O Bhaiyas, where art thou?

Diwali often makes NRIs nostalgic. In my case, it depresses me. I start missing the festivities in India and no matter how clean my house is, how beautiful the rangoli around the house is, how nice my new clothes are, how tasty the kheer I make is, how ethnic the hand-painted diyas at my doorstep are, how pretty the henna on my hands is, I miss certain things very very much. I basically miss the festive spirit in the air, which, in spite of the public holiday, I don’t feel here.

Even though I have been scared of loud firecrackers when I was young, I miss the smell of the barood in the air. Even though I have always hated sweets, I miss the exchange of mithais that happened between neighbours. Even though I hate crowds, I miss the crowded lane just before the ‘gali ka ladi bum’ was lighted.

And I miss the Bhaiyas.

The Bhaiyas were a rare specimen that knocked on your door every year a few days before Diwali. They were like Halloween kids, except that they were seventeen and to my six-year-old self, very very tall, and very very cool. They were also known to all grown-ups in our neighbourhood as ‘the good-for-nothing ruffians who had never given darshan at the college gates’.

***

Flashback 1986

The doorbell rings. Mom asks me to open the door.

I look through the peephole. It's the Bhaiyas of the neighbourhood. I like them. They let me fly their kites, ride their bikes, spin their tops and field during gully cricket.

I open the door.

Bhaiya 1 - Is your Mom in?

Me - Yes. And Dad is in too.

Bhaiya2 - Oh shit!

Bhaiya3 - Okay, can you call your Dad?

Me - Dad, Bhaiya log are here!

Dad comes to the door.

B1 - Namaste, Uncle.

Dad (suspiciously) - Haan namaste namaste... what is it?

B1 - Happy Diwali, Uncle!

Dad (glares) - Diwali is next week.

B2 - Yes yes. But we have to prepare beforehand, isn't it?

Dad - Prepare for?

B1 – The celebrations, uncle!

Dad - Just exactly why are you here?

B3 - Uncle, 50 rupees...

Dad - 50 rupees?? Why?

B1 - Uncle... chanda...

Dad - Chanda??

B2 - Diwali donation, uncle!

Dad - Diwali donation?? For??

B2 (nervously) - Uncle, everyone is giving...

Dad - But why??

B3 - Uncle, ladi bum!
(I'm sorry, but there's just no other way to spell it if I want to do justice to the way they pronounced it!)

Dad - Ladi bum? What's that??

B1 (grins with delight) – Uncle, it's a firecracker. For the whole neighbourhood!

Dad - For the whole neighbourhood??

B2 - Yes, uncle! We are going to buy the 1000-rupees wala ladi bum and line it from one end of our lane to the other.

Dad (dirty look) - Huh?

B3 - And then we will light it at 10 pm. It's for everyone who lives in this lane... You can come out and watch.

Dad - Watch? Watch what? Watch you people set fire to a 1000-rupee note?

B2 (murmurs) - Ufff... Yeh banker log...

B1 - Uncle, please?

Dad continues to look at them sternly.

B2 (tries to look beyond Dad's shoulder) - Aunty, please? Samjhaiye na Uncle ko...

Mom looks at Dad helplessly.

Dad - I will give you 20 rupees. That's it.

B1 - What will we do with 20 rupees, Uncle? If everyone started giving only 20 rupees, the ladi bum won't even reach the end of the lane!

Dad (glares again) - It will reach all right. Just don't subtract your alochol money from it.

B3 - Alcohol? Uncle, what are you saying?? Alcohol and us??

Dad - I know your ways. You will use 50% of the money for your ladi-wadi bum, and I know where the rest will go.

B1, B2 and B3 look at one another in mock-horror, and then silent resignation.

B2 - But Uncle...

Dad - 20 rupees. Take it or leave it.

B1 - Okay fine, Uncle...

Dad hands 20 rupees over.

B2 - Thank you, Uncle!

B3 - Happy Diwali, Uncle, Aunty!

Dad – Theek hai, theek hai, bye.

B1 (to me) - Bye! 10 pm, okay?

Me (delighted to have been spoken to) - Bye, Bhaiya log!

"Good-for-nothing gundas..." Dad mumbles, shakes his head in disapproval and goes back to reading the paper.

***

Sometimes I wonder where all the Bhaiyas are now. I imagine some of them as pot-bellied uncles probably, trying to sweat it out in the family business. Maybe some of them really made it big. Maybe they are all are married by now, bogged down by office and family responsibilities and stolen of their infamous gunda-image. But to those who still have that spark and remember the Diwali-chanda days two decades ago, I want to extend my appreciation.

You guys were an integral part of the years I had spent in India, and my Diwali-nostalgia will always always include you.

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Check-in' the mail?

July 1998

So I’m sitting in the canteen writing a letter (yes, you read that right!) when a second year guy approaches me.

"Hi Sayesha, what on earth are you doing?" He grinned.

"Bharatnatyam." I wanted to say, but smartass freshies really get it (and I’d had enough and enough of being ragged), so I decided against it.

"I'm writing a letter." I said.

"You're writing a letter?"

"Yeah."

"To whom?"

"Santa Claus." I went in my head, then changed my mind again.

"Mom and Dad."

"You're writing a letter to your Mom and Dad?" He was extremely amused.

"She's writing a letter to her Mom and Dad!" he hollered to two of his batchmates who also decided to join in and examine “the specimen who wrote letters to people”.

"Why don't you email them?"

"They don't have email."

They looked at each other.

"Besides, letters have their own charm." I added.

"Letters have their own charm... wah wah!" they guffawed.

"You know what, Sayesha? I bet you'll stop writing letters by the time you make it to second year."

"I'll NEVER." I said indignantly.

("Never stop writing" I meant, not "never make it to second year".)

"I will prove you wrong, dude!" I made a resolution.

Erm, I stopped writing letters by the end of the first semester.

My excuse? Everyone did. Dad had got email, it was faster and hassle-free, and I could do it in the middle of a boring class. I emailed him every day. Then every week, then every month. I believe I’m still at every month.

