A few years ago, my poor friend Raju, who makes so claims about turning into a gentleman was denied entry into Rain (of the famous Kareena-Shahid smooch and the Bipasha Basu molestation shoo-sha). I am not even sure if Rain still exists, since I have stopped travelling that far north to socialize. But I still remember that it made Raju feel very despondent and full of disdain for the people who looked him up and down and said, “sorry sir, floaters not allowed.” So off we went to plebian land and bitched about the good life.
My point is, Raju couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone taking on someone at the posh club. What harm could a bald guy who weighs all of 60 kilos, cause in his floaters? I can understand if they were Doc Martens or Caterpillars, as they can pack a mean punch. Unfortunately, Mr. Cerebrally Challenged at the door wasn’t convinced.
Now, I have seen posh men in sharp suits or Versace t-shirts make an utter ass of themselves in high places. I have also seen threesomes emerge out of unisex loos in posh joints. None of these, I am sure, have ever been denied entry, floater or no floater. I believe a tabloid reporter at was denied entry at Bed lounge (yes!)in Bandra because she was in a saree, and then they made a huge song and dance about it…
Closer home, the beau is another person who is always getting into trouble, either for under-dressing (shorts instead of full-lengths ) or overdressing (wearing a hat). He is still working on addressing the Lowest Common Sensibility in dress code, but is taken by surprise every time.
At Poison, which was over flowing with pretty young things one night wearing pretty much nothing, they had an issue with the beau’s shorts which well, just fell short of being trousers. He tried easing them down to prove a point, but it didn’t go well.
At Kuki’s in Delhi (of the Kareena-Saif smooch fame), where, after an hour and a half of serious dancing, the man in charge asked him to take his hat off, as it was ‘against the rules.’ There was some serious word-exchange, but I still didn’t get the logic of it…
At the super-colonial and terribly geriartric Delhi gym, where he is a member by ancestry, his T-shirts and sneakers were frowned upon. So we had to go hunting for a shirt and pull out his patent leather shoes. Why? So we could go to the bar and get wasted, yet look extremely elegant…
Recently we were at All Bheja Fry (sorry, All Stir Fry), grabbing a quick wok before we made our way upstairs to Pollys for a birthday surprise. Now, we were dressed to the nines, so no problem on that front. But as he was sampling the first mouthful, we were summoned by the party brigade, and so, asked for a takeaway. The manager mumbled, “Sorry…it is against our policy… no parcel for buffet. You can take soup…that is a-la-carte…”
Okay, I know we are a third world country and all of us, at any given opportunity would parcel food from buffets for our extended family and friends. What I didn’t know was that restaurant policies were like Indian Penal Code, which by the way, seems very flexible to me, as it is forever changing.
And oh yes, all above places are welcome to ban me, as I have had enough of them anyway. And frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn, as Clark Gable would say.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Satellite woes
Husband-to-be stopped mid sentence while he was talking to me. As he was staring open mouthed at the television set, I noticed that his Dish TV had gone on the blink. “Why didn’t they phone me, or just send me an sms?” he whined. “They should give me advance notice before doing something so drastic.” He continued whining for the next half hour about how he has been so prompt about recharging, and how technically, he was all sorted till Jan 14, and how they must have made a mistake…..blah..blah..blah… There was a veil of annoyance, anger, depression and deprivation on his face all at once.
I said, “But all you have to do is text or call them or buy a recharge card or whatever it is you do with these things.”
“You don’t understand. There is a Man U match tonight. What will I do now? They will never reactivate it in less than three days. My weekend is doomed.”
“What is wrong with not watching TV for a few days?”…I blurted..
Stunned silence.
I realised as soon as I said it that it was so not the right thing to say. It’s like someone telling me, “What’s wrong with not eating vegetables for a few days?”
Three days later, he is still whining.
Okay, so I am marrying a TV junkie. He loves his TV so much that he never has the heart to turn it off. He could leave it on even when he went out, as it saves the trouble of turning it off and on every time. If he had his way, he would have a television in every room, including the bathroom, lest he missed something when he went into his reluctant showers.
I remember, one of the first romantic things he ever said to me was… “Hey, you want to pick your favourite program so we can watch it together?”
