Christmas candy

The most unusual fragrance of the year, mine, all mine! 

What I spent Xmas day doing, while also reading. Bliss.

All, sometimes, is lost

I spied Sephora in Delhi recently and almost fell to my knees in gratitude. But of course, India being India, (where else do you get no beef at a McDonald's?), it was lacking in the variety which is precisely what Sephora is famous for. Apart from a nod to benefit, Stila had a presence so I bought a token second-choice eyeliner (they didn't have the one I wanted - surprise!) and discovered even OPI had only about 10 colours to choose from. I then sadly tottered towards Starbucks where the appalling decor gave me more of a start than the coffee, and left suddenly after noticing the RiRi Woo poster outside MAC's. Yes, dear Reader, after completing my 100-meter dash there I was told it was out of stock. After which, having lost the will to live, I caught the next flight out.

December 2013, Bangalore

Mr Paul Walker

Flashpoint

Those two dots are the stunned eyes of an owl who has decided to live in the treetops outside the house.

2 Treasures

Bird and coloured onyx ear-rings

Raintree is a boutique in Bangalore housed in a heritage home that has some of the most unusual, creative treasures. Here's two.

Cup-cake quarter-plates

Japan on a Plate

Edamame soup

Salmon art

Sea bass takes a swim

That seaweed swirl

What is the meaning of life? Why are we here? Is there a God? I wouldn't know. I live for the here and now, by which I don't mean I plan for the weekend, but that I can only rely on this moment right here. So when I found myself at Edo, (meaning estuary, also the former name for Tokyo), ITC Gardenia Bangalore for their “Japan Debate on a Plate”, I was well pleased with my philosophy du jour, because the here and now tasted sublime and I came away with the answer to at least one of the above questions, yes, there is a God, a culinary God at least.

At Edo, that would be Resident Chef Fumio Kikuta who got a helping hand from visiting Chef Vikramjit Roy and Raveen Misra, Regional Brand Ambassador, SEA Portfolio Markets and Emerging Asia who served up whisky-based cocktails that went over my philistine head but which, I was told by connoisseurs at the table, “tasted as smooth as butter”.

I was too immersed in my Salmon with confit melon and miso cream cheese, bubuarare and smoked corn mash to pay too much attention to the Green Tea whisky complete with Johnnie Walker and seaweed flourish except to admire the way it looked (yes, Superficial is my middle name), and by the time the Edamame soup, sansho crisp and foie gras foam arrived at the table, I couldn't have told you the name of my lunch companion. Not because I was imbibing freely but because I had never tasted something so delicate and inspiring. Can there be anything worse than tasting a spoonful of what looks like a science experiment and finding it tastes like one, too? The soup looked like an artist had laboured over it in both terms and Mmm, it was good.

The Chilean sea bass with tamari teriyaki and organic vegetables and jalapenos maceration followed by a dessert of Johnnie Walker XR 21 poached pear carpaccio and yuzu probiotic yoghurt ice was tantalising and refreshing. What an ode to the imagination some meals can be.

I don't know about you but to me, Food can often answer all existential queries.

The Indians are coming!

Dot, not feather, and they're everywhere. And I don't mean running away from the Saudi authorities, but on the little screen.

As the old 'Goodness Gracious Me' joke goes: Hannah Simone who plays Cece on 'New Girl'? Indian. Noureen DeWulf who plays Lacey on 'Anger Management'? Indian. Less surprisingly, Sarita Choudhury who plays Mira on 'Homeland'? Indian. And of course Kunal Nayyar on the 'Big Bang', Mindy Kaling for 'The Mindy Project', 'Navi Rawat' in 'Numbers' and Maulik Pancholy in 'Whitney' (who's also Out, thus killing two requirements in one fell swoop; it's been mandatory for years to appease the gay community by representing them as well, you see).

The Indians are not just coming, either, they've been. The frontrunners from Kal Penn ('House') and Naveen Andrews ('Lost') to Rhona Mitra ('Boston Legal') and Indira Verma ('Luther') paved the way for the public acceptance of brown faces on the telly, something Anil Kapoor on '24' must have been most thankful for.

The thing is, though, that when you cast black, brown, Korean and gay because they are black, brown, Korean and gay, it's just as racist and homophobic as Indians looking down their noses at Nigerians or telling your parents you're really Bi. Lady Gaga has been trying to tell us for ages that we are born this way, why haven't we learned the lesson and moved on?

Not that the actors are complaining, and neither am I, and who knows maybe the above have not made inroads in Hollywood because one of Cable's biggest markets is Asia, but it's important to be aware of hidden currents before they pull you under.

When you cast an actor for their fitness in a role, that's when you show an evolution in species. I think it's safe to say we're not quite there yet.

But isn't it fascinating to think of ('Burn Notice') Gabrielle Anwar's father being Tariq Anwar, and so on? Putting borders on the world and on people is just the silliest thing.

Feeling grave, anyway

Sometimes I think I need to book myself a "Crazy, Table for One". Everyone was waxing eloquent about Sandra Bullock and George Clooney's new movie "Gravity". The only stunning planetary body you will find there is Sandra's; she's worked hard and each golden, toned muscle thanks her for it. I love space movies, from "Alien" to "Mission to Mars", but I just couldn't understand why the otherwise-terrific Alfonzo Cuaron didn't figure out that for people like us we need to see, um, space. You know, the vastness of it, the silence of it, the terror of it, the nothingness of it. For the whole movie, Sandra is within touching distance of The Blue Marble. How are we supposed to feel what being untethered to anything must be like?
While "Gravity" is not boring, it simply doesn't realize its potential. Like for instance, at the end when touchdown is achieved, we want to see the heroic, immediate American response to disaster and rescue. And this is where Cuaron decides to show nothingness.
Clooney, like Pitt, meanwhile are now simply appearing in movies playing themselves it seems; you can't see a trace of effort in what they do anymore.
I wish "Breaking Bad" was still playing. That at least made terrific, crazy, wonderful sense, yo.

