Tuesday, November 18, 2014

OMG, Look at that L-Ass

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Women have come a long way from the days when the sight of a waddling posterior brought out the sniggers and a secret prayer to Goddess to never be that ass. If Nicki Minaj is to be believed, 'his Anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns hun’.

This comes as a big ray of hope for women who spent a sizeable chunk of their life surreptitiously looking behind their back, wondering if their buns were becoming too ripe for comfort. It is a known fact that a woman can’t pass by a glass window or any shining exterior and not turn it into a rear-view mirror. And why not? It’s the only way that the annoying thing that follows us everywhere we go, but visible to the rest of the world, shows its cheeky side to us!

Now that it’s official, having disproportionate assets is the new booty – oversized, fleshy buns instead of drooping with low self-esteem – and they are perking up, cocking a snook at conventions. But here lies the catch. Not every woman with a humongous butt has a great future behind her unless it’s perched behind an already successful diva who loves flashing her twins for the frenzied cameras. A booty that she has nurtured to perfection, pushing it beyond its boundaries and raising it to greater heights. Once she’s raised her butt like her own babies, lavishing it with care and attention, like any doting parent on Facebook, she becomes her twins’ number one fan and expects the rest of the world to fall for their charms.

Just like Kim Kardashian, famous for earning her millions doing nothing. 

In the battle of the asses, with Nicki Minaj and J-Lo butting their way into superstardom, Kim Kardashian decided to break the internet with her ass in tow. Often accused of being talentless, Ms Kardashian proved her detractors wrong by expertly balancing a glass of champagne on her rear-end, raising a toast to herself, even if you pardon photoshop. In her mission to make her rear-end as famous as her front-end, she emerged slathered in oil and little else, on the front-covers of Paper magazine, showcasing her cheeky side that eclipsed world headlines for days. In fact, there was so much oil on her posterior, one couldn’t help but fear for her safety and wonder if America was planning to invade her backyard.
Pic Courtesy - Maa Google

Kardashian is not the first celebrity to bend backwards in her quest for fame. I do however refuse to take a puritan stance and diss her for objectifying herself and in the process, the rest of us. It’s entirely her problem that the ass-fixated public may soon forget what her face looks like. If being comfortable with your own body is flaunting it sans layers of conventions, so be it. But I doubt if making a big ass show of your booty makes it any better for women battling body issues, rather it makes it worse for us lesser mortals. If we had women lusting for Gwyneth’s Paltrow’s flat abs, or Salma Hayek’s perfect rack, we now have legions of ‘anacondas’ and women coveting Kim’s overripe buns.

A few famous bums will certainly not stop us from ridiculing Vidya Balan’s tubby frame or Mrs Mehta’s waddling behind squeezed inside jeans two sizes too small. We’ll continue to take the Kellogg’s K Challenge that promises to make us look like Lara Dutta in just two weeks and will always be a few kilos away from happiness.

On hindsight, Kim Kardashian’s well-oiled PR exercise may have unwittingly proved to be the great equalizer. Her bottoms-up act may have exposed her to a mix of public ridicule, merciless Internet memes and admiration but it also ended up exposing our fascination for the asinine.

Also, she and Kanye and can look deep into each other’s’ eyes and sigh – this ass is mine.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

A Fishy Affair

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Like most Indian kids, I was brought up in a family that constantly ‘encouraged’ me to study harder and do well enough to make our relatives jealous. Marriage, love, boyfriends were taboo subjects, so much so that I was convinced that my parents had no intention of getting me married and would make me study for the rest of my wretched life. The only time my Mom did mention marriage was when I refused to eat fish. She’d bemoan my un-Bengali like habits and prophesy that I’d get married to a rice and fish loving typical Bengali boy.   

I did get hitched to a guy who loves his fish as much as he loves me. Since marriage is all about trying to change each other for the ‘better’, I have now evolved into a fish loving person and he has his baigan ka bharta without a murmur of protest.

Over two years of having the freshest seafood of all sizes and shapes from the seas of Australia, so under-spiced that you can taste the salt water that your dish ingested, I consider myself a sort of connoisseur. In fact, the last time when the husband kept the Salmon almost raw, because it was so fresh, I forked it into my mouth without going blue in the face.

Whole Red Snapper

Last week, when Sangeeta Khanna, a friend I admire and whose food blog is the holy grail of healthy eating asked me to join her for a fish degustation lunch hosted by Le Meredien, New Delhi, I promptly accepted her gracious offer.

