tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85796717527072762482024-03-16T00:08:14.968-07:00FreebirdMy happy placeAlka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.comBlogger293125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-85945802771435095152024-03-08T01:11:00.000-08:002024-03-08T01:18:08.263-08:00Is Home comfort, security, people or more?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Q-JB0wY0dqqHe6LCUJ5YKWOQ9tdoOSdrhNLf0jM-drr3cARrRJhXA7XJEcBnv1kRT5S90AUQiuSYJd7s0h4ACR3IG3p3xrJMH4c3j91mzDvSo3GPShO-QaQxZq4nt-tnKu99HiJH9Rr7TccSlLGKCNQAKF3dngSu22EzGiukP7Bw3Br8oe_Dv0a8qL9K/s678/image_123650291.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="678" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Q-JB0wY0dqqHe6LCUJ5YKWOQ9tdoOSdrhNLf0jM-drr3cARrRJhXA7XJEcBnv1kRT5S90AUQiuSYJd7s0h4ACR3IG3p3xrJMH4c3j91mzDvSo3GPShO-QaQxZq4nt-tnKu99HiJH9Rr7TccSlLGKCNQAKF3dngSu22EzGiukP7Bw3Br8oe_Dv0a8qL9K/w417-h277/image_123650291.JPG" width="417" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">This post was first published <a href="https://www.shethepeople.tv/personal-stories/homecoming-responsibilities-alka-gurha-4181053">here</a>. </span><a href="https://www.shethepeople.tv/personal-stories/homecoming-responsibilities-alka-gurha-4181053">Lost Homecoming: The Impermanence Of Ghar (shethepeople.tv)</a><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br />I’m sitting in the balcony of my mother’s home, contemplating a cup of tea. As clouds flit by I wonder how the essence of home has changed over decades. Funny, how you can be in the same childhood home with the same people you grew up with but the place does not feel like home.<br /><br />Over the years people have repeated trite truisms - home is not a place, it’s a feeling. Home is comfort, home is where the heart is. Home is a shelter from storms. Depending on the stage in life, home can be all of these and more.<br /><br />I grew up at a time when belonging had deeper meaning than owning a house. The ability to sell a house and buy a new one is a recent phenomenon. Back then, we didn’t own the official bungalow, it belonged to us. It was wrapped up in a community, a neighbourhood and a way of life. For me, it was my cushion against adversity. Security. A place where I could act the worst and be loved the most. Above all, the reassurance that mummy papa hain na – sab dekh lenge. So when I left for hostel, home allowed the fascination of a flight and the reassurance of taking me back. It felt good to leave and even better to return.<br /><br />Have you noticed how memories permeate into things around walls, doors, trees and peeling plaster? Remember I banged my head here? Where's the guava tree? I learnt to bicycle here. That window glass I broke? Oh, the crack is still there!<br /><br />After my marriage, parents moved houses and visiting home was about going back to the comfort of my favourite people. To unplug and rewind. Home was about not being judged for sitting awkwardly, speaking loudly or being a kid. I could do what I wanted to and not what I was supposed to.<br /><br />In the years that passed, home changed its meaning, one decade at a time. Oscillating between the past and future, I had nurtured new memories in a new place. Like everyone else, I had planted my roots in my married home. My new comfort zone.<br />As we harden into middle ages, our parents begin to soften into old age. This is when visiting home is also about watching parents struggle with latches, forget closing the gas burner, not being able to maintain the garden and get ready for the endless dentist visits. Of course, you know all about cycle of life but an inadvertent sadness wafts in and sticks around - a scar on your soul. It’s a reminder of things to come.<br /><br />Thereafter it’s a downhill journey when one parent leaves. The crackle of cheese pakoras and bread rolls settles down with khichdi and lauki type of delicacies. The clink of wine glasses and coffee mugs is replaced with gargles and snores. The daytime silence feels like the whole house is wearing noise cancelling headphones. The WiFi is erratic, Netflix won’t work and nostalgia begins to loosen its grip.<br /><br />Homecoming is now more about responsibility than comfort or freedom. Happiness now relies neither in maa ke hath ka khana nor the comfort of your childhood bed - it relies in the comfort of your surviving parent. The essential impermanence of life begins to gnaw at your subconscious. With your own responsibilities of husband and children, you now itch to take the surviving parent back to your married home.<br /><br />And eventually your childhood home is lost in the mist of memories. One decade at a time. The cement walls, the swing, iron gate and curry patta plant in the garden stay to tell stories but the house does not hold the same meaning it once did. And you find solace in knowing that home is what you take with you, not what you leave behind.<br /><br /><br /></span></div>Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-91510576334149452112022-06-18T06:48:00.002-07:002022-06-19T06:40:40.680-07:00Delhi to Mumbai - Pao Bhaji to Vada Pao<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHoxsKtPShKZ-e6fff2tSvT3-5sDcNJlxyozb3Zb1t90Xcgl_cSv0DIdNYTFgmckEYcMbmmURLti8wGp7I0yA0KY9SLIsAD6h8t29lX9ENwCLjY703-xzwLVgeTd1j9xyFn4VfAxRfOd6jA0c_bne0SjFuUl0-QHDCPveTBchcPAqCwloMHNr1TLrsAA/s612/IMG_2755%20(1).JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="501" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHoxsKtPShKZ-e6fff2tSvT3-5sDcNJlxyozb3Zb1t90Xcgl_cSv0DIdNYTFgmckEYcMbmmURLti8wGp7I0yA0KY9SLIsAD6h8t29lX9ENwCLjY703-xzwLVgeTd1j9xyFn4VfAxRfOd6jA0c_bne0SjFuUl0-QHDCPveTBchcPAqCwloMHNr1TLrsAA/s320/IMG_2755%20(1).JPG" width="262" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image only to grab your attention</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I live in Delhi/NCR, a place
most of us claim to hate but nobody really moves out. We crib all through summer,
winter and every other day the sun rises in the east but ultimately accept the city,
warts and all. Tedha hai par mera hai.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Change, they say, is the only
constant. Son is moving to Mumbai and I will now flirt with Mumbai - a
city I have evaded for half a century. All I have seen is the Bandra gym
visited by Malaika Arora on Instagram. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Anyway, I’m now going to disown
all the twitter fights between Delhi and Mumbai I’ve so valiantly fought. No
more Mumbai winter jokes. Who said Mumbai winter is like having diet coke or green tea instead of the real
thing? No, I never said Delhi has AC metro, wide roads and you can buy a
fancy car and actually drive it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’ve convinced myself that
Mumbai will now have a special place in my heart like my triglycerides. Because
humidity is nothing but God’s way of helping us lose body weight by sweating. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Once decided, house hunting in
Mumbai during monsoon is your worst torment. The fact that you are from Delhi
does little to help. Your reputation trumps everything. Brokers expect you to
say, ‘BC, Good morning, how are you MC?’ They assume you wear ‘sungoggals’ for
a dinner party with ‘Choti Dress Me Bomb Lagdi Mainu’ blaring from your car
stereo. Others think you are related to a thug named Khurana from Khosla ka
Ghosla. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But wait. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Shed your swag because a lot has changed over the years.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Today if you go to Mumbai and say, "Janta nahi mera baap kaun hai?" you are likely to get, "Tu bhi pitega aur tera baap bhi pitega."</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Like most middle class chipku mothers,
I’ve been involved in the search of an elusive Mumbai apartment. To begin with,
the demand supply ratio in certain areas is as skewed as Kangana’s equation
with a man whose name rhymes with JLo.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Regardless, you save telephone
numbers of an assortment of brokers and ask broker A.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Me: Show me something in this
area, kuch hai?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A: Hain na, D 406 hai. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">You’ve seen the house twice so
you ask broker B. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Me: Do you have anything in this
area?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">B: Hain na D 406 hai. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Same story with C, D and E. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Finally when the broker takes
you to D 406, three different couples are checking the same house at the same
time. By the time your wife is scrutinising the kitchen chimney, the broker
asks you to leave. Hello, what happened? He was pumping up sunshine five
minutes ago and now he’s all cold and distant. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“It’s taken,” he says. “The man in
green shirt has paid advance.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“But they came after us,” you
insist. “They haven’t even seen the kitchen.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Sir, they paid,” he shrugs.
“You took too much time.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Multiple emotions gush through
your mind like a gutter during rains. You return back to Delhi with a moving
date but no house in hand. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">One Sunday, the broker gives you
a call. He wants you to see an apartment on a video call. This time you try not
to bicker about missing balconies or absent storage. As a supportive mother, we
agree that balconies are a waste. Why pay for pigeon love-making area? Anyway,
all we do from our Gurgaon balconies is watch an approaching dust-storm or the neighborhood hottie dry her towel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“What’s the view like? Is that a
slum?” you ask.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Sir, baju me hai. Baarish
me nahi dikhega.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">By now, it makes sense to
reconcile that Chicken Kohlapuri is way healthier than Butter Chicken. Not to
forget possibilities of resolving your existential crisis on Marine Drive, driving
to Lonavala over the weekend, running on the beach like Urmila Matondkar
wearing Tiger’s daddy’s baniyan and looking at a real working rickshaw meter!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">More often than not, you have one kill joy
friend who cannot stop from saying, “Bhai kyo jaa raha hai? For this money, you
could have moved in a villa in Gurgaon, no?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Once you have a house, you
defend Mumbai like Prithviraj Chauhan defended his land from Mohd Ghauri. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Big cities have small houses. Have you ever
lived in London or Tokyo? Plus Mumbai has genuine friends who support no matter
what.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Silence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Tedha Hai Par </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">AB </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Mera Hai.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p>Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-55531761125081669772022-05-24T23:59:00.001-07:002022-06-19T06:11:08.726-07:00About Panchayat<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhuQfMOaFv0iafJTVKoE8MHCen0znG-_QMmkOXt-kmUecznKv0JYhWsNA8xfHbkJn1Nd3qfnfDFO37hZJXvCIEaeo-M2j4IYkRvDFNH_GDWXI1nNLD6WkIyxK1-TEI9mftgfDGs43Dq7aNNiaIEqQRkQCl7wHvd8rlQqzJRWMbHsj3OqcqOrbCgoIjgg/s686/IMG_2349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="686" data-original-width="686" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhuQfMOaFv0iafJTVKoE8MHCen0znG-_QMmkOXt-kmUecznKv0JYhWsNA8xfHbkJn1Nd3qfnfDFO37hZJXvCIEaeo-M2j4IYkRvDFNH_GDWXI1nNLD6WkIyxK1-TEI9mftgfDGs43Dq7aNNiaIEqQRkQCl7wHvd8rlQqzJRWMbHsj3OqcqOrbCgoIjgg/s320/IMG_2349.JPG" width="320"></a></div> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I saw Panchayat because
I wanted to watch something more boring than my life. Yes, that’s how add zing
to my weekend life. Okay, I’m joking but frankly, I’m glad I did. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No, this is not a
review. I’m simply wondering what makes a slow burner like Panchayat a winner. Go
ahead, roll your eyes if you are thinking, “She writes after so long and this
is it?” Can’t help, I love writing about inane stuff. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Come to think of it, a
bride in Churu, Rajasthan married someone else because the groom got delayed. In
a world of instant gratification, who has the patience for a show set in a
village called Phulera? There’s no fun watching grass grow, is there? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Unlike filmy villages
we have grown up watching, Phulera does not wake up to dulcet sounds of birds with
swaying mustard fields from DDLJ or gurgling streams from Ram Teri Ganga Maili.
