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Journalist, Author, Columnist. My Twitter handle: @seemagoswami

Friday, August 11, 2017

Red Wedding

Does it really make sense to spend so much on a wedding that you feel bankrupt the day after?

It's official. The Big Fat Indian Wedding is out of control.

I should know. Whenever the wedding season rolls around I end up getting inundated with invites to attend the nuptials of people whom I have never heard of, let alone met. And my! What invitations they are!

They come in elaborately carved wooden boxes, they feature paintings by celebrated artists, and are accompanied by such goodies as hand-made gourmet chocolates, silver mementos, or even little figurines of gods and goddesses. And the only thing I can think of (as I puzzle over who these people may be) is: if the card is so pricey, how expensive will the wedding be?

And the answer to that question is: very.

For starters, it will be held in some scenic location or the other. If the budget is tight (I speak relatively, of course) then it will an exclusive beach resort in Thailand or an opulent palace in India. If money is no object then the map will expand to include Florence, Venice, Vienna, or any other historic European city. Each event will be held at a different venue, and the venue of each event will have a different decor.

The wedding party will be flown down in chartered planes, the most expensive suites in the best hotels will be booked, chefs will be hired from all over the world to cater to the myriad tastes of the guests, champagne and first-growth wines will be on tap, and there will be hairdressers, make-up artists and manicurists galore so that everyone can look their absolute best.

And that's before we even start on the expense of outfitting the bride and groom for the many, many functions they will attend before and after they get hitched. There will be couture lenghas for the bride with matching jewelry and accessories for each outfit. There will be made-to-measure suits and custom-made shoes for the groom. And there will be designer watches for both.

Then, there's the small matter of the trousseau -- or dowry, or whatever you want to call it -- which the bride will be expected to bring with her. Furniture for the house, diamonds for the mother-in-law, designer bags for the sisters-in-law, a luxury car for the husband. And so on, and so extravagant.

And if the wedding is so over-the-top, then the honeymoon must also be suitably stratospheric. A week's skiing in Switzerland or a road trip through French wine country will simply not do. No, this has to be the break of a lifetime, involving private planes, Michelin-star meals, and something truly spectacular, like being given a tour of the Louvre after hours.

As I declined an invitation to one such affair last week, I started to wonder how much this Big Fat Indian Wedding would actually cost. I must confess that I began to feel a bit faint when I totted up the sums, and had to go for a little lie-down. This much money on a wedding? Am sure the Instagram posts and Facebook videos will be awesome. And the neighbors will be totally jealous. But really! Is all that expense really worth it?

Well, I guess it all depends on much spare cash you -- or more accurately, your parents -- have lying around underneath those cushions. But just to put things in perspective, here's a small sample of what you could do with the money instead of spending it on a week-long jamboree.

* Buy a nice apartment so that you can start married life in a home of your own. There will be no interfering in-laws, no pesky house rules to follow, and no mortgage to pay off. And you know what they say about real estate; it always appreciates.

* Already have a lovely home in the best part of Delhi or Mumbai, thanks to Daddy and Mummy? Well then, splash out on buying a holiday home by the sea or in the mountains. How does a chalet in Verbier or a villa in Tuscany sound? Not only could you vacation there for the rest of your life, it could even double up as a venue for the party you throw for your first anniversary.

* Put the money away in a safe investment and use the annual interest to fund a luxury holiday (or three) every year. It should be enough to pay for a cruise around the Mediterranean in a private yacht. Or hiring your own private island in the Caribbean during the winter. Or both.

Just one more thing: Don't touch the principal. That's your nest egg just in case your kids are foolish enough to want a Big Fat Indian Wedding of their own. You don't want to be caught short when -- and if -- that happens.

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Mid-life crisis

You know you are well and truly middle-aged when...

You know you're getting old when a historic anniversary comes along and you realize with a start that you remember the event itself like it was yesterday. Well, that's certainly how I felt when I read that Princes William and Harry were planning to celebrate their late mother's memory by installing her statue at Kensington Palace. This was where Princess Diana had lived and brought up her boys, and the brothers believed that this would be a fitting tribute to their mother on her 20th death anniversary.

It was the phrase '20th death anniversary' that took my breath away. I still have crystal-clear recollection of the morning Princess Diana died. I remember sitting on my purple polka-dotted wrought-iron chair to take a call on the landline in my little barsati in Defence Colony. It was my office calling from Calcutta to tell me that a) Princess Diana had been killed in a car accident in Paris and b) they wanted a feature story on her life and times by 5 pm latest.

I remember the utter shock and disbelief I felt when I first heard the words "Princess Diana is dead." I remember lurching to the TV to see for myself if this unbelievable news was true. I remember spending the day glued to BBC and CNN, breaking away just long enough to file my piece.

Was it really that long ago? Can 20 years really have passed by so quickly?

On a rational level, of course, I know that they have. Prince William is now practically middle-aged himself, loyal husband to his wife and loving father to two kids of his own. And Prince Harry is, well, still Prince Harry. So, yes, the death of the Princess took place a lifetime ago. And yet it doesn't really feel like that. And every time I think about the fact that two whole decades have passed since that horrific car crash in Paris, I can't help but feel terribly old myself.

Nor is it world events alone that make me feel every one of my years. There are many other things in daily life that conspire to make me feel more middle-aged every day.

Last night was a good example. I walked into a new, trendy watering hole in Delhi, with my husband, looking for a post-dinner drink. And the first person we bumped into was the daughter of a friend, a lovely young woman whom we have known since she was a child. We said hello, hugged her, and then exchanged a speaking glance. When you're called 'Uncle' and 'Aunty' the moment you walk into a bar, it may be the universe telling you that this place is not for you, after all!

Of late, these epiphanies pile up every day, telling me that I am now well and truly middle-aged. Here's just a random sampling:

* Watching the controversial Netflix show, 13 Reasons Why, with one of my young nieces, I was astonished to discover that she had never used a cassette tape in her life. When did they go out of fashion? Did nobody make 'mixed tapes' any more as presents for their boyfriend/girlfriend? Will this new generation just see them as a vehicle for a suicidal teen to send a message from beyond the grave? For some reason, that makes me very sad.

* Matters have improved since Donald Trump became President of the United States (now there's a sentence I never thought that I would write) but when Barack Obama was in the White House and David Cameron in Downing Street, I always felt that there was something wrong with the world. These people were my generation, for God's sake! How did they get to be in charge? Where were the real grown-ups? And then came the sobering realization that we were now truly the adults in the room. What a scary thought!

