Sunday morning fun

I switch on the TV and get a black screen. There is no snow, no blue and no picture screen. Just a black screen.

Me : Scream! My TV does not have power

Kid#2 : It has power but something is wrong with it. It does not work.

Me : How?

Kid#2 : I dont know, voltage fluctuations must have burnt some part

Me : When did this happen?

Kid#1 : Don’t you know? I think that was Tuesday.

And it is Sunday today …….

Me : Hot damn. I wanted to watch some TV

Kid#2 : No you dont. Anyone who does not need a TV for four days does not need one.

Me : But I wanted to watch news

Kid#2 : Utube hai na

Kid#1 : Vaise bhi, we call your room the honeymoon suite. Solid bed, great airconditioning, no TV, door always locked

Me : ???????? Go pick on someone else, I am going back into my “honeymoon suite”

Damn they should have informed me that the damn TV broke. I could have gotten it repaired over the week!

The Femina fiasco

We are bloggers, we write because it is our passion. And we pride ourselves in our originality. We are unique and creative and that is our sole reason for blogging. No, scratch that. We also get a rush from the comments, the interaction with the visitors to our blog. I can remember walking on air when I found out that people read the feeds to my blog. How cool is that? I had this huge grin on my face people and my family informs me that I was a huge pain for a while.

I have kept the blog ad free, but I am possessive about my content. I gave a couple of stories off my blog to Prashant Karhade of APK Publishers. One was a very short story titled “My Daughter’s Stricken Eyes Haunt Me”.

The MOU signed by me prior to publishing states clearly in Clause No. 4 that the copyright for this story lies with the writer.

Imagine my shock when I was congratulated by Hrishikesh Bawa on Facebook on my story appearing in Femina, right next to the recipes!

I was in office right then and could not lay my hands on the magazine.

And the story … badly mangled, with lines missing

This is the Femina May 4th issue … here is the cover

Should I feel flattered? Femina is a big name … after all. But no, sad to say but I dont. I keep my blog ad free, I do not profit from my writing. For that I work at a soul less desk job. And here is the fruit of my creativity, published in a magazine, for commerce. Some one else is profiting from it. In short, I’ve been had! Mera chu…ya kat gaya hai. And if Hrishikesh had not messaged me on FB I would not have come to know.

I have learnt from other bloggers that similar things have happened to them. Some of these reputed newspapers etc do not even list them as the source.

What do you say, bloggers? Are we so helpless, so unworthy that we don’t deserve the courtesy of a small email or a comment in our comment section? Are we so weak that we can be walked over?

Reactions of bloggers

Femina sinks to a new low

Where Femina Steals

Strongly support Ritu’s position

Femina and the stolen story

What is beauty?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, says an old saying.  It is said that Laila was dark, skinny, with cracked lips and blackened teeth.  She had a tobacco and paan chewing habit.  But to the smitten Majnu, she was beautiful, and he gave his life up for her.

When I hear the term “Classic Beauty” I wonder.  Perception of beauty is a very subjective thing, and every country has its own ideal. And then there is the matter of personal taste. Some people may find a cine star lovely, others may find her too artificial.

So what is real beauty?  It took me almost a lifetime to get the answer.

As a child, I was one of those who can be called “cute” or “pretty”.  My father did not like that at all.  He was of the opinion that most good looking adults are shallow.  So high sounding phrases like “Beauty is as Beauty does” and “Cultivating the inner self” etc. became subject of discourse.  Not that it mattered to me.  I basked in admiration and developed into a vain girl.  Things come easy to pretty girls, which suited me, and I really liked the impression I created.

Thank God anorexia was not something we heard of then, otherwise, given the time I spent preening in front of the mirror, I was the right candidate for it.

As I grew up, I became interested in dramatics.  Of course, I accepted none other than the leading female role.  As I became proficient in emoting, I stared getting small jobs as a model and was offered a job as a leading actress in movies.  My mother thought the producer was sleazy and freaked.  She must have been right, he is not a big name and I never heard of any movie by a production house with that name. But I was young and over the moon!  That led to a lot of unpleasantness at home.  The parents disapproved, to put it mildly.  It had nothing to do with “inner self” and “moral fiber”.  Real beauty, as per my parents, had nothing to do with good features and fair skin.  That was just a genetic gift.

