The City of Angels-2

Every piece of landscape in a 3 mile radius around Hollywood screams of glamour, showbiz and drama. Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck beam at us from large posters that hang alongside the winding road . Upscale apartment complexes and palatial estates seem to look down their noses at us as we make our way to Universal Studios. The weather Gods have been kind so far. The sky shines in all its aquamarine blue glory while the yellowish green trees sway merrily in a light summer breeze.

As we pull into the tiered parking lot at Universal, I am amused to note that each parking level has a fun name like Frankenstein, King Kong and Jurassic. There isn’t a shred of doubt remaining that the theme of our day is going to be movies, movies and more movies. The cardinal opening score of Universal Pictures plays repeatedly at the ticketing counter making my spine tingle. Today we are going to treat ourselves like movie stars!

Yet, I feel more like a scared little girl than a movie star as I walk into the eerie confines of the House of Horrors. It is like my worst nightmare coming true. Trust me when I say, you need to possess the heart of a lion to not shriek when an ogre with gruesome pockmarks pounces at you from a dark crevice in the wall. As for me, I whine and howl my way through an awful maze of screeching bats, spooky corners, odious body bags from the movie Coma and repulsive fiends from Frankenstein, The Mummy and the likes. I promise silently that I will never put myself through this again.

The dinosaurs at the Jurassic Park section seem friendlier at first even when they are trying to be mean and obnoxious. The little ones squirt water at us as we cruise along in a boat through a make belief rain forest. Soon enough chaos hits. A livid T-Rex makes a sudden appearance from up above, forcing people in our boat to let out blood curdling screams. With the sound effects, life-like dinosaurs and a final plummet down an 85 feet man made waterfall (which brings my heart to my mouth), it is almost as if we are living the movie.

From the heart of a thick Amazon jungle we are transported to the arid underbelly of an Egyptian desert. The mummies from yore are waiting for us in their rachitic tombs. With great trepidation we descend into one of the dungeons from the movie 'The Mummy' in what looks like a mine cart. It is all pleasant as long as we are gliding past well lit halls bursting with treasure chests, but the going gets tough as soon as our cart starts rallying at break neck speed through darker passages teeming with 3 dimensional images of half rotten mummies screaming obscenities at us. We ricochet between several narrow passageways and are thrown around like rag dolls before narrowly escaping a blood thirsty mummy.

We aren’t done as yet. Metallic monsters from the future beckon us. 'The Transformers' is a ride inspired by the hugely popular sci-fi movie (which goes by the same name) about a battle between robots from outer space. Strapped in a capsule called Evac, we have been informed by a very convincing machine-like voice that our sole purpose on Earth is to save a device called 'AllSpark' from the clutches of evil forces – the Decepticons. Hurtling through simulated streets of New York, I can almost feel the vile Megatron (one of the Decepticons) at my heels. We dodge oncoming vehicles and sidle between other giant robots to keep AllSpark safe. Just when I think we have pulled it off, I feel a nudge and we nose-dive from top of a multistoreyed building. There is a sickening thud and then just as suddenly it is over. The lights turn on and I realize that all this was a 4 dimensional hallucination of sorts. Megatron’s breath on my shoulder was a puff of air ejected from a nozzle on my seat and the spray of street water on my face was regular water from a spout.

The last ride has left us a little disoriented. For a few minutes we stumble around taking in the un-simulated real world. However, it is difficult to come back to reality with Sponge Bob skittering around and the Donkey from Shrek calling out to us from his bakery. Music and food are flowing unbridled. There is a general ambiance of merry making and fun. A caricature artist sketches us with large heads and puny stick like bodies and we laugh at the absurdity of it all.

The exhaustion of the day is now telling on my feet and I cannot wait to get back home. But wait, how can I conclude a trip to Los Angeles without paying homage to Hollywood Boulevard?? So, off we go looking for the famous Walk of Fame which is literally a sidewalk studded with stars. Charlie Chaplin, Mickey Mouse, Bob Hope, Drew Barrymore and over 2400 prominent figures have their names carved on five pointed stars strewn all over a 15 block stretch. And because the real flesh and blood stars are so elusive, Madame Tussaud offers ardent fans her collection of wax substitutes to make do with. Across the street a running tap suspended in thin air, devoid of a pipe connection, floats inexplicably in the 'Ripley’s Believe it or Not' museum window but by now I am too weary to even bother cracking the mystery and move on.

