Head In The Game

Time seems to rush past me with cruelty and I find that in my daily reminiscing, all my memories and recollections of my happy schooldays are fading or dulling at the edges. I have never been great with details but here, somehow, I find myself clinging to every last bit of information about a certain day or a certain month or a certain thing with all the tenacity of a man holding on to flotsam in the sea.  This post is one desperate bid to hold close some very special moments I have shared lest they slip from my hands. I want to be able to show my grandchildren this post and then fondly talk about those sunny days when we only knew laughter and sadness was something that bowled you over when you broke your favorite toy.

So, where was I?

Aah, yes. Class 12. PT period. The second period on Wednesday, preceded by the mind-numbing, ennui-inducing chemistry period.(please don’t kill me for saying that)The chemistry period lasted from 7.55 to 8.35 and everyone rushed out like a horde of angry bulls in the bull run in Pamplona the second the bell rang. Wednesday was all about the PE period; everyone would just come into class, drop their bags off and start talking about what team they would play in.

To set the scene- we were six to seven backbenchers who, I believe, came to school on Wednesday just to play basketball. I was the only one who wore a watch in the entire row or was I the only one who nagged everyone around me for the time? I can’t remember exactly. So this is what it sounded like.

7.59 am

GR: “What time is it?”

Friend: “Lot of time left. “

GR: “God, this is boring.”

Teacher: “Gayathri, stop talking please.”

GR:*buries face into her chemistry textbook and can almost feel the book radiating “I-am-boring”ness.*

8.07am

GR: “What time is it?”

Friend: “Half an hour left.”

GR: “You said that ten minutes back.”

Friend: “I didn’t.”

GR:  “Are you sure you know how to tell the time?”

Teacher: “There, in the back, have you solved the questions assigned?”

Us (Faux interestedly):  “We’re working on it, ma’am.”

8.15 am

GR: “What time is it?”

Friend: “Twenty left.”

GR: “Oh thank you God.”

Friend: “Could you work out problem 5 on page 345?”

GR: “Are you kidding me? I am not even paying attention to this shit.”

Friend: *no comment*

8.28 am

GR: *taps wrist and gestures*

Friend: *holds up five fingers*

8.31 am

GR: “Khatam hua ki nahiin?”(Has it finished yet?)

Friend: “Paanch minute”(Five minutes)

GR: “Tune paanch minute pehle hi paanch minute kaha tha.”(You said five minutes five minutes ago)

Friend:“Har do minute poochegi toh kya bolunga?”(What am I supposed to say if you keep asking every two minutes?)

8.34 am

Now I am really on edge, fidgeting endlessly and I can’t wait to shut my book with a loud slam.

Teacher:  “Gayathri, please tell me the answer to problem 7.”(Because she is mighty irritated with me)

I somehow fumble through, my ego/pride kicks in its self-preservation mechanism and I manage to deliver the answer. I am not perfect, but perfection in a chemistry problem is hardly what I am aiming for right now. Not with the prospect of forty blissful minutes of freedom looming in front of me.

8.35 am

*runs from the classroom looking like someone fleeing a burning house or running an Olympic race*

I hope I have managed to catch the moments succinctly enough. I believe some explanation is due.

We always had two PE/PT periods a week. While we squandered all our PE period in eleventh by ambling about aimlessly and gossiping, we craved for it in class 12 with all the fervor of a thirsty man searching for water to quench his thirst. Wednesdays and Fridays always, without fail had full attendance along with the added presence of a football or two. The class divided itself into two sections- the one that played football (which was all-guy) and the one that played basketball (a mixed crowd). I belonged, as is obvious, to the basketball crowd and was probably one of the rowdiest players in the gang.

After playing  a few games in class 11, all my classmates hit upon a startling conclusion- we all played basketball with skill and more importantly, with abandon. And what was more, however you split us into two teams, the two sides were always evenly matched. After this collective realization, basketball was agreed upon by an unwritten law as the game of Class 12-D.

Basketball was panacea. It was forty minutes of wild unfettered joy; of a release of worry, tension; of a display of come-on-I-can-do-it aggression; of name calling and hair snatching; of playing the game in a manner even cavemen shy at. Technically, the game we played was not fundamentally basketball-it was a hybrid of basketball, rugby and kabbadi.All the rules just went out of the window and it was just us 14 or so people and a red colored ball between two baskets. And why did we cling to the game so? Or at least, as I can only speak for myself, why did I cling to the game so? Apart from the aforementioned reasons-basketball implied freedom. Freedom from the worry of your board exams, freedom from the worry of ever mounting schoolwork, freedom from societal pressures to perform well (we’re all Asian), freedom from anxiety about getting into a college and freedom most of all from the insides of your own head. And why do I say that? As anyone who has gone through the rigorous grind of CBSE class 12 will tell you- a twelfthie’s mind is just obsessed with three things – school, tuition/coaching, performance. While there are glaring exceptions to the rule (I am NOT one of them), all our minds were forever filled with the putrid stench of “What can I do to score better?” and “What can I do to get into a decent college?”Some of my friends/acquaintances didn’t show this much on their features but somehow they always ended up being the most expressive ones in a feisty basketball game.

There were three categories of players (or so I like to classify them):-

1.       Players- the ones who can really play well, and can give the school team a run for their money. Though their motivations to play basketball were the same as mine, some of the reasons overlapped with control issues- while you couldn’t control your grades or your college applications from careening wildly into the dust heap, you could control that red ball and all the people waiting around it like hungry dogs. You could shoot extremely well and emerge winner. For such people, the game implied two words-“predictability” and “control”

2.       Screamers-People who didn’t know to play much, but they usually captained teams because of the high decibels their voices could achieve. They didn’t get possession of the ball as long as they would’ve liked to, but they sure as hell got the onlookers’ attention. Screaming manifested itself in three ways- they either yelled at their teammates for being incompetent nitwits or screeched their lungs out at the one who currently held possession of the ball-usually giving them advice as to where the ball’s next destination might be(usually “Pass kar. Main free hoon.”)- or they swore like sailors at the opposite teams.(If an opponent team member did something intergalactically foolish-like passing the ball to someone from the other team- the screamers usually showered such walking models of ignominy with “I love you”)

3.       Hangers-on- Don’t let the name fool you. These people were THE most important members of the game. Hangers-on are never great players; truth be told, they suck big time. But, they are the stabilizing glue that prevents the team from exploding like a supernova because of its own brilliance and aggression. Usually, these people don’t care much for the game and are never too driven to win it. They are just there to enjoy themselves because it is a free period and good humouredly take part in whatever foolhardiness their more tempestuous teammates may plan. They observe the other categories of players with mild interest and amusement-akin to someone watching kittens play with a ball of wool. They never take the game developments seriously and observe violent arguments from the background with a smirk.