No frolicking belles or a chatty tangewali from Sholay. It’s more like the
village from Swades. But wait. Don’t expect Ye Jo Des Hai Tera to play in the
background. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If the backdrop isn’t
much to talk about there must be romance, right? No sir. There’s just a promise
of it. All you get is a whiff. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hum theek hai<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Aap kaise hai? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Theek hain.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The single chance
meeting is limited to having chai-samosa with another friend. The only other intimate
encounters that the protagonist has are with Maggi and Lauki (bottle gourd).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So no romance. What
about action? In the eight episode long show, the only time my heartbeat raced
was when the District Magistrate spotted a villager defecating in the open. So
much for action. Don’t eew, it’s the funniest scene from the entire show.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So what is it that
makes Panchayat endearing?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As with cooking, the
outcome of any show depends on the honesty with which it is prepared. Panchayat
is written with an honest and non-preachy pen. The writer has no intention of
pleasing you with clichés of music, visual appeal or ‘what next’ syndrome. There
are no undertones of religion, caste or social divide. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Acting remains the
highlight of this show as actors slip into characters like your favourite old
jeans. Raghubir Yadav and Neena Gupta as Pradhan couple light up the screen
with their decades of experience and chemistry. Neena as Manju Devi is feisty and outspoken, she knows she's smarter than her husband but doesn't push beyond a point. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The protagonist Abhishek,
played by Jeetendra Kumar (an IIT K graduate) is itching to get out of Phulera,
all the while falling in love with the village and the village Pradhan’s
daughter. He’s restrained, yet a man of action. While Abhishek, aka Sachiv ji
cannot shoot bullets from his ass like Akshay Kumar, he knows how to deal with
the rogue harassing Rinki (Pradhan ji’s daughter). In one episode when Abhishek’s
Gurgaon based friend Sidhartha visits Phulera, you realise Abhishek’s ordeals
are beyond city slickers. That folks are right when they say, ‘You can only
become something if you move out of your comfort zone’. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Personal assistant Vikas
played by Chandan Roy and deputy Pradhan Prahlad Dubey played by Faisal Malik
are as earthy, simple and honest as you can get. Vikas shines as an adorable
village bumpkin who’s alternatively endearing, irritating and annoying. Faisal
Malik steals the show in the culminating episode with his vulnerability as a
single father. Unlike bumping into friends at a city pub, the merry quartet (Pradhan,
PA, Deputy Pradhan and Sachiv) sit under a tree to drown their sorrows in beer
and stale chilly paneer. The inherent niceness in the conversations and mutual respect adds to a refreshing change from expletives laden village based shows.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Add to this small yet powerful characters, for instance the dancer girl who says - we all sell different parts of our body, or the lady who spews fire over her lost slippers and the drunk driver who ends up leaving a merry wink. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Why are people in this
village happy when the only life changing moment in their life is defined by
installation of a toilet seat and not by likes on their Insta post? I’m sure erratic
connectivity and electricity have a role to play in matters of inner peace. How
can you remain stress free when you are arguing on Twitter at 2 am? Or playing
Wordle at midnight?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In a world of gourmet
food, Panchayat Season 2 is like home made daal chawal. It is something to be
relished with bare hands on a lazy afternoon. It is not to be binged. Nope, no
spoon allowed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-40180698402547746652021-05-22T09:27:00.000-07:002022-06-19T06:11:25.361-07:00Find Your Inner Peas <blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4v6gKpu6hSAiLLKD6PKiJtaHpSXX-8Ar9RPWRT1sDzDoSznj8WfDqZLy4oaXPQjLfM2i_6SFLQwZc5egkLeKZ9Fw9do4ZIxi0NarQpJHcOEaEgKhk3MVnZ8bpgQJDqziC0Gu-zFc3uSEi/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img data-original-height="772" data-original-width="1160" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4v6gKpu6hSAiLLKD6PKiJtaHpSXX-8Ar9RPWRT1sDzDoSznj8WfDqZLy4oaXPQjLfM2i_6SFLQwZc5egkLeKZ9Fw9do4ZIxi0NarQpJHcOEaEgKhk3MVnZ8bpgQJDqziC0Gu-zFc3uSEi/w400-h266/image.png" title="Find Your Inner Peas" width="400" /></a></p></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Past month has been so stressful that I find myself resembling Neha Kakkar on steroids. One moment I’m pumping up the sunshine and the other my spirits are so low that I can’t decide what’s going down faster – my boobs or my spirits. The cocktail of home confinement, zero socializing and incessant bad news has led to a great deal of emotional turbulence.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Watching me check my phone at two in the morning, the husband said, “You should practice mindful-ness.”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“The mind is full already,” I snapped. “How much can I fill it?”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">As ironical as it sounds, taking up meditation sounded better than doing nothing. When I can stare at my balcony plants for hours, I can surely watch my breath for minutes.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">So I’m in a solitary room with meditation apps and videos to morph into a serene Simi Grewal from a miserable Nirupa Roy. The background sound of splashing waves plays on the phone. Swish. Swash. Imagine you are in a happy place. Feel the warmth of your breath in your nose as you inhale. Notice the mild rise of your stomach as you inhale.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Focus on the rise and fall of your stomach.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">For one, ‘rise and fall of stomach’ has become a very sensitive phrase after all the stress eating. Two, I’ve spent so much time on Instagram that gentle waves obscured by blue skies somehow take me to Maldives and Disha Patani’s bikini pictures. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Yet, I return to my breath.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Proud of the focus. As I breathe, I’m counting backwards. Ten, nine….</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">At seven, I’m proud of my unwavering focus. I’m away from WA and Twitter. I haven’t checked the active cases or the TPR in last thirty minutes. For the uninitiated, TPR is test Positivity Rate and not Total Profit made by Radhe.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Feel the warm breath entering your nostrils. Rather odd, but for some reason I sense a burning smell. Must be milk on the burner. I call my husband in the next room and he sounds exasperated, “Forget milk. Forget everything,” he says. “Just focus on your breath.”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">If it’s not the milk, what’s this strange smell? I can smell, right? Phew! That’s good enough for now. Back to meditation.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Inhale. Exhale.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Ting.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I’m tempted to check twenty-three new WAs. What if neighbour’s oxygen saturation dipped below 90? If I’m a neighbour of any decent denomination, I have to help. Thankfully, the neighbour is fine. Inhale. OMG, there are two new cases in my tower. Exhale. Who could that be?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">I continue to focus on my body. Feel the gentle sensation.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Wham.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Why is the second molar hurting? It was fine in the morning. I wonder if the dentist is open because I saw his pictures from somewhere in Nainital. Gosh, how can he enjoy crisp mountain air when I’m calming the activity of parietal lobe of my brain? Nainital reminds me how much I’m missing a road trip. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">This is too stressful. I contemplate watching Season 3 of Downton Abbey? I can mute the television and find some peace in knowing if Mathew Crawley finally got married to Lady Mary. No. Are you nuts? It would be too embarrassing to burst the bubble of those who cheerily sent me to meditate. I don’t remember when I dozed off.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">When I emerge from the room an hour later, two pairs of expectant eyes are on me.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“How was it?” asks the husband.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Men are totally to blame for women’s lies. Why do they ask such questions in the first place?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“It was so relaxing,” I brighten up. “I'll do it every day.”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">“You must. Look at the glow on your face?”</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Of course.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Inhale. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;">Exhale.</span></div>Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-88002739110912448982021-04-10T07:33:00.005-07:002022-06-19T06:11:50.293-07:00A Good Thing <p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">Lockdown Diary</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 18pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifeH70eS8kUHHWHDAZWi7ZcPUI-HRvR9OxJZv3kQNZkssLAiwv1Mn5kkNfExJodvAxNGYbOIOVf0lry3w3lzMz31zPJ4wShi_bWIysaBTVXH99Asf31KsvWeHx9EBF9FHgWP-mqFpdEMxZ/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="1024" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifeH70eS8kUHHWHDAZWi7ZcPUI-HRvR9OxJZv3kQNZkssLAiwv1Mn5kkNfExJodvAxNGYbOIOVf0lry3w3lzMz31zPJ4wShi_bWIysaBTVXH99Asf31KsvWeHx9EBF9FHgWP-mqFpdEMxZ/w400-h210/image.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s a warm balmy April night. I sit with my mother in the balcony. A rapt silence rules the apartment lawns around us. After a long sigh, Mummy mutters, ‘When will this end?’</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The stars above us are specs on a hazy charcoal canvass. An occasional flight blinks in the sky, telling us that things are not normal but life goes on.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Same time last year, nature had claimed its territories and the sky was ablaze with stars. Haze had cleared to give us a glimpse of snow capped peaks from as far as Saharanpur. Remember, Hyderabad had spotted a leopard on a busy highway? Noida had galloping Nilgais. Why, my own A-ha moment was spotting a Kingfisher in the land of pesky pigeons.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As May and June broke lazily and lockdowns melted into each other the occasional, ‘When will this get over?’ became a weekly thing. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘By Diwali this pandemic will disappear like Sars,' I assured. ‘We’ll burn a bonfire of masks and dance to drumbeats in Holi 21. And then plan a trip to Chicago.’</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There was hope.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">With the ominous rumblings of clouds, monsoon arrived and restrictions eased over time. The house helps were back, as was air travel and eating out. Small steps but as delightful as moist clouds scudding over my condominium.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Diwali, unfortunately saw another deluge of cases. And a 75th birthday remained muted. A landmark anniversary celebrated over Zoom. A wedding cancelled. A job lost. A life mourned.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And yet, there was hope.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘When will this end?’ her voice now had a desperate tone. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘Soon,’ I sighed. ‘This will soon turn into an endemic. We can live with that, right?’</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘I’m not asking for much. I only want to see my dentist, go to the bank and hug my grandchildren without this gnawing fear,’ she said.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So what if we didn’t have a normal 2020, we will have a blast in the New Year. The promise of vaccines held light within.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A refreshing March arrived holding bright spring in its arms. As more and more people got vaccinated, it was time to book tickets to Goa, fix wedding venues and fly to meet the grandparents.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then the adage, ‘Life happens to you when you are making other plans’ sprang up to ring true.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The respite was short-lived.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Wham.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We were back in the prickly arms of March 2020. Forget dancing around a mask bonfire, I was ordering a N95 to ditch fancy cloth masks.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Worse, now we had mutants. And ominous words like ‘immunity escape’. When the world ought to move on, it was going on and on in tiresome waves.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The goalpost has now shifted to 2022. Because there is that stubborn thing. Hope. It sees light despite all the darkness. It jumps months, leaps years.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So when mother asks, ‘When will this end?’ I joke, ‘Soon. Hamari filmon ki tarah, end me sab theek ho jata hai. Agar theek na ho to picture abhi baki hai.’</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Mom regains enough pep to retort. ‘Don’t give me Bollywood crap.’</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘Ok, Hollywood crap chalega?’ I chuckle. ‘You should watch Shawshank Redemption.’</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘What’s that?’</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">‘Same thing in English,’ I smile. ‘That hope is a good thing. Probably, best of all. And a good thing never dies.’</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span> Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-15266184875742628662021-01-30T02:02:00.006-08:002022-06-19T06:12:21.320-07:00Smart Desh Ka Smart Vaccine<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8hYa1ZH-blXFritB-Tp8cHCtuihIoywXV59k4mVoLiPrjmO5X0DRBX4COIYjl3xJLqvJbAlHtRRvOmdVaRoRhyphenhyphendcjNcdqy5CAW8ONcmGzUdz4QABvaVjeAAKhuwvrS3S_ZP_7N6MRIdeK/s1401/cartoon-woman-nurse-costume-book-syringe-her-hands-154341733.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1401" data-original-width="1328" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8hYa1ZH-blXFritB-Tp8cHCtuihIoywXV59k4mVoLiPrjmO5X0DRBX4COIYjl3xJLqvJbAlHtRRvOmdVaRoRhyphenhyphendcjNcdqy5CAW8ONcmGzUdz4QABvaVjeAAKhuwvrS3S_ZP_7N6MRIdeK/s320/cartoon-woman-nurse-costume-book-syringe-her-hands-154341733.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">To begin with, let me tell you that this post is your most unhelpful guide to vaccination. All because instead of studying vaccines and their efficacy data, I’ve indulged in a vest-by-vest comparison of who got what vaccine. Unless you live in a cave, you must have seen the trend of docs posting vaccination pictures and inadvertently exposing ‘andar ki baat’. As one doctor friend said, the various side effects of the vaccine are malaise, mild pain, fever, myalgia and photo achchi nahi aayi. But all is not painful or in 'vein'. There is a bright side to getting injections because we may get to see Dr Nene getting his jab in his Amul Macho - <a href="https://www.blogger.com/#">Ye To Bada Toing Hai.</a></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">As for me, I’m thankful for our population, pollution, BCG immunisation and golgappe wale bhaiya’s armpit sweat that helped us develop strong immunity.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Regardless, we should all get vaccinated so that we can happily go back to our national pastime - jhappis and pappis. It’s been sooo long, even Modi ji hasn’t hugged a world leader. Also because I want to go back to a cinema hall and watch a movie. I'm tired of watching Pankaj Tripathi in every second Netflix show.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">If you are the anxious type, you can play the wait and watch game. Like your friends did after your viva exam. But the waiting game can be dicey. For one, a mutant strain can land you in the arms of a ventilator. And two, when Zydus, Sputnik, Novavax, Sinopharm and Genova enter the vaccine market, picking the right one can be as confusing as being a fart in a fan factory.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sample this for a future. You walk into a chemist shop with the best collection of vaccines in town, including vaccine patches and vaccines sprays. The competition will be so tough that pharma companies will rope in Bollywood to endorse their vaccines.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Smart Desh Ka Smart Vaccine.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Zydus Hai Jahan Tandurasti Hai Wahan.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Isko Laga Dala to Life Hai Jhinga lala.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Your chemist will proudly announce, “Sir ye lijiye, market me naya hai. Imported hai. Nahi nahi Sir, China wala nahi hai.” You will look so profound as if you are advising Joe Biden on Paris Agreement but finally end up saying, “Ye Anil Kapoor wala laga de bhai.” Unless you are the guy who will take any vaccine that does not require alcohol abstinence between doses. Alcohol, after all might not help with herd immunity, but it’s worth a shot.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Other relevant thoughts pass over me like clouds. Why can’t we get the jab the ‘Hip Hip Hooray’ way in our gluteus maximus instead of the deltoid muscle and make Kim Kardashian proud? In case of any minor swelling, the lady can serve cocktails on her tail bone.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Even better. What if we rope in Jhon Abraham as the poster boy for our vaccination drive? It will be a ‘jab’ well done.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsD1PY_s2WSzyM3XsXrw3PxkR3RcgJIRZun1gQ7ui34RmzkhUY064jU_FehnNf5A1ysaE-k-tt-wzIPYbyxGaxs6Ic3lYnz-A9tqWXHubovZmg3fYRkiNXDr25QHmxYkR3J3dTyIEdcGk/"><span style="font-size: large;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsD1PY_s2WSzyM3XsXrw3PxkR3RcgJIRZun1gQ7ui34RmzkhUY064jU_FehnNf5A1ysaE-k-tt-wzIPYbyxGaxs6Ic3lYnz-A9tqWXHubovZmg3fYRkiNXDr25QHmxYkR3J3dTyIEdcGk/w182-h302/image.png" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Come to think of it, if scientists can invent a vaccine in record time why haven’t they found one that gives us a body like the national heart throb Ms Patani? How difficult is it? Dear Bharat Biotech, once you are done with this pandemic, think of something that makes French fries cleanse my arteries. Let aging add to my hair volume and not my waist volume.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">How about a vaccine that burns more calories while sitting than exercising?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">On a serious note, unless you trust your immunity or your doctor suggests otherwise, everyone should get vaccinated. And if for some reason you wish to wait, the choice is yours. Ultimately it is about choice. After all, exercise and Tequila, both can make you look good.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">And if this reads like the most logic deprived crap like Ram Gopal Verma ki Aag, I warned you in the beginning. Nope, I don’t feel guilty for wasting seven minutes of your time. If it was five, you did not read the whole thing. You deserve Chetan Bhagat.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Cartoon Courtesy : Stock Illustration Google Image</span></div>Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-15386831252350972102020-12-18T00:32:00.003-08:002022-06-19T06:12:37.969-07:00Hearbeat at your Feet<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5JMh7IbQU2U4hAJbQZ2Kttft7M1kqN_Ap9R4qvQyk3HgRUwJlpfZYlYSMURfLUK9kYvV-uNKsSchgOJsH74Or_XVTk5SeVhR4H6ESgnU7_x-Znt2B2ZUmyne3pHC9jcIy8FOtS0VnfpkT/s733/270485.JPEG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="733" data-original-width="684" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5JMh7IbQU2U4hAJbQZ2Kttft7M1kqN_Ap9R4qvQyk3HgRUwJlpfZYlYSMURfLUK9kYvV-uNKsSchgOJsH74Or_XVTk5SeVhR4H6ESgnU7_x-Znt2B2ZUmyne3pHC9jcIy8FOtS0VnfpkT/s320/270485.JPEG" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">There are two kinds of people. Those who stay away from
pets. And those who think life is
meaningless without four legs and a happy tail. I belong to the former. So far.