Back in the days of letters, we checked our mailboxes once in a few days. The world then moved online and there were fewer reasons to check our mailboxes. Mailboxes became almost useless, in other words - spam central. And we got crazily emailing. In the beginning, it was fun. Emails were long and descriptive and delightful. Over the years, they started getting shorter and shorter. We actually preferred them that way. Then people we know stopped emailing us, and people who did not know us started instead. People who were trying to sell you online university degrees, or drugs to enhance body parts your gender doesn't have in the first place, or promises to transfer gazillions of dollars to your account on no account, or pleas for help from 8-year-old Ethiopian orphans who never grew a day since the early nineties when they first started emailing us. Sometimes we ‘paid it forward’ by sending them to people we dislike.

We hated these emails because they were not sent to us - they were not personalised. They were stupid forwards meant for the whole damn world and sent to the whole damn world. We deleted it all. Then came gmail and the spam disappeared. So for all those jobless blokes who checked email just to delete spam and hence “have something to do”, gmail was of no use.

But we continue checking. I am not even sure why we do it. I highly doubt that it’s in the hope that someone some day will write us a nice long email meant only for us. If that was the case, why do we look at the personalised emails that bhoole bhatke come to us and go, “Shit! Do I have to reply to this?” We read it and put it aside because we don't know what to reply, even though it was probably why we kept checking our email. And even if we reply, and we get a reply to our reply, and after that, there is not much to say anymore. But isn’t that why we were checking our email in the first place – to receive something meant for us? Didn't we delete like everything else??

Yesterday I made a resolution, to make better use of email. To email properly and reply properly, and perhaps devote an hour or so every weekend to what Rachel (F.R.I.E.N.D.S) calls "catching up on correspondence". Enough is enough. I can't keep checking my email when I don't expect to send any out - it's downright ridiculous!

Strange… We want to be remembered, but we don't remember.

But we keep checking our email. Day in day out. At home, at work, during the weekdays, during the weekends. From our PCs, from our laptops, from our phones. We keep checking. Several email accounts. Several times a day. Like maniacs.

Sometimes I wonder - what the heck are we checking for?

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Jab they met (and exceeded) expectations

Chill, bewdas, chill - no spoilers. :)

When a movie has a title as inane as ‘Jab we met’ and stars Kareena Kapoor, there are only two people in the world who can make me watch it. (They even look like each other, hehe!)

1. Raja Sen, Rediff movie reviewer – I have been a fan of the guy since I read an interview of his where he described the relatively unknown movie ‘Socha Na Tha’ as “an honest script” and I felt like he had literally stolen my exact thoughts about the movie. Yes, I may be a total Bollywood person with my share of love for the SRKs and the Karan Johars, but truth be told, my all time favourite movie is the simple and down to earth Socha Na Tha.


2. Imtiaz Ali, the relatively unknown director of the movie ‘Socha Na Tha’ who also wrote and edited the movie, and went on to script ‘Ahista Ahista’, another movie I like very very much. What I love about Imtiaz Ali's movies are the way the characters speak - just like you and me. I guess it helps that he's a writer/director, so nothing conceptualised by Imtiaz the writer is lost in translation - because Imtiaz the director ensures it is executed exactly the way it was conceptualised.

So Raja Sen did not review ‘Jab We Met’ (perhaps he’s gearing up for the OSO/Saawariya marathon next weekend) but as soon as I knew that Imtiaz Ali had directed the movie (check out this conversation between the two), I not only knew I was going to watch it, I knew I was going to love it.

Quick sms messages went out to my friends Shub and Pizzadude (I could not wait for certain people who live in China) and soon we found ourselves in the best seats of the house, thanks to my paranoid buying of the tickets 45 minutes before the show (an Imtiaz Ali movie can only be appreciated from nothing less than the best seats). We had all been rolling our eyes at the movie title, but the worst was when we saw the title written in the hindi script. All of us read it out as ‘Jab we mate’ and burst out laughing like maniacs even before the movie had started. Little did we know that we would be laughing every five minutes of the movie courtesy a certain very very funny Ms. Kapoor.

Now here’s the honest truth – I have disliked Kareena Kapoor rather immensely all my Bollywood-fan life. And over the years as she reprised the role of her K3G Pooja (or Poo, as she was better known as) in movie after movie, she became the warning signal and I ran in the opposite direction at the mere mention of her being in a movie. Just when she’d redeem herself in a Yuva or a Omkara (I was impressed by her in both movies, even though she had very brief roles), she’d make another bimbotic appearance somewhere. And I used to think – if only she got rid of the annoying Poo inside her (okay that sounded gross, but you know what I mean), perhaps she’d make quite a good actress. Maybe all she needed was the right movie.

And boy, is ‘Jab We Met’ the right movie.

Imtiaz Ali is a genius. Interestingly, all three of his movies so far have had the underlying theme of ‘running away from home’, yet they are all treated in very different and creative ways. His movies are like thrillers without the gore – you get involved in the character’s life and stay involved till the end. You want to know what is going to happen to the characters, and often you do not know whom to empathise with, which makes his movies amazingly real and relatable. And the creative ways in which he ends the movies, even if the ending is one of those happy predictable ones, always always get my applause. Not to mention the little ironic quirks he sprinkles evenly throughout the movie.

I believe the reason why I like Abhay Deol and Ayesha Takia so much is the way Imtiaz presented them in Socha Na Tha (and later Abhay again in Ahista Ahista). He managed to get the best out of both of them. And just when you thought that it was because he worked with newbies whom he could easily mould into the characters he wrote, he pulled off a ‘Jab We Met’ with a seasoned commercial actress.

The casting of ‘Jab We Met’ could not have been more perfect. However, it must have taken some vision to imagine Kareena in the role of Geet. And it must have been quite a task to make her shed her Poo-ness and get under the skin of Geet so effortlessly that even hardcore anti-Kareenas like me melt away and root for her. It's the kind of role that is difficult to portray without making the character an annoying, hamming over-the-top one, especially by someone like Kareena Kapoor. Though Imtiaz Ali is the kind of director who has that perfect control over his cast and does not allow them to ham, due credit must go to Kareena for letting him portray her in such an un-Kareena manner. Throughout the movie, she had many unconventional lines to say, which are extremely difficult to pull off, but Kareena got away with them and how. I am pleased to say that as of 3rd November 3.55 pm, I officially like Kareena Kapoor as an actress. And that is a brave brave statement for me to make.

