It happened yet again. A billion and more eyes were glued to the TV set to witness the 100th century of Sachin Tendulkar but he missed the mark by a mere six runs and an entire nation sighed in disbelief. Even by missing the century he stole the Slap-gate thunder from Mr.Pawar. There seemed to be a slight competition between the two as to which event would collect the maximum status updates. In the end, we all know who won. The peoples’ God beats self proclaimed God anytime right and the news guys shifted to Big Boss. Idiots. Fortunately, not everything on the idiot box turns out to be idiotic.

The finale of Masterchef Australia aired on Indian Television this Monday. Only two days have passed since then and I miss it already. Probably just Hayden and Ellie but yeah it was a very interesting show unlike the Indian rip-off. Seriously,basmati sushi?! But overall the challenges were appealing and the techniques refined. The high light of the show was the UN challenge, where the participants had to do canopies for a reception in the UN. Don’t even get me started on the Nigella Lawson challenge episode. But like all other good things (read: Kate’s immunity challenge dessert.Yum!!!)The show had to end. Sigh.

I accept the fact that I never moved my lazy bum to try out any of the preparations and most of the ingredients used are not found in the local Indian market. In fact, the techniques and equipment used in the show are probably all used in some restaurant somewhere and not in our kitchens. So what made the show tick? The part which intrigued the ordinary viewer, who oohed and aahed at the 69 degree egg, was that all the participants were bloody amateurs. And we all love to witness genius surpass talent aye! They all had left back their lustrous careers and dived into uncertainty to pursue their passions. This is all fairy tale stuff, what we like to read and witness but we rarely gather the guts to just jump off the cliff .To chase our dreams and fulfil our passions. To know our true calling is a privilege very few of us have and to let go of it before even trying is utter foolishness. Stand on a wintery morning at the edge of the swimming pool and if you dip your toe to check the temperature of the water you can never really take the plunge. I sincerely hope we all do find that one thing that truly ignites the fire in our hearts and we have the courage to go after it.

On a lighter note, a big thanks to Chamak Challo and Vidya ‘Silky’ Balan for getting the curves and the red lipstick back. We can all now look forward to something other than the skimpy bikinis. Ooh lala ooh lala...Ooh lala lala...tu he meri fantasy..

Aarush looked at his mother as she carefully tucked him in his blanket. Her eyes were red and puffy yet she had tried to put up a cheerful front. He knew she had been crying in the bedroom since evening and he knew better to leave her alone for now. She kissed him on his cheek and watched her son close his eyes and float away into the land of dreams.

“He looks exactly like you Anu”, this was the first thing her mother had told her when she had regained her consciousness. She was 23 when she gave birth to Aarush, named after his father.

She turned off the lights and closed the door behind her. But no matter how hard you try some doors cannot be closed, the dark memories carefully hidden in the layers of our past come back to haunt us .And she knew that she had to face him, it was inevitable. With heavy breaths, and a torn heart she headed towards the kitchen. He was there, sitting at the table. His tiny hand nervously wrapped around the spoon as he stared down into the ice cream bowl. He was terrified, unsure of why he was in a stranger’s house and wondering when his mother would come and take him back home. Their home.

Anu had spotted the similarity the moment the devil had entered the house. Her husband was clutching a note and carried the boy’s blue back pack. The kid was around 8 yrs old, older than Aarush, and was tired and scared and for a moment Anu thought she was dreaming. It was too painful to be real but the obviousness of his similarity to his father was harsh.

They argued for hours. He tried to explain. She was crying incessantly. It was the last thing she wanted in her life-a reminder of the infidelity. He tried to convince her that the affair was a mistake, a drunken mistake.”I was young, stupid and drunk. Think as a mother Anu, the kid has nowhere to go. I love you and our son, and you know that. All this happened before we even met. Please forgive me”. He looked hopefully at his wife; as she was trying to read the letter through her moist eyes. “I need to be alone for a while”, her cold voice cut through the silence.”I will be...we will be in the kitchen...” his voiced trembled. She read the letter again, each word carefully. The woman was dying when she wrote this and she had apologized for keeping the kid’s father in the dark for all these years. The predicament was tedious but a decision had to be made.

