Connected HumTum - "Jodha Akbar" and "Punar Vivaah"

The evil mother-in-law in a 21st-century Indian TV household is describing her daughters-in-law -- the first one is a steel tumbler, the other is silver. The first storms off in a huff; the other gets ready to follow and console her when ... a town crier in medieval garb walks in accompanied by a drummer to herald his arrival. The newcomer reads from his scroll and announces the broadcast schedule of a new Zee TV soap opera featuring the exploits of 16th-century Mughal emperor Akbar and his queen Jodha. The excited members of the 21st-century Indian TV household start discussing the upcoming serial.

I'm impressed with product placement on Indian television. Even Superman using the Nokia Lumia 925 in "Man of Steel" wasn't in-your-face embedded advertising compared to this.

[For the record, I do not watch "Punar Vivaah" on @ZeeTV. I was merely flipping channels to see if the @AbhayDeol show Connected #HumTum had started]

Save yourself before it’s too late

He was late again. She pushed the plate away with the rice untouched and went to the living room. The television was blaring in the background and she grabbed the remote to mute it. She needed to think.

He hardly ever came home before 10 at night. And it wasn't work. The woman from the flat upstairs had reported seeing him in the street. His arms had been flung around another woman and he was nuzzling her neck.

“You must be mistaken,” she told the housewife from 303. “It must have been someone else.”
“It was your husband. I am not blind.”
“It wasn't him,” she said. “He was at work.”
The two women stood and stared at each other.
“This is a warning sign,” said the upstairs neighbour. “Don’t ignore it.”
“Bitch!” she said and slammed the door in the woman’s face.

She shouldn't have done that. The woman from 303 was just trying to help. And it was true something was going on. She had called his office yesterday and was told he had left at 6 as usual. But he hadn’t reached home until midnight.

“Dinner?” she asked.
“Had it in office,” he replied. “Busy day.”
“You are drunk again,” she said, helping him undress.
“It helps me relax,” he said, pointing to his forehead. “I need to relax.”
She moved away as he grabbed her breasts.
“Please, not tonight,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked, slurring.
“Please,” she repeated and trembled violently when he slapped her.
“Bitch!” he shouted. “Can’t even satisfy your husband.”

He left for work in the morning, without as much as looking at her. She sat on her chair, stone-faced for several hours. It wasn't the first time he had hit her and she knew it wouldn't be the last. If only she had done something about it when it started several months ago. She had suffered a black eye then but he was like an animal that had tasted blood. She knew then the beatings would never stop. And yet she stayed on.

She should have never married him. But her parents had insisted. He had a steady job and didn't want much dowry. He drank a little. “Just a little,” her father had told her. “You’ll end up more drunk than your husband.” She had laughed then. Another warning sign ignored.

The romance lasted just a few days. She was nauseous and had told him she didn't want to have sex that night. “Bitch!” he shouted, pulling her towards him and tearing off her clothes. “You are mine,” he said as he assaulted her.

And yet she stayed on. What could she do? She had to make the marriage work. Her parents would turn her away. She was nothing without him. She couldn't run away. Or could she?

It was 10 when he returned.
“Listen, I’m sorry,” he said, offering her a box of sweets. “Take some.”
She didn't want to eat it but he cajoled her into taking a bite. Perhaps he had realized he was treating her badly. Was there hope for her after all?

But there was something wrong. She saw it in his eyes seconds before she fell to the ground. She had ignored yet another warning sign. He was gesturing to someone in the doorway.

She struggled to keep her eyes open and glanced at the woman who had come in with a sack. So this is the woman who is going to take her place. As her life ebbed away, she had a prayer on her lips. “Let her not make the mistakes I made.”