It had nothing to do with all the time I spent in front of the mirror and all the products I slathered on my self.  That was superficial, and not long lasting.  Oh, I resented their sermons and even laughed at this obsession with the inner self.

Now I am fifty plus, and life has taught me much, but has taken away that fresh cutesy look of yore.  Whatever claims I had towards attractiveness have been ravaged by time, and a lifetime’s worth of indulgence in food.  I look at myself in the mirror and see an old woman, with graying hair and an expanding girth.  So, does that make me ugly?

No, it does not.

When my sons hug me, snuggle into me and look me in the eyes, I see love.  It makes me feel beautiful.  When they say, “You are the best Mom” I feel lovely.  I want to look my best for them.

When my partner looks at me with loving eyes and says, “You look so wonderful” it makes me feel gorgeous, like a goddess, or like Helen of Troy.  I want to shine, to see the adoration in his eyes.

Perhaps my father spoke sense.  True beauty is something that emanates from some where inside a person.  And he really pushed me into developing the inner me.

But packaging is important too.  We do live in a world where impressions matter.  My beauty is real, it stems from the inner me, but I still spend time in front of the mirror and slathering products on my self.  It satisfies the inner me.

 

You can vote for this article here

This post is written for the Indiblogger and Dove Real Beauty Contest. Check out this contest people. The first prize is for Rs 1 Lakh. I think its the highest ever amount for blogging

The face of my book

I have a bowl at home, a pretty glass bowl, which is filled with glass butterflies.  So when I am sitting at home watching television, I normally have it in my lap and run my hands through it.  I like the clanging noise it makes.  My undutiful offsprings beg to differ.  It annoys them.

So, mostly tongue and cheek, I named my novel “A Bowlful of Butterflies”

I dreamt of this as a cover.

Yeah, yeah.  It is not original and probably has a whole lot of copyright issues.  But I thought it looked classy and dignified.  That is me, I borrow class and dignity you see.  My impetuosity does not grant me much of it in my person.

My huge fear was that the cover would be pink or blue and scream out on the shelves of book shops “This is by women, about women and for women”

That would scare any male buyer of the book, and that is 50% of the population.  Horrors

So we went through a gamut of covers.  Writing the book was easier I must say.  A word of appreciation for my editor, she is so patient.  Shikha, Lady RESPECT!  You’re a saint.

And then we hit upon this one, which I loved

I loved the green, loved the mystery that this cover seemed to convey.

But sadly it was not to be …

As my DIL points out, it has too much detail, it may turn out cluttered.  Well, she is an interior designer and has impeccable eye for detail.

So this is the final face of my book

You like???

 

Desi Beats

I have heard of and admired truck art of Pakistan.  The denizens of our neighbour decorate their vehicles with lots of love and care.  We do not decorate our vehicles but we wear our philosophy and our experiences – not on our sleeves, but on our wheels.  Some lovely pics … not all of them taken by me, but taken off Google

PROFOUND PHILOSOPHY

PITHY WIT IN AN AUTOS

(Translation : Sitting with your boyfriend and calling him Bhaiyya is forbidden)

One can’t underestimate auto wallahs eh?  Reminded me of a family joke.  Once Kid#2 totalled his car, I refused to buy another.  So poor chappie has to go to college by auto.  Now his auto wallah has the unlikely name of “JAANU”.  Kid#2 shares this auto with a young girl who studies in the same university.  The enterprising autowallah had his cell no. emblazoned inside the auto, followed by his name JAANU. Kid#2 rings him up and the guy brings his auto to him … where ever Kid#2 is in the city.  I am not kidding you.  The boy has a full on city wide auto service to call his own.  Auto wallah suggested similar service to this girl too.

