I Wish, You Wish...

Don't we all want to be in perfect shape, preferably with zilch effort.

No, this is not an idle question.

Ok, I admit it. The sins of the past - or at least the last few weeks, months actually, but who's counting - seem to have caught up with me.

It's like this. The holiday season rolled by like the icing on my cake, and with it came some serious partying. Every manner of indulgence - picture the 30 something family types and their idea of fun. For us that usually means stirring as little as possible; we entertain, but sample all offerings generously beforehand, then there's eating out, take outs, yada, yada. And of course, when other people cook, one eats. Can't disappoint the host now, can you.

Food, drink, snacks, desserts, late nights, no nights, movie marathons, you name it, we did it. Basically, calorie central for the couch cucumbers.

If there's food, can the pounds be far behind? A few weeks of fun and what a price one pays. Eventually, the pinpricks of conscience managed to sting the ever so thickening hide.

Shedding the inertia, and armed with firm resolve, I hit the gym, finally. But the reality check came rather swiftly, and very rudely at that. Thirty elliptical minutes later I was gasping like a beached whale, hoping to be carried, if not to my car then at least the nearest water fountain. The lady at our local Y told me that apparently enrolments and attendance at the fitness center go up hugely every January. Aha! At least I'm not the only guilt-bitten one. Except, in my case, the laziness pre-dates a lot longer.

But never mind that. So thrilled was I by my foray onto the treadmill, I came home and decided not to let the leftover mango pudding go to waste. It tasted great, even if I say so myself.

One measly week into the New Year and I'm feeling philosophical already - frankly, it's no use sweating the small stuff.

Like they say - whatever (flab) will be, will be.

Body & Soul

It's a rare something that will meld both - literally.

I'm talking about the Cirque du Soleil. Suffice to say, it's not another circus. Just like Everest isn't just another bump on the face of the Earth.

I'd tried, unsuccessfully, to see a Cirque performance for many years. The pleasure, when I got my chance, was only made sweeter when K surprised me with great seats to Wintuk, the only show running in the New York area.

Wintuk tells a story. It is the celebration of winter; in a town, with a season incomplete without snow. About a boy and his buddies who set out north to bring it home. But first, they must overcome their inner fears. In its own funny and gravity defying way, this is a tale of personal quests, of magic and marvel. Where the acrobats fly, (human) canines flop with perfect doggy grace, with acts of contortion that often seem unreal. Hoops that hula, jugglers who mesmerize and flirty light poles that come to life at the oddest moments. The stage throbs to the beats of live music and seamless acts of sheer artistry.

There's laughter, there's wonder and every so often gasps of disbelief from the mere mortals. With our eyes darting rapidly from one end of the stage to another - there was so much going on - all we could ask was - did that really just happen?

(Spoiler alert here:)
Yes, the story has a happy ending. With the light, come the tears of the sun - snow to Jamie's town. But it's not just the characters who get their heart's desire.  In the finale, as the drama soars to a crescendo, the entire auditorium is showered with snowflakes. Winter, it seems, is here after all. And with it is self discovery, freedom, and that tiny thing called joy.

We left the show smiling, enthralled with the effortless mastery, clutching our own wisps of snow. The promise of an afternoon's worth of thrills had turned out to be so, so much more.

What more can I say? You had to be there.

To Choose a Star

India seems to have made its pick - Taare Zameen Par (TZP) is its official entry for the Oscars.

That the movie was chosen wasn't really a surprise. And then again it was. The latter first - it's simply that the committee's picks usually look like no-brainers to most. A no-brainer for elimination, that is. Now, maybe not all Bollywood movies are international fare, but come on, every so often the desi directors get it right. So maybe a little less lobbying (by the big banners) and a lot more thought (on the part of the Indian jury) might do the trick.

In all fairness, it's not that good movies haven't made their way to the Foreign Film category. It's the other, rather odd choices that makes one question basic things like the sanity of the selectors. Don't take my word for it - see for yourself.

Right there with superior movies like Manthan and Earth, we have nominated opuses like Paheli and Henna; and can you even believe this - Saagar. Could someone please tell me what part of Dimple's chiffon clad beach number was Oscar worthy? Or how about Kamal Haasan's bout of self-indulgence - Hey Ram. Ack, what a waste. The rules allow just one entry per country, pretty unfair to prolific movie making countries like India and China; France and Italy. I mean, doesn't this put India in the same filmi bracket as Iceland. Or maybe that's why we pick what we do - to keep the others competitive.