He saw her wait in the hallway tentatively and rushed to his wife. She held his arms and slightly nodded.” I will love him like our own son, Shekhar”...Tears rolled down his eyes and he hugged the woman he loved more than anyone. He vowed never to come this close to losing her and breathed a sigh of relief ,thanking her for her forgiveness and she prayed that he would forgive her someday too.

The greatest,most confounding question a man can ever face is "Who is a better cook,your mother or your wife?".The answer is always the mother,or atleast in advertisements it is.Else how would they sell ready-to-eat yummy food that would make him forget the maa ke haath ka khaana.So when a recent wheat flour advertisement has the hubby say that his wife cooks really well(and mind you the mother doesn't make a face.quite refreshing) it instantly catches my eye.The diligent bahu modestly claims that the freshly milled wheat flour is the secret and I can't help but shake my head.

The reason is simple.The flat indian bread is the trickiest bit to master.No matter if you use the best flour,the food processor to turn it into soft dough in the end it all comes down to your relationship with the rolling pin.The rolling pin apparently has a mind of its own and the first time you try to get a hold of things disasters are not far away.Part of this tragic feeling of hopelessness and having your face covered in flour comes from my own personal experience.

The roti,according to me is the single most beautiful creation on a daily Indian food plate.The aroma of the hot dough as the roti lands on the frying pan ,its beautiful roundness as it fills up with air on the burner and the softness when it lands laden with home made ghee on your plate,all these make the roti the most essential element on the plate.The art of rolling out round soft rotis is the sign of a good cook.More than anything grandmothers persistently try to get their granddaughters to befriend the rolling pin.Even as we try to reach the moon,I suppose all grannies know that a woman should essentially know how to cook good food.The men wouldn't disagree,neither would I.

The great admirer that I 'm of the humble roti,the fine art of making one has so far eluded me.It started off really rough,the first few tasted like papad even.In roti making unfortunately there is nothing as beginner's luck.After some tiring attempts the shape gradually progressed from the African continent to a Washington apple,the softness getting better every time.The eternal believer that I'm my quest for perfection began,it was about conquering the world one shape at a time.The efforts paid off.Finally the day arrived,the light shone off my flour smeared face and the rolling pin seemed like an extension of my hand.Not only was the shape a desired round,the softness and the smell made me slightly dizzy with happiness.It was pure joy,the feeling of being able to achieve the perfect lightness of your dream roti.Absurd yes,but priceless nonetheless.After the first victory, I have tasted success after regular intervals.The probability of which I cannot gauge since I apparently suck at mathematics.But take it from me,the feeling of knowing you can create something that beautiful from only flour ,water and oil is one of the the most fulfilling things to experience.

As for my grandmother,she insists that a beautiful roti is a testimony of a loving husband.Well,I guess that remains to see.

India were 245/5 and trailing by 29 runs when Shane Warne,one of the greatest players in the history of the game,delivered a short one.The batsman on strike,Rahul Dravid,hammered the ball on his backfoot for a boundary.The concerned look on Steve Waugh's face, after the boundary was hit ,perfectly encapsulated the Aussie exasperation.Dravid went on to score 180.Those who witnessed in 2001,the Dravid-Laxman innings in the second match at Kolkata, will agree that it will always be one of the greatest comeback victory by any Indian side.This is not the first time Dravid saved the team's neck.Though always criticised for having a boring,defensive batting approach,he has stood when the God,the legend and the talented have fallen.No,'The Wall' is not a fitting name for this man,his true fans still like him to be referred as 'Jammy'.

