The General elections of 2014 is just around the corner, and did you know that Eat Around The Corner (Bandra) now has a door policy?! With over 22 political parties vying for the top spot, these elections are going to be one hell of a game-changer. And that’s why I thought I must post a blog on my political preferences! Hoping that I don’t get imprisoned for exercising my ‘freedom of speech’, so here it goes: top 4 reasons of why you should vote for the UPA government: View full article »
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A new job, a new office, a new location; another excuse to unearth some culinary delights. With an office in Dadar, exposure to different types of cuisines reach an all-time high. But here, I am not going to write about some fancy restaurant where an average lunch for two will cost Rs. 1200/-, instead I am going to tell you about a place we call “aunty’s”.
Located near J K Sawant Marg, Dadar (W), the place is formally called ‘Shree Sidhivinayak Polli Bhajji Kendra’. What is so different about this place? Well, to begin with, it is not a formal sit-down restaurant , it is in fact, a Maharashtrian lunch-home. No. literally. It is a lunch-home during the day and then transforms itself into a cozy abode for its Maharashtrian residents. The place is run by a family of 4. Open for lunch 365 days, the lunch-home’s eating arrangement is divided between the house’s hall and its adjoining veranda. To attract the attention of mere passers-by, a mention of the day’s special is usually updated on a board.
I’m going to cut to the chase of even acquainting you with this topic as I don’t want more women to fall prey to horrendous wooing techniques, which is being increasingly applied across major Indian cities. Perhaps as I type this post, another woman somewhere in India is being subjected to some atrocious wooing, which is right now making her question the very existence of her male counterpart’s IQ. Personally, there have been times when I have questioned my superior decision-making skills about meeting men who are nothing more than a pair of walking pants that is waiting to drop them at any given second. Wooing is a case more of arts than science where time, location and a good set of teeth are the deciding factors. I think it’s probably evolution where man lost out on his enticing skills. So without further ado, I think I should do my bit for saving the human race by teaching you men ‘how NOT to woo a woman’.
- Women are insecure beings, so don’t be over-confident and shower her with how much you like her flabby arms or her cute chubby stomach. We have this in-built thing called a lie-detector and it will sniff out the minute you even think about an impending lie. If that happens the lie-detector prepares the body for a total lock down, which in your language means ‘no action happening tonight’. If you are not good with experiments stick to the basics; tell her she has mesmerizing eyes, beautiful smile, good soft skin, etc., those have a good success rate when compared to ‘I think small boobs are cute’. Now you know how ridiculous it sounds! But yes, if you are confident then tell her she has a nice ass, long fingers and sexy lips. Subtle erotica works!
- If you can’t handle your drink don’t take her drinking. Buying a woman a shot of tequila doesn’t account as wooing unless and until she is doing a cameo in Lil Wayne’s music video. Besides that, most of the times you forget that the plan included only a couple of beers and not a freaking crate. So basically what started as a slow seductive move on the dance floor turns into relentless off-beat thrusting. And trust me when I say this; nothing good can come from this. But if you really want to take her drinking, take her to some place quite which doesn’t have a dance floor. Establishing body connect is important but not necessary. Intrigue her with conversation, what’s more turning on than a man who knows how to use his words!
- This last point that I am about to make might come as some sort of a revelation, but yes, women are heartless. We only cry when WE are hurt and dismiss all the other crying as just insignificant tears. Ironically, we abhor cry-babies. If you think by sharing your emotional turmoil, you are going to have your way with her, think again. Saturating her with stories of your mean ex-girlfriend, your psycho room-mate, divorced parents, etc. are truly heart-rending but save this for later. Your unstable emotional state is most certainly doing the opposite of attracting. If you over indulge in this sort of emotional blackmail her phone will refer to you as ‘Perennial PMSer’. You know what that means right?
Before Satyameva Jayate became a very very popular TV show, these very words were part of an ancient scripture that found place on our Indian national emblem. These words in Devanagari script still hold their reigning position, but to a certain sect of people they mean only one thing – Amir Khan. Personally, I like the format of the show but I would have liked it more if the producers started telecasting it at 12pm instead of 11am. You see, we people you call ‘youth’, also the TA of this show, wake up post 12pm usually with a hangover. Though we don’t mind missing the beginning, but it would just be nice if the show did full justice towards its advertisers.
