Category Archives: Humour

Out of India

20 Friday Apr 2012

Posted by in Humour, Parenting, Publication: Verve Magazine, Travel Stories

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Published: Verve Magazine, Features, April 2012

It’s best if your kids get trained on home ground to face the intricacies of a splashy European holiday, as you travel in season with the jet setters of the world. But while tossing around the Mediterranean waves, are Indian kids missing out on knowing their own turf, asks Sitanshi Talati-Parikh

It took a leisurely Sunday brunch conversation at Café Zoe, a new Manhattan-style eatery in South Mumbai – exposed brick, metal beams et al – to remind us of what makes an Indian Summer. For those without school-going children, vacations are all about nipping off to the next hotspot all year round. Children tend to make social lives non-existent and travel plans seasonal. In my time, childhood summer vacations expanded into long sunny and muggy days of reading, swimming, learning tennis; the lucky ones travelling to Disney World or coral sighting around the Reef, catching spring on one end and autumn on the other. Now, with the advent of the International Baccalaureate educational system (IB) – prudently adopted by the crème de la crème schools of the country – the concept of a summer vacation (matching the international breaks around June-July) if not travelling abroad, would be incredibly difficult days of watching the rain pelt away and probably kicking around some slimy mush.

No sensible parent would make the mistake of keeping the kids homebound during these difficult months. And so, as a matter of course, summer breaks have changed dramatically to be Riviera cruising or Tuscany villa-bathing. Indians and their little tots are quite in with the European jet set, hopping onto a chartered yacht for a soiree or catching a rave in Ibiza after the kids are snoozing. Not surprisingly, the IB system fits in beautifully with the LV-armed maternistas’ (mothers who are fashionistas or even simply, yummy mummies) idea of a chic vacation. The Far East is suitable for a quick turn during Easter, Europe and its many sophisticated charms make for a cultural rendezvous in the summer break, and Latin America and its mysterious Incas and Brazilian parades fit in quite neatly during Christmas and New Year.

The world is the child’s oyster and you may actually counter: for someone who must surely play a part in global politics of the future in some capacity, is it not important to start the education young? To that effect, it might just be ideal to switch Sunday brunches from chilli cheese dosa to whole-wheat apricot pancakes. From the local Udipi guy to Pali Village Café. Ironically, what we New Age Indians love about these new café hotspots is their intrinsic non-Indianness. You find yourself celebrating the escape from what is India into a safe haven of faux cobblestones, rustic interiors and Latino soundtracks. In any case, it is wise to alter their (the children’s) taste buds to suit the vacation spots, for most ease of use. After all, no self-respecting Burberry mum will allow for her child to demand dal-chawal in Marbella. Popularised by Zoya Akhtar’s 2011 film Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, children look forward in tangy anticipation to the La Tomatina festival in Bunõl as a wonderful cultural experience to whet an appetite for a freshly stomped meal. It’s not surprising then, that there’s an unnatural buzz in the air about Starbucks finally coming to India this year and Australian coffee house Di Bella making its foray into desi turf. Does one actually expect those little Gucci shoes to prance into a genuinely unpainted local Iranian café when there is an option of a peppermint frappuccino in a Christmas-carol touting, chicly hand-painted coffee shop?

The kids are wonderfully globalised, with curios for their rooms from every part of the world, and possibly a cultural hangover which can be passed off as jet lag. It is unlikely that Mount Abu or Meenakshi fit into the grand scheme of things, unless it’s a part of a school field trip. India is exactly that – a field trip, quite like going to the zoo or bird sanctuary or a museum: to be looked at with wonder, noted for a history or sociology class. You turn away with the first roots of cynicism as you wonder why our monuments can’t be as nicely kept as the ones we see abroad. You come away with a sense of loss and a protective distaste for the sights and smells of the country that will possibly stay with you a lifetime. The same smells that writers of the diaspora sigh about dreamily form a noxious accent to the lives of those who live here. Would we want our children to grow up fondly reminiscing about the urea-scented trips to the Elephanta caves, when they could deliberate on the Mona Lisa’s mystical smile over a Parisian pain au chocolat?

As it turns out, India is merely an option – or more rightly, Indianness is merely an option. It’s like a home menu that reads: Thai Monday, Mexican Tuesday, Italian Wednesday, Indian Thursday and Hibachi grill Friday. It’s not just about the food; it’s about looking at an Indian life. Cosmopolitan India is about rapidly assimilating the lifestyle of the world and making the city more palatable. It is no longer the expats who crave a Chilean sea bass and hop across to their local gourmet restaurant. It is the Indian who craves something regularly non-Indian to make him stay sane in a city that exhausts him with its grey clouds of monotony. If you can’t live abroad, at least the proverbial ‘Chef’ Mohammed can bring ‘abroad’ to your neighbourhood. There may have been a time when Indians just wanted to be cool and try new things. Today, Indians want international flavour with a sense of permanence. Indianness is merely chutney on the Mediterranean focaccia: in turn, layered, dipped into, hidden or wiped away.

