The movie which features three or four ugly men, is apparently a commentary on terrorism and such like. Clever plot, eh? The movie is SO bad, it is hard to imagine that someone wasted so much money on it. The only half interesting thing in the movie was the man-man love that unfolds in every frame. Unfortuntely, that is only the side plot.

I should have stuck to watching the Queen Rania feature on BBC, and how she tried to break stereotypes related the Arab World.

Isn’t it strange that terrorists plant more bombs in an hour,  than the number of runs that Sachin, Dravid and Ganguly score over four days?

End result in both the cases: bloody.

As if that is not enough, people at work were discussing if Lalu Yadav made a better speech than Omar Abdullah? How annoying. I don’t care about these various leaders and the speeches they made. Incidentally, dealer is an anagram for leader.

Though, I must say, Manmohan Singh is turning out to be a moronmagnet. Kindred soul.

My point is: we need a second TV in our house.

One notices that, there are far greater number of women who are doctoral students, as opposed to men. Which makes me wonder, why is that? Every year, in the month of May, we see the newspapers proclaim that, the girls have once again outdone the boys in the Board Exams. It is so common-place to see a group of happy looking girls giving each other high-fives that a photographer captures for the newspaper, that one ignores it.

After this, god only knows what happens to all these women? Most of the people who cross the 7 Point CGPA in college are boys. Most of the folks who get into MBA colleges are also men. The women seem to fade into obscurity for a while.

Many years later, somewhere in her mid 30s, the PhD option becomes viable and that Board Exam topper appears again. It perhaps appeals to the over-achiever hidden inside her somewhere. A bad marriage, ill-mannered children and the demands of an IT Job that requires her to go on-site leaving behind all the people she anyway ought to hate, begins to take the toll.

And that explains why forty year olds en masse are doing their PhDs these days. At the Viva Voce, the Interviewers are stern, deliberately difficult and highly sexist. They take that as part of the job definition. Understandably, this leads to frail nerves. When Lakshmi is inside, getting grilled and butchered by the Interviewer, her now in Engineering college daughter, her Board Exam writing son, her diabetic mother-in-law in a Chettinad Sari and her alcoholic husband wait. It is hilarious to see the role reversal and see the children panic. The ordeal ends and everyone congratulates Dr Lakshmi. D O C T O R, they all say over and over again. When the cretin (aka Interviewer) walks out, they dig deep into their selves and offer him a smile even. He ignores and you run after him (as he is your boss) and let the family be.

She is twenty seven and is married. Her husband is rich. She comes from an upper middle class home and has manicured nails. She probably steals for fun.

I don’t have it in my heart to confront her on this. She is the only half interesting person at work anyway. And she is not a good enough friend, for me to have her best interests in my heart. So, I continue being blind about it. Though, these days, I carry cheap lip-sticks to office. You know, the ones that my NRI cousins picked up from discount stores, and which are probably made in Indonesia using some highly toxic substances.

TEN years ago, Michael Roach and Christie McNally, Buddhist teachers with a growing following in the United States and abroad, took vows never to separate, night or day.

If they cannot be seated near each other on a plane, they do not get on. When she uses an airport restroom, he stands outside the door. And when they are here at home in their yurt in the Arizona desert, which has neither running water nor electricity, and he is inspired by an idea in the middle of the night, she rises from their bed and follows him to their office 100 yards down the road, so he can work.

The Dalai Lama doesn’t approve of this, thank god.

No?

Yes.

Thanks.

I am absolutely in love with Avial. Not that hideous dish.

Imagine being named after a raagam with a unique gandhara swara. Bleh.

What prompts evil parents to name their off-spring as Charukesi, Kokilapriya or Amritavarshini? Does god punish such parents by ensuring that most of these children named after lovely raagams are not just tone deaf but also bestowed with a less than pleasant voice?

At my work-place, most of my colleagues are named after several raagams. Yet, when they open their mouths, one hardly finds any semblance of music.

Only we women need to endure this. The boys are far luckier that way. Their names are merely idiotic, not exotic.

Today I met Short Boy, who is called – Yazh. Really. My heart went out to him. Firstly, nobody will probably get that name. And if they do get it, they are probably thinking of Kovalan and Madhavi. Music and Sangam literature, can it get any worse?