There is more to Hollywood Boulevard than just the Walk of Fame. Every now and then we walk into street artists dressed as characters from popular movies like the pixies from the Disney movies, Batman and Robin from the Batman saga, robots from Transformers and so on. A colossal Chinese Theater looms large in one corner reminding me of the Bruce Lee and Jackie Chang movies my husband loves so much. There is a swarm of energetic people dancing on the sidewalk to the tunes of ‘Gangnam Style‘. Restaurants and watering holes with brightly coloured neon boards try to lure us in but it has just been a very long day of strange sights, sounds and experiences and my 28 year old bones have given up. All I want to do now is crawl into my cozy bed and let waves of sweet sleep sweep me away to a land where I can dream away about my time in the city of angels..

The City of Angels - 1

Rows and rows of palm trees stand erect like sentinels along the winding roads of Los Angeles. They perhaps shoulder the responsibility of guarding the very wealthy angles (and some devils) who deign to reside here. Rubbing shoulders with them are towering high rises that fall just a few feet short of the doors of heaven. As we scurry along the highway flanked by herculean concrete monuments and verdant hills, I feel like an ant trying to make its way to the anthill.

The city of sun, sand, amusement parks, shiploads of moolah, man-made wonders, showbiz, technology and a throng of crazy people lies spread-eagled in front of us. Like perfect tourists, we begin our day by scaling Mt. Hollywood to feast our eyes on the famous HOLLYWOOD sign. Helicopters buzz around and I swoon a little as I imagine one of them carrying Brad Pitt or even a younger Tom Cruise...no harm in day dreaming now, is there?

Our first stop is the Griffith Observatory and as the mammoth doors swing open to let us in, I feel like I have enrolled in a refresher course for 3rd grade science. The difference though is that with all its life size models and really cool live images, this is a far cry from the more often than not sleep inducing classroom sessions we had in school.

Peering into a telescope, I say hello to the red faced sun I love so much. On the adjoining wall I admire the elements stacked up in their designated positions to form a giant periodic table. From a heavily muralled ceiling hangs a Foucault Pendulum, swaying gently and knocking off a peg every seven minutes to prove that the earth is in fact rotating on its axis.

At the Samuel Oschin Planetarium we are suddenly plunged into utter darkness and just when I start to believe that power cuts afflict first world countries too, the rotunda above our heads bursts into tiny stars and we find ourselves staring at a full moon sky at noon. Star gazing makes the entire visit a tad bit more special.

Our evenings are reserved for the warm, salty fresh sea breeze that we have been dreaming of while enduring a harsh, snow-filled winter. Just off the Pacific ocean lies a stretch of land which when visited by naive tourists like us leaves an impression of being frozen forever in the 70’s. I promptly step aside as the strangest place I have seen so far unfurls. It is called the Venice beach boardwalk.

It is here that I can opt to find out, for a measly sum of 30 bucks, if I am eligible for being prescribed medical marijuana(the men inside the green walled shop look like drug peddlers and the customers look like zombies) or buy a vibrantly painted human skull for my souvenir collection back home or sample a large bag of frozen popcorn or even indulge in a 5 minute back massage for 5 bucks (again at my own risk).

A large red and yellow awning flaps in the wind under a signboard which proudly claims to showcase an array of freak shows within its premises. Suddenly a face with several hundred piercings pops out from behind the curtains at the entrance and I almost jump out of my skin. Apparently, this is a sneak peek to lure people into paying 10 bucks to witness other similar monstrosities. I, on the other hand, cannot get away from the place faster.

King Solomon the Snake Charmer strolls around scaring people with a slimy cobra around his neck while a girl sporting the Gothic look – black nail paint, heavy black eyeshadow and mascara, black leather trousers, nose ring etc – ambles by with a board around her neck which says 'Help a girl in need with some weed'. There is a flower child sitting on a ledge chanting over and over again 'I ate an apple and died'.