Who knows what tomorrow holds? Hell, we don’t even know if 2021 will behave
better than 2020. Or if Salman will ever get married.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I don’t mean to exaggerate but petting a dog was my biggest
lockdown achievement - second only to meditating for thirty seconds. It was not
always like this. Let me flashback to my childhood when I could cuddle a pet
without the mental image of getting mauled and getting my bum injected.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We used to live in a
sprawling railway bungalow where spending a leisurely afternoon meant scaling
guava trees and biting the raw ones before parrots did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a childhood that entailed chasing
butterflies and picking dead ones to preserve in your Enid Blyton. It meant letting
a lady-bird crawl on your hand as you whispered ‘pass-fail’ to watch the insect
fly away on ‘pass’ or ‘fail’. It was also about plucking a spring onion shoot
and blowing air in the hollow stem to make a farting sound. And giggle
dementedly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One afternoon while counting the snails, I chanced upon a fluffy
kitten in the bushes. Promptly, I knew where my cup of Rooh Afza laced milk
belonged. I picked it up and named her ‘Juhi’ only to realize that ‘Juhi’ was
Tom and not Molly. As months passed, the cat grew bigger, greedier and angrier.
Needless to say, it was a ‘wild cat’ and not a friendly kitten. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon the cute meows turned into loud yowls and
high pitched cat fights. There were days when we shoo-ed him away, but he
jumped in the ‘angan’ with lifeless birds hanging from his mouth. The more we
distanced ourselves, the more dead rats and birds landed in our house. That was
the end of my pet affair. Ending simultaneously with my Kumar Gaurav
infatuation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Decades passed, I got married and my son began pestering me
to get a dog. “If you can’t get me a baby brother or sister, get me a dog”, he
pleaded. It was always a steely ‘no’ that brooked no discussion. There is an adage
that if you are forced to stay away from something as a child, it is the first
thing you do as an adult. So this year my son fulfilled his dream of adopting a
dog. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sometimes it is the
pet that picks you and not the other way round. My kids met an abandoned pup
whose parents had died in a car accident and they chose to adopt him. Yes, very
filmy and very Nirupa Roy-ish. They named him Ozzy, despite the house-help calling
him Ooji, Awji and Rozy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The first time I saw Ozzy, he was less than a month old and
very sick. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He opened his doleful eyes
and curled up with a mild tail wag. I think he smiled a bit with his tail. The
incredible softness and the serene eyes made me pet him minus the fear of a
swollen bum. My children nursed him to health by taking him to the vet for
almost a month for antibiotic injections. There were days when Ozzy was just a
loud mouth at one end no sense of responsibility at the other. There were days
when it was like feeding a mouth that bites you (ok nibbles, he was teething).
All the while, I remained a distant observer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Today, after six months of several chewed laptop cables and
plants, the little chap has brightened up the work from home aka ‘work with
pressure cooker whistles’ life of my kids. Ozzy is a blessing when it comes to
physical fitness, patience, unconditional love and Insta stories. When my kids
arrive at home, the wagging tail is happy for the entire city of Gurgaon. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait. Don’t get me
wrong. This does not mean I’ve become a pet lover. I still don’t get what song the
doggo sings that my kids understand. My heart continues to lurch in my throat
when he jumps on me. I can’t bring myself to hold or cuddle him. I still don’t understand
how wet doggo kisses make people emotional.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">And yet, I remain a
distant lover. Seeing Ozzy’s picture first thing in the morning brightens my
day. When my friends ask, “How is the furball story going? I say, “Thoda sa
pyaar hua hai, thoda hai baaki.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQAjG1R8VslzJ9WbP8SwuaMPdd5nmwU6Iq8TXWHx4VUcZoTAy8oCBH85F3OF-kCZ2pyRYstbICP404z2uzeAVq3t4YMH-d-jeqn6oqkRzxmjf1BbxJa5nz9RyK8IuvJ7NwahCy1d0Z48Gq/s741/IMG-20200829-WA0014_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="508" data-original-width="741" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQAjG1R8VslzJ9WbP8SwuaMPdd5nmwU6Iq8TXWHx4VUcZoTAy8oCBH85F3OF-kCZ2pyRYstbICP404z2uzeAVq3t4YMH-d-jeqn6oqkRzxmjf1BbxJa5nz9RyK8IuvJ7NwahCy1d0Z48Gq/s320/IMG-20200829-WA0014_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p></p>Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-31022458476368131312020-11-19T01:49:00.011-08:002020-11-19T23:54:03.520-08:00Diana - Whatever in Love Means<p><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="482" data-original-width="642" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWrYFFvEXEUXuifyZskFNSuvA6s5FijWGISImnyiuY4feYfit1uF1EW5A0VvbQudBNxCmtKfWnW9P8ENcdFRPHr1gnZLQFodVXfR9S-mfu6YPJc-JabfKycTziiXGm73UPpuln3NY_WhhP/w400-h300/Princess-diana-prince-charles.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Crown</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWrYFFvEXEUXuifyZskFNSuvA6s5FijWGISImnyiuY4feYfit1uF1EW5A0VvbQudBNxCmtKfWnW9P8ENcdFRPHr1gnZLQFodVXfR9S-mfu6YPJc-JabfKycTziiXGm73UPpuln3NY_WhhP/s642/Princess-diana-prince-charles.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: times;"></span></a></div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: times;">This is not a review.
Just musings. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: times;">I don’t mean to exaggerate but after baking sour-dough bread,
the greatest lockdown survival tool has been Netflix. So I made the important announcement of watching Season 4 of The Crown on my WA group. Only to
be told that others had already binged. Yes, this is what we discuss. Netflix. Disappointed?
What else were you expecting? A mRNA vaccine code?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: times;">See, if you are a woman my age the new season of The Crown
is special because it introduces Diana. Charles and Diana saga remains
most watched wedding spectacle, second only to Hum Aapke Hain Kaun. Their romance was like a fairy tale on steroids. So this season I got to
huddle around a campfire of recollection - events I had seen</span></span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 16pt;"> on television, news I had
read in the papers.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: times;">A lot changed in the last few decades. Diana passed away and
Charles married his love Camilla despite professing platonic friendship. Pity, Brits
didn’t know what Bollywood taught us all along – <i>Ek ladka aur ek ladki kabhi
dost nahi ho sakte. </i>Telling you, if you follow Bollywood, you can never go
wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: times;">So back in the 80s, arrival of Diana heralded a new era for
the stuffy British royalty. I was enamored by her. Watching her helped me escape
my own political reality of dull khadi and drab dhotis. We wanted the same haircut. Perhaps Diana’s life
evoked a fairy tale romance for girls who had outgrown Cinderella but were too
young to follow movie stars. There is no denying that the likes of Angelina
Jolie or Kim Kardashian couldn’t match the enigma of Diana, no matter what they
did. Whether her charm resided in her beauty or the bucking off the stiff upper
lip legacy; Diana occupied a special place in our hearts. Like triglycerides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 16pt;">Transfixed to my telly, I remember watching her play with
AIDS infected kids, work for landmine deactivation and waltz with John Travolta
wearing a blue velvet gown. Yes, I have this quality of remembering the past
even though I open the refrigerator but forget why I opened it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: times;">Coming back to The Crown, Emma Corrin does a splendid job of
bringing Diana magic back to life. With the deeply researched script and eye focused
on detail, we see Diana grow from a royalty smitten teen in frumpy frocks with
frilly collars and baggy sweaters into a determined fashion icon. Same nervous
tilt of the head, same gangly walk, and same coy smile. Capturing that beauty was never easy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: times;">I could flashback to
the time when Charles was asked “You both look very much in love?” Diana blushed, “Oh, yes, Absolutely”, but Charles quipped, “Whatever being in
love means.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: 21.3333px;">( If you like you can watch <a href="https://parade.com/1122221/roisinkelly/prince-charles-engagement-speech-whatever-in-love-means/" target="_blank">here</a>)</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: times;">Emma Corrin captures
the same perplexed look Diana had in that moment. Which means it’s ok to be cold and callous as long as you are royalty. Imagine saying that to your
fiancée today and she will stuff the engagement ring up your nostrils. Or spank you in public.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: times;">The rest of the cast is equally brilliant. Josh O’Connor as Prince
Charles is perfect in portraying an unsure gawky Prince with a slight stoop. Also,
The Crown 4 is not only about Diana but about Margret Thatcher, played by
Gillian Anderson. As someone said, she looks more like a mimicry artist than the
stoic Thatcher we remember. And yes, we also get to witness the Falkland fiasco
amid flashes of spectacular country side.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 16pt;">Going by the news, the royals and the royal biographer is unhappy, claiming
that the show vilifies the royals. Perhaps he
knows better but the show works because the director has not given in to the
temptation of royal indulgence. It is a far cry from routine biographical
accounts as it paints the characters with a realistic human brush. Even in the slightly
nauseating sense of royal entitlement, their humane quirks resonate.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: times;">If you watch it, note that the middle class upbringing
of Margret Thatcher as a workaholic does not auger well with the royals who
prefer the aristocratic upbringing of Diana even though she lacks academic or
social brilliance. Which tells us parents are the same world-over. <i>Ladki apni
jaisi honi chahiye.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: times;">Going back to my brilliant memory, just before the royal
wedding Diana’s virginity had become a speculative sport. The world was
debating her virtues when no one questioned 31 yr old Charles. In many ways, Charles and Camilla saga was like Silsila where Amitabh continues his intimate
encounters with Rekha even as his wife Jaya waits patiently. Only Crown does
not have Charles chewing pan, high on bhang and singing double meaning ditties.
Bela Chameli Ka…..that would be so un-royal. Like Pierce Brosnan doing a Gutka ad.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: times;">Jokes aside, do watch The Crown for a well researched script,
brilliant acting and spectacular sets. As with all nostalgic shows,
only once you’ve finished watching it you feel a sense of void, making you
unhappy that it ended. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: 16pt;">And I’m back at the refrigerator wondering why I opened it.
