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Back in 1963, when Cliff Richards sang, "Son, you'll be a bachelor boy and that's the way to stay," he didn't know that he was singing the theme song of the current Indian political establishment. The question is: what makes a bachelor a winner? Could it be the perception that someone who is without the baggage of a family will serve the people 24/7? That he or she will have no reason to be corrupt?
Now that the IPL's governing council has made a strong pitch to shift the IPL to either the UAE or South Africa, it is time to sit back and reflect. You could shrug and say, how does the venue matter? But would the English Premier League (EPL) be as popular if it was, say, played in Singapore? Will someone in South Africa be as proud as apna Delhiite watching the Delhi Daredevils walk in?
Most of us thought that the renewed cries to bring back the Kohinoor diamond were fanned by the Royal visit, but it looks as if the looming Punjab elections could be the trigger. How, you ask, will the return of a diamond help the people of Punjab? Just as the return of Tipu Sultan's sword bolstered Kannada pride (even though the proud owner of unpaid loans fled to the UK), the return of Kohinoor is believed to restore the rightful legacy of Punjab.
Once upon a time, Vijay Mallya, Rajya Sabha MP and entrepreneur extraordinaire, straddled the corporate and the sporting worlds with practiced ease. His passion for all things royal, including horses, was evident at a stud farm in Kunigal where horses were bred for his United Racing and Bloodstock Breeders (URBB). At one time, imported thoroughbreds from this farm used to chase the best and win races. Today, however, we are witnessing the might of the CBI, SEBI, and ED chasing the owner of a defunct Kingfisher Airlines...
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Remember <em>Piku</em>? Or <em>Dil Dhadakne Do</em>? Both were about quirky characters and human fallibility, where characters created their own demons. Plus, of course, the magic of small moments. Likewise, <em>Kapoor & Sons</em> is about a flawed family where fault lines get exposed when characters come together.
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Those who wear a sari on a regular basis can hardly comprehend the dilemma of an occasional sari enthusiast. The cosmic dice never falls in your favour when you are late for a wedding. All too often, you are rendered helpless when it comes to the length of the <em>pallav</em>, the symmetry of the pleats or the fall of the border. Total haplessness.
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In Delhi, master chef Arvind mastered the art of cooking for the common man, sunny side up. The pleasure you derive from his cooking is directly proportional to your tolerance for street food. On odd days, when he says, "Pradhanmantri Ji, please <em>humein kaam karne dijiye</em>," he is as syrupy as <em>aam ras</em>. And on even days, when he decides to spice things up, he is as tangy as <em>aam panna</em>.
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The writer who said, "Don't be afraid of being scared... Only complete idiots are not afraid of anything," knew nothing about leadership. Because in politics, as in cricket, <em>"Dar ke aage jeet hai."</em> So as I munch dinner, I take lessons in daredevilry from the politicians on my television screen.
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When I was growing up, before the arrival of Maruti 800, most middle-class homes owned a scooter, preferably a Vespa. Lately, I haven't seen a pure-blooded scooter in Gurgaon. Of course, the "scooty", the undernourished variant driven by delivery boys and women ferrying kids is common. All too often, it lurches mindlessly from the wrong side of the road, but is hardly a match for the rotund yet robust Vespa. Or the Lambretta.
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As a bride, hailing from a family where women were unfamiliar with Karva Chauth, I wasn't really excited by the idea of fasting or decking up for a story session. Given that my mother-in-law, bless her soul, was cool enough to respect my choices, I decided to test Karva Chauth waters with selective participation. If anything, the idea was to test my patience and tame my appetite.
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I was well in my thirties when it happened. 'Oh my, look at you, you've lost a lot,' she gushed. Inside, I bloomed like a Bougainvillea but pretended as if it wasn't a big deal, 'Really? The weighing...
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If ghost stories don't scare you anymore, your newspaper will. According to them, we are doomed. The rupee is flirting with 66 to a dollar, onions with Rs 80 to a kg and crude oil with $40 to a barrel. But I'm not scared anymore.
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Loaded with ammunition provided by news channels and cheat-sheets provided by party veterans, he threatened political 'soocide' unless Sushma Swaraj resigned. Despite being called an 'expert without knowledge', despite verbal bullets from Sushma's oratorical armour, despite the social media jeers, the energised version of Rahul had only one thing on his mind. Revenge.
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In digital times, any ode to lustrous hair (zulfein), soulful eyes (ankhen), unique style (andaaz) pretty smile (muskurana) or alluring walk (chal) would perhaps invite ridicule. Is it any surprise, therefore, that far away from the sophistry of 'Kabhie Kabhie Mere Dil Mein' we have 'Sexy Dress Mein Bomb Lagdi Mainu' which is funky. But crass. Above all, it is impossible to sing along.
It is not difficult to understand why agony aunt columns are dying a slow death. Today, in a world of instant gratification and banned two minute noodles, the idea of mailing your problem and waiting for a month for it to appear in print sounds silly in a world where you have your answers at the click of a button.
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The political strain of the source is far more lethal. This is because for The Phantom Source - The Ghost Who Talks, with great power comes zero responsibility. Since the power invested in this source is invisible, he delivers a solid punch leaving a permanent 'skull mark' on those perceived as evil doers.
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A woman, they say, can carry a bag, but it is the shoe that carries a woman. The shoe fetish comes naturally to every woman and her mother. Sometimes I wonder if oestrogen has some karmic connection w...
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Ever since AAP captured the fancy of our taste buds, it has engaged in a battle with the Lieutenant Governor over what it sees as an encroachment of its turf. But to blame the Prime Minister for everything including fake degrees, wife beating, internal dissent, sanitation strike and overall failure to govern is as misleading as Maggi's promise of being healthy.
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Holiday season is here. Monaco beckons. Paris dazzles. But with rising ticket prices my dream of flying abroad just made a crash landing. So I sit back in my heated Gurgaon cockpit and wonder about Modi's foreign trip, RaGa's Bangkok sojourn and Kejriwal's flight of fancy.
You can't blame us Delhiites. When it rains, it pours. When it's hot, it sizzles. And when it's cold, it freezes. No wonder, we in Delhi are obsessed with the weather. And at this time of the year, when the monsoon is there but not yet there, our weather fixation acquires the intensity of a tornado.