Then again, I decide not to judge a book by its cover. Thankfully, before writing off the place as one of those loony bins where odd people are sequestered, I stumble upon a pretty artifact which is up for grabs at a throw away price. It is as if the place wants to make up for all the oddities it has inflicted upon me so far. A bunch of amateur street singers serenade us as we sip coffee in one of the many cafes flecking the boardwalk and I watch the sun set on a day to remember.

In deep contrast to the Venice beach lies Santa Monica which suits those with deep pockets. It offers plush hotels with sea facing terraces, shiny malls with big brands, happy people dressed in haute couture heading out for a night of revelry and the Santa Monica pier with its numerous fun rides, most prominent of which is the glittery Pacific wheel. All along the Pacific rages violently like a bitter old man who envies and loathes the youthful fun and frolic on its shores.

I cannot do justice to the entire bundle of fun that Los Angeles is in one blog post. And so, for the first time, I have decided to write a 2-part travelogue. Keep an eye on this space to read about a heart racing account of Universal studios and Hollywood Boulevard in my next post.

Winters at Home

Winter mornings in Bhopal have for years exuded a certain charm and thinking about them always makes me want to pack my woolens and head home. Memories of chilly mornings dawning upon the city and a bright sun fighting valiantly to keep earthlings energetic and happy are as fresh in my mind as just-baked bread. With a slight nudge I am transported back in time and space to a city I call home. I see people huddling together in small groups on the side-walk, thawing their frozen bodies on weak sigris, sipping tea from small conical glass tumblers and allowing the deliciously warm steam rising from the tumblers to turn their noses pink and fog their glasses. I can smell the enticing aromas of freshly fried crisp jalebis and the smoky fragrance of dying coal embers which burned all night long.

As the sun pours its warmth on my face, I find myself sitting in the balcony listening to the sounds of temple bells. They chime to the tunes of early morning bhajans and are interspersed with the cawing of crows. It makes me wonder if God appreciates the garish wake-up alarm that we humans subject him to day after day. Sounds of clanging utensils emanate from houses in our vicinity, suggesting the commencement of early morning rituals like pouring tea into cups and fixing breakfast.

Papa and I, dressed in our walking gear, head out for our routine 6 km walk. We walk past a string of green parks brimming with people like us who want to start the day on a healthy note. A stack of footwear outside a yoga school implies that yoga enthusiasts are hard at work while a deserted swimming pool and an old petrol pump are shaking away the last dregs of sleep to welcome another day’s business. Glasses of unsweetened carrot juice are our incentive as we finish half the circuit. Downing the refreshing juice, we head back, never forgetting to drop 10 rupee notes in the tin bowls of old beggars who wait expectantly within the premises of an old Hanuman temple.

Breakfast awaits us as we walk into the familiar warmth of our house. I tuck into a bowl of oatmeal, sprinkled generously with almonds, walnuts and raisins while Papa devours 2 slices of buttered toast with a golden one-egg omelet. We share a rather large bowl of sliced apples and peeled oranges. Done with breakfast, we move over to the living room where Papa meticulously goes through both the English and the Hindi newspapers with a fine toothed comb and I languidly stretch out on the couch, floating blissfully in a state of limbo between being asleep and being awake.

The Ashok trees cordoning our house stand tall, their narrow leaves rustling softly in the light winter breeze. Bharti, the vivacious young girl who helps Ma in the kitchen, walks in as the clock strikes 8. With a large grin cutting across her impish face, she makes my parents proud by loudly wishing me ‘Good Morning Didi’(Ma and Papa are on a mission to teach her good manners). The first cries of the fruit and vegetable vendors waft through the window as they push their rickety carts laden with farm fresh produce along the tapered by lanes of Rachna Nagar.

Ma wants me to get the soles of my pretty silver chappals fixed at the local cobbler’s shop and I pull myself together to make the short trip down the road. Crouching under a large mango tree, the old cobbler works feverishly at a pair of gold jootis. As I approach him, he immediately recognises me and beams toothlessly. I am and will always remain ‘333 waale Colonel sahab’s’ daughter to him. This is somehow a supremely comforting thought because no matter how my life changes, there will always be an old man under a mango tree in Bhopal who will recognize me as my parents' daughter, not someone’s wife or someone’s daughter-in-law.