A classical Test match batsman is a rare sight nowadays.And Rahul Dravid is of the last few who have managed to survive the pace of the faster version of the game.Early in his career he was stereotyped as a one-dimensional batsman who could occasionally stroke a loose ball around. His adaptation to the smaller version of the game was methodical rather than meteoric or dashing to say the least, but once there, Dravid never looked back.Of the many opening pairs the Indian ODI team has had, the Ganguly-Dravid pair remains a favorite and after Mark Waugh he is the most successful slip catcher till date.Unfortunately,post 2000 his career was not all colorful.The accidental ball tampering incident, the controversial Multan declaration(Sachin was at 194) and the early World cup exit under his captaincy did mess a little with his gentleman-ly image.However,those who know better always understand the fact that even the great have some flimsy moments.It must have been difficult to rise under the shadow of the legendary Tendulkar and the flamboyant Ganguly but Dravid never complained.He batted when the team was struggling,bowled when the team needed to fill in few overs,and even kept behind the wickets-all for the team's sake.And now when the BCCI one fine day suddenly (read in crisis) decided to include him in the ODI team ,he announced his ODI retirement.The media cried foul,the critics labeled him a fool but to his loyal fans he has earned some more respect.

There is also a thin thread that binds this Rahul with the other Rahul,Rahul Gandhi.In a major embarrassment, CNN-IBN had released a statement that its earlier salient ‘State of the Nation’ poll finding that ‘most Indians want Rahul Dravid to succeed Dr. Manmohan Singh as the PM'.The channel in an attempt to cover up the blooper quickly announced the erroneously printing and commented that they were referring to the Gandhi scion instead.When Rahul Dravid was told about the corrected findings, he laughed it off sportingly.Though,Dravid who is sensible,intellectual and charming by a cricketing yardstick, is according to few Indians better suited to be the PM than the dimpled Rahul.

Rahul Gandhi is touted to be the next in line from the first family of Indian politics but he still lacks the charisma of his grandmother and might succumb to his father's fate.The Congress party today has nothing close to a mandate, and it is leading inarguably the country's most corrupt coalition government.His novelty as the handsome,educated politician has now worn off and he has failed to show any interest in becoming the single powerful force to save the party from the shackles of utter helplessness.He remains by Indian standards a novice in the grimy pool of politics and is difficult to perceive him as a leader.More so, he has always been shielded by the senior Congressmen and for some reason he hardly voices out his opinions on some of the very critical issues. Now that the oldest party in Indian politics is in serious crisis he has the ideal opportunity to display his mettle and cast his charm on all of us. He could have emerged as next big thing but it did not happen. As a result, we are still unaware of his personal opinions on subjects concerning our nation.All is not lost though,he can continue with his socialist attempts, making way for a seasoned party member to take the reigns and wait for a suitable time to rise as the man for the top job.

P.S:Digvijay Singh said at 41,Rahul now is a mature person with sound political instincts and can become the Prime Minister.We all know the senior Congressman knows better and is acting along...also since when did India start listening to him.

The cool evening breeze blew her hair over her face and she closed her eyes. He gently moved the long strands away from her beautiful face, tucked them behind her ears and smiled. The setting orange orb glittered off her eyes as they met the affectionate dark brown eyes of her husband. The patio, where they sat in each other’s arms, was now lit by warm neon lights. The music was playing in the living room but it could be heard where they were sitting. The soft musical rhythms echoed in the spectacular evening air.

“Guess the song, beautiful.” He whispered into her ears and softly kissed on her neck.
“This is the song we danced on…”she paused and with a shy smile said “our wedding.”
“Then madam, could I have this dance?” he gestured by holding out his hand.
“Yes of course Major!”

And they danced into the night, slowly moving to the song, in each other’s arms. Lost, lovingly gazing into each other’s eyes, each song made them smile as they remembered some sweet memory. It was like falling in love all over again. As the music was about to end, they heard distant gunfire and cries of people being shot. She panicked and her eyes glistened,” You have to go right?”

“Five minutes, please stay with me.” he pleaded but the noise grew louder. The blood could be seen in the sky as bombs exploded and the houses nearby caught fire. She pulled away from him, her hands trembling as she held the door knob and went inside closing the door behind her. She couldn’t see him now, only a faint recollection of him standing at the door in his uniform and the screams of dying people. She cried the whole night, praying that he came back home safe so that she could see him again. That never happened.

The alarm clock startled him and he woke up with a headache, again. He looked on the other side of the bed. Empty. Her scent was long gone. He picked up her photo from the night table, kissed the beautiful face of his dead wife and whispered “I love you.”

