A former US engineer Harold Camping is predicting the end of the world on May 21, 2011 at 6pm. After the visuals of Japan's devastation the prophecy cannot be dismissed either. It is pretty close, but who knows? As someone said, ‘Life is short, eat desserts first’. Almost immediately, I am tempted to go for a triple chocolate sundae. But what if the doomsday gets deferred?
Astrology is an ancient science, and making sense of planetary alignments is not everyone’s cup of tea. Lately in Delhi, pretty faces have taken to tarot reading. I have nothing against pretty women pursuing astrology but I have an axe to grind with frivolous predictions regarding seduction rituals, or romantic destinations.
A pretty astrologer in an esteemed publication reveals what the heavens say about how to please your loved one. Now, I read this particular column for the simple fact that I am extremely amused by the wacky ideas. They might hold true for you, I am not sure. I know zilch about birth signs.
http://indiatoday.intoday.in/site/Story/129452/Simply%20Delhi/all-starry-eyed.html
I am quoting verbatim. “To seduce an Aries you should wear reds and show lots of skin.” Strangely the prediction is not gender specific. So if you are a man with normal levels of hormones, then forget Aries, any birth sign can be seduced by a woman in red showing skin. Unless of course, the woman happens to be a Dolly Bindra or Nirupa Roy! But if you are a woman and a man in red tries his tricks on you, then the idea is very scary. I’d rather not even go there.
I am a Leo, and the prediction goes, “Surround yourself with pink to keep everything at bay.” I dare not imagine my son and husband in pink, a la Govinda in a movie. It will be apocalypse anyways!
Scorpios, according to the expert,I should visit Morocco. Pray, who will foot the bill? Also a perfect gift for Scorpios is a ‘sexy pair of boots’. For starters I fail to distinguish between sexy, savvy, sultry or suave boots and also according to our tradition shoes are not ideal gifts, are they? I know my temperamental July born cousin, who if gifted boots will throw them on my head thinking that I am deliberately insulting him.
The most comical is the gift idea for Aquarians – Ayurvedic oils. Interestingly, Ranbir Kapoor is an Aquarian and his female admirers can gift him a ‘Dabur lal tel hamper’ for a romantic liaison with him. For a Sagittarian the ultimate gift idea is ‘binoculars or a bungee jumping experience’. If you are a Sagittarian, go figure out this one! Maybe this is what you always wanted.
For the Aquarians the suggestion is to ‘wear green’ for a change of job and ladder climbing. Perhaps MNCs have started promoting employees in green ensembles, a la Jim Carrey from ‘Mask’ or perhaps offices are celebrating each day as Environment Day. In an earlier issue of the magazine, there was even a suggestion to ‘try plunging neck lines for well being’. Excuse me? Can someone be age and gender specific here?
Yes, planetary positions, numbers and colors impact finance and health. Yet, general predictions which cater to a majority in one stroke are amusing. Consider a few samples in a daily newspaper, “Your body will respond to dietary changes and exercise regimens. In health matters you should be careful, especially those suffering from calcium deficiency. Romance or marriage is possible this year, do not consider anything impossible.” Isn’t all of it obvious and generalized?
Starting a blog with birthday forecasts is not a bad idea, what say? Some wide-ranging ideas – “You could suffer from flatulence after a heavy meal and possibly experience an embarrassing situation,… do not argue with your wife as it is not a good time (when is a good time?), you could be stuck in a traffic jam, stay indoor as the heat can raise your temper,expect some hair fall today, some eye irritation is also a possibility.”
Let me begin by sharing a story. A man wrote a letter to a small hotel where he had planned a vacation.
“I would very much like to bring my dog with me. He is well groomed and very well behaved. Would you be willing to permit me to keep him in my room with me at night?”
The hotel owner replied. “I have been operating this hotel for decades and I have never had a dog steal towels, linen, cutlery or silverware. I have never had to evict a drunken dog and I have never had a dog run out on the bill. Yes, indeed your dog is welcome. And if your dog will vouch for you, you are welcome too.”
