Tatônnement

Turnabout is fair play

2009-06-23T21:35:00.004-05:00

French President Nicolas Sarkozy has spoken out strongly against the wearing of high-heeled shoes by fashionable women in France.

In a major policy speech, he said stiletto heels objectified them and undermined their dignity.

Mr Sarkozy also gave his backing to the establishment of a parliamentary commission to look at whether to ban the wearing of high-heeled shoes in public.

"That is not the idea that the French republic has of women's dignity.

"We cannot accept to have in our country women who are prisoners teetering precariously on pencil-thin points, fetishised for the male gaze, deprived of identity," Mr Sarkozy told a special session of parliament in Versailles.

"The stiletto heel is not a sign of style, it is a sign of subservience. It will not be welcome on the territory of the French republic," the French president said.

But he stressed that France "must not fight the wrong battle", saying that "these fashion choices must be respected as much as any other" in the country.

A group of a cross-party lawmakers is already calling for a special inquiry into whether women who wear high-heeled shoes is undermining French gender equality, the BBC's Emma Jane Kirby in Paris says.

The lawmakers also want to examine whether women who wear these shoes are doing so voluntarily or are being forced to sexualise themselves, our correspondent says.

Members of the French government have been divided over the issue.

The immigration minister, Eric Besson, has said a full ban will only "create tensions" while the junior minister for human rights, Rama Yade, said she would accept a ban if it was aimed at protecting women forced to wear high heels.

France's fashion designers have criticised the debate.

To raise the subject like this, via a parliamentary committee, is a way of stigmatising fashion and the fashionistas of France said Pierre Cardin, French Council of Haute Coutoure.

France is home to about fifty million fashion victims.

Original Article

CRIKIT!

2009-04-21T23:39:00.004-05:00

Headline that actually has nothing to do with Superman

2009-04-11T15:55:00.000-05:00

Clark call-up forces Kent rethink.

Are you a colossal dick?

2009-03-01T23:54:00.005-06:00

Ask yourself the following question.

You come across a man sitting on the street. His head is shaven, his face is adorned with an expression of detached serenity. His robes suggest austerity and righteousness. His body is in a posture of equilibrium, suggesting balance. The flames surrounding him suggest he is on fire. The stench suggests he probably doused himself in petrol before setting himself alight.

What do you do?

A) Keeping your wits about you, do a quick visual scan for a container of non-adulterated liquid, and splash him with it until the flames are doused. Then attempt to get him to a hospital as quickly as possible.
B) Scream "OHSHITOHSHITOHSHIT HE'S ON FIIIIIIIIIIIIRE! HALP!", and run around flapping your arms like a chicken about to be culled for carrying bird flu.
C) Stand still with your mouth agape. Keep stopping people to ask them "What's with THAT guy?"
D) Pull out a camera and click away.
E) Shoot him.

If you answered A), then you, sir, are definitely not a dick. Please report to the nearest recruiting office for the Salvation Army. We have much need of you.

If you answered B), then you're not so much a dick as an annoying twerp. Please stay indoors as much as possible.

If you answered C), then you are a dick. This is tempered by the fact that you're clearly an idiot, so its not so bad.

If you answered D), then you're a malicious dick. Please report to the nearest Indian news media office. There are some girls being molested we need you to film.

If you answered E), then you probably work for the Chinese government. You, sir, are a COLOSSAL DICK.

Thank you for taking this quiz. Please feel free to post this on Facebook, Twitter, Booger, or whatever you use to substitute for a real life.

Marijauana needs to be legalised

2009-02-24T13:57:00.002-06:00

Without it, there is no way in hell to understand this.

This told the story of how an evil god escaped death by falling backwards in time, while a mad monitor of a parallel world used this to pull the wool over his fifty-two colleagues' eyes in league with a vampiric protege, as heroes fought to save the world while time collapsed on itself, and was finally saved by heroic sacrifices, subatomic trans-reality bridges, subethereal mind machines, and consultation with alternate futuristic geniuses.

Yes.

To even grasp at the faint edges of this epic, this might help.

A sample:

There was once a being, I do not know if he even has a name, but above I call him the “Over-Monitor,” so let’s go with that. This being discovers the multiverse and sends a probe to explore the multiverse (the Monitor). However, the multiverse is a lot more complex (and quite a bit seductive) than he expected, and the probe was split into two equal and opposite probes, one good one evil, the Monitor and the Anti-Monitor.

After the death of the first Monitor and the defeat of the Anti-Monitor in Crisis, the Over-Monitor created a society of Monitors who lived in basically the ether of the multiverse. Their existence was discovered post Infinite Crisis.

The very first one sent by the Over-Monitor was called Dax Novu. There is some debate whether Dax is intended to be the Monitor of Crisis on Infinite Earths. I’m going with no, but it’s possible. Okay, so as this society of Monitors begins to grow, it slowly becomes apparent to Dax that the Monitors have an almost parasitic (one could call it vampiric) relationship with their respective worlds of the Multiverse. They sort of feed off of the stories of the worlds they monitor. They do not wish to believe him, so they shun him and imprison him “forever.” Before they do so, he leaves behind a thought-robot designed to defeat himself if he is ever freed, because he knows that cut off from society that he is going to go mad. Dax slowly descends into madness and becomes Mandrakk, a flat out evil jerk who wants to consume the universe.

Secretly, he gains a disciple named Ogama who bans Nix Uotan to Earth to clear the way for Mandrakk to escape.

The big reveal is that Nix is the son of Dax.

As for the first Monitor - he could be Dax, he could be just one half of the probe and long dead. I think Morrison leaves it intentionally vague.

On second thoughts, just pass me the bong, Mike.

Congratulations on your purchase of the Howrah Bridge

2009-02-15T21:57:00.000-06:00

Now that Slumdog Millionaire seems all set to replace Titanic as the least deserving winner of the Best Picture Oscar, America has lived up to its nickname of "Jesusland", by displaying an ability to forgive transgressions that the messiah himself would be proud of^[1].

Having lavished praise, awards, and money on a movie with atrocious acting, cringe-worthy dialogues, a plot that bends disbelief beyond its event horizon, characters with the depth of a chullu and a script more packed with cliches than the Virar fast during rush hour; white people have proved that colonial guilt makes better goggles than beer^[2].

Shortly after that, the first Bollywood movie to be released in the US by an American studio - Chandni Chowk To China - took Hollywood by storm. With borderline racist characters, brainless action, separated-Kumbh-mela twins and potatoes, it seems to be just the throwback to a more shameful time that Americans were craving. The movie is currently at number 13 on Rotten Tomatoes list of movies released in 2009, based on critical reception, with a healthy 46% positive rating.

