We the Write stuff.

Im not a cricket fan. I know the sport, because I'm an Indian. You cannot call yourself an Indian if you dont know the game. It's in our blood. But like me, there are some who are allowed to find the sport tedious. Oh so tedious. But being a continent away from home, the city that houses Sachin Tendulkar, stirs up a passion in the sport you'd otherwise ignore. To break it down: Living in the UK has taught me many things about myself, but most of all, it taught me a love of cricket and an understanding to why it's my nation's passion and in its prayers. The morning of the final, my significant other's heavy metal alarm started ringing at an hour where light hadnt really made an appearance. For a change, he put it off himself, and frantically started typing on his iPhone. Instead of kicking him, telling him to go to sleep or just flat-out ignoring him, I found myself asking, from the sincerest part of my half-asleep brain, "Who won the toss?" It didnt occur to me that he could have been checking something else. It was day of the final. And it was being played in our home. He couldnt have been checking anything else. It didnt even occur to me that cricket is not normally something that would emerge from my almost-unconscious. This game was more to me than just a World Cup. The passion of the sport exuded enough energy to tie me back to home. London has many virtues and I love it with all my heart. But it comes nowhere close to the energy of India, something that makes me wilt on even the most perfect of London days. When we stepped out of the house, it was one of those most perfect of London days - where people wriggle their shoulders in the sunshine, the daffodils are dancing, and scores of Indian students are grinning all over the streets, the colours of the flag painted on their faces. We found ourselves in a basement bar, where the flag emblazoned the walls as well as the faces of strangers+friends who like us, had come to spend a good many hours alternating between pumping our fists and swearing. We spoke to friends. We laughed at the Sri Lankans. We drank Coke. We drank beer. We painted our faces. We checked out the opposite sex. We laughed at the ads. We cheered. We cursed. And all of us, all the time, prayed that we would win. For Sachin, for his last World Cup. I dont believe in religion, but I do believe in Sachin. His name means pure. He is our national treasure, the cleanest one we own. If you belong to India, you belong to the Republic of Sachin. It's that simple. When we won, and my significant other lifted me up, I laughed at him from the air, from a blurry haze of blissful faces. As I twirled air-fully in his arms, I felt the burdens of bad news from home, the job market and the looming dissertation leaving my shoulders. Just for today, I would let it go. As Sachin was carried around the pitch, we all stood and bellowed the national anthem. It will forever be the kind of miracle you'd never be able to comprehend. Most of us had been born&brought up abroad, with international schooling under our belt. We hadnt been forcefed the national anthem from birth. We barely KNEW the national anthem. We could hum it, yes. Sing it, probably not so well. But somehow, from this yearning, patriotic and homesick part of us, the beautiful song came to our lips, and we sang loudly; strong in our heartfelt victory for our country. That night, as we watched from my significant others window, fireworks lit the sky above my beautiful friend, the River Thames. We were sending a message to home, us Indians a continent away. We were sending our painful regret at not being there, and a heartfelt joy&relief acknowledgment, that no-one, could be as happy as the billions of Indians scattered across the planet at that moment. Indians of the Republic of Sachin slept well that night. If they slept at all.

Some months ago, I found myself in a personal slump. One of those unfortunate situations where nothing was really going wrong, but nothing was really going right either. So I walked the streets of Kingston, chainsmoking and desperately looking for some kind of answer. Clarity falling from the skies would have been greatly appreciated. Instead, I found myself staring at a poster for London Jazz Festival month. A beautiful festival that would begin at my local theatre with a John Etheridge showcase in a few days time. These were all signs. What else could it be?

So I clutched at this straw. Jazz would save me, like it had so many times before. I considered going alone, but the more I heard about the magic that was Etheridge, the more I realised that would be selfish. So I took my oldest friend and my newest friend, the latter who would soon become my significant other i.e. if we ever fight, I will blame Etheridge.

There three of us stood, in the rain, waiting for it to start - The Jazz Geek (me), The Metal Head (The New Friend - TNF) and The I-Love-Music-So-As-Long-As-I-Have-A-Good-Time-It's-Cool-Person (The Old Friend - TOF). I spent a few moments worrying about the grief I'd have to suffer if they both hated it, but before I could really do or say anything about it, we were sprawled on wooden steps, waiting for it to start.

I was right. Etheridge saved me. As soon as he started with a cover of Miles Davis' classic "Doxy", I felt waves of uncertainty and the burdens of personal disaster leaving my shoulders. Clarity crept into my freezing toes, and for the first time in weeks, I didnt worry or wonder about "what-if's" and "whys and wheres".

After a few songs had been performed, I ventured hesitant peeks at TNF & TOF sitting next to me, and I breathed even easier. TNF sat in silent concentration, enjoyment and understanding washing over the planes of his face with an occasional comment about how beautiful Etheridge's guitars were. TOF spent the entire evening whispering "Thats amazing, did you hear what he just did?" over and over again.