* I guess there is a first time for everything, but I never thought that the day would come when I would turn down champagne on a long-haul flight because it was too early in the afternoon. No, I said to myself, as the drinks trolley rolled up. If you drink that now, you will be ready for bed when you land. So pace yourself and hold out for a nice glass of red with dinner. Clearly, my days of irresponsible drinking and flying are well and truly over. Now, it's going to be middle-aged moderation all the way. (What a bore!)

* And then, there is the small stuff. When staying in sounds like a far more attractive proposition than going out; when you choose the elevator rather than the stairs even if you're only going up one floor; when a gentle walk seems more do-able than a full-throttle jog around the park; when a pair of ballet flats seem more enticing than vertiginous stilettos; when you need those glasses to actually read rather than just work the librarian-chic look; well, that's when you know that middle age has struck.

If any of this sounds remotely familiar, then I have bad news for you. No matter how glossy your hair, no matter how trim your waistline, no matter how trendy your playlist, no matter how exciting your social life, your youth is well and truly behind you.

You, my friends, are now middle-aged. Acknowledge it; accept it; and, if you can, embrace it.

Take a break

But not you, though. You're a politician!

Poor old Rahul Gandhi. The chap simply can't catch a break. Actually, scratch that. The man does take breaks. And entirely too many, judged by the sanctimonious chorus of protest that always breaks out whenever he heads abroad for some time off.

Initially, it was the secrecy and the lack of information that people (well, mostly hyperventilating media people) objected to. Why couldn't he just tell us where he was going, for how long, and what he intended to do while he was there? What did the man think? That he was entitled to privacy when it came to his private life? Honestly, was there no limit to his sense of entitlement? (No, don't answer that. The questions are purely hypothetical.)

Well -- perhaps as a reaction to all that criticism -- the Gandhi scion has become more forthcoming about his travel plans. He now tells us why he is travelling though there is still no information about his exact destination (apparently the secrecy is a precautionary measure because he forgoes SPG security when he is abroad). Now he is off to escort his mother back after her medical check up abroad. Now he is heading out to spend time with his 93 year old grandmother. Now it's time for a little light meditation and a spot of Vipassana.

You would think that the timely disclosures would help. And you would be quite wrong.

Even when Rahul tells us in advance when he is heading abroad and why, he gets little joy from his critics. Doesn't he know that the Assembly/municipal elections are on? Doesn't he realise that there is a farmer's agitation raging in Madhya Pradesh? And so on and so outraged.

Which brings me to my question of the week. Are politicians entitled to any time off? Can they take holidays like the rest of us to attend to family matters, recharge their batteries, or just chill? Do they have the right to a vacation without having the wrath of a self-righteous public descend on them?

Well, if you were to ask me, the answer to all of the above questions would be a resounding yes. But going by the outcry every time Rahul goes on vacation, I am clearly in a minority.

Not that it's Rahul alone who gets flak for indulging in too much downtime. Donald Trump famously attacked Barack Obama for spending too many days on the golf course when he was President. It is another matter that, in a delicious irony of fate, President Trump is now being ridiculed for playing too much golf (though on the bright side he can do relatively less damage when he is on the golf course as opposed to when he is hard at work at the Oval Office).

Over in the UK, David Cameron was routinely accused of 'chillaxing' when he headed for his summer/autumn/winter break when he was Prime Minister. What on earth was he doing on a beach in Cornwall/Ibiza/insert destination of choice when the world was going to hell in a hand basket? The poor chap even tried to deflect criticism by a) holidaying in the United Kingdom and b) flying budget airlines like Ryanair. But it was a lost cause. "Cameron away on vacation while the world burns" (I exaggerate, but only a little) remained a perennial headline that could be reliably pulled out and recycled every holiday season.

Clearly, no matter where in the world you are, nobody likes the sight of politicians heading out on a vacation. Where do they get off just taking off when the world is in the state it's in? There is a terrorism alert on; elections are coming up; the economy is in a mess; and here are our leaders just packing their bags and skipping off into the sunset with nary a care in the world. It beggars belief, doesn't it?

Those who maintain that politicians should forget about holidays and buckle down to work 24/7 all 365 days of the year often hold Narendra Modi up as an example. Ever since he became Prime Minister three years ago, Modi doesn't seem to have taken a single day off. Even his jaunts abroad are work trips rather than vacations, with the PM keeping up a punishing schedule that would put much younger men to shame.

But while we can all take pride in the fact that our Prime Minister is a superman, who thrives on a 18 hour day and doesn't need a holiday to recharge his batteries perhaps we can also accept that that is not necessarily true of lesser mortals. While the supermen of the world can go on and on and on (much like the Duracell bunny) the rest of us tend to flag at some point or another. That's when the cares of the world get too much to bear, when our everyday routine gets us down, and when we need a change of pace, of space, and of routine.

There comes a time when all of us need to get away from our quotidian lives so that we can come back reenergised, recharged and rejuvenated. We all need to step off the treadmill occasionally to catch our breath so that we are fresh and raring to go when we clamber right back on. We all need to take that break, to go off on vacation when it all gets a bit too much.

So why do we assume that politicians are any different? And why don't we cut them some slack when the holiday season comes rolling by once again?

Child's play

George Clooney is a first-time dad at 56; how would we react to a first-time mom of that vintage?

It’s time to uncork the champagne and pass the cigars around. Amal and George Clooney are now proud parents of twins. The Clooneys released a statement to announce their arrival, which declared: “This morning Amal and George welcomed Ella and Alexander Clooney into their lives. Ella, Alexander and Amal are all healthy, happy and doing fine. George is sedated and should recover in a few days.”

Oh how we laughed! George Clooney, the Hollywood A-lister who spent his entire adult life telling us that he had no intention of getting married and zero interest in having children, was now the father of twins. Twins! Imagine that!

Isn’t it amazing and wonderful how life turns out? The lifelong commitment-phobe who really didn’t want kids at all, was now happily married to the hyper-intelligent and super-beautiful human rights lawyer, Amal, and was now a father at the grand old age of 56. And a father to twins, no less. And despite the jokey press release to mark their birth, he was completely on board for the thrills of late-life parenthood.

“We are really happy and really excited. It’s going to be an adventure,” George was quoted as saying earlier. “We’ve sort of embraced it all with arms wide open.”

Cue indulgent smiles and sighs and cries of “Awww, that is so sweet.”

And I agree entirely. It totally is.