Ulysses goes home

He was like an avenging angel. He answered all our prayers by punishing the guilty and uncaging the deserving. And when he left the world he was happy to go. He had shed his sins, paid his dues and was free. This was Walter White, no longer Breaking Bad.

The series finale was, in a word, uplifting. I don't know what's in Vince Gilligan's brain but it should be patented. It's as though he knew what we wanted. We wanted Jesse to survive, we wanted the amoral gang who had him like a hamster strapped to a wheel decimated, we wanted Todd to die painfully by Jesse's hand, we wanted Hank's body found, we wanted part of the money to go to Walt's family (he had suffered so much for it), we wanted, at long last, the truth to fall from Walt's lips.

We wanted Walt to pay, yes, but we felt his pain, too. How do you reconcile those two things? Gilligan did it by keeping to the tenor of what went before for five years. In the final shots of Jesse screaming in relief and an at-peace Walter White who can now fold his black-and-white wings, Gilligan stayed true to the Breaking Bad motif of madmen, retribution and redemption.

Walt was dying in a cabin in the woods, so lonely as he's plugged into his chemo that he begs The Disappearer to stay for a while. Any alternate scenario would be welcome to this. So he begins his last journey, dons his final avataar. He terrorizes the couple who shafted him on Gray Matter Technologies; they are so loathsome that we, too, enjoyed the mathematical precision of Walt's revenge. Jesse's cohorts make another appearance, as does Hank in a flashback which was a lovely touch; we liked the former and admired the latter and we wanted to bid them a fare-thee-well.

When Walt rigs the machinegun and mows down Todd's uncle's band of unlovelies I, for one, was screaming Yes! They deserved their bloody end, as did Lydia in a ricin denouement that was part of Walt's wonderful orchestra of Judgement Day.

When he tells Skyler that his whole odyssey was not just about family, “I did it for me..I liked it..I was good at it...I was alive”, well, that was it, wasn't it. A man whom destiny led astray twice finally took it in his hands. He could have been rich and accomplished via Gray Matter but he was nobody both at work and at home. So when he had nothing to lose, he became a legend, a man whose brain and talent was nothing short of masterful.

In the final shot where he lay on the ground and the cops moved in, the look of satisfaction on his face and the way the camera angle panned his body surrounded by the law, you immediately thought this was a night they would speak about in whispers in drawing-rooms when they spoke of Walter White, the great Heisenberg. You can't help but feel to your bones for a man like that.

I feel to my bones for Bryan Cranston, bringing Walt to life with a look in the eyes, a swelling of the chest, a pursing of the mouth. And precision. Always precision.

I feel to my bones for Vince Gilligan whose own Gray Matter is a thing of terrifying proportions.

What a trip it's been.

10 Things.....

...a girl can't do without:

1. Black nail-polish. 2. Red lipstick. 3. J Brand jeans. 4. White button-down. 5. Black jacket.  6. Mulberry bag. 7. SK II. 8. Blahnik pumps. 9. Moleskine notebook. 10. Fictional character to fall in love with. (Mine's Stacia Kane's 'Terrible' from the Downside Ghosts series.)

Yes, please

Ate at this table in a Goa home recently and I have to say, it's exactly what I want in my own dining-room. Just whispers taste, doesn't it? And yes, to accompany the rolled napkins, a butler served. Sigh.

No, thanks

Isn't that online jewellery advertisement on Indian TV highly questionable? The male character is so off-putting I want to reach for an oil cloth and wipe him off, and the wife asking what's the occasion for his attention - I wouldn't want it if he was the last man on earth; searching for another species to procreate with would make better sense. Perhaps the ad men knew half-way there that something was not quite quite. I noticed a distinctly Jaws-like soundtrack playing, you know, to match the husband.

Almost as barf-inducing is the “Made for First Love” phone ad where the boy talking to his GF doesn't stop with the most vacuous conversation you will hear this side of the Milky Way. Hey, I was young once and in love twice but in my defence I never engaged in vapid talk. Surely at 18 it's all Kerouac and Kafka?? No? Wtf.

Free your mind

First superheroine comic book from India. Not bad. I always admire people who broaden their horizons and try something new. Created by that Shekhar Kapur, written by Samit Basu and quite gorgeously illustrated by Mukesh Singh. Now that we're all part of the Nerd Herd courtesy The Big Bang Theory all you now need to know is that I spied it at Blossom, Bangalore for Rs 320.

Riffs & Raffs

Was this year's Emmys the worst ever? I think so. Neil Patrick Harris seemed unhappy and dry-lipped; the only time he semi-sparkled was in the gay bandinage with Jane Lynch. Tina Fey and Amy Poehler showed him how it should have been done. That riff with NPH - “I think it would be degrading. Yes, but we would be degrateful” was just genius. I mean these girls are in the same class as Hugh Jackman and Billy Crystal; they are professionals who have what Jim Parsons noted was the key to it all when he commented on Bob Newhart's genius: Timing.

The winners were the least expected, like a bad Agatha Christie story. The one whose name I can't remember from “Nurse Jackie” who came on and said 'Thanks, um, I have to go now'? Honey, you ain't Jessica Lange who is famous enough and talented enough and cool enough to get away with something like that.

Jim Parsons, Anna Gunn and Michael Douglas were the only worthy ones up there. Jon Hamm not getting his is a matter of national shame (as, I have to say, was his beard); almost as absurd as waiting for years to give Scorsese and DiCaprio their dues.

But my Breaking Bad boys walked away with the honours, didn't they? That made me a happy camper.

Worst-dressed: Connie Britton. If it's too heavy to hold, don't.

Best-dressed: Kaley Cuoco. The right shade, the right off-centre design. Julie Bowen's Zac Posen creation was a close runner-up.

Worst walk-in-wear: Cobie Smulders whose dress was so tight she minced across the stage like Louis XIV.

Wtf moment: Carrie Underwood's underwhelming performance. So Yesterday.