Having said that, I like the show. Amir Khan is the only candidate who could have anchored it so flawlessly. Yes, ‘an anchor’, not a social activist, that’s what you call a person who hosts a show. But here the plot changes drastically, for some strange reason he is in the midst of anchoring a social change in the nation. I don’t understand how and why, or under which rock have I been living, but the show has become something! I don’t know what, can’t put a finger on it yet, but it is something. Kindly sense the ambiguity.
Viewers, rather Indians (I share the same TA as the show), need to understand that the Satyameva Jayate is a SHOW. Before telecasting it, the show is shot , edited and then broadcasted. Like any other soap opera, it runs on TRPs and advertising revenue, not social change.
This shows that in comparison to a politician (who is covered under the RTI, which means that you can file an RTI and get to know of his/her assets) people would actually trust a Bollywood Celebrity (who doesn’t fall under the RTI act and there is no way of exposing his/her financial assets). Have you ever read about a money scam that involves celebrities?
Bravo India, you deserve a standing ovation. Your power of glorifying a TV show just amazes me. Over the years, I might have become dubious of the whole ‘seeing is believing’ philosophy, courtesy India TV, but don’t you think you are giving a show way too much credit for showing things that we already know exists?
In the past and in the present, individuals have been catalyst of a social change, but their names have featured only in regional books that are not placed in air-conditioned book stores. Perhaps I am being too cynical, but a TV show is governed by its sponsors. Usually on a Sunday morning I am not so argumentative but do you realize that the producers, sponsors and other powerful entities of this TV fraternity can pull the plug anytime? Do you know what that means? Social change comes to a full-stop. Scripts about fighting against injustice gets formatted for a new show that will take its place.
Right now, I am up in arms because I probably know finer details of a particular episode of this so called Satyameva Jayate show where the truth was under wraps, names of the people who did a heinous act were not mentioned. It’s a game of money, corporate power and TRPs; it has all become evident now.
After having viewed episodes of Satyameva Jayate, I present my perceptions:
Satya is now sugar-coated. Satya needs a pretty face so who better than a Bollywood celebrity. Satya leads to invoking feelings, so who better than a set of paid emotional studio audience members. Moreover, Satya has fixed prime-time slots.
It is a sad state of affairs that we are falling prey to such marketing gimmicks in the name of ‘truth’. However, ten years down the line I hope people still remember the originality of the scripture and not the pretty face that showed convenient truth in a way that helped a production house earn a lot of moolah.
Once again we meet.
Like always, it’s a room of shadows.
A flimsy source of light,
Illuminating your bright smile,
Deepening your dimples further.
The light bounces off your twirled messy hair,
Just the way you like it.
Comfortably seated, you look rested.
Your arched back, eggs me further to relax.
A thin reflective surface divides the two of us.
An ambiance we prefer,
An ambiance we inherited.
An event of pouring secrets,
Sitting across each other,
You expectedly raise your eyebrows,
Signaling me to start.
Giving away a big broad grin.
Sitting virtually in two separate worlds,
I can sense the quality of her good life.
Happiness shinning in its brightest form,
She stabilizes her emotions,
And raises her eyebrow again.
She wants to know and she will stop at nothing.
Her positive energy is exasperating.
So much so that it tempts me to leave the room.
But, I know I need to meet her.
It’s always been like that.
Avoiding her is not an option.
She’s powerful and demands to know the answer.
I can see her growing impatient.
I close my eyes tight,
Assuring her that thoughts will soon be out.
When I open it’s all blurred,
Teary-eyed I can still see her smile.
How I wish I could wipe that away.
I lost mine,
How does she still have it?
She probes the reason of such unpleasantness,
She questions the reason of such misery and fury.
Realizing that my sorrow has changed in to vengeful anger,
She’s screaming now demanding me to stop.
She wants to throw her hands around me,
But the reflective surface won’t let her.
And then, she abruptly stops.
She stands up, doesn’t see him.
She falls to the floor.
Not believing the state of affairs.
She questions out loudly,
She presents a strong case of logic arguments,
Proving she has time to fix it.
I see her helpless.
It brings back my smile.
Wiping tears, I wear my hair tight.
Pulled back and clean,
Showing off my prominent features.
I light a cigarette and move close to her,
My exhalation still smelling of last night’s whiskey.
Still in a state of shock,
Her sadness slowly transforming in to anger.
Clinching her teeth, she curses me.
Blaming me for what has happened.
Pointing a finger, she cursed louder now.
Accusing me of an intolerant temper and
A toxic mind that is only capable of negative things.
With her every word, my cancer stick only gets sweeter.
Just the way I like it.
After extinguishing the light on the ebony dressing table,
I wave my fingers at her, shooing her away,
Smiling all through the while.