No amount of pretty white snow, chic winter wear or heady coffee in the US can beat the pleasure of a beautiful winter morning with family in Bhopal. Images of the soothing humdrum of life back home are easy to conjure, I just have to close my eyes and dream on.

Definitions courtesy Wikipedia:

jalebi: an Indian sweet made by deep frying a wheat-flour (Maida flour) batter in pretzel or circular shapes, which are then soaked in sugar syrup. 

chappals: hindi word for flip-flops or sandals

jootis: intricately embroidered Indian pumps

bhajans: any type of devotional song

333 waale Colonel sahab: the Army Colonel who lives in house no. 333

Pranay - The Loved One

Nineteen years ago, on a crisp Sunday morning, when most adults were lazily enjoying a cup of tea and most children were glued to Chandrakanta/Captain Vyom on television, a scrawny pink coloured boy popped out of his mother’s womb and said hello to the sleepy little town of Pathankot. At first, much to the bewilderment of his parents, he gazed at them with one eye, leading them and most of the hospital staff to believe that he was a Cyclops. Then, as if deciding that the world is too beautiful a place to admire with just one eye, he cracked open his clamped left eyelid and peered intently at everyone around. We fawned over his pale pink complexion, his tiny hands, his pug nose and his little squeals for several days. In a conical bonnet which was a size too big for his miniature head, he looked like a baby wizard trying on his teacher’s hat. With a dimpled, gummy smile he wiggled his way right into our hearts and we christened him Pranay-the loved one.

Change was imminent with his arrival. Ma’s picture perfect, spotless clean house was now churning soiled nappies by the dozen. We were all given chores that had to be meticulously carried out for Pranay. Cleaning up after him, burping him, milling around him, entertaining him – this was what we did round the clock. In a house which once smelled of fresh flowers and potpourri, there was suddenly an odd yet delicious smell of Johnson’s baby lotion and baby oil. With great fascination, we saw him roll over for the first time, take his first baby steps, sprout his first tooth and speak his first legible words. Each moment accounted for a small celebration. As he grew older, it was evident that he possessed an imagination to die for. He had a precocious talent for spinning tales and he put it to use quite often, cooking up imaginary friends at school who had unusual names like Rayme and Cuckoo, coaxing his pals to believe that a dried up ditch outside our house was haunted and hatching complex plots to be played out by his action figures. Hooked to a well thumbed edition of the Webster dictionary, he flummoxed adults by using words like ‘paraphernalia’ and ‘hypocrite’ as early as when he was 5. Even today, I am sometimes rendered clueless when he rattles off in an ‘Oxfordian’ vein.

Do not be tricked into believing even for a second that this is a cherub we are speaking of. Naughtiness, thy name was “Pranay”. Tricks he pulled off were ingenious and quite often molded out of antics he read about in comic books. Bees in their hives quivered in sheer terror when he aimed at them with his catapult. Once his mischief was played out, he found ways to dodge their wrath. My dolls were not safe in their quiet cupboard any more. Murky, villainous roles were bestowed upon them and they ended up with either the wool pulled out of their poor bodies or blue ink smeared all across their faces or in some extreme situations, being used as punching bags to expend his boundless energy. Ma’s roses looked paler than ever perhaps because they feared annihilation. Errant cricket balls, belonging to him, invariably saw breakable household things as fun targets, making Ma very very mad. Our house which was once flecked with elegant glass vases, delicate chinaware and snow white table covers, now looked frugal and bare. Reading ‘The Lady and the Tramp’ while drooling over a steaming bowl of Maggi, cramming the motley mix of Pokemon characters till their names and forms were ingrained in his head, chuckling at Captain Haddock’s retorts while pouring over his Tin-Tin collection for the nth time (Blistering barnacles and thundering typhoons are two that I remember distinctly), imitating Ma when she spoke on the phone and being a downright pest were some of his routine activities.

These are stories from the past, a little reminder of how much we enjoyed each day with him even though there were times when he drove us crazy. My baby brother is by no standards a baby anymore. His 6 feet large frame makes us all look like midgets and his size 13 feet make it next to impossible for us to find him perfect shoes. Rarely does he smile these days, I guess because he believes that looking gruff and serious is his thing. His concerns now are a far cry from what they used to be when the only thing he was bothered about was escaping an angry bee’s sting or running around the house averting potentially explosive encounters with Ma or rummaging into her ladder to pry out hidden treasure chests of chocolate. He worries about grown-up things like creating his own identity, discovering people and hobbies he likes and being healthy, strong and self sufficient. The little boy with stars in his eyes is now a strapping young man with hopes and dreams and as he steps out of teenage and into the real world, I wish him truckloads of happiness, peace, peachy good health and a whole lot of success in whatever he does. And even though I know he hates it when I mollycoddle him, today I feel like giving him a bear hug, a big slobbery wet 'puchchi' on both his cheeks and hollering......Happy Birthday Pranay!!!

The Great Wall of Chocolate

Sunday evenings at the Sharma household are a rather melancholic affair. Grim images of the harried hustle bustle endemic to Monday mornings and the prospect of spending yet another week confined within office cubicles buried under piles of work flash incessantly, leaving us in a state of utter despair. This time however, we decided to get a grip on matters and kick the blues in the guts.

A decadent 6 layered chocolate fudge cake, dripping in raspberry sauce, studded with rich dark chocolate chips and flanked by strawberry halves was our answer to the tragedy that is Monday morning. P.F Chang's is one of our most frequented Chinese restaurants and each time it loyally whips up delicacies like Mahi-Mahi and crab fried rice to please our palates. What was not known to us till very recently was that it also offers some very delectable desserts to put the proverbial cherry on top of a good meal.

The great wall of chocolate, true to its name, is a monstrous mountain of chocolate, ready to be vanquished by keen patrons. Six thick slices of rich chocolate cake are slathered most liberally with chocolate fudge and put together to create heaven on a plate. The chocolate fudge is perfectly sweetened such that it is neither sugary nor bland. With each mouthful, as a wonderful medley of chocolate and raspberry explodes in your mouth all thoughts of calories, Monday morning blues, catastrophic workloads, a tyrannical supervisor etc poof into thin air (and I say this out of personal experience).

Be warned though that it takes a person with mammoth capacity to finish one helping of this sinful treat. If you are small eaters like us, it would perhaps take two people two days to polish it off. Nevertheless, like a shot of happiness in a take-out box, it will find its place in your refrigerator and just the thought of it will bring good cheer to a tough day. As for me, each time I fish out the box and guiltily scoop spoonfuls into my eager mouth, I feel like breaking into a somersault and taking on the world…..that’s not bad for 8 dollars and 50 cents now, is it?

Letters

Remember English class in school? Excerpts from famous books and plays served as lessons, the blue and red Wren and Martin tome taught complexities of grammar, poetry hardly made any sense and there was always the nagging urge to read all the stories in the textbook before the term started. The English test was always as predictable as a Karan Johar movie – Reading Comprehension, Grammar, Literature and Writing. Like many others in my class, I too composed dozens of letters to imaginary recipients and spewed hundreds of essays on timeworn subjects, hoping to score the most elusive cent percent in the Writing section. I remember those long gone English lessons, tests and the Writing section today by drafting the following missives:

A complaint to my high heeled shoes

Hello High heels,

I am sure you are warm and cozy in the pretty pink shoebox under my bed. Our last trip together was quite eventful but I must tell you that I am a little annoyed by your behavior. While it was somewhat vile on your part to lure me into dumping my faithful, feet-friendly flat pumps for your trendy Mt. Everest like elevated heels, what was even more exasperating was your attitude once I chose you. Just when I started feeling chic and in-style you tightened your death-vice, cutting all blood circulation below the ankles.

You squeezed my feet like lemons and I could barely feel my toes once you were done juicing them. You then clamped your jaws on them as if they weren't just feet but a couple of McDonald’s burgers. My feet have revolted against your tyranny by sprouting angry red welts all over and they have assured me that they will not get back to business if it meant having to cooperate with you! As if this wasn't enough, my calves are also supporting the feet-union and are gearing up by tightening their muscles and sending me signals in the form of sharp pain. I fear that it isn't long before my knees decide to join the rebellion.

I am terribly disappointed by your lack of concern and I am considering relegating you to the confines of your shoe box for eternity. Your smooth patent leather charm comes at a very high price which I do not wish to pay any more. I hope you find someone who can overlook the discomfort and appreciate your beauty nevertheless.

Regards,

-A disgruntled girl

A love letter to chocolate chunk cookie:

Dear Cookie,

I write to you today to express my deepest love for your sugary rich countenance. You have stood by me through many a rough patch and with this letter I wish to thank you for all your kindness.
.

Your pretty brown face embellished with pieces of chocolate is a sight for sore eyes. With the right degree of crunch, your delectable flavor is just what I need when I am down the dumps. You are very dexterous too as you can be enjoyed with milk or tea, at breakfast, lunch or dinner, before a party or after one, to beat stress or to celebrate success and on many such contrasting moments. Pages and pages can be written in your praise and yet not suffice.

Even though I have been warned several times about your hidden evil persona – the one that ensures that each bite poisons me with infinite calories and sugar, making my heart let out a silent groan – I cannot imagine a life without you. How can someone so lovely have a malevolent side?

I hope you keep sweetening my life for many more years to come. I shall be your faithful patron for as long as I live.

Love,

-Me

Eviction notice to a pimple

Mr. Pimple,

You are hereby being notified to evacuate your current quarters i.e. my cheek within the next half an hour. As per the contract relevant to this premise, you were permitted to use my cheeks as a temporary dwelling during my teen years (from 1997 to 2003). However, you have been found prowling on the aforementioned location even today i.e. 10 years after your lease lapsed.

As a result of this breach of contract, my cheeks have filed a complaint against you and it has been decided that any further misdemeanor on your part would be treated as a serious offense leading to harsh punishment. I might consider subjecting you to a strong dose of clindamycin phosphate gel. Please be warned, your present good health and rosy-red, well fed appearance will get affected and you will experience lack of appetite, severe weight loss and even death as a consequence.

While I appreciate that with your presence you want me to believe that I have taken a dip in the fountain of youth and emerged frozen in teenage, I no longer wish to live this charade. I urge you to take this letter seriously and vacate the area which you have unlawfully occupied for over a decade now.

Your landlady,

-Me

A request to my curly hair

Hi Curlies,

I hope you are curling smoothly these days. You seemed pretty miffed the last time we spoke especially because you were down with the ‘frizz’. I know how terrible that can be especially with its signature symptoms like dryness and rough edges. Are you feeling better after applying the prescribed conditioner?

Well, let me get straight to the point. I was hoping you could do me a huge favour this week by behaving in an orderly fashion and not twisting and curling asymmetrically. I know you have a mind of your own and that you like to do as you please but I would be really obliged if you do as I tell you this time.

It is come to my notice that you do not like being tied in a tight pony-tail. Unfortunately I have to resort to doing so because letting you free is getting harder as you grow longer with each passing day. However, I am on the lookout for some good clips which would let me leave you free and at the same time maintain a semblance of order.

I also understand your aversion to these newfangled dryers for curly hair. It must be very difficult to have hot air blow right into your face after a shower. This is why I have decided not to invest in these machines and instead implore your good sense to help me look neat and tidy and not like a total hippy.

Consider this as an honest appeal to make life easier for the both of us. I hope to hear a positive response from you.

Thank You!

-Me

Knowing me, Knowing you...

A little over a year back my life gave way to an alteration of gargantuan proportions which left me a little out of breath. As I spun headlong into the complex yet intriguing world of the ‘married people’, I worried about my ability to identify and be a part of this tight knit clique. In addition, I was petrified at the mere thought of leaving the oddly comforting humdrum of life as I knew it. However, as much as I would have loved to sit around and mope about my soon-to-be-extinct, unattached, unrestrained existence, I had to forego that luxury and pull up my socks to brave an exceptionally chaotic year (what with a crazy project at work, the engagement, six glorious months in Europe and finally the colossal wedding). And before I knew it, just like that, doomsday was upon me. Needless to say, I was swept away like a single boat bouncing off un-tethered on the soaring waves of a flooded river.

When one is married to someone like Arjun Sharma, life instantly transmutes into an exhilarating Ferris wheel ride – all fears melt away as you step into a brightly coloured capsule, soaring and plummeting through time. On the outside he resembles one of those serious, bespectacled, gibberish speaking scientists, we often read about in sci-fi stories but scratch the surface and you will unearth an absolutely delightful and hilarious person - a fantastic mind, a closeted funny-man and a total madcap. Having said that, I can assure you that his infinite love for physics is no façade either. Let me elucidate. For one, there is no one else I can think of who would carry a book called ‘Introduction to Automobile Engines’ on a vacation to the gorgeous beaches of Goa. Imagine us stretched out on the soft sands of a beach in Mandrem, listening to the hypnotic music of crashing waves – Me, sipping the customary pretty cocktail (with a lemon wedge and a twirly straw) and Arjun, reading a menacingly thick book, from the deceptive bright green jacket of which stares an evil looking metallic contraption. Most people would find this image rather unnerving but strangely it amuses me each time I think about it.

We are no peas in a pod but there are some attributes we do share. To begin with, both of us sport a set of rather large ears, which jut out like levers waiting to be grabbed and twisted. Another trait that glues us firmly together is our supreme devotion to food. It is with him that I gallivant around town sampling every restaurant, bistro and bakery that we chance upon. Singing in loud, tone-deaf, unbridled notes gives us a bizarre kick and much to the consternation of our neighbors we indulge in it with the gusto of seasoned musicians. Arjun’s forte is an uncanny ability to make me laugh so hard that my stomach, lungs, kidneys and pretty much all other internal organs feel slightly askew for a few moments after the bout. This typically happens when he is either impersonating someone we know or imitating ludicrous dance steps from old music videos. Neither of us is a morning person. It takes numerous wake-up buzzers for us to accept the harsh reality of a weekday morning. The multiple alarms that we diligently set on our phones each night, blare shrilly at the crack of dawn and a ritualistic tug of war ensues resulting mostly in me being kicked out of bed. A never subsiding craving for jalebis and similar deep fried delicacies, a fascination with the delicious idea of idling in bed - watching the morning sun filter in through the window while sipping coffee and listening to old Hindi, ‘Chitrahaar’-type songs, a chronic addiction to movies from around the world as long as there are sub-titles to compensate, a wanderlust beyond belief and an urge to read and remember every tiny detail of world history are some of the common threads that weave us together in a vibrant fabric of camaraderie.

And then there are the dissimilarities. My constant chatter is usually met with an inscrutable far away gaze. On more than one occasion I have to repeat myself several times in varying decibels to yank Arjun out of his mysterious silent world only to realize that he has still not understood what I was saying. The organized world that I covet does not figure even at number 200 on his list of priorities. Not too long back, I remember walking into our tiny studio apartment in Palo Alto for the very first time to be greeted by a food processor perched on the coffee table and a heap of clothes, right out of the dryer, sitting pretty on the couch. Sheaves of paper, groaning under the weight of Arjun’s characteristic scrawl, littered the place. They were omnipresent – snuggled under the bed, lazing around on the floor, loafing on the kitchen counters as if waiting for a quick snack… It was an ‘Obsessed Organizer’s’ worst nightmare. What was even more perplexing was the fact that lines and lines of neat digits and symbols which marked these sheets made them look like letters from outer space – ‘Does he communicate with aliens’, I mused. While it took me some time to get used to the technical mumbo-jumbo that he spouts ever so often, I have now learnt to live with it. Shopping is another concept which we are divided on. I can spend hours in any retail outlet – a grocery store, a fancy mall or even a pet store but Arjun is one of those make-a-list-before-you-go-shopping-and-buy-only-what you-have-got-on-your-list kind of person. ‘How would you ever get to know what all is available if you keep buying the same things over and over again’, I argue, but then this is one of the times he pulls off his glassy eyed gaze which makes me throw my hands in the air and give up.

We laugh, bicker, talk, share silences, travel, stand still, grieve, rejoice and share many moments that crystallize into splendid memories. This is a tribute of sorts to all the fun times that we have had so far and a build-up to all the awesome times yet to come….