Dangerous, life threatening stunts in the rest of the world: skydiving, scuba diving, surfing, rock climbing, snow skiing, water skiing, snowboarding, mountain biking, mountaineering, storm chasing, hang gliding, and bungee jumping.
Dangerous, life threatening stunts in India: Traveling in a train, writing railway exams, eating dinner at a posh hotel, being of a certain religion, losing a cricket match, wearing appropriate sporting gear, not belonging to a certain state, expressing affection on stage, working for a major IT firm, being of a certain gender, getting a nomination at a prestigious award function abroad, smoking at a public event even if that’s what you do regularly and now visiting a pub.
For those who love the adrenaline rush, there is always living and breathing.
We Indians are real adventurous.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Super. Awesome. Brilliant. Winner. Really?
I live in that part of the world where English movies come to the cinemas after the whole world and its wife have watched, dissected, hated/loved them. Some like Dark Knight come after the lead actor is dead. Yeah, it takes that long.
But, because the movies come here ambling along at their own pace, the hype built around them is enough to cause stampedes at the cinemas, even if they are as exciting as watching popcorn pop.
With Slumdog Millionaire, we knew the stars, the musicians, the crew and the chaiwallah before the movie made it here. We speculated and waited. And then it came.
And then suddenly, I wasn’t sure what all the hype was about. A lot of us came out bewildered; looking very lost, grappling with the fact that we didn’t think it was choke-on-your-breath-in-admiration fare. While the rest of the world was falling over itself, swooning at the storyline, I was a little stumped with the rave reviews people were giving it. Also, as it happens with situations like these, I thought I was one of the few who was cursed with severely cramped intellectual ability. Turns out not.
I will admit it’s an entertaining movie. You love the boy, his disarmingly charming innocence and in his older years, his inability to be cunning. It’s fast paced, flows smoothly and keeps you riveted. Those were the raves. The rants. If you have lived in Mumbai or anywhere around it, you stare at Jamal hoping somewhere he would be more in touch with reality. Jamal seems strangely optimistic. Like he’s living in another planet. There is no sense of disillusionment, which is almost characteristic to such people. Yes, they do live happily and strive constantly, but the discontent exists. And in SM, there is a constant attempt to dust that under the carpet. Dev Patel , our hero, hits puberty and then stays there. Frieda Pinto on the other hand grows up (some assets weren’t pushed up to be staring in our faces but her face does age). By the end, our teenage boy looks like he’s probably going to fumble under her shirt while she looks like she’s been around. And of course, they then break into a song and dance routine. Smooth, very smooth.
The movie, as is tradition, does no justice to the book. But, I wont slam it for that. But, to someone like me, it skims over the tough parts making Jamal’s life look like a series of unfortunate incidences rather than something that is a way of life. Which is why I won’t shower it with superlatives. I think if this movie were made in India, it would have sunk without a trace. What do you think?
But, because the movies come here ambling along at their own pace, the hype built around them is enough to cause stampedes at the cinemas, even if they are as exciting as watching popcorn pop.
With Slumdog Millionaire, we knew the stars, the musicians, the crew and the chaiwallah before the movie made it here. We speculated and waited. And then it came.
And then suddenly, I wasn’t sure what all the hype was about. A lot of us came out bewildered; looking very lost, grappling with the fact that we didn’t think it was choke-on-your-breath-in-admiration fare. While the rest of the world was falling over itself, swooning at the storyline, I was a little stumped with the rave reviews people were giving it. Also, as it happens with situations like these, I thought I was one of the few who was cursed with severely cramped intellectual ability. Turns out not.
I will admit it’s an entertaining movie. You love the boy, his disarmingly charming innocence and in his older years, his inability to be cunning. It’s fast paced, flows smoothly and keeps you riveted. Those were the raves. The rants. If you have lived in Mumbai or anywhere around it, you stare at Jamal hoping somewhere he would be more in touch with reality. Jamal seems strangely optimistic. Like he’s living in another planet. There is no sense of disillusionment, which is almost characteristic to such people. Yes, they do live happily and strive constantly, but the discontent exists. And in SM, there is a constant attempt to dust that under the carpet. Dev Patel , our hero, hits puberty and then stays there. Frieda Pinto on the other hand grows up (some assets weren’t pushed up to be staring in our faces but her face does age). By the end, our teenage boy looks like he’s probably going to fumble under her shirt while she looks like she’s been around. And of course, they then break into a song and dance routine. Smooth, very smooth.
