did! And they even had a son. But as luck would have it, before my flight even took off, their beloved son had announced that he was in love with the girl next door and by then I wasn’t into love triangles any more. So I spent my vacation falling in love….with India and its people.

Recently, Hollywood, after years of criticizing the blatant escapism showcased by the Hindi film industry, finally caved and embraced the rags-to-riches, love story of Slumdog Millionaire. While controversies over the depiction of poverty in Slumdog continue, as an American, I was more taken by the moving story which spans several years and brings us a saga where tragedy, separation, loss and hardship, are all conquered by the one relentless pursuit of love. In India, love trumps all and I felt like this film captured that spirit.

I find consolation in knowing that I wasn’t alone in my filmi craze. Cousins, friends and siblings were also influenced by the love stories in the popular movies of the time. Unrealistic expectations and dreamy romantic ideas had infiltrated their minds as well. They too have sung in the shower, practiced pick up lines in front of a mirror and danced around the room in a towel like Kajol. I remember watching as my cousins practiced the famous pose of Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic, standing on the edge of a balcony above a sea of busy city traffic amidst the beautiful symphony of random honks. Much to my delight, on one trip to India, I helped a cousin plan many a secret rendezvous with her lover. Objections of their being together by their parents didn’t stop them from eventually eloping. The rage and tragic aftermath they faced from their families caused them much grief but their ambitious first steps together set off a trend in the family. Five other elopements followed in quick succesion within the next three years. Inter-cultural, inter-religious and inter-racial marriages were becoming more common. Old barriers fell away over the years. Thanks to inspiration from the popular films of the time, stale prejudices began to dissolve, bringing together soul mates across these divisive lines.

So all in all, these filmi influences have had the power to unite, bring positive change and offer hope to all of us who wait patiently to find that one true love. In addition to the cute, comic and sometimes foolish things that films have inspired all of us to do without their influence, life, both in love and looking for love, would not be as much fun.

Fiction: Burn After Viewing (NSFW)

Deepti Lamba — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 13:01:05 EST

====WARNING: NSFW====

The fan made an irritating clucking noise and rotated above the Kalyan Sabha's chief ominously. The fan had been threatening decapitation since the socialist era but the head of the Sabha, Prakash, liked to live dangerously. Everything around him was perched precariously - the journals, the photos of his wife and kids but what were stacked neatly were pictures of semi nude and nude blondes in his mahogany desk drawer. He had cataloged them by year and by the time he masturbated to them in his office. He, after all, liked to live dangerously.

Dangerously enough to masturbate in his office but not stupid enough to have a whore give him a blow job while he fondled her teen boobs and stared hard at Pamela Anderson in her Baywatch bikini. He had an image to maintain. He was the white kurta guy and those in white kurtas never squirted on prostitutes and definitely not on their all male office staff in their not-so-Oval offices. He snickered at his own joke and fingered the key that was safely tucked in his kurta pocket.

Santosh Shrivastav was due any minute but he wanted to see his dolls one last time. He smacked his lips and felt a slight rise in his shriveled penis. Wait for Santosh or take a peek? It was post lunch time and the chaprasi was asleep and the other workers were snoozing in cool rooms in the arms of their paid by the hour beloveds. And he was bored.

He opened the drawer with one hand and held his tool with the other. Just one look. His index finger began to leaf through the stacked pictures. He knew them by heart - blond with small nipples, blond with big nipples, blond with three breasts, blond on blond, horse on blond and ah! his favorite Asian man on blond woman.

He pulled the picture out and smiled. The boy in his pajama smiled as well. He caressed his dong but the knock on the door snatched him back from the exquisite blond in a motel room to his shabby Sabha office.

"Choot!" he muttered, shoved the picture in the drawer, removed his inappropriately placed hand, tied the nala and turned the key on the drawer.

"Come!" he barked at the door. Stupid Shrivastav came at exactly three in the afternoon. Who comes on time? Only morons, he muttered to himself and grabbed one of the journals.

Shrivastav let himself in tentatively. For a man of his sizable girth, he walked lightly with a delicate elephantine gait. Rumor was he was somewhat gay. Unmarried and a bit of a loner. To put it bluntly, macho men made him nervous and he never showed interest in women.