My choices were Travel and Living and Animal Planet.
He never asked me that question again.
I still have to get back to him on whether I would like a TV in the kitchen, so I could watch TV while I am “stirring something,” or “reaching out for the spice rack” or “cleaning broccoli”.
Ahem. I see domestic tension already.
Which is why a psychologist once said that the television is like the third person in the relationship. But then they say, you never marry someone with the intention of changing them.
***
The father is the master and commander of Tata Sky (and he does go jhinga-la-la over it). However, it irks him that he still hasn’t been able to eliminate the yellow envelope thingee from the top of the screen. It’s like being punished despite doing your homework or wearing your uniform ironed. The mother is of little help in the scheme of things as she has just learnt how to use the mobile phone, and it will be a while before she graduates to interactive TV guides.
As for me, life goes on, channel or no channel. Give me a book, some music or a free wall to do my asanas any day.
I said, “But all you have to do is text or call them or buy a recharge card or whatever it is you do with these things.”
“You don’t understand. There is a Man U match tonight. What will I do now? They will never reactivate it in less than three days. My weekend is doomed.”
“What is wrong with not watching TV for a few days?”…I blurted..
Stunned silence.
I realised as soon as I said it that it was so not the right thing to say. It’s like someone telling me, “What’s wrong with not eating vegetables for a few days?”
Three days later, he is still whining.
Okay, so I am marrying a TV junkie. He loves his TV so much that he never has the heart to turn it off. He could leave it on even when he went out, as it saves the trouble of turning it off and on every time. If he had his way, he would have a television in every room, including the bathroom, lest he missed something when he went into his reluctant showers.
I remember, one of the first romantic things he ever said to me was… “Hey, you want to pick your favourite program so we can watch it together?”
My choices were Travel and Living and Animal Planet.
He never asked me that question again.
I still have to get back to him on whether I would like a TV in the kitchen, so I could watch TV while I am “stirring something,” or “reaching out for the spice rack” or “cleaning broccoli”.
Ahem. I see domestic tension already.
Which is why a psychologist once said that the television is like the third person in the relationship. But then they say, you never marry someone with the intention of changing them.
***
The father is the master and commander of Tata Sky (and he does go jhinga-la-la over it). However, it irks him that he still hasn’t been able to eliminate the yellow envelope thingee from the top of the screen. It’s like being punished despite doing your homework or wearing your uniform ironed. The mother is of little help in the scheme of things as she has just learnt how to use the mobile phone, and it will be a while before she graduates to interactive TV guides.
As for me, life goes on, channel or no channel. Give me a book, some music or a free wall to do my asanas any day.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Oh, for a handyman
Handymen should be handy. That, in my opinion should be their biggest qualification. Whether or not they are good at their job is debatable. I mean how much can go wrong with fixing a nail or mending a fuse?
Sadly, my good karma days seem to be over with Lord Vamne. He is the complete antithesis of the handyman. First of all, he is more elusive than Gautam Singhania, who one can only interview mid-air on a chopper, even though he is partying every night.
Lord Vamne loves the chase. He doesn’t take my calls, but once in a while, he does send an sms in chaste English, which sounds like a mechanized voice mail. You know, the kind that says, “I am sorry, I am unable to take your call, but I will call you back shortly.
Now, I am a guy’s girl. In the sense that I am incredibly good at getting things done, and although I would love to sound like a helpless damsel in distress who says, “Honey, how are we doing to do this? Can you do something? I really need that nail on the wall…?" I have tried that voice and it doesn’t look good on me.
So I do the stuff that I am good at. Track down local contacts. Talk to random people on the road. Suss out the watchman to see how enterprising he can get for a few extra bucks. The weirdest thing is, all roads led to Vamne, as if it were a conspiracy. So instead of ousting him, which was my original plan, I had to be “nice to him” as advised by one and all.
On an auspicious day, after many prayers and breaking coconuts, Lord Vamne finally descended, with his coterie of two assistants. Now, in my book, this is so not cool. The point of being a handyman is “do it yourself”, not strut around, ordering your assistants to do the job. The result? I have two crooked frames, one spice-rack that is reminiscent of the Leaning tower of Pisa, and a gas regulator that has been fiddled with and rejected.
