The Cynic

2011-A year of sorts. Of highs and lows. We mourned the deaths of the likes of Jagjit Singh, Steve Jobs, Dev Anand and Shammi Kapoor. We rejoiced over the grand entry of international artists Lady Gaga, Metallica and Pitbull on the Indian scene. We saw Vidya as Silk, gyrating to Ooh La La, and Ranbir as Jordan, demanding his 'haq'. We marvelled over the concept of a Flash Mob, and the sheer ingenuity of Siri. We celebrated a glorious century of Delhi and all the same waited for Tendulkar to get his own. We revelled over a victorious Cricket World Cup and cringed over the insane amount of money spent on a gigantic Mayawati park. We witnessed F1 in India, we saw what happens when the Blackberry system breaks down, and for the first time ever, we actually even tuned into Lok Sabha channel to hear the Lok Pal debate. 2011-A year of sorts. Of highs and lows like any other. And now as the year draws to a close, here's a look at the top newsmakers of the 2011-the five peopl

'Haww! Kitti badi ho gayee hai! Godi mein khilaate the is!', auntyji squealed at my mother. Apparently my grimace wasn't visible enough, as auntyji turned to me next. 'Height achchi pakad li hai na? Aisi chhoti chuhiya si thi-yeh uncle ek haath pe utha lete the!', she punches her husband playfully on the arm. Uncle, who's dressed in his blingiest best, with the golden sherwani accentuating all his unsightly curves. I smile back weakly. You can only hope you'll get used to it some day. I'm so glad November finally passed. I almost thought the wedding season was going to kill me. Up until two weeks ago, we had more wedding invitations in our post than we could possibly handle. I never even realised we knew so many marriagable people. 23 ko Sharma ki beti ki shaadi, 24 ko Gupta ke bete ki, 25 ko Verma ki apni shaadi, 26 ko Srivastava aur Chawla ke bachon ki. Ab bhaago. Add to that all the rokas, mehendis, shagans, cocktails, sagaais, receptions and a hund

There's a column in the entertainment supplement of Hindustan Times, "Dil Se..", that allows Delhiites to send in their messages to their, well, loved ones, or to the world at large. For many, Dil Se.. is a genuine, heartfelt mode of contact. For me, Dil Se.. has been, for quite some time now, my daily dose of entertainment and anti-depressant. Its what i read to feel worthy when I’m feeling down in the dumps. Just to give you a tiny hint of what’s in there, here’s what you’re most likely to find in there if you flip to the column on any given day. 1.       Hi I’m a 21 year old lonely good looking male boy from Dehli looking for girlfriend who understands my emotions. Wanna make fraanship with me? Lonely boy. The fraandship seekers are most popular, probably offshoots of a now dead Orkut movement. A lot of lonely male boys and female girls (and female boys and male girls?) launch their hunt for fraands through this column. More often than not, they even end up begetting

Just a few days ago, I was sitting with a friend, chatting, when he told me he'd recently read Chetan Bhagat's latest, 'Revolution 2020', and launched into an explanation of how it was an amazing narrative about love, set in the backdrop of money and power, and then stopped midway to look at me and say, "Tujhe bilkul nahin pasand na woh?" I assume I'd been making irritated expressions and rolling my eyes all through his little 10-second speech. " Haan , I find him too stupid!" I shot back. "But he sells", my friend answered back smugly, as if that settled it all. And who could deny that anyway? Chetan Bhagat sells. And big time too. But what is the success story? And why is there one anyway? Having written two odd crappy books, Bhagat shot to fame. Suddenly, a man noone knew nor cared about became the 'youth icon' of the country. Wanna know how the youth thinks? Drop in a little of Chetan Bhagat dramatics. And then sudd

Over the past decade, a transition in India’s music scene has led to a never seen before madness and fan following for international artists. We are as much in love with these ‘stars’ as the people of the west are. So much so, that any international gig is bound to grab more attention, attendance and money than any other desi Hindi or Punjabi singer’s concert. Unfortunately, though, for us Indians, these gigs don’t come by easy. Sadly, internationally our reputation as a country still remains stereotyped as that of essentially a poultry market which forms a necessary frame for any movie shot in the Middle East—there are a couple of angry, abusive men in white kurtas, a couple of harassed women in black burkhas, a few hens fluttering dangerously dropping feathers here and there, and a general sense of congested chaos. Inspite of the beautiful image we seem to enjoy abroad, when the heavy metal headbangers Metallica arrived in Delhi for their first ever concert in India, boy were they w

A grin spread across Aliya's face as she settled into her cab and disconnected Ankit's call. They had been engaged for seven months now, and marriage was on the cards. The cab's driver, Ravi, greeted her as she sat, and she greeted him back--she had known him for two years, he'd worked at her company for quite some time and had often dropped her home when she worked late nights. Aliya slumped into the back seat of the car, and re-read Ankit's last message. Smiling to herself, she thought of the day when, a few months later, she would be his bride. It was to be a big, fat Punjabi wedding. Lots of food, stunning clothes, flowers, music, and too many pujas. The pujas, ah. The smoke from the havan always hurt Aliya's eyes and they watered. Just like now.. * Aliya awoke with a start. Looking out the window, she realised that the drive home was another 45 minutes, and it was already 10:30 PM. Aliya told Ravi to hurry up and drive a little faster, and he nodded slu