Maybe in spirit, a city-dweller is a restless species, an eternal traveller, one who is looking for escape from home before he returns home. Maybe we just need to slow down: the pace of the city – with our always-online work, rapid-fire social connections perpetually drain us, and we need to be recharged often if not sooner. Our children face it from the word ‘Go’ – with their language classes for six-month-olds, baby gyms for nine-month-olds, and birthday parties every alternate day. Maybe it is a genetic illness we are passing along in growing measures down generations – that we can’t quite stop planning the next getaway before the first break has ended. It keeps the adrenalin pumping, keeps up the excitement to land at Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport (or your own desi equivalent) with a spring in your step, just brimming with the knowledge that soon you’ll be back here, taking off to another place of intrigue.

An acquaintance points out that her sister has spent five years in the coolest, hippest, buzziest city in the world – New York, and yet, can’t wait to get away occasionally. So maybe it is less that we tire of India and more that we tire in general. It’s just that when we do get weary, we look far away for solace – wine country, beaches of Croatia…. What’s wrong with a neatly reworked heritage place – think Neemrana – in the nostalgic Matheran of our own childhood to build the memories of our children’s youth? As the desis would say it – though I doubt they would be couture (kosher) – ‘Culture ka culture ho jayega, aur holiday ka holiday.’

MasterChef On My Plate

17 Saturday Dec 2011

Posted by in Humour, Publication: Verve Magazine, Social Chronicles

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Published: Verve Magazine, Social Chronicle, December 2011
(Illustration by Farzana Cooper)

If you are the latest in the line if PYTs to send your hubby a tiffin that contains pan-seared foi gras with a champagne berry jus, then you know you’ve arrived onto a culinary scene that’s flush with promise and ready to launch. Sitanshi Talati-Parikh describes the necessity of taking a kitchen rendezvous to the next step

 

Verve-masterchef

 

‘Do you cook?’ She whispered. ‘Of course not!’ I retorted scornfully.  Great parties are never about knowing what to cook; they are all about finding the right caterer. Gloved hands, butler coats, flitting in and out: the spanking German-designed modular kitchen is meant to be seen, not used. Must you fret whether pesto has pine nuts or pistachios? I’m quite certain it’s the latter, logically, isn’t pesto the green one?

 

Lately though, newbie home-makers carry recipes in their Ferragamo totes, and while sneezing up a bomb at the local Nature’s Basket, can easily tell one nut from another. Blame it on the latest reality TV craze: MasterChef Australia – far superior to its Indian franchise. As the country watches with bated breath which one of the accented Australians go down under and which ones make it to the top, the ladies are picking up a few tricks along the way, and the men are finding a new itch to scratch: the kind which involves a cutting board and a chef’s hat. After all, those men in chef whites skim over the fine line to count as men in uniform – and the way into a woman’s boudoir may well be through her stomach. Many a young man has now leaned over the bar and whispered suggestively into his lady love’s ear, ‘Your kitchen or mine?’

 

Now, you can’t visit a friendly home without getting a sprig of parsley in your Brie, or a dose of balsamic vinaigrette in your chilled watermelon balls. Recipes are snitched from one of the mushrooming gourmet restaurants in the city – the toasted pine nut, goat cheese and watermelon salad is The Tasting Room, I believe – and every meal is judged on the outlandishly clever gourmet competency of the home-maker-turned-chef. Does your beetroot come laced with chevre? Has it been garnished just so? If not, it’s not good enough to be plated up?

 

Play dates (for the uninitiated: the time like-minded infants spend getting to know each other) are also a fine chance to show off those pa(i)ring skills: preparing the finest meal for your child’s little friend – what could be a better sign of love? Ten-month-olds are developing a spectacular taste for the healthy good life – in the form of broccoli-and-spinach risotto garnished with fresh basil, a traditional (low-spice of course) massuman curry and zucchini-and-parmesan ravioli, washed down with a tall bottle of elaichi-flavoured formula milk.