So much for a trip down the memory lane.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></o:p></span></p>Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-66770004880382900642020-06-09T01:45:00.001-07:002020-06-09T01:51:26.750-07:00Chintu ka Birthday - Zee5 Release<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<img alt="Download Chintu Ka Birthday film Full HD For Free Online on ..." border="0" height="266" src="https://static.india.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/chintu-ka-birthday.jpg" width="400" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">You enjoy a movie for different reasons. The story is one of them. Direction and acting, of course. Your company is equally effective. As is your connect with the movie. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So on my son’s birthday this month, we decided to watch Chintu ka Birthday, a digital release on Zee5. I was keen because AIB (All India Bakchod) has produced the film and I wanted to see how they’ve matured from Bakchodi to movie production. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The movie is set in war torn Baghdad during the Saddam Hussain and George Bush hostilities. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Fade in. The film starts. You witness a special day in an emigrant Bihari family settled in Iraq. Played by Vedant Chibber, it is six year old Chintu’s birthday. The writer duo, Satyanshu Singh and Divyanshu Kumar have tried to capture the innocence of a child and the optimism of a father in a way that it reminds you of <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0118799/" target="_blank">Life is Beautiful</a>. Remember the Roberto Benigni’s Oscar winning movie? The film where a Jew father uses humour to shield his son from the horrors of a death camp? You can seldom go wrong when you portray emotions of family and bonds of friendship in the backdrop of a gruesome war. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The directors let the anti-war sentiment seep in inadvertently as the film gathers pace. Whether it is the grandmotherly indulgence, sibling banter or Iraqi-Indian bonhomie, the film touches each aspect briefly yet subtly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vinay_Pathak" target="_blank">Vinay Pathak</a> as an indulgent father shines at what he does best – being a gem of a person. He’s played that role in so many films like Bheja Fry and Khosla Ka Ghosla that you know Pathak’s optimism will see the film through. That the innocent family devastated by war will be redeemed by love. Eventually. Albeit briefly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Tilotma Shome as the mother was a pleasant surprise as was Bisha Chaturvedi who essayed the role of Chintu’s elder sister. Like a quintessential elder sister, she owns the scenes where she tries to make her baby brother’s birthday special. Seema Pahwa as the grandmother has little to do and yet you are glad she is there with the family as bombs explode and soldiers torment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The 80 minute short film is set in one house and moves through crests and troughs of emotions where you desperately want Chintu to cut his birthday cake. It is in the capturing of moments between Chintu and his family that the director pulls your heartstrings. It is in conveying the message that we have to make the most of life despite problems that are beyond our control. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The film is simple. Sweet. But it’s not great. Or memorable. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I enjoyed it because of the company. And the Chintu connect with my own Chintu. </span></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-88131899021264741402020-05-08T22:43:00.001-07:002020-05-08T22:47:31.665-07:00Rear View Mirror<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilYkKQIrsooVYwmACSwvf3ep5nVGIPNsF8g5boXYwjFMNh-NaOD0YXCT0-nCe7QVueLLPc0I2EuUuSF_2xt-UDeNruUl-AGdNiBPHpHLYZ7pCTISEoQvZ46vWteJHhkc0xYc8i2ap7W0f-/s1600/IMG_20170706_101610761_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilYkKQIrsooVYwmACSwvf3ep5nVGIPNsF8g5boXYwjFMNh-NaOD0YXCT0-nCe7QVueLLPc0I2EuUuSF_2xt-UDeNruUl-AGdNiBPHpHLYZ7pCTISEoQvZ46vWteJHhkc0xYc8i2ap7W0f-/s640/IMG_20170706_101610761_HDR.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Kathmandu</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Scrolling down my twitter feed, I stumble on a tweet that says, <i>‘Post a picture of a landscape taken by you. Let’s travel virtually and flood this place with landscapes’</i>. I promptly scour my picture folder and share pictures. One, two, six, ten.....</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">These days I find myself looking wistfully at my vacation pictures and childhood photos. Frozen moments. Happy memories. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">See, if you lose your mind as often as I do, it makes sense to take the mind off unpleasant things for the peace of mind. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Got it? Never mind. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What I’m simply trying to say is that nostalgia acts as a reminder that if things were beautiful once, they will be again. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Forced in a lockdown, we are passengers watching months flit by like scenery from the train. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> At a time when there isn’t much to the ‘present’ and future is as uncertain as Tusshar Kapoor's career, past is the only happy place to be explored. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I refuse to feel guilty about it. All through this lockdown I have tried to pump up the sunshine. I have tried to be as bubbly as a laughter show judge. But in Lockdown 3.0, there are days when anxiety sneaks in. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’m sure it happens to you. Days tick by in a whirl of a mop but evenings present you with a lot of time to ponder. There you are sitting in your balcony empathizing with prison inmates, watching the neighborhood hottie wield a broom and suddenly it comes. A tickle in the throat. Cough. Wham, you forget everything, ‘Could it be that’? Your palm reaches your forehead. All well there. Must be some allergy. Or was it the ice cream last night? Ah, stop being a Covidiot. But what if ? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Like all prisoners I try to take my mind off the pandemic track. </span><span style="font-size: large;">The news anchor from the living room blares ‘Hum aap ko dikayenge Corona Ka Kehar’. I ignore.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I try to talk to a friend and relive college memories. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I try to think of scenic places and happy moments. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">George Clooney. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Needless to say, looking at the rear view mirror helps. Which is why people are happy travelling back to the 80s and 90s. Whether it’s watching Ramayana and Mahabharata or Chupke Chupke, Chasme Baddoor and Khoobsurat, we are triggering memories to make our lives meaningful. There are days when I’m so bored that I’m willing to go back to school and savour the whack from my mathematics teacher in sixth grade. Okay, kidding. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Truth is, the new normal of not being able to go out even for a walk is telling us not to take things for granted. We are yearning for simple joys that seemed frivolous earlier. Is it any surprise that I absolutely loved an underwhelming Netflix series, The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panchayat_(TV_series)" target="_blank">Panchayat</a>. For a Breaking Bad and Narcos generation, what is it about Panchayat that is making us fall in love with it? Perhaps the message that we can find meaning in toughest times? Or perhaps the fact that we can find interesting in the boring? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This pandemic is threatening things that made our life meaningful. Reliving memories is an inadvertent attempt to restore our sense of purpose. It can be travelling on a song, a movie or a picture. Nostalgia may be a liar, but if it helps tide the present, I’m willing to seek comfort in the arms of a liar.</span></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-41182510948609797862020-04-14T23:05:00.000-07:002022-06-19T06:13:14.076-07:00The Big Chop<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Don’t 'dye' </span><span style="font-size: large;">laughing but this has been my biggest lockdown moment. Baking, mopping or sweeping are nothing compared to my recent hair-raising</span><span style="font-size: large;"> achievement. To cut the long story short, I gave my husband a haircut.</span><i style="font-size: x-large;"> </i><span style="font-size: large;">Chop. Chop</span><i style="font-size: x-large;">.</i><span style="font-size: large;"> Look, if you think I’m being dramatic, there are reasons for my '</span><span style="font-size: large;">over-the-mop'</span><i style="font-size: x-large;"> </i><span style="font-size: large;">excitement. For one, my husband doesn’t allow anyone to touch his fistful of strands. And second, try cutting a man’s mop without the necessary accouterments like the trimmer or a sharp scissor. It’s as tough as extracting alcohol from the sanitizer. Okay, I’m exaggerating but you get the drift. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So it all began two weeks ago when I humbly offered hair cutting services. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“If I mess up, consider shaving it off. Nobody will notice in this lockdown. If kids he-ho-ha-ha-ha, you can wear a cap during video calls.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“No way,” he said in a steely voice that brooked no argument. “ I’d rather wait for this lockdown to end than risk it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Both of us knew, it wasn’t happening anytime soon. But hope can be a stubborn thing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Two weeks passed. And hair we were. Fed up with the unruly mop and heat, the husband had reached a split end. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Can you trim my hair in the evening?” he asked sheepishly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hiding my inexplicable excitement, I nodded with a straight face. I had a task. After Modi ji left me bereft of any task in his third address, I was looking forward to some challenge. This was my moment of empowerment. A had a balcony task.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So while he spent the morning preparing a report, I browsed through an assortment of hair cutting videos. I wanted to be a cut above the rest. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When the designated moment arrived, I asked him with a straight face, “So what sort of cut do you want? Arjun Kapoor’s ‘Quiff’, Tiger Shroff’s ‘Military Crop’, Akshay’s ‘League Crew’ or Shahid’s ‘ Pompadour’? I can also try a textured top with a tapering fade, what say?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Stop it,” he quipped. “Just trim a bit. And handle with hair. I mean care." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Aye aye captain. Don’t you worry” I replied. “ Promise to chop your mop to the best of my ability."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">With my heart thumping loudly, I began chopping whatever little there was at offer. Had we been young, it could have been a romantic moment. Like sewing a button on the hero’s shirt. As I came close to his ears, my heart could have lurched painfully in my throat. With sweat trickling down my forehead, the soft delirium of his eyes could have created a muted storm. Instead, the only thing going on our minds was - be careful with the ear, be careful with the ear, be careful with the ear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, when I was done I got claps that didn’t reach his forehead. I was indeed a <i>cut above the rest. </i>A wife with <i>fringe-benefit</i>s. When this lockdown ends and people ask what is the one thing that you learnt in this historic stay-at-home period, I can proudly say, “A man’s haircut.” </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">After all, a penny <i>shaved </i>is a penny earned. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Not winging it but he does look like a breath of fresh hair. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I must-ache you all reading this, what’s your haircut story? I’m sure you have one. Do share for the <i>shear </i>fun of it. </span></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-4061793233006800852020-04-12T22:42:00.002-07:002020-04-12T22:42:12.267-07:00Social Distancing with my Newspaper<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">I open the door. A shaft of sunlight falls on the doormat. It’s not there. Along with freedom, this lockdown has taken away my daily newspaper. If there is anything I miss after my house help, it’s my newspaper. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The farewell was long coming. And yet I postponed it by self containment. The romance began with four in 2010 – Times of India, The Hindustan Times, Mail Today and Mint but petered down to just one. The Times of India.<i> The curve had flattened. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I know, I know. I have often demeaned it by calling it ‘Toilet Paper’ but my daily newspaper was like my morning tea. A habit. Routine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, my Resident Welfare Association has advised social distancing from newspapers. It can be a possible source of infection, the circular said. Thank you Jinping for taking away the zing from my life. No dhoklas for you next time you swing on the Sabarmati riverfront. All you get is bat soup.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Growing up, reading a newspaper was an undeclared norm in middle class homes with any pretense to education. Parents took pride in the number of newspaper subscriptions that landed on their doorstep. In many ways, reading a newspaper was also the first step towards winning a quiz competition and eventually cracking a competitive exam. It also spoke about the respect of knowledge and love for languages. Publications like the </span><b style="font-size: x-large;">Illustrated Weekly, Saptahik Hindustan, Outlook, Newsweek </b><span style="font-size: large;">and </span><b style="font-size: x-large;">Readers Digest </b><span style="font-size: large;">were symbols of literary reassurance that covered everyday aspects of our lives. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Old habits die hard. Eager to pass on the tradition, I used to place the newspaper on my son’s study table every morning. After all it’s our job as parents to pass on the enthusiasm we had for things we treasured. Despite the gentle nudges, the young man <i>quarantined </i>the newspaper. He preferred reading news on his phone and used the newspaper to swat flies. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So yes, mornings are not the same anymore. The key here is not about news accessibility. Given my social media addiction, I have enough information on my plate to make me anxious and angry. By the time I get to read printed news, it is already chewed and regurgitated on television and twitter. Moreover, printed news is late and has no sense of drama or outrage. The op-eds can be sanctimonious and boring. Glued to gadgets, it is not difficult to understand why the young find the newspaper unpalatable. In an age of crisp podcasts, the idea that some gatekeeper of information will serve his gently cooked wisdom on paper does not resonate with this generation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Like watches and music systems, even as newspapers continued to lose their sheen my relationship with them blossomed. Being a writer of some lowly denomination, my newspaper was much more than badge of knowledge. It was my teacher. Newspaper taught me how to write. For someone who had not studied English as a language beyond class twelve, articles by Indrazit Hazra, Bikram Vohra, Bachi Kakaria and Amulya Gopalakrishnan came into existence not only as opinions but as lessons in the art of writing - lessons to be chronicled and re-read. As I excavate cuttings of my favourite columns, it feels like discovering a mini treasure. My literary hotspot. Most of them are parched yellow cuttings assembled over decades to be mulled over at leisure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hopefully, as and when life limps back to normal, newspapers will resuscitate back to life like Wuhan. But in a world increasingly mediated by technology - a world where we will wash everything we touch, reading the paper with gloves is not an idea that excites me at all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If anything, this pandemic has underlined the impermanence of most things, what’s a newspaper? </span></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-38728523535349465892020-03-18T23:06:00.003-07:002020-03-18T23:30:25.778-07:00Sulk from Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of all the disasters that struck us in the aftermath of Covid-19 – grocery shortage, social distancing and work-from-home, I’m dreading the third. Work-from-home is an idea most envied after Anil Kapoor’s youthful looks and most anticipated after Salman Khan’s wedding. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And yet, it is torture for someone who has always worked from home. No school, no office and no maid. Everyone in the family is going to work from home. As more and more condos contemplate cocooning themselves, I feel like Tom Hanks from Castaway. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As it unfolds, maids have been asked to go on a paid leave. <i>Karuna Go, Go Karuna.</i> Mine rolled her eyes and shrugged, <i>“Pata nahi upar wali Didi ko kya ho gaya hai. She never gave me a day off. Today she said don’t come unless I call you.” </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At first the idea of WFH seems as romantic as Nick and Priyanka's chemistry. Away from the stress and misery of travel, you have time to pursue hobbies, spend time with kids, bake and play board games. But after a few games of Monopoly, burnt cakes and Netflix, you itch to go out. Socialize. With doctors on the TV panel and no respect for religion and hate that binds us, TV debates have become boring too. How much Netflix can you watch? Why isn't Arnab shouting at the panel doctors?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Given the nice person that I’m, I don’t mean to scare you. But picture this. Your kids are screaming and jumping on the new couch, painting the walls with crayons and the husband hollers, “Control these demons, I’m on a call.” Not to worry because your boss on the other side is battling the same demons. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Stick with me and I’ll tell you why this work from home scenario is not pumping up the sunshine for me. And I’m not alone. Anxious moms in my Facebook group have begun asking, “How to survive the partner in a WFH situation?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Quarantine the husband”, made the most sense. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At first it will feel like you are on a vacation. But after two days of waking up late, ruffling each other’s hair, you will dread the sight of your partner in pyjamas and T-shirt that says ‘Every man should get married, no man should go unpunished’. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then one fine day, when he looks at you with puppy eyes, know that he’s going to ask you for coffee and some snack to go with it. Again. But if you are on a call and she asks you to switch off the gas after the third whistle of the pressure cooker, all hell of equality can break lose. Can. Can is the key word. Of course, I don’t mean to scare you. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After some deafening silence when you hear only the washing machine in the back ground, one of you will go for the broke and say, “WTF, I hate this freaking WFH.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly your computer screens frost as you move into separate rooms. Whether you have work or not, ensure you have Twitter to vent it out on China. Social media is cathartic that way. I do that everyday.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Come evening, you will try to make up as you can’t go out. Stuck with each other, things will cool down, depending on your ego and tolerance. Know that this is what’s going on behind every balcony with people singing songs, ‘Hum Honge Kamyaab’. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Eventually, one of you will have to say sorry because some idiot in Wuhan slurped Bat soup. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">People are calling him a racist but I’m beginning to love Professor of Orange Hair County, Donald Trump. If the West can make jokes about Delhi Belly after a few trips to the loo, I have the right to shout from my balcony, “Damn you Chinese Virus.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On a positive note, this too shall pass like Dabangg 3 and Love Aaj Kal 2. Hoping that our TV debates will soon go back to relevant issues like #Will RW boycott Ranveer Deepika’s upcoming movie 83? # How Tapsee Pannu gave a befitting reply to her trolls. </span></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-6862026792725669122020-03-04T07:06:00.001-08:002022-06-19T06:21:27.481-07:00Hug Addict<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Don’t judge me. But I suffer from the same malaise as Modi ji. It’s called Hugaria – an impulsive urge to hug. Call it a family thing or a cultural trait, I come from a family of hug addicts. We take pride in the fact that we are such a warm bunch. Perhaps it’s wired in my DNA. Perhaps it originates from an inherent desire to love and be loved. Perhaps I won the Miss Congeniality crown in my previous birth. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Come to think of it, I’m not sure when this hug bug got internalized. My husband is happy that full blown Hugaria hit me in my forties and not in my teens. Given how private he is, I can sense his ‘adverse hug reaction’ each time he watches me in a hug overdose. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Like Modi ji, not everyone gets to hug me. Just so you know, Modi ji has been photographed meeting more than seventy leaders but hugged only twenty-three odd leaders. In other words, only one third leaders get a chance to hug him. So just like Trump’s best buddy, my embrace is exclusive. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The only thing constant, they say, is change. With the arrival if this dreaded Covid, there goes the hug, the handshake and even the flying kiss. Why, didn’t we celebrate the Hug Day a month ago? And look at us now? Entire matrix of greeting has changed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This week I met a group of friends for coffee in a mall. Given my predicament, I involuntarily spread my arms for a group hug. Almost everyone frosted. Then they smiled and folded hands like an airhostess on an Air India flight. Who knew that one fine sweep of flu would end our moments of cleavage and make us use our elbows to press the elevator buttons. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Above all, there’s something about Delhi. Three people identified positive in Kerala in the month of February. But we didn’t care. Irony of distance. However, a tornado hit us when one man identified positive in Delhi. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Arre Dilli main aa gaya? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hain kaise? Bataiye? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Within hours we knew his name, age, skin colour, nose shape, address, mama, chacha, and waist size. ‘I was only trying to share information’ says the lady who shared his family picture in our WA group. Unless nature did it, whoever designed this zoonotic evil deserves to read all the Whatsapp forwards doing the rounds. If the virus didn’t kill him, rumours will. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Everyone and his nephew took to WA social service like fish to water. ‘I WA therefore I am’.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> If we can’t travel, go out for movies or meet friends, kuch to log karenge? After all, how long can you keep busy washing hands? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dont get technical but according to Aaj Tak Chemistry, alcohol was the solution. Gurgaon loved it because we anyway drink water only to surprise our liver. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Arguments whether we should play Holi in our apartment are doing the rounds. Why, even Modi ji is not playing Holi. A concerned mom has an idea. Let the kids play Holi with disinfectant filled balloons. Brilliant, no? Wear masks, throw disinfectant and then take a bath with hand sanitizers. Smell good, feel good. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Holi is about Holi Milan. What’s Holi if you can’t smear gulal and embrace your loved ones? So this Holi I have two options. To hug or not to hug. One path leads to a flop festival. The other leads to my extinction. Let’s hope I have the wisdom to choose correctly. </span></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-16592906355859981152019-05-07T21:12:00.002-07:002019-05-07T21:26:52.114-07:00Where Did Time Fly?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">While watching the star cast of ‘Student of The Year 2’ – Tiger Shroff, Tara Sutaria and Ananya Pandey, I had an ‘A-ha’ moment. Well, let’s call it an ‘O-ho’ moment. Even better, call it a ‘Doob-Maro’ moment. Because that is when I felt the tectonic shift of a generational change. I have no clue where the years sneaked past me, but to watch Alia Bhatt morph into a senior and dish out acting gyan to hatch-lings was tough to swallow. If Alia Bhatt is a senior, I'm Asha Parekh. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Eeeks...not a comforting thought at all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Just when I thought I had seen enough burgeoning baba log, I read about Pooja Bedi’s daughter Alaia, who makes her acting debut as Saif Ali Khan’s daughter in ‘Jawani Janeman’. Hello? Why, wasn’t it yesterday that Pooja Bedi, the new age Veronica swirled her skirt opposite Archie Aamir in ‘Jo Jeeta Wahi Sikander’? But no sir, it wasn’t yesterday. Google tells me that it’s been twenty-seven long years since Pooja Bedi recreated Marilyn Monroe’s flying skirt moment. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, suddenly we have a fresh crop like Sara, Tara and Kiara sprouting like mushrooms in monsoon. When I can barely string a coherent sentence in public, these kids are all sassy, chirpy, witty and very sexy. As the Tara-Kiara brigade sashayed on screen, reality hit me on the head. Thud. This is where my life is going wrong. I have no Monday Game of Thrones party to attend. I have no tickets for the Avengers Endgame. Then I summoned all the Whatsapp videos I have seen to focus on the positives. Take a deep breath. Focus on why life is such a leveler. If Alia Bhatt can grow old, you are a raddish of which farm? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yet, when I share my insecurities with the husband, he has ‘what rubbish, tell me something new’ look on his face. Age is a matter of mind, if you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter, he says with all the gravitas of Modi ji denying the reality of missing jobs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Truth is, age matters unless you are cheese. Or wine. Or Anil Kapoor. I scratch my head when they say the best thing about growing old is gaining wisdom. For heaven’s sake, where do they get such bunkum? Isn’t Sara Ali Khan wise and young at the same time? Why should wisdom come with progressive glasses that create a bigger dent in your pockets than Yeti footprints?</span><span style="font-size: large;"> I have tried hard to spot things like wisdom and maturity that others claim to have discovered with age, but I tell you, it is complete hogwash. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Needless to say, I’m not a fan of the aging malarkey. It’s not that I’m vain and I miss my youthful looks. No. It’s the other things that come marinated with age. Like, there is something about aging that makes you forget proper nouns. Whoever disagrees never faced the embarrassment of, “What was his name dammit?” The proper nouns go missing like Suhel Seth from Twitter. There are days when I open the refrigerator and wonder why I opened it in the first place. There are things that keep in safe place and forget what that safe place was. Which is why my heart went out to President Trump, bless him, when he forgot Tim Cook’s name and called him Tim Apple. With a hundred monsters laying claim to his mind, it’s human to forget names. Plus Tim Apple was so much better than Tim Pineapple. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Likewise, Khamosh Sinha slipped between Maulana Azad and Jinnah to create a electoral storm. Or take Hema Malini. The lady forgot what she did for her constituency. Happens.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Regrettably, foggy brain is not the only causality. There are bad hair days followed by bad hair years. You can put all the egg and honey packs on your head but depleting oestrogen ensures you look like Chunky Pandey and not Ananya Pandey. See, once your hormones begin to sway, leaving you as devastated as Balakot, you find solace in Salman Khan’s double chin. If bhai can age, so can you. Yes, yes, I know what you are thinking. Well, one Madhuri or Anil Kapoor do not make spring. The sobering realization dawns once you see Jeetendra’s face botoxed into everlasting ecstasy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ah, so what was I saying? Yes, as I wrap my head around the fact that Alia Bhatt is now veteran, I’m grateful that I’ve just kissed the age of forgetting names. It’s early days. I will worry when I begin to forget faces. Or pulling up my zipper. </span></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-26093760137521145792019-04-25T21:33:00.004-07:002019-04-26T08:47:47.796-07:00 Modi-Akshay Interview. A New Trend ?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">The microphone munchers and pen wielders are upset. Rightfully so. All the interviews with Navika, Anjana and Arnab couldn’t grab eyeballs like the interview with Akshay did. The Khiladi that he is, Akshay walked in wearing pink Vadra-esque pants and created a huge journalistic heartburn with his non-political <a href="https://www.thequint.com/neon/social-buzz/akshay-kumar-interview-with-pm-modi-social-media-reaction" target="_blank">chat </a>with Modi. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The jhola brigade is worried sick. What if it’s a new trend? What if Rahul Gandhi decides to bare his heart to Sanjay Dutt instead of Barkha Dutt?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bole to, possible, right?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It was a smart move. If they don't allow a biopic, let's telecast a soft interview in the midst of elections. The bollywood tadka will make the political gravy appetizing. And it did. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The setting was perfect. The early morning April air suffused with indolence. The sprawling green manicured lawns. The cries of dulcet birds and peacock calls. As Akshay chatted with Modiji, I could almost hear </span><i style="font-size: x-large;">‘</i><span style="font-size: large;">Do dil mil rahe hain magar chupke chupke</span><i style="font-size: x-large;">’,</i><span style="font-size: large;"> in the backdrop. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Truth is, we Indians have this streak of voyeurism. We want to know every detail about our celebrities. Do they listen to music? Do they eat mangoes? With a fork, or with their hands? Do they burp? Fart? Such nuggets make us realize that people we put on pedestal are humans – just like us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Which is why, the bit about the PM reading Twinkle’s tweets created a twitter buzz. In the heat of a bitter election, the casual chat came across as a breath of fresh air. If the idea was to humanize a hardcore politician seen as election winning machine, the soft theatrics reaped positive dividends. Modi ji told us that his buddy Obama chides him for not sleeping enough. "Tu Aisa kyon karta hai? Don't be a workaholic." And suddenly, a voice in my head strummed. When did Obama learn to speak Hindi? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Chup dumbo, I told myself. Forget the details, enjoy the flow of emotions. That said, I agree with Modiji when he says that his problem is not confidence but over-confidence. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Which brings me to the moot question: If we know that a friendly chat appeals to the voters, especially women, why do politicians shy away from revealing their genteel gooey side? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It’s obvious that what BJP thinks of as chess, Rahul plays as ludo. To my mind, the only way Rahul can counter Modi’s promotional blitzkerg is by roping in Ranvir Singh and making him ask: <i><b>‘Rahul ji kya apne Padmavat dekhi? Who do you think has cuter dimples – you or my Deepu?’ </b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Frankly, I wouldn’t mind watching such a chat. Don’t judge me. It’s not that I’m juvenile or unconcerned about serious issues. Truth is, I’m sick of the ‘Naamdaar’ and ‘Chor’ jibes. I’m sick of interviews conducted by journos where my screen bursts into flames watching the 'most explosive interview'</span><span style="font-size: large;">. They make our leaders defensive instead of revealing their true self.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So if any neta is reading this piece, he/she should take this idea forward. For instance, Akhilesh Yadav can nudge Poonam Sinha to ask her daughter Sonakshi for a interview before the crucial polling day. If Akhilesh really wants to connect, he can sit in his living room where his children are jumping around and wife Dimple is peeling mangoes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Sonakshi: </b> Akhilesh ji, tell us, how did you woo your wife Dimple? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Akhilesh:</b> I sang songs for her. In fact I cook for her every weekend.