Cast off

The Killing's casting is just as inexplicable as anyone thinking Nutella cookies are not all that. Why does Mireille Enos/Detective Linden have to be so dour, and not in a House-like, fascinating way? Her dialogue delivery is as dead as her facial expressions and no viewer is going to feel even a twinge of empathy for her fate. Now Holder, (Joel Kinnaman), on the other hand, has the requisite good looks, a dollop of animation and the desperate junkie manner to pull at a few heart strings at least. 

The series is interesting despite the way the main protagonists have been outlined, although it's obvious the writers are spinning it out for as long as they can with the slightly-crazed plot twists. The Mayoral hopeful (who wouldn't have a soft spot for Billy Campbell) and (spoiler alert) his aide who is obviously in love with him, (and I'm not talking about the chick), and the ex-mob father is what keeps my interest level up but if they don't do someting about Linden soon....Couldn't they kill her off and rope in Carla Gugino, for God's sake?

The other entirely insupportable element in this show is the way the mothers behave. With Linden, when the teen son has fever, she says take some painkillers and I'll be home when I can. He plays truant and she doesn't ask why. He badmouths her and she tells him Don't Do That. All with the same fish-eyed look she does everything else.

The mother of the dead girl turns out to be as inept as Linden. She says No to everything and when one child dies abandons the other two and leaves so she can deal with the rotten cards Her life has dealt Her. With mothers like these, one would rather be abandoned on a Church doorstep.

Seats reserved

Had my first laugh of the day seeing the British Airways ad To Fly To Serve. They certainly do - to the white protagonist featured on it. Try being black and flying from India to Europe on BA and you'll know what hell is like. A place where you are not served food on time, where the food you are served isn't fit for dogs; where the stewards look at everyone with that kind of cold contempt you last saw reserved for Sidney Poitier on In The Heat of the Night; where you disembark to catch the connecting flight from Heathrow to John F K and suddenly it's gold class treatment for everyone on board, most of whom it goes without saying, are NOT black. It's like when Australia Tourism suddenly flooded Indian TV with ads featuring Indians who said they found the Holy Grail in Brisbane, Perth, Sydney whatever - after a spate of racist attacks against Indian students in Australia was widely reported by the media. How stupid does everyone think we are. Very.

A crowd of cherries

I feel a bit Zen at the moment. As if the world has been balanced. Can you blame me after an embarrassment of riches via the Season 3 premiere of Justified, Sons of Anarchy and Breaking Bad? But first things first.

Downloaded and watched the full Spartacus series and wept and wailed as the final episode aired. What must it feel like to be Steven DeKnight? To have created something that people will remember forever? I've never seen a cast like this, unknowns for the most part who gave us a piece of themselves and gained immortality because they are so damn good at what they do. After Andy Whitfield I thought Liam McIntyre would “fall from fucking sight”, haha, but one episode in you could tell he had the intensity, not to mention the most sweetly vulnerable mouth, that would see him fly to Olympus. When Manu Bennett's Crixus died, the show almost stuttered to its end right then and there because his persona was always so aggressive that he ruled every frame he was in from the beginning of the series. Gannicus, by the time he was a “martyr on the cross”, had become a hero not just because he had that John Woo thing going on albeit with two swords instead of guns, but because he is so good-looking it hurts. And what a bit of directing his end was: Crucified, there he was reliving his time as a God of the Arena with the crowds going wild.

But the villains in Spartacus, aye, there was a crowd of cherries on top of the cake. Craig Parker as Glaber, Nick E Tarabay as Ashur, Todd Lasance as Caesar, Simon Merrells as Crassus, these are Gods of the Acting Arena. While my heart belongs to Nagron, I will go see anything with these guys in it in the future.

I have had to switch allegiances now that Spartacus is over, and there's nothing better in betrayal than Breaking Bad. Which other show can have an entire episode on a fly (that's not a euphemism) and keep us riveted? Watching Walter White turning from mild-mannered Chemistry teacher to a villain of Heath Ledger's Joker proportions is an exercise in how brilliant television writers can be. Imagine, in the first place, selling this storyline to studios. It is absolutely addictive, ha; such fun to watch a story evolving in an unexpected way: Junkie losers have moral cores, gentle husbands turn into wolves, drug dealers live by gentlemen's codes. I live my days spouting Jesse Pinkmanisms, bitch, and gasping at how easily Walter and his wife cross over to their Bonnie&Clyde avatars. If they can do that, what hope do the rest of us have really.  

An Ode to My Boys

Thank all the Gods for a rich inner life. I have been up nights, then rise early morning to YouTube, then muse all the live long day, and smile to myself like a crazy person while running errands because my thoughts are all of Nagron. It's the Domino effect of reading a book, then coming across Tumblr and fan sites and linking up with work that is similar to that single, and singular, book. The book is The Captive Prince, and Nagron refers to the characters of Agron and Nasir (such is the Brangelina effect of coining couple names which is seriously disturbing but what can you do) in the TV series Spartacus.

Really, Dan Feuerriegel and Pana Hema Taylor make Spartacus what it is to me: Timeless, and an ode to accomplished actors who can basically change your life by making you think about the nature of Love.

Nagron combine supreme fighting skills (gorgeously choreographed) with a romance made up of glances - that have the weight of a hundred explicit imaginings. You wish, idiotically, that the real world had heroes who fought for the unwinnable cause, merely because it is right. But, as it always is, it's the love that you remember. (Or as fans on the Net say, the Feels. So funny.)

The series is brilliantly made with that comic-book cinematography which has also placed Sin City and 300 in a unique slot, slo-mo and a chiaroscuro effect with the use of theatrical blood and gore being a part of it, but it is in Spartacus' directors that the core lies. There are nuances here that simply take your breath away.

The Castus-Agron-Nasir play had me gasping like a maiden aunt. When Agron 'commands' (he can't talk any other way) his rival Castus to remove his hand from Nasir, he holds out his own arm against Nasir's body, gently moving him away. For a man whose raison d'etre is the battlefield, that gentleness is the viewer's undoing. When Nasir makes him understand that his feelings are very real, the uncertainty in Agron's face, in that face that is so very sure of everything else, everywhere else will, I assure you, make you tear up like a putz.