In the bus, at 8 o’clock in the morning the only thing on my mind is a nice pre-office nap. But somehow I’m always next to people whose phones buzz when I’m about to doze off. Then I am a forced listener of their hushed conversations. In most cases eavesdropping is not intentional. In buses, trains, elevators we all end up picking up conversations between random strangers. But there seems to be a unique frequency in which committed people converse in, particularly over-the-phone conversations. Since I’m a ‘people in 10 meter radius know what I’m talking about’ person, it fascinates me how I don’t catch a word of their conversation. And mind you, I have really sharp ears.

One of the biggest giveaways that a person is in a relationship is the relationship he/she has with the phone. They are endlessly glued to the device. I’m not being unromantic here. There is absolutely nothing wrong with talking to someone you love. What they talk about for so long (each and every day) is not my concern at all; it is the subtle art of speaking in hushed voices which gets me all curious.

At first, I thought it is just girls who talk this way, all coy and whispering sweet nothings and maybe their boyfriends endure it for god knows what reasons. But the stories that I’ve heard from committed men and their friends are just awe inspiring. So these days, I’m not shocked to know that some person used to talk to his girlfriend for 17 hours at a stretch and to top that in that super amazing unique frequency.*rimpoche*.After listening to such endless stories from them (yeah, committed people like to tell singletons how amazing being in love is.:P) I had to know the secret of how to talk like they do on the phone. So I rolled up my sleeves to do some serious research on this. As you get older (like I’m) the number of committed people drastically increases or maybe you just start noticing it more now. Most singles find this very depressing but I on the other hand look at the brighter side. Now, I simply have more specimens to observe. Pathetic maybe, but being an optimist never hurts.

Every day in the bus, the office corridor, sidewalk, etc I started to observe (committed) men and women while they are on the phone. There are times when they plainly shoo me away, some like the fact that I’m staring at them*wink*, some don’t give a damn and I’m sure some find me creepy even. But such things shouldn’t deter one. I have even tried to apply all the observation in practice but in vain. All I got from my friends was “why the hell are you whispering?” and “I can’t hear you, is there a network problem?” and this was enough to induce an uncontrollable fit of giggles. The people, with whom I’ve shared my curiosity and the unaware committed junta, to whom I‘ve asked some really stupid questions, seriously think I’ve gone nuts or probably evolved to a higher level of absurdity.

Maybe someday I might be able to master this great art or may be not. For now, when the person sitting next to me picks up the phone to murmur to his/her love, I simply doze off.

It seems like an ordinary day. The drowsiness after the lunch is interjected by the beeping from the computers. The droning noise of the mouse clicks and the clacking of keyboards act as the catalyst to the already dull feel. The office energy is usually low at this time. I am trying to concentrate on this piece of task, and then it happens. Like an abrupt gush of cold breeze; I feel something on my neck. Only it is warm and imagined, so I smile. The corner of my notepad catches my attention. To keep my mind off work and other things, I Google the two words hurriedly scrawled on the paper. The search bar reads ‘quantum entanglement’.

Quantum entanglement, I find, is quite an interesting theory. Dearest Mr. Albert Einstein nick named it as ‘spukhafte Fernwirkung’ or spooky action at a distance. Entanglement is not one of the many, but the characteristic trait in quantum mechanics that departs entirely from the classical lines of thought. To define it –“quantum entanglement is a property of a quantum mechanical state of a system containing two or more objects, where the objects that make up the system are linked in such a way that the quantum state of any of them cannot be described without full mention of the other, even if the individual objects are spatially separated.” when particles decay into other particles, these decays must obey the various conservation laws. As a result, pair of particles are generated that need to be in certain quantum states. Consider such a situation, where two such particles are created having 2 state spin .i.e. one has clockwise spin and the other one spins anticlockwise. These two particles are entangled since you cannot describe one without the full mention of the other. They are perfectly anti-correlated. The power of entanglement is such that this correlation is fundamentally stronger than anything that is achievable in classical physics.

An analogy can explain the physics behind it better here. Imagine a pair of gloves-the left one is black and the right one is white, entirely mismatched. Two friends, who are traveling in opposite directions around the world, carry one glove each. Each is unaware of which glove he/she has. The gloves travel around the world in a box. When one fine day, one of them opens the box and finds the left black one he/she can easily guess what his friend has. Without knowing any one of the objects the probability of guessing the other one is 50%.So one glove can tell you all you need to know about the other one no matter their spatial separation. It’s kind of like cosmic book keeping. The two particles are linked in such a way that even if they are universes apart the law binds them. To make Jerry McGuire proud I would add that the two entangled entities complete each other.