But let’s pause here and conduct a little thought experiment. Let’s assume, for the purposes of this argument, that George Clooney is a woman called Georgina. And that Georgina spent her 20s, her 30s, her 40s, and the first years of her 50s, telling anyone who cared to ask that she really didn’t want to settle down. No marriage and children for her, thank you very much. Yes, kids were awfully cute and all that, but they really weren’t for her. She would much rather adopt a pig (yes, quite literally) than have a child.

Fair enough. That would be Georgina’s choice, and more power to her. Motherhood is not for every woman. And it takes a brave woman to announce that she is happy in her child-free state, and sees no reason to change it just because society expects her to go forth and multiply.

But then, life throws her a curveball. As she enters her 50s, Georgina meets an amazing young man in his mid 30s, who sweeps her off her feet. Suddenly marriage seems like the natural culmination of this relationship and children seem like a logical end-game.

Unlike George, who has a faithful buddy in biology, Nature is not Georgina’s friend. At her age, assisted reproduction is the only way to go, so we will draw a discreet veil over proceedings at this stage. Let’s just say that a year or so after their wedding, 56-year-old Georgina becomes mom to a pair of adorable twins.

Cue indulgent smiles and sighs and cries of, “Awww, that is so sweet!”

Right? No, I don’t think so.

The world and its mother would be excoriating Georgina for her utter lack of responsibility, her complete selfishness, not to mention her disgusting disregard for the laws of Nature.

Where did she get off thinking that it was fine to have a child when she was in her sixth decade? What kind of mother could she possible make at that age? Instead of indulging her selfish needs, she should have been thinking about what would be the best for her children – and that would be not to have them at all.

She would not have the energy to run around her kids as they grew into active little toddlers. She would embarrass them by being mistaken for their grandmother at the school gates. She would be an old woman by the time they went off to college. And she would be lucky to be alive to see them married or even with kids of their own.

How utterly irresponsible of Georgina to waste her entire reproductive life avoiding pregnancy, only to forcibly embrace motherhood in her menopausal years. How selfish to condemn kids to being brought up by an elderly mom who wouldn’t have the energy to cope with their childish demands. How awful to give birth to children she may well not be around to see grow up.

Yes, I can already hear the clacking of keyboards as countless columns saying just this sort of thing are dashed off in newspapers and magazines across the world. Bad Georgina. What was she thinking?

But luckily for Georgina, she is not, in fact, a woman. She is a man called George Clooney. And George gets to change his mind about having kids no matter what age he is. Nature is on George’s side; even in his mid 50s, he can step up and have a biological child (make that two at one go; with or without the help of IVF). And nobody would dare suggest that George would make a bad father because he is in his sixth decade.

George is handsome. George is rich. George is virile. George is strong. George has boundless energy. George can cope with twins. Hell, you could even throw quintuplets at him, and he wouldn’t blink.

That Georgina woman, though? Not so much!

Saturday, June 17, 2017

School's out!

This summer break, grant your children the gift of boredom

I still remember the giddy joy I felt as I made my way home after the last day of school before the summer holidays began. True, there was a ton of ‘holiday homework’ weighing down my knapsack, but even that was not enough to dampen my spirits that soared sky-high as I contemplated the month-long break that lay ahead of me.

There were four – yes, count them, four! – whole delicious weeks in which I could do as I pleased. I could stay up late at night, reading my favourite mystery novels. I could get up when I pleased and have a leisurely breakfast. I could spend the entire afternoon getting up to no good at with my neighbourhood friends. I could visit the Botanical Gardens or the zoo (as you can probably tell, I grew up in Calcutta) and deepen my acquaintance with the natural world. I could station myself in my favourite lending library until I practically blended in with the furniture.

But most important of all, I would have all the time in the world to do nothing at all: to remain absolutely idle; to just sit around and daydream; to let my mind wander where it would; and yes, on occasion, get utterly and thoroughly bored.

Looking back now, I realize that that was the most precious gift of all: the opportunity to court boredom, and to learn to cope with it.

And learn to cope with it I did. Sometimes it was by inventing unlikely scenarios in which my future adult self would save the world. Sometimes it was by exploring deep in the recesses of my mother and sister’s wardrobes to play dress-up with their glamorous, grown-up clothes. Sometimes it was by badgering my grandmother or grandfather to play Ludo with me. And sometimes it was by press-ganging my father to watch the latest dance moves I had learnt from the last Hindi movie I saw (no, we didn’t call it Bollywood in those innocent days).

In retrospect, I must confess that boredom and learning to deal with it made me a better person. It helped me develop interpersonal skills (you have no idea what tough negotiators my grandparents were), which came in useful in later life. It helped me discover those inner resources lurking within me that would have remained buried forever if it hadn’t been for those dull-as-ditchwater afternoons. Boredom taught me both to spend time with myself (without always looking for external stimuli) even as it helped me build up my social skills.

So much so, that I often wonder if I would have, in fact, become a writer (of sorts) if it hadn’t been for those enforced periods of boredom in which I had only my imagination with which to entertain and regale myself. Somehow, I think not.

Which is why I am often troubled by the fact that the generations that came after me seem to be raising children who don’t quite know what to do with themselves when – and if – they are granted any downtime. Kids of today have become so used to being ferried from tennis lesson to maths tuition to dance classes, or even special ‘learning camps’ during the summer, that they seem to be at a complete loss when left to their own devices. Or, more accurately, when the devices (smartphones, tablets, game stations, and whatever else they are into these days) they rely on so completely are denied to them.

And, in my view at least, that is a terrible thing. The best way to help children develop their imagination or to create any sort of inner life is to leave them on their own for a bit, without a structured activity to participate in or an electronic scene to gaze into. It is imperative to allow them some breathing space so that they can hear themselves think. And more important, to leave a fallow field on which they can plant their own imaginary seeds, without any help from the significant adults in their lives.

There will be challenges. And yes, there will be pushback. And there will be times when your child – used to being overscheduled to within an inch of his/her life – comes crying to you with that eternal complaint of all kids: “I’m bored!”

And when that happens, I would suggest you respond the way my mother did all those decades ago. “Good,” she would say, with quiet triumph. “Now go and find something to do.”

And you know what? I did. And I was much better off for it.

So, this summer break, instead of booking some insanely overpriced camp, or organizing a series of outings for your kids, or even signing them up for endless classes, give them (and yourself) a break. And instead of endless, organized, enforced activity, grant your children the gift of boredom. They may complain for a day or two, but a couple of years – decades even – down the line, they will thank you for it.

I certainly do.