Never one to let a trend pass by, Bollywood producers are lining up movies targeted at the most uncritical audience they have ever had^[3]. The first title to begin production is Yash Raj films' Akbari Lota^[4]. The plot details are hazy, but the title suggests that the movie will make references to India's medieval history (with the possibility of garish "period" costumes designed by Neeta Lulla), and will involve a macguffin that is commonplace in India, and is closely linked to human defecation; but completely unfamiliar to the paper-wiping world. The movie will star Amitabh Bacchan as an over-the-top Akbar, and Aamir Khan in a studiously underplayed role as a call-center worker with a hidden talent for riding elephants, and gentle bowel movements.

A sequel is already in the works, even before this surefire hit is completely. It is tentatively titled Jehangiri Anda: Son of Akbari Lota.

[1] - While it is certain that the great man would have forgiven the makers of the movie, his smile would have flickered a tad.

[2] - Its relative impact on unplanned pregnancies is yet to be measured, however.

[3] - Since India's literacy rate crossed 25%, that is.

[4] - With apologies to Annapurnanand Verma

Unforgivable curses

2009-01-25T00:58:00.002-06:00

I watched the delightful little The President is coming yesterday. I would strongly recommend it, unless you're the kind of person who doesn't laugh at politically incorrect jokes, in which case stop reading my blog.

But what I did notice, much to my surprise, was the frequency with which the word "fuck" was uttered. Also, "bitch", "bastard", "asshole", and the relatively mild "shit". Given that this was an Indian movie, I would have expected the censors to have a collective haemmorhage over the assault on fragile Indian sensibilities and the besmirching of culture. Instead the curses continued in a steady flow, and the total number of utterances would have put an R-rated Hollywood production in the shade. I offer my congratulations to the censor board from proving me wrong.

Interestingly, only one word was bleeped out in the entire movie. That word was... "Brahmin".

There's a piece in there somewhere, I just don't know what it is.

The revenge of maus

2008-12-20T15:30:00.001-06:00

Mice may be responsible for a blaze that killed nearly 100 cats at an animal shelter near the Canadian city of Toronto, officials say.

The fire at the humane society shelter in Oshawa also killed three dogs and some rats that were up for adoption.

In a daring attack, a group of mice chewed through electrical wiring that started the blaze, which quickly spread throughout the building, before rescue teams were able to respond. The mice themselves perished in the blaze, suggesting that this was a suicide attack.

Mouse leaders said that they would not allow the slain attackers to be buried at the pet cemetery. "They have violated the mouse code," said one. "By killing innocents, they have given up the right to be called mice."

Some people have claimed that the killers were not, in fact, mice, but rats. A leading news channel published audio clips of a phone interview, where the killers claimed to be rats. This was scoffed at by noted rat figures. "Its obvious that they are not rats," said a leading author and rat. "Their accent was all wrong. Everyone knows that rats use a low squeak, which is almost a grunt, while mice have a typical high-pitched squeak. They are just looking to make trouble between cats and rats."

Though the majority of the victims were cats, three dogs and some rats were also among the dead. The fact that the shelter is a preferred location for visiting dogs suggests that this was no coincidence. This would be the first time that dogs have been specifically targeted. Dog leaders were quick to condemn the act as "despicable and cowardly". However, a noted anti-terror dog, who preferred to remain anonymous, was harshly critical of the rescue operation. "We dogs have experience at this sort of thing. We offered our help, but the cats refused. I am convinced that we could have saved a few lives."

While most commentators have condemned the attack, some have raised a note of caution. One columnists pointed out that mice had suffered for years at the hands of cats. Even today, the average mouse is malnourished and unloved, while cats have prospered. In spite of this, cats see mice as outsiders, and are quick to label them traitors. As many as 200 mice died in the anti-mouse pogroms of 2002, but the perpetrators were never brought to justice. As a result, young mice, many of whom are unemployed, harbour a deep resentment towards the cat community.

Another warned that unless the problems of mice were addressed, there would be many more such attacks.

2008-12-06T21:35:00.002-06:00

In light of the recent terrorist attacks on Mumbai, I decided to post something sombre and analytical about such weighty matters as foreign policy, Islamofascism, federalism and representative democracy. Shortly after, I changed my mind and decided to do some navel-gazing and talk about quizzing instead.

I was an avid quizzer right through primary and middle school, regularly making it to the inter-house teams, but, largely due to chronic shyness, I never stepped forward to try out for the school team until 1994, when I was in Class 8. After performing unexpectedly well at tryouts, the teacher in charge sent me to an inter-school quiz as part of the B-team. My teammates on the school B-team were Dhiraj and Mihir, both of whom were trying to make the A-team at the time. The A-team consisted of experienced quizzers Riddhi, Amit and Ryan.

We all qualified for the semi-finals, but for some reason were drawn in the same one. As we waited to be called on stage, I hung out with Dhiraj and Ryan, both of whom were a year junior to me, but were much more experienced. As we waited, Ryan sang verses of Meatloaf songs, complete with the verses that were excised from the version that appeared on MTV India. When the A-Team went on stage, they did so with the easy walk of champions. They knew everyone and even made conversation with the girls - something that I would be unable to do for another 5 years. At that time, I was merely afraid that everyone was looking at me, and yet hoping that they were.

The quizmaster - a man who would later become my first employer - took the stage, and the quiz began. To everyone's surprise, we shot into an early lead, as I answered the first 5 questions of the quiz. This was particularly surprising because no one knew who I was, and in the hallowed world of school quizzes - you have to have been around for a few years before you get to win quizzes on your own steam. At the time, though, I didn't care. I was on a roll, and it was awesome. I insisted on taking first crack at every question, even though Mihir was the senior member. He didn't mind much then, though.

At the midway point, we had a comfortable lead, with the A-team quite far down the list. During the break, they came over and congratulated us. We wished each other luck for the second half, and then took our seats again.

For the second half, the direction was reversed, and suddenly our questions dried up - almost all of them being snapped up by Antara and her team. Also, a fist-pumping rearguard action by the A-team propelled them to within biting distance of us.

Our last direct question was a visual clue. Answering it correctly would have meant that we were through. We saw a photograph of an Argentine footballer with long hair. Confidently I identified him as Claudio Caniggia. Mihir thought it was Gabriel Batistuta, but at that point I refused to accept that I could be wrong and blurted out what I thought was the answer. Of course, it was wrong. The next team picked it up - it was, in fact, Batistuta. A couple of questions later, the regular rounds were over, and we had a 3-way tie for first place between Antara's team, the A-team and us, and only 2 would qualify for the final.