The movie, as is tradition, does no justice to the book. But, I wont slam it for that. But, to someone like me, it skims over the tough parts making Jamal’s life look like a series of unfortunate incidences rather than something that is a way of life. Which is why I won’t shower it with superlatives. I think if this movie were made in India, it would have sunk without a trace. What do you think?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Wow, I have been away for long
There isnt much to explain my absence from the blogging world. Except laziness, perhaps. Or terrorism. Nah, not really.
For starters, let me say Happy New Year. And I am hoping with all my being that this year is nothing like the last. That I am a better person this year. I have my resolutions (which i shall not put here for reasons of secrecy and my inability to keep them) but I have wishes, for the whole world.
In 2009,
1) We will learn the value of a life. Human or not. Irrespective of religion, colour and race. Because no life deserved to be snuffed out to please your fucking ego.
2) We will bury the past. A past tainted by bad decisions, splattered with the blood of innocents and scarred by horrifying memories. A past that angers us today because we never got rid of the pain we created then.
3) We will not teach hate. Not to our children. We wont feed them propaganda fed to us by corrupt politicians and self-serving bastards.
4) We will be fair. Even if it means our ego takes a thrashing.
5) That we will not walk away when we know someone needs our help. We wont turn our back and justify it to ourselves. We will help with the money. But more importantly, we will give them the love.
Lets make 2009 the year we wake up.
For starters, let me say Happy New Year. And I am hoping with all my being that this year is nothing like the last. That I am a better person this year. I have my resolutions (which i shall not put here for reasons of secrecy and my inability to keep them) but I have wishes, for the whole world.
In 2009,
1) We will learn the value of a life. Human or not. Irrespective of religion, colour and race. Because no life deserved to be snuffed out to please your fucking ego.
2) We will bury the past. A past tainted by bad decisions, splattered with the blood of innocents and scarred by horrifying memories. A past that angers us today because we never got rid of the pain we created then.
3) We will not teach hate. Not to our children. We wont feed them propaganda fed to us by corrupt politicians and self-serving bastards.
4) We will be fair. Even if it means our ego takes a thrashing.
5) That we will not walk away when we know someone needs our help. We wont turn our back and justify it to ourselves. We will help with the money. But more importantly, we will give them the love.
Lets make 2009 the year we wake up.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
All cool boys, cmon make some noise
On a normal day, I will burp, scratch and fart. I could also have unshaved armpits and eyebrows that last got worked on by a cavewoman. But, then there are these days when I transform into a lady. Clean, plucked and smooth. Like a featherless chicken. And that does not sound very appealing by a very far stretch of imagination. Ok, let stick to I look rather nice.
And then on those days, I will meet men who do the cutest things. Things that make me go aww and I want to jump off my chair and hand him the ‘Get into her pants’ card.
Now, if you know me, you know im not the very aww kind of person. Like drooly babies don’t make me go aww. Nor do furry pups. You get the idea. Mush isn’t exactly my thing. So, just imagine how haplessly cute these things that men do are. See how I smartly juxtapose other cute things to further the cuteness of men? Also, notice my ability to make strange and complex sentences that leaves my readers clueless about the point im trying to make. Now without rambling, these are the things men do that I think are adorable.
1) When they like/love you, they will put their arm around your waist and gently pull you closer. (We are operating under the assumption that you have a waist that doesn’t need Kanoons haath to go around it) It feels like you are the only one in the world for them.
Except the lady in skirt behind you with those yummy legs and that cleavaged bitch on the right, he seems to have eyes only for you.
2) Try going for a trek or a climb with a rocky terrain. Watch him watch out for you. And use every opportunity to hold your hand. I know. Cute. Except when you are trying to tackle a rather massive rock and hes heaving under your butt trying to get you to push your leg over the ledge. I am purely guessing here but hairy butt cracks and yellow teddy bear chaddis might just put him off a little bit.
3) All his friends are gathered around him, ready to blow. The candles on his birthday cake. Really, you pervert brains. He looks up and waits. Spots you smiles and calls you next to him. Holds you and then cuts this cake. You glow radiantly. And then he smashes some cake into your face. Yeah, they never know when to stop.
4) You are wobbling in your heels and your feet are threatening to collapse in protest. Your thong sits uncomfortably between your cheeks, itching your rectum. Not helping things. That’s when he bends down, pulls off your sandals and squeezes your foot gently. Aah. Bliss. (Writer shudders in orgasm and waits for spasm to pass)
5) You wake up, groggy and your breath smelling like fish, your hair matted around your face like overcooked noodles and he still thinks you look like a million bucks. He stares, smiles at you and kisses you forehead. Adorable. Aww.
That’s why I don’t mind one. Or two.
And then on those days, I will meet men who do the cutest things. Things that make me go aww and I want to jump off my chair and hand him the ‘Get into her pants’ card.