Bright lights, big city

All great cities have one thing in common – a character of their own

Over the last few months, a series of events have taken me back to a place that I last visited in my childhood. As a young girl, I spent many holidays in the city that Le Corbusier built, at my aunt’s house, roughhousing with my cousins, taking scooter rides down the perfectly-perpendicular streets, shopping in the quiet neighbourhood markets, making the obligatory visits to the Rock Garden and Sukhna Lake.

It was a fun time, but we had to make our fun ourselves. Chandigarh contented itself with being its usual quiet, well-behaved, matronly self, allowing us the space to indulge our high-energy selves but offering next to no encouragement to any boisterous behavior.

But that sleepy, laidback Chandigarh now lives only in my childhood memories. The Chandigarh of today, as I discovered recently, has thrown off that slumber and reticence and emerged as a sleek, sophisticated city that offers everything from trendy restaurants to shopping malls to swanky five-star hotels that would do any metropolis proud. And, more to the point, the once-silent city has found its voice. It still has the quiet, tree-lined streets with the most polite traffic I have encountered in India. But now, it also speaks of prosperity, energy, and a certain can-do spirit at every turn.

The best parallel I can think of is former Test cricketer-turned-TV performer, and now Punjab minister, Navjot Singh Sidhu, who – by all accounts – was a nice quiet chap who barely spoke two words during his cricketing days, but is now impossible to shut up. (Though, to be fair, Chandigarh is a tad more restrained.)

As I drove down its impeccably-clean roads, I started to think about how all great cities have a personality of their own – which may or may not change over the years – an identity that belongs to them alone and which makes it impossible to mistake them for another.

I grew up in Calcutta, feasting on its faded glory of crumbling colonial buildings, run-down infrastructure, over-crowded streets and dilapidated markets. But for all its decrepitude, there was a certain grandeur to the Calcutta of my childhood and youth: the vast expanse of the Maidan, the looming visage of Victoria Memorial, the shabby but beautiful Strand where we went for boat rides down the Hooghly, with the magnificent Howrah Bridge providing the most spectacular of backdrops.

Just like Chandigarh, the Calcutta of my childhood no longer exists. Now, when I go back to the city, I am overwhelmed by the new construction, the bustling malls, the endless network of flyovers (not to mention the one-way system that I have yet to master). Even the colonial structures I grew up with no longer look the same, now that they have been blue-washed by Mamata Banerjee’s government.

But strangely enough, the spirit of the city survives. Once I look past the gleaming skyscrapers and the sprawling hypermarkets, I can see that Calcutta (sorry folks, it is always going to be Calcutta to me; Kolkata is for when I speak Bangla) is still the same City of Joy, one of those rare places where a live culture can survive outside of a bowl of mishti doi.

Most people who move from Calcutta to Delhi seem to spend their days bemoaning their loss. They miss the easy charm of Cal; they hate the hard-headed, cold-eyed indifference of Delhi. Well, I am an exception to that rule.

From the moment I moved to my tiny little barsati in Defence Colony, I fell in love with the city. I loved its changing moods through the seasons: the flowering roundabouts heralding spring; the blooming laburnum announcing the arrival of summer; the parks bursting with green as the monsoon hit; the trees shedding their leaves in preparation of winter.

I also loved the fact that Delhi allowed me to be. This was the big tent I had been looking for all my life. This was where I could be whatever I wanted to be. If I wanted to immerse myself in theatre, art and culture, there were enough museums, galleries and artistic hubs to do so. If history and antiquity was my thing, then I could spend every weekend exploring historical monuments dating back to medieval and Moghul times. If I just wanted to let my lungs expand in some green spaces, then they too were available to me.

The space granted to me in Delhi was not just literal but metaphorical as well. And it allowed me to grow in ways that I could not even have imagined when I first moved here.

Yes, I know what all you folks in Bombay (oops, sorry, Mumbai; though like Calcutta, this will always be Bombay to me) are thinking right about now. Delhi? Really? You love Delhi? But surely, you know that Mumbai is much better? This is the city of dreams, the city of endless possibilities, the city that never sleeps, the city that, oh well, never mind!

Well, you know what, guys? It is possible to love both. I can enjoy the beautiful, tree-lined boulevards of Delhi just as much as I cherish the sea views along Marine Drive. I can embrace the Staid Dowager that is Delhi just as fondly as I hug the Brash Bruiser that is Mumbai.

Because while cities have personalities of their own, identities that are theirs alone, people like us have the luxury of embracing them all and making them our own. And why settle for less, when so much more is on offer?

Channel turfing

Why I have given up on Indian TV news channels 

There is now a gaping hole in my evenings. No, not because I have turned into an anti-social recluse – I have, in fact, always answered to that description. It’s because I have finally sworn off my addiction to TV news. 

There was a time when I would channel surf through the evening and late into the night, going from one news channel to the other. I watched the headlines as I ate my dinner, I tuned in for a news programme as I did my 30 minutes on the cross-trainer, hell, I even kept the news on mute as I worked on my book.

That is no longer the case. These days I have eschewed the pleasures (using the word very loosely indeed) of TV news, choosing to spend my evenings with Netflix or a good DVD box-set. And when I get tired of fiction and need a news fix, I steer clear of the Indian channels, and dip into CNN International, the BBC or Al Jazeera instead.

Why, you ask? 

Seriously? You really need to ask? Have you not been watching these channels yourselves? Well, okay, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and tell you why. So, here, in no particular order of importance, are some of the many reasons I hate prime time TV news:

First off, there is the fact that it is rarely, if ever, news. You hardly ever hear about all the newsworthy things that happened in the course of the day across the country (as you would if you read the next day’s newspapers). Instead, our news channels (yes, yes, I know there are honorable exceptions, but you could count them on one finger) land on the most controversial story of the day – which is guaranteed to attract the largest number of eyeballs – put together a short video package, and then organize a ‘debate’ around the issue. There’s the evening sorted with minimal effort and maximum ease.

The ‘debates’ themselves can best be summed up by paraphrasing William Shakespeare: they are all ‘sound and fury signifying high TRP ratings’, shedding next to no light on the subject being debated. All you hear is cross-talk, people shouting over one another, the anchor shouting even louder to shut them up, and more cross-talk. You can spend a good half-hour watching (assuming you are a glutton for punishment) and not learn a single thing about the issue in question.

When it comes to inviting guests on their panels, news channels tend to  ‘round up the usual suspects’. So, on any given day, most channels will be discussing the same story with the same people, often at the same time (thanks to that miracle called ‘sim-sat’ – go on, Google it), with all of them saying the same things over and over again. If there is a better recipe for ennui, I haven’t yet gotten hold of it. 

