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...

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...