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Imagine, how this conversation can connect women voters of UP with Akhilesh bhaiya. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Likewise, it will be a masterstroke if Mamata didi can rope in Shah Rukh Khan, her Bollywood friend to interview her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Shah Rukh: </b>Didi, do you laugh sometimes? Like a real chuckle? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Didi:</b> I do. When I listen to Kejriwal on radio. He’s funny.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">See, unlike the iconic Rahul-Arnab empowering interview, there are no major flip sides to a friendly interview. It may not be a comforting thought for our journos, but roping in a Bollywood star as an interviewer can be seductive. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don’t mind it at all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sorry, Barkha. </span> <span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-91009662022202240162018-10-27T06:18:00.000-07:002018-10-27T06:18:27.401-07:00Why men suffer from Shopo-phobia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Whoever thinks that nothing can beat the agony of a man in a lingerie shop hasn’t seen a man in a grocery shop. With a shopping list in his hands, he is as clueless as Rakhi Sawant in a library. But nothing can shake his confidence. Remember how Kangana was oblivious of what she was buying at a sex toy shop in Queen? Confident but clueless. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Each time I venture in a grocery shop, I observe men shopping for everything the lady of the house ordered. Don’t judge me. I’m not a sadist, but if you are a writer of any denomination, your discerning eye and an ear for nuance are always an asset. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So it’s a lazy Sunday and I’m at 'Needs', a supermart teeming with women shopping for Diwali festivities. And there he is – dressed in casual shorts, a lost boy look in his eyes and a massive trolley at his disposal. Despite the bounce in his gait, he looks oddly vulnerable. He peers at the list with such seriousness as if contemplating what to say at the UN Security Council meet. Focus. The moment he spots the listed item, he adds it to the basket with an impenetrable air of an ultimate executioner. ‘One down, nineteen to go’. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I smile, because no matter what he does, he is bound to get into trouble. The ‘Honey Nut Cheerio’ he selected with a certain smug certainty is not the sugar free cereal his wife wanted. The orange marmalade he picked is not the mixed fruit jam his daughter loves. The black olives he singled out are not the green seedless variety his mother needs. And that’s not Sabut Kali Masoor dude, that’s Dhuli Masoor dal you just pulled out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Same hi to hain,</i> what’s the difference you ask? Well, I’d let your wife be the judge of that! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Given the number of soda bottles and snacks he is picking, looks like there is a Diwali party at home. Half way down the list, confusion gets to our lone shopper. As expected, he flips out the phone and makes a call. <i>“Baby, should I get Tropicana Orange or Minute Maid Pulpy Orange? And Macaroni is pasta right?"</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I’m unable to over hear what his wife said, but he decides to take another life line. “Excuse me, where can I get Pasta sauce?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Sir, second from left.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Don’t chew me to bits but men can be IIT toppers or MBA’s from top business schools, and yet, following directions is as tough for them as applying mascara. They can straddle the corporate world with amazing ease, hobnob with the world’s who’s who but will not remember where they parked the car in the parking lot. So for unexplained reasons, our guy lands at the wrong counter. This section has an assortment of salad dressings but no pasta sauce. Rather reluctantly, he calls the wife again. “Baby pasta sauce is red but all I see here is mayonnaise?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At this point, I’m fairly certain the lady at the other end is pissed. Because the guy is almost apologetic, “Okay chill, I’ll ask someone.” Given that I have enough masaala for my article, I guide him towards the pasta sauce counter. As I contemplate which oil to buy, I notice the guy has pulled out a bottle of ‘Buy One Get One Free’ Olive Oil. While he thinks he’s clinched a deal, it is likely that he picked Extra Virgin Olive Oil used for dressing instead of Pomace Oil used for frying. Once home, his perky sense of optimism is likely to be trampled by his wife’s heavy boots of reason. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">To top it all, worse awaits at the billing counter. Given that Diwali is round the corner, the queue moves slower than the queue at ATMs during demonetization. Finally, when he is almost ready for billing, the lady ahead in the queue nudges her daughter to hold her place while she sneaks away to pick some bread. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Truth is, the odds of going to the store for a loaf of bread and coming out with only a loaf of bread are three billion to one. No wonder men prefer on-line shopping. It is not surprising why men are Shopophobes and women Shopoholics. The saving grace is that in the era of on-line shopping, both can co-exist happily. On the phone that is! </span></div>
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(The article is not meant to stereotype men.)</div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-9340117774666703912018-09-16T20:47:00.001-07:002018-09-28T00:05:07.015-07:00Manmarziyaan - Flaws of Attraction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">One of the most popular dishes of Bollywood – the ‘love triangle’ gets Anurag Kashyap tadka in Manmarziyaan. Think of it as raw meat cooked on a high flame of romantic passion with a dash of Jab We Met, a sprinkling of Dhadkan and a pinch of Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam. You relish a few spoons, but by the time you finish more than half of it, your tummy begins to protest. Finally, when you are done, you wonder if you have bitten more than you can chew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Given that the clichéd love triangle is given some contemporary flourishes, what really happened? Also given that it is cooked by a seasoned director (Anurag Kashyap) and spontaneous actors (Taapsee Pannu, Vicky Kaushal and Abhishek Bachchan) what could possibly go wrong? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ah, the usual. They know how to create a conflict but don’t know how to resolve it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Set in Amritsar, Manmarziyaan opens with Taapsee Pannu as Rumi sneaking away to have some fun under the sheets with local DJ, Vicky Kaushal. Lest you are mistaken, Rumi, the 13th century philosopher has nothing to do with our fiery Rumi who sells hockey sticks when she is not zipping the town on her bike and unzipping for Vicky. Like Bitti of Bareilly Ki Barfi, Rumi of Amritsar is unapologetic about her smoking, drinking and two-wheeler escapades. In fact, she is like a bomb that explodes anytime, anywhere. Together, Vicky and Rumi are like a carousel on speed spinning through Amritsar’s bylanes. To say that blue haired Vicky is as wild as red haired Tapsee would be erroneous, because he lacks her spunk. Each time Rumi suggests marriage, Vicky gets cold feet. And yet, he can’t see Rumi married to anyone else. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Enter Abhishek who reminds you of Dhadkan’s Akshay Kumar and Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam’s Ajay Devgan - an embodiment of patience and forgiveness. As Robbie, the NRI banker, Abhishek is ready to marry Taapsee even though he knows she loves Vicky. Yes, the same old dish served in Amritsar. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So far, so good. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The role of a fiery Punjaban is a piece of cake for Taapsee and she doesn’t disappoint. When she smiles impishly you feel as if she is keeping a delicious secret, when she cries you want to console her,and when she throws a tantrum, you can’t stop but marvel the incredible softness of her eyes. Taapsee reminds you of Kareena Kapoor of Jab We Met each time she plans to run away. This is not to say that her character is without flaws. Despite Rumi’s spunk, she has a brain of a ten year old. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As an actor, Vicky Kaushal is the find of the decade. I had to pinch myself to convince that this tattooed good-for-nothing lout is not the restrained police officer of Raazi or the shy Gujju from Sanju. If Vicky couldn’t get to do ‘ghapa ghap’ in Sanju, a roll in the bed is all he wants in Manmarziyaan. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Abhishek appears on the silver screen after a self-imposed hiatus. Dressed in a turban to please his family, he plays to role of an NRI banker with perfect ease. Mostly, because he is playing himself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As it happens, after the interval you begin to get flustered with all the ‘yes-no-yes-maybe-no’. Just when you are about to scream, “Yaar decide kar lo kiske saath rehna hai” there are some hilarious moments. Like when Abhishek and Taapsee are on their honeymoon and the parents call to ask, “Aur beta honeymoon kaisa chal rahai? Maza aa raha hai ki nahi?” And just for Taapsee’s blunt retort, the second half becomes worth a watch. I’m not telling, go watch it for yourself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">While the young protagonists can’t make up their minds, the film takes you through the highs and lows of parents who are blind spectators to the manmarziyaan of their kids. We have a come a long way from the days when parents or our 'zaalim samaaj' used to create obstacles in the path of love. Today, it’s our own mind that creates confusion, conflict and complexities. Earlier one night of passion would result in ‘Main tumahre bachche ki ma ban ne wali hoon’ and today sex is like a cup of tea. You can have it anytime, anywhere. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Towards the end, when Taapsee and Abhishek are clearing the table after cooking up a storm, I emerge clueless as to why Vicky decides to move away? Suddenly? Just because the director didn’t know what to do with him? And what did those dancing twins signify? Despite inordinate songs populating the film, I remember only one – the foot tapping ‘Dhyan Kithe Dhyanchand’. And despite Anurag Kashyap being a professional embroider of tales, I am not convinced with the way he resolved the crimes of the heart. The ideas are half baked and film jumps from the frying pan to fire in the second half. Some slices of the pie are delectable but the soufflé doesn’t quite rise to perfection. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A 2 for the film and 1 for acting. 3/5 </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Image from <a href="http://www.pinkvilla%2Ccom/" target="_blank">here</a></span></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-91991408549918739722018-07-01T23:41:00.002-07:002018-07-01T23:41:20.985-07:00All in our Jeans <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Someone asked a businessman, “What do you do?” </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>He smiled, “Whatever it takes.” </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In a <i>jeaneus </i>masterstroke, Baba Ramdev is all set to launch his clothing brand, Patanjali <a href="ttps://www.businesstoday.in/current/corporate/patanjali-paridhan-baba-ramdev-to-bring-sanskari-indianised-jeans-for-comfort-wear/story/279169.html">Paridhan</a>. If ‘swadeshi sim card’ was not enough, Patanjali is about to flood the markets with their ‘sanskari jeans’. Patanjali’s Acharya Balkrishan says, “Swadeshi jeans will be designed according to our customs.” Business is incidental, for the aim is to redeem our culture, preserve its sanctity with indigenousness duly certified. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I kid thee not, but I have been scratching my head ever since. Weren’t the denims all about expressing rebellion – a symbol of defiance? I’m not sure how the cultural denim pants will hug our pert derrieres in a sanskari way. I’m not sure if they will have any ‘Left’ pockets or smell of chandan to drive away risqué thoughts. Perhaps the cultural version will come with a drawstring instead of zippers which are a reminder of our zipped up colonial past. I’m not sure if their brand ambassador will be Alok Nath or Shilpa Shetty, but what I’m sure is that the desi denims will be so pure and pious that even if Twinkle Khanna tries to unbutton them during a <a href="https://www.indiatoday.in/movies/bollywood/story/prosecute-akshay-kumar-twinkle-in-obscenity-case-in-a-fashion-show-2009-hc-to-cops-172043-2013-07-29">fashion event</a>, she won’t be slapped with charges of obscenity or vulgarity. Even better, this Paridhan will purge prurient thoughts that knock your head when you watch Italian football players. Above all, these denims will not be responsible for the age old legend of girls luring boys to their downfall. Yes sir, that good. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“I wish I had invented blue jeans. They have expression, modesty, sex appeal, simplicity – all I hope for in my clothes,” rued Yves Saint Laurent. Truth is, denims were originally <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeans">invented</a> by Jacob Davis and Levi Strauss, who according to Rahul Gandhi, could well have been small time tailors engaged in altering clothes at the Lajpat Nagar market. Right? Well, partially. While Levi Strauss arrived from Germany to San Francisco and set up Levi Strauss & Co that sold denim cloth, W Davis, was a tailor who actually made blankets and tents. When a customer asked for a pair of sturdy pants, Davis used the denim he bought from Levi Strauss & Co. Later, Davis and Strauss patented the pants and called them denim jeans. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As it happens, fashion becomes fashion when everyone wants to follow it. If the fifties were about marines and rock stars embracing denims, the sixties were about painted and embroidered denims - a symbol of rebellious teen freedom. And today, the # MeToo movement, a socio-political phenomenon has found an expression in <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/14/style/metoo-jeans-who-wears-the-pants.html">denims</a>. Women are designing denim jeans, shirts and jackets that have stories of sexual harassment etched on them. The goal obviously is to start a conversation on taboo topics and make sure that people don’t forget about it. Interestingly, earlier this year Topshop created a ‘<a href="https://www.teenvogue.com/story/topshop-fake-news-jeans-donald-trump">Fake News Jeans’</a>, I am assuming in the honour of President Trump. Equally interesting would be if news anchors who sanctimoniously shout from their studios are made to wear Fake News Jeans and Jackets. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture Credit <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/14/style/metoo-jeans-who-wears-the-pants.html" target="_blank">Here</a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My somewhat unreliable and alcoholic sources are telling me that designers are already designing newsworthy denims for the Indian market. Specifically for Delhi, there is an ‘Anarchist Pret Line’ with special Dharna jeans that can be worn at work and also when you sleep on a sofa. Likewise, we have ‘Achche Din’ denims that will make you feel on top of the world even though there isn’t much to cheer about. And finally, a sturdy ‘Secular Line’ for khadi clad storm troopers that will enable the Mahagathbandhan to survive the test of time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Given that the slim fit would be too uncomfortable for our pure and pious pollies to get their jollies, Patanjali can design a baggy fit denim coloured in Indian Indigo held by cotton drawstrings. No points wrangling, because unlike wicked <a href="https://www.wrangler.com/">Wrangler</a>, the Patanjali clothing line will be a hallowed as the ‘khadi’. Maybe Patanjali can call their new jeans Born Players as an alternative to Jhon Players. Even better would be Pevis instead of <a href="https://www.levi.com/CA/en_CA/clothing/men/jeans/c/levi_clothing_men_jeans">Levis</a>, because Pee in place of Lee would be too odd, no? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This piece was first published on <a href="https://www.thequint.com/voices/blogs/patanjali-paridhan-sanskari-jeans-baba-ramdev" target="_blank">The Quint.</a></span></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-46215012658946406112018-04-25T20:42:00.000-07:002018-09-28T00:06:21.188-07:00Morning Special<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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If you have an early morning train or a flight, there are two things that are unlikely to be on time – your cab and your crap. It’s almost a rule. It doesn’t matter whether you book a Meru, Ola or Uber, like the police in an eighties Bollywood movie, your cab will arrive at the last minute. Given that three Uber’s cancelled last time, you decide to book a local cab this time. </div>