[Are you a victim of domestic violence? Do not ignore the warning signs. There’s help at every step. The latest National Family Health Survey says 34 percent of Indian women aged between 15 and 49 experienced physical violence at home. Nine percent suffered sexual violence. Save yourself before it’s too late. Make contact now]

(This post is an entry for the Colgate contest on IndiBlogger)

Rushdie, Shadipur and the Delhi Metro

Finally finished re-reading "Midnight's Children". I find Salman Rushdie a better read now than in college but still feel he's over-rated. Magic realism is all very well but I found myself distracted and rooted in reality at various points. Like how Saleem (the protagonist) goes to Shadipur in "the outskirts of Delhi", and I kept thinking Shadipur is the sixth metro station from Rajiv Chowk, while my Dwarka Sector-21 stop is 30 stations from office. "Outskirts?" ... You get my point. Anyway, my rage is misdirected. Shadipur was probably considered really far in 1977 and what is now Dwarka was then a collection of nondescript villages and barren land. Still, tough to envisage knobbly knees and silver spittoons and dung-lotuses and snot-noses. I should really watch the movie now.

A tribute to Monisha Datta

When I was growing up in New Delhi, Mona didi was always the cool, big sister -- the better half of the "MonoTony" of neighbouring families. She introduced me to the wonderful world of FRIENDS, cold coffees and Nirula's Hot Chocolate Fudge.

She was the Monica of our block -- her clothes neatly stacked; her room spic and span. Mom used to take one look at my sloppy cupboard and mutter in frustration -- "Why can’t you be more like her?" Monisha was the daughter she never had.

Mona didi was fearless. When a grumpy neighbour was kicking week-old stray puppies, she screamed at him until he gave up and ran inside. She tended to their injuries and took them to the animal shelter.

When I had nothing to wear for a college function, she drove me to Ebony to pick out a dapper jacket. I still have it, although now it will be tough to wear it without thinking of her.

She was a perfectionist in whatever she did. When not modelling and winning beauty pageants (putting her near 6-foot frame to good use), she found time to earn a university medal in geography, take a summer course in German and roam the world. Still, New Delhi was always her favourite city.

Then she married and moved away to Bangalore and our jobs took their toll. Our phone conversations dwindled to the bare minimum of get-well-soons and hurried birthday wishes. It was her rakhis that always arrived in the mail on the one day she never forgot, no matter how busy she was.

What I am angry about is she departed for heaven without as much as a goodbye, failing to conquer a teensy-weensy monster called dengue. The Mona didi I knew had been so strong her whole life; this virus should have been no match for her.

I picture her chuckling up above in the clouds where she will be making herself useful, delivering knockout punches to demons and taking over as CEO of the guardian angel club.

No, she doesn't need tears. She was happiest when others smiled. And she would rather you remember her by watching a FRIENDS episode. The one where they sing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" was one of her favourites.

My brother's wedding

Make your own slide show at Animoto.

The end of my hair problems

Woof! My name is Sheena and I live with my mistress in an apartment on the seventh floor. She’s a nice human and I am quite happy living with her. As a dog, you don’t expect much from life -- eat, sleep, play ball, with a belly rub or two in between – and you are all set.

I love my human and she loves me. But I dislike her hair. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t really judge humans by their beauty. Not that my mistress isn’t pretty -- but then that’s fodder for another blog. But she’s got really bad hair. It’s spiky and pointy and prickly and dry and what not.

Wait a minute, you say. Well, I expected that. Who would believe a dog has problems with human hair? After all, we pets have our fair share of fleas and ticks. But you got to be in my paws to understand the problem. When my mistress nuzzles up against me whispering sweet nothings, I am itching to get away. Her hair irritates me, scratches against my nose and even gets tangled in my mane. And since I want her to cuddle with me, I suffered in silence –- or the occasional whine when a stray split end pricked my nose.

But even dogs have their limits and I had to do something. And so I took matters into my own paws.

One morning, when mistress was in the bath, I used the doggie door to leave and trotted down to the house across the hall. The human who lives there has a dog too -- Buttercup -- she’s a fellow bitch. We share a lot of secrets and I know a lot about her human. Buttercup was waiting for me. I gave her the signal -- three short barks – and she guided me into their bedroom. We crept past her sleeping mistress and Buttercup growled softly when she spotted the thing on the table. I put my paws up and retrieved what I had come for. I bid goodbye to Buttercup and returned home.

I rushed to the bath where my mistress was splashing around and dropped the thing in her hands.

“What have you dug up, Sheena?” she asked, fingering the tube with the bird on it. But she wasn’t angry. “Dove, dove, dove” she whispered, giving me a pat on the head, as she proceeded to open the tube. And that was the end of my hair problems!