 

And it’s not just the chic young men and women flaunting their culinary skills, it’s about ensuring that you have a system in place to replicate this sensational food – anytime and with the least bother. And to that end, my Bihari cook is now struggling with understanding my desire to replace a Bombay grilled chutney sandwich on Britannia bread with a Mediterranean sandwich on multigrain herb focaccia.  And not even adding his own home-made paneer? Instead, layering the green meat of a tasteless fruit that he imagines to be Bengali baingan together with hefty hunks of feta, grilled zucchini and eggplant licked with a killer harrissa paste! He grudgingly grasps that the need of the hour – and the possibility of survival – means his knowing his parmigiana from his au gratin.

 

Chefs are now finding themselves akin to moviestars: in a recent MasterChef India (Season 2) show, one of the contestants cried because she got to meet her idol Michelin-starred, New York-based, Indian chef Vikas Khanna, whom she then proceeded to serenade. With Indians and Sri Lankans making their token presence felt on international cooking shows stirring up a curry-and-flatbread once in a way, and with Michelin-starred chef Vineet Bhatia attempting to challenge the desi taste buds, it appears innovation is the call of the day. You can’t serve up chana-bhatura any more, but what you can do is throw in chickpea couscous, broccoli khichdi and bhatura-flavoured sorbet. Now that would be a meal worth writing home about.

 

No longer is it about spices – it is about tempering taste buds with the appropriate levels of flavour so that they (your taste buds) can regain their virginity – and discard the massacre of years of generous masalas and chilli powder. And it isn’t really about eating – or stomaching to satisfy – as it is about teasing and cajoling the culinary senses into a pleased stupor. Hunger is for the middle-class. Palate-teasers are what fine dining is all about. It is no wonder that young chefs returning from Manhattan, dipping their fingers into genteel party catering, serve up hors d’oeuvres the size of peanuts. So smoked mozzarella flatbreads are actually coin pizzas, the size of, well, the shiny new 10-rupee coin. Tapas are in, or haven’t you heard? A meal in one of Mumbai’s trendy restaurants can consist of merely ordering 17 tapas and needing a hefty bottle of wine to wash all that tiny, tasty food down to feel deliciously full. 

 

Wine pairing can’t be missed of course. No self-respecting 30-something will serve anything less than the perfect limited-edition international sipper that goes best with the course being served. All along, the conversation tinkles with very profound discussions on Chinese politics, Rushdie’s literary smackdowns, and whether the Riesling would work better with the coconut soufflé or the champagne tart. My ultimate brain wave is to serve up a passion-fruit-and-lemongrass Sangria. It’s the easy way out of pretentious course-drinking – and is somehow that crass, bohemian sort of thing one can do, to remain cool after all that soul-searching food.

 

Talking about soul-searching food, the gourmands believe in cooking from your heart, and with a dollop of love. How much can you cook from your heart, when your stomach is empty and how much love can emanate from that drop of extra virgin olive oil that you mayn’t get from your grandmother’s hand-churned ghee?

 

The thrill lies in the pleasure-seeker and the social climber. After all, can you really be eating khana-khazana-type makhani food in your Jimmy Choos and Herve Leger? It is worth sharing Gouda and Roma tomato notes, if merely to prove that the world is your personal oyster and you have an international, exclusive and very uber chic stew cooking in your state-of-the-art kitchen. And after that dinner party full of whispered conversation, clinking flutes and a sense of social accomplishment, where the senses have been thrilled with that one lactose-free beetroot foam tortellini, you are more than likely to find yourself kicking back furtively with a hearty macaroni baked dish, folded with about 250 grams of Amul cheese, and a little kiss of ketchup.

Romance Diaries: Knot of Love

18 Friday Feb 2011

Posted by in Humour, Publication: Verve Magazine, Social Chronicles

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Published: Verve Magazine, Features, February 2009
Illustration by Bappa

Does romance leave you behind at the altar or hold you even tighter in the embrace of marriage? Sitanshi Talati-Parikh traces the transition

Sitanshisdiary

It’s astonishing how deeply romantic it is to tie the knot, slip on the sparkly on your ring finger, walk down the aisle with a swishy fountain of lace behind you, or take a turn at the wedding mandap with dramatic chants sung against the sacred leaping flames. At every moment, you are shivering with anticipation, thinking of that spectacular wedding night that awaits you on a bed of roses. From the moment you drag your weary stiletto-ridden feet home after ‘receiving’ your many guests, you’re ready to crash. Literally. In a fun, wine-laced conversation at a recent bachelorette party, we did a show of hands to see how many people actually consummated their marriage on their wedding nights. The handful who did put up their hands, I’m dead sure, were all cock and bull stories, no pun intended. I mean who in their right mind actually does it on the wedding night?! One chica claimed – ‘You must – I mean, just for the heck of it – you have to! It’s your wedding night, after all!’