Considering the fact that dogs are faithful, do not throw kerosene on fellow dogs to burn them alive, rape puppies or take bribes, they surely are on a higher moral pedestal.
In my apartment complex, pet pee in elevators or pet poop on walkways is not the pet peeve any more. It is an entirely different take on heavy petting.
Imagine a sun kissed spring morning. A group of women with streaked hair and tights are performing yoga in the open lawns of a sprawling gated complex. When they inhale and exhale the world appears even more beautiful, even more peaceful. The class ends and the ladies lie down on their expensive mats in shavaasana, perfectly still and completely blissful. Suddenly one of them feels a sniffing face next to hers. She even feels the saliva dripping on her forehead. She shrieks. It is Laila. Now, Laila, is the privileged stray dog, the bone of contention between two groups of residents.
Strangely, Laila is male but has been named so, by some imaginative kid, overawed by the jawani of a phonetically sounding similar name. Laila refuses to leave the complex even though hysterical security guards run after her oops him with sticks. A group of residents want Laila to stay within the complex. No, they will not have her as a pet in their house but insist on ‘humanitarian grounds’ that Laila stays within the premises. Whereas, the rival group wants the stray out of sight. They fear that the precedent could allow monkeys, buffaloes and cows in the complex. You think it is a trivial issue? Laila’s case was presented before the ultimate champion of all four legged and winged ones - Maneka Gandhi. Laila being essentially male is absolutely enjoying all the attention and continues to drool over pretty women and growl at cute Pomeranian's of the society. I say go Laila go….have fun. Let the gloves come out, let people break bones and fight for your cause.
http://www.finalstand.org/final/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=203:visit-report-heritage-city-gurgaon&catid=35:projects&Itemid=65
Mark Zuckerberg’s puppy named Beast has his own page on Facebook. Once you become a billionaire your pet dog, hamster, cat or python, all become famous and move to the higher echelons of the society. So when the status message on the profile reads, ‘I just took a dump and Mark picked it up. It was glorious,’ thousands press the like button. Beast has more than sixty five thousand fans already. I envy you Beast. Here I am slogging away for a few comments and there you have a billionaire write for you while you enjoy that siesta.
When President Roosevelt announced, ‘You can criticize me, my wife and my policies but not my dog,” a precedent of presidential pets was created in the United States. No doubt Obama’s ‘Bo’ is the first dog of the United States, more privileged and more powerful than most.
News is that a pregnant Mariah Carey has reportedly engaged a shrink to prepare her pets for the arrival of her twin babies. Well, the pampered pooches shouldn’t feel rejected when her own twin babies arrive. If she is out partying, she can of course drop her pooches to a New York discotheque, recently inaugurated for dogs and dogs only. Humans not allowed. I wonder if the DJ is a Rottweiler. Imagine carefully coifed pooches and thoroughbred pups shaking a leg at Manhattans first doggie disco. And what’s more, tired dancing doggies can refuel on ‘poochi sushies’ or take a break after retiring in a special Zen room.
I say it is all well deserved. After all as the cliche goes ‘Every Dog has his Day.’
I have always wanted to know what it feels like to be a man holding his wife’s handbag, waiting outside a trial room in a mall teeming with women. And then as the wife emerges and gently hurls that dreaded bomb, “What do you think” does the man have options?
Long ago I did ask my husband about it but he brushed aside the topic. ‘That of which we cannot speak, we must remain silent’, he says. I understand. The predicament of evading uncomfortable questions with guarded answers can be daunting.
The gut feeling is that such a situation could be a nightmare for most men. As a result now I prefer to shop alone. Though, it is a possibility that some men might enjoy the entire experience of family shopping. But they are mostly the newly married ones who are intoxicated by the novelty of marital bliss. Once the novelty of it all fades, the brutality of it all sinks in. Anyways, kudos to those who endure the entire experience and dare to be candid!
However, if you want honest advice on how the dress is looking on you, or how you are looking in that dress, then go with your mother, sister or a friend. Even the maid is not a bad idea in desperate situations. Spare the husband. Men are used to asking for the color and size, and pronto, their job is done. Whereas shopping for women is a cumbersome, complex ritual which requires patience and leisure both.