Im not saying that Etheridge saved me to the extent that my slump was resolved overnight. But his music and his humour cleared my head and replaced hyperventilation with steady breaths. A few days later I found myself calm enough to resolve my slump on my own, and I endured the loss by purchasing "Doxy" as a single and driving my flatmates crazy by keeping it on repeat for days.

When I started growing immune to the powers of "Doxy", again I found myself walking the streets of Kingston. This time with a friend who had uncovered secrets of Kingston streets that he was more than willing to share with me. So in the bitter cold, down lanes and through alleys, we walked.

And reached Collector's Records. I've been in love before. With friends, with men, with books, with albums. This is the first time I've fallen in love with a store. Records in racks and shelves and turntables to play them on before you decide to own them. We stayed till almost-closing time, discovering, exclaiming and placing on turntables. I left with Billy Joel, Simon & Garfunkel and more, tucked under my arm, beautifully preserved in their original vinyl selves - the second best thing to owning them as people, in my opinion. And they cost me less than a pack of cigarettes would have.

I also realised, my experience with Etheridge, in no way applies solely to jazz. Music will always save you, as long as youre vulnerable enough to let it. Its the reason most people have internal soundtracks to&for their lives, why people listen to mood-appropriate music. We discover meaning and answers in the words and music, and adjust it to our needs. We leave our own personal imprint on the music we listen to.

I may be immune to the powers of Doxy by now (thanks to my own excessive listening), but I'll always remember it as the song that healed me. Even years later if I find it in pristine vinyl on a dusty shelf in a dingily beautiful record store.

My favourite part of London is how almost everyday is a burst of bibliomaniac joy.

Its the small stuff, like having manic 10 hour classes, and running home to grab a few hours of shut-eye before another class at 8pm, only to be kept awake by doors slamming and loud laughing from the kitchen, only to slam my door open to lose my temper at whomever I see first, to find that a flatmate has wedged a whole pile of packages from Amazon under my door. For me, me, me.

Its the big stuff, like trudging sleepily in the rain in my pajama's to get some coffee, only to find my tattered copy of "Howl" that I'd given up tearfully for lost, placed next to the coffee machine, with a post-it saying, "I dont know which building you're in, but I see you hovering around here all the time, so I thought this would be the best place to return it. I hope you actually find this, and if you're not you, then sod off, this doesn't belong to you"

And then its the truly perfect stuff, like becoming an accidental and active participant of BookCrossing.

I'd heard of BookCrossing in one of my first Publishing classes, where 60-odd book geeks including myself, gathered to talk about how reading is a community - a dying community in some respects, but for those who love to read, an exciting community nonetheless.

BookCrossing, essentially, is the "the practice of leaving a book in a public place to be picked up and read by others, who then do likewise." I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard of, and it gave me, and the other people sitting around me, goosebumps just thinking about it. We all told our professor, that it sounded almost too good to be true, and it was probably just one of those things, like the Tooth Fairy, who you truly believe is real, just because you want to believe it, when deepdown, you know its a parent who is the real Tooth Fairy. She nodded wisely, and said, "Wait and see, you won't see it coming"

And then, a few days ago, I got onto a bus and sat on a book. I hardly ever do this, since books are my personal God and religion, and well, you don't normally sit on your God. When I got up, it was a much worn copy of "The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop", which is one of those books you've always thought you should read, but it was either out of stock, or too expensive, and along the journey of all the other books you've wanted painfully, you sort of pushed it at the back of your mind. On the book, was a note stapled to the cover, "Read this and pass it on" and on the title page, were the initials of all the people who'd read it and the dates they'd found it.

I forgot I had a tottering pile of textbooks to wade through by the next day, forgot that I had groceries to buy, food to cook, laundry to do, trash to take out. I forgot social commitments and Skype dates. I forgot that it was raining and that my heater wasn't working and I was, to put it mildly, freezing. I forgot about Stoner Sam and his Stonery Sammy ways. I had been crossed with a book and nothing else mattered.

I passed it on last night. I left it on a table at the cafe I usually frequent. Before I left, the proprietor grinned at me and said, "You've picked prime property there, honey. That book knows that table well"

That book, knows more people and places than I do. And Im grateful I got to know it, and that it has KM 4-10-2010 permanently embedded in its pages.

Note: A very Appy Birday to the old man of the blog, Harry from WetheUs and well, everyone who reads us etc.

Ello All

It's Tejas' Birthday. Wooptedoo dah. Wish him or kiss him.

I have mentioned before that I can't sing to save my life. This isn't entirely true. I can't sing like Tejas can, or like Harry can. I can't sing like Norah Jones or KT Tunstall. I can't sing for other people, I can't sing to play the fool into karaoke machines. But I can sing, when I really really need to, when it seems like the right thing to do, and when my voice chooses to ignore my brain telling it that it's a terrible voice and not to humiliate me.

