Strictly Speaking

If the Shoe Fits...

2011-01-04T20:37:00.014-05:00

Remember the time when most of us owned a bare minimum of footwear - school shoes, gym shoes, and party wear, maybe.

The threshold had moved up considerably since then.

That's right - no more a basic essential, your shoes are what define you today. In other words, you are as stylish or happening as your clogs. But interestingly, here is where numbers are as important as quality.

So to all the fond shoppers out there - in this era of plenty, how many pairs, one wonders, are too many?

Or maybe, how many simply not enough.

I for one, took a look at my multilevel shoe racks, which are at groaning point and decided to remain humbly silent on that score. But what brought about this epiphany, you might ask?

An article I recently read about the anatomy of a shoe buyer brought on the aha moment. Anatomy, they say. What's next? Maybe a psych profile. Anyway, here's some info you probably didn't (even want to) know.

Online shoe sales alone exceeded 5 billion dollars in 2009 - what, people don't go to stores anymore?

On an average the max spend on a pair is $90 - Jimmy Choo, please to note!

People love the color black - yeah, like that's a surprise.

Most women own at least 11 pairs - sure, there is food and rent to think about...

But,

The average woman owns 27 pairs - now, you're talking!

Ok, yes, granted. We're shoeing up like crazy, all under the guise of shape, style, color, heel type, season yada yada... but the shoemakers are one up on us. Sure, most of you sisters own Boots and Shooties, but how many are proud owners of Bootines?

Even now as we speak, the new spring catalogues were jamming my mailbox, beckoning like the siren's lure. There's no escaping the onslaught retailers unleash with no mercy and terrifying regularity. Plus there are sales, coupons and what nots.

Finally, said that article, that 40% of women have more than 50 pairs. And only 4% of men can boast the same.

And I say - duh!

For sure, those (4%) men have gotta be single. Ever seen how much closet space a married man gets?

A Passage to India

2010-03-11T17:31:00.006-05:00

Like so many expats, India is my home but mostly in an emotional sense now. It's where I go back to see family, friends, familiar places; where memories live, as do a whole host of sentimental tugs.

While a large part of the agenda on my annual visits is eat and meet (not in that order, though - the other way round didn't have quite the ring), with generous doses of shopping thrown in, there are a bunch of things I totally love doing.

Here are a few of my favorites:

Cuisine fusion - to a true-blue desi like me nobody cooks like Indians do. While food has always been a religion with us, the growing international flavors only make me crave the fare with fervor enough to put a jihadi to shame. Not being partial by nature, I tasted Baluchi, Chinese, Pizza, well pretty much everything. And sure, my Dahi Kababs were rich with flavor, I actually had some truly amazing Pasta in Delhi.

Watch the top TV serial/ soap - or last an episode or two at any rate. Oh, what emotions those stir, especially amongst the women. For full effect, sit through a 'frothy' discussion - insightful! And heaven forbid you call anyone between the evening hours of 7 and 8. Of course, there are reruns the next day, but a lot of ladies watch those too.

Check out the bestsellers at Connaught Place - You'll know what's moving the folks these days and find the old staples, even if the prints are not collector quality. I actually discovered Robin Sharma on a dusty pavement years ago. It was hundred rupees well spent.

Hit the malls and popular markets - and not just to shop; Malls are the new social milieu. Plus one does need to keep up with the trends. Because in urban India, fashions don't just change anymore. They explode into existence; and just as easily taper off. Keeping up with the Joneses or Jains, as it happens, is a whole new ask.

Binge on street food - who needs restaurants! Well, that's only a rhetoric. The point here is that the neighborhood eats are as good as ever. A vendor next door makes crisp Vadas, another churns out superb moong-dal pakoris. Hot jalebis are a perennial favorite. And I do a happy jig when the fella tells me that the jal-jeera is made from 'pure Bisleri' water.

Cricket - the one source of excitement you can always count on. I was in Delhi a few years back when India won the T20 World Cup. It took all of 15 seconds after the last ball for the fireworks to start in the neighborhood. For a match, mind you, that went right down to the wire.

Read filmy masala and Page 3s - true, there's stuff online too, but nothing like watching the celeb dramas unfold on desi soil. It might not be the Enquirer yet, but the day is not far in the future.