TZP seems like a sensible choice in a year with some good options like Black and White and A Wednesday. A simple and solid story with middle-class appeal that addresses a universal issue - our denial of disability. An unusual protagonist. Few we-gotta-fit-these-in songs. Emotions that tug rather than wrench. I loved the fact that Aamir Khan accorded his audience the courtesy of intelligence - we don't really need to be talked down to.

A lot of people liked many different things about the movie, but what especially stayed with me was a dialogue between the Art teacher and the dyslexic boy's father. The teacher - Aamir - mentions that in the Solomon Islands when the tribal folk want to get rid of a tree, instead of cutting it down, they just hurl abuses at it day after day. Within a few weeks, he said, the tree just wilts and dies. The analogy, extended to a child's tender psyche is not hard to grasp. So little said, and yet so much.

And the Oscar goes to..... we won't know for a while. But at least this time around India won't be laughed out of the screening room.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

It was a University of Georgia study that got me thinking. The story claims that Facebook profiles of people can be used to detect narcissism.

The researchers found that the number of Facebook friends and wallposts that individuals have on their profile pages correlates with narcissism. Buffardi said this is consistent with how narcissists behave in the real-world, with numerous yet shallow relationships. Narcissists are also more likely to choose glamorous, self-promoting pictures for their main profile photos, she said, while others are more likely to use snapshots.

More on the study here.

Makes you think, doesn't it. Or cause guilt, outrage, denial, and for some, pride at being above such weakness.

It maybe the truth, but is it the whole truth?

Personal appearances can be important, or they can be an obsession. No wonder cosmetics is a huge industry. Friends in print advertising say that one of the big creative challenges is touching up to perfection, the photographs of supermodels, which were shot by pros to start with.

Well thanks, that's comforting to hear - really, do the rest of the mere mortals even have a chance? Or with standards so impossible is it any wonder that so many of us are killing ourselves to get somewhere in the striking range.

While living in Canada where health-care is state sponsored - a can of worms I shall not touch any more than this veriest mention - we once received the annual health ministry update which indicated that, as a part of cutbacks, Cosmetic Surgery was no longer going to be included in basic benefits.

My first reaction was - whoa, what a blow. Gee, I was so looking forward to going under the knife, till the health department rained on my party. But then I paused to reflect - maybe enough people had felt the need to take advantage of this benefit. And why not - if it works for you, great - revisiting youth or gaining a slimmer self is at least a possibility now.

The question then is - how much is this desire for perfection narcissism and how much is it about self-image.

One might not aspire to beauty crowns, but what's wrong in the wanting to preserve memories of our more beautiful selves. Especially on social network sites like Facebook or Myspace where one might meet friends you haven't seen for a while - is it really a crime to post your best photos?  For most, high school or college reunions are as much about showing off how good they look as it is about how rich or successful they are. And again, why not.

Ok - so narcissim is a dirty word, right there with greed and sloth. Call it what you will, I think some amount of  personal pride is healthy, even inevitable. Which is why portrait studios flourish. Why so many people buy fitness equipment they may not even use much. Why it is a minor tragedy if you're sitting at home on a Saturday night instead of with being out with a dozen friends.

If narcissism exists, it's because we are programmed to think in those terms.

Isn't it natural to foster self-image in a society that tends to evaluate success through social standing, or studies galore that have concluded that better looks will get you hired faster, get you a date more easily, ensure better service, win you more friends.

That said, how far we carry this desire for beauty is up to us entirely.

There's no fairy tale ending here. Whoever has the answers, I'm guessing it's not your mirror.

An Ace deServes

Nothing, they say, succeeds quite like success. Sometimes, the reverse is true too.

Look at all the sporting heroes whose achievements take on  iconic status thanks to the Press. The stars get to feed off the adulation but also need to survive the caustic public glare, should they fall short.