Carly Simon and Dusty Springfield have/had voices and wrote music that most current female artists can only dream of having/writing. When they sing, the emotion and the rawness, blares through and heals wounds, and you know, that if you have emotion and rawness, and wounds that need to be healed, then you can sing too. These women are/were brave, are/were independent, are/were magic from the moment they opened their mouths. Their music is/was the kind of music that you can imagine old men sitting on park benches and nodding their heads wisely over, saying "They dont make voices like that anymore" And they don't. They really don't make voices like that anymore.

For the past month, I have let Carly and Dusty save my soul. Imitating Brittany Murphy in "Little Black Book", I lie on my bathroom floor and belt out Carly Simon. Im alone at home, and I sound good, because Im singing my soul out, letting the wounds heal. In my room, at night, I snuggle up to the words of Dusty, crooning her words softly to myself. I lie spreadeagled on an empty beach and sing about clouds in my coffee and the son of a preacherman, while watching the clouds above me rearrange themselves and float away, leaving me cleansed and clear.

I am now wishin' and hopin'. I have fewer clouds in my coffee. I look forward to the look of love. I have no secrets. I can tell myself that I haven't got time for the pain. I close my eyes and count to ten. And, I am anticipating, that little by little, I'll know just what to do with myself.

So, thank you, Carly & Dusty, Simon & Springfield. For giving me the strength to sing, and for letting me know that my soul is worthwhile enough to be saved by both of you.

I have never been a big fan of horror movies. Its not that I don’t enjoy them, per se, it’s just that I very rarely get scared or touched in any way when watching one. The only horror movies that have ever touched a chord in me, on a deep chilly level has been “The Exorcist” (surprise surprise) and “The Omen Trilogy”, both of which I own on DVD and have watched alone at home many a time. Since the creation of these movies, there has never been a movie that I have wanted to watch over and over again, or talk about, forget writing reviews.

I ignored the Blair Witch phenomenon. I watched the movie, sure, and while I admired the use of documentary film-making in terms of horror, I shrugged after watching the movie, and my exact words I recall was “Meh”.

However, Paranormal Activity aroused my interest for many reasons. 1) The extreme hype that surrounded it, 2) The abnormally minimal budget used to film it ($ 15,000) 3) It was being called the best horror movie of the decade. 4) The story seemed simple enough to have potential: a couple who believe they are being haunted, decide to film themselves and their home to spot any evidence of ghosts/demons.

A friend who I have always admired for his cool and calm head, lent me the DVD and warned me not to see it alone, and while I scoffed at him at the time, I'm glad I took his advice.

If you break it down into pieces (which you really shouldn’t do), analytically, the film isn’t a masterpiece. However, it does the one thing its supposed to do. It chills you. Its quiet, and theres no gore, or anything stereotypically scary but before you know it, you’re leaning back in your seat, and wondering why the heck you’re scared, because nothing has even happened. The entire film is set primarily in the couple’s bedroom, with a few minutes spent in the living room. It’s a movie based on conversation and a hand-held camera, a movie that while you say “Oh well, that wasn’t so bad”, once its done, STILL somehow has the power to keep you awake all night.

A friend and I watched the movie at 11pm, and by 12:30, it was done, and we bragged about how this was a bunch of overrated hype, and there was nothing scary about it. Then we went to bed, and managed to get sleep only at around 5am. Like the best of horror movies, there is no logic to why you should be scared. You know you aren’t possessed, you know there aren’t demons in your body, or ghouls under your bed, you also know that you’re an adult and you should really know better. Yet, like the best of horror movies, Paranormal Activity, gets you asking yourself the most creepy question of all : What if?

I have never been able to sing to save my life, and it is something I have made my peace with over the years. However, I whole-heartedly admire those who do sing, including Harry and Tejas and am content with being the only WeTheMember with zero vocal abilities.

One voice, in particular, I fell in love with some years ago, and I wished and hoped and prayed that her voice were mine. Despite the fact that after her debut album, much of her music has been disappointing, I stayed true to my love of her voice, her lazy croon, a voice that always made me want to curl up under covers with a book and a great sense of well-being. I stayed loyal to Norah Jones’ warm jazzy croon for 9 years, including the release of her new album, The Fall. 

While I downloaded The Fall in November, somehow I never found the time to listen to it until some days ago, on a long bus ride in an attempt to mar my thoughts. Norah didn’t let me down. While her last few albums have been mediocre imitations of her debut album “Come Away With Me”, her latest album shows that YES, she is willing to experiment with her beautiful voice, and isn’t afraid to step out of her comfort zone. Instead of falling back, yet again, into her jazzy/bluesy comfort zone, Jones has now stepped into rocknroll, leaving her trusty piano behind to embrace a guitar instead. 