How could this happen to me, the queen of handymen?
Flashback to Mukeshbhai, the local electrician cum plumber cum mason cum packer cum loader cum blackmarketeer at the local single screen theatre. He called me saab, and I got a kick out of that. Then there was Lakkibhai, who was a tad too dandy to be handyman, but all it took was one sniff at the object of repair, and he would say “Ho jayega. Koi vanda nahi…”. Or even Singh chacha who organized everything from cook cum maid to raddiwala to cornershop telephone number to takeway menus to carpenter.
My mother has an electrical shop aptly called Moonlight who does bodyshopping as a side business. Depending on the nature of the assignment—from fixing a lamp to the sink in the bathroom, to the curtain rod, he would send different men, all of whom were called Shabbir. My mother went terribly batty figuring which Shabbir she had spoken to the last time, and it caused much stress.
So I went to a technical institute for boys run by a convent, asking if they had crash courses in “everything that can go wrong with a house and how to fix it”. I wanted to learn how to fix a car, the tap, the fuse and just about anything that needs fixing. The Brother in charge stared at me as if I were a lunatic. I tried explaining to him that “self help was the best help,” etc, hoping to strike a chord in churchspeak, but he was further amused, and laughed me off as a girl who knew too much.
So handymen it will be…
Sadly, my good karma days seem to be over with Lord Vamne. He is the complete antithesis of the handyman. First of all, he is more elusive than Gautam Singhania, who one can only interview mid-air on a chopper, even though he is partying every night.
Lord Vamne loves the chase. He doesn’t take my calls, but once in a while, he does send an sms in chaste English, which sounds like a mechanized voice mail. You know, the kind that says, “I am sorry, I am unable to take your call, but I will call you back shortly.
Now, I am a guy’s girl. In the sense that I am incredibly good at getting things done, and although I would love to sound like a helpless damsel in distress who says, “Honey, how are we doing to do this? Can you do something? I really need that nail on the wall…?" I have tried that voice and it doesn’t look good on me.
So I do the stuff that I am good at. Track down local contacts. Talk to random people on the road. Suss out the watchman to see how enterprising he can get for a few extra bucks. The weirdest thing is, all roads led to Vamne, as if it were a conspiracy. So instead of ousting him, which was my original plan, I had to be “nice to him” as advised by one and all.
On an auspicious day, after many prayers and breaking coconuts, Lord Vamne finally descended, with his coterie of two assistants. Now, in my book, this is so not cool. The point of being a handyman is “do it yourself”, not strut around, ordering your assistants to do the job. The result? I have two crooked frames, one spice-rack that is reminiscent of the Leaning tower of Pisa, and a gas regulator that has been fiddled with and rejected.
How could this happen to me, the queen of handymen?
Flashback to Mukeshbhai, the local electrician cum plumber cum mason cum packer cum loader cum blackmarketeer at the local single screen theatre. He called me saab, and I got a kick out of that. Then there was Lakkibhai, who was a tad too dandy to be handyman, but all it took was one sniff at the object of repair, and he would say “Ho jayega. Koi vanda nahi…”. Or even Singh chacha who organized everything from cook cum maid to raddiwala to cornershop telephone number to takeway menus to carpenter.
My mother has an electrical shop aptly called Moonlight who does bodyshopping as a side business. Depending on the nature of the assignment—from fixing a lamp to the sink in the bathroom, to the curtain rod, he would send different men, all of whom were called Shabbir. My mother went terribly batty figuring which Shabbir she had spoken to the last time, and it caused much stress.
So I went to a technical institute for boys run by a convent, asking if they had crash courses in “everything that can go wrong with a house and how to fix it”. I wanted to learn how to fix a car, the tap, the fuse and just about anything that needs fixing. The Brother in charge stared at me as if I were a lunatic. I tried explaining to him that “self help was the best help,” etc, hoping to strike a chord in churchspeak, but he was further amused, and laughed me off as a girl who knew too much.
So handymen it will be…
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
My two best men
The brother and the beau have finally met. For me, this was more significant than meeting the parents, or getting along with his best friend. Because, in my world, the brother was always 'the man', although I don’t think he ever knew it. Never mind the fact that he is younger (but looks older) or the fact that he always thought I should edit my dialogues and compress everything I said into 30 seconds, as that was the maximum he could deal with, or the fact that we both liked talking so much, that sometimes, no one was listening. The point is, as a younger sibling, he was often subjected to my domineering ways (or so he says), for which he is exercising payback time.