Now, Roger Federer didn't have the best of seasons. Lack of a coach, a bout of mononucleosis and possibly a general ebb in form seem to have contributed. After garnering a string of superlatives that others can only aspire to, the stardust seemed to have deserted him somewhat. In the locker rooms too, his aura has diminished, and pretty much everyone claimed that they had a shot at beating him. And they did too. Complacent fans, concerned off-late, have been cheering him on with anxious frenzy or shaking their heads at losses that used to be a cakewalk in the past. The Press has played its usual will-he or can't-he game, mostly leaning towards the latter.

Sure, he fell short - at least by his past standards. But at the end of the day, it's a matter of perspective. As a bunch of admittedly less successful players have said - we'll take his kind of year, anyday. One semi and 2 grand slam finals ain't no small change.

If you're getting the sense here that I'm a Federer fan, you would be right. Not just for his near legend status, or his elegant stroke play which is a treat to watch, but also the fact that if the off-court stories are to be believed, he is a genuinely nice guy.

But the bottomline is - in popular opinion, you're as good as your latest result, or a string of them.

Of course, the secret of winning lies in talent, form, training. But it's also a great deal about mental strength. Which is where the detractors had a field day. Roger, they said, wasn't tough inside, wasn't strong enough to tide this career setback. He'd cruised while the going was good. But no more. Finito.

Was the golden run over, then? Would the struggling champ rise, ever?

The answer - a decided yes. Risen he has, with a US Open performance that seemed sometimes gritty and effortless at others. And on occasion, even vintage Fedex.

There's no denying that Roger fed off the momentum that came from being at the top of his game. Each win spurred new victories, more confidence. But my question is - didn't it take strength and tenacity to win in the first place; and to sustain those wins. Like everybody else, Federer didn't start out a winner. He had to fight to get there. So why doubt his courage when he encountered a few break points enroute.

It may be early days yet, but it looks like he's still got what it takes. If anything, the past year should prove that not only can he win from the top, but also come back from three slams down. Survive being labeled a has-been. Vulnerable, he might be, but that's a long way from being vanquished.

For every naysayer, there are many who believe he still has many more Slams inside him yet.

Roger that!

Game, Set, Match!

By average standards K & I are what people in polite circles call sports fans.

Don't blame me - years with an ESPN mad spouse rub off. Still, yours truly is a little more tempered in her zeal. But hubby watches the majors and  the minors, tracks everything from college draft picks to league players in cricket. Checks scores and updates about as often as he 'blackberrys'  - basically, every other minute. Heck, he even watches (and I say this with all respect) Lacrosse and Curling.

Given all this, we've managed to surprise ourselves with how few sporting events we've actually seen on location. It's like our friends, fellow Formula One fans - who after living for years in the US, (where there's easy access to 2 GPs at Indy and Montreal), when they actually got to see a race, one was in Australia and the other's catching the action at Singapore.

We, naturally, haven't been to any. Given the karmic logic in these things, I guess, for us it'll be Shanghai.

Not that we don't have a handy list of excuses for our lapses - lack of time, lack of prior planning, event clash... Then there's always the up-close that TV viewing gives you, not to mention the joy of replays and commentary.

But still.

K's madness is relatively universal, but I simply love watching Tennis. Watch most of the majors, eagerly and often bleary-eyed into the wee hours.  But all on TV, except  for a few smaller events.

One fine day though, the dry spell ended. On our visit to London this summer, one of the major trip hightlights was watching Wimbledon. The matches were fun; greater was the thrill of being there - in this case the grass was indeed greener across the pond. We came back happy, determined to mend the error of our ways. So plans were made well in advance - finally - and off we went this week, to watch the early rounds of the US Open. Caught a bunch of fantastic matches, basked in the excitement of being at Flushing and came home oh so content.

The curse, as they say, was over.

But sometimes, even the third time is a charm.

A friend emailed us - he had a couple tickets to the Men's semis next weekend - by any chance would we be interested.

Damn right, my friend! Are we going. Or are we going.

The Politics of Speech

All hype and rhetoric apart, Hillary Clinton's was possibly the most awaited speech of the Democratic Convention. Primarily because of the x-factor at play. No love lost, lots of residual bitterness, a VP nomination that wasn't and twenty six million other reasons. Very simply, everyone wondered what she was going to say.

And Hillary delivered. In style too.

To me what was interesting, even admirable, was the way she finessed this one. Read between the lines. She hit all the right notes. Strong sentiment, a strike-at-the-heart-message and lots of mass appeal.