You can guess what happened next. We flubbed the tie-breaker question, and experience won the day. I missed the opportunity to reach the final four (and maybe even win) the first quiz I represented the school at. At the time, it was quite devastating. So much so, that I turned down the offer of a lift and decided to walk home. I was quite sure no one would have noticed anyway, and truthfully I wasn't yet able to take such things in my stride.

That was probably the most story of my first quiz. It is certainly the most self-indulgent post on this blog. But there is more.

Though I wasn't there, the rest of the quizzers met the teachers in charge, and reported that the new guy was actually quite good. Dhiraj and I were drafted into the A-team for the Limca Quiz, which we won beating out Sagnik and friends, and thus began a new chapter in my life. Quizzing gave me the visibility that helped me overcome my diffidence, and right now, it is the one thing that I still miss from Calcutta.

Mihir never let me forget Caniggia. Even when I met him years later at IIT Kharagpur, where he was studying at the time. Over time, I lost touch with them all completely, one by one, with the exception of Antara, who is getting married in a few days. I bumped into Riddhi many times during my college days, but the I met Ryan only a couple of times after leaving school.

The last time I met him, he was getting ready to run an obscene distance around the school field. He had decided that his dream job was in the armed forces, and he was appearing for the entrance examination for the NDA later that year. His academic record was good enough, and we knew he was smart enough to breeze through the interview, but he was afraid his weak eyesight might be counted against him, so he was making sure that he came out on top in the physical trials.

I heard later that he did make it to the NDA. Then like all the others, his name became yet another in a long list of people I once knew. A name to be mentioned once a year, when meeting up for coffee with school friends. Perhaps someone would start a story with - "Hey did you hear what happened to...?". Usually, the person in question would have ended up in jail, or something similarly sinister. Our school has a history of producing some pretty unsavoury characters.

A few days ago, I did find out what happened to Ryan. I was directed to this report. After a harrowing siege, a few heroes were revealed. One of them was Captain Ryan Chakravorty, NSG commando. A man who lived his dream, and in the process, gave a nation a measure of succour.

When I saw this, my mind flashed back to a day, 14 years ago. On hindsight, I realise that the better man won that day.

2008-11-13T10:18:00.002-06:00

It was Kaveri Jha who started this. Who, you ask. As it turns out - it doesn't matter.

So, aforementioned lady is soon to be appearing^[1] in a Bollywood movie titled Kidnap^[2]. Having never heard of her, I decided to turn to Google for sight beyond sight, in the event that I had actually seen her before in something^[4]. Google informed that I had not, in fact, seen her in something^[5]. But that wasn't what grabbed my attention. It was the URL of one of the sites on which one of the photos was hosted. This site was titled (ahem) Kaveri Jha Thigh Show dot blogspot dot com (/ahem).

Now this piqued my interest. An entire site dedicated to displays of a single body part of a completely obscure^[6] Bollywood starlet. I was reminded of a site set up by a friend of mine in honour of Britney Spears' navel^[7]. This was probably something along those lines, I thought. A fan site created as a labour of love to the unattainable object of his admiration. My friend would painstakingly scour the net for photographs of Ms Spears, in which her navel was visible, and then he would crop these pictures into neat squares with sides of 40 pixels. These shots of her cute-as-a-button bellybutton were then arranged into a collage set against a simple blue background.

The creator of this particular site, I thought, must have approached his goal with a similar zeal. Given modern actresses' penchant for short dresses, it must have been easy to collect photographs of his lady's (apparently) exceptional thighs and arrange them in a pleasing manner. Perhaps something a little avant-garde, along the lines of the Body Parts Exhibit.

I also wondered - why Kaveri Jha in particular? Why not someone with more exalted anatomical sections? Might not Madhuri Dixit have been a more worthy subject? The problem of course was with the selection of the appropriate appendage. Even though Madhuri has a smile that could light up an auditorium, and, at the peak of her popularity, an abdomen that could double as an ironing board; one never particularly noticed her thighs. This is more due to the fact that movie outfits in the 1980's had hemlines lower than the Hindu rate of growth, rather than any failing on Ms Dixit's part. In fact, I believe that they are exceptionally shapely, and that we are much the poorer for having not got enough glimpses of them. But that was an age ago. Now micro-minis are ubiquitous on screen, and it would be criminal for a young fan to let slip such an amazing opportunity to create a temple to his unattainable idol's perfect hamstrings.

Now imagine my crushing disappointment when I arrived at the site. On a simple blogspot template, in a single column, are five photographs of a woman^[8], sitting with her legs crossed on a chair, at what appears to be a public function, while clad in a white short dress. While these photos clearly satisfy the raison d'etre of the blog^[9], they fail on a higher level. As an illustrative example, consider your dining table. If you were a bit literal-minded, you could have places a plank of wood on four cinder blocks and used it. Technically such an arrangement would satisfy the definition of a "dining table"^[10], but I'm sure you would all agree that to call it such would be a travesty. So it is with blogs. If your blog were titled "Hillary Clinton's pantsuits", then I would feel terribly disappointed if it contained one shot of her concession speech. Its the worst kind of "gotcha".

I can picture the creator of the blog right now - fat and greasy with a bad case of acne and an unkempt bears. He sits at his chair stuffing a burger into his mouth, spilling mustard onto his already stained shirt. After five minutes of chomping, he notices you standing there, tapping your foot in annoyance. His mouth full, he jerks his head in your direction, as if to ask "What?". Indignantly, you point to the blog and say "Five pictures from a single event. Thats just shoddy. And lets not even start about your grammar." He grimaces and lets out a belch before grumbling - "Its Kaveri Jha doing thigh show. What is problem?^[12]". With a sigh, you walk away realising that there is no hope for redemption here, all the while holding your breath to keep out the stench of sweat, hamburger grease and loneliness.

Its amazing where too much time and unlimited broadband can lead.

[1] - Or has already appeared - my internal chronometer isn't what it used to be.

[2] - Or is it Hijack - some criminally-themed movie involving an underclad belle du jour, I can't tell them apart anymore^[3].

[3] - Neither the movies nor the women, sadly.

[4] - Not that it mattered. I have already forgotten what her face looked like, if she had one at all.

[5] - In fact she is rarely, if ever, in anything that can reasonably be referred to as "something".

[6] - As far as I know.

[7] - This was in 1997, so don't judge him too harshly.

[8] - Presumably the aforementioned - I'll be damned if I could remember her face.

[9] - Yes, some part of her thighs are "shown" in all of the pictures. Go look, if you're into that kind of thing.

[10] - Its flat, raised and you can eat off it^[11]

[11] - Not unlike Madhuri's abdomen.

[12] - sic

2008-11-06T15:44:00.001-06:00

Dear America,

Its good to have you back.