FM Radio surfing - no way you can miss which songs and issues are top of mind for everyone - they will play only 15-20 times a day. Or tune into one of the late-night dial-in shows that dispense advice on what else, matters of the heart. Paraphrasing here, but really, one man's misery is another's bag of chuckles.

Tales of the Maids - out here in the Americas, few can claim the privilege of domestic help. Turns out that things are not all that different there. If you're among the lucky few, the help is regular, even honest. If not, it's wonderful to see how people compete with relish on whose maid woes are the worst.

All this and so much more. Shallow, I know. There is a lot going on in India that is serious and insightful. But another post for that, methinks.

Hang in there, while I rediscover my version of the new, happening India, one layer at a time.

An Age in Time

2010-01-05T14:49:00.007-05:00

Another of my birthdays rolled by. Lines on the face, gray hair that sprout faster than the black ever did, the knee one pretends didn't just groan. And you're supposed to be graceful about stuff like that - yeah, right!

As a young twenty something when I lived in Chennai, one was frequently addressed as Amma (mother). While I did realise that Amma in the south was merely an address of respect, it was hard to feel maternal or even grateful when the person addressing you was sometimes twice your age.

Unfortunately, in my case it wasn't all that simple. My appearance might have had something to do with it. Oftentimes, the cable guys and salesmen at my doorstep refused to deal with me, asking for Amma (lady of the house). I was petite and slender - then - and to their keen eye, probably didn't quite cut it. Insisting that I was indeed the Amma of the household only got me dubious looks and no cooperation. Usually matters were helped by the arrival on the scene of hubby dearest who apart from his tall commanding presence also spoke the local lingo way better than I did. His presence was greeted with much relief. 'No problem, Amma, I will talk to Saar.'

Thus relegated to by-stander status in my own home I had to be content on the sidelines. My heart longed for a time when I could blast the maid or the dhobi for being late and incite fear rather than indulgent smiles.

Same story at work. Convincing clients that I was old enough, and ergo wise enough for them to part with their hard-earned savings and for me to dispense with my investment gyan was yet another cup of filter coffee.

But the years really have flown. I can lay a legit claim to my senior status. The time has come, sooner than I like, to come to terms with the gray hair that dot my landscape. Reminds me of the old ad for hair dye (as we called it then) wherein a thirty something woman's young neighbor addresses her as 'Aunty'. The ultimate insult it was. The echo of 'Aunty! Aunty! Aunty!' reverberated through the room and the woman's psyche. Next thing, haste was made and Godrej - in solid black - was bought.

Dear woman, I feel your angst. Now.

But, frankly, what happened to me at the pharmacy was way worse.

While picking a specialty item for my sister-in-law who had just given birth, the pharmacist blew me away with her question. On the prescription, she pointed to the patient's name (the new mother, almost my age) and asked me - your daughter?

Of All the Nobel Gestures!

2009-10-09T14:16:00.006-04:00

This Friday morning I woke up to the stunning news - Obama had claimed the biggest prize there is, a Nobel for Peace. A joke, many have called it. But I'm not laughing. Call me foolish, but in my book somehow reward follows action. Awarding great intentions and not much else has pretty much taken the shine out of the Nobels for me.

The story in New York Times summed it up best when it said that the decision caught even the White House off guard.

Sure, there are serious problems facing the world that need addressing, by someone with an eye on the big picture. And maybe, given time and the right advisors, Obama might make major strides in forging peace. But equally important, there exist in the world, pockets of massive strife and unrest. Illness and inequality. Hunger and homelessness. Afghanistan is a small country with big problems. Colombia is dealing with a mountain of an issue. The scale of HIV/ AIDS in China is a cause large enough to demand the world's attention, even without the highly recognizable candidatures. And they picked a man with great ideas but little yet to show for them.

But maybe I shouldn't complain. After all, Gandhi and Churchill missed the final cut (for Peace) but Stalin, Hitler and Mussolini were amongst the nominees.

What next? For 2010, I'm thinking Michael Jackson. Peace, maybe Literature - take your pick. After all, the world is Black or White...

My Plea to Facebook

2009-09-15T13:39:00.008-04:00

I like Facebook. No two ways about it.

FB has connected me with friends long lost - at least to me. Their photos and vidoes are great. Messaging and status updates are fun. People post amazing, sometimes insightful stuff picked up elsewhere on the web. A fast, happy way of being in touch.