But nowhere was the ringing candidate endorsement that's typical of such convention speeches. She mentioned Obama exactly once in the beginning and a few times towards the end of her speech. She touched upon the hot topics but most of those were her rather than his manifestos. It was about her campaign, her beliefs and mostly her achievements.

Clinton got the crowds going, no doubt, but she skillfully directed plenty of footage to the podium, actually. A masterstroke, I say. Self-serving, but honest too. If there's no affection between her and Obama, or not much at any rate, why pretend. If Michelle O seemed less than pleased at the proceedings, tough love. Bill Clinton on the other hand, looked both proud and emotional, and with good reason too.

Hillary said:

I haven't spent the past 35 years in the trenches advocating for children, campaigning for universal health care, helping parents balance work and family and fighting for women's rights here at home and around the world . . . to see another Republican in the White House squander our promise of a country that really fulfills the hopes of our people.

(Courtesy: CNN.com)

A fantastic example of getting your point across and yet have people hear what they want to. Even if the two aren't the same.

In a sum, what she endorsed was not Barack Obama, but the Democrat incumbent. Not the best candidate between him and McCain - but the lesser of the two evils.

At the end of it, what stayed in my mind was not how great Obama would be as Prez, but what a pity that she wasn't  the contender - very likely the reaction Clinton was shooting for. If Obama loses, guess who'll be lurking prominently in the trenches. And in people's collective memories.

Moral of the story - sometimes you might not have the cake. But don't lose the chance at a bite.

We, the People

An Indian friend of mine who recently became an American citizen talked of the ambivalence she was feeling. Nothing had really changed in their lives (except for the ease henceforth in getting a hundred visas) but it was the thought of giving up the Indian passport that had caused a huge pang. A tenuous link with India, she felt, becoming seemingly more fragile with this final step.

A decade, or many, of living abroad does that to you. Nothing is as clear cut anymore about where one belongs. For so many expats, India is now a place where our families live. For others, it's roots that beckon, but only as a perpetual dream. They are comforted by the possibilities; warmed by the thoughts of returning....some day. Then there are those, who have escaped to seek out the greener pastures.

And yet, India lives on in most of us. Same food, lifestyle, movies; often, the same values too. More than a habit, what keeps us is the comfort we find in the familiar. What has been, will be.

But there's more. This firm possessiveness one feels about India and all facets Indian. I still shake my head at every test and one-day debacle. I still burn when I read of the senseless acts of terror and ridiculous ethnic strife. I cringe at the bumbling political gaffes. I'm saddened when it takes a foreigner to point out the scope of disease and despair.

Like so many of my peers, mine might not be the chest thumping, tri-color waving brand of patriotism, but in my own way, I feel. More strongly, in fact, now that being an Indian is something I no longer take for granted. Looking from the outside within, I take pride when I see Indians in Fortune boardrooms, or simply in mainstream TV ads. Or when Tata buys into an auto megalith. Or when the world's largest steel company has a Mittal in its name. When I think of the family and social structures that endure  and support. Or even when non-Indians tell me how much they loved their visit to India, and how wonderful the people are. Vicarious, I know, but pride nevertheless.

I may have left, but I haven't gone all that far.

To me, in the sporting world, the Indian quest for Eldorado is still personal. Tonight, I'll rejoice in the sight of the orange, white and green lights atop the Empire State Building. At every opportunity I will explain, with patience and perseverence, to my international friends why their lop-sided view of India needs another look.

My feelings for India exist on so many levels - it's the land of my birth, my heritage, possibly my legacy. But it's also the place where so many of my life's cherished memories belong. I'm excited seeing the malls and freeways when I visit, and yet remember the second class train journeys with affection. Old musty bookshops, the haze of summer afternoons, road-side chaat shops, dussehra celebrations, curious Auntyjis. The tug of family and friends. All of this makes me who I am. Colors, crowds, chaos - those are the images that are forever a part of me. By myself,  I may bemoan a lot of things about India, but I will defend them with passion to outsiders.

And with eternal optimism I will wait for the day, when India will have world class cities; when monsoons and droughts will not dictate lives. When Bollywood will have its place under the sun; when India will win the World Cup - in Hockey too.