Evidently, I recognize myself chiefly with the first two types.

And now the game itself.

Time was precious, ticking by mercilessly so we had to make optimum use of it, usually by cutting ten minutes of the next period. Games often devolved into Gladiator matches, complete with a bloodhound crowd hungry for battle. People would fall, bruise their knees, twist their ankles or tear a tendon but the game wouldn’t stop. Super obsessed people like me never even noted when a warrior fell, marching on grimly, throwing in a few choice swear words to the entire opponent team. Name calling was a given. I am not ashamed to say that I have sworn like a fishwife at some of my best friends in the heat of the game- an official amnesty would be issued at the end of it- no hard feelings. Sometimes, the two teams would polarize into a twisted version of the jaded “boys vs. girls”-we won, no doubt. And then there was the “yeh mera boyfriend, chhodo isse” conundrum.Which I would LOVE to explain here.

To put it succinctly, whenever anyone gained possession of the ball and someone else tried to snatch it, said possessor of ball would hug the ball to their chest and bend-hence cutting off all access to it. Sometimes, a tug of war would ensue-so virulently violent that best mates would turn into snarling adversaries. At times like these, I used to dance around the involved parties and sing (in a faux girly, high pitched voice even KJo doesn’t make his actors use)”Chhodo isse, yeh mera boyfriend hai.Nahhiin, yeh mera hai.”(Leave him alone, he’s my boyfriend; no, no he is mine)

Aah, the fun I’ve had in this lifetime.

If the footballers ever came to play with us, they would usually be appalled that you are not “double dribble” or that the court was so teensy small that two passes and one shot at the basket meant score. Or they would do something super silly as dribble the ball standing outside the court-ten voices would scream “Foul”.

And the one last and personal favorite, dimension was Foul. Or rather the perpetrating of an unlawful act on a basketball court. Usually involved tripping, violent snatching (this has left gash marks on the arms of many of us), or shoulder pushing. At any such incident, one loud bellow would issue forth from the mouths of the team members, “Foul”. Usually involved parties would fake their injuries a bit longer to get the ball to return to favorable hands.

We all lost all sense whatsoever of propriety and sometimes clothes were torn (I am thinking of one memorable occasion here). We went at each other like madmen (and I don’t mean that positively or sexually) and emerged with disheveled hair, sprains or injuries, uniforms that dripped with sweat. We also usually smelled real bad- but now I like to think that there were tones in our malodor-tones of victory, tones of achievement, tones of defeat, tones of anger, tones of aggression, tones of hurt, tones of determination, but most importantly of all-tones of freedom.

So after my lengthy recollection that is sure as hell not going to fade with time- I am so glad my grandchildren will know the things I did as a teen-because this is written here. After this exercise, I have realized that happy memories are written in indelible ink, they will never fade with time. And why is that? Because every time you think of a moment of such wild, giddy happiness-details don’t matter; what matters is the rush of warmth in you, that tingling in your toes, the whale-sized butterflies in your tummy and most importantly of all, that grin you sport on your face. See, that very one that you are smiling right now.

The Land of Self Entitlement Beckons

Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street; fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening. - Coco Chanel

The Land of Self Entitlement beckons

Dear reader,

Since this blog just reads as if someone has been interrogating me very thoroughly about my life and I go on a confession spree along with said interrogation, I feel no shame or shyness whatsoever in confessing to one more rather grievous fault of mine. I can sometimes behave like the love child of a gross philistine and an attention deficient individual.

Let me back up a little bit.

I have some explanation due here. This blog post will deal mostly with modern notions of beauty, taste and discernment. It all started with Carrie Bradshaw and her Prada.

I watched Sex and The City (the movie) in class nine. Since I had not seen the sitcom itself, I rapidly arrived at the conclusion that the SATC franchise was more about the clothes that the four friends were bedecked in and not as much about what happened when they disrobed (euphemistically speaking). I still remember the first dress Sarah Jessica Parker wears in the movie- it is a white one shoulder deal with golden detailing. Like any impressionable teenage girl, I felt awed, impressed and taken in by the extravagance of the clothing, the shoes and the millinery. They just looked so perfectly turned even when they were, say, cooking and I just looked down at what I was wearing- my father’s old T-shirt and a pair of shorts. My hair was in a messy knot, and while fashionistas around the world will swear by the sexiness of the “messy knot”, I am still of the opinion that it is wildly overrated. And then my heart set its aim on looking as perfect as those four girls did. I familiarized myself with fashion, haute couture. Watching The Devil Wears Prada was my rite of passage-I started there and will recommend it to anyone who wants a good footing on the latest fashion terms/labels/designers(and also to understand what the fashion industry is really about).I read blogs and websites I swore I‘d never read. I watched all those TLC shows about who wore what underwear, I mean gown, to which event and the works. Talking about Coco Chanel, lusting after Louboutins, loving Sabyasachi’s work and quoting Tim Gunn became second nature to me. I knew my Shu Uemura as more than just a tongue twister.

                Suffice to say, that yes, GR lost her head again (a bit) and craved a wardrobe full of luxury brands. She watched SATC 2 and she was certain she would give a limb to walk down Madison Avenue in her Jimmy Choo’s. Of course, this version of GR completely chose to overlook the fact that the only one who could tell that the shoes were Choo was herself because, you see, unlike the rather conspicuous red soles of Louboutins or the V’s of Versace, Choo, very humbly, only printed his name on the insole. (I would also be the only one to see the rather hefty price of said shoe printed on my credit card statement)

                I was not alone in this swamp. I had many other friends of mine who kept a close eye on the rather capricious fashion industry. One day tube dresses would be in, the next day they would be out. You would wake up and read X fashionista trash the dressing sense/styling of Y actor/celebutante because the latter had been found wearing a, oh I don’t know, leopard print. I once heard about this Delhi teenager, who was invited, (did you hear me? I.N.V.I.T.E.D.)  To the NY Fashion Week to “review” the couture on display. (If she is reading this, hats off to you ma’am) Consequently, I was jealous.