Don't you love it when the so-called ‘predictable Bollywood’ takes you by surprise? I totally totally love it.

Shahid Kapoor has a shaky start in the movie. In fact, in the first two minutes of the movie as he wanders around in the streets in his business suit and glasses, sans the monkey-grin that we’re all so familiar with – you will actually think of him as a miscast. But as the movie progresses, he grows on you, just like Kareena does. I never believed that real-life couples can be convincing in reel life, but this movie has changed my belief. There could not have been a better fit for the role of Aditya than Shahid. Mainly because this is an out and out Kareena Kapoor movie, and Shahid lends able support to the larger-than-life character of Geet she portrays. He steps back and lets her shine, in a way that perhaps a boyfriend, not a co-star, would. You see the genuine chemistry between the crazy-bubbly Geet and the sensible-serious Aditya, you yearn for their togetherness and wonder - why oh why did Kareena and Shahid have to break up?

(And you also realise that if he turns off the monkey-grin you see in every movie of his, the Shahid dude is quite a looker. The intense gaze, the glasses, the rolling his eyes and shaking his head at her antics, all welcome.)

The movie, in spite of being brilliantly funny, is intense, moving and honest. It will touch you - if not now, some day in your life, one of the lines from the movie will come back and get you. I am so going back to watch it again (can't let Viv miss out on this one, and can't wait for the DVD).

Kareena and Shahid may not be together now (damn you Saif, now you’re going after the kids?!), but this movie is the best parting gift they could have given each other.

And us too.

.

Who's your daddy?

Sayesha Smitten showbiz kitten is back!

And this time she brings you hot news about the two most awaited Diwali releases – Om Shanti Om and Saawariya.

Large living room with a small bar in a corner. Ranbir Kapoor and Sonam Kapoor are sitting on a two-seater couch. Deepika Padukone and Shreyas Talpade are seated on another two-seater opposite them. The two parties are pouting at each other. Shah Rukh and Salman are seated on high stools at the bar, having drinks. Farah Khan is seated on a rocking chair in the balconey. Sanjay Leela Bhansali is pacing the floor. Sayesha Smitten Showbiz kitten is, as usual, perched on a tree outside the living room, taking careful note of the proceedings.

Sanjay – So is everyone here? Who’s missing? Rani?

Salman – Rani just sent me an sms. She can’t make it.

Sanjay – Huh? Why not?? This is an important discussion that can affect the performance of both movies.

Salman – She said she's depressed and can’t participate in any conversation about performances of movies. She says her chunari has got a daag. I'm not quite sure what she means...

Farah – Arre yaar! Let’s just go ahead without her. My children (points to her tummy with the triplets) are hungry. Let’s wrap this up quickly.

Sanjay – Hmm… okay. (turns to face everyone) We have gathered here to discuss the clash of release dates of Om Shanti Om and Saawariya. If both release on the same date, they will cannibalise each other. It’s best that we hold the release of one of them, and push it to a week later.

Farah – Exactly. But of course neither of us wants to push our movie release. So we have to come up with a way to decide.

Ranbir – Simple. Just pick the grander of the two movies and that gets the Diwali release!

Sonam – I agree!

Shreyas – I think…

Deepika – Sounds good to me!

Shreyas – But I think…

*Farah and Sanjay shrug their shoulders and agree.*

*momentary pause in the room*

Shah Rukh – Sallu Bhai, haar maan lo yaar. Mere paas toh Swades bhi hai, aur Pardes bhi. Tumhaare paas kya hai?

Salman – Mere paas… mere paas… (tries to remember his last hit movie)… mere pass Partner hai! (dials Govinda’s number)

Govinda – Bhaiya, keep me out this, please. I can’t be involved in any Saawariya vs. Om Shanti Om war.

Salman – But why not??

Govinda – Erm… I have a cameo in Om Shanti Om.

Salman – Aila! Baaghi! Sangdil Sanam! Paththar ke fool! Dil Ne Jise Apna Kaha… Sanam Bewafa!

Govinda - *click*

Salman – Aila! Phone kaat diya!

Shah Rukh (grins) – So?

*Salman looks helplessly at Sanjay*

Sanjay – Farah, let's get real. This is only your second movie. I am a more seasoned director.

Farah – Hmmm… let’s see, my first movie was a superhit… your first movie… hmmm… what was it now? Khamoshi the musical? I rest my case.

Sanjay – Errmm… but don’t forget I made Aishwarya act! The entire industry acknowledges that.

Farah – I give you that. Any day. *bows head*

Sanjay – Well?

Farah – Well what? I have Shah Rukh.

Sanjay – Well… you may have Shah Rukh… but we have two heroes in the movie.

Shreyas (indignantly gets up) – Excuse me? We have two heroes too! Did you not watch Iqbal?

Salman – Baal? Mere baal? (instinctively touches his head with an alarmed expression)

Shah Rukh – All there, all there…

Shreyas – So I was saying… didn’t you watch Iqbal? Didn’t you read the critics’ reviews?

Sanjay & Farah – Critics??? Critics???? Hahahahahahahhahahaha!

Farah – Well, you know what? Shreyas is right. We have two heroes too.

*Shreyas looks at Farah with utter adoration, his eyes almost tearing with emotion.*

Farah – Shah Rukh Khan and Shah Rukh Khan. Reincarnation, remember?

*Shreyas looks stunned for a minute, gets up and storms out of the house in a huff.*

Sonam – Am glad he’s gone. Who is he, man? I mean, like… who’s his dad and stuff?

Ranbir – No idea man. Unknown person?

Farah – People! My kids are starving! So how are we going to decide this??

Ranbir – Well, you know… your movie is called Om Shanti Om… and don’t forget, my dad starred in the original song ‘Om Shanti Om’!

Sonam – But my dad was Mr. India!

Farah – Well, we don’t have to go back in history. It’s actually quite simple. My movie has Shah Rukh, the biggest star. My movie is grander.