Prakash didn't like him but he seemed to be the most cultured in his coterie of crass well-meaning bumbling workers. He was the only one who had his finger on the pulse of the urban middle class youth. Pansy Shrivastav was right for the job.

Shrivastav fidgeted on the hard wooden chair and his trouser-covered bums itched due to the holes in the woven strings of the chair's seat. Prakash sir seemed to be busy writing. Shrivastav clutched his file close to his chest. He reminded himself for the tenth time not to fold the file. It held important photographs.

Prakash finally emerged from his supposed work and eyed Shrivastav with a lofty eye.

"Yes, Shrivastavji, what do you have for me?" he asked

"Sir! The women have gone wild." He cleared his throat and nearly rolled the file. He took his white perfumed handkerchief out of his pocket and patted his sweaty forehead. They have started a Kali Sena drive against our Kalyan Sabha and here is a picture they have put up to symbolize their fight."

"What is this?" Prakash gasped. "Is that a woman? Is she showing her buttocks?" His tone went up a couple of octaves and Shrivastav felt like a mouse in a lion's den

"Sir---" he tried to speak up but was interrupted by Prakash

"And where is Kali? This thing looks familiar. Where have I seen it before?"

"Sir, I don't know but it gets even worse. They took out another picture making fun of our demand that women stop wearing trousers."

A grim Prakash reached over and stared at the picture.

"Female Ninjas? Is this how they are planning to fight our soldiers on the road? See!" Prakash thrust a stubby index finger against the picture and pinned it against his mahogany table "See! they call themselves the sluttiest Ninjas! We were right! These women need to be taught a lesson."

Shrivastav cleared his throat " Sir, this one is worrisome."

Prakash crossed his arms against his chest and rocked his chair. Sweat dotted Shrivastav's forehead again. It was getting hot in his boss's office.

"The next one they sent to our office." He held the picture close to his chest and his upper lip quivered.

"Show me" Prakash muttered.

Shrivastav's adam apple bobbed.

"Show me!" Prakash barked and Shrivastav handed him the picture.

Prakash stood up abruptly and his chair fell. The sound of metal thumping against the floor made Shrivastav jump and he delicately eased back in his chair while his chief began to stalk the office. Shrivastav's head sank into his chest. It was getting from bad to worse and it wasn't even his fault.

Prakash thundered. "They are telling us they will ambush us with assault rifles. Get in touch with the Home minister and tell him that these renegade women are threatening bodily harm and have AK-47s. Call them now!!"

Shrivastav seemed to fold over his chair. Prakash turned and looked at his quaking worker "What?! Didn't you hear me?"

"Sir! There is more!"

Prakash walked over to Shrivastav. "How many more?!"

Shrivastav whispered. "Only one sir." He kept his head down and handed over the last picture

Silence prevailed as Prakash stared at the picture. Shrivastav croaked "There was a letter with it. It said - we know about Pamela and others."

"Out!"

Shrivastav jumped up and ran for the door. He wanted out. As he opened the door he heard his boss speak to him for the last time for the day.

"No one is to know, Shrivastav. I will have your balls if this gets out!"

He paused, handing back the first three pictures and saying, "Burn these ones."

Shivastav nodded and left the room with a quiet click.

Prakash straightened his chair and sat down. For once, Pam didn't do anything for him.

Movie Review: Kisse Pyar Karoon - Time Pass Comedy

Bubbly — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 11:05:22 EST

Keep your brains at home when you go to watch this flick. It is rib-tickling fun. It will keep you engaged with its maddening comedy from start to finish.

So, what's the story all about? Siddharth (Arshad Warsi), John (Ashish Chowdhry) and Amit (Yash Tonk) are three fun loving buddies. To cause rift, enters lovely but bitchy Sheetal (Udita Goswami). She ensnares John in her love but is actually after his money.

Now, Sidh and Amit must make John come back to his senses. When Sheetal gets to know of their plans, she goes full throttle to tackle them. Will the two friends succeed in getting back their friend? This forms the basis for the remaining movie.

Overall, this film is a time pass comedy. It is paisa vasool fare. Arshad, Ashish and Yash do justice to their roles. Their sequences will leave you in splits. Udita is passable. The supporting cast provides adequate laughter.

Songs are fast and catchy especially the title track. The choreography is good.

Go for it if you desire fun and laughter.