The tough thing about men you love is that sometimes, they don’t necessarily love each other, rather apply the ‘guilty until proven innocent’ rule. In my case, all it took was ten seconds and the magic word at 2 am. Beer?
And there began the bonding.
Both think that beer is something you drink when you are thirsty.
Both believe that the fridge and the larder should be full of juices and cheese and chocolate and ice-cream and preserves and things that they will never eat, but what if the food in the supermarket runs out?
Both believe that a moody remote is good reason to buy a new DVD player, which is good enough reason to buy a new TV, a hometheatre system, a fridge, and a washing machine — it’s always better when you buy in bulk, is their justification. Also, you get a free coffeemaker, so that’s great, isn’t it?
Both believe that the body can be challenged to consume the most toxic form of food at 4 am.
Both go to sleep with the television on, but wake up the second you switch it off.
Both buy clothes they never intend wearing but squirm when you ask them to give them away.
Both can spend an entire day watching squirrels and cats, and eat a lamb while they are doing so.
Both spring into extreme masculinity mode even if you mention in passing that a guy is sweet on you.
Both are extremely anal about their gadgets and wires, and treat them as if they would a lover.
Both take longer to get ready and spend more time in front of the mirror than I do.
Both have a natural aversion to smaller men and believe they should all perish.
Both have no qualms sleeping over their food, but will raise hell if they spot a crumb on their gaming station.
It’s funny how the things that have always irritated me about my brother are the very things I have to deal with all over again with the beau. But I think its all my doing — I remember I said in my very first column, I have always dreamt of having a boyfriend who was like my brother. Endearing, adventurous, spirited and someone who makes me laugh. Guess I am paying the price for it.
The tough thing about men you love is that sometimes, they don’t necessarily love each other, rather apply the ‘guilty until proven innocent’ rule. In my case, all it took was ten seconds and the magic word at 2 am. Beer?
And there began the bonding.
Both think that beer is something you drink when you are thirsty.
Both believe that the fridge and the larder should be full of juices and cheese and chocolate and ice-cream and preserves and things that they will never eat, but what if the food in the supermarket runs out?
Both believe that a moody remote is good reason to buy a new DVD player, which is good enough reason to buy a new TV, a hometheatre system, a fridge, and a washing machine — it’s always better when you buy in bulk, is their justification. Also, you get a free coffeemaker, so that’s great, isn’t it?
Both believe that the body can be challenged to consume the most toxic form of food at 4 am.
Both go to sleep with the television on, but wake up the second you switch it off.
Both buy clothes they never intend wearing but squirm when you ask them to give them away.
Both can spend an entire day watching squirrels and cats, and eat a lamb while they are doing so.
Both spring into extreme masculinity mode even if you mention in passing that a guy is sweet on you.
Both are extremely anal about their gadgets and wires, and treat them as if they would a lover.
Both take longer to get ready and spend more time in front of the mirror than I do.
Both have a natural aversion to smaller men and believe they should all perish.
Both have no qualms sleeping over their food, but will raise hell if they spot a crumb on their gaming station.
It’s funny how the things that have always irritated me about my brother are the very things I have to deal with all over again with the beau. But I think its all my doing — I remember I said in my very first column, I have always dreamt of having a boyfriend who was like my brother. Endearing, adventurous, spirited and someone who makes me laugh. Guess I am paying the price for it.
My mommy strongest
Hanging out in the ICU is not a pleasant experience. Especially when it's your mother who's battling it out inside. But as hours grow into days, you begin to achieve a rhythm in the whole thing, and then, it's all about project management.
I noticed that people around me were dealing with pain in quite different ways. Some were magically stoic and contained, as though they had a secret formula that I didn't have. Some couldn't stop their nervous chatter. Others, like me, were pacing up and down, prioritizing the list of things to be done.