But you have to see these actors in action to get their full appeal, one that thousands of disciples are languishing over as we speak. Dan and Pan (yes, we're on a first-name basis) are both straight and yet play lovers with an ease and passion that is astonishing. Cut to Colin Farrell wincing his way through a chaste and utterly uninspiring male kiss in Alexander (the way we winced through the entire movie) and you'll understand what a job my boys have done.

The entire cast, no exceptions, are the best we've seen on TV in years (I especially like Manu Bennett and Viva Bianca, and always mourn that beautiful man Andy Whitfield, the first Spartacus, lost to cancer), but they fade when faced with Nagron.

There is a reason why Dan Feuerriegel has a larger appeal than Pana, by the way.

1. While both are dropdead divine, Pana is married, Dan gloriously single.
2. Dan is an inveterate Tweeter and Instagramer. He even responds to fans' questions via webcam... is this an Aussie thing? I can't imagine an American star having such an appreciation for his reach no matter how late it was in coming. Pana is much more reserved going by his slight FB and Twitter presence.
3. Did you see Dan's photoshoot in the coffeetable tome In the Tub by TJ Scott? He was – barely – in it. 'Nuff said.

PS. A striking comment on YouTube was from someone who asked the immortal question: why do straight actors play gay characters so well? I have another: Why does gay love seem so much more intense, and so much more appealing, than hetero love? The answers may be a bit uncomfortable, so I'll give them only if you ask.

I leave you with this, (an insider thing, I'm sorry to say, but for those who have seen the show, priceless), again from fandom across the globe, a community which I really have come to appreciate: You mean we're not alone?

Superimposed over Agron's smouldering face:

“You Think I Can't Fight Because I Can't Hold A Sword?

Bitch I Survived Crucifixion.

I'm Jesus.”

My captive heart

I would like to believe that the life-changing books I discover are God's way of leading me onto the path of forgiveness. Mine towards Him. For screwing me over. But alas, there is, of course, no God. And I have to sublimate my pain over this non-life I live through wonders like The Captive Prince.

It piqued my curiousity after the third time I read a fan tribute on separate book sites, so I downloaded the damn thing just to get over another disappointment and you know, move on. (It was much like how I first read Brothers Karamazov: by stumbling across references to it in practically everything I was reading at the tender age of 16. And boy, did THAT book screw me over.)

But really, S.U.Pacat (not, I am certain, her real name although she may indeed be a very cool supercat) can write. Practically every page sings an aria like a stab through the heart, and you read and re-read immediately, thinking, no, she can't be this good. But she is. She has created a world from long ago where duelling princes find themselves and each other, making it so much more than a fascinating account of war tactics, or good v evil.

Damen is betrayed by his brother Kastor and lover Jocaste and sent into captivity where he meets the supercilious Laurent, neighbouring prince and all-out SOB. No one knows Damen's royal identity and the revelations of character that follow are utterly absorbing.

The interesting thing here is that what is 'good' and what 'evil' disappears like the best intentions when faced with Nutella or Tyler Hoechlin; with the latter you simply cave in and indulge, with the former your worldview is wrenched from its moorings.

A very clever twist to the tale is how Supacat has made heterosexuality taboo in her world, the norm is gay pairings. How smart is that in an instinctively homophobic world/readership.

She may slip now and then, using words like pellucid and mordant; they “gaze at each other” a bit too often, and once, shockingly, the phrase 'No kidding' emerged out of another century, but I will forgive her anything.

The last word must belong to either Damen or Laurent. Their dialogues are so clever, so subtle, so funny, so, and this is what kills me every single time, whether in the real or unreal world, so True.

My favourite early scene between Damen and Laurent is in the baths (Volume 1) where Damen senses the danger for the first time, although Laurent has already done so. He tells Damen: “Don't be presumptuous”. Damen sneers, “Too late, sweetheart”.

Or “Is there anyone at this court who isn't my enemy?"

"Not if I can help it," Laurent said.

― S.U. Pacat, Captive Prince: Volume One

But the following is powerful as well:

'That isn't why. She would have chosen him even if you'd had royal blood in your veins, even if you'd had the same blood as Kastor. You don't understand the way a mind like that thinks. I do. If I were Jokaste and a king maker, I'd have chosen Kastor over you too.'

'I suppose you are going to enjoy telling me why,' said Damen. He felt his hands curl into fists, heard the bitterness in his throat.

'Because a king maker would always choose the weaker man. The weaker the man, the easier he is to control.”

'She was intelligent, accomplished, beautiful. She was everything I could have asked for in a woman. But she was a king maker. She wanted power. She must have thought her only path to the throne was through Kastor.'

'My honourable barbarian. I wouldn't have picked that as your type.'

'Type?'

'A pretty face, a devious mind and a ruthless nature.”

'He was not wearing the woollen cap. His newly minted hair was uncovered, and he looked as fresh as he had emerging from the baths the night before, as he had waking beneath Damen's hands. But he had resumed the cool restraint, his jacket laced, his expression disagreeable from the haughty profile to the intolerant blue eyes.

'You're alive,' Damen said, and the words came out on a rush of relief that made him feel weak.

'I'm alive,' said Laurent. They were gazing at one another. 'I wasn't sure you'd come back.'

'I came back,' said Damen.”

― S.U. Pacat, Captive Prince: Volume Two

Book Bites

One chapter from a book sometimes tells you everything you need to know; hell, the first page can usually do that. Into my hot little hands has come three books by Indian writers, and I gave them all the same treatment, opening chapters only, just to get a feel of where they might go. Isn't that the most exciting moment ever?

Behind the Silicon Mask

Eshwar Sundaresan

A serial killer with a distinct and gruesome style, a couple of Indian dudes and a cop whose dourness is an instant lure meant I, gasp, read the Prologue AND Chapter One. The book begins with Partho Sen who had me at his particular hello, which was seeing “the violence of capitalism” in a snowflake. I like seeing things in new ways, and writers who see things in new ways, so meeting other characters speaking in an easy-going style as opposed to the penchant for stiff oratory many subcontinent authors pitfall into, I'm optimistic that this is heading into readable territory.