And that’s exactly how marriages begin. And romance begins to lose its edge. You do things because you have to, not because it’s always fun or scintillating. So what happens to the calls late into the night when you curl your toes under the covers with glee, the little pecks of promise, the anticipation of meeting soon, the entwined fingers and the burning look of intensity in the eyes that sends your spine and neck tingling with sensation? They are replaced by the harried look of multitasking chores, the absent-minded, disoriented air, the brow furrowed with concentration, the distracted monosyllabic answers at the breakfast table over coffee, toast and wireless BlackBerry compote, the intense concentration of a person who has his ambitious head turned skywards straight at the stars. I remind him it could get lonely at the top.

As I plan another vacation, in memory of the bygone days of wooing, to give me a brief glimpse into the young lovers we once were, I placate myself with the thought of a new destination that allows one to forget the responsibilities of life and focus on the simple pleasures. Like enjoying each other’s company in the companionable silence of golden sands and crashing waves. He slides his hand into mine; we flash back in time. At that moment I sense that romance never left us; we left it because of our preoccupations. The young boy’s romance has matured into a man’s love – deeper and subtler. Instead of wallowing in a time warp, I realise the romance didn’t die. It just changed, adapted, grew. The candyfloss tinted glasses fell off. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Women Untamed

17 Thursday Feb 2011

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Verve Magazine, Musings, February 2011

Women wearing the pants is passé, but now we find men holding onto their women’s pants with quiet desperation, afraid they will fly the coop even before the nest is made. Sitanshi Talati-Parikh muses on the metamorphoses of women in a liberated society

The Queen Bees of society are silent killers – men have for centuries been braggarts and women have found a way to get their own back. Who actually goes to a bachelor party expecting to get lucky and laid? The boys-trying-to-be-men come back with tall tales of passion galore, but the paunchy Indian men of the day (who need a compass in matters of orgasmic satisfaction) are hardly going to be the source of irresistible temptation to svelte Scandinavian women – unless a good deal of money is thrown their way. And if you need to pay for it, it doesn’t count. Indian women, who are generally in much better shape compared to their male counterparts, have an exciting, exotic appeal that makes a bit of harmless flirtation nothing more taxing to the purse than the bat of a mascara-ed eyelid. The PYTs of today can roam the cobbled streets of Europe kicking up a merry ruckus and returning quite the merrier. But we won’t go deep into the details – what happens at a destination bachelorette party, should be forgotten the moment you board the flight back home.

Women today are unselfconsciously raunchy, unafraid of their sexuality and are more than willing to take the leap in expressing it. As last year’s release, Aisha, suggests, gauche is out, and manipulative girl power is in. And of course, a foreign locale makes indiscretions completely acceptable – think Sex and the City 2 (2010) where Carrie steals a kiss with ex-boyfriend Aidan, in lieu of hubby Mr. Big being around. Or Vicky Christina Barcelona (2008), where straitlaced Vicky gets sorely tempted into an affair before marriage – even considering calling her wedding off. And while selling kisses for change at a Scottish bar at her hen night, Hannah in Made of Honour (2008) is left weak in the knees for her best friend, not her husband-to-be.

It’s not as much about infidelity and indecisiveness (that’s a thought for another day), as it is about choices. Where once women either didn’t have those choices, or didn’t give themselves the right to make those choices, now women are all for options. If men are like ice cream, women have the entire range of flavours to pick from. And choices that have to do with emotional involvement can get complicated, but we find it surprising that women can be quite the cold fish – unemotional about their liaisons and irreverent about the heartbreak they may leave in the wake of their decisions. A 20-something girl of my acquaintance was regularly chased after by men of all shapes and sizes. She flittered in and out of relationships, with unbelievable emotional ease, while trying to unravel the knots in her on-again, off-again relationship with her long-distance ex-boyfriend. Eventually, after years they decided to get married – and she seemed freaked out by the idea of ‘settling down’! She allowed herself, in that moment of cold feet, one last (we hope) indiscretion abroad. Her now-husband apparently understood her perfectly well and thought it would be most prudent to get it all out of her system. And this – acceptance of women’s wild oats that need to be sowed – is not uncommon in relationships today.