But my current disillusionment with all things fashion stemmed from a rather eye-opening, thought-provoking visit to the DLF Emporio. Initially, I was drooling a bit at the prospect of going to DLFE. (For purposes of simplicity)- I pulled up the “Stores by Brand” list on the website and was round eyed at the roster. Too many of my fantasies packed into two floors in a building. And the price, well, people did say a lot about the obscenely over priced commodities these stores sold; but they couldn’t be serious could they? Sure, it would be slightly costly but not exorbitantly so. Or so I hoped.

Entering the place had the equivalent effect of entering the Pearly Gates. I stared unabashedly and tried to keep my cool at the same time. Versace? Poof, no big deal. Dior? Tut tut. Tom Ford? Hmm, this guy has brains. (You get the drift.)

Which was when I entered the Salvatore Ferrogamo store.

Please allow me to take a moment and make noises only dolphins can hear. Because Ferrogamo? I dig this shit ok?

I will not go into many details about what we bought – I will just state that it was certainly not for me, but my dad. (He is the one who earns after all)The store itself had an ethereal, other-worldly quality about it- plush sofas where the elite clientele were waited upon by a horde of suits; beautifully hand crafted shoes resting elegantly on the glass panels, each looking more delicate than the next. Even sworn enemies of fashion would be ogling in that store. Me? I was a total goner. Which was when a Jap (I think he was a Jap; if he was not, I apologize to you, sir) picked up a garden variety satchel-the kinds you can get anywhere- and said “I want this.”Mind you, said Jap did not look anything like a potential customer- he wore loafers, a striped T shirt and corduroys. The bird of prey, I mean, the store attendant, leapt to his side and looked at the price tag. “That’ll be a 75, sir. Thousand. Seventy five thousand.” If I were him, I would have had a seizure, grabbed my wallet and my bank savings and ran the fuck out of the store. As is obvious, he did nothing of the sort. He coolly nodded to the proprietor and wandered off to check the shoe section out. I just sat there, surreptitiously checking the price tags of each shoe I picked up. I will swear on Ferrogamo’s sculpted heels (May he rest in peace) that there was nothing in the entire store that cost less than 20k.

On further observation of the customers, I noticed a trend. All the people brave enough to bet their wallets were either businessmen or bored housewives. If you heard the door to the store open and heard clack-clack-clack-clack or were assailed by the smell of expensive perfume, you could be dead sure that the patron was a housewife from the Land of Self Entitlement.

                Next store- Emporio Armani. AKA GR’s first heart attack.

                The store attendant looked like a model himself and he had a thinner waist than mine. While sire hunted for trousers, I wandered into the women’s section, noting the LBD’s, the weird see through hats, the printed T-shirts and one rather wacky dress (it carried the subtle tones of human vomit mixed with a mint ice cream green) (sorry if I violently disturbed your palates).And then I noticed a rather pretty pair of trousers which captured my imagination. Dutifully, I asked for and tried on my size. Although the style and cut of the trouser itself were unmatched, it had three rather big problems about it-a) the color was positively fecal. b) The material was so thin that I could punch a hole through it. c) It cost 22k.

Clearly, the said pair of trousers and I were not a match made in heaven. I kept them back on the rack, offering an excuse about them “not being my type” (when not one minute thirty seconds ago I had been salivating at them) and marched my bruised butt out of the store. Not my type at all.

                Third stop- Tom Ford.

                Declaration here- I LOVE Tom Ford. He is one designer who actually makes sense to me, his artistic vision speaks to me and I can actually appreciate his work every time. Not to mention, he made my favorite movie till date. So, he was a rather obvious choice for men’s tailoring but to my utter and endless bafflement-that outlet did not stock anything wearable whatsoever. All it had were a couple of fancy suits hanging, which I can bet you, will not look good even on someone like Clooney, let alone a couple of Indians with fat pockets. Pink suits, checked blue shirts (the type even college guys don’t wear) were on display.

All my inner fashionista said, or rather screamed was, “Are you kidding me? This is a downright DISGRACE to Tom Ford.”

So we left without further ado.

                As we ambled about in the big bad mall, I saw all the labels I had always wanted to see- Fendi, Louis Vuitton,Louboutin, Dior,Burberry, Zegna, Rohit Bal, Shantanu and Nikhil etc.And I was almost bowled over by the sheer amount of useless merchandise there was on display. Most of the shops dealt only in shoes and bags; everywhere you turned bags glared down at you haughtily or dainty footwear begged for redemption. (Important side note- I LOVE FOOTWEAR) If their numbers, designs, and quantities were anything to be believed, all the Richie Rich’s of Delhi should be strutting around naked with only a Fendi baguette and some Louboutin heels clothing their person.

As is my wont, that lengthy tale had a moral. Luxury brands are luxurious but somewhere they also cross the line and jump into the “conspicuous consumption” tag. While I would happily plonk down a month’s salary to buy myself a pair of branded shoes, I will not do so for general apparel per se. I also beg for mercy from the fashion gods above when I say this but luxury brands do not necessarily mean value for money. While Penelope Cruz might be able to casually throw in the phrases “Armani Prive”, “wearing my friends” in a red carpet interview, it is not likely that most of us can do the same. What is more, she is probably requested, even hounded, by the labels to wear their clothing and hence market said brands in an international arena- we are not. (At least, I hope, only as of now).

Or maybe DLF Emporio in India was not the best place for my initiation into the Big Spenders’/Nouveau Rich club. It was just a bit too gaudy for my tastes (I swear I went blind with bling when I entered the Louboutin store)

Some part of me still wants to own that dream wardrobe, but having seen other people dress much better at a much(much) lower cost dissuades me. I guess there is also the consideration of how well you carry yourself- an Armani can only go so far in making you look good. The rest is up to you. Or as Chanel, once again, said-“Elegance does not consist in putting on a new dress”.