Banquet on the Dead

Sharath Komarraju

This reveals my own idiosyncracies. I find the whole small locality-appachan-ammachy motif painful in the extreme; they so rarely escape clichedom. Here's a murder-mystery, as they say, but whether it will rise to the Sherlock-Watson level it aspires to....Inspector Nagarajan and rogue-turned-detective 'Hamid Pasha' try. There are some brushstrokes of colour that's intriguing, as when the good Inspector tells his client exactly what Hamid's background is, the bad boy image getting its outline well-enough to intrigue, but here also is a fine example of the stiff oratory mentioned above. Many of the conversations are like meringue, whipped to within an inch of its natural consistency.

Sophie Says

Judy Balan

Emotionally shaken but not stirred Sophie Tilgum morphs from market research maven to girl-about-town Carrie Bradshaw, making a business out of straightening people's flailing love affairs as The Break-Up Coach. Like a mirror held up to Indian adult relationships these days, Balan does a fine job of showing the superficiality and need for instant gratification that goes under the guise of love. But Helen Fielding she ain't. Sophie Says is well-written froth, realistically drawn but you will learn no life lessons and come on, Bridget Jones was both funny and interesting. That marketing flavour in Balan's protagonist and writing emerges early on. You'll hear about BF Denver Cunningham, The Blah-Blah Auntyhood and colleague Botox Booma, who is the recipient of Sorted Sophie's first response which goes as follows: “He clearly has no interest in the world around him and he puts out your fire,” and her advise is to drop the man forthwith. Great. But I don't really care. Will I as the story rolls on? That's for you to find out.

Loki who?

As a wandering shopaholic, I sometimes see more than I wish to. Instead of browsing the wares in places like Debenhams at Orion Mall in peace, taking my time searching for hidden ambrosia, I will usually be pounced on by strangers asking me if they can help. Help what? Regain my lost peace of mind or my trampled-upon soul? No? Then walk away, people! This time, however, I was accosted by a man who was rather easy on the eyes so I walked into the new L'Occitane (fragrance and skincare from Provence) space. Gorge, the kind of products that come weighted with history, research and, for all us beauty-is-as-beauty-sees types, wonderful packaging. It's worth its weight in gold outside India and will, I prophesy, make no dent at all inside India, much like the staggeringly empty but equally popular-abroad Kiehl's next door, simply because it is way too expensive and not household names like Armani or Dior. Pity, because it's good stuff - and it helps that it's not just the products that are pleasing to the beholder.

Blay.....

Whoever took this got it 100% right - except for the black leather jacket.

For BDB fans' eyes only

Never, ever, wait for something so much that you think about it every day, gasping as you mark off your calendar and sighing with happiness-in-anticipation. The thing is, you will be disappointed, as sure as the sun will rise, with or without you on the planet. JR Ward's fans have been wanting the story of Blay & Qhuinn since she first started her BDB series, and while Lover At Last has a great deal of what makes Ward the best in her genre, the suckfest arrives from the very beginning. Priatkus obviously has no editors. There are mistakes and missteps. The first is painfully obvious, but the second, well that's the difference between the good and the great, and if you aren't producing great books, you may as well be the kind of 'writer' who endorses marriage websites on TV as a day job. I'll tell you the worst misstep: there's not enough tenderness, not enough of the great dialogue that Ward usually gives her lovers, and that's what we were all waiting for. Add to that the multiple story lines, some so dull they barely lifted off the page, (yes, Trez, that means you), and I failed to go to bed clutching the book to my chest in full foetus position as is my wont when reading Ward. But you know, enough whining, there is still so much to make me thrilled to have read the book. When there is the requisite obsessive love that we can feel and listen to, B&Q are lovely. I especially liked Saxton getting his when Qhuinn thinks he's a love rat, or B&Q at the gym and the club. They take too long to reach an understanding which was frustrating but Ward gives us two new, marvellous couples to keep the juices flowing: Assail (anyone who loved Rehvenge will know what I mean) and Sola, and Xcor and Layla. Alpha males, strong females, great chemistry and interaction; no one can beat Ward when she's very, very good.

Celebs gone bad

*Amanda Bynes is simply doing what all actors who have slipped off Fame's slippery slope do: get any publicity they can. She's smart, though. She picks on major stars, like Rihanna, to 'insult', so she can get the widest media coverage possible while she talks plastic surgery, police molestation, etc etc. The only thing is, Bynes is not Britney. They both have very little talent but at least Spears has some charisma even when shaving her head.

*Michael Douglas saying going down on women is what gave him oral cancer is about as low as you can go. Does he have no concept about how people will now think of Catherine Zeta-Jones? The first wife has already leapt out of the woodwork claiming to be 100% disease-free (gag), all of which only makes me think everyone needs to be on medication. No surprise at all that now Douglas is saying that wasn't what he meant. Perhaps English isn't his first language; sensitivity certainly is not.

*It's the worst thing that can happen to you, yet Angelina Jolie manages to make a PR exercise out of her preventive surgery. Although it has to be said that being open about her health can only be positive for other women who will follow her example and hopefully live longer, there is something about this woman that is utterly untrustworthy. It's as though she thought to herself, 'This is happening, how do I spin it?' Your breasts don't define you? Really? Sounds great, very PC, but the truth would have sounded better.

We just don't believe Jolie's public presentation of Self. Why is that? Her doublespeak on adultery? The fact that she has no friends? Her one-role-fits-all acting chops? Her expression when out and about? Who knows.

And yet. This is the kind of thing where you feel nothing, in the end, but sisterhood and sympathy. 

If I had one wish it would be to allow all of us to go gently into that good night.

Reality Bites

http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2013/04/25/why-is-it-so-hard-to-be-a-reality-tv-host.html

Apropos the above.

The Kardashians are possibly the signal on the hill that there are no more hills to climb and we are, in fact, in the last trough of civilisation. It's all downhill from here on in. Good-looking broads with a fabulous fashion sense, I'll give them that, but are they going to rock my world on this alone? I think not. I'll leave that to Jo Nesbo, thank you very much.