The Fall, the result of a painful break-up, is a beautiful album that reaches out to lonely nights and heartache. Her lyrics are raw and honest, and soothe you where it hurts. Listening to this album, gives you the same comfort that a bartender gives you over many martinis. He doesn’t know you, but he exudes understanding. Norah Jones and I have never met, but in the three hours I spent with her in a bus, I knew that on some strange level, she understood. 

My personal favorites in The Fall, are “Back to Manhattan”, where in her unique voice she sings, “I’ll go back to Manhattan/ It’s just a train ride away/ I know nothing ’bout leaving/ but I know I should do it today” I identified with it instantly, because if you switched Manhattan for Sharjah, and a train for a bus, that was me in a nutshell. My other favorite is “Man of the Hour”, which is Jones’ ballad to her dog, where she croons: "And though we’ll never take a shower together/I know you’ll never make me cry/You never argue/You don’t even talk/And I like the way you let me lead you when we go outside and walk/Will you really be my only man of the hour?” A song that not only made me think of Harry and the comfort he derives from his dogs (a comfort that made me jealous sometimes), it also gave me my first smile in days. 

And since just recently, I listened to someone wax poetic on converting pain into art, my admiration for Norah Jones has now transcended into more than just coveting her voice. She took her pain, and her brokenness and she used it. She reinvented herself, removed herself from what was comfortable, and leaped. Even the most ardent haters of Norah Jones cant call The Fall yet another reproduction of her debut album. She took a risk, and emerged triumphant. She fell and is better for her Fall. 

P.S – The dog on the cover, is unfortunately NOT Norah Jones’s man of the hour. He is just a beautiful dog named Ben. Her actual Man of the Hour, is a 20 pound poodle, who according to Norah Jones, would have created chaos if allowed on any set. Ben, in my opinion however, would be the perfect Man of any Hour, non? Isnt he just beautiful? 

It’s true. French women have always been unfairly slender, with unfairly perfect skin, and even the sloppiest of French women are born with an inherent grace that most of us can’t even begin to fake. We can buy Chanel clutch purses , use Crème de la Mer, and even master the art of rolling our “R’s”, but there’s something about the French that we can never achieve.

Which is why, when I read a review about Mireille Guiliano’s “French Women Don’t Get Fat”, my attention was immediately aroused. It was an extremely funny article, about how the French are the only ones not overly affected by the scary “R” word. They drink as much wine as ever, and take longer lunch hours than they ever did. In fact, this particular journalist, pointed out that the reason the French aren’t so hit by Recession is BECAUSE of their long lunch breaks. It makes sense. The French will wake up as late as they like, they’ll have a leisurely breakfast, and get to work. But, when they reach office, they are so relaxed and rejuvenated, they give work their 200%. While in the US and the UK, people will scramble out of bed, battle with ties and pantyhose, and drink at least 5 venti lattes by the time they reach work. Then they’ll proceed to update their Facebook/Twitter, play Solitaire, meet colleagues at the coffee machine and productivity is basically nil. The article was so brilliantly written, with such marveilleuse insights, that when the journalist briefly mentioned “French Women Don’t Get Fat”, I knew I HAD to get my hands on it.


The logic that Guiliano presented to the world appealed to me because Ive been following it all my life : Eat whatever you want, whenever you want. Eat butter, white bread, chocolate, drink wine - just do it in moderation. If you feel like eating chocolate, and you immediately get your hands on it, you’ll end up eating a few squares. Your body’s demands have been instantly satisfied. However, if you try fighting your desire for chocolate, your body not only gets cranky, there comes a point when you stop fighting and youre cramming bars and bars of chocolate into your mouth like a crazy person. Never let yourself get hungry. Then you will never let yourself get stuffed. It is sound logic, and it seemed refreshing after all the calorie counting and banning of foods that other diets have strutted out.

Unfortunately, when Harry hunted it (and its sequel) down for me and it became my “Welcome home!” present, the book didn’t live upto my expectations, its review or its status as a present. While it’s a more entertaining read than most diet books, and its underlying logic is extremely sound, theres that certain something lacking that leaves the reader untouched. Its sequel on the other hand, “French Women for all Seasons” is a beautiful book, and one of my many books with a broken spine and many folded down pages. Guiliano seems to have put more of her heart into her sequel, with more personal histories, beautifully told with the occasional French phrase thrown in for poetic measure. While her first book tells you what to do and how to eat (including weekly menus!) her second book tells it like it is, which makes it even more a pleasure to read.