Love,

The World

Palin for President

2008-10-01T01:02:00.002-05:00

We, the writers of this blog, declare with conviction, our support for candidate Palin in the race for the presidency of the United States of America. We base this conviction on the fact that said candidate has successfully attained certain characteristics that we, the writers, consider essential for anyone aspiring to hold the aforementioned post.

Specifically:

1) Rugged, outdoorsy type from the northern frontier?

Check

Bonus - likes to wear high heels.

2) Believes in the use of torture in the crusade against terror?

Check

Bonus - is completely unexpected.

3) Opposed to the senseless murder of unborn children?

Check

Bonus - surrounded by a legion of children marching in step.

4) Loves guns?

Check

Bonus - is the scourge of young couples.

Please support our campaign. With your support, we can fulfill our long-standing goal of having a British man in the White House.

I'm John Cleese, and I do not approve this message.

Thank God for England

2008-08-26T21:41:00.005-05:00

The world today seems absolutely crackers,
With nuclear bombs to blow us all sky high.
There's fools and idiots sitting on the trigger.
It's depressing and it's senseless, and that's why...
I like Chinese.
I like Chinese.
They only come up to your knees,
Yet they're always friendly, and they're ready to please.

I like Chinese.
I like Chinese.
There's nine hundred million of them in the world today.
You'd better learn to like them; that's what I say.

I like Chinese.
I like Chinese.
They come from a long way overseas,
But they're cute and they're cuddly, and they're ready to please.

I like Chinese food.
The waiters never are rude.
Think of the many things they've done to impress.
There's Maoism, Taoism, I Ching, and Chess.

So I like Chinese.
I like Chinese.
I like their tiny little trees,
Their Zen, their ping-pong, their yin, and yang-ese.

I like Chinese thought,
The wisdom that Confucious taught.
If Darwin is anything to shout about,
The Chinese will survive us all without any doubt.

So, I like Chinese.
I like Chinese.
They only come up to your knees,
Yet they're wise and they're witty, and they're ready to please.

All together.

And now for something completely different...

Thank God for England.

What is your Smile number?

2008-08-10T20:23:00.001-05:00

Govinda! Why would any sensible person even watch his movies, let alone relax to them? If you asked this question, then let me ask you something in return. Could Marlon Brando/Lawrence Olivier/John Gielgud walk into a hospital in a blue dress, blonde wig and white stockings; introduce himself as “Bruce Lee ki behan, Choos Lee”, and then beat up 10 bad guys using a stretcher? If you fail to see the point of the above exercise, then I suggest you donate your eyes to science, since they're not much use to you anyway.

I could go on and tell you how entertaining Govinda's movies are, but that isn't the point of this article. The key question is – why is the man such an amazing stress-buster?

The most obvious reason is, of course, that he's side-splittingly hilarious. The health benefits of laughter are well-documented, so I shan't dwell on that. Instead, I shall address the question – Why him? Of all the incredibly talented comic artists the world over, why this particular red-sock wearing maverick? When you settle on your comfortable couch and reach for the remote, what makes you stop at Coolie No. 1, instead of the 7,000th rerun of F.R.I.E.N.D.S., or even the DVD of Yes, Minister that you picked up from the British Council on your way home (you insufferable snob)?

The answer is this – Govinda represents humour stripped down to its fundamentals. This is humour that exists in a realm outside of context, knowledge and culture. When Joey fixes a pretty blonde with a knowing gaze and mutter “How yoo dooin'?”, its not really funny unless you have watched the previous season, and realise the contextual implications of that statement. In Deewana Mastana, when Juhi calls Govinda on the phone and tells him that she would like to meet, his pajamas drop, revealing his striped chaddis, while the rest of him carries on as if nothing happened. If you were a Brazilian, watching a version of the movie dubbed in French, you would laugh. Hell, if you were Noam Chomsky, and had just switched channels a second before this scene you would still have laughed (unless there were people around, perhaps).

Legend has it that Homo Sapiens discovered the idea of comedy somewhere around 10,000,000 BC. I firmly believe that it involved a chap distracted by a comely cave-maiden, whose sabre-tooth tiger-skin loincloth chose to fall off at precisely that moment. That individual had awakened a stimulus that has since ensured the survival of the human race – had it not been for our ability to laugh, a million years of war, famine, death and pestilence would have led us to leap lemming-like from the nearest cliff. This is what Govinda taps into with unerring regularity. His brand of comedy traces a path directly from the senses to the humour-centre of the brain, while bypassing the higher functions, which are no more the collected concrete detritus of too much civilisation. There is no other part of the brain that needs to be taxed in order to enjoy this outrageous silliness. No references to remember, no wordplay, no hunting through Wikipedia to answer the question – What was so funny about that?

The caveman's idea of comedy was two guys hitting each other over the head with a leg of antelope until one of them passed out and Govinda has taken the metaphor to heart like no one else. At the end of the day, what better way to relax than to lie back and let the master tickle your brain directly through the eyes, until you dissolve into a gentle stream bubbling with giggles.

Movie Checklist:

Saajan Chale Sasuraal (1996) – Through a completely unbelievable sequence of events, Govinda ends up married to both Karishma and Tabu. Hijinks ensue.
Deewana Mastana (1997) – Govinda pretends to be retarded in an attempt to woo Juhi, with stiff competition from conman Anil Kapoor.
Gambler (1997) – If only for the songs Meri Marzi and Stop That!
Bade Miyan Chhote Miyan (1998) – Govinda completely overshadows Amitabh in this story of double-double roles. Chhote miyaan subhaan allah!
Aamdani Atthanni Kharcha Rupaiya (2001) – Govinda is the only good part of this Duryodhana-award-winning turkey, where he puts accusations of misogyny to rest.
Partner (2007) – Because he's still got it, baby!

2008-08-09T02:05:00.001-05:00

Likelihood of you being FEMALE is 91%
Likelihood of you being MALE is 9%

Site	Male-Female Ratio
google.com	0.98
yahoo.com	0.9
youtube.com	1
craigslist.org	1.13
facebook.com	0.83
blogger.com	1.06
flickr.com	1.15
weather.com	1.08
nytimes.com	1.13
usps.com	0.9
ticketmaster.com	0.79
homedepot.com	0.94
fandango.com	0.82
washingtonpost.com	1.15
fedex.com	1.06
allrecipes.com	0.57
victoriassecret.com	0.68
snopes.com	0.74
livejournal.com	0.68
usbank.com	0.85
bbc.co.uk	1.44
slate.com	1.11
aa.com	0.83
collegehumor.com	1.53
rottentomatoes.com	1.17
hotmail.com	0.83
greyhound.com	0.72
ingdirect.com	0.94
excite.com	1.13
petco.com	0.57
metromix.com	0.74
gmail.com	0.9
jibjab.com	0.98
newyorker.com	1.22
rediff.com	1.74
gm.com	1.3
opentable.com	0.71
kongregate.com	1.41
freerice.com	0.61
orkut.com	1.08
northwestern.edu	0.9
restaurant.com	0.71

2008-08-02T22:06:00.002-05:00

And now for some scripture

2008-06-11T09:34:00.003-05:00

From the Book of Obamaticus, 3: 16. The responsorial will be "Yes we can":

And the Lord OBAMA did smite the two-headed serpent Billary, and she did shed her delegates, and it was Good.