Life As A Series of Phases

“Everybody’s youth is dream, a form of chemical madness”-F. Scott Fitzgerald

Life as a series of phases

Urban dictionary describes a fangirl as “A rabid breed of human female who is obsessed either with a fictional character or an actor”

While most others will vehemently deny all such accusations of being “rabid” and instead self righteously uphold their honor (know that whoever does this is actually more rabid as a fangirl species than anyone else; it’s just the age old defense mechanism that our ancestors equipped us with), I will in fact almost violently agree with this definition. Now I know as I say this, my credibility is probably going out the window but all current and future acquaintances of mine should be well acquainted with a rather obsessed side of my personality.

A while back, when lunching with a few friends, I hit upon something which might well be classified as a revelation- my entire teen life can be summed up as a series of phases. Now the Urban Dictionary does not define “phase”, so I will attempt to define it satisfactorily. A phase is a “period of intense and heightened obsession experienced by a member of the female species that stems from either admiration or attraction to a certain unattainable member of the male species; the duration of the period differs from person to person and the strength of the obsession varies as such too.”

(I hope I have done the word some justice. Fellow fangirls please feel free to agree or contest)

All my life up until ninth grade I had known one true love- Feluda. He and I were introduced by a friend at a library (I am forever thankful to her) and he meant the world to me. We were together for three years. Romeo and Juliet were mockeries compared to what we had. We solved crimes together and slept in the same bed. I was a good partner to him- I learnt a smattering of Bengali and knew Calcutta inside out in spite of never having been there. I asked Topshe to teach me everything he knew about one Felu Mitter.

Stop right there.

Feluda is fictitious. He is just a figment of Satyajit Ray’s rather fertile imagination. One that I chose to adopt and live with. I watched the Felu movies in spite of not knowing anything but basic Bengali and I still have my first copy of a Feluda Adventure- it was Royal Bengal Mystery. As I open it right now I can read my scrawl “I love reading Feluda.”We lived happily ever after.

And then things went and screwed themselves up a bit.

So, class ninth, it all began with the Jonas Brothers. We listened to all their songs (or whatever three-minute-long wailings they produce; oops that sounds wrong), memorized all their lyrics and sang them between classes. We actually had sheets of lyrics lying around in our desks and we would frequently refer to them when singing (rather off key; not a pleasant sound, but to be fair to us, we sounded a damn sight better than the originals), reprimanding each other when we sung it wrong. We had Jonas Brothers screensavers and we seldom talked about anything else. I believe we all had subconsciously decide to kidnap and wed Nick (is that the guy’s name? or was it Dick? Wait, I need Wikipedia) and had more or less decided that the Jonas Brothers were the Next Big Thing after the BSB (as if). We hounded the copies of the Disney magazine for any article about the three.

It sounded a bit like this:-

“Oh my God, he likes blue. I like blue too. Oh, wait, he is a Virgo. That’s a perfect match for me. We should totally get hitched.”

What can I say? I was young and that was just the way I rolled.

Class ten. I scarcely have to refresh my memory to know what my obsession was back then. It was a twin mix of Linda Goodman and the elitist MUN crowd my school produces in hordes every year.

So Linda happened to me pretty much the way she happened to everyone. One dog eared copy of Sun Signs was passed around the classroom and we all hid it in our desks and read it in Geography class. It usually went this way- you read your own “How to identify a blah”, then you read “A blah woman/man” and then you read the “Blah woman/man “for whichever sign you liked (or the sign of whichever person you liked) and then you generally basked in the afterglow of the process- it was positively lovely to have someone praise you endlessly (she puts it in such a way that even your faults sound like applause). Sometimes it became a communal activity- you sat down together and a certain someone would read the “How to” of a certain other-one. And then the nudge-nudge-wink-wink process started. Conversations would sound like,” Do you know that Taurean is Section C?” or the prelude to a friendship usually carried the statement “When were you born?” and some super wonky analysis would ensue.

A bit of advice to my younger/more delusional readers- Sun Signs are totally bullcrap.Now I can feel Linda Goodman rolling in her grave, baring her horns in a very Arian manner-but honestly, from the bottom of my heart, do not believe in it.

As always there is a little tale behind my current disillusionment, which I would LOVE to recount here.

I am born on January the Fourth, a birth date I share with Newton. I always had this weird fascination for Sun Signs that someone could actually tell how I was as a person by knowing just my birthday. On my first reading of “How to Identify a Capricorn”, I practically screamed and flailed with delight-this was just SO me! And someone read “Capricorn Woman” to me. You’ll be interested to know that even though I found not-so-many-things in common between me and this mythic creature described, I was almost ready to bend backwards to match those descriptions. I was a January born, yes? I had to behave like a Capricorn woman. So, I pushed down that tendril of thought in my brain, the one that was screaming “This is nothing like you!”I pranced around, giddily happy like a unicorn, that four pages described ME so well. My BFF politely tried to nudge me away, but I was more than happy to ignore her advice and plunge into the happy world of a Capricorn woman.

Ladies and gents, you have the Biggest Idiot of All Times-Me.

I also berated and begrudged anyone else who was born in January because they were just not Goat-y enough. Don’t you see? I am THE epitome of everything Capricorn ever produced. Learn from me, you weaklings! And make your sun sign proud.

Finally, it dawned on me when I deigned to read the “Sagittarian Woman” section. (I f you have read it, it is a pretty accurate description of some parts of me)And then I read all the “Woman” sections. My conclusion, earth shattering as it was – I had a bit of all of them in me.

So this is my bottom line about the subject- your personality is not a three page document to be handed out. Sun Signs are not accurate because they are affected by a dizzying array of variables. It is rather better to be defined as yourself than as a fanciful description in a book. No offense, Linda Goodman.

On a side note, all those fellow Capricorns I had berated? Turns out, on closer inspection, that they were more Goat-y than I ever will be in this lifetime. Go, figure.

The second, rather more intense phase was the MUN phase. I choose not to talk much about this because that would require names and references and other things I am not happy divulging. Suffice to say, it was heaven when it lasted, and yes I had people’s names scribbled on my desks and I pretty much drove a friend of mine up the wall with my repeated chanting of two acronyms.

(All those who get it, do me a favor and shut it, yeah?)