As I am about to explore more about this fascinating concept, my colleague interrupts. Bored? He questions. No, I reply. After a quick thought I smile and add, “I’m entangled sir, Entangled.” And in someplace, somewhere the smile reciprocates.

It is another ordinary Saturday. You wake up; breathe the weekend air and gear up to get over the long and winding week. Your social calendar seems pretty packed-lunch with friends, movies, dinner plan with the “good friend”, chai time catching up with relatives, etc. With excitement twinkling in your eyes, you get ready to dress up for the day. And then it happens-the unthinkable. You are trying the last-year-pinky didi’s wedding-wala salwar kameez and it plainly refuses to fit. That striped t-shirt you had brought three months back now highlights your uncle-like paunch. It is right there, the stubborn shapelessness, mocking at you in your face. Then the realization of being out of shape starts to sink in and like snake venom it leaves a burning sensation behind as it courses along.

The obsession of everyone around you with shape rather than fitness drives you further down the lane. You start adopting low-fat, low-carb and definitely low-fun diets. The butter in butter chicken is now of the ‘lite’ variety and the idea of skipping the essential naan which was plain unthinkable earlier is now your reality. And who on earth can eat only cornflakes for breakfast every day? Ridiculous you yell. Salad was never a ‘meal’ before and desserts turn into something strictly for fantasies only. The junk food is the culprit, you blame and so are the chicken kebabs you have with the weekend drink. Then, you end up watching what you eat instead of eating what you watch. You meticulously cut out all articles related to health and fitness, making mental notes of what all to include in your diet. Google brings in the information on celebrity diets.”I am on South-beach-whatever diet” is so much cooler than normal stuff naa!! Losing weight is probably the task on the resolution list of many.

But all this doesn’t help you shed those extra five kilos you seemed to have mysteriously piled up. Your optimistic side gently reminds you of the uselessness of dwelling on how it all started and infuses the much needed motivation to work on solutions. You analyze, plan and design a wonder diet to help you get that lean look. You even diligently attach the same to the refrigerator. The alarm is set to a ridiculous time-six o’clock in the morning for the ‘daily’ workout and the running shoes and gym clothes make a rare and a rather special entry in the chaos. Discussions often end up with exchanging notes on gyms, gym-trainers, thigh muscle exercises and crunches. You somehow manage to put all the theory to good use. Puffing and panting, you finish the recommended workout. Drenched in the sweet sweat of glory, you look up to face the world with renewed pride and then your eyes fall on ‘him’. (Let’s call him the gym-junkie for now to massage your fragile ego).The gym-junkie is this nonchalant guy in the corner counting his crunches. The counting immediately reminds you of Sachin Tendulkar’s ever increasing runs because exercise makes you over-imagine it as well and all your glory comes to a shattering fall. His muscles flex and his toned-abs are worth dying for. If you are a girl, you end up looking at him a little longer, if not then you rush home to dissolve your anger in the aloo parantha with soft butter spread on it of course.

The day later, you start claiming that gyms are a corporate scam trying to drain your slim bank balance. The weighing machine is sold to the local junk collector after it shows a meager 1.8 kilos loss in your weight. You don’t give up, no way, you just move on. The purpose more firm and the technique more refined and the acceptance of those extra five kilos more satisfying. Now, the salad is your new best friend, the paneer makes a silent comeback and you are comfortable in indulging your sweet tooth. You make a slow transition from “I want to be slim” to “I want to be healthy”. Add to that you take Julia Robert’s advice on buying jeans-if the older ones don’t fit you get a larger size. Everything is going just fine for you but then one day the ghost of your past comes to haunt you. You are enjoying the chicken biryani with the creamy raita and the Shilpa Shetty work out showcases on the TV. You look at it once, slightly nervous but then sharply breathe in and let out a silly laugh and your gym-bag rolls in its grave.