Monday, December 27, 2010

cool is a scary thing

It’s that time of the year again.

When my bloody jeans get so tight that they could pass off as jeggings or heggings or whatever ugly name they’ve given stretch jeans.

Anyway, the highpoint of Christmas was to discover that we are such a liberalised society. Yes, dahling, will you please light my menthol while I let my mind get as broad as my ass.

It started with Vidya Balan and Rani Mukherjee in what was supposed to look like a hot kiss, on the front page of Mumbai Times.

Dude, really, why?

First, they don’t have the guts to do an actual lip lock. This is a cheat faces at an angle kiss.

Second, even if they did, would we want most of the population throwing up their breakfast. I mean it’s as bad as seeing Nirupa Roy smooch Reema Lagoo.

Really, who wants to watch jaded auntie’s kissing. And that too while publicising a movie based on the Jessica Lal murder? What’s the connection? It’s not Thelma and Louise ladies; it’s a true story of how a girl was murdered.

Wake up, and get your publicity right. And oh by the way, I read they did the same “mock lip lock” at the IIT Mumbai Festival.

Even Savita Bhabi has better taste.

The next revelation came on Christmas Day. Yeah, it did. At a tea party. Where I was introduced to R, and told she’s D’s partner.

Now partner is such a loose word. It could mean they work together, they are a couple-but don’t want to say they are a couple, they have had children together but now have other partners...etc etc.

The possibilities are endless. The girl sensed my confusion and said, “We are business partners. That’s it. We started our company together.”

I smiled and nodded. Okay, point noted. Partnership details duly registered.

Till an hour later, when I popped into the balcony to say bye, and she was lounging in her partners lap.


This is so confusing. Is lounging on the lap the new air kissing? business meeting? conference calling?

How will I ever be up to date? Gotta go look for a shop that sells menthols.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

stay off the ta-ta's

I love pictures taken in this light. Reminds me of Sofia Coppola's Virgin Suicides. The opening sequence.

And, I’m just going to stop hugging women.

It’s just gross. Especially when they are really close friends, and the break the unsaid “hug from the side rule.”


For the sake of those who might ever meet me, here are a set of hugs we can indulge in and one we can’t.

Side hug: my right arm across your shoulder, your left arm across mine. Very good.

Lean-to hug: push your face forward, lightly drape arms around extended neck, kiss cheek. Wonderful.

Hello darling hug: body at an angle, sides touch, one arm sort of around back, kiss cheek. All good.

And finally:

Full frontal hug: aka boob to boob hug. No. Never.

I don’t want your lady lumps touching mine. Not at any cost. It feels strange. Like jelly meeting jelly. And it reminds me of being terribly sea sick.

And while we’re on the topic of women, here are two I’ve been meaning to write about.

Ma Baker. Who bakes the most awesome cakes ever. I’ve licked crumbs, hidden the last piece, lied about it being over and would want it to be the last thing I ever eat.

Check out my friend finely chopped’s post on her. And if you want to eat some sinful stuff this Christmas call her at 9967023174 or mail her at

And finally Yoga Nut. Dude, if you like yoga, you are gonna love Shameem. Stand on your head, become a crow, from the shoulder stand jump down and then back up, turn upside down in a wheel and walk like a crab. Most mornings for an hour I go back to feeling as happy and free and crazy as I was as a kid.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

ping to the pong

harami has such a nice ring to it.

sorta like salami.

which i think i'm obsessing over. since i hate getting food cooked only for myself, and have been eating poha with salami all of yesterday and today.

anyway, back to harami. which has a lovely feminine equivalent. not in terms of meaning. but in spirit.

sort of the ying to the harami yang.

i present to you *drumroll* kameeni.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

broodstock - part 2

The wedding of the season got called off.

DDLJ, the cousin thanks to whom I was being forced to squish myself into fishtail ghagras and gota shoes, decided to call off her wedding last minute.

Actually the calling off was pretty filmi. Her parents are going to give cards and sweets to the boy’s house. Apparently that’s tradition. The first set goes to them. When the phone rings, and DDLJ tells them, “Turn around, I’m calling it off.”

The reason cited was ‘he was too laidback.’

Well, whatever.

The sad part was that it left many of my aunts with wardrobes that threatened to burst. First DDLJ was to marry in summer, so everyone had bought chiffons saris. In keeping with yash chopra tradition. Then the to-be bride and groom had an accident while coming back from a weekend trip. Which in itself caused a lot of raised eyebrows, “Accha, they had gone for the weekend to Jaipur? Bhaiya, no one tells us all this. We thought she was working that weekend!”

Yeah, she should have just sent engraved postcards to all the relatives. “Dear Masi, just to inform that that since we both stay with our parents, and it’s really difficult to have sex in peace, we’re off to Jaipur for a debauched weekend. See you when I get back. PS: let me know if you want anything from there.”

Anyway, so after the accident, the wedding got pushed to winter. And the aunts took the blow on the chin. They packed away their new chiffons and like industrious ants got down to buying silks. Of course new saris meant new shoes, new bags and even in some cases new jewellery.

The phone lines went crazy. As did the shopkeepers of karol bagh.

But finally they were ready for D-Day.

And then this. Cancel, kaput, nada.

Till the Big Boy came down. The reason Big Boy and his whole gaggle came down was because they were tired of postponing tickets and cancelling them. And in the bargain losing money. So they decided to hell with it, even if there’s no wedding, let’s just go have a family reunion. I was duly informed, and pretty thrilled. No wedding pressure, no fishtail ghagra, just fun with the yash chopra cast and crew.

So Big boy and gang arrive. I call them. I can hear the whole family at the back with much shrieking and laughter and “how much ice in your drink”.

I tell Big Boy I’m arriving on so and so day, and why is everyone behaving like they’ve gone crazy.

He says, “Because I’m getting married. In India. In February.

Oh bugger. Fishtail again.