Yes we can!

And then did the mentally deficient rise up and say unto the masses,"Yea, though he be horrid, let us shift our vote to McCain, for our Hillary has been smote."

Yes we can!

Book of Mason-Dixon, 13: 15.

But OBAMA did so love the world that he sent before him a white man, called "running mate", of the South or Middle-West, of middle age, to clear the way and let the masses Know how He should be recognized. And they Saw the Truth, and yea, they knew Truth."

And the "running mate," his Hair was Good.

Yes we can!^[1]

And for more on the Messiah.

On a related note, the First United Church of Obama's Eyebrow held its first mass this weekend in Chicago, where believers gazed at the sacred relic, held in a temperature-controlled cubicle with pyrex walls. Some claimed to have experienced a feeling not unlike the rapture.^[2] Among the congregation was R&B sensation Beyonce, who recently topped the Billboard charts with her Urban Gospel number Barack Obama, I love yo' mama.^[3]

[1] Seen here.

[2] Snicker away, heathen - the day is upon us.

[3] This is not a title I made up. I heard the very same song performed by these fantastic people, who - in spite of their support for Sen. Obama - have made mocking his cult status a running gag on their shows.

Shock and awe

2008-05-16T12:40:00.003-05:00

Well, not so much of a shock. Amitabh Bacchan is a pompous, self-important bore with delusions of godhood. But we knew that already.

On the other hand - my love for Aamir Khan (in a heterosexual, back-slapping buddy kind of way^[i]) increases by the day. Naming your dog after the person you like the least, just so you can blog saying things like "Shahrukh stinks", is an old classic, but never goes out of style. Also his approval of all things Catan proves that he is a man of taste (Mamta Kulkarni notwithstanding).

I'm off to buy a goldfish. The person I meet today who is least nice to me gets the honour of having aforementioned creature named after him/her. I shall then proceed to milk the joke dry, until said person is forced to rip out their own Eustachian tubes to preserve sanity. So BE NICE TO ME - this is not a test.

[i] - Not that Aamir and I are buddies or anything, but I'm not saying I would mind being.

No laughing matter

2008-05-14T13:06:00.002-05:00

Shortly after the Kolkata Knight Riders' (wince!) website was launched, I looked through it (no time-wasting opportunity goes unexplored), and found a section titled "Humour", that was - much to my surprise - actually funny. And no, it wasn't Bollywood funny - which was even more surprising, given the Chief Performing Monkey who owns that bunch of clowns. This was intelligent humour. Whoever made these, picked their targets well, and played up their foibles just enough to be chuckle-inducing without being mean-spirited.

Now, imagine my surprise when I found, two days later, that the funnier ones had been removed. Luckily, I discovered that the jokes had not been taken down - you just couldn't reach them from the main site. However, I had sent the URL's to a friend earlier, so digging them up was a simple matter. So, in case you missed them, here they are:

I can never stop chuckling when I read these. In particular, the shot of Laxman saying "What am I doing here?", is hilarious.

Now here are the links to those jokes that remained on the site:

http://www.kolkataknightriders.com/ads.php?id=331&adsid=1
http://www.kolkataknightriders.com/magcover.php?id=311&magid=1
http://www.kolkataknightriders.com/magcover.php?id=321&magid=2
http://www.kolkataknightriders.com/newsarticle.php?id=361&newsid=3
http://www.kolkataknightriders.com/newsarticle.php?id=351&newsid=2
http://www.kolkataknightriders.com/newsarticle.php?id=341&newsid=1

Just looking at the two sets of jokes, it is quite obvious why some had to be removed. Each of those that was removed pokes fun at someone directly, while the ones that remain make fun of concepts such as sledging and match-fixing.
I can imagine what must have happened - Shahrukh Khan, who, it must be said, actually has a sense of humour, must have okayed all of them, and then someone decided to take offense and sent a rude message. Perhaps the Yuvraj Sena or some other gang of perennially unemployed Indians threatened to set fire to theatres showing Bhootnath. Whatever the reason, they went.
At the end of the day, humour is always the first casualty of war - whether it is the war on terror, or KARMA YUDH.

Requiem

2006-10-30T19:30:00.000-06:00

It is with immense sadness that I am here to make an announcement.

I am shutting down my blog.

Pause for dramatic effect. Gasp of horror from the audience.

Nope, its not a joke. I realise that I don't have enough time to write on all my blogs, so I'm downsizing.

And yes, the sharper knives in the drawer would have spotted the glimmer of light here - not all the blogs are to be shut down, only one.

Nope, not this one. I admit I haven't been updating it for ages, but thats an entirely temporary phenomenon. I should be back to blogging here starting December.

And no, its not the comics blog either - that one is very dear to my heart, and no matter how much you insist on avoiding it, I will NEVER, NEVER shut it down. It will be reformatted sometime soon, once I find time, but remain it shall.

As for Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, a whole bunch of bloggers with keen eyes, ears, and a sense of humour; have joined, so my leaving or not is immaterial (I'm not anyway, so thats not it).

No, the blog that is shutting down is this one.

Huh?

No, thats not a mistake. The blog I pointed to has, in fact, been written by me since its inception - something that will not continue.

No, I didn't ghost write for Vishnupriya. The truth is slightly more mundane.

There is no Vishnupriya Roychoudhury. There never has been.

So, not only is this an elegy, it is also something of a confessional.

Vishnupriya Roychoudhury is entirely a figment of a very colourful imagination. She was brought to electronic life by a slightly diseased mind with a tiny bit of a god complex.

Mine.

She was created as a prank. In order to make the prank work better, she was fleshed out. She had a personality, a history, friends and a family. She had interests and opinions. Most importantly, she had three things:
a) an email id
b) an Orkut account
c) a blog

By the time, I was through, she was absolutely bullet-proof. As far as many people were concerned, she truly existed.

The prank ran its course. All of a sudden, she had no purpose. She should have died there and then. But I had grown attached to her, like an artist to his creation. I chose to let her live.