You can take a desi out of India. The question is, can you take India away from him?

~~~

On the day of her Independence, here's to India, as Nehru spoke of her - our much-loved motherland, the ancient, the eternal and the ever-new.

The Spice Route

We Indians sure love our Authentic Cuisine.

Wow - talk about oxymorons; this one's big. So much so, that most of our staple veggies are not even of Indian origin. A large portion of our food, especially in the North is the legacy of our middle eastern visitors. Despite our pride in clinging to tradition, native cuisines have continued to evolve consistently. If anything, Indian cuisine is a smörgåsbord of numerous influences, a thousand spices, a gazillion tastes.

There's the obvious mix and match. Bengali sweets, Delhi style. Parotta in the deep south. Atta Noodles. But we are happy to blend and serve the foreign delights with equal fervor. Try the street-side Chow garnished with coriander. Mexican with babycorn and garam masala. We serve Pies but with the obligtory dousing of kaaram (spice). In the recent years, even Pizzas come topped with Paneer Tikkas.

Sometimes the fusion can be lingual too. I remember an upmarket restaurant which served an excellent fare, but wondered why a particular entree, though delicious, was not moving much. With a name like Baked Princess, guys, how could you even ask? That too in a predominantly vegetarian Chennai. Re-christened Boston Bake, the demand for it blossomed.

There was a time, perched on a culinary high ground, I used to be amused, indulgent even. All this mix and match of cuisines - not my style. I was going to cook true, as I had learnt, come what may.

Well, we live and we learn.

I've given in, finally - all for a good cause. Because some of us live to eat.

Gone are all notions of authenticity. In our own Punjabi Andhra household, the lines of distinction have long since blurred. So many cross-overs that my food doesn't taste much like what was originally taught to me.

And not just desi food. I make Pasta with a cumin seasoning and green chillies. Smoothies with a hint of badam-elaichi powder. Salad, even Ceaser, comes wth mint and lime. In the US, I happily eat dosas, crisp and tasty, made by amigos. If I can make Tacos, why not...

So for all the fancy Manhattan restaurants that market Fusion Cuisine - guys, people have been perfecting it from before this country was born.

Talking of fusion, I'm reminded of a story a friend told me. Living in a Nigerian hotel, a bunch of Indian families, unhappy with the hotel food, asked if they could prepare their own. The local chef conceded a corner of the kitchen and peace was made with the palate. Or so they thought. Much to the group's bewilderment, their self-cooked food still had an odd, unfamiliar taste.

Finally the chef revealed all. Determined to treat his guests right, he was adding to their dishes his own personal touch - a liberal garnish of fish powder.

Not Dry, Clean

Humor is where you find it.

In my case, it's the neighborhood cleaners.

Nope, I'm not hard up for entertainment. But I do take the breaks where I find them.

So weekly trips to the cleaners it is. Once there, I'm greeted by a cheery young lady who goes by the name of Sooji. Now, I do not know Korean, but in Hindi it means something quite different. I can't help it,  every single time my 'Hey Sooji', or 'What's up, Sooji' always makes me grin like a fool. She probably thinks I'm unusually friendly. (As as aside, I recently came to know that Maida is not an uncommon name in the UK).

Back to Sooji, though. She responds to my greeting, only she does one better. Her hhhhiiiiiiiii set to B minor, along with a full flash of pearly whites always gets the mood going.

After a promising start, begins the ritual of counting clothes. It's an art, I say, turning something as mundane as counting into a joyous experience. That too, when faced with laundry. 'Ona, two, three, foura, fiva, sixa, sevena. Ok', she announces happily, 'sevena shirta and fiva panta.'

Now, ready clothes are collected and credit card swiped. While we wait, comes the ubiquitious comment about the weather. Not original, I grant, but she's just being friendly. But this time she did it - committed the equivalent of a meterological faux pax.

'We having hot weather today, no?'

Today? Girl, this is the hottest July on record. You don't get out much, do you? Or is it the steama at the back of the shop that's made you immune.

Still, she's asked in such smiley, sing-song tones that it was hard to take offense. 'Yes, very hota, uh, hot'.

After the drawn out bye-bye (from her), I take my card and leave the store smiling. Nothing, even the hot weather - today - was gonna faze me now.

***

P.S: I discovered that in Korea, Sooji means the art of wellness. You, my friend at the cleaners, are most approapriately named.