We were a cosy group of six including Anasuya Basu, Le Meredien’s Director of Marketing Communications, high on shared camaraderie and a belly full of expectations, once we had gone through the menu for our luncheon. The restaurant, Le Belvedere, on the 20th floor of the hotel, gives a panoramic view of Lutyen’s Delhi. Despite the smog, we couldn’t help but admire the view. 

Monday, November 10, 2014

Black Is The New White

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Everyone has heard about her, engaged in salacious gossip about her existence but has yet to sight her. She’s like the mythical G-Spot that scores of men have fantasized and written about and have even embarked on expeditions to unearth, but have met with as much success as Christopher Columbus had with discovering India.

In fact, she’s is India’s B-spot.

It is rumoured that Bee vacations in exotic foreign lands like Mauritius, the Cayman Islands and Switzerland; her trips sponsored by her rich benefactors. When she exits the country, she leaves with a blackened reputation and spends months, sometimes years in dark dank chambers to get rid of her ugly tan. According to unnamed sources, B-Spot prefers flying Hawala Airlines.

Now that Indians are finally getting ready for achhe din, they are impatient to relieve Bee of her Non Resident status and want her to come back to her roots. After all she’s India’s wayward Diva whose return will be the much needed Viagra for our limp economy.

As she continues to slither away from the long hands of law, the common man does what he does best – express impotent rage. Surprisingly, she finds firm support from legal experts and leaders who in the recent past had much fun, mocking the previous government for allegedly shielding B-spot and her benefactors. Now that they have been elected, they are singing the same tune as the ones they mocked. With new found power they have transformed into the chivalrous who are now ensuring that Bee gets the Fair and Lovely treatment as they go around town claiming being black is not a criminal offence, holding the protective umbrella to shield her from prying eyes and further tanning.

It’s a not so well-known fact that the elusive B-spot’s desi counterpart Big B is the real McCoy who funds India’s great democracy, where all Political parties rely on her largesse to fund their mammoth rallies, publicity campaigns and chartered flights. If our Politicians expose them, they will end up exposing their doublespeak. After all, laws and taxes are only meant for fools and meant to be flouted by those who create them.

Monday, November 3, 2014

The Homecoming

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We were a bunch of school girls fresh off the hook from the tyranny of XIIth board exams, when we first sighted him at a music camp at Nainital. It was hard not to giggle at the antics of this fresh off the plane NRI, trying to live up to the Utopia that nostalgia creates. When we went for treks and long walks, this strange creature would sniff appreciatively every time he spotted a clump of bovine waste he’d look heavenwards and exclaim in his most melodramatic voice – this, my friends is the aroma of Indiaaah! Had it been the age of mobiles, I’m sure he would have taken a selfie with it. Anything and everything; a humble plate of jalebi, the sight of a dilapidated rickshaw would send him into paroxysms.

I guess, he couldn’t contain the excitement of coming back as a tourist to a country he had been in such a hurry to leave. We found him plain annoying. He was the perfect example of what we didn’t want to become.

It’s been three weeks since I came back from Brisbane, a city that was my home away from home for over two years. It was not easy for a hyper Delhiite like me to fall for its quiet charms. A city so laidback that the driver of the city bus will happily stop to give directions to a lost tourist; the customer care executive will engage in a long leisurely chat with a guy looking for a good mobile deal while you look impatiently at the clock. Horror of horrors, no one honks, the raised middle finger is the height of indecency and the most action you’ll get is the sight of drunk kids puking.

I was horrified to be in a city whose markets pull their shutters down by six in the evening. Weekends were worse. You are thrown out of the mall by the time the clock chimes 4 and Sunday evening looks as if everyone is in deep mourning. The food was bland, the meats almost undercooked and my Indian palette was screaming for spices. And I’m not even going to talk about the shock of shelling out over a hundred dollars for a perfectly mediocre meal.

The news channels that covered forest fires, local accidents and inebriated men ramming their cars into private properties made no sense. Things became so bad that I even started missing Arnab’s histrionics! I knew I had to make friends, so I dragged myself to meet-ups and socials and mastered the art of small talk. I even tried mixing up with an expat group that preferred calling itself the network for American women, appalled that Australia is blissfully unaware of the existence of Philly Cheese Steaks.