It so happened that while I was waiting at the cash counter, I witnessed the plight of a Levis clad, Polo adorned man maneuvering a pram with one hand and conversing on his blackberry with the other. His petite and perky wife strutted in and out of the trial room.
“How does this look?”
It amounted to asking the obvious. Hmm.., hmm.., umm.The guy was cautiously nodding his head to whatever wifey and the person on his phone was saying. It was clear as UPAs conscience that the guy’s heart was somewhere else and he needed desperate evacuation. But his infernal agony did not stop here. The toddler in the pram started crying for attention. If it was his boss on the line; my heart goes out to the poor guy. Handling two bosses and a bawling baby, all at a time can be pretty nerve racking.
For a minute, my wayward imagination took me on the man’s mental roller-coaster. I could hear the voices strumming in his head. You know something like ‘raaz pichle janam ka…’
“Only for the fact that she ticked me off for leaving that wet towel on the bed…. I wish I could tell her that her contours are bulging out of this dress. The pizza which she gorged on yesterday is resting on her derriere. Anyways she has two similar dresses. What’s the point of buying a new one?"
"My mom saw me ironing her blouse yesterday. I have never ever ironed clothes or made tea. My mum never let me. But look at me now? Those seven swings around the fire and life changes.
The hot chick that passed by smiled at my plight, and not at me. Who would look at a man holding a bawling baby?
If only she makes up her mind, we can go and watch the remaining match. That is if I manage to get the remote…”
My imagination is going wild but I am sure you get the drift. Surely the guy is not thinking, “Ahh.. the sweetie charms of my gorgeous wife. What fun it is to select a dress for my beloved.”
Alas! He will not speak. All these voices brimming in his head will be muffled the moment wifey makes up her mind. And then he will graciously hand over her handbag and take over the shopping bags.
(A government proposal cooked by some chilled brain is seeking to police blogs. The government can now charge bloggers with civil and criminal penalty, ranging from three years to life imprisonment. My question is who defines questionable content? )
The citadels erected by monarchs came crashing like castles of sand. Such is the power of Jasmine. One whiff, and thud! Strange, a brutal and violent uprising to be named Jasmine. The scent was so potent that the sharp shooting female guards of Muammar Gaddafi shivered in their boots. What began from a social networking site moved to the streets of Tunisia, erupted at the Tahrir Square and landed Mubarak in coma. The scent has reached as far off as China. That’s the power of an uprising. Once again freedom is an idea to die for.
It cannot be contained. Unable access my blog for a few minutes, I became so restless that I went and vented my ire on Facebook against the service provider. And found that I was not alone. Many others were facing the same issue. Anger and disenchantment now finds new ways of expression. Not only by means of rallies, morchas, papers and magazines, but via new age media – twitter, blogs, and of course, Facebook.
Of all the seductions of media, its beauty lies in promoting transparency and fighting injustice. Yet, media is the omnipresent, 24/7 beast which hounds the powerful; devouring reputations, exposing scandals and delivering justice.
In the internet age no one can keep the people away from knowing the truth. President Obama was bang on when he said, “Suppressing ideas never succeeds in making them go away.” Yet, the irony is that ‘Freedom’ is much easier to support in theory than in practice. the US had to impose curbs on Wikileaks and tape the whistle blower whose whistles continue to embarrass the government. Worse, the revolution in the Middle East is not going according to the American script. Scripts don’t work. People want to write their own scripts.
You can bury the ‘corrupt body’ to the chanting of CBIs deceptive funeral rites but its merciless spirit will continue to haunt. So when the government emerges from one crisis and falls with twice the thud into another, it tries to hush-hush the fall. Yet the fall becomes an embarrassing headline the subsequent day. And the post mortem by the people continues on the internet for months. It is unstoppable.
The beauty of the medium lies in the fact that it can axe its own foot, if the foot is in the wrong place. Remember how Barkha fell from the heights of Kargil to the lows of spectrum? The moment you err, media becomes a beast. Print or pixels, the rules apply to all.