Sanjay – Now now. Don’t undermine Salman’s star power. Plus, I have Rani and two star kids. Add ‘em up and Saawariya has more star value.

Farah – Oh you wanna add ‘em up? Do you know - one song in my movie has 31 frickin’ stars??? Beat that. Star value ki baat karta hai…

Ranbir – Ha! There are like… 31 stars in my family itself! (starts counting on his fingers) Prithviraj Kapoor, Raj Kapoor, Randhir Kapoor...

Deepika – Uhhh… I think I am seeing stars…

Ranbir – (continues to count) Rishi Kapoor, Neetu Kapoor, Karisma Kapoor, Kareena Kapoor…

Sonam (annoyed) – Oh stop it, Ranbir!

Ranbir – Hey, you don’t have to feel bad… I mean you have a famous Kapoor in your family too… only one Kapoor yes, but it still counts I guess? He may not be one of “the Kapoors”… I mean that’s us, of course… but he was… kind of a famous Kapoor, no?

Sonam – Oh puh-leez. My dad was Mr. India!

Ranbir – Oho ho! You really wanna go there? My great granddad was Mughal-e-azam!

Deepika – (coyly looks at nails) Ahem. My dad can kick both your dads’ asses.

Sonam and Ranbir – Oh yeah?

Deepika – Yeah! You wanna try him? You call your dads, I’ll call mine, and let’s have… say a badminton match? We settle this right here and everyone goes home. What say you?

*Ranbir and Sonam roll eyes at Deeepika.*

Farah’s triplets in her womb, also known as Om, Shanti and Om – Tch tch… kids these days… so immature...



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Slipping partners

“Hi XYZ,
I was wondering if you received the email I’d sent you last Thursday. I have to send this month’s issue to press in two days, so I’d appreciate a quick response from you.
Thanks,
Sayesha”


“Hi Sayesha—
Sorry about that. I'd received your email but it must have slipped through the cracks. Here’s the info you need...
XYZ”

Slipped through the cracks? So this person received my email but did not respond because it “slipped through the cracks”? Man! What cracks are these??

And here I thought the only things that could “slip through cracks” were friendships.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about friendships, especially of the lost variety.

Long long ago, there was a Big Bang and the universe was formed. And according to scientists, everything in the universe is still reeling from the effect of the bang - moving away from one another at very high speeds, expanding towards the unknown. And that is what is happening to our lives as well. Not only are we physically moving away from one another, we’re doing so emotionally as well. The things that bound us together are slipping through the cracks. When we were kids, we could not make up our minds about who our ‘best friend’ was. Today, we still can’t make up our minds about who our ‘best friend’ is. The reason, however, is different.

The older we grow, the smaller gets the pool of people we can become friends with. The busier we get at work, the less time we have to meet people who are not gonna buy stuff from us or appraise us. We meet new people but we don’t have time to follow up. Over time, everything slips through the cracks. Sometimes, we get so cynical, we stop looking at people as potential friends. We look at them as “someone I work with” or “someone I randomly bumped into” or “someone whose blog I read” or “someone I know through someone else”. And more worryingly, "someone I'm eventually gonna lose touch with or have a fallout with, so no point investing in this". We stop investing our time, our effort, our emotions into friendships because we have seen them slip away. As far as friendships are concerned, time froze the moment we left college. At most we look back at our old friendships – school and college friends - with fondness. Our yaars, our buddies, our partners, our dost-log. Sometimes we’re lucky to have them still around. At other times, everything, everyone slips away. Right in front of us and there’s nothing we can do.

In a world where ‘home’ has been redefined as not a place, but a concept, where everyone including you is on his or her way to somewhere else, how do you stand still and stay friends? Perhaps the only way you can stay close to your best friend is to marry him or her, a strategy applied rather successfully by many people. But then of course, there is a limited number of people you can marry so this doesn’t really work.

When I was a kid, I had a favourite cousin. He and I were so close to each other that when all of us cousins played monopoly, I’d become the banker just so I could slip him a few notes here and there when no one was looking. When I grew up, I found out that he was actually not even my first cousin – he was not even remotely related. His grandma and my grandma hailed from the same village or something like that, and that was why we'd been hanging out all our childhood, not because "he was my cousin". But that did not change anything. He was my favourite cousin, and more important to me than my own sister. He was the brother I never had. Fast forward 15 years and not much is left. We do see each other every few years, and it’s apparent that both are aware of how close we used to be, but we can’t do anything to bring back that closeness. That has slipped. Slipped through the cracks.

Nine years ago, when I landed in Singapore, I was pretty much a reject. There was the Delhi bunch, the Mumbai bunch, the Bangalore bunch and the Madras bunch. And then there was me – born in Orissa, brought up in random cities, hailing from seven schools most of which fall under Jharkhand now – and not fitting into any of the coolness quotients. We were all there on the same scholarship, but we were not quite the same. My spoken English wasn’t too good (I was used to thinking in hindi and translating it to English, and discovered that doesn’t really work when people speak as fast as my classmates did). I was by myself - friendless because I could not identify with my own classmates. Yet, somehow I managed to make friends with a bunch of third-year guys who smoked and drank and did all the things that ‘bad guys’ do. But we were friends who hung out without judging one another. They were themselves around me, and I was myself around them. It was the most comfortable kind of friendship you could think of. But over the years, it all slipped away. Yes, they are all on my Facebook, but I have practically nothing to say to them. We've all added one another, but not even a “Hello” seems to be in order. I just watch them fling sheep at one another, and tell one another how drunk they got at the last party they attended. Everything sounds the same, but it is not.

There was this phase in my life – I think it was quarter-life crisis – when I had a sudden horrifying realisation that my friends and I have all moved away from one another. It was around the time my closest friends were moving to the US to do their MBA degrees. I felt lonely, incredibly lonely. And I started looking for what had slipped over the years without me realising it. Cousins I had not seen in a decade, friends I had not spoken to in years, teachers I had not remembered in a while. I reached out and for a moment, it looked like I could get everything back. But it wasn’t true. I had probably missed the 'window period' - the duration after losing touch when you still can get it all back. Once you miss the window period, even if you get back in touch, it's nothing but odd and uncomfortable. Time had corroded away everything we had in common, everything we could talk about, and even though we got back in touch, it just wasn’t the same.