But here's my problem. Facebook has gone application happy. And guess what, just about everyone with the smarts to write code has taken them up on it. Being bombarded with useless info on who took which quiz is not my idea of connecting.

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad that many of my friends are testing positive for all sorts of things; some are destined for fame and fortune. They resemble no less than the most happening dude (or dudette); others whose karmic soul is calm and blessed. There are vocabulary aces and movie trivia kings. Yay for all of you.

It's just that I don't really need to know all of that. And on any given day when I look up my FB Home page to find out what's going on with my friends, could Facebook please spare me the outcomes of inane tests. Thanks but no thanks. There might be folks who just take a quiz for fun, and don't necessarily want to broadcast the fact to a hundred friends that their lover-like potential was rated way short of Don Juan's. For that matter, a Lazy Mind test I took elsewhere indicated that I use only 8% of my brain, but do you really think I want to advertise that little tit-bit.

Luckily for me, once I discovered the 'Hide' option on FB, things are much improved.

Still, one wonders that with the time and imagination some people have, what might be the next test they could come up with.

Guesses, anyone?

Hello Again!

2009-09-10T12:46:00.000-04:00

It's been a long time away. And I have a ready list of excuses too. The muse - such as it is - dried up on me. Or life got in the way. Been too busy.

Happy to say that all of the above were true. Plus, haven't had a whole lot to say, but when has that, you might ask, ever stopped me.

So I guess I'm back. Like they say - for better or worse.

Time will tell.

I Wish, You Wish...

2009-01-07T18:23:00.015-05:00

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

2008-12-18T15:18:00.005-05:00

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

2008-09-30T23:32:00.076-04:00

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

2008-09-25T13:03:00.015-04:00

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

2008-09-10T22:29:00.017-04:00

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!

2008-08-29T10:33:00.021-04:00

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

2008-08-26T23:43:00.031-04:00

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

2008-08-15T07:16:00.017-04:00

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

2008-08-12T14:53:00.018-04:00

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

2008-07-31T14:41:00.012-04:00

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.

Young at Heart

2008-07-29T07:07:00.022-04:00

This past weekend we were at the beach with a few friends. It was the man-made kind, on a lakeshore. Turned out that the lake - though pretty - was man-made too. But that's beside the point.

Then, in true picnic spirit we decided to kick a ball. Now beach soccer isn't all that it's cracked out to be. The sand below the surface was damp, and we were barefoot. On top of that, a few folks figured that football was football, semantics be damned. So tackles were a free for all, tripping and holding was cheered on, and in general moves that would guarantee a red card on the field were happily made. In between, most of us even forgot who was in which team and made all the wrong passes.

It was fun while it lasted.

Fifteen minutes later, we hit the beach again - this time literally. Groaning, creaking in places, rushing for water & gasping for that most basic of things - breath. Those who'd sat out the game looked at us with that you-so-had-this-coming sort of glee.

Having reached the end of our abilites we played touch volleyball, the kind that involves minimal movement. Then decided what the heck, games are passe' anyway.

We just hit the food.

When it Rains...

2008-07-23T17:23:00.004-04:00

Sometimes I amaze myself.

See, for most part I'm pretty careful - I mean I spend wisely, eat my vitamins, remember birthdays, rarely fire up the smoke alarm, yada, yada.

And yet never seem to have an umbrella on days I need it most.

Like today when the weather forecast indicated a 90% chance of precipitation. Now to a sane person that means rain. Chances are, a lot of it.

In my case, no such luck. Under a cloudy sky, I leave on my errands, carefree as they come. My inner bulb lights up only after I get out of the store with a cart laden with supplies, to a deluge that can only be called torrential. There's me, sans an umbrella, of course.

After an impatient ten minutes under the portico, watching the raindrops - all 3 million of them - I decide to make a dash of it. Naturally, my car was parked at the farthest end of the lot. So after an up close with every puddle on the way, I made it, sopping and straggly. The rest of the shopping plans were abandoned for an umbrella free day.

Don't know if I've learnt my lesson. The only good thing to come out of this - at least the fruit and veggies got thoroughly clean.

Mind Your Language

2008-07-14T17:48:00.015-04:00

Like most desis, the Queen's English has always been mine.