Now, if you know me, you know im not the very aww kind of person. Like drooly babies don’t make me go aww. Nor do furry pups. You get the idea. Mush isn’t exactly my thing. So, just imagine how haplessly cute these things that men do are. See how I smartly juxtapose other cute things to further the cuteness of men? Also, notice my ability to make strange and complex sentences that leaves my readers clueless about the point im trying to make. Now without rambling, these are the things men do that I think are adorable.
1) When they like/love you, they will put their arm around your waist and gently pull you closer. (We are operating under the assumption that you have a waist that doesn’t need Kanoons haath to go around it) It feels like you are the only one in the world for them.
Except the lady in skirt behind you with those yummy legs and that cleavaged bitch on the right, he seems to have eyes only for you.
2) Try going for a trek or a climb with a rocky terrain. Watch him watch out for you. And use every opportunity to hold your hand. I know. Cute. Except when you are trying to tackle a rather massive rock and hes heaving under your butt trying to get you to push your leg over the ledge. I am purely guessing here but hairy butt cracks and yellow teddy bear chaddis might just put him off a little bit.
3) All his friends are gathered around him, ready to blow. The candles on his birthday cake. Really, you pervert brains. He looks up and waits. Spots you smiles and calls you next to him. Holds you and then cuts this cake. You glow radiantly. And then he smashes some cake into your face. Yeah, they never know when to stop.
4) You are wobbling in your heels and your feet are threatening to collapse in protest. Your thong sits uncomfortably between your cheeks, itching your rectum. Not helping things. That’s when he bends down, pulls off your sandals and squeezes your foot gently. Aah. Bliss. (Writer shudders in orgasm and waits for spasm to pass)
5) You wake up, groggy and your breath smelling like fish, your hair matted around your face like overcooked noodles and he still thinks you look like a million bucks. He stares, smiles at you and kisses you forehead. Adorable. Aww.
That’s why I don’t mind one. Or two.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Adding to Murphy
Laziness has no excuse. And that’s my excuse for not blogging. Also that my fertile mind was donating its eggs to other more important (I am hoping) things might be a reason.
Now we all know Uncle Murphy, who gave us slackers, procastinators, shirkers and other dodgy people a convenient set of excuses. Then of course, we have garnishing of things to blame like fate, alarm clock, siblings and for the more creative ones, aliens.
I am now adding my bits to Murphys list.
In the lift: If a building has 30 floors, the person wanting to get off on the first floor will be nestled comfortably at the back of the lift. As the lift approaches the first floor, a voice at reverberates of the various backs and chests and a faint “Excuse me” is heard. Much frenzied activity of shuffling feet, heaving body weight out of the elevator and settling back into original butt space will follow. This entire activity serves no purpose except leaving the person getting out sufficiently jostled and pushing the limits of bladder control of the people trying to get to the top floor.
Secrets: The one that you protect the most will be the one your neighbor is discussing. The neighbor will also point fingers angrily at you and gesticulate wildly. Occasionally, they may throw looks of sympathy your way. Stare back in suspicion in such cases.
Google: By the time you figure out what search words will get you the right links, the words have lost all meaning and you have lost purpose. Kill yourself. An aimless life isn’t worth living.
Food and crushes: When you are out on a first date with a guy you have been trying to flash only to get his attention, you will
a) Drop ketchup on your white shirt. You will try to hurriedly try to wipe it away, effectively spreading the redness evenly across the shirt. A dot on the nipple should make you a picture of perfection.
b) Have a soft drink that makes you burp or fart.
c) Get something green or brown stuck in your teeth. A minute of silence for the death of the first kiss please.
Women and driving: When you are trying to prove to someone that women aren’t bad drivers, you will narrowly miss the mammoth truck on the right and hit a lamppost. The lady honking at your from the opposite side on the one-way street will add to the amusement of the proceedings.
Blog: Invariably when you pose a question to your readers (assuming you have some), no one will reply. I dare you to retort.
Now we all know Uncle Murphy, who gave us slackers, procastinators, shirkers and other dodgy people a convenient set of excuses. Then of course, we have garnishing of things to blame like fate, alarm clock, siblings and for the more creative ones, aliens.
I am now adding my bits to Murphys list.
In the lift: If a building has 30 floors, the person wanting to get off on the first floor will be nestled comfortably at the back of the lift. As the lift approaches the first floor, a voice at reverberates of the various backs and chests and a faint “Excuse me” is heard. Much frenzied activity of shuffling feet, heaving body weight out of the elevator and settling back into original butt space will follow. This entire activity serves no purpose except leaving the person getting out sufficiently jostled and pushing the limits of bladder control of the people trying to get to the top floor.