The beauty of media activism delivered justice for Jessica, but hounded Aarushi like a beast. The governments have to learn to tame the beast to their advantage to appreciate the beauty of it all. They just cannot gag the beast, or strangulate the voices. You cut one arm, another sprouts from nowhere. This beast snaps on the heels of those governing us, constantly hectoring, incessantly exposing. Beset with controversy after controversy, the government is trying to play judge, jury and the executioner by policing blogs. The suppressed feelings will find other ways of expression.
Dear God of all that is fit to upload, is it a crime to voice genuine opinion on blogs? If it is, it’s a pity.
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If you have a penchant for writing, then the idea of writing a book can captivate you in strange ways. The other night I fell for it, but the fact that I was unable to think of a compelling story, put me to sleep. Moreover, some of my friends are running after publishers only to find their manuscript in some rusty dustbin.
Let’s be honest here. When it is impossible to get five hundred words printed, who will publish an entire book? I also doubt if anyone will read my book, other than poor husband. If he wants two square meals, he has no choice.
As I watch Chetan Bhagat and Anuja Chauhan being catapulted from hobby writers to opinion makers, I see a ray of hope. Maybe.Someday. However intriguing the thought, the first step towards writing a book is finding a story.
‘How to’ and ‘How not to’ books have been done to death. For conjuring fiction one has to be a gifted raconteur to take the reader through highs and lows, through a fascinating journey, all the while keeping him glued to the pages.
I am not a Agatha Christie fan, so a razor sharp thriller is not on my mind. I am a straightforward emotional person who cries at the drop of a hat. Yes, even while watching the news and advertsiements. Only yesterday I cried while watching Aruna Shanbaug’s plight as her lawyer pleaded for euthanasia. Certainly, I do not wish to sob through penning a tear jerker with a box of tissues. Finally, at the end of the day, the book has to sell. My personal life is not exciting enough to be chronicled in ink.
So what can I write? In today’s time and age what sells is reality. As I was mulling over the thought, I came across an interesting article. It was a moment of inner deliverance – a profound moment.
A sharp tongued, Polish cleaning lady has made a splash in Germany by her tell-all humorous memoir revealing the seamy underbelly of German’s penchant for cleanliness and order. Justyana Polanska’s book, ‘Under German Beds’ is on Amazon’s best-seller list. She has exposed the pettiness and lechery of the Germans who had employed her as a cleaning lady. Her employers have dropped their trousers in front of her, then failed to pay her in full and falsely implicated her of stealing. Among the grisly items she has discovered under German beds are freshly extracted wisdom teeth, half roast chicken, bloody tampons, a dead hamster and an entire toenail. Since the Berlin Wall fell, this lady is one of the 50,000 Polish women who have crossed borders in search of a better life. Beneath the clichés, lies the promise of a poignant tale laced with humor.
I am taken by this wonderful idea with a million possibilities. Catch a high profile maid employed for cleaning the powerhouses of the country. And then fish for details. Chronicle them in an amusing style and you have a bestselling mordantly comic caper.
Considering our hypocrisy about morals and voyeuristic inclinations, the cleaning ladies can reveal several secrets. Spicy details concerning the politician-corporate nexus from Antilla, secrets regarding the Gandhi-Quattrochi underbelly from 10 Janpath and Saas-bahu tiffs between Jaya-Ash from Prateeksha will surely find readers. Juicy details about Karan Johar’s sexuality, Amitabh’s hair piece or the truth behind grabbing important posts via washing utensils at 10 Janpath can all be exposed. The book will whet the appetite of the thinker and quench the thirst of the voyeur.
Move over Snowden and Assagne, Kantabai is the new whistleblower!
I am willing to share the royalty. I promise, the cleaning lady will attend all the book launches and literary fests.
I excitedly share the brilliant idea with the husband.
“What rubbish,” is all I get.
With my only faithful reader refusing to read my book, even before the first word has been penned, the entire exercise seems futile. Back to day dreaming!
