Lots in a name, Mian Khan

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Hi, I am Shah Rukh Khan. Naam toh suna hi hoga. I just couldn't help it. Chuckling, that is, at my nasty little brain for coming up with this one, when the news of the superstar being detained at Newark airport broke on a rather boring Independence Day afternoon. More such possibilities were explored--'Mian SRK, while Swades is your territory, Pardes isn't'--and many giggles and LOLs were exchanged over lunch, tea, Facebook and Twitter. But in all seriousness, I should hold back these twisted nuggets of humour. Especially when Shah Rukh--by his own admission--had to work really hard at not letting his crazy wit prevail at the airport. Yes, whatever happened is not funny. Curious, it is. Intriguing, sure. Convenient, most certainly. By now, most of us must have FB'd, Tweeted, hollered or hawed at the uncanny timing of this incident. Sunday editions of....

Remembering Soumya

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"You are too sweet for the world, Soumya. Too nice for just about everyone." That's how I would joke with her. Unnervingly, it became a joke too cruel and played out in a bizarre, twisted way on Tuesday morning. My first - and perhaps the most-defining last - memories of Soumya were her eyes - carefully kohled, perpetually twinkling with mischief, forever winsome. But the more lasting memory of Soumya was her magical ability to be around, almost as if on cue; her charming indecisiveness between lime juice and cold coffee; her keen eye for detail and her art of subtle complimenting. Soumya was arguably the only person I knew who could make anyone smile even on a bad hair day. Even a self-conscious news anchor. I knew her from day one of college and would always wonder how she managed to keep....

Persepolis

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There was no reason for me to attend the preview of Persepolis. There were many reasons for me to not go. For one, I had returned from work at 5 am after an eight-hour graveyard shift and was groggy, crabby, exhausted. Second, Alliance Francaise was 25 km from my place, which effectively meant an hour-and-a-half spent travelling for the 3-pm screening. Third, outside was oppressively humid. Fourth, I had no background on the film and no overt interest in graphic novels either. Fifth - albeit the most inconsequential one - a rival news channel was promoting it. I went. I learnt four things: Defying reason makes one feel momentarily empowered; every autowallah in Delhi knows where India Habitat Centre ("Hebbit Centre jaaogi, madam?") is, 3 pm is bad time for anything in June. And: India needs films like Persepolis. Now without making this read....

'Me too! How to be a journalist?'

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(Author's Note: This post has been written in gross violation of one of the cardinal rules of journalism - the Inverted Pyramid. Those of you who know what I mean are requested to remain patient and read it in its entirety, and those unaware of the snobbish jargon are urged to read what is written, nonetheless.While you will realise the end is certainly more important - literally so in this case - the means isn't wasted either.) I am sure most of my colleagues will identify with the experience I am about to narrate. I say this with an unapologetic confidence because I'm also sure they, and most others in this profession, have been confronted with similar situations at some point in the course of their careers. And may be, still continue to face. The situation is such: Every year....

Indian spinsters - 'a cause for despair'

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An excerpt from a Reuters report on Liz Hurley, filed by one Jonathan Allen: "Indian women are commonly married off in their teens to a man of their parents' choosing, and are a cause of despair if they are still a spinster at 30. Even the humblest family will save up to make sure their children are paraded regally around the neighbourhood by lantern-bearers and a brass band." An apt read for International Women's Day. What appalling, mindless bracketing, myopic stereotyping, West-side perspective and the inability to look beyond and rise above the "elephant-sadhu-snake-charmer" state of being! Anyway, no fuming. Dear Jonathan, this is for you. Please take note and do consider this a helpful "template" for all your West trend stories. Anyway, your generalisations are tantamount to saying the understated: "In United States (or whatever country you come from), the concept of....

Shilpa's Oscar-winning show

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"She won, she won! Can you believe it, she actually won," I was trying to adjust myself to the cold comfort of the office cab at 6:30 am on a foggy Monday morning, when what read like an encrypted message beeped on my screen. The message was sent by a spaced-out journalist friend on the entertainment beat, stationed permanently on the graveyard shift since her journalism debut. Now, random messages at ungodly hours on a Monday morning do not amuse me. So I promptly messaged her back asking who the "she" and "it" in question were, half expecting her to text me back about Deepa Mehta being declared an early Oscar winner. Huh! Obviously, I had been too clued out over the extended weekend to understand that the world - at least the sizeable Indian chunk of it - had been waiting with bated breath to....

'Journalists don't impress me at all'

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"So, what do you do?" Hence began one of the most consequential conversations I have had in the recent past. The seemingly innocuous question was casually thrown my way by a bespectacled, mousy-looking lady seated next to me in an obscenely-packed Haryana Roadways monstrosity. The loud utterance of five suitably punctuated English words in a local bus were enough to draw curious glances from at least 30 pair of eyes and an equal number of ears, the owners of which were precariously positioned in various stages of "bus posture." (sitting, standing, leaning, clutching, hanging and unmentionables). "Oh, I am a journalist." I almost mumbled, half fearing the unwanted attention from an additional 30 pair of eyes and ears, and half swelling in pride in the anticipation of an expected reaction. (On the lines of - 'Wow, must be challenging, no!' or 'Do you come on....

The 'single-mingle' jingle

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What does being single mean? Does it mean getting to live it up, no strings attached? Does it mean having the freedom to eat a melting choco fudge for breakfast (with no hubby making a snide remark on the expanding waistline) and guzzling beer with rowdy buddies over a heady football game (with no three-year-olds bawling in the background)? Does singledom really ensure a passport to good life or is it just a theory propounded by frustrated and incomplete individuals? Just like me, surely, there must be many who have faced the 'singular' dilemma at some juncture of their lives. I happened to be a part of one such interesting congregation of Capital's single luminaries at the launch of Chasing the good life on being single. An interesting blend of opinions emerged from the nearly two hours that I spent on the....

Bitter after the bite

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It's that time of the year again. The autumn air is laden with festive sounds and smells. The sweet promise of approaching winter is doing much to infuse renewed energy into souls, beaten down with the sultry monotony of Delhi's summer of discontent. It's the best of times. It's the worst of times. Delhi is in the grips of the deadly dengue and panic has reached feverish pitch - quite literally at that - with 11 deaths and nearly 500 cases reported so far. Having had a close brush with death last year, courtesy the Aedes, I think I have all rights to feel outraged at our collective lethargy in dealing with something as dangerous as dengue. I was down with hemorrhagic dengue this time last year, ICUised for a week, narrowly escaping death thanks to seven bottles of blood plasma and platelets, eight....

Shooting Children

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They are the most delightful of subjects and the most spontaneous of models. They'll giggle gregariously into the camera when you want them to look all scenery and poetry and all of that, but would not oblige you if you insist they look down the lens gleefully saying "cheeeese". Shooting children can be fun and challenging at the same time.