Girl : Aap koi aur naam batao (Give another name please)

JAANU : Magar yeh humara naam hai (This is my name)

Girl : Merey Papa mera khoon kar denge, koi aur naam please.  Yeh naam mai cell mein nahin daal sakti (My father will kill me, I can’t save this name on my cell)

Needless to say this conversation had us in splits.

INDIAN AUTOS AND CRICKET

I am sure he stayed home the day after India won the world cup!

SEEN ON A 2 WHEELER

NOW FOR SOME UNREALISTIC AMBITION

AND SOME MORE

I LOVE THE LOFTY TONE OF THIS ONE

(Translation : I dont live my life being unaware of my self (self worth?), I dont snatch someone else’s peg of whisky and drink, If you want to overtake me, go ahead, I don’t care,  I dont waste my time pursuing others)

CURSE TO WARD OFF THE EVIL EYE

(Translation : For the one with evil eye, may your children live, drink in the mornings/through the day, and gamble in the evenings), and the one in red paint on white is a message for the driver …. If you treat me like a queen, I will make you a king)  Hmmm, I feel this works as a message from all women to their men

 

NOW THIS ONE IS ORIGINAL

(Translation : Don’t get jealous on seeing me, I have been bought on bank loan)

EVERYONE HATES KNOW IT ALLS

Most of the truck messages I have seen or read are in Gurumukhi, and I am not too good at reading and translating them, though I wish I could share

 

Colour Me Brown with Wella Kolestint

I am not a high maintenance person. I have undergone waxing twice in my life, once on my marriage and once when my son got married. DIL bullied me into accompanying her to the parlour and getting arms and legs waxed. And I don’t get facials done. Parlours bore me to death. The idea of sitting somewhere for two or more hours does not appeal to me, even if I am getting something done to improve my appearance. I get the classic student-in-class syndrome. As a kid, I stared longingly out of the window during class, now I start thinking about all that I can do once the ordeal is over and I can escape the beautician’s parlour.

But then age has caught up with me. I need to colour my hair. Of course sitting with colour slathered on my head for an hour scared me so jugaad came into play. I started getting a pedicure or a manicure done while I waited for the girl to wash off the colour. I suspect that all my hair (whatever is left of it) is white under that colour.

When I signed up for the Wella Kolestint Hair Colour, I had this awesome role model in mind

Just look at that gorgeous mane. No wonder she made not one but two successful comebacks into movies and now I read that she is brand ambassador of Wella Kolestint. This lady is about my age but damn, she rocks! She looks well kept and wonderful.

Here is another diva with gorgeous hair

The great thing about Wella Kolestint is that the colours they offer suit the Indian skin. I chose dark brown for the conventional look and golden brown for those times when I feel adventurous. Of course as it happens at my home, Kid#1 and DIL both wanted to try it too. Kid#1 was keen on the golden brown, but ladies first, I insisted. Hence dark brown was the first one opened.

The box contains: A pre-color Treatment with Almond Extract, After Color Intense Shine Treatment/Conditioner, 1 pair of gloves, 1 tube of colour Creme, 1 bottle of Creme Developer, Instruction leaflet. I have a very light hair growth … hence I never got waxed. In fact I often joke that I am surprised I have eyebrows and eyelashes given the lack of hair! One box was more than enough for me, with a bit to spare for either Kid#1 or DIL to experiment with.

Well, did it give me a gorgeous lustrous mane like the divas above or the lady below?

NADA. But then this is a colour product, not a growth solution, eh?

On second thoughts, I don’t want hair like Rapunzel’s, her shampoo and colour bills must be astronomical!

VERDICT

My hair are softer, fall in manageable waves and they shine. The brown is soothing and, more importantly, the product hides the greys well. I am sold on the conditioner that is provided. I never knew that my hair could feel so soft.

A “Nest” Meeting

And I met Shail Mohan of Shail’s Nest. Hence the “Nest” meeting.

I was sitting in office hardly working when a chat window opened out.