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The fact that you wake up at an unearthly hour much before the pigeons on your AC is a torture in itself. It’s four in the morning. To play safe, you call the cab guy even before you brush your teeth. “Where are you? I have a flight to catch?” As expected, he refuses to pick-up the phone. And just when you give up on him and contemplate calling an Uber, the guy on the other end wings it like a politician. He mumbles, “Madam, reaching in five minutes. I’m on my way”. You know he’s not even out of his bed. Finally, when he finally arrives, he invariably lands at the wrong place. You can shout all you want, “C tower, bhaiyya. Didn’t I tell you C? C for Calcutta?” </div>
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“Madam jee, that ij K. K for Kalkatta. I’m opojite B tower. B four Bombay.” </div>
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You have no time for Sena speak, “BC, it’s is M for Mumbai!” </div>
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When you are feeling as helpless as an honest tax-payer, wondering how Nirav Modi’s cab arrived on time for him to flee, the unapologetic dolt arrives. “Madam, don’t worry. You won’t miss your flight. Main hoon na.” Bless you, because this is the closest you get to Shah Rukh. And after this reassurance, he has the gall to stop at the nearest CNG station. “Only five minutes.” </div>
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Damn. </div>
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While in the cab, you remember the other causality. Your urge to go. There is no denying that we Indians are particular about our ‘time to grace the pot’. No marijuana involved here, this is strictly about getting rid of your solid waste. Most of us have a fixed time. Truth is, our entire day hinges on the time, amount and ease of the process. And yet, no matter how much coffee you gulp, there is no sign of any advancement of troops. Not even an itsy-bitsy spasm. It’s like your girlfriend has ditched you at the altar. </div>
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Why, only yesterday you went twice, so what happened today? You can keep solving the puzzle but there is nothing you can do about it. As your cabbie zooms the Wagon R like SRK, alias Major Ram Prasad Sharma, aiming for Mission Milap with your flight, you dread the thought of using the airport loo. Have you seen the grim faces queued up at an airport loo in the morning? It’s like a war scene - sombre, painful and inevitable. After every gush of the flush, few soldiers emerge winners with a pleased look of Shashi Tharoor. Odder still is the sight of those who failed - they look like a hybrid of Mani Shankar Aiyar and Meenakshi Lekhi. Which is a pity, because their final trial is worse - the aircraft loo. </div>
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But if you failed thrice, even D.Raja - the sole custodian of all prickly feelings looks more pleased than you do. If anything, it’s your meeting that’s down the drain. Because constipated people don’t give a crap. In the absence of any bowel movement, there is no guarantee of right vowel movement. The trip anyway is doomed. There goes the hotel’s complimentary buffet breakfast, your sightseeing and even your meeting. No cheesy lasagna with juicy zucchini or a pancake dripping with honey for you. All you get is papaya and fresh watermelon juice. </div>
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So next time both your cab and your crap arrive on time, count your blessings. Visualize hundreds who wake up early to endure this pain – pacing, stretching, waiting and cursing with anxiety ripping them apart. Thank your stars. Write a gratitude post. Or visit the nearest temple with eleven coconuts. </div>
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This piece first featured here - <a href="https://www.thequint.com/lifestyle/life/in-life-your-cab-and-your-crap-never-comes-on-time" target="_blank">The Quint</a></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-29145407481507301722018-04-04T03:42:00.004-07:002018-04-29T09:57:07.054-07:00User Manual for Parents with Adult Kids at Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">There comes a stage in life when you look at exasperated, somewhat embarrassed parents of toddlers throwing tantrums with a sense of longing. And amusement too. You reminisce the good old days of your own kids who are now adults. Except, the parents on the other side don’t get it. Continuing to mollify their baby, they give you a cheesy smile, ‘You sicko. Don’t laugh at our misery. Why don’t YOU tame this monkey, huh?’ </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But you’ve come a long way from terrible two’s to turbulent twenty’s. What comes to your mind is your own kid - far away in college. And the eerie silence of your empty nest. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">That is when you solemnly place a hand on your heart. <i>You promise that you will not yell when you spot wet towels on the bed and shoes strewn all over, as if in a war zone. No grumbling over pizza crumbs on the bed and nail clippings on the side-table. No questions asked. Just come back. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If you are fortunate enough, they return - only to fly out forever. But once your adult kids are back home, you learn to balance the equations all over again. Truth be told, it is time to control yourself, not your child. It’s a good idea to dump your trademark gems - <i>‘It is for your own good - Do what you want - You will thank me one day - When you are my age you will understand’</i> in the nearest dustbin. Their efficacy is no more guaranteed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For starters, learn to ration your questions. Talk when they want to talk. It’s a tightrope walk between zipping up and speaking your heart out. What to say. How to say. And above all, when to say. Remember how you waited for your parents to be in a good mood when you wanted them to listen? Exactly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Nothing scares you like the announcement, ‘I’m taking the car.’ Of course, they will drive. Adults do. You did. But this one sentence can cause tremors worse than a major quake. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is past midnight, and you are pacing down the corridor. Waiting. Different voices in your head begin to strum. While dads begin to snore as soon as they hit the sack, your motherly fingers linger on the Whatsapp. Last seen one past midnight. Must be driving. When you hear the door click, your motherly instinct will urge you to pop out of darkness and ask</span><i style="font-size: x-large;"> ‘beta khaana khaya?’ </i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Calm it. Learn to override the old parent kid relationship. New boundaries are a key to better understanding. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-lpVsNnp9ENI_OH49LFu_ApZfgJrfct9fpqlCNfhan6ryzwe4R4JHbgQZPlVZwsFLpuzDVq4GZvUv7hEP4tDYg9in2f7FxNwnwmxgk24poBVVIfl4D_d1a1tbk6ZlyyCfpqBANxEnlhVY/s1600/Screenshot_20180318-211850.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-lpVsNnp9ENI_OH49LFu_ApZfgJrfct9fpqlCNfhan6ryzwe4R4JHbgQZPlVZwsFLpuzDVq4GZvUv7hEP4tDYg9in2f7FxNwnwmxgk24poBVVIfl4D_d1a1tbk6ZlyyCfpqBANxEnlhVY/s320/Screenshot_20180318-211850.png" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If your kids were in a hostel, they are not used to explanations about their whereabouts. When the timing is right, remind them to send texts as a matter of a family safety rule. There’s a thin line between your maternal fear and genuine safety concern. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I understand, it is not easy to give up that privilege of popping ‘when, what, where and why’. After all, these gems were the pillars of your parenting. But now you are dealing with adults who are at home for a brief period when they could well be living in New York or Singapore. So even if every cell of your body is screaming, ‘where were you’, your parenting is now about respecting independence. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Emotional support, yes. Physical support, not as much. Intrusion, never. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bear in mind that they survived without you in college. Their nocturnal routine is likely to press your stress buttons. Yet, you</span><span style="font-size: large;"> can do little about their unearthly hours.</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> What can’t be cured must be endured. </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is not to say you can never express your discomfiture. Look for the right time and the right way to convey what is not acceptable. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Since you are mastering self-control, reign in the urge to pass on the phone to make them talk to relatives. I understand the relevance of family, but for reasons unfathomable, talking to relatives over the phone is as painful as their first period or a deep gnash while shaving. Extend invitations for family functions, but don’t force togetherness. As with most of us, they will interact when they wish and not when you force them to. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Despite all your restraint, three consecutive late evenings and there is the risk of you reverting back to your old obsessive self. "Shakl dekhe hua Zamana ho gaya". </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Reign in the paranoia and count your blessings. Because if your kids were in a different city, the outings could well be five nights in a row and you wouldn’t get a whiff. Moreover, there is always the risk of being too presumptuous and imagining the worst when all they were doing was hanging out with friends or watching a movie. At the risk of sounding preachy, it is best to trust your upbringing. Mostly, young adults are more responsible and mature than you imagine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">All said, parenting doesn’t get easy, it just gets different. And by the time you’ve mastered it, the rules change. <i>Damn! Must mothers always oscillate between challenges? </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Once you accept that you are now an emotional consultant and not a quality manager, it’s a beautiful phase. A great opportunity to bond before they fly out to raise their own families. Above all, tech-support for your phone and laptop is just a knock away. </span><br />
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-91099993279313559562018-03-21T21:48:00.002-07:002018-03-21T22:04:47.116-07:00Death by Dance<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">There are different ways to celebrate a win. Jumping up and down is one of them. As is punching the air. Snake dance is equally effective. What used to be a signature move of a drunken uncle during an Indian wedding became a patent of the <a href="https://www.hindustantimes.com/cricket/bangladesh-s-nagin-dance-celebration-mocked-after-india-win-nidahas-trophy/story-NvAAHsGGuW6pgozRtsalyM.html" target="_blank">Bangladesh cricket team.</a> During the recent T-20 tri-series, the boys in green mastered the ‘naagin dance’ by making it a viral social media trend. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0C0MJ0EJwDBLEbf0n7BcrI4DlYXLY892w8eMXdtZRJoGRUTwr458u4wnz0RDsfertBNlu8B_znnPJuQlrLfzyC1emoQihDMUCsKPcwdGa4FWH_WnX_eeeYH2ks4hvObPxz8IyDSq5_m6d/s1600/sri-lanka-bangladesh-cricket_7d0dd3c4-2b40-11e8-a965-f54d0b6b9edf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="535" data-original-width="960" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0C0MJ0EJwDBLEbf0n7BcrI4DlYXLY892w8eMXdtZRJoGRUTwr458u4wnz0RDsfertBNlu8B_znnPJuQlrLfzyC1emoQihDMUCsKPcwdGa4FWH_WnX_eeeYH2ks4hvObPxz8IyDSq5_m6d/s400/sri-lanka-bangladesh-cricket_7d0dd3c4-2b40-11e8-a965-f54d0b6b9edf.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It all began when Nazmul Islam celebrated a wicket by breaking into an impromptu snake dance. His signature move went over the social media boundary. The bite was so infectious that legendary Sunil Gavaskar began swaying after Dinesh Karthik hit the last ball for a winning six. But there was a catch. While the Indian fans found his euphoric sway cute, the Bangladeshi fans called Gavaskar a baboon. Ouch! </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-476EOdLvbUNEXdiRzZQLXUrTFA6tS6bbjmM6dRpSBMNo0YE0IOdIj7C_pmzW6m23vL4WR9yeIEiEGxPJyJdu2JK2V57bt73ulM4GjDFIG_WSE98kA03ujGVufajMNKayNr0UMe8Ol0i/s1600/sunil-gavaskar-twitter_806x605_71521448971.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="605" data-original-width="806" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-476EOdLvbUNEXdiRzZQLXUrTFA6tS6bbjmM6dRpSBMNo0YE0IOdIj7C_pmzW6m23vL4WR9yeIEiEGxPJyJdu2JK2V57bt73ulM4GjDFIG_WSE98kA03ujGVufajMNKayNr0UMe8Ol0i/s320/sunil-gavaskar-twitter_806x605_71521448971.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Truth is, cricket and dance moves go back in time. Remember how West Indies celebrated their T-20 win in 2012 by bursting into celebrations with ‘Gangnam style’. If ‘Gangnam style’ can hook cricketers, why not our home grown ‘snake dance’? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dance and celebrations go hand in hand. Once snake dance loses its charm, anything can be next. Bhangra anyone? When the occasion calls for pointless abandon, ‘Balle Balle’ rules, right? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As for me, nothing intimidates me like dancing in public. It doesn’t matter if it’s a marriage ‘sangeet’ or a cocktail party. All too often, weddings are incidental. It is the choreographed ‘sangeet’ that trumps all ceremonies. Everyone and their bua-ji has perfected their moves. Plus there is an intimidating choreographer more flexible than Tiger Shroff. While you want to be a part of impromptu celebrations, it’s the rehearsed performances that intimidate you. Moreover you belong to the Deol family, with Sunny being your uncle and Sunil Shetty your distant cousin. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The giggling cousins take over the stage and set the bar so high that nothing you shake can match their performance. You dread the moment when someone will drag you on the floor and nudge you to show what you got. The moves, I mean. Finally someone pulls you centrestage with hundreds of expectant eyes looking at you. While everyone is cheering, you feel like a warrior being thrown in a Roman arena with hungry lions. Aware of your dancing skills, your husband and kids hold their breath. Going with the flow, you attempt something as lovely as Tabu in, ‘Ruk Ruk Ruk, Are Baba Ruk’. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Dance, as the saying goes, like no one’s watching. But you constantly look over the shoulders to check if your loved ones are embarrassed by your booty shake. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, the agony ends. Or so you think. Someone made a video of your dance and shares it in the family WA group for posterity. With trepidation you click the play button. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The only thing you can draw hope from is watching the legendary Gavaskar doing the snake dance. And feel better. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivGOSoEvtQKlhLz6JQr1fLkSxNGRvqFwJJCI90i62NwmM-I5P6l0WD6pZ2J7d8UfdThPSxd0U4kqYoAe288Uwt7YGO3JYIVA4WbVbiO9Zl6ykTHTMrmPpqaVSclhRaeQyK4TP4bqaWMjSH/s1600/cartoon+nagin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="522" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivGOSoEvtQKlhLz6JQr1fLkSxNGRvqFwJJCI90i62NwmM-I5P6l0WD6pZ2J7d8UfdThPSxd0U4kqYoAe288Uwt7YGO3JYIVA4WbVbiO9Zl6ykTHTMrmPpqaVSclhRaeQyK4TP4bqaWMjSH/s320/cartoon+nagin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">mage Courtesy: Hindustan Times, NDTV Sport and Cartoon by Satish Acharya</span></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-68822600138801614072018-03-14T22:29:00.001-07:002018-03-21T00:12:39.785-07:00Writing About Not Writing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">When you have nothing to write, write about not writing. So said a writer, tongue partly in cheek. Others too have dispensed valuable gems. Write even when you don’t want to. It’s about discipline. Today I’m going to do just that. Write about not writing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">After almost eight straight years, lately, I haven’t published anything. Truth be told, my draft folder holds a dozen odd unpublished articles. Some cooked, some half-baked. But for some reason the soufflé didn’t quite rise to perfection. The idea that one must write no-matter-what seemed repugnant – too dictatorial for a Freebird. What article, after all, is worth sharing if it doesn’t flow from free will?