However, despite my criticism of “French Women Don’t Get Fat”, I hail her moot point as genius. It is a relief to finally have the ultimate non-diet book that dictates “the secret of eating for pleasure” One of my favourite chapters in the book, is one dedicated entirely to chocolate. Apparently, many French women say “Je deprime donc je chocolate” or “When I’m down, I chocolate”


It was a refreshing chapter to read in a so-called diet book, and so, as a tribute to the chapter and my father, I decided to try one of the recipes : Chocolate-Espresso Faux Souffles. A very simple recipe, I think Guiliano has made it so many times, she forgot that most people attempting are doing so for the first time. I followed her recipe perfectly the first time round, and had to discard it and start from scratch, switching around steps. And while I spent the night cursing her and her book, this morning I got up and actually tried the soufflé. I died, and went to heaven. Unlike my parents who gobbled their unset soufflés last night, I decided that all my exertions deserved to let it set properly. It was good that I did, because its perfect. Firm on the outside and molten chocolate inside. The kind of chocolate that makes you want to open chocolate museums (which apparently, the French have already done, thanks to recipes like this)

To quote Guiliano, who quoted Colette, a table of food should be seen as un rendez-vous d’amour et d’amitie (a date with love and friendship) Enjoy your food, savour it, eat for pleasure, and you may never have to worry about getting fat again.

I have wanted to do a post of Anne of Green Gables for the longest time, but the timing was never right. To do proper justice to Anne-with-an-e Shirley and everything she represented, there had to a proper time, place and feeling.

I discovered Anne of Green Gables when I was 10. I had borrowed an abridged illustrated copy from a friend and I felt hopelessly in love. An orphan who was sent by accident to a brother-and-sister, she managed to transform their lives as well as the pretty Canadian town she lived in. Between the ages of 10 - 15, I managed to track down all 8 of her books - dating from her childhood, to the lives and loves of her own children. My collection of Anne Shirley's life has and always will be one of my most prized possession. She was and is one of my best friends. Her colorful imagination, her lyrical flights of fancy, and her all encompassing sense of love makes her far more than a mere fictional character. The fact that she was far from perfect helped too - a perfect person would never manage to dye her hair green, her nose blue, get her 11-year old friend drunk, bake a cake with anodyne liniment etc. Anne Shirley creeps her way into your heart because she is so...human.

One of Anne's pet theories, is one of kindred spirits. A kindred spirit is much more than just a friend. A kindred spirit, is someone who understands unconditionally, without even trying. Someone who becomes a part of your life without even trying, whether you like it or not, because somehow or the other, she/he just knows what you're saying/thinking/feeling. That someone will not only tolerate your incessant ramblings but will manage to acquire the underlying sense behind it. That someone gives you far more than love or friendship - that someone "gets" you, which is much harder to find than love/friendship.

Since Anne Shirley explained the concept of kindred spirits to me, a decade ago, I have been on the lookout for them. And I have found them, perhaps not as much I'd like, but I love the ones I have with a deep deep devotion. My kindred spirits shared a flaw however. They never understood the concept of kindred spirits. I could explain till I was hoarse, I could attempt to shove poor Anne down their throats, and they never really got it. They liked the way it sounded, and thought it amusing that it meant so much to me, but never really understood the significance of a kindred spirit the way Anne did.

But recently, I found a new kindred spirit, one I have never even met. It is surreal in the nicest possible way knowing that you and someone can "get" each other, without ever having met. But this someone, when told she was my kindred spirit, knew enough to exclaim"Anne of Green Gables!" This someone knew what being a kindred spirit meant, and understood enough of Anne-with-an-e's own spirit to know how yay it is to find one. This particular kindred spirit excites me more than the others I have, because if we can "get" each other when we have never met, I would love to know what it'll be like when we DO meet.

At age 10, Anne Shirley became a kindred spirit for life. One of the few fictional characters in my bookshelf to hold that title. But more than that, she paved the way for me to find kindred spirits of my own, apart from her. She taught me that once you find someone like that, you keep them. She taught me that an imagination can be the greatest comfort when you are "in the depths of despair" and she taught me it doesnt hurt to dream, even if you have freckles and red hair.

And most importantly, she taught me to always look at the bottle before you attempt to dye your hair. Green hair is not...becoming.

“Kindred Spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. Its splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world" - Anne Shirley in Anne of Green Gables

Gilmore Girls effectively ended two years ago. However, thanks to the fact that it doesn’t seem to air in India (except for a while at an abysmal hour on Zee Café) and erratic Abu Dhabi visits (when a season would never be on air) I only got to catch up with the last two seasons now.

It was heartrending, all the memories that show brought up. Ive been watching Gilmore Girls since I was in High School, back in the good old days, when Wednesday nights were primetime viewing because Thursday/Friday still constituted a weekend. It was a mommy and me tradition and we never missed an episode.

I think you’ll be hard-pressed to find a mother-daughter (those that get along as well as those who don’t) who don’t fall hook, line and sinker for this show. Yes, the characters talk too fast, yes, Stars Hollow doesn’t even exist (and a town as awesome as that really should), but a show as warm and as intelligent as that deserved to run for years and years and years.

