Media sensationalization!

What is it with the Press nowadays?? They seem to be everywhere, building mountains out of molehills. They invade personal lives as if they were their own! This recent Aishwarya-Abhishek wedding (or the 'AbhiAsh' union, it has been nicknamed) has me tearing out my hair in a frenzy. So two people are getting married- what's the big deal? Why don't you leave them in peace? But no, far from leaving them in peace, we find paparazzi hounding them, and entire pages of news devoted to who wasn't invited to the wedding, what Aishwarya wore, what the Big B said, etc etc etc. News channels are not far behind, they show the same clip endlessly! Honestly, isn't anyone getting bored of this hue and cry?
And what's all this nonsense about the 'most beautiful woman in the world'? Do people really fall for porcelain looks that easily? Aishwarya doesn't seem to have too much personality, with that irritating plastic smile of hers- give me Sushmita anyday! Now that's a woman who has brains AND beauty!
The celebrities are not without blame either. They book an entire temple to themselves just so they can take God's blessings- do they own the temple? What gives them the right to inconvenience other pilgrims and make them wait in the sun?
Yes, the Press has its rights, but surely they are going a little too far? Do we really have a lack of news items that papers have to be filled up with guest lists, and sketchy tit-bits from the wedding? Jhanvi seems to have come to our aid though- giving us some news- that she was married to the Chhota B, no less! (I am too overcome with laughter at this point to continue any further on Jhanvi's topic.)
What about the Richard Gere-Shilpa Shetty kiss, that, by the way, has also been blown way out of proportion? It's just a kiss, for Heaven's sake! It's not obscene- and if we're going to arrest people for obscenity, shouldn't we arrest the whistling roadside Romeos, and the men who scratch, spit, and do other deplorable things in public? It wasn't even a kiss on the mouth... and people find it obscene? How is it, then, that these movies with numerous lip-locks get passed by the Censor Board? How is it, then, that girls are allowed to walk into nightclubs wearing skimpy rags that can hardly be called clothing? So if we're going to haul people up for obscenity, shouldn't we do a thorough job? Why are we going for half-hearted attempts?
Imagine what Richard Gere must be thinking! "One little peck on the cheek and I get arrested? What a country!"
We ooh and aah over the AbhiAsh wedding, and discuss enthusiastically every detail. We call the Richard Gere-Shilpa Shetty kiss obscene. Why are we such hypocrites?

Simple Pleasures

My Top 10 Pleasures (in random order)

1. Having a really good bath, feeling squeaky clean, and then getting all dressed up to go out somewhere. 'Coz I know I look nice!
2. Listening to a really good song, or watching a really good movie.
3. Being with family- eating out, going to watch a movie, or even just vegetating at home.
4. Saikat- thinking about him, talking to him, being with him. Basically anything and everything about him.
5. Being with friends, talking to them, or going out with them.
6. Having a cat curl up and purr on my lap.
7. A simple sweet kiss.
8. Writing something good- a poem, a story, even a blog entry!
9. Shopping- buying nice clothes / accessories / CDs / books / makeup.
10. Eating something that tastes nice.

Awww... Puchu!

Whenever I tell people that I prefer cats to dogs, they give me a wide-eyed look of surprise, mingled with disgust and horror. They say, "Cats? How can you like those disgusting animals? They're so.. so... ICKY!"

This post is to honour all cats around the world. Some misconceptions about cats I now proceed to clear up.

Cats are dirty: No, cats are NOT dirty. In fact, they are exceptionally clean. Where dogs have to be bathed regularly, cats clean themselves. And that's on an average, atleast three times a day. Hence, cats are cleaner than dogs!

Cats are selfish: Cats are NOT selfish. Treat a cat properly, and it will be nice to you.

Cats are not much fun: Cats ARE fun. Most definitely. Ever waved a ball of wool around in front of a kitten? Ever teased a cat and made it stand on its hind paws to beg for a piece of fish? No? Then how can you say that cats are no fun?

Cats are not affectionate: Cats are VERY affectionate! When they feel cold, they come and curl up on your lap. All my cats have religiously slept near my feet... It's the most amazing feeling in the world. And pregnant cats are in a class of their own- carrying kittens seems to make them more affectionate than usual!

So all those who say that cats are a waste of time- you are wrong. You have simply not taken the trouble to know a cat properly.Cats have different kinds of personalities just like us humans. Knowing a cat takes patience. Making it love you takes even greater patience.

And that's my cat in the picture. (Her tongue is out because she forgot to put it back into her mouth after cleaning herself!) Her name is Pickles, but I affectionately refer to her as 'Puchu". She was brought home from Guppy's college, a tiny little orphaned cat, curled up in Guppy's hanky. Dirty fur, scrawny- ribs poking out, but the most beautiful thing I had seen. Now she is almost two years old, as fat as can be, extremely furry, and still- the most beautiful thing I have seen. She has the prettiest eyes ever. Pickles has grown up in my care- I fed her, stroked her, and put her to sleep at night. She would snuggle up near my head, bury herself in my hair, purr loudly, and drift off to sleep. And now she loves me the most. It is in my lap she curls up whenever she wants to be cuddled. It is to me she comes miaowing if she's hungry. And it is near me she sleeps, most of the time.