But the most trying part is not the hanging around all day, waiting to be summoned. Neither is it being told by the doctors that they are trying their best, but we should be prepared for a tragedy, in case it decides to "befall us." Or waiting with bated breath as the doctor pronounces his verdict after an entire day of ultra-sound, echocardiographs, colour dopplers and INR ratios for prothrombin time. Or arranging for 16 bottles of blood in less than four hours — friends, friends of friends, absolute strangers showed up in their Saturday best for my mother as soon I sent out the alert.
And even that is not the most trying part. The most trying part is handling the relatives and their questions
"What time was she admitted?"
"Why /how did this happen?"
"Who brought her to the hospital?"
"Why Lilavati?"
"Can she talk"?
"What about eating?"
"How come we got to know at X time?"
"Is your brother coming?"
"What airline is he flying?"
"Why is he not flying ABC airline?"
"How is it that XYZ knew about it before us?"
With friends, it is so much simpler. "Tell us what you need and we'll do it for you." And they did. Whether it was offering money, blood, a hug for my mother or me, or just their prayers. Two days later, people are still calling or texting, and wanting to donate blood.
But then, there is something democratic about pain. My mother—retired school teacher with no print space to her credit was separated by one bed from Parle scion, Prakash Chauhan whom the nation reads about every day. I don't think my pain is any different from his daughters' who hang around all day—pacing, agitating, breaking down and going on about their business just like me. Or Kajol's, as she comes to visit her dad at the same hospital every day. Or even Amitabh Bachchan's for his ailing mother Teji Bachchan. Incidentally, my mother is still hoping that she runs into her longest crush before she is discharged. "At least some good should come out of this," she says.
She's a brave girl, my mother, and this is her third escape from death. And right now, I feel like the mother of a rambunctious 63 year old daughter who is itching to run away from the hospital, the tubes and the incessant poking, to her haven with two cats who worship the ground she walks on. She is itching to get out of the hospital gown, which she thinks is not very befitting to her figure. And she is itching to start being the boss all over again, and not being told what to do.
I noticed that people around me were dealing with pain in quite different ways. Some were magically stoic and contained, as though they had a secret formula that I didn't have. Some couldn't stop their nervous chatter. Others, like me, were pacing up and down, prioritizing the list of things to be done.
But the most trying part is not the hanging around all day, waiting to be summoned. Neither is it being told by the doctors that they are trying their best, but we should be prepared for a tragedy, in case it decides to "befall us." Or waiting with bated breath as the doctor pronounces his verdict after an entire day of ultra-sound, echocardiographs, colour dopplers and INR ratios for prothrombin time. Or arranging for 16 bottles of blood in less than four hours — friends, friends of friends, absolute strangers showed up in their Saturday best for my mother as soon I sent out the alert.
And even that is not the most trying part. The most trying part is handling the relatives and their questions
"What time was she admitted?"
"Why /how did this happen?"
"Who brought her to the hospital?"
"Why Lilavati?"
"Can she talk"?
"What about eating?"
"How come we got to know at X time?"
"Is your brother coming?"
"What airline is he flying?"
"Why is he not flying ABC airline?"
"How is it that XYZ knew about it before us?"
With friends, it is so much simpler. "Tell us what you need and we'll do it for you." And they did. Whether it was offering money, blood, a hug for my mother or me, or just their prayers. Two days later, people are still calling or texting, and wanting to donate blood.
But then, there is something democratic about pain. My mother—retired school teacher with no print space to her credit was separated by one bed from Parle scion, Prakash Chauhan whom the nation reads about every day. I don't think my pain is any different from his daughters' who hang around all day—pacing, agitating, breaking down and going on about their business just like me. Or Kajol's, as she comes to visit her dad at the same hospital every day. Or even Amitabh Bachchan's for his ailing mother Teji Bachchan. Incidentally, my mother is still hoping that she runs into her longest crush before she is discharged. "At least some good should come out of this," she says.