So really, Khloe had to go. (How I wish the rest of the family would follow, but one out of dozens ain't....yeah, it is.)

But talking of TV hosts. I've said it before and I'll say it again, no one does it like Seacrest. He's funny, empathetic, cute and APPEARS to not take himself too seriously (although I think he takes his hair more seriously than I do mine, to begin with). He makes it all look effortless and that's the X Factor which puts him on top of the heap. When we're watching a reality show, we want to be relaxed; we want to have as much fun as the host should be having.

But I have to say, although I like Cat Deeley, I liked Steve Jones, too. He's not the Ice Queen aka Padma Lakshmi, or the too-earnest Davina McCall, or Carson Daly who has everyone watching his mouth and not the words coming out of it. Why they got rid of Steve who is also extremely easy on the eye is beyond me.

Other toppers, strangely all in the realm of food:

*Man v Food host Adam Richman, for his mot justes and love of the bite

*Anthony Bourdain for his cynicism and brave foray into culinary unknowns

*Nigella Lawson for her deliberate play on the sensual aspects of cuisine

*Masterchef dudes in Australia and US for their sense of theatre and straightforward passion for the subject.

Of course, in India meanwhile, we have Twist of Taste with Vineet Bhatia.

I like it Chubby, this once

There was something comforting about it as I passed by; like a fragrant cherry pie cooling on a windowsill. The colours came close, too, watermelon, raspberry, orange sherbet. So I gave in to my need for a metaphorical pat on the head and bought the Broadest Berry lip balm from Clinique - which is rapidly becoming one of my favourite beauty companies. Their Happy fragrance is like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart and their concealers and foundations seem to have a close resemblance to one's actual skin tone, but it's the Chubby Stick that drew my eye. It's moist and dewy, has no distracting fragrance and has an amazing built-in sharpener so no worrying about searching for one that fits the unusual contours of the product. How clever is that. What's not so clever is Clinique's unfortunate packaging. Blah. And their technicians in lab coats that sit at the stores. If I wanted to be wheeled away in a straitjacket I'd come here but not when I'm thinking in terms of Beauty. How many millions in ad money went down the tubes paying the marketing non-geniuses who came up with THAT strategy? Well, never let it be said that I don't have an open mind. Which is why I'm thinking of snaffling the Watermelon next.

Boston and after

How simple the world once was. We could say America was the perfect place to live in, that Indians understood empathy best, that money was the root of all evil and, alas, that Gerard Butler was a gentleman. Don't get me started on that last one. But after Boston and the Delhi rape of a 5-yr-old, all bets on black-and-white generalizations are off.

I'm sorry to say that my first reaction to Boston was complete and utter admiration on the lines of 'Man, these yankees are kick-ass mofos'. Do Americans know what it's like to live in a country where the police, by and large, actually protect you? I'm sure they take it as much for granted as having electricity and water without interruption. The US authorities shut down a city, used thermal imaging, literally laid down their lives, to deal with terror on their soil. These are the type of guys you want on your side; they understand the need for swift justice, and still talk of Miranda rights. In the American's hour of darkness, there is a still a light that shines on them. In India, the police will shine their fists on you if you are a teenage girl protesting the rape and brutalisation of a minor. Sunil Khilnani and I knew many moons ago that this a country where you are on your own in times of trouble. The only number you dial when you need help is God's. Just ask the 5-yr-old if he's listening.

But what has happened to India that we are now not only Third World in terms of lifestyle but also mindstyle? Once, when we lay bleeding in the street we knew someone would help us to a hospital; if a man looked at a woman sideways she could make such a ruckus he would never dare do it to anyone ever again. Today, people watch, perhaps upload a YouTube video. Indifference lives side-by-side with a MeMeMe blinkered vision.

Not that America is the promised land, it was never that. It was once the better of very few options but if you're not white, this would not be a preferred destination. I can just imagine, as we speak, people doing a doubletake at anyone who looks Chechen/Czechoslovakian/Indian/MiddleEastern and is walking down the streets of Boston. Ignorance should not be a preferred destination. But I wouldn't mind John McClane living in my neighbourhood.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, money is not the root of all evil (unless you're Paris Hilton and don't know what to do with it). Money is Power.

Laugh for the day

Maggie Smith bemoaning a trip to India in Best Exotic Marigold Hotel - "You know who'll be there, don't you? Indians. Brown of face, black of heart and reeking of curry." 

In a galaxy far, far away...

Hong Kong blew my mind. Just returned after 9 glorious days during which I visited my old school and enjoyed the fundamental rights to ordinary life like paved roads, public transport and HBO movies with no ads. HBO movies with no ads? What are you saying? What are these words coming out of your mouth? In India, we can make dinner during commercial breaks.
Saw American Idol which I can't this side of the civilizational divide because it's on CBS Love, a channel Tata Sky will not deign to include in its packages. And I have to say, Nicki Minaj's nasal voice and diva performances on the judge's chair may just put the final nail in AI's coffin. The likely winner is Cree (and Keith Urban who's beyond cute in looks and persona) but I don't know that anyone cares.
Life, as everyone experiences first-hand, is not fair. While Bangalore is grappling with power cuts in literally breathtaking heat, in HK just taking a bus is an exercise in luxury travel. Yes, it's air-conditioned, too. If you're not in the mood to wait for the four minutes in between buses, take the metro why don't you, where they wisely have partitions in between the train and you. You can kill yourself in the subway in New York and London but the Chinese frown on such shenanigans.
The city is a dreamscape of towering buildings and the most serene neighbourhoods, or both at the same time; you'll find a Central Park lookalike where a turtle will bask on a rock in a pond overseen by the Koala buildings (an Aussie architect designed a complex to look like the bear is hugging the building, say no more).
Both a Faberge and Warhol exhibition are on as we speak, (there are locals there, not just tourists!), food is sublime and fashion as easy as grabbing a striped tunic off a street stall.
Right now, I'm checking Cathay Pacific schedules again like a secret addiction.