For two more years, she continued to blog. She expressed her opinions, got into fights, made friends with other bloggers and was even attacked by the anti-femblogger brigade.

Now finally, her time is up.

To those who know both me and her, you will probably be extremely annoyed. Angered even. To them, I express my apologies. It was not my intention to deceive. At that point, she had acquired a life of her own. I couldn't bring myself to kill her off.

To those who read her blog and enjoyed it, I thank you on her behalf. Her opinions were entirely her own and I may or may not subscribe to some or all of them.

To those who have known all along, thank you. A special nod to the only one who figured out, and continued to stay mum - well mostly.

I did learn a few things from this exercise - the virtual world treats men and women very differently. Perhaps I am now a little more sensitive to the unique problems that women have to face, than I was before. Perhaps at some point I will write a series of posts on my experiences as a female blogger.

That is pretty much all.

Rest in peace, Vishnupriya Roychoudhury (2003-2006). You will be missed.

Silly

2006-09-07T20:07:00.000-05:00

The GreatBong himself has demanded that I post a silly pic. And as the old jungle saying goes - "Demand of Greatbong can freeze leopard's pee". Hence...

Grandmaster G-9?

2006-08-27T06:00:00.000-05:00

Many moons ago, a young boy was looking to step into the portals of gamesmasterhood. The year was 1991, the boy was 12. He had recently learnt the rudiments of that king of all games - chess. At that point, being blessed with the two necessary requirements for indulging in such misadventures - youthful enthusiasm and a doting grandfather - he proceeded to sign up for the Telegraph Open Chess Championships.

Now, you must keep in mind that this was before the days when a child's success in the mohalla depended on the number of appearances on Boogie Woogie Junior. In those more cerebral times, children did more meaningful things like writing essays and playing brain games. All the supposedly smart kids in school turned up with a guardian in tow, at the Gorky Sadan that day. The number of contenders was well over a hundred, and all participants were below 18 years of age. Geeky kids in horn-rimmed spectacles read from "1001 ways to win using Nizmo-Indian Defence", as they stood in line to register. As for me, I signed up without fanfare, and waited to be called, feeling quite out of place.

Well, the tournament began. The rules were as follows - everyone would play three matches in the first round against randomly selected opponents. Then at the end of the first round, anyone with less than two victories (or a victory and two draws) would be eliminated. After that, the serious stuff would begin.

My first opponent turned out to be a little girl no older than myself. A trifle quiet, but given the way her father was fawning over her, she seemed to be one of them prodigies. My dear grandfather (rest his soul) was a doter, as I have mentioned, but he had the good sense to sit in the reception area of the Gorky Sadan while the matches were on. This gentleman was not cut from the same cloth, clearly. Little Miss Prodigy sat down, and he whispered furious instructions into her ear. I was quite disconcerted at the way he would occasionally point at me during his pep talk. Heaven knows what he was saying. Maybe it was - "You can beat this punk!" or "Remember that thing we discussed about feminine wiles?". Well, probably not (she was maybe 11, for heaven's sakes), but who knows what goes through the heads of parents of possible prodigies (look up Tathagata Tulsi, if you get a chance).
Right, so back to the match. We tossed and the girl won. "Take White", the father hissed. She meekly complied. We sat down and the the signal was given for everyone to play the first move. Just as she was about to, along came an official and sized up aforementioned doting parent. "Why are you here?" he asked, which seemed to me to be a perfectly reasonable question. "__ is playing", replied daddy, mentioning daughter by name. "Well, __ can play on her own. You have to leave", and the big official man proved that some girls' daddies are not strongest. Screaming protestations, daddy was propelled out. Official entered a while later, gave us Very Stern looks and deciding that there were no more annoying parents hidden under the table, signalled for us to play on.
Game on it was. Little Prodigy moved a pawn and struck the knob of the clock placed on the table. This greatly disturbed me. In all this I had failed to notice the device. It seemed to be a clock of some sort, and my opponent seemed all too familiar with its functionings. Then I saw her scribble down her move on a piece of paper. This got me back in my element - chess notation, huh? Two can play that game, bitch! Here's my pawn at yours. And I can punch knobs too, see. And ha! I too shall note down my move using the ALGEBRAIC method, and not your sissy descriptive ones. Your move!
2 minutes and 4 moves later, it was over. The prodigy was down. My queen sat, a mere square away from her king, backed up by a bishop. It was checkmate in the cruelest way. I think I was grinning. She didn't move a muscle. Just stared at the board with the same blank expression. After a minute of this, I was feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Once again, the official turned my saviour. He walked over and noted that the game was over. As he was jotting it down on a clipboard, up walked the previously mentioned parent. "I forgot, I had to give __ something", he said. "__ has lost", said the Main Man, with his back turned to him. I spotted a smile playing on his lips as he jotted away. Clearly he felt strongly about such parents and what needed to be done to them and their progeny. "WHAT!" bellowed the angry father, and at that moment I actually felt sorry. I was too young then, but I would probably have thought of Jim Pierce, had he been famous enough. The official motioned for us to get up and shake hands. I extended mine, and shook hers limply, all the while she stared blankly. Then she got up and her father marched her out, his humiliation stamped all over him. If that girl reads this blog, I apologise for causing whatever it was she faced that evening.

So, being quite pleased with myself, I went up to the grandfather and announced my triumph. He was extremely chuffed, and that evening was spent calling everyone I knew. "Five moves!", "future champion" and other laudatory phrases were trotted out. I could already see Vishwanath Anand's toothy grin staring at me in the distance.
The next day, I was back again. This time my opponent was a boy, even younger than the girl on the previous day. This chap had no parent in tow, but had the same blank stare. The procedure was as before. We tossed. I won and picked white. We shook hands and sat down. The first move was mine, and I grandly struck the clock when it was done. The kid did the same, but after a couple of moves he stopped bothering. Clearly not a stickler for the rules, this one. Five moves passed and the boy was still in the game. This one needed a little more strategy, it seemed.
Soon, it became apparent to me that things were not going as they should be. The kid with the buck teeth was clearly not going down, with a fight or without. Every move I made was frustrated. Every plan I had was shot down the moment I moved the first piece. My major pieces were picked off one by one, until my forces looked like the human army facing the orcs at Helm's Deep.
But this wasn't what bothered me. It was the way the boy was going about it. He had established beyond a shadow of doubt that he was the better player. He could have checkmated me many times over. He was CHOOSING not to. He was dragging out my humiliation before finally plunging the sword. I made moves that were totally random. Didn't faze him. Nothing did, it seemed. He countered with equally silly moves, as if saying to me that he could beat me no matter how I played. Finally after 30 moves on either side, he forced my king into a corner and applied the death stroke. The game could have ended 15 moves earlier, but that would have not been a great enough victory. I left, smarting.