She's a brave girl, my mother, and this is her third escape from death. And right now, I feel like the mother of a rambunctious 63 year old daughter who is itching to run away from the hospital, the tubes and the incessant poking, to her haven with two cats who worship the ground she walks on. She is itching to get out of the hospital gown, which she thinks is not very befitting to her figure. And she is itching to start being the boss all over again, and not being told what to do.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
And then there were boys
13th Nov 2007
I can’t wait to see Om Shanti Om. I am thrilled that finally, there’s a movie about the seventies, my favourite era — it was an era where men were men. Whether it was Shashi Kapoor’s flamboyance, or Vinod Khanna’s arrogance, or Amitabh Bachchan’s simmer, or Dharmendra’s bravado, or Feroz Khan’s panache, or even Shatrughan Sinha’s bellowing, or Sanjeev Kumar’s melancholic drama, there was one thing in common. They were all men’s men. They were men your dad celebrated, brother emulated, sister had a crush on and mum adored (I know mine had a deep fondness for Amitabh Bachchan and Manoj Kumar — wonder what they had in common)
Even the villains had flair. Whether it was Prem Chopra in his sharp suits and designer mufflers, with that gleam in his eye, or the clean chested Ranjeet in his micro-briefs, who, for some reason was always lounging on a float in a swimming pool surrounded by a bevy of very svelte babes in bikinis, when he usually got a phone call that got him to say “What?” in annoyance.
For someone like me who grew up in a topography that just about made it to the Bombay map, movies and books were my window to the world. We didn’t have a TV till much after the Asian games. And Star &Style was a piece of work to be taken very, very seriously.
When I was operated for tonsilitis as a kid, I was asked to name whatever I wanted to make me feel better about the fact that I couldn’t talk for two days. I asked for a supply of Picture Post, a delightful movie digest with lots of stills and glossy portraits and bios of movie stars. Believe me, it felt better than the ice-cream.
And what do we have now? If I look around moviedom today, I find the masculinity so manicured, it is not even lech-worthy. There are no men, only boys ( some descendants of the aforementioned) desperately trying to be men, but no amount of jackets, guns or SUVs is helping. Neither are glossy stunts and stylized dance moves and the waxed chests and the woven hair. There are no villains either, as the good guys are also the bad guys. And no vamps, as actresses are ready to break into cabaret-like gyrations.
The 70s was also a time when movies had real sexuality — even if we only saw a symbolic fireplace and torrential rain in the tacky back drop, a dropping of blankets, flowers nodding in unison, thunder for sound effects — the point is, one could feel the sex on screen. When was the last time you saw great chemistry between a man and a woman on the Bollywood screen in the last five years? Think hard.
Yes, the men are metrosexual and yes, they have the moves, good hair and biceps, an occasional cleavage and six packs and all that. But even when they turn 45, they will still be boys. And that to me, is not a great thing.
I can’t wait to see Om Shanti Om. I am thrilled that finally, there’s a movie about the seventies, my favourite era — it was an era where men were men. Whether it was Shashi Kapoor’s flamboyance, or Vinod Khanna’s arrogance, or Amitabh Bachchan’s simmer, or Dharmendra’s bravado, or Feroz Khan’s panache, or even Shatrughan Sinha’s bellowing, or Sanjeev Kumar’s melancholic drama, there was one thing in common. They were all men’s men. They were men your dad celebrated, brother emulated, sister had a crush on and mum adored (I know mine had a deep fondness for Amitabh Bachchan and Manoj Kumar — wonder what they had in common)
Even the villains had flair. Whether it was Prem Chopra in his sharp suits and designer mufflers, with that gleam in his eye, or the clean chested Ranjeet in his micro-briefs, who, for some reason was always lounging on a float in a swimming pool surrounded by a bevy of very svelte babes in bikinis, when he usually got a phone call that got him to say “What?” in annoyance.
For someone like me who grew up in a topography that just about made it to the Bombay map, movies and books were my window to the world. We didn’t have a TV till much after the Asian games. And Star &Style was a piece of work to be taken very, very seriously.
When I was operated for tonsilitis as a kid, I was asked to name whatever I wanted to make me feel better about the fact that I couldn’t talk for two days. I asked for a supply of Picture Post, a delightful movie digest with lots of stills and glossy portraits and bios of movie stars. Believe me, it felt better than the ice-cream.
And what do we have now? If I look around moviedom today, I find the masculinity so manicured, it is not even lech-worthy. There are no men, only boys ( some descendants of the aforementioned) desperately trying to be men, but no amount of jackets, guns or SUVs is helping. Neither are glossy stunts and stylized dance moves and the waxed chests and the woven hair. There are no villains either, as the good guys are also the bad guys. And no vamps, as actresses are ready to break into cabaret-like gyrations.