When I moved to North America, one of the I things I strangely missed was English, the language as I knew it. The accent and rhythms of speech. I utterly loved and still do, the English brand of humor - witty, wry, born of understatement, or sometimes totally wacky. American English, on the other hand, had mostly been the voice of entertainment, and not a whole lot more.

But living here has made it my reality - of sorts. To every man his own English, I say. America speaks differently, accent and all. And that's just for starters.

On the outside - or so I thought - one has adapted. I now stand 'in line', eat cookies at tea-time, go on 'vacations', have even dropped the letter 'u' to spell my 'colors'. I no longer end my missives with 'yours sincerely'. New syntax, new slang, I've embraced it all.

And yet feel the inevitable pang when I hear the crisp words on BBC or Brit movies. Despite having taken much razzing on this, I stand firm in my preference. Accent-wise and more, somehow American comes in only a second for me. As it turns out, not just me. Malcolm Muggeridge, the English journalist and wit once joked - the last Englishman would be an Indian!

When I got a chance to visit Britain, on a 'holiday', mind you, I was in lingual heaven.

I went, I heard...

And realized with a hint of chagrin, that like me, my language too had gone to a new place. It took me a second to figure the words 'please get into the queue', and at least a couple before I could give my 'surname' to the hotel clerk, and then had to take a 'lift' to get to our hotel room. Taxis, not cabs were hailed in London. The Tube or Underground I managed as the only Subways in the UK are the kind that are eaten.

Plus there is a whole lot of slang unique to modern Britain that isn't lingua franca for us desis. We got a real kick out of ending our sentences with the ubiquitous 'yah' or 'innit'. As in 'We can go to Buckimgham Palace, yah?' Or 'A lovely day, innit?' So yes, hearing English in England was fun. But all through our trip, one question kept popping up.

Could the English language possibly be relocating, so to speak?

The Boston Tea Party is old hat, folks; Americans are well on their way to conquer this last British stronghold, or redefine it at the very least. Because as it happens, not just in India, but even in Britain the popular English TV channels are mostly from the US. In its home country, Wimbledon was anchored by McEnroe & Austin, and Mamma Mia seemed to be the most awaited movie. The castle guides may have dressed medievally but they sure knew their Yankees from their Red Sox; their Padres from the Predators.

But even so, our trip had endless lively moments, thanks to newspapers, tour guides, train conductors, co-passengers, hotel clerks - basically the English and their english.

Among the more flavorful - do excuse the pun - experiences was a sign on an English farm. It said - Horse manure for sale. Help yourself.

Games People Play

2008-06-20T11:23:00.035-04:00

To say that the Wii is our new best friend might be overstating things a tad, but it does strike in the general sentiment range.

To the uninitiated, the Wii is simply realistic video gaming - play games, exercise, compete, but most of all, be entertained.

See more here:

Sure, gaming has been around awhile; and it's always been about snazzy graphics and cool plays. But now there's another - fourth, fifth? - dimension here.

Gaming, with the Wii especially comes its own brand of sarcasm. Compelete with messages like "Hi Pooja, too busy to exercise yesterday, huh?" while I shuffle my feet guiltily. No wait, I can't even do that because then I'll be reprimanded for fidgeting (sends the balance board's sensors out of whack).

And humor. Even been called a Couch Potato to a peppy music beat? Reminds me of the time when a Cop gave us a hefty speeding ticket and then wished us a wondeful weekend.

But if you do good job, uh... play well, you get to enjoy the drum roll, even a victory dance from the team.

Then there is a line-up of the top 10 scores after every exercise. Even someone like me who's competitively rather mild is getting swept away by the desire to perform, just to maintain rankings. Tiger, Federer, Maria - you guys sure lead stressful lives.

In a word, we're hooked.

But I hadn't realised where the madness had escalated to, until recently.

Quick explanation here - like all gaming, you progress to higher levels with every victory and strong play. Then the difficulty level - read computer's player - gets more skilled as well. Now NVK, caught up in the Tennis mania has been doing well for himself. Fictitious or not, I've caught him shouting insults at the opponents. Sledging even.

Till he ran into Akira - animated, of course - a dude with low flat strokes and amazing returns. Akira gave him some grief but DH persevered, eventually managed to beat him and go on further. But I guess the anime had stayed with him.

One night after another rousing game, he happily asked me. "You don't see Akira in the lineup, huh? Over confident b#s***d."