CAST & CREW:
Banner: G V Films
Producer: Balagiri
Director: Ajay Chandok
Star Cast: Arshad Warsi (Siddharth), Ashish Chowdhry (John), Aarti Chhabria (Natasha), Udita Goswami (Sheetal), Yash Tonk (Amit), Shweta Menon, Aashish Vidyarthi, Shakti Kapoor
Cassettes and CD's on: Ultra Music
Lyricist: Praveen Bhardwaj
Music Director: Dabboo Malik
Cinematography: Najeeb Khan
Choreography: Bosco Martis, Caesar Gonsalves
Action: Raam Shetty
Art: Sunil Jaiswal
Editor: Nitin Rokade
Screenplay: Yunus Sejawal
Sound: Vinod Potdar
Media Relations: Perception Managers
Publicity Designs: P9 Integrated Pvt Ltd
Story / Writer: Yunus Sejawal
Rating: **1/2 TIME PASS

Singing Telemarketers Away

Mike Ghouse — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 10:50:52 EST

On a Sunday afternoon, the phone rings as I was wrapping up with my usual routine; folding the clothes. It was a tele-marketer from India and she wanted to sell the long distance phone service to me. I thanked her for the call and said that I already have a service and will stick with it.

The Tele-marketer was not easy to get away from, and I wasn’t going to be rude to her, she is earning her living. She was determined to sell the service to me no matter what and later on her boss joins her. Now a team of them have decided to “get” me.

I insisted that the service is not for me and that they should take my number off their records.

She would not give up, so I decided to have fun, instead of getting frustrated.

The phone rang again and I picked up and without missing the beat, I started singing. Those who know me from my Radio days know what it means; some one has to pay me to stop it. If you are in the fifties and are a Desi (they-see), meaning people from the Subcontinent – i.e., India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal and Sri Lanka, you would enjoy the following scenarios. Heck you may smile any ways.

The kids on the other end were debating about the song, the singer and the like. I started out with “I yeiy ya, karoon my kya, sooku sooku”. I can hear the debate on the other end, “it’s got to be Jeetendra” and one actually said Shah Rukh Khan. I jumped in to their conversation, “it is Shammi Kapoor in Junglee singing Rafi and not Sonu”. Jeetendra was Oo, Ooo from Farz.

A “Thank you sir” in unison came from the other end. They could not be happier, they were courteous and hoping that at least at the end I would listen to their pitch. I wasn’t going to do that! They hung up, and called back to see if they were calling the right number.

I started “ O door ke musafir, hum ko bhi saath ley lay” .. there goes the debate again… They hung up and called back.

“ Ai mere dil kahin aur chal, gham ki duniyan say dil bhar gaya” This time the response was “What the hell was that?”. They did not know the song, nor could they figure out the singer, if it was Sunder Naidu singing, they could have guessed it, but meri tooti phooti awaz say o gana kaisay pehchanien ge? Even if it was "Yeh mera deewana pan hai" they would have recognized Prem Shah's awaaz. And of course, their parents would have just born in 1957 to recognize the movie Daag and the singer Talat. (yes, Lata also sang). They were saying in unison “thank you sir” hoping again to possibly get business.

You may be surprised at my attempt to do “Sunshine on my shoulder” I did not even complete the sentence they were gloating on the other end “John Denver” they knew the song even if it is an oldie, at that time most of the songs remained fresh in India for another decade or two. Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline is an evergreen, ever fresh number.

It went on for about 20 minutes… Finally they gave up.

By God, this is the first time in my life, that I sang the whole song to a captive audience, may be second time. I sang once celebrating Najma’s life a month after she passed away. Growing up, my sister did not want to hear me sing, she pointed out the mangled up words and then my late wife did not want to hear either. She told me to take voice lessons and then she would listen, and I had seriously considered learning from Renu Chandra or Nasreen Reza. Heck, my friends in India did listen to my songs, on Sundays, five of us used to go out on a farm or a lake and sit down and take turns and I lucked out being in the circle and took my turn gleefully.

Thanks to the tele-marketers, I sang to my heart's content, five songs in full! I have memorized 1000 Songs. I was ready to play their game and was going to go all night.

Then the phone rings and I start singing again… they called back, and I sang again… then when they called for the third time, I realized they were calling about a remodeling job I was doing for them. They enjoyed it though and they knew it was me.