As the end of class ten drew nearer, my hyper active brain found a new obsession-Ugly Betty. Actually, the object of admiration was her boyfriend, the scatter-brained Matt Hartley played by a gorgeous Daniel Eric Gold.(He looks  a bit like Josh Groban)I spent more time looking up “Ugly Betty Season 4 Episode 1: The Butterfly Effect” than studying Polynomials. My repeated references did not buy me any favors with my friends and they actually took to stuffing their ears at one point the minute I said “Dan”.

Come class eleven. I faced the Big Daddy of my problems- as has already been recounted in an earlier post.

But the most memorable thing about class 11 shall always be Gordon Ramsay. I owe this man my sanity. I have no clue at this point, why I chose to Google “Gordon Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares” one fine day, but I am glad I did. Gordon, if you have seen him in the KN UK versions (and don’t tell me you know him because of the Masterchef USA version-that’s not him him), is a pugnacious foul mouthed chef with a reputation of saying the f-word too often. But he does it so adorably, and he is so genuinely concerned with a total stranger’s welfare that you are too often charmed into liking him. I mean, he is a 12 Michelin Star guy; he does not need to go to some small restaurant in Wales or Inverness and take shit from the busboy. But he does. I watched Boiling Point I think, the show about his quest to get the Third Michelin Star which is notoriously hard to get and I was almost blown away by his perfection. He would have quality and nothing else and if he had to stay up all night, or miss the delivery of his twins, so be it. Yes, at times, he is almost hogging the spotlight and he is more obnoxious than a bagful of Kim Kardashians but the man is such a force of nature. His personality is almost tempestuous; he seems very concerned yet untouched, he is hot blooded himself yet he can be a total sweetheart to some 50 year old lady trying to run a tapas bar. With him it’s always sunny one moment and rainy the next. I respected him for who he was, and who he has become today. Most people might not agree in my opinion, but they need to dig deeper.

But Gordon Ramsay was not just another guy in my lineup of lookers. He belonged to what I like to call “The Character Guys”- people I admire for who they are/were. The list consists of Gordon, Bruce Lee, Lance Armstrong, George Mallory, Edmund Hillary and Stephen Hawking. (More about these guys later)

Twelfth Grade. Ooh, I already see people’s hand shooting into the air to guess my obsession. But.

But, I liked Colin Firth in June, Glee in August and Jude Law in November, before he came. (Boy, do I multitask)

Colin Firth- I have known the guy from like, the sixth grade when I saw the BBC’s adaptation of Pride and Prejudice (The Lake Scene, anyone?) and he was my Darcy. He always will be. And once again, I don’t know what kicked off the obsession, but I just found myself watching and reading Bridget Jones’s Diary (very hilarious, a must read) and then came A Single Man. A beautiful movie, with very subtle and nuanced acting, the way only Colin can. A full review to this movie will be posted later.

Glee- I livestreamed Season 4 and rehearsed singing Poker Face in my bedroom. The obsession started after I heard The Warblers’ rendition of Teenage Dream. There was literally no looking back. I had a dance routine to every song, I was so ready to burst into song at any given moment of the day (with an appropriate song choice) and I practiced my trills every afternoon. My playlist was entirely Glee and I seldom thought of anything else. I might still be a bit in love with this series. They are just so superbly over-the-top mawkish and emotional, and they always have the perfect song to sing. And it also probably is the only sitcom where a girl gets pregnant in her junior year, becomes an addict in her senior year, then breaks her legs in a car accident but manages to make it to Yale. And you thought I multitasked.

Jude Law- I was watching that movie about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that Jude was in with Downey Jr.Some fascination and minor drooling ensued. But I really didn’t find any movie of his which I liked liked. I liked Jude in them for sure, but that’s it. However, there was one interview with John Lipton (of Inside the Actors’ Studio fame) in which he was his usual charmingly bashful self and he was so bloody well read. He talked about Gerhard Richter and Greek Literature and other brainy things. So, yeah, I was a bit of a goner there.

But then he came.

He being Sherlock. Not Sherlock Holmes. Just Sherlock. The one with the cheekbones and the curly hair, the one who used nicotine patches and hated deerstalkers, the one who twirled around in his Great Big Coat and addressed Watson as John.(more like a drawl/moan). Played again by the undeniably handsome Benedict Cumberbatch.

I didn’t merely fall in love. I plunged, plummeted and ricocheted into the arms of a fictional detective much like a swooning Regency heroine. I had read the Sherlock Holmes novels in class eight and well, yes I had liked the guy. And forgotten him. This time he was back, here to stay.

So some confession here- I do not like like Benedict, even though I might give the impression. There’s that small voice in my head that always says”Not my type”. I tried to tamp it down but nowadays I can’t ignore it. So I settle for mooning about Sherlock. And John. I am in the Sherlock fandom where we do some VERY silly things and I live vicariously through S & J.Because of my obsessive fangirling, I have made a ton of friends online, who, for a change, don’t mind me going on about how awesome a certain consulting detective and his ex-army doctor partner(Partner? I meant Colleague)are.I dearly wish I had found such an online fan community for the rest of my obsessions too.At least then I wouldn’t have had to lose face with my friends and/or the general public.

So, that long winded parable was to answer a simple question-why do I do this? Why do I put myself through this boom, recession and depression cycle?

One simple answer might be that it is inevitable. I am a teenager, experiencing Wild Wild West (also known as teenage).My attention deficient brain latches on to the first shiny thing that walks my way.

I couldn’t disagree more. My fangirling is not the result of my hormones going haywire- although that may be where it all started. Those who have witnessed my “phases” know the kind of deep attachment, almost soul bond, which I nurse in my heart while it lasts. I plunge headlong into a certain thing, become so emotionally invested in it that I sometimes can barely recognize myself and it either fades way when I can give it no more or I get severely disillusioned about the Object of Affection, breaking my heart in the process. Sometimes, my own fangirling intensity astonishes me. I envy all those calm, placid people who remain untouched by anything. Yes, they also like people but they don’t end up as the hot mess that I become.

Truth be told, I need to be distracted. I need to have something to obsess and fixate over so that I stop whining about life in general. I also cannot deny how pleasant it sometimes is to have all your attention focused on something outside of you. It feels good to know that Kurt and Blaine are finally together after dancing around for so long or that Sherlock is really not dead. Or that Benedict is single now. Or that Gatiss is currently writing Series 3. (Yay!)I could go on.