He then added, with a maniacal glint in his eye. "That's because I've sent him into therapy."

All in the game, they say.

Spectacular Success

2008-06-16T10:28:00.005-04:00

The Fringe benefits of Failure and the Importance of Imagination - this was the essence of J K Rowling's commencement speech at Harvard this year.

It's interesting, but more than that, it's extraordinary. Read on

http://harvardmagazine.com/go/jkrowling.html

(The video has a slight echo, but the text is every bit as good).

Chinese Checkers

2008-06-12T13:44:00.002-04:00

At a Trading Workshop I recently attended, the registration process threw me for a loop. I'd had a bad traffic day, arrived a little late, and as directed by the hotel staff, raced up to the second floor. Predictably, the place was teeming with people.

Except that, to a man, every one of them was of Oriental persuasion.

Now, admittedly New Jersey is pretty multicultural. Even so, where were the usual suspects? Unfortunately, there were no ushers; just a sign that said 'Self Registration' - very unusual, and this babble of conversation all around me.

Odd? Very.

Just as people started to gravitate inside, from the seminar hall came not an announcement, but the sounds of singing. Uh-oh. This was so not looking like my kind of Seminar. Till it struck me - the song lyric was actually in Mandarin. Sure enough, I was amidst the kind people of Jiangsu province, prospecting business from the Fortune 1000, no less.

Turned out I was on the right floor, after all. Just the wrong wing.

Yo Sister!

2008-06-05T15:49:00.000-04:00

Recently met a lady who after a long gap had just reconciled with her estranged sister. In a gush of sibling affection, said lady threw the sister a wonderful wedding shower.

But here's the twist - it was the bride's second wedding and the name on the cake (the woman had put) was that of her first husband.

End of sisterly truce.

A Second Life

2008-06-04T22:29:00.008-04:00

This was a comment from NVK on the Wii Post. In case you missed it, here goes...

When I first heard of "Second Life", a 3-D virtual world created by its Residents - the mind boggled. Personally, I'd always thought that it was the most ridiculous concept I ever came across - that you can surrender to a tech enabled "virtual" mode of living . But hey, millions of 'second life' residents do not seem to think so.

Since opening to the public in 2003, it has grown explosively and today is inhabited by millions of residents from around the globe. They have happily surrendered to the wiles of a portal, completely virtualizing the entire physical component of their lives - so much so that it seems difficult to determine which is their first and which the second life. They have happily surrendered to the imaginary world wide web (www.secondlife.com) of surreality.

With the Wii experience, I now begin to understand, albeit just a little, the residents of Second Life.

With the Wii, i can well imagine families hunched over the remotes/ on the platform for hours on end. No more the great outdoors, no more the quick game of frisbee on the road, no more the trudge to the YMCA...what the Wii has done is, virtualize the last few remaining "physical" elements of my daily life (or whatever is left of it after a long day)....

.......and I am loving every bit of it. It is fantastic. If nothing else, it helps satiate all my sporting / gaming pangs in the cozy confines of my family room - all without breaking a sweat.

Check it out - http://secondlife.com/

So folks, see ya there, maybe?

A Sign of the Times

2008-06-03T13:38:00.004-04:00

Time was when we used to party hearty. One danced the night away, none the worse for it. People imbibed freely, mixed their poisons, and yet tackled the aftermath of partying with if not grace, then at least the vulgar buoyancy of youth.

And now, if the muscles don't protest, the day after a bash certainly hangs over our heads like leaden weight.

Are we getting old? Or at least older?

At a disco era themed party we recently went to, the hosts pulled out all the stops. In an otherwise pitch black room, the strobe lights sparkled. The punch flowed, music bellowed, folks showed up outfitted in bling and big hair.

But half-way through the night, the steam started to run out on many. The energetic hip shaking with the disco beats gave way to slo-mo gyrations. The between-dance breaks grew longer for some, and the others were content to sit back and merely nurse their brews.

Meanwhile, the strobe continued its thing. Tirelessly. After the initial oh-wows, all most of us did was complain. Unable to relish the flashes of light, I felt woozy in one eye. Turned out I wasn't the only one. Some said that the glare was blinding them. A double or nothing situation.

One guy moaned that he felt seasick. He, who'd never suffered a day of motion sickness.