It was Buttercup who helped me. Her mistress had bad hair too -- until the day the flying bird tube had shown up. Buttercup was sure the tube had some kind of magic in it -- for that very same day, her mistress had shiny, smooth hair that smelt as fresh as sunflowers.

And I noticed it right away. When my mistress came out of the bath, her hair was bouncy and soft and smelt really nice. So nice in fact that I jumped up to lick her face. She laughed and gave me a nice, long cuddle and it was good. I wished it would never end.

Fellow doggies, you now know what to do. Get your human the magic tube and you won’t regret it. It’s been nice yapping with you. Woof!

(This post is an entry for the Dove contest on Indiblogger.com)

Sunshine girl

Kyra is beautiful when she is asleep. And now, as the first rays of the morning sun bounce off her earlobes, she's irresistible. I roll over to her side to caress the smooth skin of her neck and shoulders. She awakens at my touch and stares back for a moment before her eyes crinkle and her features dissolve into a warm, embracing smile.

“Good morning, dear.”
“Good morning,” she answers in a singsong tone.
“And what does my queen desire this fine morning?”
Kyra doesn’t reply, just shrugs and then squeals as I playfully yank her off the bed, setting her feet down on the carpeted floor.

She pouts and throws a pillow in my direction, missing by a metre.
“OK, first stop is the beach,” she says.
“Now? What about a nice, relaxing hotel breakfast?”
 “We’ll have it at the beach,” she insists and rushes to the bathroom before I could say no.

Kyra returns in five minutes, clad now in a beige bikini.
“Let’s go,” she announces and ignores my feeble protests as she tosses away my office BlackBerry. “All work and no play make Tony a dull boy, remember?”
I get up to follow her but she frowns.
“Do I have to teach you everything?” Kyra asks. “Take this off,” she says, pointing to my T-shirt.
“But why?”
“Is this your first time at a beach?” she prattles on as she helps me take it off. “Don’t you remember 'The Heartbreak Kid' where Ben Stiller’s honeymoon is ruined because his wife gets sunburnt and is stuck in the hotel room.”
“Yes, I do and I remember it works out well for Stiller since he meets the love of his life”.
“But this is real life,” she insists. "We are at a beach resort with a blazing sun and I don’t want to be stuck next to someone with red blotches."

Kyra rummages around in her bag and comes up with a yellow tube.
“Here, use this,” she says and hands it to me.
I squint at the label, undecided if I should use the Lakme Sun Expert SPF 50.
“Are you sure I need this? I’m Indian and I can’t get any darker than this.”
“You have skin. You are in the sun. Then you need this,” she announces in staccato.

As I hesitate, she grabs the tube, squeezes out a blob and proceeds to rub it across my chest.
“It tickles,” I whisper as she reaches up to my shoulders and starts on my arms.
Kyra laughs and finishes with a flourish. She stands back and gives me an approving glance.
“Now, you're all set for a day at the beach.”
I look at her standing there and I know this is the woman of my dreams and that I would do anything to make her happy.
“Just you wait, Kyra. I’m going to give you the time of your life.”
“You’ll have to catch me first,” she giggles and runs off.
I just have time to bang the hotel room door shut before I run after her.

(Contest entry for Lakme Diva Blogger contest www.facebook.com/ilovelakme )

Internet is Fun. More fun on the Mobile

Meet my friend Internet. He's a fun guy and loves spending time with everyone. And believe me, everyone loves him too. I bet he can bring a smile to your face -- even if you are a stranger and I’ve just introduced you two.

Internet was born on April 7, 1969 but don't think of him as someone in his 40s -- he still behaves like a teenager sometimes. I still remember him grinning from ear to ear when he bought his first vehicle (he called it Mobile) in 1996 and it's been his favourite set of wheels ever since. Of course, he's made various adjustments over the years, adding features and newer technology so that he can zoom around on Mobile faster than ever before.

Not that he wasn't attractive earlier, but ever since he’s been on Mobile, Internet has been irresistible. Women swoon when he zooms past them. Behind his rugged exterior lies the heart of a gambolling puppy that can melt even the grumpiest of human beings. Of course, he’s a big flirt too. He takes his dates out to this fancy restaurant called Pinterest, impressing women with visions of a giant pinboard filled with their favourite things.