Why this long and pointless reminiscence? Well, a couple of days later, I learnt the little boy's name. A couple of days ago, on the 18th of August 2006, the little bugger went and won himself an Arjuna Award.

And that, loyal readers, is the closest I have ever come to sporting greatness. You think that's funny? Well, how many of you have played an Arjuna Awardee in a competitive sporting match, huh, huh?

Oh, and as for the final match, it was against a pleasant 17-year old from Dhaka, who also came into the match with one victory and one loss. I turned down an offer for a draw, about twenty moved in, and finally went down in a hard-fought endgame, when he slipped a rook into my back row, which I had stupidly left undefended. Two losses meant I was eliminated, and I never participated in that tournament again. I'm told its much more competitive these days.

Making babies, not war

2006-07-10T13:28:00.000-05:00

Meanwhile, on the blogsphere...

Annie Zaidi said -

...and since they make life, they are stronger and smarter than the other half. And they wouldn't have fought wars, since thats not what life-makers do.

And there was much rejoicing...

Dilip D'souza was among those who were impressed.

Fine, fine! He declared.

And all was happy in the world.

But not quite (dun! dun! dun!)

The Great Bong didn't like what was going on. No sir!
...said he to Supergirl.

And then turned his attention to Dilip.

And there was much rejoicing.

"Man, I'm good", thought Greatbong, and since he was on a roll, he went and beat up on Superman.
And Krrish too...

OK, OK! I'll stop now.

But, seriously, the question of women in the army is one that needs to be looked at more closely. So I shall turn to the opinion of Brian K. Vaughan, who knows all about women, the army and mutant superheroes too. So we asked Brian the following questions.

Q: Well, Brian, since women are not known for starting wars, raping, pillaging, looting, and doing all those other nasty things that people trapped in men's bodies to, don't you think that we could just stop wars by doing away with all the men?

BKV:

Q: What! But all wars in the past have been fought by men over land, women and other shit. Isn't it all about boys and their pissing contests?

BKV:

Q: But why would women want to take anything by force? They're not biologically created that way?

BKV:
Q: Umm, well that may be true, but in the past women have never shown any desire to start wars. And since women have been the biggest losers in war, wouldn't you think they would do their best to maintain peace?

BKV:Q: Well, I suppose it makes sense that women would wage war. After all, they're stronger, can take more pain and are more courageous than men. In fact, don't you think they're more suited to being in the army than men are?

BKV:Q: Oh, come on. Who needs physical strength in the army these days? How much strength or skill does it take to fire a missile? And anyway, women are better at handling ferris wheels and other similarly complex machines.

BKV:Q: Are you saying that women are weaker than men? That they don't have the balls for a fight? Is that what you're saying, Mr. MCP?

BKV:
Q: But all these women had to beat the system in order to rise to the top. Ultimately, they were robbed of their identity as women by the oppressive patriarchal system.

BKV:
Q: Church? Where did that come from?

BKV: Sorry, I meant 'world'

Q: Aha, so you CAN write. You were just showing off with those pictures, you typical egotistical man!

BKV:
Yeah, I know I was being flippant over a serious issue. If I feel like it, I might even do a more serious analysis of the women-in-army thing. For now, just humour me.

PS: All later scans from Y: The Last Man, by Brian K. Vaughan for Vertigo.

Getting her wet

2006-04-08T13:42:00.000-05:00

One had the incredible misfortune of catching a section of the ridiculously unimaginative Chocolate (with an 'e', as opposed Chocolat, which is quite the opposite). There is very little to say about the movie, that has not already been said by Arnab, so one shall say very little. But the sequence did catch my attention for one reason. To wit - it involved Tanushree Datta in a little pink dress touching herself provocatively while getting thoroughly drenched.

Oho, our man likes his women wet, eh? Well, that may or may not be the case, but its entirely besides the point. The point in this case being, that I felt compelled to add this sequence to my list of best Water On Women scenes in Hindi cinema.

Why, you may well ask, is it at all necessary to come up with such a list. What exactly is so remarkable about getting movie heroines in touch with the elements (or one element specifically)? And more importantly, what does one have to do to be on such a list?

Good questions all. To answer them, we shall participate in a quintessentially Bollywood flashback.

It all started when Raj Kapoor was sitting at the lunch table one day. His secretary entered and informed him that the censors had shot down his proposal for a moving, yet socially relevant and meaningful movie, on the grounds that the corner of an uncovered breast had peeped out in one sequence. Try as he might, he kept coming up against the censors' immutable law "No cloth on breast, you fail the test". Enraged after yet another unproductive meeting, he slammed his fist on the table, and ended up spilling a jug of water on his little son's 16-year old babysitter. In the split second after that, Raj had received three epiphanies at once. They were.

A) The veneer between innocence and obscenity is as flimsy as a sheet of cotton cloth, and may even be torn asunder by water, that most gentle of elements.
B) Screw the censors. Now I know how to get around that stupid law!
C) Whoa! 16-year old titties!

A study of his work will serve to demonstrate exactly how significantly he was affected by this moment.

So ingrained has the Wet Scene become in Bollywood, that it continues to be de rigueur in all movies, even in an age when actresses are more than willing to skip the subtleties and get right down to the skin of it. In fact, now it remains more as a pleasant throwback to a more innocent era, than anything else.

Getting back to where we started, how does one pick the most memorable such sequences. What criteria can we use to differentiate between them? Well, I rate them on the surprise factor, and imaginativeness in the setup.

Let me explain what I mean by surprise. The truth is that a Wet Scene is a tease, rather than a blatant overload of eroticism, so it kind of kills it if you know exactly what's going to happen. Unfortunately, the setup for such a scene is quite standard. Hero and heroine are outdoors and caught in a sudden downpour. Cue song. Sometimes, it will be a rendezvous planned in a desolate spot. At other times, one of the protagonists will be lured there by a spot of trickery. Vehicular breakdowns are also common excuses to get them out in the open, just in time for the heavens to open. If you see any of these situations, you know exactly what the weatherman predicted. Another giveaway clue is when the heroine changes into a sari in the previous scene, even though she may have been trotting around in salwar-kameez right up to that point. The easiest way around this is to build a dream sequence, but that's just lazy thinking.

In order to introduce an element of surprise, the director needs to construct elaborate Rube Goldbergs. Getting the heroine to land up under a shower that miraculously turns on at the last minute, for example.

This is in fact related to imaginativeness. Rain is very, very cliched. There are variations involving waterfalls, swimming pools, and other water bodies, but again, they are accompanied by very standard dance steps, and are just carbon copies of one another. Interesting props like strategically placed tubs, or buffaloes, for example, can add a great deal to such scenes.