The anchor is rarely ever a neutral party, who elicits the views of his panelists without revealing his own biases. On the contrary, his introduction makes it all too clear which side he is on. Even that would be acceptable (you know all the stuff they say about ‘truthful not neutral’) if only he would let those who disagreed with him finish a sentence – never mind an actual argument – without interrupting to tell them how they are ‘wrong, wrong, wrong’ (and anti-national, for good measure). 

Staying with news anchors, why is it that so few of them can ask pithy questions? Instead, most of them preface their queries with long, rambling statements that go on and on without really driving the discussion any further. What’s worse is that after taking minutes of airtime, they instruct their guests to give quick answers because “I have only 60 seconds left”. Well, in that case, you shouldn’t have taken 120 seconds to ask the damn question.

Nobody who appears on news TV – not the anchors, not the reporters, not the guests – seems to be familiar with the workings of a microphone. Or perhaps they are unaware that there is one placed directly in front of them. Why else would they ignore its presence and bellow away, as if they need to shout out loud to be heard across the country?

There is nothing that annoys me more than to see a phalanx of former Pakistani Generals and ISI hands sitting in on our TV shows, tearing into India on a satellite link. Why do we pay these old codgers to come on our news programmes so that they can insult our country, our soldiers, and our intelligence? And strangely enough, it is the ‘nationalistic’ channels that do this most often. I must say, this is a rather inventive way of showing their patriotism. (Or perhaps, more to the point, bumping up their ratings.)

But most troubling of all is the propensity of TV news to give fringe voices the oxygen of prime-time publicity. It doesn’t matter how minor an Islamist cleric you are, or how much of a Hindutva nonentity. As long as you make an outrageous enough statement, you will be guaranteed your 15 minutes of fame on our news channels, as anchors hyperventilate about how you are completely beyond the pale (but, clearly, fit and proper to inhabit their TV studios), quite ignoring the fact that they are only helping to mainstream the fringe.

Given all this, are you really surprised I have given up on Indian TV news? Frankly, I am amazed that more of us haven’t.

Calling it a day

Where will you head when retirement beckons?

My cousin is on a bit of a high these days. Both literally and metaphorically. Her dream house in the mountains, with a spectacular view from every window, is finally coming together. The woodwork is done, the plumbing works, the furniture is in place, the curtains have been hung, and the kitchen is on its way to being fully functional.

This is where she intends to retire when her work is finally done. Living blissfully among the clouds, breathing the fresh mountain air, cooking the vegetables she grows in her own back garden, going for long walks, spending endless afternoons reading and drinking green tea.

It sounds like an idyllic retirement, doesn’t it? Well, I guess it does to most people. But when she showed me the pictures of the house and the view – both amazingly beautiful – and told me of her plan, the first thought that popped into my head was: “Where is the nearest hospital?”

No, of course, I didn’t actually say that out loud. That’s not the kind of thing you say when someone you love announces the fulfillment of the dream of a lifetime. Stamping down on that voice in my head, I went through all the pictures and told her how spectacular it looked – and it truly did.

But all the while I was making the right noises I was thinking about logistics. How long it would take to get to a doctor? How she would negotiate the steep climb up if – well okay, when – her knees went? Instead of voicing these concerns, however, I restricted myself to encouraging her to persuade her sister and brother-in-law (both doctors) to buy a house nearby so that they could serve the tiny community’s medical needs.

Yes, I know, I sound like a complete nutcase. But the truth is that when I think of my own retirement plans, the one thing that takes precedence over all else is the proximity of medical facilities. I would never dream of moving to a faraway village in the hills, no matter how lovely, if I wasn’t sure that there was a good hospital a short ambulance ride away.

The other thing that I am obsessed about is having a single-level house. I have done my share of duplex living, trudging up and down from bedroom to living room and back again. But as my knees begin to twinge every time I walk down a staircase and my heart rate goes up when I walk back up, I have come to realize that I can’t keep this up for long. In another two decades I will need a living space that allows me to shuffle slowly from one room to another, without negotiating any steps along the way.

And where would I like this home to be located? Well, having being born and bred in one big city and lived in several others, I know that country pleasures are not for me. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a trip to the beach as much as the next person. I love to take a break in the mountains when the heat in the plains gets too much. I read, I sleep, I take long walks, I revel in the natural beauty, I unwind, I detox, I distress. I slow my life down, tune out the static so that I can hear myself think. I get in touch with myself.

But after a week of this enforced calm, I start to get itchy. The quiet seems to weigh heavy upon me. I start to miss the energy and excitement of the big city. I begin to long for a visit to the cinema, a quick trip to the shops, eating out at my favourite restaurants, meeting up with friends, catching an exhibition, attending a music recital, or just sitting at a coffee shop, sipping an excellent cappuccino and watching the world go by.

All of which leads me to believe that I would not enjoy a retirement spent in the mountains or beside a beach. The truth is that I only ever feel truly alive while living in a big city. A city that keeps me engaged through night and day, through the seasons, and indeed, through the years.

A city where there are enough public spaces where I can spend an hour or two with friends, with a good book, or even by myself. A city dotted with museums and monuments, where you can drop by when you want a sense of the past that shapes our present. A city that hosts everything from plays, art exhibitions, musical evenings to seminars and international conferences, to keep your brain stimulated in the best possible way. A city with enough beautiful green areas so that taking a walk doesn’t seem like drudgery. A city that is safe enough for a single woman to negotiate on her own, no matter how late she is getting back home.

At the moment, the city that best fits the bill is Delhi – with its verdant Lodhi Garden, its amazing monuments like Purana Qila and Humayun’s Tomb, and the full menu of programmes at such venues as India International Centre and Habitat Centre. The only area where it falls short is on women’s safety. But with luck, by the time I am old and doddering, that problem will be sorted out.

Until then, I live on a hope and a prayer in my one-level apartment, a stone’s throw away from the All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS). And take comfort in the fact that at least medical help is only a (very) short ambulance ride away.

Indian Standard Time

Why has turning up late to everything become a national trait in our country?

So, home minister Rajnath Singh had a bit of a meltdown when he arrived at a government function five minutes early; only to have it start 12 minutes late. Incensed at this delay, he publicly upbraided the bureaucrats in attendance – and duly made the national headlines.

The response to his outburst was divided. There were those who wondered what all the fuss was about. After all, a 12-minute delay counts as starting bang on time in a country that goes by what is jokingly referred to as Indian Standard Time (one hour behind schedule is par for the course). So, why publicly shame senior bureaucrats for being true to Indian culture? After all, isn’t that what all of us are meant to subscribe to, on pain of being dubbed anti-national?