Monday, October 13, 2014

Fifty Shades of Dust


Each house is as cluttered, colourful, messy, freakishly organised as its inhabitants. More often than not, since it’s the female species that takes a psychotic interest in the colour management of the cushions with the carpets, expresses displeasure at the highest decibel level when she discovers a well hydrated toilet seat cover and is far from appreciative of various articles of clothing strewn around the house – let’s conclude for the time being that a home is more an extension of a woman’s personality than a man’s.

Men are a highly evolved species and they know exactly what they want. Unlike a woman, he has accepted that a clean house is a state of mind - all you have to do is close your eyes. He doesn’t break into tears when the maid doesn’t turn up for three days in a row and is perfectly at peace with the unwashed pile of pots and pans and grime stains on the kitchen slab.

It didn’t take him long to realize that the key to happiness is selective blindness.

Unfortunately for the woman, God didn’t just give her eyes but an X-ray vision that can spot dust under the table-lamp just as she’s about to sleep, under piles of books when she’s about to cuddle up with a book, on the blades of the fan facing the ceiling when she’s searching for the meaning of life. The sight of unwashed utensils gives her the sinking feeling. It's as if those smelly pans are not in the sink but on her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe.Try throwing crumpled wrappers and papers on her floors and she'll come charging at you like a bull.

She may be dog-tired, ready to drop off dead, but she’ll ask for a 30-minute grace so she can tidy up the house before she can die. It’s a curse she has to live with. If she’s about to leave for a vacation, she makes sure she leaves behind an immaculately clean house, in case robbers decide to drop in. 

She knows everything we see will turn to dust and has quietly accepted that everything she sees will have dust.

Monday, September 29, 2014

Shut Her Up Before She Starts Getting Ideas


Everyone loves a strong independent woman as long as she doesn’t mind following the rules laid out for her good conduct. It’s like the matrimonial ad, where the handsome, fair, MBA seeks a convent educated, working but homely wife. A smart, attractive working woman earning a handsome salary but seeks permission from her family before she goes and shops for a handbag.

That’s what good upbringing is all about – to listen, obey, and accept whatever comes her way without a whimper of protest. So, when the fresh from college intern joins office, it’s a given that she’ll quietly accept the extra attention her boss lavishes on her. Since she has been made to believe that she’s responsible for everyone’s happiness, she should melt with gratitude when Gupta Uncle’s son stalks her.

She’s sweet, lovely and beautiful as long as she doesn’t turn a man down. All hell breaks loose if she suddenly develops a mind of her own and puts her foot down on her boss’s when his wandering hands land on her lap. He’s shocked that the chit of a girl had the audacity to turn down his affections and makes sure that the ungrateful girl is suitably punished. Look what happens to women who file a sexual harassment case. Her character and her past are dissected and her intentions painted as suspect. After all, no girl from a respectable family will raise a stink until she has ulterior motives. Women from good families do not get raped and if they do, they certainly don’t go to a police station to file an FIR. Instead they swallow the humiliation, trauma and anger to protect their family’s honour.

Why just blame the boss? What about the woman who finds out her husband has been having an affair! In many cases, her first reaction is to blame the other woman for ensnaring a happily married man with her manufactured charms. Badly brought up children, an unkempt house, an unhappy husband are all a woman’s fault.

Monday, September 22, 2014

OMG, It's Cleavage Mahabharata


All hell broke loose when Kaurava Times of India (KATTI), Bharat’s most defiled Daily decided to do a cheer-haran of Draupadi Padukone’s cleavage. Given she’s in the entertainment business that requires an actress to reveal her proportionate assets and acting skills with equal zeal, it’s a given that her assets are public property, meant to be leered at by all. Men and women have equal rights to gaze at them including KATTI that has the right to flaunt it on her behalf.

Just like the guy in the Metro who thinks it is his birth right to take candid shots of that girl’s cleavage that pops out when she bends down to pick up her book. In fact, every woman who flaunts her curves in a fitted dress and dares to reveal her legs is giving an open invite to men to come and pay their respects. Walk around town in an attire that displays even a hint of your cleavage and you’ll have a dozen pair of eyes boring through your dress, willing it to fall apart.

Didn’t our history of repeat offences teach you that anything’s that’s not covered invites appreciation of the lowest kind? 

So, when Draupadi wears an outfit that reveals more than just her face, she should expect KATTI to run an OMG slideshow of her cleavage. And if she objects to it, it’s obviously well-timed to garner more publicity for her Fanny.

Image courtesy - twitter.com


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