I am ashamed to say that I am a poor Delhiite. In fact, it would be more accurate for me to say that I am not a Delhiite at all. I might have been living in Delhi for the last 35 years and might have sought employment in this city and had romantic entanglements and dreamt of buying a nice house in the posh South Delhi area, but I am not a Delhiite.
When Amrita Arora shook her hips to the song that paid tribute to “Dilli ki sardi” (translated, the Winters of Delhi), two thoughts struck my mind. One, “What a God awful song that is!” and two, “They are dragging the wrong season into limelight.” If there is anything that is dreaded about Delhi (apart from the startling increase in the crimes against women) and the tomfoolery that passes for driving skills in this city, it is the duration between May and September.
It’s 2.45 in the morning and I am sitting on my terrace. The drowsiness that had been weighing on my eyelids not five minutes ago has turned into dreaminess. After standing in total silence for a while, I slip down to the floor and rest myself against the wall, my back crying out in gratitude for the support. Noddy, my dog, curls up next to me, reluctant to be out while the storm threatens to create mischief. And yet, he is apprehensive to leave me by myself. He shifts his position to be as close to me as possible and we both are comforted by each other’s presence.
As a society, we love judging people. In fact, that could probably be our national pastime. We judge people on what they wear, don’t wear, eat, don’t eat, do don’t do, buy, don’t buy. How high we turn up our noses is directly related to how good we feel about ourselves. The more we squish someone’s self-esteem, the better human beings we think we are.
Every year, as the old year draws to an end and the new year stands expectantly outside our door, just waiting to be let in, I get these uncontrollable pangs of excitement. I am as nervous as a dancer about to make her first public appearance and, at the same time, as giddy as a little kid going to Disneyland for the first time.
Me at a marathon??? An unlikely sight indeed. Most would think of the ‘fish out of water’ analogy. I am going to take it a step further and ask you to take a fish – your choice entirely which one – trout, mackerel, sardine, porpoise, etc. – and whisk the poor soul away to the top of a snow capped peak. Again, your choice where (I am generous that way!). Now, step back and take a look.
As a kid, I was brought up on a staple and wholesome diet of Enid Blyton books. From Famous Five to the Five Find Outers to Secret Seven and the Malory Towers series …. I loved every story written by her. But my all time favorites were the ones where she had an interesting line up of magical characters.
I am a huge movie buff. Or, to be more precise, I am a story buff. I am absolutely, positively, indubitably, and unquestioningly in love with stories. Use whatever medium possible to tell me a tale – movies, television, books, short stories, magazines, podcasts, even good, old-fashioned swapping of anecdotes around a campfire – and you will have a very enthralled person on your hands.