That’s the problem as we proceed from quarter-life crisis towards mid-life crisis. Sometimes it's the things we don't know about each other that bind us. The more people we meet, the more we get to know them, the more we realise how different we are, and the lonelier we get. The lonelier we get, it becomes a way of life. We stop realising what’s slipped or is slipping through the cracks anymore. And worse - we stop caring.

In a world where we are getting lonelier by the second, what is worth investing your time, effort and emotions in - peering down the cracks and reaching out for what has slipped, or just holding on to what has not yet slipped, but will do so any moment now?

Eyelash batting

So Viv is going to China.

*rolls eyes.*

Viv is going to China. Again.

*rolls eyes higher*

*eyes hurt*

The Singapore team is in Kuwait for the ACC (Asian Cricket Council, not the cement company) Twenty20, and Viv's office rejected his leave application to go and play for Singapore. Instead, they decided to send him to China on work. Bloody hell. I believe that the real reason why his office moved from Central Singapore to Expo in the east, also known as "right next to the airport" is not "bigger office space". It is because the back door of his office leads to the back door of a China-bound aeroplane.

So all the other guys in his team got the cool new cricket kit and the cool new cricket cap, and flew off to Kuwait, while Viv prepared himself for the extremely tough life of "a non-Chinese speaking vegetarian in China". I was very angry at his company. And not just because I'd planned to tag along. "If we were in India na... and you were in the team, your company would have been so proud of you! They would have handed you your leave on a plate, along with a fat bonus. And they'd have gone to the airport to welcome you back armed with garlands. Or erm... tomatoes, depending on how you performed." I said.

The one time I want to go support the guy and watch him play, this is what happens. The one time I'm willing to be a WAG, this is what I get. Erm, do you know WAG? I didn't know either, till Viv told me. Apparently it's a sports term. WAG - 'Wives and girlfriends' aka the women the cameraman zooms to every now and then when you're watching cricket matches on TV and nothing's happening on the field? The women who wear dark glasses which are so big that you can't see three-quarters of their faces so they end up looking hot anyway? And the cameraman just keeps focussing on them even though the next over has started and is three balls down and the two commentators are yelling at him to turn the camera back to the pitch? Yup, that's the kind I'm talking about - the wives and girlfriends of the players. In other words, "the WAGs".

Okay, confession time. Till a few weeks ago, I'd never gone to watch Viv play in any of his matches. Of course I'd watched him play in university tons of times, and had even played cricket with him and his study-buddies using a book as a bat in tutorial rooms at midnight just before the damn engineering exams. But that was gully cricket. I'd never gone to watch him play a proper match as 'his girl'. Many people had expressed surprise at this.

"You've never gone to see him play at the ground?"

"Nope. Never."

"Why not??"

"Because... I dunno... he's playing well, and I'm scared I'll jinx it... maybe he'll score a duck or something if I go watch him play."

This was only partly true. The other part was that I did not want to become a WAG. I had heard horror stories about the other WAGs on the ground - many of whom did not even understand cricket - forming 'groups' that had 'cool names'. I was afraid that some day if I did land up to watch him play, they'd hand me a set of pink pom-poms, a short frilly skirt and a teeny top and motion me towards the dressing room. Large-sized dark glasses covering three-quarters of my face I could take, but that I was not prepared for.

So I made up by hanging around with him and his cricket kit at other places. Other very unconventional places. Due to the odd timings and long duration of his cricket matches/training, if we had any plans on weekends or weekday nights, he'd turn up with his cricket kit. He wouldn't have time to go home and keep his kit, just enough time to shower at the shower rooms in the cricket ground and look civil.

I've been to parties with him and his cricket kit, I've seen movies with him and his cricket kit (remember I lifted his bat and yelled out 'Chak de!' in the movie theatre after watching Chak De? Erm, actually I'm surprised no one yelled back, "Wrong sport, you bimbo!"), I've even been to serious concerts with him and his cricket kit. Imagine a guy in formals, accompanying a girl who is all dressed up in fancy clothes and high heels, and then imagine them with this large cuboidal canvas bag that can fit a grown man, knocking against people in the bus, train, movie theatre, concert hall and what not. I, my friends, have lived through it all.

So a few weeks ago, I told myself, "What the heck, I've been seen all across the city with my 'bat & batsman' entourage. Maybe I'll just go watch him play." Maybe I couldn't 'bat' my eyelashes and say, "Go, get 'em, tiger!" but I could be there - just for the sake of being there. In any case, I told myself, if people have to score a duck, they will score a duck.

"Viv, if you score a duck, I'm not responsible, okay?" I warned him thirty-seven times. That was my 'batting order' for him - you don't have to score a century, just don't score a duck.

And I sat on this plastic white chair in the covered area of the cricket ground and waited for the guy before him in the line-up to get out so Viv could go and bat. He did, soon enough, and I watched our man walk up to the pitch, dressed in his whites and helmet and pads, holding his bat in one of his gloved hands.

His moves today would decide my presence (or the lack of it) at all his subsequent matches.

And I crossed my fingers and watched.

Disclaimer: This post does not have a sequel.

Keep the Boll(ywood) rolling

So a few weeks ago, one of my Chinese colleagues told me, "Oh I caught a bit of Munnabhai MBBS on Central over the weekend. It was funny!"

I paused to absorb that information. It meant two things.

1. Contrary to my belief, Central – also known as crappy channel with crappy shows - does show good movies.

2. Here was a perfect conversion opportunity. It was time for missionary Sayesha to get to work.

"Did you watch the whole thing?" I asked.

"Nope, I didn't."

"You didn't watch the whole thing?" I tried hard to say it without gritting my teeth amidst visions of myself kidnapping thousands of Singaporeans, tying them to their chairs in a large theatre and forcing them to watch Bollywood movies back to back for a week.

"No, it was already half-way."

Hmmm... I forgave her.

"Do you want the DVD?" I asked.

"You have it??" She sounded excited.