Internet can read faces too. He can tell at a glance who you are and what you like. He even maintains a huge book to store the faces of all the people who are in touch with him. He calls it Facebook. I wanted him to name it something more classy but he went with the suggestion of another fan -- Mark Zuckerberg. Anyway, it's made life simple for all of us. I just open Facebook, search for my friends and check out what Internet has to say about them.

Internet has an eidetic memory. Nothing great but he’s able to remember everything clearly. I find it amazing (and irritating too, when Internet behaves like a tiresome know-it-all). He's got a mind like that of Sherlock Holmes and has the makings of a great detective. When I’m searching for something, I just walk up to Internet and nag him with some magic words. He responds to some specific sounds -- just utter Google, Bing or Yahoo -- and he’ll spill the beans on any topic under the sun (and beyond).

Sometimes he makes notes too and stuffs all this information in a notebook. You can read it too and since he's so sloppy with spellings and grammar, do feel free to make corrections. His house is a mess but if you poke around in his innumerable desks (and manage not to sneeze), you’ll find the notebook somewhere in an unfinished jigsaw globe he calls Wikipedia. His friend Jimmy Wales gave it to him in 2001 and he's played around with it ever since.

When Internet is speeding down city roads on Mobile, he’s usually in a chatty mood. He’s what you call a serial Twitterer -- you know, the kind of people who speak rapidly in staccato sentences. His fans adore his tweets though and share (or should I say retweet?) them with others.

I first made Internet’s acquaintance some two decades ago and we’ve been best friends since (fingers crossed). He's given me many rides on the Mobile and I must admit I've never had so much fun before. Now it’s your turn.

(Contest entry for www.vodafone.in/fun )

Mom gave us a scare

Hospitals are scary places. Which is why I usually avoid visiting sick relatives.

But I couldn’t escape last night. Mom gave us a scare. She had been feeling uneasy in the evening -- a throbbing headache and a nagging feeling that something was wrong.

At the hospital, her systolic blood pressure rocketed past 220. The doctor said this could lead to organ failure or a haemorrhagic stroke and got her admitted to the intensive care unit (ICU).

If hospitals are scary, the ICU is scarier. You can’t really see the patient and what the doctors are doing. Who knows if she’s being given unnecessary medicine with undesirable side-effects. Moreover, they allow relatives in only at certain times.

At other times, we wait.

It's the waiting that you dread, till the ICU attendant calls out a name -- and somehow that’s worse.

"Annie ke saath?" (Who’s with Annie?) he calls out in the waiting area and I rush to the doors of the forbidden kingdom.

But no, there’s no good news. I am not being let in. It’s only a nurse who hands over a list of medicines that must be bought right away.

It's not easy to relax in the waiting area. The blue hospital chairs are not very comfortable. I try taking a nap but my neck hurts. The ward boys are watching a Bollywood film on television and I watch it too, glad to have something to do.

I'm not the only visitor in the room. There are four other men waiting for news from the ICU -- all of us are strangers bound together by the unwelcome guest threatening our loved ones.

Two enterprising men (perhaps they’ve had days of practice) wait till the ward boy’s back was turned, spread a sheet on the floor and are asleep within minutes.

A woman is brought in at around 3 a.m. But it’s too late. Her son, a man in his 30s, leans against the ICU wall, bawling like a baby for his dead mother. Relatives rush to console him but the man doesn’t stop weeping incoherently till the body, wrapped in a white sheet, was taken out. The ward boys, perhaps out of sympathy, muted the TV so that the dance beats of a Bollywood item song didn’t interfere with the man’s grief.

I watch the man crying but am unable to react. It’s not that I am being the stoic tough guy; perhaps the possibility of being in that man’s position hasn’t really sunk in.

I got to meet mom twice -- she had spent a sleepless night, disturbed by the commotion a few beds away, where a housewife had been brought in after she consumed some sort of poison following an argument with her husband.

The good news, mom was much better (if befriending and charming three nurses is any indication) and doctors are now keeping her in the ICU an extra day for observation. She comes back home in the morning.

I’m feeling guilty. Hospital staff gave me mom’s gold rings to take home. And I’ve lost one of them. Mom doesn’t know yet.

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