The Cynic

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