Yet another found the lights mesmeric, and so soothing, he zoned out for a nap -well before the witching hour.

But the ultimate one was - a friend in law enforcement who by the way, loves to dance, claimed that the strobes reminded her of - dare I say it - cop car lights!

Go figure.

The Things Wii Love

2008-05-29T12:51:00.023-04:00

One bright Sunday, we lucked out. After fruitless online searches and many a store scramble, we actually got to a Best Buy in time to get our very own Wii Sports.

Oh yes. It lives up to all the hype.

Needless to say, the Wii has pride of place in our family room. And in our affections. Trust me, for folks like us who are not hard-core gamers, that's big. If you thought that this one's only for the kids, think again. Playing Tennis at home is now an option, Bowling's fun, and so what if the Golf game only underscores my general lack of skill at Driving & Chipping. All right, Putting too. There's Boxing for the blood thirsty softies. Is that combo even possible?

And so taken are we that I actually stood in line to buy the Wii Fit - the newest avtaar - the very first day of its launch, an absolute first for me. Turned out to be a wise decision - methinks.

Now there's Yoga & Aerobics on my TV Screen. I've twirled with 5 Hula Hoops - all at once. In my dreams? Nah, really. I Ski, I Snowboard, play Soccer. Competitively, of course .

Ok, so all this comes laden with scoops of guilt - the kind that monitors one's exercise minutes and performance. Weight targets & ab strength.

But who minds? Me - I'm having fun all the way.

If Size Matters...

2008-05-29T12:39:00.003-04:00

Saw the Z9 recently - a tiny, fairly cool wireless headset for cellphones.

Great features, sweet looks.

But it's the name that I love best - The Blue Ant.

The Berry Wives

2008-05-11T23:22:00.006-04:00

There was a time when everyone loved the Blackberry. Email on the go, synced calenders, web access, yada, yada. Work life made so darned easy.

And now, the way some of us see it, it's too much of a good thing. The endless fixation, the compelling urge to check mail - while driving, at mealtimes, even for god's sake at a party or a PTA.

So guys, while you stay wedded to the black beauty, we wives are not feeling so merry any more. Really, what was the Bard thinking?

All this is pretty much the story of my life too - try talking to a spouse operating in the haze of Blackberry fumes. There's me, brimming with bright ideas and scintillating conversation, and a fat lot of good it does me, what with absent nods and zilch attention.

One fine, sunny Saturday, hubby dearest having ignored home and hearth all day long - in favor of work - came down and offered magnanimously to spend some time with me. Of course, since his version of quality time is both of us tuned in to Sports on the telly, the next step was to promptly hijack the remote and flash to ESPN. That pretty much put an end to my cook and croon routine.

Still, I could forgive not being able to see my favorite music show just so he'd have a chance to relax. Take a break from email and PPTs.

Who was I kidding?

I peeped into family room ten minutes later to check on things, only to find that SportsCenter was doing its fifth repeat and totally oblivous to LeBron & Crosby, DH was busy.

Doing what, you might ask.

Berry gazing, of course!

But Naturally...

2008-04-28T23:33:00.008-04:00

Saw 'The Natural' on TCM. 1930's New York, rich with sepia overtones and period flavor. Supposedly, one of the best baseball movies ever made. Now to me, that may be arguable but what is not in doubt was the man in it.

Robert Redford - classic, restrained, masterful.

Alas. They just don't make men like that anymore.

Picture this

2008-04-26T00:46:00.007-04:00

There are those of us driven by the thought of making memories. And those, who see the world better through their lenses. The camera lens, that is. We are the shutter happy folks - a not-so-small, often misunderstood and much abused lot. That too, by those who only need pose. At least, the scenic landscapes don't talk back.

A special occasion. New event. Holiday highlights. And yes, sometimes no occasion. There is much in our lives that brings out the obligatory itchy fingers. Portraits and candid shots. Groups and happy solos. Close-ups, collages. Sure, to us, taking pictures is about self-expression. But it is also preserving that slice of time when something happy, momentous happened in our midst.

There is so much that figures in my picture books. A younger version of me & mine. People who are but a memory today. Images to be thankful for; reminisces that bring a pang of wistfulness. Milestones of the past whose fabric is so fragile, I need the proof to remind me how it was.

So yes, maybe I'm obsessed, but I make no apology.