Bottom line- fangirling keeps me happy. Yes, I might feel slightly (very) stupid at the end of the day knowing that the one thing that I am an expert at does not really exist or just doesn’t care. But there’s always that comfort blanket of knowing you’re not alone. Frankly, I am of the opinion that you can do anything that makes you happy as long as it is legal, does not get you knocked up and doesn’t harm anyone.

I have done a lot of things I am not proud of. Losing my head is on the top of the list. But fangirling? It’s on the List of Things I’ll Always Want In My Life.

On with the fangirling, then.

A Single Man- Movie Analysis

Why A Single Man is my favourite movie of all time

Dear reader,

I have since long wanted to talk about this movie to someone, anyone who had seen it. Having not found any such individual I now proceed to release this piece into the ether.

For the sake of those who haven’t seen the movie, A Single Man is the story of this depressed gay professor (played brilliantly by Colin Firth who got an Academy nomination for the same) who after losing his partner of 16 years has no will to live. He sees no future for himself and just mechanically “gets through the goddamned day” as he puts it. One morning he decides to close all accounts (financial and emotional), live a perfect day and kill himself at the end of it. The movie follows him through that one day.

I watched it about a year ago and I found myself sobbing quite hard at the end. Not the wailing sob mind you, the quiet why-did-it-happen-to-the-poor-guy sob. A deep sort of emotional bond.

Now I don’t do emotions very well. I don’t respond with tears to everything I see, hear or watch. Yes I do tear up a bit at things involving me but I have never quite felt the way I did. I still don’t have words to describe what I felt.

I have shown it to my mother since who consented after a lot of pleading on my part. She did not have the same reaction to it as I did. I don’t know why. Maybe I over-reacted that day. Maybe it was because I was having a Colin Firth phase that I loved it so much. Maybe I am just over-rating it a bit. But I can just not deny that every time I watch this movie, I am moved. I may not cry as much as I did the first time but still it is pretty overwhelming.

And now what I really liked in the film.

What follows may well be a debate on authorial intent versus viewer’s response. I had known Tom Ford strictly as a designer prior to watching the film and knew nothing about the guy. It was his directorial debut after all. But somehow I read layers and layers of meaning into each scene every time I watch the movie. It’s a bit like reading a book again and again, you always find something new about the characters or the plot points or the dialogue. I like to think Tom Ford also interpreted the scenes in his head the way I do them.

The first thing-Colour.

The movie employs colour as an important way of communicating emotions to us. Everything involving George, present day, is muted –usually pastels or brown or black or gray. This conveys to me at least the fact that he is morbid. Depression is a very easy thing to write about and describe. However, communicating it to a viewing audience is really hard. Imagine for one second how you would do it if you were the director. You can’t make the guy sob all the time; you can rely on the actor’s capabilities only up to a certain extent. Ford found a way out of the conundrum. Everything George “sees” in the manner of really absorbing what he sees is in heightened colour. The colour of the rose he smells, the colour of his secretary’s eyes, the colour of a student’s hair, the colour of the hooker’s lips. For the first time in a long while, he is actually taking in his surroundings without blundering blindly throughout the day. Each memory /flashback he has of Jim and himself is heightened in colour as if those memories will never fade with time.

The second element- Music.

The music for this film has been provided by Abel Korzeniowski (Additional music byShigeru Umebayashi). The harmonies in the background are mostly intricate violin passages. But they always convey the mood of the setting. It has been said that violin is the instrument that is closest to the human voice. This movie employs that fact to the best benefit. The melody makes you feel euphoric, excited, depressed and content, a series of cascading emotions that are very intrinsic to the movie-watching experience.

The third element- Imagery.

The film itself is interspersed with brief clips of a man in water, sinking, flailing,  and unable to get out despite his efforts. This man is metaphorical of George, in his own pool of darkness and sadness, suspended and sinking in his own grief. Towards the end however as George makes peace with himself and his life, the sinking man now rises to the surface.

Apart from this, there is an overall tone of perfection belying imperfection in the film. George is perfect for the outsider but far from it on the inside. His friend Charley is stunning in her beauty and her house could be right out of those home magazines, but deep inside she too is broken ,and alone, forever hoping George will be hers o e day. George’s neighbours themselves look like the perfect family but even they have their own imperfections.

Even the perfection of Carlos’s (the hooker’s) physical form belies the vulgar nature of his trade. But then like Carlos says “Even awful things have beauty of their own.”

The fourth element-Silence.

The movie explores silence as an entity in itself. As Firth put it in one interview “Silence can be serene, beautiful and beatific or it can be suffocating and crushing.” There is silence in companionship, the way George and Jim spend their evenings just reading sitting next to each other. That silence is desirable, it is cosy, and it is wrapped in the knowledge of someone being there in it with you. But every morning after Jim’s passing, George experiences a stifling silence, one that strangles him in the knowledge of being alone in this world.

The Fifth element-Colin Firth, or rather his acting.

Now I reserved this for the last because I don’t want anyone to think that I liked the movie because he was in it. I respect him as an actor and have frankly hated some other movies he has done. But he was transcendent in A Single Man (hello, academy award nomination). The movie would have sunk without a trace had it not been for his marvellous portrayal of George Falconer in the movie. I have never experienced grief of that kind in my life (and God forbid don’t) but something made me connect with George and cry. I won’t lie about it. This was some real good acting I saw and I am not one to be taken in easily.

A beautiful movie, with beautiful people in it and a beautifully heart-wrenching story. There was something in it which reminded me of Khaled Hosseini’s writing in it.

I am done with my raving. On with life now.

Normal Shopper? What is that? A disease?