You can’t help but be slightly amazed at this development – since when did cold feet become a paddle ground for men and women, and decisions made on the call of these frozen extremities allow for getting your toes wet in alternate waters? Women today are afraid to take the plunge – in committed relationships, in marriages, towards motherhood…. It is the time when women want ‘space’ and ‘freedom’ to explore boundaries and create new ones, to feel free of the impositions that they have seen other women suffer for generations; and in that very experimental stage, often swing to the other end of the pendulum before slowly clawing back to level ground. At exactly what stage they decided to give themselves the same rights in indiscretion and fun that men have had for years, one can’t quite be sure, but the metamorphoses has firmly taken place and the butterflies are spreading their wings and flying the coop. Women do make up about 50 per cent of society – and realising this, they began to take liberties and make decisions for themselves, subservient to none but their own moral and possibly immoral code.

And this isn’t exactly bothering the men – while it may make them insecure and quite whipped, what turns men on is the winning combination of ‘girls gone wild’ – the hottest selling video in America of women crossing the line (what line?) at foam parties, Spring break, bachelorettes, sleepovers is of the same name. Women for the longest time have had silent power over men, in bed and out of it; it’s just the matter of wielding it, and wielding it right. There is something vicariously pleasing about women going wild, and something entirely irregular about men doing the same. Maybe it’s the fact that men have been having their slice of cheese on the side for years; or maybe it’s the bit where we don’t really give two hoots about a sausage fest in a bowl of hot soup? In fact, the best kind of woman is the naughty moral one: the delicious anomaly defined by the kind who isn’t afraid to kiss, but won’t tell and won’t cheat.

You can tame the man, but can the man tame his New Age, expressive woman? It’s the era of female domination – what existed in the echelons of the kitchen and household has moved to the bedroom and workplace. It’s not really about who wears the pants, rather who finds himself holding the skirt.

Up In The Air

17 Monday May 2010

Posted by in Humour, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Published: Verve Magazine, Nerve, April 2010

Ever heard of the ‘Mile High Club’ and ‘zero-gravity sex’? It’s really something else when you explore the boundaries of air suction through physical means, suggests Sitanshi Talati-Parikh, carefully ensuring that she never uses the three-letter word that can turn a moment of aerial pleasure into a sheer meaningless and loveless act

When you’re flying, high, high in the sky (and not like Lucy in the sky with diamonds) you tend to get a little lonely. I don’t know if it’s just an itch that arises from being generally unwashed (I have a particular predilection towards personal hygiene) or a desire to be dealt with warm affection (the flight attendants nowadays are generally remiss in that area) or the very fact that being a million (hyperbole) miles above sea-level makes a lot of laws impenetrable, if you get my drift.

But there are those who find the gentle aeronautic vibrations rather conducive to physical exclamations, added to which is the undue excitement of role-playing with a real pilot, flight-attendant or fellow flier. Not to forget, any object which has a long snout and wings to take you higher, promises to fulfil fetishes galore. The thrill of discovery in a public place, you’ve got to admit, even if it is as improbable as a flight loo (where most acts of such colourful intent occur) definitely gets the juices rolling for some, where the risk of being infected with scatological diseases is as rampant as that of physically-transmitted ones. Of course, if you have the luxury of flying first class, with the space provided to enjoy sleeping well and with someone, then you are more than likely to be comfortable in your act of changing transmission.

And it’s really not like you won’t get caught – in fact, sometimes it seems quite worthless if you can’t boast about your bravery and good intention to add a bit of joy to someone’s travelsome life. In 2006 a couple was caught in a deeply compromising position, with an unexpectedly plausible answer provided by their lawyer (see how it sounds like liar): ‘The man was feeling ill and was merely resting his head on the woman’s lap’. The British (more accurately the BBC), always the ‘propah’ sort, ran a discussion on whether this act constituted as illegal or not. It was determined that it entirely depended upon whether it took place in public; and of course there is great confusion as it depends over which country one chooses to explore one’s inner potential.

And if the thrill of being up in the open is not your thing and it’s just being up in the air that counts, then you can book a personal charter flight to ensure yourself privacy and sufficient time to explore the myriad prospects of aerial pleasures. But what really moves right up on the list is doing it in space. Think about it: the sheer weightlessness and the extreme environments of intergalactic territories create a bond of human intimacy far beyond anything that earth can offer while exploring new boundaries and rocketing into a spiralling new world of desire. So very new-age Mills & Boon. Besides, you would have to be extremely fit to qualify for a space flight, which automatically takes care of quality control.