What if the LTTE Had Won The War?

Suresh Naig — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 08:05:10 EST

If one believes the vociferous proponents of LTTE belonging to sundry political parties of Tamil Nadu, Tamil Eelam on the terms of LTTE would be a paradise on earth. Though we all know it remains as a distant dream, there is nothing wrong in visualising a Tamil Eelam where the LTTE would be the authority and its supremo Velupillai Prabakaran would be the supreme authority.

On forming a separate nation, Tamil Eelam carved out of northern Sri Lanka, LTTE would change its name to PET an acronym for Party of Eelam Tamils, conveying to everyone that PET is the only Tamil political party in the nation. All other political parties in the new nation would be given a choice to amalgamate into PET democratically. No doubt all parties would follow it, for it will not be a choice but a dictum and as usual it would be celebrated by the cronies of Prabakaran in Tamil Nadu.

Prabakaran would reject the demand of his followers to assume the office of President in Eelam, more out of fear of facing the crowd, Press and opposition, which would again be celebrated with much fanfare in Tamil Nadu, comparing him with Mahatma Gandhi. The president of Tamil Eelam with independent powers to say “yes” to Prabakaran would assume office, with his ears stuck to the ground listening for orders from the bunker. The President would be assisted by a council of ministers, with adequate powers divested from them. First Independence Day of Tamil Eelam would be celebrated unfurling the flag of the nation, which would depict the smiling face of Prabakaran in the centre. The flag would be hoisted by Prabakaran, which would be witnessed by huge gathering of people in Jaffna, on a gigantic screen specially erected for the purpose. The flag would be hoisted by Prabakaran in an undisclosed location, followed by a speech. When the Press, presses for a press meet with Prabakaran, it would be arranged after much deliberation and elaborate security arrangements.

All the media persons would be advised to assemble in Jaffna, two days prior to the press meet. Media persons, mostly from Tamil Nadu would willingly subject themselves to the security drill, where every orifice of a person would be thoroughly searched, before clearance. When some media persons with self esteem object to this inhuman security drill, they will be politely shown the door and while exiting they would be booed by the persons, cleared for the press meet.

Before the broadcast of Press meet under strict surveillance of security persons, where every media person would be blindfolded before reaching the “undisclosed” location of the meet, the “Hero” of Tamil Eelam would invite the wrath of all the other media, depicting him as a coward, scared to meet the people and the Press. For most “Heroes”, ego is sacrosanct than principles, Prabakaran will realise that running a nation is too difficult than running a terrorist organisation. Running a nation has unwanted responsibility of accountability, where every dime and every corpse has to be accounted for, unlike a terrorist organisation. He would realise belatedly that a terrorist leader has absolute powers than responsibility, whereas a leader of a nation has curbed powers with more responsibility.

He would also realise that his heroism is still a saleable commodity in Tamil Nadu; he would opt to fill the void left by Veerappan in the vast jungles of Sathyamangalam, to liberate Tamil Nadu from the oppressive Indian Republic. Most of the political parties of Tamil Nadu would extend their support to him, because like Veerappan, it is always advantageous for them when Prabakaran is confined to a Jungle.

My Funny Valentine - Sweet Comic Valentine

Aditi Nadkarni — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 00:22:52 EST

There is something to be said about friends. I mean, they give us their all without expectation. At least mine do. I have friends who will listen to me yap about everything from completely transitory issues such as missing periods or acne to permanent problems that I suddenly have become aware of such as world peace and intolerance. They will never tell me that I am boring them and will loyally stifle yawns. None of them expect rings or a gift, much less a flower bouquet.

They will be completely fine if I don't call them for Valentine's Day or might even be slightly embarrassed if I do. I can just imagine my friend whisper a quick "Hmm, wish you the same but are you trying to murder my love life?" when I scream "Happy Valentine's Day!" through telephone lines while he is trying to chat up a cute girl who having heard my loud Valentine's Day wishes walked away quickly excusing herself.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love them dearly but my family can drive me nuts because, lets face it, that is their job. A year before turning thirty, I have come to accept that as a woman I will forever disappoint my mother. That's it. I feel better just having made that admission. Let me elaborate. My dad once told me of a doctor in his locality who they later discovered was somewhat of a quack. No matter what ailment one brought to Dr.Kamat, he would immediately ask them to stop drinking tea.