5 Telltale Signs that you are A Normal Shopper

• ·         When you are browsing through the store and all of a sudden a certain item of clothing/footwear/millinery/whatever- the- hell- the- shop- is- selling jumps out at you and screams “PLEASE! Buy me. You and I were meant for each other. Make me yours. You have no idea how hard it is hanging on this mannequin/sitting on this rack waiting; knowing that you’re out there searching for me”. And you go “Yeah. Ok. Whatever.”
• ·         When you pick up a previously unimpressive article, stare at it for a long time or stare at yourself in the mirror holding the damn thing in front of you like armor, tilt your head and go “You know what? I think I am in love. You might be just the thing I have been looking for. I will make you mine.”And the said article(in your head) says “Yeah. Ok. Whatever”
• ·         When you walk into a store with a determined expression, your mouth set in a grim line and head straight for that rack and that hanger, expecting to find something that you thought would be there, knew would be there but find something utterly blindingly hideous instead. Fact is, you only hoped for said article to be present there.
• ·         When you look at something, pick it up and cradle it in your arms, breathe in its scent and hug it to your chest and know for certain that fate has united you two. This rosy picture lasts till your parent/chaperone/friend asks you to look at the price tag. You squelch that tendril of the “affordability” doubt in your head and confidently turn the price tag around and find yourself holding something possibly costlier than the Kohinoor diamond. You turn pale and wide eyed, shake your head like you have just found out that French fries are actually made of cowdung and put said article back to where it was before you happened to it. You walk away like a fallen warrior.
• ·         When you know you have done the right thing deep down into the very core of your heart and have left no stone unturned in your quest to make object of untold passion yours-you’ve found it, you’ve tried it on, you’ve double, no, triple checked the price tag and you are headed towards the cash counter; you squeal in delight and the sales assistants look happy and relieved and fulfilled at the same time-happy like they have just been gifted a month’s worth of Ferrero Rochers; relieved like they’ve just been told that they found the correct match for their blood transfusion and fulfilled like they have just found a cure to cancer.

Random but Frank Confessions

I usually never do this, but in light of recent events, and a general life-is-too-short feeling that is overwhelming me, I want it to be known that:-

• I have a pre-exam playlist-Yes, I listen to music when I am on my way to the exam centre. I also have a set playlist which consists of *drumroll*- Hit me Baby One More Time by Britney Spears, Glee's cover of Toxic (Spears again), Glee's version of What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger, When You're Gone by Bryan Adams and Set Fire to the Rain by Adele. Feel free to laugh.
• I have a favorite song-It's Lady Gaga's You and I. I can't, for the life of me, put a finger to why I like this song. Maybe it's the lyrics or maybe it's just Gaga basking in her-being-her ness.
• I have a pet project-The LGBTQ cause. Rainbows all the way. Expect a post on this soon.(And, no, I am not gay)
• This might be slightly irrelevant but I think Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is the most overrated movie in the history of cinema. It just has too much beauty and not enough brain or brawn. And Benedict looks HORRIBLE with that haircut.
• I find that I ALWAYS grin like an idiot at the computer screen when I am watching Sherlock. Yes, even when he is falling off a thirty-storey building and John is crying at his grave.

First Impressions

“Smooth seas do not make skillful sailors”-African Proverb

Dear reader,

I am writing this post because I had run out of ideas (on my very second blog post, can you believe that?) and in my confusion, I consulted someone very wise. This someone-very-wise suggested that I should write about the first time we met and about the year we met. Before your brain veers off into unchartered territories, let me put you out of your misery. There is nothing romantic whatsoever in what follows. Read on.

So I had studied classes Prep through fifth in a (then) small school called A.S.N. Some of you who belong to the high brow bourgeoisie might scoff at it and go “You were in that school?” wrinkling your nose. But I am grateful for what this school did for me. It held my hand through my toddler-hood, taught me good values, gave me endless opportunities, encouraged me to try my hand at everything and gave me some great Kodak moments. But, I think most importantly of all, it made me feel important. Wait. Let me rephrase that. The school and all its inhabitants made me feel revered. Made me feel like a somebody. And somehow I find today that wherever I go, I keep looking to be a somebody; somebody of relevance, somebody that matters.

But, all good times have to come to an end. My rosy streak with ASN concluded when I started feeling like I had grown a bit too big for my shoes. My parents also came to the same realization and in a highly calculated move worthy of the CIA, they put me in DPS Noida, an experience that I can safely vouch altered me for life. In good ways and bad.

I decided to go up to the school a few days before I actually sat in class as a student to get the feel of it and all. That day I remember with clarity- I wore a yellow dress and a happy grin. I was simply chuffed to be a part of this institution and couldn’t wait to get started off. It took me the better part of a half hour to locate my classroom in the great big school. So this is my classroom. For the wide eyed girl that was me then, all the kids looked different, more (for lack of a better word) polished somehow.(I was so bloody wrong)They all looked prim in their whites, poster kids for the typical pre-teenagers and they had that air around them. In what would be a fateful encounter, one girl confidently walked up to me and asked-“You are a newcomer? What was your percentage in the last class?”

My brow puckered. This wasn’t the reception I had anticipated. I mean I didn’t want any red carpets and ushers and Come-in-Your-Majesty’s. But a “Hi-My-Name-is-blah” would suffice. “I got an A+”, I answered, puffing my chest up to look bigger (I was 4 feet 9 inches then).But, two winged haloed saviors came and rescued me with their polite “Hi, Do you want me to write tomorrow’s timetable down for you?” and “You can ask me for my notes anytime. Anytime.” And their big flashy grins. Whew! Not a total disaster then.

I walked out feeling semi-confident. Yes, it was going to be hard. I just had to put my head down and get through this. Dog-eat-dog world, here I come.

                I learnt a few things quickly. First, I was not the only newcomer in my class. But I was the only one without a benefactor. Translation: I had no friend in the school. I had absolutely no one to take me through the winding corridors that confused me endlessly, no one to talk to during break, no one to lend me their notes, no one to walk with to the bus, no one to snigger with, no one to tell me that there existed a thing called Science Extra Class, no one to tell me which teacher to suck up to, which teacher to stay away from. I had to learn the ropes on my own and work out everything from scratch. In retrospect, it doesn’t seem as daunting now. I mean, what learning-the-ropes does an eleven year old have to do, right? But when you are an impressionable, shy, hyper-sensitive eleven year old, who has been surrounded with tender loving care all her life, especially when you are me, it can seem like scaling Everest without oxygen. Or trying to outlast Bruce Lee in a bare knuckle fight. Take your pick. I blundered through, meeting all the wrong kind of people initially (no offense, I mean wrong for me), feeling a crushing, almost devastating loneliness. The six hours of school were pure unadulterated torture, and I just couldn’t get anybody to like me enough to befriend me in the real sense of the word. No one to look forward to meeting every day. Everyone was an acquaintance, all conversation was fleeting and all the so-called brilliant kids were absolute tossers (in my opinion). People took pity on me. They saw my sad forlorn face and sometimes wandered over to chat before they absolutely had to run off to talk to someone else. Just when I would begin to warm up to the company, to the idea of someone being around and would start readjusting my mental horizons, they would vanish into thin air. Everyone hates being promised something only for it to be snatched away. I was passed around like a ragdoll; would somebody please be friends with me?  And , but of course, my ego was put on a size zero diet.