She demands I stay and narrate the entire episode.
Shrugging her accusations of me,
I instruct her to come closer.
After a secret whisper, I leave,
Still twirling my hair,
I leave her reflection.
My seductiveness still lingering,
She backs off from the mirror.
Hurriedly, she picks up his t-shirt and slips it on,
Covering her body that bears memories of acts of love.
Making sure he wasn’t a witness of this dark prediction,
She crawls back to bed.
Lifts his hand and puts it around her waist.
Awakened by the change of position,
He forces his eyes open,
Peering through the little opening,
He smiles, bringing her closer to him.
Planting a kiss on her forehead,
He murmurs something.
Closing her eyes, she blindly believes him.
Were clubs shut last night? Because I know for a fact that the world and its sister was queuing up outside theatres to watch something so dirty that left even the most raunchiest Brazilian grinder seem insipid in the real sense of the word.
With mouths full of popcorn and eyes full of lecherous desire, as man, woman and the other we didn’t know this was going to be a satisfying experience which would cut through the verticals of our stereotypical society. Amidst, all the shoving and ‘you are sitting on my seat, uncle’, the silver screen silenced every chattering and chewing mouth as the word ‘Dirty’ lit up the dark dingy alleys of one’s treacherous mind. Next, India’s favourite dappan koothu song challenged the western etiquette of watching a movie as whistles, wobbles, claps and a couple of sophisticated woots disrupted the projection of the film. Boy, how happy were the men! And, surprisingly the women too!
As the name suggests, the Movie started off on the right note, the moaning of a woman hitting the highs and lows of life explicitly; Vidya’s line to her husband – ‘Aap ko holi khelne ka bahut shok hai, par aap ki pickari nahi chalti’, empathizes with that woman’s definite lows. Picking up on the ‘I want to make it big in Bollywood’ sends the thrill seekers and Vidya on a hilarious ride and ill-fated ride. With unmatched screenplay and effortless movements of the actors from one scene to the other, “The Dirty Picture” is anything but dirty. It is in fact the cleanest piece of drama which has come our Bollywood way after a really long sabbatical. Other than Vidya’s demanding screen presence, the movie remains true to its cause like a mallu man’s love for flesh. Untouched bulges, yet a touching narrative, fat is fab and a woman’s curves needn’t stick to conventional vital stats, Vidya substantiates this theory.
Naseeruddin Shah and his thin moustache are to die for. The man’s still got it! Tusshar Kapoor was Vidya Balan’s prop and Shakila is no match for our Silk. I thank the director of this movie for giving us this biopic and introducing us to the woman of fantasy. I would also like to thank all my fellow South Indian uncles who spared nocturnal hours only to watch Silk glisten in their CR TV screens. Hence by joining the forces of Sun, Asianet and Surya we present to you ‘The Dirty Picture’.
I gave them a break; a much needed respite.
They expressed their angst against your deeds,
they showered you with flattery,
but now they cease to exist.
They garnered quite a reputation for themselves;
an untimely utterance would pierce the moment
or create an agonizing pause.
But now life and time glides past.
Nothing to interrupt, nothing to erupt.
In the real world you won’t hear them,
they operate in hushed voices,
inaudible to the human ear.
But in my head, in all its glory
it unleashes its wrath.
It accuses, screeches and argues
with every customary dialogue of yours.
What am I talking about?
Well, that’s exactly what I won’t be doing,
If you are a resident or a native of Gujarat, then this post is strictly not meant for you, especially if you have a soft corner for the place. Infact, you will only be wasting your time as things I am going to elaborate upon may sound totally out of context for you, so please save yourself the trouble and the ‘cocomallu bashing’. Considering in the last two months I have been to Gujarat thrice, I want to give you an aggregate of how much of a misfit I felt in that place. People nodding their heads and grasping the downside of these trips, yes my friend, this post is for you!