There are several other enormously valid reasons that would leave two people in a mile-high situation. (If more join in, it’s just sickly uncomfortable in those loos, and really plain wrong.) While I was on a flight back from Hong Kong recently I discovered that Sandra Brown’s latest thriller Smash Cut used the airplane encounter as a ploy to avoid client-lawyer complications. So, this unsuspecting dashing criminal lawyer was seduced into a quick and pleasurably dirty scene, which ended up making him ineligible to fight the case that the smart, attractive, seducing stranger had wanted him to steer clear of. Wow. To think that a heady act can mean so much to so many. As for me, alas, it is a mere flight of fantasy, as I do believe in old-fashioned comfort, hygiene and close proximity to the earth’s gravitational pull over the inescapable thrill of an airborne straddle. Until the next flight, that is.

(If you think I suffer from Freudian delusions, feel free to Google it, or check out www.milehighclub.com, where you can view a demonstration video and tips on how to get it right when up high.)

Trust-fund Trysts

18 Friday Dec 2009

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Published: Verve Magazine, Musings, December 2009

Oh how we long to be young! Ironically, the young long to be mature and sophisticated. Mud wrestles and creamy cakes are not child-friendly anymore – the quotient has been upped with designer parties, kiddie spas and island hopping on private jets. The one-upmanship is like parental roulette and the trust-fund babies hold the strings to throwing a mean party, Russian circus et al, finds SITANSHI TALATI–PARIKH

I COME FROM THE ERA OF BRIGHT balloons, candy floss, Goriawala’s chocolate cake and deliciously buttery Camy wafers. It sounds like a cliché, but I don’t know where in the space of two decades childhood became a cliché and sophisticated maturity became the new youth buzzword. Recently, at a Verve A-lister party, I was amazed to see that these Chanel-bearing, Choo-tapping and Vuitton-wearing younglings (under 25, mind you) carried themselves with an air that made them out to be well beyond their years. They eyed the paparazzi through the fringes of their long masacara-ed lashes, simpered and smiled, posed and pirouetted with feline grace. I was almost embarrassed to think back to the gauche teenager I used to be. Carrie and Samantha – the ultimate echelons of style and sophistication – shared my concern in Sex and the City. Where the Hamptons are taken over by beer-spouting kids and ‘grassy’ romps on the beach, childhood has entirely gone to pot. Besides ruminating on questions like ‘where has the childhood gone?’ and ‘why must everyone be in such a tearing hurry to grow up?’ we arrive at the things people are doing to grow up super fast.

Ever heard of the ‘sparty’? Let’s take it a step further, ever heard of a ‘sparty’ for eight-year-old divas? So, you pick a cool spa like Rudra, Myrah or your favourite deluxe hotel, pack off the little pretty-somethings for a day of relaxation and detoxification – because of course education can be so stressful nowadays. Primping and softening the tresses, pedicures and manicures, will have them looking the best for their play dates. It’s a fabulous way for the little girls to bond and create lasting friendships. After all, every girl worth her bath salt knows that the secrets shared at the most vulnerable – attending to the most exquisite feminine rituals – are secrets that will last a lifetime.

That’s probably still rather tame compared to having an entire Russian circus troupe flown in for a birthday – I mean you can’t get more global than that. But then, Raj Kapoor was a trendsetter in many ways – though the poor chap may be turning over in his grave at the thought of the fresh age group his ideas now cater to. So custom-made Hello Kitty invitations-and-theme-parties probably don’t stand a chance against a Russian circus, but then what are the less fortunate to do?

Pyjama parties – sleepovers – are still in, apparently. It always helps to read the updated fine print – because you might find your knickers in a twist when you realise that sleepovers come with a spanking new avatar. I may have studied at a co-educational school, but believe me, my mother would have not stood for mixed-sex sleepovers without parental control (she probably wouldn’t have stood for it even with parental control). The buzz is in on a recent sleepover of seven-year-old boys and girls at a premium luxury hotel: a heavy-duty suite booked to accommodate the growing demands of the kids, who probably enjoyed an out-of-control and slightly racier version of not-so-Home-Alone part deux. I’m guessing they weren’t just painting toenails, or is that just me?

For the concerned parents who prefer chaperoned luxe, they are careful to plan a trip for the mommies as well as their darlings – all flown out to an exotic locale – logistically preferably to a nearby country, like Koh Samui, in Thailand – to bring in the birthday of their special little someone amid Thai massages and palate-stinging curries. To be honest, however, birthday bashes at luxury hotels are passé unless they happen to be an entire island – secluded and completely private. American reality show Paradise Hotel comes alive with a private jet flying the closest friends of the 16-and-18-year-olds to the Vivanta Coral Reef (by Taj), Maldives – the latest hip resort perfect for the swish set to unwind with tantalising curry Martinis. The new avatar of the resort sits well with those willing to party hard rather than just sunbathe. The long weekend is sunny and bright: with a private cruise liner floating around, just waiting to be boarded and there is no better way to get the perfect tan that will be flaunted when back in the city.