I looked at the other newcomers. Boy did I hate them. Especially the only other girl newcomer. I sized her up in the first Political Science class of the session. We had to share a book. As she shifted her humongous backpack, I eyed her. She had a prim expression on her face and she looked so much in control, it was almost painful to watch. As a rule, Pol. Science classes can be a big bore, especially when one is studying Private and Public Property, so one had to make conversation.

“This is so boring, isn’t it?” I whispered conspiratorially.

She looked at me like I was an insect. Then, turning back to the book she said-“I actually like civics a lot.”

An awkward silence fell. Awkward silences are called awkward for a certain reason.

I pursed my lips. Things weren’t going the way I had imagined. She wasn’t easing up her Miss-Prissy-Librarian act. I ceased and desisted from attempting any chatter at all. The book sat resolutely on the desk, yanked more to her side than mine, in such a way that I had to tilt my head to read from it. The lines had been drawn.

(The way I had imagined was that we would both bitch and rant about the odium that civics classes were and snigger at the teacher’s remarks and be best friends forever)

 Lucky dame that she was, her long time friend studied in the same section, was in the same house, was in the same bus and lived in the bloody same apartment complex. Could life get any rosier? I despised her. She didn’t have a wee bit of a problem adjusting; she knew about the Science Extra classes, she had someone to sit with in the bus every time they took us for a field trip, she had someone to accompany her to the canteen at recess, she didn’t have to find and write her own damn English play and she always seemed to have people around her. At that point of my heightened envy, I would have given an arm and leg to be her. Instead here I was, a lonely blip on a sand beach, coming home every day and crying and whining about how bad people were, complaining that I couldn’t understand what the math teacher was saying(Unbelievable now; me not get math?) and generally feeling like the world had chosen to turn its wrath and fury on me.

And here comes the second thing I learnt-Going from a world where you reign as Queen to a world where you are relegated to the position of a commoner can mean a massive blow to the ego. It takes long to acclimatize to the fact that you don’t matter anymore. I had absolutely Zilch clout at this school and I couldn’t wrap my head around that fact. Unless you answer every math problem correctly, put your hand up and recite the answer Hermione-style before anyone else can react, you were a nobody. (Either that, or you had to be Michael-Phelps-ish insanely talented at a sport or an extracurricular activity. I was, am, an ordinary average kid with no talent other than being able to consume a large quantity of ice cream at one go) Which suited me just fine. You want answers? You want my work to be done neatly before submission time and you want my brilliance to shine through in every word I spew out? Fine. Then, that’s what you’ll get. Nose to the grindstone. The “bow-down-bitches” moment was waiting to happen. I would be a somebody again. People would look at me as I walked down the corridor and recognize me instead of ignoring me like Mr. Cellophane, teachers would know me by name, and I would join those diabolical Science Extra Classes.

The third and finally the most important thing I learnt-I am a survivor. And I don’t say this out of any misplaced feelings of megalomania and/or narcissism. You know that Gandhi quote about whenever you despair, recall the face of the poorest bloke or something like that? These days, whenever I despair, I find myself looking for that eleven year old girl who refused to give up and surrender to being a meaningless blip. That girl who blazed a trail when everyone backed the winning horse. That girl who fought Bruce Lee in a bare knuckle fight and outlasted the bastard. That girl who went up the Hillary Step and conquered her personal Everest. I sometimes cannot believe that that girl was me. IS me. Every time I feel lost in the big bad world or am knocked off my equilibrium, I think of her. That young girl with the big smile and a yellow dress.

So much so that when my counselor asked me to chart a life graph during an essay writing exercise, this was the year I chose as a “peak” (Code for “awesome time”)

(I may or may not be sobbing a bit now, basking in the glory of being me)

As an aside, DPSN taught me one very valuable lesson very early on in life. Genius manifests itself in different ways. And not only through academia. You did not have to get straight A’s to be brilliant; you could also hold dozens of gold medals at swimming and be called brilliant. You could be that slob sitting in the corner backbench but let your brilliance shine through in the PT period when the class played basketball. You could be all thumbs at science and still be a great orator. Now, you might say that this sounds trite and obvious but back then, it wasn’t so obvious to me. I was just amazed at how much I underestimated the people around me just because they had a different skill set. Since then, I consciously make an effort to respect everyone for what they are. Everyone is born with a brilliant streak in them (or so I like to think) and two streaks are never the same. Just because someone can’t do what you can doesn’t mean they are a handicap worthy of scorn.

And in case you are wondering about that someone-very-wise, well, she is that other girl newcomer. She also happens to be my BFF. Funny how things always work out the way you want them to, even though it sometimes looks like they have a mind of their own.

 This phase of existing in limbo only lasted for two months. After the initially hiccup (also known as Mt. Everest), I settled in fairly well. We did have a blast that year with a wily English teacher who had a bodacious, ahem, something, ganging up against and sucking up to our Home Room in equal parts, studying the ring pattern in the trunk of a fallen tree, learning a certain dance form which, I now learn, is meant to be sexually suggestive(don’t look at me like that, our bloody dance teacher at school taught it to us), talking about the Solar System, learning about Mohenjo-Daro, being totally, utterly, blindingly clueless in computer practicals, making highly inappropriate jokes at each other’s expense(what can I say, I started young) and yes, haggling over a half mark. I finished the year happy and content, with friends to keep, memories to cherish and moments I’ll always want to relive.

That year of 2005 shall forever go down in history for being the year that Gayathri Raj conquered her inner demons. And also managed to fit in a wild roller coaster ride somewhere along the way.

PS-If you find yourself referenced in the above write-up with somewhat, ahem, negative connotations, it is only because I know you are wildly different now. In case you still object, let me know and some epic shit will go down.