An inherent part of being a mallu, is enjoying and looking forward to overnight train commutes. Netravati and Kanyakumari express are well-known express trains ( Kanyakumari not so much of an express as it takes two nights to reach Changanacherry) that carry people to and fro from God’s own country. These trains have instilled many a qualities in me without which I don’t think I could have been a better judge of character. Now, most of the times my travel to Gujarat has included the inevitable Gujarat Mail. Is it only me or does anyone freaking realise that the train has no pantry car?? I mean are you kidding me? No tomato soup, no veg cutlets, no payampuri, no chay coffee and yes what I am about to say might hurt sting like a bitchlious bee, no IRCTC’s Chicken Masala!!!!Gulp. Clearly, you haven’t understood the enormity of this problem otherwise you would have started alienating yourself from any relative or friend you have living there. Being a mallu, for a fact, I can tell you that I get on a train only when I am assured of some home cooked yum chicken, rasam, buttermilk and off course idli and red onion chutney for the next day. Ok fine, I may be getting too judgmental here, but why don’t you have tea or freaking coffee in that god-forsaken train. Another thing, Netravati has always maintained its standard of being fashionably 5 -6 hours late. It is actually a smart tactic by the railways because by that time everyone’s out of food and no one has an option but to order for that drenched in vegetable oil payampuri. No but this Gujarat Mail wants to act smart na. Bloody shit, it reaches Ahmedabad well before 6am!! Imagine, if Netravati or Kanyakumari were to do that to us, we bloody wouldn’t have gotten off only!
And if you step foot in Gujarat on a Saturday or Friday, may the lord be with you. The fact that Gujarat has the most number of drunkards just reinforces the irony that it is strictly a dry state. I don’t wish to dwell on this particular topic more because by now you must be cancelling your ticket for that friend’s wedding which is scheduled to take place in Surat next week and thinking to yourself, “Sala, cocktail ke naam pe hum saab ko Chu@#$% banane wala tha”. Yikes!
Ok chalo, I can survive without my dose of port wine or cheap vodka, but dude what about food?? Declining a man or a woman their fair share of tasty non-vegetarian food, is a freaking human rights issue. So by nature, the mention of chicken or its foreign unheard counterpart, ‘the fish’, will naturally attract only rude stares. Being brought up in Mumbai, the gastronomic smells of Khar or even Danda’s fish market, actually is a very comforting smell which reassures you about the availability of food. But no, in Gujarat you will not encounter no such fishy fumes. I can tell you I roamed for about two hours in Ahmedabad searching for a decent eatery that would serve fish and chicken. Kya kare paapi pet ka sawal hai!
Yes, another thing that I shall prepare you for are the autos in Gujarat. These guys know you are not a native when your Gucci and Diesel don’t read as ‘Gukki’ and ‘Disol’. For a 10 min ride they will charge you Rs.150 and for an hour long ride they will try to change your whole perspective about how good their dhoklas, fafdas, theplas, etc. are, and how you must have kachori for breakfast. Do I have to explain myself here that we malayalis have the most elaborate food items for breakfast?
See things like -
why Dal has to be sweet
why snakes don’t mean anything dangerous, it actually stands for snacks
why are there so many flies
why are movies, eating and shopping the only chilling activities
Yeh saare mere samaj ke bahar hai. However, I agree the main roads in Gujarat are the size of Mumbai’s highways or perhaps broader, bandini dress materials are much cheaper and have more colour options and people do occasionally give you a free lift. And before you commence upon writing a blog just like mine, visit the place and see for yourself. It is not that bad a place han.
Hence, before I conclude, I would want to make another very crucial point, if you want to make your stay in Gujarat truly pleasurable, make sure for company you don’t have a bong or a mangalorean or an extra mallu.
My feather like fingers could be entangled in your motherly fingers.
Your gentle kiss could soothe my tense nerves.
Take me around when I am brave enough to enter this oh-so-ruthless world.
But are you brave enough to welcome me into this sunlight?
When it is a natural process of conception and birth,
then why this unnatural end?
In this battle I am not the victim,
It is you.
You are killing a part of your body.
You are losing a second heart.
The blood that ran through your veins once ran through mine too.
When everything is the same then why are our thoughts so different?
The same hand that would pull my cheeks,
Would be cruel enough to put me to sleep?
Mine is a silent death,
My screams won’t haunt you.
But the emptiness of your womb will.
In times like these, rain washes its hands clean.
Troubles stay darkened as the sun only peeps through a narrow cloudy aperture.
The feeble winds air-lift scraps of paper.
Big greens have no shade to offer, only muddy lines of dust.
Rain drops become heavy and seem to weigh you down.
In times like these, you search for a face you know.
People turn and walk away exposing you to the strong harsh rain.
The drops so hard now, hurt, only adding to your misery.
Its a lonely rainy phase we all go through.
It’s a heightened case of misery.
Static electricity turns the scene of positivity.
That bolt of lightning does no good.
It stands opposite to the universal meaning of light,
it infact negates life and everything that one danced in the rain.
It’s a season you know will pass.
However times to come will be cold.
You need to wait a whole other year,
till you feel the trickling of a sweat bead.
A season you will curse then but crave now.