Secrets: The one that you protect the most will be the one your neighbor is discussing. The neighbor will also point fingers angrily at you and gesticulate wildly. Occasionally, they may throw looks of sympathy your way. Stare back in suspicion in such cases.
Google: By the time you figure out what search words will get you the right links, the words have lost all meaning and you have lost purpose. Kill yourself. An aimless life isn’t worth living.
Food and crushes: When you are out on a first date with a guy you have been trying to flash only to get his attention, you will
a) Drop ketchup on your white shirt. You will try to hurriedly try to wipe it away, effectively spreading the redness evenly across the shirt. A dot on the nipple should make you a picture of perfection.
b) Have a soft drink that makes you burp or fart.
c) Get something green or brown stuck in your teeth. A minute of silence for the death of the first kiss please.
Women and driving: When you are trying to prove to someone that women aren’t bad drivers, you will narrowly miss the mammoth truck on the right and hit a lamppost. The lady honking at your from the opposite side on the one-way street will add to the amusement of the proceedings.
Blog: Invariably when you pose a question to your readers (assuming you have some), no one will reply. I dare you to retort.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Uncomfortably numb
Its touted as the biggest thing to happen to cricket since Don Bradman (ok, slightly exaggerated there). Its got the moolah , the angelic bouncing women who cellulite gave a miss, and its definitely got my attention. Its the IPL. And every cricket fan worth anything has his/her ass growing roots into the couch, their eyeballs fatally attracted to the idiot box.
Gone are the good ol' days when I could simply jiggle away stupidly at every Team India victory. I knew where my loyalties lay. Every wicket celebrated with enough noise to cause permanent hearing loss. Every boundary causing enough frenzied dancing to cause a couple of hundred calories to scurry away.
Then crept in defiance to the BCCI and the ICL was born. And it might as well have been still-born. Avalanching into cricket history came the IPL. Taking the crtitcs, nay-sayers and thankfully anally righteous spirit-of-the-game people out of the way. Every cricketer now came with a price tag.
Ill take one Yuvraj Singh to go please. With whipped cream? Sure, all the add-ons.
Now comes the bitch of it all. Since Mr. Gandhi did his bit in 1947, we Indians have tried to ride out the 'regional' war. We are all together. We are all one nation. Unity in diversity. etc.
Come IPL, and we go back to our parasitic ability to feed off our love for our city.In my case, it isnt that simple. Oh, I love Mumbai and how. But I also love a certain star. And how. With my ass gradually getting embossed with the fence print, I am unable to decide who to cry hoarse for. Or who to throw juicy familial abuses at. Couple that with my patriotism, and my emotions are panting with exhaustion.
To watch Dravid celebrate a Sachin wicket would leave me in anguish. Or Ishant high-five at a Dhoni wicket. And with other people, from another country. The ones who dont sing for the tricolour. Or eat with their fingers. Some use tissues in their loos. Is there no stopping this madness?
When Chak De India is belted out, my eyes moisten and tiny hair stand up in absolute respect for my country. IPL cant do that to me. But, it can get me torn. I bet ill be a scene when the Kolkatta Knightriders play the Mumbai Indians.
You joining me on the fence?
Gone are the good ol' days when I could simply jiggle away stupidly at every Team India victory. I knew where my loyalties lay. Every wicket celebrated with enough noise to cause permanent hearing loss. Every boundary causing enough frenzied dancing to cause a couple of hundred calories to scurry away.
Then crept in defiance to the BCCI and the ICL was born. And it might as well have been still-born. Avalanching into cricket history came the IPL. Taking the crtitcs, nay-sayers and thankfully anally righteous spirit-of-the-game people out of the way. Every cricketer now came with a price tag.
Ill take one Yuvraj Singh to go please. With whipped cream? Sure, all the add-ons.
Now comes the bitch of it all. Since Mr. Gandhi did his bit in 1947, we Indians have tried to ride out the 'regional' war. We are all together. We are all one nation. Unity in diversity. etc.
Come IPL, and we go back to our parasitic ability to feed off our love for our city.In my case, it isnt that simple. Oh, I love Mumbai and how. But I also love a certain star. And how. With my ass gradually getting embossed with the fence print, I am unable to decide who to cry hoarse for. Or who to throw juicy familial abuses at. Couple that with my patriotism, and my emotions are panting with exhaustion.
To watch Dravid celebrate a Sachin wicket would leave me in anguish. Or Ishant high-five at a Dhoni wicket. And with other people, from another country. The ones who dont sing for the tricolour. Or eat with their fingers. Some use tissues in their loos. Is there no stopping this madness?