When I look at the results of my zealous picture taking, the satisfaction brims over. And with renewed vigor, I jump right back in, finding new subjects and reasons to capture the moment. Ever so often, I find a kindred spirit, the fellow camera fiend who understands my passion. My urgency.

Someday, even if no one else cares, I'm sure that I at least will thank myself.

Telecommuting

2008-04-25T23:26:00.003-04:00

A fancy phrase for working from home.

Saw a Raymond episode on this today. Much has been said and written about it so suffice to say - for me it was a laughathon with a healthy mix of deja vu thrown in.

If it doesn't kill you...

2008-04-16T22:51:00.020-04:00

It is a universal belief that there is gain in exercise. Joy too. Fitness, trimness and all the attendant warm feelings.

Like a lot of my fellow 30 somethings, I've bought into the belief as well. The local YMCA beckoned and I went. And watched, with shock and awe, the health fiends who hit the gym with amazing regularity, punished their bodies with rigor and skill.

While equally motivated if not nearly as strong willed, I figured that joining the fitness classes that the Y offers would be more my thing. So my destiny left in other hands I lifted, stretched and twisted the hour away several times a week. My exercise life slowly settled into this happy routine.

But fate has thrown me a curveball this year.

There is a new instructor on the horizon. His mantra - nag and preferably bully all into fitness. With unrelenting pace. With maniacal cheer. And most of all, with blithe indifference to the plight of the groaning masses in the room.

Twice a week, the cycle of torture happens. Extreme aerobics, endless ab crunches, weights and more weights. The weeks are flying and it doesn't seem to get a whole lot easier. I dread the classes but always feel much energized afterwards. So I curse, and I whine, but end up going back for more.

Still, yesterday's class tested every resolve. Half-way through a killer of a routine, I'm dying, or close. Too winded even to breathe. But pride won't let me quit. I grit my teeth and distract myself by thinking about tomorrow.

It's Yoga day. Smiling, I close my eyes and imagine - flowing aasanas and peaceful meditation. Soft music and deep breathing.

Till Attila here drops the bombshell. "Ladies, no Yoga tomorrow. I'm gonna teach that class instead. Strength training," he added ominously. "Then we'll really find out how fit you guys are."

Taxing Trauma

2008-03-27T13:41:00.004-04:00

It's that time of the year again. Like the spring clouds, the tax deadline looms on the horizon. Sitting hunkered to the ground, buried in an avalanche of forms and receipts, I worship the numbers. If only it were that easy. On my good days, the software goes glitchy. And vice versa.

Every now and then, I take a break by clicking on the 'Summary' button on the tax program. That's the one that tells me what the IRS is gonna owe us.

Yeah right.

It starts out well, lots of moolah heading our way. Then come the adjustments, deductions and the like. With every update, the situation looks less rosy, er green. My aha moments begin to wane. Not entirely, though, I console myself. If I tweak enough, we might still get a little back.

The sun shines again.

Till I remember that it was what we paid them, to start with.

Tulips in Spring

2008-03-19T23:43:00.048-04:00

Years ago, I bought a new home with its own yard. Spring came, and the flowers in my neighbors' lawns made me feel green. In nurseries across town, row after row of florals in the aisles beckoned invitingly. Bitten by the gardening bug, I dove right in.

My garden was landscaped, but like every newbie I reckoned that I could put my own stamp on it. I'd start small, but surely some color couldn't hurt. So with a weekend's worth of shopping, digging and planting, I too had flowers. Tulips - royal & splashy - graced my front yard, as did the oriental lilies with their showy blooms and rich colors. The hours in the blazing sun seemed so worth it.

But my paradise was lost quickly.

One morning, a few days later, I had no flowers. Overnight, deer - that roam free in our neighborhood - had eaten off the tender blooms. What was left, was ravished right down to the soil by the furry, but no longer adorable bunnies.

My newfound gardener's spirit was bruised. I didn't give up right away. But a few more attempts, and a few more skirmishes later, I was done. Bought and put in a few hardy shrubs where the lilies had been, mulched the land, and that, as far as I was concerned, was the end of things.

Seasons rolled and brought with it, another thaw. One spring afternoon, while in my yard I was stunned to see a cluster of purple tulips swaying in the breeze. Where had they sprung from? It seemed unbelievable. And yet, quite understandable, actually. After all, the tulip bulbs below the soil surface had been left untouched last year. I hadn't bothered, but mother nature had done its bit in awakening them.