Olympus Has Fallen

I'm really not much of a people person. I have very few heroes. Most of whom I don't know but whose work/personas I admire. This week, two of them bit the dust and what can I say, celebrities need to give up on the idea of interviews forevermore.
First of all, we don't want to know you, bro. We want to believe in unicorns and fairy dust and Santa Claus and noble world leaders etc etc. Take Mr Tarantino as my first case in point. He was caught on tape with a British-Indian (maybe that was it) interviewer on the BBC where, when he got tired of being questioned he started ranting and saying things like "I'm not your slave, I'm not your monkey, I'm shutting your butt down." Say what? We know why you are there, as a "commercial for my movie" as Mr T himself said, so maybe you could pay the piper? A truth not universally acknowledged, by the way, is that journalists are bored off their butts doing interviews, too. But they have better manners, and are professional enough to continue doing their jobs.
The second dagger through the heart came from the hands of Gerard Butler. Now to understand the extent of my thralldom to this man, you need to know that my laptop wallpaper is his magnificent Manhattan loft foyer. Yes, some serious stalker shit so you will also be pleased to know that I've come to my senses and replaced it with a Live aquarium. Anyway, Gerry's fall from grace is after his appalling interview with Howard Stern yesterday - which itself was a dead giveaway, of course. Where he said he slept with pseudo-celeb Brandi Glanville and explained why he replied with the immortal line: "Who's Brandi Glanville?" when the paps asked if had done the deed with the lady. You see, he simply didn't know her last name. It was just, and I quote, a bit of afternoon fun.
Sweet Mother Mary.
That is not the worst of it. On his new FB page, an ardent female admirer has posted: Your last interview with Howard Stern - well done, had a good laugh.
Am I living in a parallel universe?

Hmmmm

At a divorce court in an Indian city, they had these two quotes up in the waiting room, staring down at the hapless, not to say captive, audience:

"Divorce is like amputation. You survive but there is less of you." - Margaret Atwood.

"When embarking on a journey of revenge first dig two graves." - Confucius.

Bookshop display in Cal....too much!

Oscars 2013

I heaved a sigh of relief 30 minutes into the Red Carpet. That's when they took Anupama Chopra off the air and we got back on an even keel listening to Kelly Rowland and Kristin Chenoweth. They were much worse than Anupama Chopra, (inane questions, meet Oscar Red Carpet hosts), but at least they had the requisite camera personalities, something sadly lacking in La Chopra whose high-pitched voice and dead expression makes me very restless indeed. And her hair and make-up were simply embarrassing. No, make that the shag carpet she seemed to be wearing.

Why is it that Indian women have no concept of fashion? From Aishwarya Rai to Natasha Poonawala, it's a case of what top-notch designer the stylist decrees. Style is Anne Hathaway's Prada, Salma Hayek's McQueen, Halle Berry's Versace; most Indian women would be unable to wear any of the above-mentioned ensembles. The only one who comes close to the panache necessary to wear Dior and Lacroix, for example, is Sonam Kapoor but that's the point; you are not Sonam Kapoor and you need to figure out what suits you, especially when you're in the public eye.

But what a fun Oscars it was.

* I thought Seth MacFarlane was hilarious, talented, suave and entertaining (more of that camera personality thing). Thought his “We Saw Your Boobs” was especially fun – only to read how a female columnist at The New Yorker went ballistic saying SM was a misogynist etc etc, boosting a “hostile, ugly, sexist night”. Dear Lord. I say please go in search of your sense of humour, not to mention perspective and, probably, try to get citizenship in a country that doesn't equate political correctness with a moral high ground. The first is tiresome, the second suspect.

* Thrilled to see Tarantino win for Best Original Screenplay, (man's a God as far as I'm concerned; cinema's answer to Jay Z in the cool quotient), but there was an outrage that balanced his win out, and not in a good way. DiCaprio's 20 minutes or so of screen time in “Django” was, as always, riveting, and he wasn't even nominated. I challenge anyone to name a single movie this guy has been in which wasn't outrageously sublime, (yes, even “The Beach”). But there you go. His absence at Oscar-time is as baffling as Jennifer Lawrence scoring over Sally Field or the 9-yr-old with the unpronounceable name. As baffling as Affleck not being nominated for Best Director when his film was a shoo-in for Best Film. As baffling as Ang Lee scoring over Spielberg (what, the tiger's acting was better than Daniel Day-Lewis'?).

Daniel Day-Lewis, meanwhile, is probably one of the best actors ever, but his real-life persona is even more intriguing. He looks so ascetic, doesn't he? So refined and otherworldly. When he speaks it's as though he is weighing each word (unlike Jen Lawrence who seems to have been born with no filter between the brain and the mouth), and then carefully proferring it for your delectation. He is, let us not forget, son of a poet laureate, and husband to a renowned playwright's daughter. Maybe that's why.

* It's always surprising to me, this herd mentality, don't know why; should be used to it by now. But everyone oohing and ahhing over Adele left me cold. She gave a completely underwhelming performance, so much so she could almost not be heard over the music. While even Barbra Streisand and Shirley Bassey's voices have faded in power over the years, you don't notice it with them because their charisma enters the stage before they do and leaves you little time to think of anything else. They lift the hair on your arms and make you sigh in contentment because you feel there must be hope for a species that they represent. There is a photo on the Net where all three divas are caught together. It's a wonderful thing to have lived long enough to see.

Glam radar alert!

Grammy whammys

Janelle Monae sticking her finger in her mouth at the entrance to the Grammys' red carpet walk of fame was a sight I could have done without. So ok, she was doing the slightly disgusting beauty trick where you put your forefinger between your lips and slide it out so that lipstick doesn't stick to your teeth (see, you learn something new every day) but these days cameras are on you everywhere. Don't celebs know this?? It was a good show, though, with Justin Timberlake and Jack White showing wannabes like Taylor Swift and Hunter Hayes, (whose over-singing of his hit song 'Wanted' was almost as painful as Taylor's endless putdowns of boyfriends who keep dumping her), how it's done.