"But doctor I don't drink tea" the patient would sometimes respond.

"Ok so don't drink coffee" Dr.Kamat would tell him distractedly, filling out a generic prescription that everybody received unless they were having a heart attack in which case, Dr.Kamat's drunk compounder quickly shoved them into a taxi and sent them to the nearest hospital.

"Umm I don't drink coffee either doctor" the patient would tell him, hoping this information would give Dr.Kamat some brilliant insight into what was causing his affliction.

"You must drink something no....juice, cola, something. Stop drinking that" Dr.Kamat would snap at the confused patient. The poor man would nod and walk away with his prescription wondering why drinking his wife's nimbu sharbat had resulted in such a terrible case of butt-acne.

My mother is like Dr. Kamat.

"Are you drinking enough water?" she will ask without occasion

"Yes mom, I am drinking water all the friggin time" I respond in my high-pitched whiny "talkin-to-mom" voice

"Maybe you shouldn't drink too much water. You should drink a bit less. Too much water is also probably not good" she'll say.

"What's with your skin? Are you going out too much in the sun?" she'll comment, putting on her glasses, her keen stare making me squirm

"I rarely go out. I am always in the office or in lab. What are you talking about?" I answer with a shrug, rubbing my cheeks and forehead as if hoping for the tan to come off.

"Maybe that's what it is. If you stay cooped up at home, you don't get enough sun. You need some sunlight." And so on.

So basically no matter what I say, I'm screwed.

My dad is mostly neutral. But sometimes his neutrality is like that of Aishwarya Rai's where you just want to scream "Dude, say something!"

He once read my short story and I sat waiting in front of him, with baited breath to hear some feedback. He finished reading, took his glasses off and got up. I thought maybe he would walk over to me and pat my back. No such thing happened. I followed him inside until he walked into the bathroom. I stood outside only to hear him fart. That was my feedback.

Lets not even talk about extended family. They care so much for you that they have decidedly compartmentalized your life and now have inquiry committees set up for each section. Reproductivity, weight and marital status make up the three big departments and by the end of this concerned scrutiny, you are half the person you once were.

So that leaves us with friends. And it leaves our friends with this beaten down version of us, to deal with our woes, to lift our trampled self-esteem, to assuage our tested patience and soothe our hurt feelings.

Last year, I had to have surgery and just before they wheeled me into the OR, my friend's face loomed over my bed. She held a cell phone in her hand and was taking a picture.

"OMG, what are you doing?" I asked her, nervous in the anticipation of my first surgery ever, my face pink in embarrassment.

"Smile" she said loudly, as doctors and nurses looked on wondering whether or not to tell her that this was not allowed.

"Come on...just one picture, you look hot in that surgery robe and the blue cap" she told me as I smiled into the cell phone feeling like a complete moron.

When I woke up several hours later and suddenly threw up she was already holding the vomit-pan as if waiting for the puke to fly.

"Oh yeah baby!" she said victoriously as if she had caught a frisbee in the pan, "the doctor said you'd be nauseous from the anesthesia" she told me when I looked up confused wondering how she had managed to just be ready for such an unwarranted bout.

Men make amazing friends. They believe that disagreements or fights end when the phone call comes to an end. Can you imagine? One day we have a heated argument and so during the next conversation I try acting all aloof hoping he'll get the hint and apologize. He just chuckles and chortles while telling me about this colleague who was caught looking at some weird porn at work. A few minutes later, I sheepishly realize that he has completely forgotten about any fight whatsoever and even wonder if I had imagined the whole heated argument we'd had two days ago. Now I am starting to get the hang of it. This attitude keeps the friendship child-like and therefore stress-free.

A few years ago I received a V's Day card from a friend. I was surprised. He hated mushy V's day crap and had told me so, many times. I opened the e-card at work and a big blue cloud turned into a pink heart and floated around. And just as I wondered what the hell had happened to my perfectly wry friend, the large pink-heart balloon turned into a humongous, burly, pink, dimpled ass and whats more, it loudly farted. This time I turned pink and wanted to float away as colleagues looked on when the audible offensive rip came from the general direction of my desk area.

In his personalized note he wrote: "Had to show you this hilarious card. I knew you'd laugh". I did.