Still, to me those blooms were a minor miracle.

That year, I treated the flowers with water and care, but nursed little hope over their fate. Another spring came and then another. And each time the Tulips made a comeback in the very same patch of dirt. Thanks to an anti-deer spray, they even managed to last several weeks. I had written them off after the first fiasco, but faithfully, the tender buds continued to liven up my land. And my heart.

Spring is round the corner again. And this year too, I wait. Despite knowing that tulip bulbs last just a few years; that they have bloomed their life's worth, I wait. With reluctant hope, to see if those brave little blooms will forge their way out of the soil and mulch one more time. If they will bring a dash of color to my yard. After a long, bare winter, will they bear a promise of new life? Deer might threaten, even ravage their beauty, yet they still do what they were meant to.

In all this, there's a life's lesson somewhere. Of that I'm entirely sure.

A touch of iPod

2008-03-17T16:12:00.029-04:00

For a long time I stayed blessedly immune - or so I thought - to the lure of the wundergizmo called the ipod. The revolution seemed to have swept the world right before my eyes. Version after snazzy version, with accessories that topped every holiday season display in department stores, it appeared that everyone of the Gen Y ilk had joined the feeding frenzy.

Around me, pressure mounted. Hubby dearest thought that owning one was just my thing. (That way he could happily avoid all responsibility). But like a schooner in the wind-tossed sea I held firm, dancing the dance of denial. I really didn't need one. No, I'm not musically challenged; I do own a fine collection. For most part, my phone-cum-mp3 player-cum-video messager stood me in good stead in the gym, the train or even the doctor's waiting room.

Then came the Touch. Not a psychic event, but a phenomenon nevertheless. Apple's new fall surprise. Sleek and slim, well endowed with a large screen, and images so crisp, it makes video viewing a pleasure. Wi-fi enabled with neat surfing options, all with the merest flick of a finger. Bigger, better than everything before.
Finally, I succumbed.
Now, hundreds of songs and a bunch of videos later, I'm another one of those scouring the malls for accessories. The touch can sync my calender and contacts from my PC; I can proudly flash my snapshots anytime. My time on the exercise bike passes a lot sooner while I'm focussing on the best of YouTube. With a GPS, weather and on-line stocks data now available on the iPod touch, I might soon be delirious with joy.
Life just isn't the same anymore.

Coupon Coups

2008-03-15T17:59:00.016-04:00

In retail speak, a coupon might be a ticket to a discount. But to me and my brethren sisters, a coupon and plurals therof, seem to be a manna from heaven. It's actually a ticket to shop. An unstoppable license to splurge. No longer the means to an end, 'tis the start of an urge.

A coupon sighting is the highlight of my mail sorting - a perfect way to justify buying things I may need, and sometimes things that I may never, infact, use. From clothing to cleaners, plays to playthings, these pesky pieces of paper are an undeniable truth of our lives. From the itty-bitty ones to large chunks of change, there's one to suit every desire. The bigger the value, the greater is the storebound exodus. Trust me, Moses had nothing on the promotions departments of most stores.

For the frequest shopper there are coupons by way of rewards. If you have hardened your heart, and withheld those purse-strings, there are the 'we miss you' missives. If your loyalties lie with another store then it's a 'may we tempt you ' kind of bait. If it's not an actual discount, it's a freebie or store credit. Anything to get our business. Invariably, one coupon led visit results to bigger impulses, but when has that stopped us.

Yes, this is one contest we women are content to lose. Let the games begin!

A Trader's Life

2008-03-13T23:47:00.002-04:00

Make a million, lose some change.

It's my business mantra. I reckon that if I chip away hard enough and long enough, it might add up to a fine reality. And in said quest lies the endless search for the winning stocks, the next index marvel or a profitable fund.

There are those of us who dance to the Dow's tune. Every day runs through a gamut of emotions - from blazing hope to uncertain despair and so many in between. The markets are volatile some days, placidly tame on others. There are stocks that buck the trend and others that seem to make the job so easy.

For most part, I love this business. On rare days, I wonder if there isn't anything else that comes with all manner of guarantees. But each morning I succumb to the lure of the siren's song.

Bono's immortal words come to mind - I can't live. With or without you.