iPhone-wielding kids in the age group of four-10 are generally used to being cajoled with TAG Heuer watches and Mercedes cars – because toys and books just don’t cut it anymore. BlackBerry phones are the order of the day for the busy eight-year-olds because they can always get a ‘BlackBerry thumb’ massage to release the stress from their little fingers at a ‘sparty’ later. And the outfits are chosen with determined precision and care – a pre-planned outing to Emporio in Delhi (or the equivalent in your urban centre) is required to make the spectacularly difficult decision between a chic Moschino and Marc Jacobs outfit for the little one who has about a decade to go before her debut into haute society.

So it is not exactly surprising that these kids as teenagers frequent hip nightclubs for their exclusive private parties – tables booked, champagne flowing, and an open tab running – where the kids I’ve seen, look no older than 12. Okay, they’re probably 14 or 15. Where celebratory escapades to Alibaug homes, on daddy’s private jets to Jaipur, Goa beach houses and Ibiza raves are the flights of fancy, I’m guessing this is the point where parents stop being too concerned about their ‘naïve’ kids taking a wrong turn when headed abroad – like making headway during Spring Break at a Cancun foam party or breaking the ice when at a semester-at-sea course.

At the end of the day, it’s not just about throwing the party of the century. The cyberworld, paparazzi and glossy magazines should all be buzzing with reverential whispers of your budding creative genius. In whichever way you choose to package your baby’s luxe bash (no pressure, of course), ultimately it is merely a test of your imagination, creativity and trust fund that gives it the right touch of extraordinaire. After all, it is going to set the standard for your child’s future endeavours.

Barenaked Ladies’ Men

18 Wednesday Nov 2009

Posted by in Humour, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Published: Verve Magazine, Verve Man Supplement, October 2009

Salman Khan, the trailblazer of toplessness in Hindi cinema, transformed from an endearingly lean romantic hero into a full-blown male with an explosion of warrior-like muscles. The others grudgingly followed suit(less). Tongue firmly in cheek, SITANSHI TALATI-PARIKH disclaims all puns as truly intentional as she traces the shirtless journey

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WE LOVE THEM, WE LOVE TO hate them, and now we’ve got them by the balls. For years, Choli ke peeche remained a resounding metaphor for desi mankind, as women heaved with cleavages bared and shimmied their naked bellies. It’s time for retribution. Men have now to convince us of their physical worthiness. No, I’m not a feminist. I truly love men, but this is honourably judicious and just sound philosophy. No woman or gay man worth her/ his salt will settle for less than that.

So began the era of the shirtless man – and the ball was set rolling by Prem-boy. Boy, do I miss Prem from Maine Pyar Kiya. I’d be his friend any day! Ignoring the fact that his first commercial success may have had something to do with his lean frame and boyish charm, Salman Khan instead fixated upon the name as a lucky charm and decided to henceforth fill the screen with his presence, literally. Prem from Partner and No Entry are not exactly more prem-worthy simply because there is more of him to love. Characteristically, Salman Khan’s beefy frame became more ‘wanted’ than his histrionic abilities as he cleverly diverted our attention to his torso, with frequent fluid and well-practised moments of sudden shirtlessness. The swollen muscles oozed charm and the girls swooned. And the men followed suit. Swooning, I mean. They began hyperventilating – they realised that to be taken seriously, as true romantic lovers, with fire in their loins and sincerity in their hearts, they would have to bare all. Truth be damned, the shirt must come off. And so began that waxing of the bodies and the waning of the clothes, as the actors worked themselves into a deep sweat for the roles that demanded an idolisation of their bodies. The Khan gym became the harvest ground for the upcoming lean, mean male machines.

Shah Rukh Khan decided that the best way to circumvent this phenomenon was to do exactly the opposite – keep his shirt on. Tantalising and teasing, he wore skin-tight ensembles, T-shirts that promised a well-toned torso when peeled off, to which only those near and dear would be privy. For the not-so-lucky others, it was left to the fertile imagination and Chinese whispers. And then, someone near and dear to him decided that enough was enough. Such magnificence must not be left inside the closet, but must be shared with the populace at large. So, amid quite a splash, all multiple packs of SRK’s un-really flat belly were exposed in Farah Khan’s Om Shanti Om. The women (and men) responded with sincere gratitude – so much money was spent in a genuine quest for sensual pleasure that the two Khans (one with a flat stomach and one generously pregnant) sang their title track all the way from the box office to the bank.