Then there were those who were thrilled that someone – and a senior minister, no less – had stood up for the virtue of punctuality, which is conspicuous by its absence in India. And that he had taught those lazy bureaucrats – who couldn’t be bothered to turn up well in time for a function they had organized – a lesson that they wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

I have to say that I am on Rajnath Singh’s side on this issue. As someone who always turns up at the time specified on the invitation card and then has to wait hours for everyone else to saunter in, I both empathize and sympathize with the home minister. It is incredibly frustrating to waste a good part of the day waiting for people who demonstrate by their behavior that they have no respect for your time. (Not to mention, terribly annoying.)

Yes, I can hear all you habitual latecomers muttering by this point. Hey, what’s the problem? You don’t want to wait around for others to turn up? There’s a simple solution. Turn up late yourself.

Well, I’m sorry but that is something that I am constitutionally incapable of doing. I was brought up to be punctual; and I will be punctual till the day I die. After all, you know what they say: “You may not be able to change the world; but don’t let the world change you.” As far as I am concerned, those are words to live by.

So, I end up waiting. I wait at seminars, as the audience straggles in, the hall filling up slowly row-by-row (of course, no one would dare start as long as it is half-full). I wait at fashion shows, sitting obediently on my seat while fashion editors and socialities squaff yet another glass of champagne in the hospitality lounge. I wait at sit-down dinners, gazing mournfully at the sad-looking canap├ęs doing the rounds, while the rest of the guests saunter in a good hour late.

And don’t even get me started on doctor’s clinics and hospitals. By now, of course, everyone knows that when doctors give you a time to turn up, it is less an appointment and more an approximation. But even if you turn up 30 minutes after the appointed hour, you will still be made to wait for another 60 minutes. If you complain about the long wait time you will be testily told that The Great Man can’t possibly predict how long each person will take. And it hardly needs saying that his time is much more important that yours.

But all this waiting around has ensured one thing: I have become adept at filling this empty time with stuff so that I don’t blow a gasket like Rajnath Singh did so spectacularly, humiliating senior officers in the bargain.

I use this time to listen to music; I read the book I have downloaded on my phone; I answer emails; I phone a friend I haven’t spoken to in a while; I scroll Twitter to get my daily quota of outrage out of the way; I post pictures of last night’s dinner on Instagram; I update my Facebook status; I do my Keegal exercises; I marvel at the many inventive excuses that people give to explain their tardiness (bad traffic and car breakdowns are hardy perennials, though ‘My Uber failed to turn up’ is gaining in popularity).

I also spend a lot of time wondering what lies behind this chronic Indian tendency to turn up late for everything. And why we seem to have no qualms about keeping other people waiting.

Could it be that a culture that uses the same word (‘Kal’) to mean both yesterday and tomorrow has a very fluid sense of time? Is it down to ancient Hindu philosophy that see time as a ‘chakra’ – ‘Kaal chakra’, the wheel of time – a circular loop that is both unending and endless? Or are these just excuses for lazy, inconsiderate jerks to hide behind?

But whatever the truth of the matter, how do punctual people like me cope with the habitual unpunctuality of others, other than by developing preternatural patience. Well, these days I have taken to giving my dinner guests a time an hour in advance of when I would like them to turn up (8 pm for 9, for instance). And now I live in dread that one of them will be a punctuality hound like me, and turn up when I am still in the shower.

There really is no winning this one!

Just say no

What would be your deal-breaker when it comes to dating?

The headline read: “Why I won’t date hot women any more”. The New York Post article was about Dan Rochkind (described as an “Upper East Sider with a muscular build and a full head of hair”) who, after spending his 30s dating model-types had, at 40, settled for a ‘softer beauty’, getting engaged to Carly Spindel, whom he described as someone “you can take home and cuddle with”.

So, why did Rochkind give up on “hot women”? Well, since you didn’t ask, it was because “Beautiful women who get a fair amount of attention get full of themselves. Eventually, I was dreading getting dinner with them because they couldn’t carry a conversation.”

I know. It seems a bit rich when a man who is superficial enough to choose his dates on the basis of their looks complains about how they aren’t great conversationalists (it would, of course, never occur to him that perhaps he’s not interesting enough to make an effort for). Not to mention the putdown of his future wife, who is “beautiful” but not quite a “swimsuit model”. Clearly, this guy is a keeper!

But whatever you think of Rochkind’s delusional dating rules, there is no denying that there are some types (and that goes for both men and women) that are just not second-date material. And here, for those of you still in the dating pool, is a random sampling, based entirely on my own prejudices. Feel free to add your own.

·      * Those who spend the evening paying more attention to their smartphones than to you. If your date is more focused on Instagramming the food, tweeting about the bad service, Snapchatting with friends, or simply checking on news alerts, rather than engaging with you, you need to ask for the bill and get the hell out of there. If he or she can’t be bothered to focus on you to the exclusion of all else for a couple of hours over dinner, what hope is there that things will ever get better? Yes, that’s right, none at all.

·      * Those who are the heroes of every story they tell. And they just can’t seem to stop telling those stories. How they saved the boss’ life at the last presentation. How they carried the day in court despite being pitted against the best litigator in town. How they ran the marathon with zero training. And so on and so tedious. One evening of this is quite enough; why sign up for another?

·      * Those who can’t seem to stop name-dropping all the rich, famous, powerful and influential people they know/are related to. Her uncle is married to the sister of that famous Bollywood star. He went to school with the current chief minister’s younger brother. Her sister is married to that famous TV anchor. He plays golf with one of India’s leading cricketers every Sunday. It’s a safe bet that those who seek proximity to power and fame to bolster their own self-esteem, don’t have very much of it in the first place. And unless you want to sign up for endless evenings of ego-massaging, get the hell out of there.

·      *  Those who keep banging on about the elite school or college they went to and sneering about those who went to lesser institutions. If, in adulthood, you are still defining yourself and deriving your self-worth from where you studied, then clearly the best years of your life are already behind you. Not to mention that you’re a bit of a snob.

·      * Those who show zero interest in your life. If your date doesn’t bother to ask even basic questions about you – which books you like, what kind of music you listen to, or even, where you grew up – then it is clear that a) he or she is not that into you or b) he or she is completely self-obsessed. Either way, you should cut and run.

·      * Those who are constantly nasty and snarky about their exes. Everyone is entitled to be bitter about their break-up, but it is never a good sign if someone is compulsively rude and derisive about someone they went out with. For one thing, it shows that they are not completely over that relationship – feelings still linger, even if they are only of rancor. And two, it is a pretty good indication of the treatment you will receive if things don’t work out between you two. Stay only if you are willing to take that risk.