My roommate and I are the best of friends. I am a Harry Potter fan. She is not. One night, I read late into the night and wept when at roughly 3 am, I found out that Professor Dumbledore had died. That poor, poor, dear old man with his soft beard, I thought, crying into my pillow. I can get weird like that. I will have pent up sorrow that will suddenly be unleashed by stray occurrences, ranging from watching tragic films to hearing Talat Mehmood's ghazals. Anyways, so my roommate heard me weep and came over worried, her sleepy eyes trying to focus on my face in the dark.

"Whats the matter, why are you crying?" she asked me, blinking rapidly, her voice hoarse and heavy with sleep.

"Professor Dumbledore died" I told her mumbling. I don't know what she heard but she immediately put her arms around me

"Aww, how did he die....I'm so sorry to hear that" she cooed

"I don't know" I wept. I probably had been repressing some weird grief that Dumbledore's death had now released.

"Was it an accident? How did the professor die?" she asked her face a picture of concern

"No, that asshole murdered him" I told her as she brought me tissues and wiped my face.

"with his wand" I added, my lip still quivering and she frowned.

"Murder! With his wand? Wait, did you say wand? Wand?!" she stammered, her eyebrows knitted in confusion

"Yeah you know he used this curse and..."

"Which professor is this again? This isn't the professor who taught you Maths who you adored?" she asked, rubbing her eyes, her lips pursed, now fully awake and suddenly having spotted the Harry Potter book on my bed.

When she found out that she had been helping me mourn the death of a character, from a Harry Potter book, she could have fumed, rolled her eyes and walked away, back to bed.

"You are such a drama queen!" she could have told me and dismissed me. I expected her to do that.

Instead she sighed and sat down beside me.

"Don't worry. It's not the last book. He'll come back in the next one...just watch" she told me, with a grave philosophical expression, tucking me in and giving me hope. Professor Dumbledore's death had most likely just been a trigger for some other anguish I had suppressed and even though it found vent in the most odd fashion, she was still there for me.

Two of my very best friends are guys. I have known them since I was a tomboyish teenager. They are quintessential men who love sports, cars and beer. But for my sake, they spent a whole day at Butterfly World in Florida just because it made me happy and I had been feeling low. They had probably wanted to go the beach and watch beautiful, tanned bikini-clad beauties. Instead, they stood patiently in Butterfly World, their hands in their pockets, with tight, uncomfortable smiles, while I clicked pictures and annoying little kids ran around everywhere screaming. They tried very hard to not swat the pretty butterflies that settled down sometimes on their shoulders and hair and even gave me enthusiastic nods and a thumbs-up when I fed two parakeets on my palm.

"Please do not show these pictures to other people" they told me quietly, as we left Butterfly World and headed straight to a sports bar where macho-ism can be painlessly revived.

When I finish a good book, I call them. When I am depressed, I call them and I later find out that they had walked out of a movie theater to talk me out of my blues. When I see a great movie, I talk them into watching it and argue with them when they tell me they hated it. St.Valentine has blessed the celebration of love with his name. Similarly, Plato has blessed friendships between the genders with his name but nobody seems too keen on celebrating Plato's Day. Maybe my post will start a new wave for Plato's Day and annoy those angry Senas even more.

Sadly, in case of Platonic friendships, sometimes I feel like I am on this long wait until the guy's wife comes into his life one day and refuses to see how this friendship of his could be "proper". I spend my days fearing that one day, my best friend will turn into somebody's husband, that one day his wife will claim that him and I are just too close for her comfort. It scares me that this one whim might decide the future of a friendship that I have cherished since I was a teenager. These people are the only witnesses who knew the original me. They knew the person before the cynicism of age and experience set in and they heard the laughter that grew inhibited with every passing year. I once told one of them about this recurring nightmare where he and his wife meet me at the mall years later and he refuses to acknowledge me because she might get offended. At the end of my narration, I waited for his reaction. I waited for him to tell me that I was panicking for no reason and this it was a thoroughly stupid paranoia. And instead he giggled.

"Was she hot...my wife in your nightmare?" he asked me cackling at his own joke as I groaned and protested his ill-timed humor. I was secretly glad that he had made light of the situation; how else could I have ever laughed in the face of such credible fear.