"Of course I do." I said coolly.

"YES PLEASE! I'd love to watch the whole thing. It looked very funny from what I saw."

The next day I got her the DVD. She returned the DVD three weeks later. She had not only watched it herself, she'd made her sister and mother watch it too.

"Oh, if you liked this, you should watch the sequel." I gently suggested.

"There's a sequel??"

"Yup. And it's funnier than the first one!"

"Really? The first one is hilarious!"

"I'll bring you the DVD tomorrow."

The next day, I passed her the DVD. She loved the movie so much she even wrote a review on it on her Facebook. This morning she told me she was buying her own copy of both movies. I beamed like a salesperson in an electronic goods showroom who had just sold 13 high-definition LCD TVs on her first day at work.

Yesterday, I saw another colleague's comment on the first colleague’s review, saying something like, "Ooooh I should borrow the DVD from Sayesha too! I watch Bollywood movies once in a while. You know, the best Bollywood movie I have ever seen is Asoka! Have you seen it?"

I stopped in my tracks when I read that. It was time to call in the troops.

Asoka? Asoka? The movie where the only thing more moronic than the sword-wielding long-haired SRK was no-lipstick-but-a-kilo-of-kaajal Kareena with her silly antics in the water? I'd like to find out who lent her Asoka. Come on - own up!

Troops, if people out there are thinking that Asoka is the best Bollywood movie ever, you're not doing your job properly, damnit!

So who are these troops I am addressing with such deep anger and agony?

It is the Bollywood brigade.

As many of you are aware, Bollywood is my full-time religion. (Cricket is another contender, but it's a part-time religion because I’m not faithful to it all the time.) And I'm glad to say that I am not alone. Just like any over-religious freaks, we too are passionate about it to a mind-numbing degree. You can call us missionaries. We do have a mission – to convert as many people as possible into Bollywood freaks. I fancy myself as the President. *looks coyly at her nails*. And if you want to know how I got to the top, I have a story for you. This gal right here – one of my bestest friends - was inducted by yours truly. She is Chinese, and has not only watched 76 new and old hindi movies and reviewed all of them on her blog, she even took hindi lessons! She has seen movies that I have not seen! Unpleasant truths aside, she is to date, my biggest success story.

And there are many more like me all over the world, selflessly doing their bit without expecting anything in return. If this is not passion, what is? *shoutout to all fellow missionaries* We don't know one another but we're all striving towards the one common purpose in life – world domination by Bollywood. We're like Alcoholics Anonymous. Except that we're high on Bollywood movies.

And here I present to you, our ten commandments. It is important for each of our new members to fully understand and absorb the holy commandments before they go on their converting spree.

Bollywood produces movies by the truckload, of which about 20% are watchable, 10% are good, and 5% are very good. And I am being kind here. Most Bollywood movies are bad and the sooner we accept it, the better we will be at our job. In fact, some are so bad that they make 'Van Wilder – the rise of the Taj' (*pauses to wince*) appear like Academy award winners. The important thing is to use the right filter and drain the rest away. Henceforth, the term Bollywood movies will only refer to this filtered stuff.

Commandment #1: Thou shalt admit publicly that Bollywood produces a lot of crap before you embark on your mission - for that will grab your market's attention.

Bollywood movies do not discriminate. No matter which nationality, caste, creed, gender you belong to, they will entertain. You do not need Einstein’s IQ to understand them. Sometimes, you do not even need to understand hindi to understand them. They treat everyone equally, and anyone can understand them. Use this as a unique selling proposition, but be diplomatic - don’t tell your victims that even someone as dumb as them can understand it.

Commandment #2: Thou shalt market Bollywood as the neutral force the world needs.

Hollywood makes short movies, most of which do not have songs. Bollywood faces some resistance here from people with low attention spans. One strategy is to introduce the songs first and get them to appreciate why Bollywood is so musical. Then slip in the fact that each movie is 3 hours long. And oh, with some people, the "the songs are for toilet breaks" strategy works. Use whatever they will buy.

Commandment #3: Thou shalt know your competition well and strategise accordingly.

Know your victim… err… target… err… I mean customer before you lend the first DVD. Do not induct someone with ‘Vivah’ if his/her favourite movie is Fight Club (the one with Ed Norton, not Dino Morea)! Do not pass Lagaan to an American who thinks the only sport in the world is baseball. Know the Iqbal types from the Kal Ho Na Ho types. And oh, love it or hate it, you can't ignore Karan Johar's contribution to hindi cinema. It is important to note that while his movies can be the glue to keep some kinds hooked to Bollywood, they can also make someone run away so fast you won't even know what hit them. The placement of Karan's movies in the platter is crucial. Understand the nature of your client before making the first attack. Once they get into it and Bollywood grows on them, you can get experimental.

Commandment #4: Thou shalt think before you pick.

Play up the modernisation of Bollywood to the cynics. Rarely do you see movies any more where the hero and heroine jump out of their window in a slum in Mumbai and land in Switzerland to sing and dance (unless of course, it’s a dream sequence, then it’s forgiven). Rarely do you see movies any more with lines such as “Nahiiiiiiin, yeh nahin ho sakta!” and “Main kisi ko mooh dikhaane laayak nahin rahi!” and “Kutte kameene, main tera khoon pee jaunga!” The directors are getting smarter, the actors are getting more and more talented, the humour is also getting better and is not confined to making fun of accents from different states of India any more. And we have had some real gems in the last decade or so. Not to mention some of the oldie classics.

Commandment #5: Thou shalt champion the cause using the right examples.

Target the NRIs, especially those who have never been to India, but are curious about it. Get ‘em hooked. Get ‘em emo. Tell ‘em how Bollywood keeps us NRIs connected to India. That is not a lie, by the way.

Commandment #6: Thou shalt make ethical use of emotion to get your point across.