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Writing, for me has been about self-expression much before it was a literary endeavor. If you’ve read my blog you know that I write about news and media. Despite the stench emanating from the media cesspool, this is what I enjoy the most. And yet, Padmavati pandemonium, Trudeau’s fancy dress, Media’s madness, R.Chaudhary’s cackle, Yogi’s debacle, Sridevi’s speculation, and N.Aggarwal’s indiscretion – nothing nudged me from my idyllic stupor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Even if I ignore the public disenchantment with news, the biggest challenge was to write straight away. Quick. Tez. Sabse Tez. Because if you don’t write within twenty-four hours, others will. Today everyone and his neighbour is a writer. As a result, the topic becomes as stale as old beer within a day. News is ephemeral. What makes waves today is gone tomorrow. Remember the shocking news of a dead couple, lying naked in the bathroom early this month? What did the autopsy report say? We forgot all about the couple as soon as the NE election results were out. Then there was the news about the sudden demise of Sridevi. By the time I had penned a piece, the web was flooded with tributes. If I publish that tribute today, readers will sneer, “Leave her alone. Aren’t we over her demise? ”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Above all, writing a blog sets to establish that you want readers. Validation. The moment you press the publish/post button, you are looking for an audience. Blogging, over the years, has lost novelty in direct proportion to its readers. The online blogs on news portals attract more traffic than personal blogs. With shortening attention spans, online readers look for brevity of Twitter and the charm of video blogs. Pixels over print. Bullet points over loopy sentences.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Today when I look at my blog traffic, the post that drew maximum page views was the one that read, <i>‘<a href="http://www.alkagurha.com/2014/06/how-to-write-like-twenty-year-old-even_30.html">How</a> to write like a twenty year old when you are sixty.’</i> At a time when Google answers all our queries, the sure shot way to grab eyeballs is to write ‘How To’ articles. You can cram your posts with funny anecdotes, literary gems, poetic pearls or biting satires, but in terms of cold arithmetic, only three words get you hits – <b>Why</b>, <b>Where </b>and <b>How</b>. Which is why food, parenting and travel blogs are more popular than non-fiction musings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">People want answers. Information. Not opinions. Well, mostly. Accept that, ‘How to reduce a double chin’, will find more readers than your musing about news.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Then there is twitter. Even though brevity is not exactly conducive for an in-depth discussion, short attention spans have ensured that readers read a summary and move on. Not long back, we loved reading articles on Readers Digest, newspaper editorials or satirical centre page spreads. Not as much anymore. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Another reason for what appears to be my disenchantment is the fact that twitter is infatuated with lies. A study reveals that false news on social media travels six times faster than the truth. Worse, it reaches far more people. So if I pick news from Twitter, chances are I will be expressing views about something that did not happen at all. On the other hand, if I wait for confirmed news, the topic is done and dusted faster than Usain Bolt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">With shortening attention spans, the only thing shorter than public memory is public enthusiasm. Strictly in terms of public interest, Trudeau’s faux-ethnic ensembles provided more fodder for writers than Emmanuel Macron’s substantial visit. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Finally, its a rough phase for political satires. People have taken sides along the fence. Any joke on their side is taken as a personal assault. Today, jokes are not about harmless fun but kicking the 'other side' and tarnishing reputations. There is little space and understanding for 'on the other hand' kind of arguments. Issue based analysis is being smothered to death by binary positions based on your likes and dislikes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So is it time to enjoy the luxury of keeping ones thought’s to oneself? Perhaps rationing is a better idea. As Santosh Desai writes, ‘Time has come to revisit the pleasures of not sharing, of not reacting, and of not enacting our feelings as they occur.’ But then what will writers do? Bury their pen? Ah, herein lies the dilemma. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Coming back to the moot question: should you force yourself to write? If you want to pursue writing, you should. The initial push is hard. Perhaps the key is to keep writing and wait for the day when you are aroused enough to publish. Once you have penned a hundred odd words, you will know if the juices are flowing. It may not be the best you baked. Yet, it will be fulfilling. Write for the sake of your own clarity of thought. Like I did today.</span></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-66332270677709820602017-12-27T00:09:00.005-08:002018-01-03T02:07:09.627-08:00Sidebarring - Nay or Yay?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Last week I attended a book launch along with a friend. The venue was teeming with people and guests milled in the room amid rush and murmur of voices. The acoustics were bad and the panelists went on and on about their books. When the ‘I-Me- Myself’ spiel continued much after an hour, I sent a text message to my friend sitting in the next row.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">‘Bored to death. Let’s slink out for some fresh air.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">She responded instantly, ‘Me too. The whole freaking event is so tiresome.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">‘Will they serve refreshments? I’m thirsty.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">To which she messaged, ‘They should, I need a cuppa coffee.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Next few minutes were spent exchanging texts in a room of fifty odd people. While both of us engaged in a secret phone conversation in public, the host was sidebarred in the flurry of our texts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;">I can sense that you are rolling your eyes and wondering where this is leading, right?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">So I have to tell you that nothing can be more apt than talking about my experience and sharing the new word in The Macmillan Dictionary – <a href="https://www.macmillandictionary.com/dictionary/british/sidebarring" target="_blank">Sidebarring</a>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Sidebarring is essentially the practice of having a text conversation in a meeting or a social gathering when the subject of your conversation is present in the vicinity. The term takes its name from the fact that many smart phones have a sidebar button to ignore or mute calls. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Does it offend? Maybe. Does it entertain? Absolutely.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Don’t judge me because chances are that you have done it too. Hand on your heart and out with the truth. If the answer is an emphatic NO, you are fibbing. Or you don’t have Whatsapp on your phone. Or you could be a monk, but it is unlikely that a monk will read this blog. Anyway, according to a study more than 70% of us have indulged in the act of sidebarring. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">And if you think you are a master at juggling several tasks, let me burst your holy bubble. The study says that it is virtually impossible to pay full attention to a conversation while texting. Because when you are texting, you are partially deaf to the surrounding sounds. Which is why the ‘multi-tasking’ excuse won’t pass.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Also, when you look down at your phone slyly thinking no one’s watching - the glowing light of your phone and your thumb jog makes it known that you are not in the zone. The truth is as obvious as watching a politician make election promises or Salman say that he is a virgin on a chat show.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Now that we know ‘Sidebarring’ is universal, could it be possible that Rohit Sharma and MS Dhoni exchanged texts lampooning the wasteful wedding expenditure during the Virat Kohli and Anushka Sharma reception? </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Ah, junk it.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">It’s tricky to pass moral judgements, because if you are in a boring meeting or enduring an inane verbose lecture, talking about people in the same room can provide a delicious kick. However it could be undesirable, even discourteous, if you invite a group of friends over lunch and two of them engage in ‘sidebarring’ you. Bam that would hurt, no? Sidebarring is already a 'brutal dating trend' <a href="https://www.thesun.co.uk/fabulous/5087909/sidebarring-brutal-dating-trend/" target="_blank">according </a>to a UK tabloid.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Why do we indulge in sidebarring when we know that it’s obvious and disrespectful to those present in the room? For one, it’s addictive. A research says that a secret phone chat can give us a dopamine rush. Second, subconsciously we don’t like to do nothing. Every second counts. As technology is advancing we are becoming more and more impatient. Third, bitchy gossip may be rude, but harmless chit-chat about a situation or a person can boost the levels of feel good hormones.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Finally, a word of caution. Don’t get paranoid if you see me texting when I’m with you sipping a drink. For I could be texting my husband to tell him where the house keys are. Or I could be tweeting a thank you reply on social media. You do realize that I don’t have time to spare, right? And that we are a generation that believes in instant gratification. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">So if I’m not texting someone about you, the act could be called 'semi-sidebarring'? </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> Wonder what dictionary has to say about that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Ah, the perils of ghastly tech-tyranny!</span></div>
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Image Courtesy <a href="http://www.metro.co.uk/" target="_blank">Here</a></div>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8579671752707276248.post-25629468839660275382017-12-13T02:09:00.000-08:002018-01-03T02:11:12.158-08:00Stumped<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh69PDk2eFa9Jo7wP6-d6KzRG2N1X4XcQazzR6w0Jss3sEgul34eoP03LN0FYC546QAFLhbx-6dCLqCN9Rdkn4tgcVbRRJkr9sgtwdmIN9Wkz71J8kPVvqQ14omcF9J6bgFG_f4zYR6A-S/s1600/IMG_20171213_091346.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="696" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh69PDk2eFa9Jo7wP6-d6KzRG2N1X4XcQazzR6w0Jss3sEgul34eoP03LN0FYC546QAFLhbx-6dCLqCN9Rdkn4tgcVbRRJkr9sgtwdmIN9Wkz71J8kPVvqQ14omcF9J6bgFG_f4zYR6A-S/s400/IMG_20171213_091346.jpg" width="291" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">A</span><span style="font-size: small;">s a nation we are obsessed with three things - Bollywood, cricket and weddings. Little surprise that no matter what happened on Gujarat's electoral landscape, the Tuscan wedding of globally hurrah-ed cricketer Virat Kohli and reigning Bollywood deity, Anushka Sharma sidelined every news. My social media notifications were flooded with pictures and videos of how the Captains knock had bowled the maiden over. The pleasure you derived from the images was directly proportional to your tolerance for candy floss.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">As for me, I still can’t comprehend the need to travel to <a href="http://www.borgofinocchieto.com/home/" target="_blank">Borgo </a>Finocchieto, a property listed second on the Forbes list of twenty most expensive holiday destinations to indulge in a Punjabi wedding, when most of it could be recreated at any Indian five star resort. But hey, who am I to comment on how a celebrity spends his money. What goes of my father!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Anyway, barring some over-pitched deliveries from the guy who tweeted, ‘I’d rather watch an ostrich wedding’ or a writer who felt that the couple shouldn’t have indulged in the extravaganza when children are being raped and trafficked, social media was awash with positivity. Twitter, albeit for one day, was like Arnab Goswami of all prickly feelings transformed into Sooraj Barjatya of all mush.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The reactions veered around jokes about how the couple will rush back to link Adhaar with their marriage certificate, how a stumped Ravi Shastri looked like a grumpy old coot, how Virushka (Virat and Anushka) should be called Korma (Kohli and Sharma) and how a journey from a dandruff commercial ended with vermillion (sindoor). One guy said, '<i>So happy today. They met, they fell in love and they married. What a magical love story</i>.’ And magical it was. A text book shot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">One of the reasons why the dream wedding amid mountains and valleys felt overwhelming was because we were truly happy for the couple. Happy, that amidst all the trappings of hate and negativity, two people we adore had found everlasting love.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #cccccc;">So what is it about a celebrity wedding that excites a billion plus people? After all, it’s just another wedding. Celebrities are normal people and most normal people get married. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">For one, we are a hierarchical society and the common man has always been excited about the weddings of kings and queens. Truth be told, some degree of fascination with the rich and famous is inherent. Moreover, cricket is not just a game in India - it is a religion where cricketers are Gods and every victory is a festival. As it happens, this is not the first time cricket has stumped Bollywood. But it is indeed the first time a team captain and a high profile actress tied a knot on a fast turning pitch.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnJGbN8sZ07YpzW3vKOUSEU0ADRGX0kS9PPD-64_62W30YkkLXkaSj6uxWgHif7Uddchs9O-CXYYyf2V6WOTjTiuAoV6leL80ewTMZcEZE6PrtfjV06lLf1_XNwxTkZrX-ljG5y74fguja/s1600/bollywoods-actress-affair-with-cricketers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="649" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnJGbN8sZ07YpzW3vKOUSEU0ADRGX0kS9PPD-64_62W30YkkLXkaSj6uxWgHif7Uddchs9O-CXYYyf2V6WOTjTiuAoV6leL80ewTMZcEZE6PrtfjV06lLf1_XNwxTkZrX-ljG5y74fguja/s640/bollywoods-actress-affair-with-cricketers.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Second, it is likely that when a cricketing hero and a Bollywood diva decide to marry in a setting that looks nothing short of a movie itself, we get excited about experiences that we are unlikely to experience ourselves. In some ways, watching the wedding snapshots are like the idealization of our dreams. How many of us can dream of a destination wedding, wear a Sabyasachi lehnga with Renaissance embroidery and surpass the net worth of hundreds of crores as a couple? Given that the new power couple represents loyalty, love and family, both Virat and Anushka will be flooded with offers to endorse brands like insurance, housing, cars and consumer goods.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The enthusiasm is not exclusive to us. The Brits hang on to every detail about their royal <a href="http://www.alkagurha.com/2017/12/when-harry-met-meghan.html" target="_blank">weddings</a> and Americans binge on Hollywood nuptials. Also, the phenomenon of celebrity adulation is not exclusive to the common man. Remember how some of our film stars had their own fan moment when Ed Sheeran visited India? In most pictures it appeared as if Ed Sheeran was a hostage crying out for help!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Needless to add that when talent and charisma marry beauty and glamour, social media goes over the boundary. With two receptions coming up, the celebrations are going to continue this December. But since the ‘will they, wont they’ factor has gone for a toss, the events won’t be as seductive as the Tuscan wedding. And once Virat Kohli is back on the cricket field in South Africa, social media is likely to revert back to sledging, reverse sweeps and bouncers. Is Anushka lucky for Virat? Should Virat have focussed more on cricket and less on the lavish wedding extravaganza of heady wining and dining? Well, that’s how we spin, don’t we?</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq7mlcwIdNdoDqwX8UgXMPd6CJSahZk8n87OGbcB1QUqo1jNt-VBooNS_ziGPul2FBvNAi8Kw2IUrNIer1Lzp86MOglmbbM6ystXqKpOl6vOSm8lf1Hum1gbsSh1k8vADK8M1mZN9GKPVM/s1600/borgo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="620" data-original-width="1250" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq7mlcwIdNdoDqwX8UgXMPd6CJSahZk8n87OGbcB1QUqo1jNt-VBooNS_ziGPul2FBvNAi8Kw2IUrNIer1Lzp86MOglmbbM6ystXqKpOl6vOSm8lf1Hum1gbsSh1k8vADK8M1mZN9GKPVM/s640/borgo.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Image from <a href="http://www.borgofinocchieto.com/home/" target="_blank">here</a></span></td></tr>
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Alka Gurhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12050387590729571321noreply@blogger.com16