·      * Those who are rude to waiting staff. If someone is rude to the waiter or busboy, that is pretty reliable indicator of how they treat people who have less power than them. And being a bully is never an attractive look, no matter how attractive they may look.

·     * Those who order a salad and then steal half the fries off your plate (or self-righteously turn down dessert only to demolish the chocolate cake you order).

     Either these people have no self-control or will power, and you don’t want to get involved with someone who can resist anything but temptation. Or they are downright delusional and believe that calories don’t count if they come off someone else’s plate. In which case, this delusion is bound to extend to other areas of their lives. Best steer clear.

The Young And The Restless

Who would be a teenager in today’s world? Not me, for sure!

When 13 Reasons Why premiered on Netflix, I scrolled right past it after reading the brief summary. A teenager commits suicide and leaves behind a set of tapes to all those who are complicit, explaining why she killed herself, and what role each one of them had to play in her decision. So far, so depressing, I thought, as I clicked on the latest season of Grace and Frankie and binge-watched it through the night.

Then, a week later, when I was at a loose end, I idly clicked on 13 Reasons Why (adapted from Jay Asher’s bestselling 2007 novel of the same name), thinking I would check out an episode or two to see if it was really as good as all the critics insisted. And before you could say Hannah Baker, I was hooked. Don’t worry, I am going to post any spoilers here. Suffice it to say that this is addictive viewing and I highly recommend that you do it over the weekend.

But as I watched the world of teenage angst unfold before me, with all its dramas and fights, its hormone-fuelled rages and passions, its friendships and enmities, I was reminded of just how tough those years between 16 and 20 can be. When you are finding out who you are, trying on different personas to see which one fits, falling in love for the first time, breaking your own heart or the hearts of others, falling out with friends, bullying or being bullied. It’s like being on a rollercoaster of emotions, and what’s worse is that you experience it with that heightened intensity that is a hallmark of teenagedom.

As I binge-watched (yes, again) in fascinated horror, I found myself feeling grateful that I had grown up in the era that I did. Because, hand on heart, I would not be a teenager in today’s world for all the money in the world.

Why, you ask. Well, because while technology (read Google) has made it easier to do homework or research a project, social media has actually made our kids’ lives much more distressing and complicated.

Consider this. In the days before the Internet, our only lifeline to our friends was the telephone. So, we would sit by it for hours, chatting incessantly, while our mothers impatiently gestured for us to get off. And on the days when it didn’t ring, our lives would be miserable. Did no one care about us? Why didn’t anybody call? If it was a boyfriend/girlfriend who had neglected to phone, our misery would be multiplied manifold.

Now, consider the many ways in which the teenagers of today can experience the same anguish of rejection. They could be blocked on Snapchat, have their Instagram images languish with just a dozen likes, see images of parties on Facebook to which they have not been invited, be bullied on Twitter, and slut-shamed on any one of these virtual platforms.

Break-ups are hard enough when you are a teenager but to have them play out publicly, as you unfollow each other on social media, or even see images of your ex with their new partner, can be even more traumatic. What’s worse is there is the ever-present temptation to turn into a virtual stalker, torturing yourself with how fast your ex has moved on while you are still in mourning for what you’ve lost.

Then, there is the constant pressure to look good because, you know, selfies! You must be constantly camera-ready, pout firmly in place, hair styled to perfection, and cleavage on display – and that’s just the guys. The girls need washboard abs and slimming apps (not to mention special filters) to look like those supermodels who have taken over Instagram in their itsy-bitsy bikinis.

If you don’t fit in with this new prescription of beauty and glamour, then prepare to be body-shamed and bullied. In fact, if you don’t conform in any way at all, be prepared to be targeted by bullies, both in real life and in cyberspace, where the cloak of anonymity facilitates the generation of greater bile and venom. And when you can’t see or identify your tormentors, the attacks leave you feeling even more helpless and disempowered.

And then, there is the new face of romantic relationships in an age where most teenagers have seen hardcore porn before they ever experience their first kiss. Where we would have sent an erotic love letter, the teenagers of today feel compelled to share sexy selfies. Instead of talking dirty on the phone, they indulge in sexting, exchanging naked pictures, which often become the stuff of revenge porn when relationships end (as they inevitably do, at that age).

In 13 Reasons Why, it is a unfortunate picture taken of Hannah Baker and circulated through the school that starts the chain of events that leads to her suicide. And the scary part is that, as I watching it, I could see just how easily it could happen to one of our own kids. Just one moment in time, just one little indiscretion, one instant of letting down your guard, trusting in that one wrong person, can have unspeakable consequences.

Honestly, who would be a teenager in today’s world? I certainly wouldn’t. And nor, I suspect, would most of our kids.

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Thanking your stars

Take a moment out to count your blessings; you will feel much happier for it

I think it would be fair to say that we live in an age of outrage. And in an age of anger, resentment and fear. Outrage about the state of the world; anger about the fact people hold opinions different from ours; resentment that things aren't working out exactly as we would like them to; and fear of what the future holds.

As a consequence our daily lives are eked out amid a litany of complaints. There are too many refugees knocking at the door of our safe, prosperous societies. There is entirely too much 'appeasement' of 'minorities' (yes, we all know what that is code for). Young people no longer bother to respect their elders. And what do young women think they are doing, dressing in all those tight jeans and short skirts?

I must admit to having being caught up in the outrage machine myself. Just over the last few months I have found myself fulminating on social media on topics ranging from President Trump's now-infamous Access Hollywood tape (the one in which he talks about grabbing women by a certain body part) to the outrageous behaviour of Shiv Sena MP, Ravindra Gaikwad, who was so incensed at not being given a Business Class seat on an all-Economy flight (I kid you not) that he attacked an Air India manager, proudly boasting afterwards that he "beat him 25 times with a chappal".

And you know what? It is an exhausting business. Firing off angry tweets, writing fiery Facebook updates, posting snarky comments, and so on and so forth. And what purpose does that serve? Not only are we eaten up with negativity about the rest of the world, we also end up being angry, depressed and dissatisfied about our own lives.

Well, I don't know about you, but I am tired of living like this. So, in an effort to look past all that is awful and actively search for the good, I have decided to keep what I call a 'gratitude journal'. At the end of every day, I take five minutes to make a quick note about one thing that happened in the course of the day that made me feel grateful for my blessings.