On these grounds, picking the all-time best scene involving Wet Women was quite daunting. Chocolate did have a lot going for it - it involved a water pipe exploding after a shooting spree by an enraged Emraan Hashmi, and a motorcycle. It was also set in London in December, giving it high points on the surprise factor.

But ultimately, it couldn't beat that all-time classic, Qayamat: City Under Threat, in which Riya Sen ends up in a flooded tunnel after falling through a hole created when the floor of a historic stone prison fell through after a metal pole under it was struck by a coal scuttle on rails, in which Ajay Devgan and Ashish Chowdhry attempt to run from the villains. Oh, and she also loses her shirt in mid-fall.

Whew - methinks that will take some beating.

Before I finish, I will point out that its not just Bollywood that engages in such contrivances. Hollywood film-makers may not have to deal with morality guardians protecting little children from the detrimental effects of naked nipples, and so charades involving diaphanous white cloth and aqua pura are quite uncalled for. But nobody can resist an overly contrived plot point, especially if it results in women showing more skin, even if its completely against the grain of the story.

Using exactly the same criteria as above, I think the movie with the all time best Getting-the-Heroine-to-Strip-down-to-her-Underwear Hollywood Scene is undoubtedly Deep Blue Sea, in which Saffron Burrows is forced to strip out of her wetsuit because of a subplot involving naked electric wires, super-smart sharks and a floating journal in an undersea laboratory. Do you really need to know the details?

PS - This post is very wannabe-great Bong, and I apologise for the plagiarism. However, if you must copy, its usually better to copy the best, though not always.

Also - Please read this blog.

Gym Dandy

2006-03-21T03:50:00.000-06:00

"I've never seen the inside of a gym in my life", said the blogger whose fabulous figure belied her words, as she picked delicately at her gelato.

"Gym! HAHAHA! YOU! In the GYM!! What are you going to DO there?", guffawed the blogger whose fantastic physique proved he really didn't know.

"Sorry, I have to go to the gym", I said.
"Pfft! Rubbish! What is this obsession with the gym anyway?", asked the old buddy.

An interesting time. An old and very dear friend tied the knot. We all attended. How could we not? After all, he was the first of us to take this step. Twenty-one bachelors turned up in spiffy suits, and had their photograph taken alongside one married man and his wife.

A special dinner, for close friends only. Plenty of alcohol.

"Do you know how they met?", asked the man who did, pointing at the happy couple.
"No, but do tell", said another.
"At the local gym", he revealed with the air of a conjurer pulling one out of his hat.

They told their own story then. How he noticed her at the treadmill, and decided to bench a few big ones. How she was puzzled when she saw the chap in the ill-fitting T-shirt grunting on the bench. How mutual interest turned to friendship, then to love and finally, to marriage.

"Is that why you keep going to the gym?", asked the knowledgable man. Most inappropriately, everyone at the table decided to momentarily ignore the newlyweds.

Back in Chicago, the Red Eye headline screamed "PHYSICAL ATTRACTION: How young Chicagoans head to the gym to try and meet that special someone". A stack of free issues placed at the door to the Northwestern Gym.

Inside, it revealed that 35% of men and 26% of women who frequent the gym, do so with the aim of catching someone's eye, with the long-term goal of taking the workout elsewhere.

"Yeah, for most girls in my class, its the gym and then the local bars", said the American undergrad. "But personally, I prefer church - guys who go to church tend to stick around longer."

The present.

"In my time", said the father, still macho at 60 with a glass of vodka and lime resting casually in his hand, "if you were sufficiently intelligent, you didn't need to workout in order to impress girls. The only people who went to gyms were the stupid ones who needed to have good bodies if they wanted to be in the race."

"Never stopped the same intelligent men from demanding that their wives always look good", said the mother, one-time model for a major coffee brand.

As always, the discussion ended there.

A copy of Health magazine, looking most incongruous in my hand as I sit at the computer in the faculty room at the institute. I am reading at an article on an experiment performed at UCLA regarding people's political preferences. I'm hoping there's a paper there. My gym bag lies next to my chair.

The cover screams "Flat abs fast." Inside, right next to the article I am reading is a write-up on how to look your best while working out. Avoid fitted tees, they say.

My colleagues - all past 35 - have the look which says - "These young people and their obsession with their bodies."

"I don't think going to the gym is having any effect. You still don't have any muscles", says a very considerate friend. "You should try yoga or Art of Living instead".

"How will you build muscle unless you consume protein? If you want gymming to have an effect, you have to quit being vegetarian", advises another.

"YOU don't need to go to the gym", says the pleasantly plump aunty. "Its us fatties who need to go. I wish I could be thin like you. I must resume my morning walks", she says to no one in particular.

"If you go to the gym, you'll lose whatever little ass you have left", says the less pleasant and less plump young chap. "And anyway, how do you manage to go in such hot weather?"

"I usually spend half an hour in the pool after that".

"Aha! I knew it. You only go to check out the babes in leotards and swimsuits. All this gymming is just a big excuse."

Flashback to a time many years ago, when my brother and I would go swimming together.

"Hey check out that girl. WOW! She is so incredibly hot!"
"Where? Where?"
"Over there at the other end. Oh, and did you see the one who just walked into the changing rooms?"
"Arrrggghhh!"

Nobody appreciates the problems of the heavily myopic.

Return to the present.

I walk into the gym in the evening. Its small and quite empty. A few people around. A very old lady is on the treadmill. Her outfit clearly used to be a salwar kameez once. She is clearly not a regular reader of the Health magazine. Nor does she care.

I go through a routine in silence. People file in and file out. The young couple come in with their adorable little daughter who draws little pictures in her book, while her parents work out. Her mother changes from a sari to track pants, but keeps her large bindi intact. Her father occasionally makes approving noises at her when she shows him her drawings.

A young woman in a smart business suit comes in, changes, works out and leaves. A muscular young man in a cutoff T-shirt keeps pumping iron. Nobody notices anyone else. The only conversation is when someone politely asks someone else if they are done with the machine. Nobody at the gym reads the Red Eye either.

I used to go with a friend, until he moved to Bombay. With him around there was a little more conversation, but not much. Just a few words of approval back and forth.

The pool is invariably deserted. Not that it matters because I am usually getting late anyway, and wouldn't have stopped to talk to anyone. Half an hour and twenty laps later, I'm off.

Why do I go, then if not to lose weight, or build rippling muscles, or to pick up chicks, or to do any of the other very interesting things that people are supposed to do in gyms.

Because its the one thing that I can force myself to do by routine. Because it keeps my life in some sort of order. Because I feel better after it.

Because its good.