The coolest man on the planet has to be Jay Z; he's so cool he doesn't need to speak but when he does they STOP the music instead of running it when people are going over time. Man's a God, and anyone who has listened to '99 Problems' and 'No Church in the Wild' knows that. Prince is pretty close to one, too. Musical genius who doesn't need to pitterpatter at the mike, he has nothing to prove.

Loved the flame-red dress on Rihanna who seems to have donned a much more raw musical persona: 'Stay' is going to be a major hit; pity she hasn't improved her taste in abusive men.

Jennifer Lopez's leg carried itself much better than La Jolie did at the Oscars.

Carrie Underwood is very possibly the voice of the year, no matter what anyone says about Adele. Carrie has the range even though you prefer listening to Adele; and no prizes for guessing who wins the style stakes looking at the sublime Cavalli number on Carrie and the giant question mark on Adele (Valentino must be turning over in his retirement home). Carrie also came up with the idea for the stunning projections on her performance dress which was way cool.

Poor Giuliana Rancic, meanwhile, and that has nothing to do with her health issues which I wouldn't wish even on people I actively detest. She became more and more manic as the evening went on. She was the best host/interviewer in her early days but fame seems to have unsettled her.

I don't like seeing people I admire going down the tubes.

Speaking of which, note to Johnny Depp: The scarf hanging from the belt is Aerosmith-dated and plain embarrassing on a man just shy of celebrating the big Five-O. Cease and Desist, we beg you.

Homeland Fever

What a series. They have actually made a terrorist a sympathetic character. Damian Lewis is so tortured in every which way that you come to the point where you think, Man, dude needs a break – as long as it's not his neck, as the saying goes.

You can't tell what's real and what's fake; love, sex, sympathy, nothing is as it seems. (Come to think of it, this could be a reality show.)

Adding Rupert Friend to the mix has been especially smart. Great actor, easy on the eye and seems so on edge that you're wondering where the next explosion is going to come from, and we don't mean in the way of bombs.

There's only one person whom I want to bitch-slap and that's the daughter. Good God. To say she's more annoying than Carrie says it all. Whiny, naive, demanding, I'm groaning every time she comes onscreen.

Yup, you just can't escape the fact that these characters seem so real you react to them with the same changing empathies you feel towards people in real life.

I'm hooked.

I Die....

...As Rachel Zoe so eloquently says when she sees fashion that makes her heart beat faster. These were my gilty pleasures this month, at ridiculous sales prices. They show style as art, don't they.

Lonely all your life

My nights are so exciting I get a shiver up my spine just writing these words. At 11 pm precisely, I switch on "Homeland" and there he is. Damian Lewis. I first saw him in "Life" and was totally into the show because he made it interesting. In "Homeland", he makes his character so ambiguous that you don't know whether to love him or hate him but this much I do know: He gets more and more attractive episode after episode - when he isn't attractive at all. One expression of awareness in his eyes or a flirtatious smile on his lips when he looks at Carrie and you forget 2 things: 1. How you feel like slapping Carrie with a dead fish every time she raises her eyebrows or gives that annoying, bird-like tilt of her head, and 2. The hysterical SNL take on Damian's mouth.
There are some things that really do degrade the sublime, like the little kid who made Nicki Minaj's Super Bass more famous by performing it (along with the deadest sidekick I've ever seen) on YouTube, but Damian somehow makes us forget every joke about his looks because he manages to transcend them. Not a bad act for someone making waves on TV.
Last night, Carrie said something that was more absurd than usual. Watching Brody walk back to his wife, she realizes that she will be "alone all my life". Uh, Yeah. Who isn't? You are born alone, have children alone, are married alone (because you never know what your spouse is really like, he could be a serial killer and you could end up telling the Police, "but he's always been the perfect husband...his children love him...he was on the Neighbourhood Watch!"), and you sure as hell die alone. What's with the epiphany, Carrie? Did you forget to take your meds??
Another guy who rocks my boat (how well does he mix humour and drama) is Denis Leary, whose Cindy Crawford and Eskimo Pie sketch made him famous way before "Rescue Me" of course. But the latter shocks you out of your seat. You begin watching, thinking this is fun, then Leary manhandles his wife and threatens her with extreme loss of life and limb if she takes their kids away from him. This is your first insight into how "Rescue Me" will keep you shaking your head and laughing one minute and then suppressing a scream the next. The show has been over for a year in the States but even 8 years later in the Third World is alright when you can enjoy Tatum O'Neal, frat boy firefighters, an idea of what risking your life every single day does to a body, freakazoid relationships....I could go on, but there's someone called James Arthur playing on VH1 and I cannot believe my ears.

Beauty & the Beast

Went to listen to Salman Rushdie as he did a Press thing for the movie Midnight's Children. So adore the courage with which he has conducted his life that all I could do was sit there lavishing him with maternal gazes. And am  always amazed at how young he is, in his manner, his interests, his sense of humour. He should sell his joie de vivre in Tom Ford fragrance bottles. 

He is also as articulate in person as he is in his work. He understands the force of a good anecdote, naturally, which simultaneously adds to the movie he is publicising, telling us how he wanted to play the soothsayer in the film but didn't want to shift focus from the scene with theatre-goers pausing to point and say, “Isn't that Salman Rushdie?” Which is exactly what they would have done.

I noticed even the way he signed books was in the deliberate manner all good writers bring to anything that has to do with the written word. 

People are amazing.

In more ways than one. Towards the end, a woman, dressed in what looked like too much curtain material, leaped from her chair and accused director Deepa Mehta of casting only actors she knows. Here I am, the woman said. I act. Please consider me in future. 

Aside: The movie world is a ruthless one. You have to look like Shriya Saran to get a foot in the door; for every hundred Sarans there will be one Edward G Robinson. Beauty or talent must win. Stands to reason. But reason is something a lot of people who live in small towns and think they are Somebody seem to lack. They are not just like people treading water and trying to keep their heads above it. They are like people who have already drowned in the sea of their fruitless ambition and overwhelming lack of redeeming qualities like humility, self-knowledge or perspective. Sometimes, you just can't fight the tide.

She later rushed the stage and thrust her card at the director, who said, and who can blame her, "But how will I know who this card belongs to?"