“Hi Ritu” popped up. It was Shail Mohan. Now I know Shail Mohan. She is someone who writes fantastic humor and is a big fan of Wodehouse. I like Wodehouse and I like her stories. Of course her poems zonk me out, but then serious poems zonk me out any way so I don’t hold such things against someone so nice as to make me laugh. Hence I replied “Hey Shail, wassup” or some such thing. “Can we meet?” was the question, of course worded ever so politely. The question should have been “When and how do we meet?” I was not going to miss out on meeting a weaver of some of the most profound tales I have read!

It turned out that she was in Ghaziabad. Now Ghaziabad is closer to my home than Trivandrum is. Which meant that if I swung in a chutti, I could meet her. Of course I am lousy with Geography and directions. When I was a kid, I remember writing that Nile flowed through Greece and then pleading with Godji to make Nile change its course. I have also driven to Apno Ghar in U.P. when I meant to go to IG airport at Palam. So I was a wee bit intimidated. I could, like Starship Enterprise, boldly set forth, but where would I reach? Thankfully Kid#2 and Google Maps stepped into the breach. We left nothing to chance. Kid#2 opened Google Maps on my … well, his blackberry and downloaded the app on my phone too. Shipra Mall, a place close to where Shail was staying was the place we rendezvoused. Ruchira of Nirjharini was to meet us there and Abha Midha of Daffodils, who lives in Faridabad was keen to go too. So I picked her up and off we went.

Shipra Mall is amazingly gracious a place. It is a mall, alright, but it has a certain old world charm. It is spacious and leisurely. None of the frantic feel that malls in Delhi, Faridabad and even Gurgaon have. I liked it.

The funny thing is that we were the first to reach even though we lived the furthest from Ghaziabad!

Ruchira was the first to come, and I spotted her far away. She can’t be missed. And then came Shail. The impression I had of Shail was (1) A thinker (2) Shy (3) Easy on the smiles. I got two out of three right. Shail is quiet, soft and easy on the smiles. She definitely is not shy! And she is pint sized 😉

In the picture above we had her standing on a stair to come up next to us. Of course we put her with Ruchira, who is tall 😈

Then we settled down for a leisurely lunch (which we forgot to order) since we had so much to say to each other 😛

The waiter was requested to take the pics, and he willingly obliged. So lets forget/ignore the fact that we did not order and say that the waiter was too busy clicking us to serve us food.

Nothing like some (as Shail puts it) “refined sunflower oil” on a hot summer day 😉 😛

The food at Pind Baluchi was good, the company better. And Shail was sweet enough to get us all books. She gifted me one called “The Male Brain”. It is a fascinating insight into the working of a man’s mind, though I do feel that its unfair to explain away everything that a person does by listing hormones and neurons … but it does simplify male thinking a lot.

Here Abha and I are holding on to our gifts standing right next to that awesome door of Pind Baluchi. Sigh … now I want my front door to be like that, its so ornate … but I digress

And I wanted a photo with the Pind Baluchi Babaji, I always did. This time Kid#2 and I got one clicked 😆

To people who have put up the question on FB … this is the younger one and he has not written a novel. But he writes the most awesome poems, most of which are edgy and serious. They stump me.

Abha wanted to go once we were done with lunch (or that is the impression I got). But my son actually enjoyed the lunch. Makes me think that we are not old biddies after all! And that we are fun and witty. He suggested coffee … and hit off totally with Ruchira, both of them lamenting the fact that they have difficult and bossy older siblings. I kept shut, I was the older sibling 😛 Could imagine my brother joining in LOL

We exited Pind Baluchi and landed up at Barista. I did try to get myself a chocolate excess, failing which a slice of apple pie, failing which a cold coffee with lots of cream. Sadly Kid #2 was with me and vetoed all of that, All I got a standard issue cold coffee. 😦

It was a delightful afternoon. I love meeting blogger friends.

Wordless Wednesday

The Death of The Monster

Thanks Blogadda for selecting this post as Spicy Saturday Pick

There once was a prince. He would have never got to rule the kingdom since there were too many princes between him and the throne. But that did not bother him much. He wanted to rule the hearts and imaginations of the people of his clan. In these days of electronic media, that was far better a franchise than just sitting on a throne. Even that was not an original idea; a certain princess of an island nation had aspired to and become the “Princess of Hearts” until she died when her car crashed in a tunnel. That princess was beautiful, so it was easy for her.