Never criticize Hollywood when trying to sell them Bollywood. Especially if they are hardcore Hollywood. Use the ‘It’s different’ strategy. Give them time. The hardcore ones are the last to admit that they cried when Farida Jalal tied Hrithik’s shoe laces in Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham. Let them be as long as you know in your heart that the conversion is complete. Let the sleepover effect take effect. Let them be. Pretend to lose. Don't hang around. It's the ones who still roll their eyes at the mention of Bollywood after all your efforts who will hunt down the DVDs and secretly watch them behind closed doors. Of course, do acknowledge that there are some who just can't be converted. Do not waste your time on them. Be professional when making your exit though, just 'thhhrrrrbrrrrt' at them and move on. There are plenty of other fish around.

Commandment #7: Thou shalt not waste time on those who do not deserve it.

If you’re going to India for a vacation, offer to buy them DVDs. Tell them how much cheaper it is compared to buying them at Bombay Talkies or Mustafa. If they get 'em, they’ll watch 'em. Do ensure that the subtitles are of a good quality. If the subtitles suck, to a non-hindi speaker, the movie will suck too. And oh, do spread the word that Video-Ezy carries hindi movies.

Commandment #8: Thou shalt travel for the holy cause.

Don’t be overenthusiastic in your DVD-lending mission. Lend the next only when you get the first back. Firstly, because they may never come back to you otherwise, and secondly, you gotta maintain the class and credibility of the cause.

Commandment #9: Thou shalt act pricey should the need arise.

If you run out of movies, admit it. Do not start lending movies like Asoka and all just because the convertee has exhausted your ‘good’ collection faster than you expected. If there are no good movies left, wait it out. Go back to Commandment 1 and think of all the crap. Remember, the gold will rise above the crap.

Commandment #10: Thou shalt always maintain the standard of service.

If you would like to be a part of this great cause, you’ll be pleased to know that we are currently hiring. Please send in your applications, stating your name, age, number of Bollywood movies watched, favourite movie and level of obsession. If you have the passion and the right attitude, full training will be provided.

Help spread a good cause.

We will achieve the ultimate nirvana when people start thinking that Hollywood is Bollywood with an ‘H’.

The key(s) to his success

Just when I thought that the most incredible thing about Adnan Sami is the massive amount of weight he has lost, I was in for a shock. A pleasant one, but it was a shock nevertheless. If that makes sense.

As many of you probably know by now, I spend my weekends writing books for children (and here come the "Bhai, future generation ko barbaad kyun kar rahe ho?" jokes) and during writing-breaks, Youtube-ing to keep myself updated on the latest in the Indian music scene. It was during one of my crazy Youtube-ing rounds (I had exhausted all videos of Shekhar dammit!) that I came across this gem. "There she goes again!" I hear my friends who are fed up of my particular fondness for Pakistani musicians and my crazy raving about them (by the way, have you heard Atif Aslam's "Kuchh is tarah"? It's a killer, that song. A killer.) but I just had to share this!

Watch him (Adnan, not Atif) as he matches tabla player Ustad Fazal Qureshi (Zakir Hussain's bro) beat for beat, pause for pause, in a piece played so fast that I swear if you step away from your computer and just listen to it, you would think it's a santoor (or even a sitar at times) playing, not a keyboard. And if you step back on to your computer, you will notice that his fingers seem to be treating the musical keyboard the way we treat a computer keyboard. And he's so chilled-out the entire time he's playing, he actually has time to look up and casually flash cheeky smiles at Ustad Fazal Qureshi. I made Viv listen to it (yes, I keep him in touch with music, and this is what I get in return. Sheesh.) and switched off the TV while F1 was on (oh the horror!) and played it three times over.

I knew the man was talented (Adnan, not Viv) but I was so not prepared for this. Absolutely stupendously enthralling.



The man may not be big anymore, but his talent sure still is. And boy, aren't we all glad about that.

Bhaigiri 101 - Apun ka alphabet

So I was on the phone with my sister getting the latest updates on baby Aish.

"You know, she repeats everything she hears?" my sister said.

"Huh? Really?? Like everything??"

"Yeah! Do you wanna teach her something?" She asked.

"YEAH-A!!! Pass her the phone!!"

My sister passed the phone to Aish.

"Hiiii!" I said.

"Haiayayaya!!!!" Aish screeched.

"Aishu, say 'Apple!'? Apple? Apple?" I said, sounding extremely silly.

"Apple." She said.

"HOLY COW!" I said (to myself, of course. Wouldn't want Aish to freak her mother out by suddenly saying 'HOLY COW!').

And that's when I felt the resounding thud on my head. It was my alter ago Sash Bhai, who had administered a dose of the rolled-up-newspaper weapon-of-ass-destruction on my head. (For those who don't know, I have about ten alter egos.)

"Shyani... Yeh tu kya kar reli hai??" Bhai said.

"Arre Bhai aap... bahut dinon se dikhai nahin diye... Woh kya hai na Bhai... apni Aishu bolna seekh rahi hai na... bole toh..." I said nervously.

"Pata hai pata hai... mast repeat kar reli hai... lekin tu bachi ko bigaad kaiku reli hai? Kya bakwaas sikha reli hai usko??"

"Bakwaas? Bakwaas nahin Bhai... Woh Bhai... kya hai na... Apple... woh 'A for apple' seekhegi na school mein... toh... bas apun socha thoda paileich preparation..."

"Abbe dhakkan! 'A for apple' toh usko uske shyaane Amreeki teacher log sikha hi denge. Tu usko kya naya sikha rahi hai?" Bhai demanded furiously, tapping her fingers on the armrest a la Mogambo.

*gulp*

"Bhai, aapki baat mein dum toh hai. Toh thoda advice de dijiye... kya sikhaya jaaye?"

"Kuchh sikhana hi hai... toh usko mere sanskaar sikha... baaki toh woh apne aap seekh hi jayegi... abhi usko kuchh alag... kuchh solid sikha." Bhai said with a proud smile.

"Haan bhai... samajh gaya apun... bilkul."

So I came up with a new alphabet - only for my tiny tapori - containing all the keywords she needs to pass Bhaigiri 101.