One of the main reasons I loved this show was an inherent theme that ran throughout the show from episode 1 to the Bon Voyage episode in Season 7 – Books. The writers of Gilmore Girls (the Palladino’s are GODS) made sure that every other sentence had a cultural/literary reference. They understood, how underrated books were in American teenage television. In the O.C, in 90210 – it’s all about sex, breaking up and hooking up. In the Gilmore Girls however, a book is a symbol of your identity, an understanding of whom you are as a person as well as whom you want to be. “ I live in a world of books. I’ve been a resident of Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha County, hunted the white whale aboard the Pequod, fought alongside Napoleon, sailed a raft with Huck and Jim, committed absurdities with Ignatius J. Reilly, rode a sad train with Anna Karenina, and strolled down Swann’s Way” – Rory’s High School Graduation Speech. There have been at least a dozen books Rory Gilmore has introduced me to, that will remain favorites forever.

For the Gilmore Girls, unlike the characters of The O.C/90210 etc, high heels and handbags aren’t the ultimate accessory. Books are. In the first episode, Rory meets her first boyfriend, Dean (Jared Padalecki), when he spots her reading Madame Bovary and later Moby Dick under a tree: "I thought, 'I have never seen someone read so intensely before in my life. I have to meet that girl.' " In a later season, Jess (Milo Ventimiglia) borrows Rory's copy of Allen Ginsberg's* Howl and returns it with notes scribbled in the margins. The two soon embark on a typically angst-ridden romance, where the exchange of books plays a large role.

Season 7, the final season of Gilmore Girls plainly showed the absence of the Palladino’s. As soon as I watched the first episode of the season, I knew something was wrong. The dialogue was as wordy as ever, but no longer witty. Overall, it was a disappointing season – made up for by the last episode. I didn’t just cry, I blubbered. I wept and wept till I ran out of tissues. Once I got another box of tissues, I wept some more. It was beautiful, because the Gilmore Girls themselves, didn’t cry once, despite the fact that they would be separated for months, if not years. They ironed tshirts, they shopped, they didn’t talk, they talked, and the show ended the same way the show began 7 years ago – at Luke’s diner, in the early hours of the morning, just before Rory Gilmore takes off to be a political reporter on the trail of Obama’s presidential campaign.
Cliché, though it may seem, I always felt prettier, and wittier and wiser after watching Gilmore Girls. Not only do I talk (much) faster than normal, I’m chirpier and wiser. Ask Harry. He has spoken to me pre-Gilmore Girls viewing and post-Gilmore Girls viewing and can tell the difference by now. It wasn’t just about the books, or the addiction to coffee, or the compulsive eating, or even the witty dialogues. It was them. You fell in love with the Gilmore Girls, because they were awesome. End of story. They were funny, and smart and brave and had pretty much no-one else but each other. And I, for one, am a better person for knowing them intimately for seven years.

The time has come. To think not of cabbages and kings, but of what the future brings. Now that I am "officially" a graduate, my sole reason for procrastination has faded. In a little over a month’s time, I will be armed with transcripts, resumes and recommendations – all that anyone needs to make themselves official in the big bad world of employment and you know…reality. Which brings me to J. Peterman.

Stealing a quote from You’ve Got Mail, J. Peterman "is a lone reed standing tall, waving boldly in the corrupt sands of commerce." In a world that has become scarily cookie-cutter, this famous catalog company don’t sell just products, they sell stories.

For example, when selling a shirt, as opposed to just giving the size, color and price (ie Banana Republic, Gap etc), J.Peterman chooses to describe it like this: Thos. Jefferson disliked stuffy people, stuffy houses, stuffy societies. So he changed a few things. Law. Gardening. Government. Architecture. Of the thousand castles, mansions, chateaux you can walk through today, only Monticello, only Jefferson’s own mansion, makes you feel so comfortable you want to live in it. I think you will feel the same about his 18th-century shirt. Classic. Simple. Livable.

You see? Its not just a shirt, it’s a story. You wear a story everytime you put the shirt on. And honestly, who wouldn’t want that?

Most people remember Jacopo "J" Peterman, from Seinfeld (Elaine’s boss?) In fact, Seinfeld helped make the catalog company a household name. Seinfeld and J. Peterman forged such a strong bond, that when the company faced bankruptcy, takeovers etc, the actor who played J. Peterman in the show (John O' Hurley) helped the original John Peterman bring his beautiful company back to life. Apart from being a major investor in the company, O' Hurley sits proudly on the Peterman Board.

J. Peterman gives life to the most mundane of things. Pants, shirts, bags, stuff for the house. Everything. The descriptions make you laugh, or smile or feel. You feel like you KNOW, and know intimately the product you’ve never felt between your fingers. Also, to enhance the personal tale-telling atmosphere, there are no photographs in the catalogue – only handmade illustrations. Thus, no-one in their right mind would ever consider this to be just a catalog. Its art, through and through. And yes, in my current post-graduation phase I would give up my right…ear or leg or something to work for them. After all, theres nothing *official* about them.