When Chak De India is belted out, my eyes moisten and tiny hair stand up in absolute respect for my country. IPL cant do that to me. But, it can get me torn. I bet ill be a scene when the Kolkatta Knightriders play the Mumbai Indians.
You joining me on the fence?
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Overrated
Sex is overrated.
From the time our parents fumbled uncomfortably with birds,bees, pollen, stork and other animal kingdom antics to explain our magical apperance on this planet- to nervous giggles in school, wide-eyed wonder at biology books, not much has changed. We still have so many emotions attached to sex. Maybe more us women than the cock-holders.
I ponder aimlessly sometime about such inane things. Like:
If we knew from the very beginning, i mean from the time the guy checked out our rack and studied us as a potential mate, that he wanted sex. Would we still do the whole flowers, no first date sex, the various bases, and the no-basis break ups? Or simplify it. He wants sex, i want sex. Is he ok to sleep with? (You know check the penis rating, disease quotient etc.) And if hes ok, will we just do it? Do we women have to continously, and most of the time to duck the 'slut' label, assure and convince ourselves, that he will fall in love with us? Or that there is more to it than the sex?
Does it strike you as funny that people have the best bed-breaking sex post a verbally abusive and volatile we-are-over fight? Whats the deal with that? and would this mean that a revolutionary approach in anger management is in the making?
Why is there no male equivalent of wham-bam-thank you ma'm? Is it to say that we women are not noisy enough to create the sound the likes of wham bam or that its ok for us women to forget our niceties post sex?
Sex is most fun when you love someone. Some man, pissed drunk and doing the roadside lady for a paltry sum, with a great sense of humour said this. Imagine his surprise when people took this to a whole new level. He wakes up one morning to find that people, due to lack of their own intelligence and miniscule depth of thinking, think that the statement holds true. The by-products we find till this date. Valentines Day, dating websites, blind dates, networking. All to meet someone to have great sex with.
Whats sexy lingerie got to do with sex? This is complicated. You wear sexy lingerie to turn him on. Turned on, he will take it off. Am I the only one who sees this as a pointless excercise? Lingerie, when sexy, is lacy, which itches the inner thighs leaving them pink and rashy=no sex. If not lacy, its nety. which shows off everything underneath. Is anyone dizzy from going around in circles?
See how much we complicate it?
Sex, as excitedly discussed as it maybe, is just another physical need. Just two people wanting a release. And its made out to be more. Much much more. It isnt.
From the time our parents fumbled uncomfortably with birds,bees, pollen, stork and other animal kingdom antics to explain our magical apperance on this planet- to nervous giggles in school, wide-eyed wonder at biology books, not much has changed. We still have so many emotions attached to sex. Maybe more us women than the cock-holders.
I ponder aimlessly sometime about such inane things. Like:
If we knew from the very beginning, i mean from the time the guy checked out our rack and studied us as a potential mate, that he wanted sex. Would we still do the whole flowers, no first date sex, the various bases, and the no-basis break ups? Or simplify it. He wants sex, i want sex. Is he ok to sleep with? (You know check the penis rating, disease quotient etc.) And if hes ok, will we just do it? Do we women have to continously, and most of the time to duck the 'slut' label, assure and convince ourselves, that he will fall in love with us? Or that there is more to it than the sex?
Does it strike you as funny that people have the best bed-breaking sex post a verbally abusive and volatile we-are-over fight? Whats the deal with that? and would this mean that a revolutionary approach in anger management is in the making?
Why is there no male equivalent of wham-bam-thank you ma'm? Is it to say that we women are not noisy enough to create the sound the likes of wham bam or that its ok for us women to forget our niceties post sex?
Sex is most fun when you love someone. Some man, pissed drunk and doing the roadside lady for a paltry sum, with a great sense of humour said this. Imagine his surprise when people took this to a whole new level. He wakes up one morning to find that people, due to lack of their own intelligence and miniscule depth of thinking, think that the statement holds true. The by-products we find till this date. Valentines Day, dating websites, blind dates, networking. All to meet someone to have great sex with.
Whats sexy lingerie got to do with sex? This is complicated. You wear sexy lingerie to turn him on. Turned on, he will take it off. Am I the only one who sees this as a pointless excercise? Lingerie, when sexy, is lacy, which itches the inner thighs leaving them pink and rashy=no sex. If not lacy, its nety. which shows off everything underneath. Is anyone dizzy from going around in circles?
See how much we complicate it?
Sex, as excitedly discussed as it maybe, is just another physical need. Just two people wanting a release. And its made out to be more. Much much more. It isnt.
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