A for Apun
B for Bhai
C for Chikna
D for Dhakkan
E for Englis
F for Fultu
G for Ghanta
H for Hafta
I for Ishtyle
J for Jail
K for Kharcha-pani
L for Locha
M for Mamu
N for No tension
O for Oopar tak (pahunch hai apun ki)
P for Pulis
Q for Q re shyaane?
R for Rampuri
S for Supari
T for Tapori
U for Uthwa lo
V for VIP log
W for Wasooli
X for X-pert
Y for Yeda
Z for Zabardast

Instant impressions

So it turns out that some people in the US office of my company believe that Singapore is a remote village in China where there are no computers, people do not speak English, and offices are up on trees with telephone cables dangling from them. Okay, that was a bit drastic, but you get the point. In fact, during a teleconference, one of my American colleagues very diplomatically asked me if I was familiar with the concept of a fax machine. Fighting all urge to say, "Fax machine? What's that? I don't have one in my tree, sorry." I assured him that we did indeed have a fax machine in the office.

It was very interesting - in the last decade, I have on many occasions found myself explaining and justifying India and all things Indian to people here who had a certain weird impression of it. The questions and statements I faced were of all kinds - whether elephants formed part of India's public transportation system, whether dowry was compulsory, whether my caste disowned me for marrying outside of it, whether Indian offices have air-conditioning, and what not. It was therefore a pleasant surprise when I realised that there are certain people out there in the world who have impressions of Singapore similar to what certain Singaporeans have of India.

And I started to think of impressions. First impressions. Last impressions. Lasting impressions. Instant impressions. Every time we say or do something, someone is forming an impression of us. Someone is judging us, thinking of us in a certain way, and we may not have the good fortune of being able to undo it. Ever.

My company has been hiring a lot of new people lately, and every time a resume from my ex-company pops up, my boss forwards it to me and asks me what my impression of the candidate was. It is a lot of pressure because what I say can invariably alter the chances of a candidate making or breaking it. At times I came across resumes where I did not really know, or had not worked closely with the candidate, but had vaguely interacted, and had somewhat of an impression of them. Too cynical. Surfs the net too much. Disturbs colleagues too much. Is frequently late. Takes faux medical leave. Fools around too much.

And it set me thinking - back then all of these people had no idea that some day I would be looking at their resumes and passing up my judgement to my manager. Was I even in a position to judge them? At times I felt that I was. It was work after all - and I would not want to hire anyone with the above traits - at least not for my team. At other times, I felt like I was forming instant impressions in my mind without giving them a real chance. And I wondered if people I have worked or interacted with have/had certain impressions of me which may not affect me now, but may prove to be a critical point in my life some day in the future. It was a very very stressful thought.

A few months ago, one of my blog readers whom I'd shared some cordial emails with, told me she had downloaded a picture of baby Aish from my blog and was using it as her desktop wallpaper. I was quite shocked as I was sure my sister would not approve of anyone using her baby's picture as their desktop wallpaper. So I asked the person to remove the picture. A few weeks later, she sent me another email asking for permission to make a collage of baby Aish's pictures. I told her that no matter how close she felt to me or Aish, her obsession with Aish was making me uncomfortable and I requested her to delete all Aish's pictures from her hard disk. Things turned ugly over a chain of emails, as I accused her of using my niece's pictures without permission, and she accused me of accusing her of stalking my niece. Till date, I can't figure out which one of us was wrong. Maybe neither was. It was just one of the things that just happen to people. But what I do know is that we went our own ways thinking each one of us was right, and forming certain impressions of each other. I would really like to patch up, but I figure we've moved on and are on totally different pages now. Trying anything would make it messier than it is, so it's best for both of us to just each other be. Of course I was partly to blame for putting up pictures of Aish on the blog. So I pulled out all the posts with pictures of her even though they were supposed to be my gift to her for her 13th birthday. Amazing how your impression of someone you have never met can be such a lasting one.

I recently had a tiff with a friend of mine who had the impression that I had a certain impression about him which in fact I did not. And I wondered if it was his impression of himself that he was trying to superimpose over my impression of him to prove himself right? It just got too confusing and I decided to shut my mouth and not make statements that could imply that I had formed an impression of someone when I hadn't. Till you completely open up with a friend, you can't tell what he is thinking. And in a formal setting like Singapore, no matter how close you think you are to someone, sometimes it's better to keep your mouth shut. Henceforth, I have maintained a very formal and diplomatic relationship with this friend. It's not something I like very much, but it's better than the mental distress both of us went through.

Tonight, someone Viv knows dropped by for a quick software lesson from him. I was in my teeny weekend shorts, and I didn't bother to change. His 'student' turned up in a salwar kameez and had vibhuti lines on her forehead. Whoa, maybe I should have changed, I thought. The entire time that she was there, I wondered if she was disapproving of me and the way I was dressed. But then I also wondered if it was my imagination, and tried to avoid forming an instant impression of her. Turns out she had made an instant impression of me. As she left, she gave me a 'look' and with a proud smile said, "You should come home for dinner sometime. I cook." Holy cow. What made her think I didn't? She had barely spoken to me! At first I thought it was in my head, but even Viv said he was offended with her 'Oh-you-wear-teeny-shorts-so-you-can't-cook' tone. I wanted to grab her hand and pull her into my kitchen and dunk her face in the matar paneer I had made for Viv and myself (but could not have because her goddam software lesson was so long), but like many other moments, I resisted. Sometimes it's just better to let it go. Especially when you have nothing concrete to base your hypothesis on. There is no point trying to undo something that may or may not be there in someone's mind. And even if some people do think of you in a certain way, what are you going to do about it? How are you going to hunt these people down and how are you going to make them change their minds? How many people are you going to worry about?

That's the problem with impressions – you have no idea how and when you contribute to someone thinking of you in a certain way. Sometimes you don't even actively contribute towards what someone thinks of you. Someone somewhere is always judging you, and you can't help it. And the truth is - no matter how strong we are - all of us at one point in time or the other, do tend to get affected by the who's-thinking-what syndrome. Yes, some impressions do help us become better people and even shape our own impressions of ourselves, but if we started taking each of them seriously, we're only setting ourselves up for misery.

The strangest thing is - the ideal solution to avoid all this stress and distress is a simple one in theory, but extremely complicated to carry out in practice.

Do not care about what impression someone has of you; worry only about what impression you have of yourself.