I began this enterprise only a month ago but already reading back through my entries makes me feel better about myself, my life, and even life in general. In case this strikes you as a good idea, here's a tiny glimpse into my gratitude journal, to inspire you to start your own.

* The Tesu trees that dot my street are in full bloom. The red flowers against the brilliant blue spring sky make even the thought of the coming scorching summer seem bearable. And yes, they are so eminently Instagram-able. (Not to mention, they remind me that the Laburnum season is just around the corner. Joy!)

* An unfamiliar number flashes on my phone screen. Am tempted to ignore it. Must be another telemarketer, I tell myself. But some instinct makes me take the call. It's an old friend, who I met on my first job. She has since moved to America and is in India for a couple of days (though not in my town, alas!). We chat, we laugh, we catch up on our lives, we make plans to see each other soon. And I feel so much better when I hang up. Old friends. Something to be truly grateful for.

* Clearing out my cupboard, I stumble upon an envelope of old pictures. My two young nieces on a visit to Calcutta. There we are, perched on one of the many branches of the famous Banyan tree at the Botanical Gardens, laughing our heads off at some long-forgotten joke. And just like that I am carefree college kid again, with not a care in the world. You really can't put a price on that.

* Sunday mornings are the day to experiment with breakfast options. This week, it will be a besan ka pura (or chilla, or whatever you call it in your parts) like my mom used to make. I put together the ingredients from memory, try and get the exact degree of crispness that she managed so effortlessly. And guess what? It's absolutely perfect. The taste of my childhood in every delicious mouthful. Somewhere up there, my mother must be smiling.

* After laying off my Pilates/Yoga routine for a couple of months (bad back, with an old injury flaring up, since you ask), I have been easing myself back into it slowly. It's been hard going. The flexibility that takes months to build up can disappear in a matter of days. So, you can imagine my delight when this morning, for the first time in weeks, I managed to go from cat stretch to downward dog to cobra pose without having to pause for breath. I know it doesn't sound like much to all you exercise freaks out there. But for me, it was a moment of celebration.

At the end of the day, I have come to believe, it is in these tiny moments of joy that true happiness lies. And I am so grateful for each such moment in my life that I have decided to document it. For me, this is like creating a little piggy bank of happiness that I can dip into whenever I am feeling depressed or dejected. And I could not recommend it more highly.

You are what you wear

Or as that old saying goes: clothes maketh the man (and the woman)

We've all heard that old chestnut: clothes make the man. The proverb was first recorded in English in the 15th century (though there is an earlier saying in Greece that roughly translates as 'the man is his clothing'.). The idea duly turned up in William Shakespeare's writings (as things tend to do) with Polonius declaiming, "For the apparel oft proclaims the man" in Hamlet. And more recently, Mark Twain proclaimed, "Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society."

Well, that may well be the case. But certainly there is no denying that our clothes say a lot about us: who were are, what we believe in, where we come from, and sometimes, even what we do.

There is the obvious stuff of course. The hijab, for instance, which is now as much a religious injunction as it is a political statement. There are women in certain parts of the globe who are fighting for their right to throw it off because they see it as symbol of female subjugation. And then there are those in other regions of the globe who are fighting for the right to keep it on to assert their adherence to the Islamic faith. But whether you are in Teheran or Paris, whichever side of the divide you are on, the hijab is always a highly visible marker of identity.

In India, we now have a chief minister, Yogi Adityanath of Uttar Pradesh, who wears saffron, traditionally the colour of renunciation in the Hindu faith (yes, the irony is not lost on me either), as he goes about the task of running his state. And even though he makes all the right noises about not discriminating against any faith, his clothes proclaim quite proudly where his heart lies.

So, while clothes may not necessarily make the man or woman, they nonetheless tell us a lot about them. And that applies not just to overtly religious markers but also to more, shall we say, 'secular' choices.

Take a walk through your neighbourhood market or mall. Or just sit in a cafe or restaurant and do some people watching. You can tell a lot about those passing just by looking at what they are wearing, because even though we often don't realise it, all of us inadvertently send out signals about who we are by the way we dress.

There are the yummy mummies having a quick bite while their kids are at school. They sport oversized diamonds on their fingers and in their ears, each one carefully calibrated to show off the size of their husband's annual bonuses. Their designer bags are either 'this season' or old enough to qualify as 'vintage'. Their hair is all high-maintenance highlights and super-sleek blow-dries. And their pastel clothes and high heels a sign that they never ever need to take public transport as they go about their 'ladies who lunch' lifestyle.

Their husbands, meanwhile, only do business lunches. They wear beautifully-tailored, made-to-measure shirts but leave off the ties to indicate that they are not middle management. Their accessory of note is an oversized designer watch, that they glance at ever so often to indicate just how important their time is. If they are meeting with bureaucrats, it is easy to tell the government servants apart. They are the ones with the cheaper looking suits and expressions of grave condescension.

And that's just the five-star hotels. If you go a little downmarket -- or even mid-market -- you can play the 'tell the journo apart from the NGO wallah' game. It's a little bit tricky because both sets prize themselves on being slightly scruffy. But while the media guys pair their faded jeans with shirts and T-shirts, the NGO brigade sticks to Fabindia kurtas and cloth jholas. But it is easy to get this wrong because some journos pride themselves on their 'ethnic chic' too (think tie-dyed saris, handloom kurtis or even, Ikat shirts).

The ones who are dead easy to pick out are the start-up guys and girls. They are the ones looking self-important as they sit in the corner of a cafe they have colonised to hold meetings, tapping away distractedly on their laptops or tablets, dressed in their uniform of designer jeans and T-shirts that are always one size too tight and accessorised with lots of facial hair and black-rimmed glasses to add gravitas to their look.

Politicians are equally easy to identify, with their penchant for white kurta pyjamas, paired with a waistcoat or a tricolour scarf. Off duty, they try to blend in with the rest of us by wearing 'civilian' clothing. But more often than not their air of entitlement -- not to mention the bristling security guards -- give them away.

You can tell fashion designers (or even fashion journalists, for that matter) by their self-consciously trendy, even eccentric, mode of dressing. They will be the ones wearing dhoti trousers with a singlet, tweed skirts with lace camisoles, onesies with giant pink pigs embroidered all over them and so on (and so weird). Pearls and chiffon saris (especially with the head covered) is the patented look of feudals and erstwhile royals (most often spotted at the polo). While anyone who is wearing an old school tie is guaranteed to be a bit of a saloon bar bore (I exaggerate, of course, but only a little).

And thus it goes. So, what do your clothes say about you? Or would you rather not say?