Pickles is the family cat- but she belongs to me.

"The Namesake"

As I finished the last line of Jhumpa Lahiri's novel - "The Namesake"- I, at last, felt a sense of relief. This, then- was the much talked about book, that has been read by thousands around the world, and has now been made into a movie.

The book has made me feel a rollercoaster of emotions. Happiness- when Gogol is born to Ashima and Ashoke, relief- when Ashoke survives the train accident so many years before his marriage, grief- at Ashoke's death, sadness- when Moushumi cheats on Gogol, nostalgia- at Ashoke and Ashima's fond memories of Calcutta, and a feeling quite inexplicable- at the closing part, when Gogol reads the story by Nikolai Gogol (one of the two men who gave him his name), in the book of short stories his father gave him so many years ago.

The book is so completely authentic about the Bengali culture and its many idiosyncrasies. For instance- Bengali wives never addressing their husband by name, but instead saying- "Ogo, shuncho?" (This part is one of my favourites in the book. I quote: "When she calls out to Ashoke, she doesn't say his name. Ashima never thinks of her husband's name when she thinks of her husband, even though she knows perfectly well what it is. She has adopted his surname, but refuses, for propriety's sake, to utter his first. It's not the type of thing Bengali wives do. Like a kiss or caress in a Hindi movie, a husband's name is something intimate and therefore unspoken, cleverly patched over. And so, instead of saying Ashoke's name, she utters the interrogative that has come to replace it, which translates roughly as "Are you listening to me?") Another - our obsession with the 'good name' and the 'bad name'. ("In Bengali, the word for pet name is 'daknam', meaning literally, the name by which one is called, by friends, family, and other intimates, at home and in other private, unguarded moments. Pet names are a persisent remnant of childhood, a reminder that life is not always so serious, so formal, so complicated.... Every pet name is paired with a good name, a 'bhalonam', for identification in the outside world. Consequently, good names appear on envelopes, on diplomas, in telephone directories, and in all other public places. Good names tend to represent dignified and enlightened qualities. Pet names have no such aspirations. Pet names are never recorded officially, only uttered and remembered. Unlike good names, pet names are frequently meaningless, deliberately silly, ironic, even onomatopoetic.") And then of course, our endless love affair with syrupy rasogollas and other mishtis, our obsession with big family gatherings and addas, the various names we use for family members, Jhumpa Lahiri even goes into details about the bracelets Ashima wears on her wrist- the shona, shanka, pola and loha.

The writing is endearingly simplistic, without gigantic words, and lacking any kind of pretension whatsoever. Jhumpa Lahiri's ability to go pages and pages without any inkling of conversation proves that one does not need oodles of meaningless dialogues to build up characters. For one can surely build up characters from details about their thoughts, desires, regrets, and their everyday doings. And even though her novel is based mostly on a topic that has been dealt with again and again, she does not make it feel stale. Indeed, her writing feels as fresh as new hibiscus flowers.

The ending is touching. It's not a sad ending, but neither is it a happy ending. But it is an ending that leaves a lasting impression, makes you think, and feel an undefinable something. And even as you close the book, the last setting leaves its imprint in your mind. Gogol, in his old room, lying back on his bed, reading the book his father had gifted him so many years ago, while the party goes on downstairs.

"He turns to the first story. "The Overcoat". In a few minutes, his mother will come upstairs to find him. "Gogol," she will say, opening the door without knocking, "Where is the camera? What's taking so long? This is no time for books," she will scold, hastily noting the volume open against the covers, unaware, as her son has been all these years, that her husband dwells discreetly, silently, patiently, within its pages... He will apologize, put the book aside, a small corner of the page turned over to mark his place. He will walk downstairs with his mother, join the crowded party, photographing the people in his parents' life , in this house, one last time, huddled on the sofas, plates held in their laps, eating with their hands. Eventually, at his mother's insistence, he will eat as well, seated cross-legged on the floor, and speak to his parents' friends, about his new job, about New York, about his mother, about Sonia and Ben's wedding... As the hours of the evening pass he will grow distracted, anxious to return to his room, to be alone, to read the book he had once forsaken, has abandoned until now. Until moments ago, it was destined to disappear from his hands altogether, but he has salvaged it by chance, as his father was pulled from a crushed train forty years ago. He leans back against the headboard, adjusting a pillow behind his back. In a few minutes he will go downstairs, join the party, his family. But for now his mother is distracted, laughing at a story a friend is telling her, unaware of her son's absence. For now, he starts to read."