Come to think of it, it is even harder for two girls to stay friends through all the numerous life changes. Two women who are such good friends that they are more than sisters, in the United States, are either pronounced gay or are Gayle...and Oprah.

Marriages, romance, children, jobs, geography and in the face of all the chaos, change and exhaustion is the steady, scaffold, the pillar of a good strong friendship that keeps us all going. So I have decided that I won't wait for Friendship Day to come along and pass by unnoticed. This Valentine's Day, I raise a toast and a cupcake with pink frosting to the ones that keep me sane through all the insanity and yet manage to bring in ample craziness when things get more serious than they should. This Valentine's Day I celebrate this one love that hardly ever gets celebrated and the deep affection we have for the unsung heroes of our busy lives.

Here's to you, my friend, my funny, crazy Valentine.

In the Pink on Valentine's Day

Sonal Panse — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 05:42:46 EST

Happy Valentine's Day everybody!!!

This has probably been the best build up to Valentine's Day in recent times. The usual 'break shops, bash up couples' routine was getting so predictable. We needed something new. Something muthalikally new.

And then we got it.

I've been following The Pink Chaddi Campaign and the reactions to it with unreserved delight.

I'm happy with the amount of support pouring in. It was high time.

I'm not surprised with the amount of scorn and abuse pouring in. Nor ruffled by it. Freedom of expression after all works both ways. Besides as some one once said, nobody kicks a dead dog.

But I must say, if you had to give points for creativity here, the Pink gals and guys win hands down.

All the detractors have done is regurgitated the usual spiel - 'unDignified', 'unIndian' and 'unCultured'. Or they have turned copycats and started a campaign on pink condoms. In short, low on creativity, high on inspiration. Very Indian, that. Or rather very Bollywood. Or to be very precise, very some people in Bollywood (because I don't want to take due appreciation away from creative and talented Bollywood people like Farhan Akhtar and Zoya Akhtar, whose 'Luck By Chance' was such a wonderfully entertaining film).

I support the Pink Chaddi Campaign. Not because, as Sagarika Ghosh of the Hindustan Times implies, I want to be like the "characters from Sex In The City". I don't. And neither do I, as she suggests everyone ought to, want to "emulate Sarojini Naidu and Jawaharlal Nehru".

I'm happy being MY OWN PERSON, and I will like to continue being so without any interference from any "cultural custodians".

If I want to wear noodle straps and jeans, it's because I want to. Not because of some dumb TV show.

If I want to wear a sari, it's because I want to. Not because of some Nehruvian ideal.

If I don't drink or go to a pub, it's because I don't like the taste of alcohol and I don't like this form of socializing. Not because of any regard for 'Indian Culture'.

If I don't celebrate Valentine's Day, it's because I'm not a sentimental person. Again, not because of any regard for 'Indian Culture'. And neither from any horror of the 'commercial aspect' of V-Day. I'm an extremely commercial-minded person, actually. And I love it when people spend on cards and stuff. Spells riches and riches for designers like me.

Anyway.

Indian Culture or any other culture does not need to be guarded or preserved. It needs to BREATHE. It needs to lighten up, develop some SENSE OF HUMOR.

Otherwise it just turns into a ritual-riddled, shackled fossil. And as another wit said, beware of sacred cows that can't MOO (laugh).

Being undignified is better than being a humbug, toeing the line on dated principles from ancient texts. Never mind the ancient sages and the ancient times. That over-flogged bleat about being a cultured lot centuries and centuries ago doesn't give anyone the license to skip being cultured in the present age.

Being cultured = Being tolerant, being broad-minded, being more concerned with improving oneself rather than imposing on other people, being intelligent enough to understand that respecting national property is more praiseworthy than going over the bend about national symbols.

The whole point is PERSONAL FREEDOM.

Now my personal freedom ends where your nose begins.

Not when your "sentiments" starts hurting.

Heard the Divine Music of Love Lately?

Fleiger — Sat, 7 Feb 2009 15:04:31 EST

Recently, I was waiting for a bus when a car stopped near me. A beauty looked at me, and smiled...

... and music blared around me. I smiled back at her...

... and got out my iPod to lower the volume so it would leave my eardrums intact.

It happens to all of us. We all go through the life waiting for The One. And we all know at his/her entry, the God will give us a clue in the universal language (not math, you idiot, the other universal language).