My personal J. Peterman favourites:
1. Vintage Tshirt
2. Linen Safari Dress
3. Thinking Pants (yes, seriously! They invented "thinking" pants!)
4. Seersucker Shirt
5. Knockabout Dress (teehee)
6. Authentic Baseball sleeves

Oh and also check out their new website : Peterman’s Eye. It is most awesomess.

Ive always been a reader first, a movie watcher second. Thus, watching a movie that has derived life from a book can sometimes be painful, often heart-wrenching. Many good books are massacred to make a good movie, descriptions and characters faded in the process of making the film a worthwhile one. On the other hand, many a character have been brought to life by celluloid in a way that paper never did justice to. The following is a list of the good and the ugly of paper becoming celluloid.

The Good:
1) The Godfather. The book was good, the movie was a classic. Marlon Brando gave life to Don Corleone in a way the book never fully did justice to. The book didn’t reek of power and vengeance the way the movie did. Brando was a true God.
2) Gone with the Wind. I had the good fortune of this being the first love story I ever read. As a result, all the men in my life are measured by Rhett Butler, i.e Clark Gable who spent years mastering the sneer that MADE him Rhett Butler. In Vivien Leigh, it was like Scarlett O’ Hara had stepped out of the pages of the book to act in the movie. The book was brilliant and the movie was a tribute to its brilliance. God help anyone who decides to remake it. There was only one Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara in this lifetime, and Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh were them. There is something very grammatically wrong with the previous sentence.
3) The Harry Potter Series. Books were awesome, movies are good. No, seriously. The special effects in the movies are a tribute to J.K Rowling’s imagination. There are times when I wonder about the casting, but to each his own. To some people, Daniel Radcliffe is Harry Potter, to others he’s very…”I don’t know…” Overall however, I think Transfiguration, Quidditch, Hagrid, and everything to do with wands, more than make up for the films shortcomings.
4) Bridget Jones’ Diary and Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. Bridget Jones is one of my favourite characters in literary fiction and Renee Zellweger. The otherwise svelte actress, made herself put on pounds of weight, perfected her accent and her walk to become the life, soul and chocolate and cigarette consuming Bridget Jones. She is Bridget Jones in all her voluptuous flesh.

The Ugly:
1) Little Women. Oh My Good Lord. I have the misfortune of having this movie on tape. It was a 12th birthday present and it was so bad I cried. The book is one of the most beautiful examples of literature on the planet and Louisa May Alcott must have turned in her grave at Winona freaking Ryder playing Jo March, the girl whose only real beauty was her hair. Jo March is not physically attractive in any way. She’s downright plain. She’s got a temper, a personality, a talent. Looks, she does not have. Why would a pretty woman be cast as Jo March, the principal character of the book? The book REVOLVES around Jo March. Did the makers of this movie never READ the book?
2) Chocolat. This book should never have been made into a movie. The mesmerizing magical descriptions of chocolate that Joanne Harris weaved so beautifully into words didn’t show up on screen. With the book, the story took you places, with the movie, it just stayed flat. Disappointing. Also, a waste of Johnny Depp’s awesomeness.
3) Pride & Prejudice. With Lizzie Bennet posing the same casting problems as Jo March (interesting, intelligent, but not in-your-face attractive), Keira Knightley was a very okay choice. Matthew Macfadyen as Mr. Darcy was also a very okay choice. But. Aha, if youre smart, you knew that was coming. Mr. Darcy and Lizzie Bennet are two of the greatest, most enigmatic characters in English Literature. Okay doesnt do them justice.
4) The Da Vinci Code. Awesome book. Very average movie. Yes, that’s it.

The Opposite Effect: Movies so beautiful, I have to read the books.
1) The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
2) A Beautiful Mind
3) The Horse Whisperer
4) Forrest Gump
5) Horton hears a Who
6) Fast Times at Ridgemont High

Women can't do without their daily/weekly/monthly fix of fashion magazines, despite the fact that the skinny models and overpriced handbags plague them no end. This is common knowledge. Why do they buy? Because its like looking into another world, a world that eludes and fascinates them/ Publishers have taken advantage of this by churning out magazine one after the glossy other, to add to the obsessions of women. Two of the greatest fashion/couture magazines in the world today, have not only been around for decades, theyre a household name in many a woman's mind : Vogue and Harper's Bazaar.

Before I continue, let me elucidate. When I lived in Abu Dhabi, I couldnt afford either magazine, priced at over and above Dhs. 40-60. Thus, my criticism and compliments to the magazines lie in Vogue India, and Bazaar India, both priced at a fairly reasonable Rs 100.

