I live in a society that rejoices in stripping you of your right to choose. From what you wear, to how you dress, to the car you drive, the interests you pursue, and the person you marry … all these decisions are mostly governed by the society, the community, the neighborhood, the clan, the nosey aunty who lives next door, the chai wallah, the doodh waala … anybody except you.
Every time I see a traditional Kerala lamp, it’s like I’m hitching a ride on a time machine and taking a trip through memory lane. Its warm glow and golden glory just whisks me back to some of the fondest memories I have of my hometown and family.
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.
In a previous blog post, I had expressed, almost giddyingly, how much I loved stories. And I’d also mentioned that the first movie I watched was the one that started my love affair with all things 70mm – Sound of Music.
I have no recollection of how old I was when I first saw this movie, but I have watched it a hundred times since and will probably score a triple century before I kick the bucket.
Yes, I love it that much. Read More
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.