Have you ever felt real reverence, true-mad-deep reverence that it almost reached a point of worship? Where the other person could never be wrong, simply because it was HIM? I, for one, have known this sheer devotion. And it happened to be for the man I’ve idolised since I don’t even remember when. I fell in love with Vir Sanghvi. For those of you who don’t know, Vir Sanghvi is an advisor with Hindustan Times, and used to write a weekend column in the paper by the name of Counterpoint. I don’t remember who made me read my first Counterpoint in Sunday’s Hindustan Times, but my Sundays were never the same again. At first glance, Sanghvi impressed. At a second look, he left me in awe. The man was a genius. I hadn’t known anyone like him before—I’d never read a newspaper so unfailingly before. Then came the Sunday Brunch, and Sanghvi shocked me yet again. What in the world did he NOT know about?! All this time I’d spent thinking of him as a purely political writer, and Rude Food gave me a

( This is entirely a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters and persons living or dead is purely coincidental.) As I walk past the security that thoroughly checked me all over, I try to pinch myself into believing that I really had clinched an interview with one of the most sought after politicians on the scene today. This particular person in reference was the leader of one of the largest parties that thrived on the support of ‘minority groups’, and was also one of the most major harassments that the government currently faced. Nervous and excited, I enter the large gates to her bungalow. The long, long passage is lined with enormous white statues of that enormous animal that’s her party’s symbol— arre that grey one with something sticking out of its nose? Rhino, yes! (Did you think an elephant? No no!)  There are also some bust-like statues of things that look strangely like...handbags. By the time I reach her office, I’m half panting, half scared, half ap

Every time I watch a cliché romantic Bollywood flick, I find myself wishing I could be one of those diligent, sound-sensitive, got-no-time-to-waste NRI people they always end up showing. The ones who wake up bang in sync with the alarm clock’s first bell, get right on their feet and robotically rush into the bathroom. Get dressed, do their morning pooja with long wet hair neatly pulled over one shoulder and eyes brimming with shraddha, and then slip into the busy streets on New York, striding happily, with a Starbucks Coffee to complete the look.   And even after all the morning propaganda manage to be one of the earliest people to reach the office and gain a promotion. I wish, I wish! However, over all these years of my being, I’ve only managed to figure out that I have some sort of an inbuilt anti-alarm mechanism in me—and as much as I may try, alarms are never very successful in shaking me out of my sleep. Consequently, I’m more of the ‘oh shit phir late!’ people than the ‘perfect e

Having spent all my living years here in Delhi, I’ve learnt to know a Punjabi when I see one. In fact, more often than not, it’s a case of know one, know all—all of them tend to have the same five members with all the same traits. So here today, meet the Khuranas (or the Khannas, the Kapoors, the Marwahs—whatever you please, they’re all essentially the same Punjabi blood anyway!) Mrs. Khurana a.k.a. Mummyji: This is the aunty you dread meeting at family weddings. The one who will pull your cheeks three inches away from where they belong and drool wildly, saying “ Kitna bada ho gaya hai! ” She’s short and stout, clad in a fitted salwar kameez (preferably with a deep, deep neck) that glitters from every imaginable angle. Mummyji steps out of the house early in the morning to greet the doodhwala , wearing a printed dupatta over her crinkled cotton nighty (the dupatta protects a woman’s modesty and hence must be religiously worn at all times). She fusses over Goldy losing too much weigh

When you begin work on a painting, you set out on a long difficult journey to the end. Begin by thinking, sketching out on the canvas a rough figure of what you want. It’s an easy task, you've barely begun—you can always erase, redraw, alter, or even start over. Then comes the time for colours. And while there are hundreds and thousands of them to choose from, there are just a few, at times just one, that will be a perfect fit. Choices are tough to make—some may be right, others may go horribly wrong. Yet there’s no choice but to choose. After long toil and much sweat, you come up with the final piece. Some paintings will inspire. They’ll be so beautiful that they’ll leave a mark in your heart and mind for ages to come. Some will be soothing, others will make you smile. And then there will be those that will make you feel simply wasted. Pictures that will only speak to you of your incompetence and inability to make the right choices. Surprisingly, sometimes these may be the p

It’s almost as if Navratras have arrived early. Coupled with a fresh new season of Roadies. Because look around, and all you see are men fasting, or men cursing (oh and short fat women dancing at Rajghat, but then that’s probably just the Navratra fever) There are frail white-dhoti clad men, and hairy half-naked saffron-clad men, and sly, crafty looking IAS officers on fasts—we’re really running for variety here. When these men aren’t fasting, they’re busy calling the high-ups cheats or liars and gathering public applause and adoration for their impeccable use of cuss words. We’re fasting, we’re swearing, we’re lathi charging, we’re holding press conferences every second hour and we’re hurling chappals in every second press conference. Oh and we’re a country of really, really mature people. No, seriously! Whatever has unfurled over the past few weeks since April 5 th is frankly no golden medal on our ‘2020 mein Superpower banenge ji ’ perception of ourselves. We’re currently at