Editorial Content: Bazaar India wins hands down. Bazaar India has done something that no other fashion magazine in India has done so far. Instead of inviting guest writers from the industry, they've made the editorial team the industry. Thus, every feature, every editorial, is written by someone who not only faces high fashion on a daily basis, but can also really understand the highs and lows of wearing couture. Vogue India, on the other hand, is severely lacking in terms of editorial content, focusing instead on expensive photo shoots of expensive products and clothing with short descriptions. How helpful. That aside, Vogue India seems hellbent on interviews/actresses/models from abroad. Case in point, I could just buy Vogue International if I wanted Michelle Obama on the cover, or if I wanted an interview of Katie Holmes.

Fashion Coverage: Grudgingly, this goes to Vogue, but a very small margin. Vogue takes pride in its fashion coverage; its glossy photos of truly bizarre fashion that no self-respecting working woman would ever wear. Or spend thousands of dollars/rupees on. Do I sound bitter? Yes, I am. Fashion coverage is good and all. What pinches is that very few readers can actually afford to buy the fashion you're covering.

Design and Art: I think the whole world knows of Vogue India's fiasco in terms of fashion shoots and art. Of all the possible creative ways to conduct a photo shoot, using beggars to accentuate the luxuriousness of Burberry is just cruel. Obviously, Vogue India didnt learn anything from the worldwide criticism: Their last edition has a feature of bikini-clad women prancing in front of burqa-clad women in the desert. Are you honestly saying there is no better way of portraying fashion? Bazaar, on the other hand, while playing it safe, doesnt break the boundaries of creativity. Their art is good, the look of the book is good, the design is good. But since when has good been good enough for the ruthless world of fashion?

Overall, in my opinion (note the my), Bazaar India wins hands down, in terms of "I would rather spend Rs100 a month on this magazine." While it doesnt dazzle me with its wowza, at least it doesnt make me angry like Vogue India does. I'd rather read a magazine strong in editorial content, than buy a magazine chock-full of Louis Vuitton and Burberry ads, which will just remind me that Im very very far from earning that kind of money.

On hindsight, however, I can think of better magazines/books to spend Rs100 or less on.
1) The Economist (the smartest magazine in the world)
2) Frontline
3) Outlook
4) Femina (yes, affordable fashion, and the magazine is only Rs30!)
5) Any Hercule Poirot by Agatha Christie (yes, I know, I digress from the point of this blog, but such awesomeness I cannot ignore)

Note: Next on this debate: Why would women buy fashion magazines to feel not-so great about themselves, when they can buy an Agatha Christie, and think "Wowza! This was one scarily smart woman!" Yes, my next blog will most definately be a tribute to the great Mistress of Crime.

While I spent most of high school trying to pass the wretched subject, The Algebra of Infinite Justice by Arundhati Roy was a book I’d been looking for over a year. It’s sad that only her fictional The God of Small Things will haunt shelves, while most of India is ignorant to the fact that this lyrical author is one of the greatest political revolutionaries we have today. And no, I’m sorry. Im sure Salman Rushdie is a wonderful writer, but minus Midnight’s Children, the man is the greatest alternative to sleeping pills. So, in my book, while he might have a brilliantly heightened political opinion, it isn’t one I can wade through.

Arundhati Roy has conversations with her readers. You forget you’re holding a moderately heavy paperback and listen and converse with a writer who really knows her politics. A student of architecture, Roy’s words have a beautiful symmetry. Roy took the best possible thing from her prestigious Booker: supreme confidence to write whatever she damn well pleases. Of course, Im sure the money and autographs didn’t hurt, but confidence and a sense of self can take you to pinnacles of risk and help you survive. Her scathing poetry rips America’s mission of “Infinite Justice” to shreds – a mission where the most powerful country in the world is slowly and steadily transforming the world’s poorest into dust. If that isn’t infinite justice, what is?

However, someone in the Pentagon must have felt some misgivings. “This doesn’t sound right”, he must have thought. “Where’s the justice in this whole operation?”, he must have thought. Sadly, he didn’t think any of these things, for the operation was renamed “Enduring Freedom”. Basically, as Roy points out, the US has put these two words together without the slightest awareness of the human effort of struggle. In a reality far from US cruelty, “Enduring Freedom” actually means that the Afghanistan population is enduring what the White House and the Pentagon call freedom. How infinitely just, no?

Arundhati Roy doesn’t say “we should do so and so”. She says. “this is how it is, this is how I feel, now you have facts and an opinion. Come up with your own opinion and do what is right”. She makes her readers face intolerance and make sense of global confusion. She makes them understand what it means to be completely alive and fully awake in the world, and “getting close to and listening to those for whom this world has become intolerable”.

A year ago, one of my best friends told me what being fully alive meant. After reading Roy, I understood where she got it from. It’s the focal point of the whole book, and when put alongside the infinite justice of the US, the beauty of Roy makes you cringe. Roy puts forth that “the only dream worth having is to live while you’re alive and die when you’re dead”

Meaning?

“To love. To be love. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never complicate what is simple or simplify what is complicated. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget”