A Tale of Modern Poetry

He walked into the coffee shop, tortoise shell-rimmed glasses in one perfectly-manly hand and 600-pages of a Charles Dickens’ classic in his other. The cover of the book looked like an old library edition of ‘A Tale Of Two Cities’. He ordered a soy latte.

“Gosh! So perfect,” I thought. “I wonder if he’ll stay for another cuppa, if he does, I will ask him something that sounds intelligent about the book he’s reading; just to make conversation.” Continue reading “A Tale of Modern Poetry”

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First Impressions

What people think about you when they first meet or see you… does that every bother you? Do you care that someone might be judging the way you eat or the way you scratch your nose as they first plant their eyes on you? Does it bother you that almost 97 per cent of this world’s population makes an instant decision on whether they would be your friend or run for their life the minute they see you (Warning: This statistical data is purely out of my head, bad journalism – I know, but you know what I mean, right?).

Just as we are judgemental about people, we are judgemental about countries, about cities.

The whole “first impression is the last impression” cliche – yep, it exists.

An acquaintance of mine went to Thailand to get her body fixed. She returned with bigger assets (ahem!) and smaller respect for mankind. All she could talk about was how there were flies everywhere in Phuket, women just baked on the footpaths and how it was “so-third-world-oh-em-gee”. She judged and as Karma would strike back, she is probably getting judged by people in the luxuries of her first world now.

But point is, and I do have one, is that you judge the moment something appears in front of you. People, food, clothes, fashion trends…

Four days ago, I landed at the International airport of Bali. I stepped out of the aircraft and the humidity-filled air gushed through the strands of my perfectly straightened hair (P.s. They’re great friends now, my hair is in love with the bastard). The driver who drove us from the aircraft to the terminal flashed the cutest toothless smile at me as I took my seat beside him. It was adorable! He probably drives a few hundred tourists a day and assuming that he smiles at all of them, that’s a hell lot of free ‘welcome to Bali’ smiles. He should be the official representer of this island; no one could ever hate this place. I mean why would you?

So I got out of the airport and landed in traffic hell. I have to say, the city did not impress me at all. There were too many motorbikes, too less road space and was way too humid. But then again, there was a sense of familiarity. I could spot enough helmets to be able to create a mental art piece out of them. It was kinda therapeutic. I see a map of Australia in the sea of helmets… ooh la la.

I asked my driver, Kumar, to put on a local radio station, just so I could get a real sense of Indonesian culture and get diverted from this bumper-to-bumper situation. He followed my command and put on 93.2 FM which blasted Katy Perry, Jessie J and Coldplay. How perfect! I am stuck in a crazy traffic jam that doesn’t seem to move and Chris Brown doesn’t want to be woken up! Is this Bali?

Perhaps not… I didn’t know what it was until much later (more on that soon).

But my first impression of the island… wasn’t quite the first! It was home to me. Home in its literal sense. I was taken back to the streets of New Delhi where I would perhaps be stuck in a similar jam, with an International pop song on the radio and a visual of five adults sharing the space on a single motorbike. Same to same! 

My first impression  of Bali was a very old one, and that is what made the 2.5 hour drive to Ubud so very special!

Welcome

 

Open Letter to Generation-come-at-me-bro

Disclosure: Jersey Shore fans, I apologise for any deliberate mocking of the show and its characters. 

Dear Generation-come-at-me-bro, 

We need to have a chat. Yes, I’m talking to you, my dear.

Put that glass of scotch down and take a seat. Your ‘angry young man’ trait needs to be analysed, discussed and perhaps even disdained.

Is the glass down? Promise me, you won’t get fired up and punch a hole in the wall.

For those who are raising their eyebrows at this post, let me tell you a little secret. If you thought the Generation-X and Generation-Y war was too much to handle and pointless, to an extent, I have some bad news for you. There’s a wildcard entry of this new breed called Generation-come-at-me-bro, and it’s taken the aforementioned war to a whole new level of ridiculousness. Good news is that it entails everyone who’s already part of Gen-X and Gen-Y, but by the means of this new tag, they’ve found a new voice. A new identity. A new spot in the nightclub where all the brawls happen.

Okay, back to you, Gen-come-at-me-bro.

I asked you to… keep.that.scotch.down.

Firstly, don’t you dare camouflage the birth of this infamous catchphrase; we are all aware of the gutter it has risen from. Which begs me to question – how dare you watch Jersey Shore? Rather, how can you watch Jersey Shore?

You’re not part of the Kardashian clan, neither are you a pathetic Hollywood reporter. So what exactly is your reason for watching solarium-pooped boys and girls on TV? Now that we’ve mentioned fake tan, in all honesty, everyone on that reality show looks as if the Sun decided to fart and then throw up on their faces.

Back in 2010, an uneducated idiot used the phrase in front of cameras (video evidence below), and now a year later, the phrase has become an anthem for all ‘angry young men’ around town. You’re so confident with the ‘come-at-me-bro‘ act in public, that it almost seems like you’ve rehearsed in front of the mirror at home.

Oh God! Please say you didn’t?!

I’m imagining a badly postured man, wearing sunken-jeans, yelling with his arms stretched out, “come at me, bro”.

Oh, the horror!

Make it look natural, to say the least.

My dear, on paper you’re part of an exceptionally talented, self-motivated, tenacious and passionate generation. Why create this divide? Why so much self-deprecation and public loathe? Why do you feel the urge to yell out grammatically-atrocious words to strangers in public?

Why, for the love of Snooki, WHY?

This alcohol-induced behaviour is either pumping your drunken ego or is leaving a visible scar on your face. Post this swagger, your options are either to get slapped by your sober friends, or spend a cozy night in jail.

Your call, buddy.

If anything, I know for a fact that you’re not bad people. I’ve met a lot of members from your tribe. In fact, you’re incredibly beautiful, hilarious, ingenious and zealous human beings. Your personalities are crackin’. I’m even impressed with the hidden intellectuals in a whole lot of you, but Jesus, this come-at-me-bro crap fails me.

It fails you.

THIS is how silly you look

With the power entrusted in me, I genuinely request you to:

a) STOP watching Jersey Shore. Just.Stop.

b) Break the authenticity of these horrendous four words and unsubscribe yourself from EVERY ‘come-at-me-bro’ page on ALL social media platforms – unfollow on Twitter, unlike on Facebook, remove from your circles on Google+, remove yourself from Google+, even.

c) Be an adult and turn the situation around. It’s easy – on your next drunken shenanigan, if a stranger yells out, “come-at-me-bro”, look at him in the eye. Give him a warm smile and blurt out a completely inappropriate sexual innuendo. C’mon, we all know how many sexual innuendos can come out of, ‘come-at-me-bro’. See what I did there?

Consider this a humble request from the ladies of Gen-Y, or a warning to maintain the dignity of your buddies swimming in your southern parts – terminate your membership from Generation-come-at-me-bro, and watch the Snookis and Ronnies of the world die in their fake-tanned misery.

Alright, you can finish that scotch now.

Cosmopolitan mag: Part-Time Wife

I have an article published in latest issue of Cosmopolitan Australia. After sleeping with the magazine under my pillow for a week, I’ve managed to acquire a PDF copy of the article for your pretty face. Oh, you’re welcome.

It’s a relationship piece that looks at a trend of married women who party without their wedding rings. This one was rather fascinating to research and write, especially since I’m unmarried (duh!). It’s amazing to learn what really happens in a marriage… whether call it a seven-year itch or an innocent flirt.

Click on the image below and it’ll take you to the PDF.

Also, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the article/trend.

Do you think married women are allowed to depart from their wedding rings? Do you do it or would you ever?

I do want to know what you think.

Until then, enjoy my loves.

An Ode to Breakfast at Tiffany’s

50 years since the cinematic brilliance sparked the silver screen, it only seems logical to pay a tribute to the movie that affected me in ways more than one.

My love for pearls escalated. I fell shamelessly in love with Audrey Hepburn’s elegance and charm. My bedside table became home to gazillion sleep eye covers.

On an impersonal level, I penned a piece on how Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Holly Golightly influenced women around the world.

Click here to read the entire post on Fashionising.com