The 70s was also a time when movies had real sexuality — even if we only saw a symbolic fireplace and torrential rain in the tacky back drop, a dropping of blankets, flowers nodding in unison, thunder for sound effects — the point is, one could feel the sex on screen. When was the last time you saw great chemistry between a man and a woman on the Bollywood screen in the last five years? Think hard.
Yes, the men are metrosexual and yes, they have the moves, good hair and biceps, an occasional cleavage and six packs and all that. But even when they turn 45, they will still be boys. And that to me, is not a great thing.
Femme fatale
Every girl has three kinds of friends — the ones who like her when she is happy, the ones who like her when she is sad and the ones who like her no matter what. Depending on what stage of life or mind you are in, the population of each of the above categories varies. The last kind is what makes a friend for life, so if you have two or more in that one, consider yourself blessed. The first one is not too bad per se — except that its longevity is questionable and one tends to have too many miscellanous files open at some point, and too much access to too many people.
It is the second category that can really get into murky waters — most of us, at some point or another have had friends who thrive on our pain, and use it as an opportunity to remind us how sorted they are.
I have had them too… and didn’t even know for quite a long while. But wisdom has finally caught on, and now I can sniff pain junkies from a mile. They are the ones who look for scabs that they can poke and prod — till they get you to a point when you feel miserable about yourself, and then they offer you their shoulder.
It’s like they need your pain to validate their presence. Think about it, you know it’s a no-win — if you are happy, you wont be by the end of the conversation. And if you are sad, you will be worse.
Either way, the power equation is firmly established by them asking all the questions and wanting to be the ones with all the answers — while you, completely unaware of the powertics, strip yourself of all emotions. Remember, the rule of the game is to start asking the questions. It’s always easier than answering, so why can’t you be the one who has the better job?
With men, it is different. They never really allow that degree of access to anyone, and besides, they hate answering questions. If you do friendships like a man, you are less likely to get hurt. Most men have ‘best friends’ who don’t know their secrets — but it doesn’t matter — there is not much emotion invested, and hence no major disappointments. The flip side is, they usually extend themselves to utterly random ‘friends of friends,’ who might think it is legitimate to call upon them in times of need.
Coming back to where we began, there is hope. All we need is to do some serious flushing, like I have. The last time a pain parasite called me to ask me how I was doing and what’s new and if I was happy and all that random collection of data, my antennae were on alert. I told her it was all good — work, life and love couldn’t be better, and began my barrage of questions. She hasn’t called back. Am guessing the power equation has shifted.
It is the second category that can really get into murky waters — most of us, at some point or another have had friends who thrive on our pain, and use it as an opportunity to remind us how sorted they are.
I have had them too… and didn’t even know for quite a long while. But wisdom has finally caught on, and now I can sniff pain junkies from a mile. They are the ones who look for scabs that they can poke and prod — till they get you to a point when you feel miserable about yourself, and then they offer you their shoulder.
It’s like they need your pain to validate their presence. Think about it, you know it’s a no-win — if you are happy, you wont be by the end of the conversation. And if you are sad, you will be worse.
Either way, the power equation is firmly established by them asking all the questions and wanting to be the ones with all the answers — while you, completely unaware of the powertics, strip yourself of all emotions. Remember, the rule of the game is to start asking the questions. It’s always easier than answering, so why can’t you be the one who has the better job?
With men, it is different. They never really allow that degree of access to anyone, and besides, they hate answering questions. If you do friendships like a man, you are less likely to get hurt. Most men have ‘best friends’ who don’t know their secrets — but it doesn’t matter — there is not much emotion invested, and hence no major disappointments. The flip side is, they usually extend themselves to utterly random ‘friends of friends,’ who might think it is legitimate to call upon them in times of need.
Coming back to where we began, there is hope. All we need is to do some serious flushing, like I have. The last time a pain parasite called me to ask me how I was doing and what’s new and if I was happy and all that random collection of data, my antennae were on alert. I told her it was all good — work, life and love couldn’t be better, and began my barrage of questions. She hasn’t called back. Am guessing the power equation has shifted.
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