And one day it happens. A vision from heaven steps in front of you, heralded by an orchestra. You can't see anything except her, and she is rendered in soft focus (even though your glasses are smudge-free). But when a mistake can make a target for a #7 sandal with heels, you have to be completely sure that she is The One For You.

The quick and easy method to being "Completely Sure It's The Right Person" is presented as a simple-to-follow flowchart (click to enlarge). Follow these steps before you do anything :

Did you reach F14? Good, now look up. If the girl is still there, it is because:
a. She is really into you
b. She is following the above steps. Wait for her to finish.

In either case, congrats! You may just have found the love of your life.

What to do next? Try A Guide to The First Date, A Single Guy's Guide to 14th February.

Till next time...

Novice Interpretation of Dreams

Suresh Naig — Sat, 7 Feb 2009 05:12:35 EST

Do dreams have meanings? This single question had generated many answers in the past and I am sure many more are in the queue. Many a time a single dream would throw different meanings, and all the meanings might appear right. I started reading many books to understand my dreams, but the more I read the more I was confounded and I solicited the views of many learned pundits to decipher my dreams.

Had it not been for the recurrent dream, I would have stayed happy like all my other friends, singing duets with Hemamalini and Waheeda Rehman, around a tree. My dream was like a cardiologist’s expression of a certain heart condition- "regularly irregular", in haunting me.

For a very long time, I used to get up in the middle of a night, soaked in sweat. I used to dream an elephant chasing me and my feet stuck in ground like an automobile stuck in slush, not in a position to move. By the time the elephant comes menacingly close to me, I used to get up from the bed soaked in sweat. The dream was recurrent for two reasons, primarily because of my fear of the huge animal and secondly, not even once I had allowed the dream to complete, by waking up in the dead of night. Taking pity on me, a wise man in our neighbourhood, who was respected for his divine disposition, advised me to visit a local Ganesha temple regularly for 21 days to rid of my haunting and incomplete dream. Closing his eyes in trance, he pronounced that I had left a vow unfulfilled in my earlier birth to Lord Ganesha, which gets reminded in this birth through the haunting dream.

My visits to the Ganesha temple had to be abandoned in less than two weeks, since the regularity of my elephantine dream increased with my regular visits to the temple. The wise man was very creative like all soothe Sayers, he declared, ‘God wants your previous karma to linger for some more time and that’s why you could not complete your 21 days visit to the temple’, which I believed for a long time, until I came across a well read person with a scientific bent of mind, who believed little in God and very little in previous births.

He narrated the famous dream of Singer, which was instrumental in perfecting the sewing machine. He said, ‘Singer had perfected everything other than the needle for the sewing machine. He was confused as how to mount the needle in sewing machine, which had a hole at its hind portion. One night he dreamt, that he lost his way in a forest and surrounded by aborigines. He suddenly woke up and got an answer for his pressing problem, because he saw all the aborigines were carrying spears, with a hole in the front.’ My session stopped with him as abruptly as it started, from his very first proclamation. He told me with an air of superiority, ‘all your dreams, I am sure would have been only in black and white and never it was colourful.’ He had only reproduced what he had imbibed from many books and had it not been for the timing, he would have succeeded in convincing me.

Only the previous night than his pronouncement, I had dreamt Rakhi attired beautifully in a pink coloured saree confusing me sufficiently, since that saree was the favourite of the most favourite girl in our neighbourhood. As I grew in age my fear transformed to inquisitiveness, to find the climax of my dream which was prolonging like the never ending TV serial, but to no avail. The dream had abruptly stopped, queerly coinciding with my marriage. However I could not muster enough courage to discuss the haunting dream and the timing of its culmination, to my healthy wife who always considered an hour-glass figure as unhealthy.

There was one dream which turned out profitable for me, due to an innocent interpretation by a wealthy aunt of mine. When I narrated a phenomenal dream of mine, of visiting a temple in a wooded area on a river bank, and curiously worshipping the presiding deity carved out of an onion, my aunt became emotional and said that her family deity, “Marthanda Bairava”, who is fond of accepting onion as offering, had blessed me through my dream. That dream was phenomenal, as it bestowed on me a sizable inheritance from her, but the real reason for that dream was due to my unusually high quantity of raw onions ingested during dinner from a Marwari Bhojanalya and going to bed without brushing.