But he was a tribesman, not too hot in the looks department. Becoming Prince of Hearts was not exactly his cup of tea. So he decided to do something different. He sought to destroy egos. That would hurt and that would leave a lasting impression. It would be his legacy.

So he took looked around for a soft target, among the land of unbelievers. He zeroed on a nation that was egotistical, overfed and pompous. The infidel ruler of the nation, who people called Potus was so full of shit. He kept talking about national pride and convinced his people that his nation was untouchable. The prince gathered around him some tribesmen who were restless.

“I am bored” they complained.

“You wanna do something fun? It’s risky and can cost you your life?” he asked.

“Yeah, why not?” said some of them. Others dropped out. They weren’t that bored!

So he got them to fly planes into the totemic symbols of the proud nation’s pride.

BOOM! CRASH!!!!

Citizens died in the crash, the proud nation wept.

The prince became famous. He, like Gabbar Singh, became the monster mothers scared their kids with if they did not drink their milk or sleep at bed time.

The proud nation peed in its pants, just like Golaith’s supporters when David took him down with a slingshot. It realized that it was not untouchable. It also realized that other countries hated it. The nation did not like that. It dethroned its ruler and crowned another Potus.

This Potus knew that he needed to stop posturing and prove a point. He had to kill monsters. Like all corporate honchos, he had to show results.

He befriended other rulers, some of them simply so that he gained knowledge about where these monsters lived. Meanwhile whispers maligned this Potus too. Some thought he was weak, others thought he was soft. Still others distrusted him. He got worried, he could get dethroned like the last Potus and become a joke on late night talk shows. His wife and daughters would not like that!

He consulted his trusted aide, a sorceress with more ice in her veins than blood. She went online with her crystal ball.

“King, here you are in trouble, and the monster that destroyed our totem pole was found living a cushy retired life with his youngest wife”

“So what do you suggest Sorceress?”

“This monster destroyed your slanderers loved ones. He killed them. He destroyed our pride. If you kill him, Potus, all will be forgiven.”

“So what’s the problem? Kill him!”

The sorceress said, “Potus, please sit down. You are not going to like this!”

“Tell me!” he said, unable to sit down because of anxiety.

“We already have him dead. We just did not tell people.”

“Why?”

“What with Wikileaks and the unstable economy, there just wasn’t the right time.”

Potus peered into the crystal ball. All he could see was grey images. “Why doesn’t Google color them?” he grumbled.

“We don’t own Google, Potus. And stop grumbling. There is more!”

He sighed and said “Tell me!”

“Thing is, we did not kill him. He got irritable, living in seclusion for so long. His tribesmen and sons were also having a bad case of cabin fever. There was a shoot out and they killed each other. We can’t claim the glory”

“Damn! Now what do we do?”

“The monster was given shelter by our vassal nation. You need to threaten the vassal nation with retribution and allow them to let us fly by the monster’s castle and create a huge noise. They will agree”

“How dare they shelter our enemies!”

“Never mind that, we can squash them like a bug. They’re already scared and will agree to sell their mothers right now”

Potus smiled, understanding what the sorceress was saying. “You must have been a good queen to your Potus, sorceress”

“Thank you Potus. Yes I was, but he always played around and got caught with his pants down eventually”

So on a fateful Sunday, when the nation woke up, they got the news that the monster had been killed. Doctored gory pictures of the monster were shown to the nation that danced and celebrated. His decomposed body was thrown into the sea to avoid any controversies.

The tribesmen mourned their prince, who had hurt the proud nation and brought it down to its infidel knees.

But a strange thing happened. The Potus and the Prince both had similar names, with just a letter that was different. To some, they both appeared similar. Both had taken steps to kill, maim and destroy to keep their name shining. Both had crossed lines to destroy pride of the other. One’s motive was controversial; the other’s method gave rise to conspiracy theories.

They say the monster is dead. Really? Which monster?