Aamir Khan watched in stoic silence. He knew his work was cut out for him. Baring his chest as a farmer would only get the spade card – he needed a clever way to up the shirtless quotient into an ace of hearts. He decided that the only way to make women scream with orgasmic satisfaction was to go down south. That’s when he decided to recreate Ghajini in Hindi. His blown up torso filled the screen with its angst, the veins on his muscular arms popped out with fury – that seemed to glower with an incinerating question – Prem, Rahul or Me? After all, if anyone came after his girl with a hatchet, whether she lived to tell the tale or not, he would make sure justice was achieved. Even if it killed him to remember to do so.

While the cream Khans were running around scheming pure nudity, at the Kumars’ there was much debate about the best course of action. How could the great body transform from toned-stuntman-entertainer into sizzling garam masala? That is when they decided to take the high road – with the wife unbuttoning khiladi husband’s pants in a public display of affection. Truly hedonistic. Meanwhile, his old counterpart Saif Ali Khan was not to be left an anari any longer. He figured a hot new avatar was in order and in Salaam Namaste, in a mad Race, with a lot of Tashan, he showed the world that what he was made of. We know at least one girl who fell hard for it and requested a more detailed inspection. While playing onscreen gangster roles to vindicate his offscreen ones, Sanju baba (Sanjay Dutt for the uninitiated) decided that he couldn’t be forgotten – after all, he was in his hey days, the proud bearer of a hot bod, too! So he joined the ranks of the younger lot – the likes of Arjun (Rampal), Zayed (Khan), Upen (Patel) and Dino (Morea) who were flashing well-toned bodies and not much wit.

When you talk of the real current guard of male hotness, Hrithik Roshan and John Abraham immediately spring to mind. I recall a young Hrithik Roshan out on a romantic date with then-girlfriend Sussanne, looking dangerously attractive. He wasn’t buffed up – he was lean and lanky. And then out of the blue, Kaho Na Pyaar Hai threw up an overnight sensation – a new dancing superstar with rippling muscles and a body that seemed like it would burst out of the sheathed vests. The girls nearly jumped out of their seats with uncontrollable hysteria. I can only imagine that Roshan, a shy, ambitious youngster (the industry is full of such oxymorons) was overwhelmed with the response, scared even, so afraid for his life that he decided it was better to keep the clothes all on – at least until he was well armed. The Greek-god-superhero protected us in Krrish, battled his suitors in Jodhaa Akbar and matched wits with his counterpart in Dhoom 2, all suitably unclothed, leaving women severely asthmatic with increased bouts of breathlessness. As if that is not enough, to drive the point home hard, Roshan (with full aashirwad from Roshan senior) has decided to shipwreck our hearts even more with his upcoming super-sensual Kites, where it is all about baring more, not Barbara Mori.

John Abraham had it easy or hard depending on who’s judging. He could have been written off as a piece of rugged meat: good to bite, but tough to chew. He met all the traditional bad-boy expectations: hard, chiselled body, a driving desire for bikes and the rough road to success; and to the disappointment of many a woman, a hot babe to go with the hot body on the hot wheels. The slightly crooked, dimpled smile and the wayward earnest expression belie the fact that he has an MBA tucked up his sleeveless arm. Going straight into no-nonsense territory, steamy Jism proved early on that he had no qualms about using his body to the best advantage, Dhoom sent pulses racing faster than his bike and Dostana captured the juicy dimples in all his cheeks. After his serious nudity in New York, we may grudgingly agree with the bootylicious actor when he asserts, ‘You may know me for my body, you may think I am sexy, but you will respect me as an actor.’

And just around the corner, the boy next door has come a long way from being a performer in Shaimak Davar’s dance troupe, better known for his flamboyant relationship with Kareena Kapoor. And now he is playing the role of one of the most eligible bachelors, playing the field by playing his current relationship(s) close to his chest. Always sporting a well-expanded torso, ‘F’hahid Kapoor is riding a high horse, with hair askew, grim determination and a lean, shirtless body steering him very close to the winning line, making him the industry’s latest poster child of toplessness. Rather than well-clothed charm and boyish appeal, it is the (unnecessarily) bare-chested appeal of kamina Charlie that seems to tug at female (and box office) heartstrings.

When we speak of male nudity, there is a young debonair rake who will possibly never live down the unexpected sensation of a particular homoerotic towel scene in his debut movie, one that will be etched into memories of an unforgiving and salivating audience for years to come. He may hide behind his beard (Rocket Singh), wear khadi (Rajneeti), sleep in (Wake Up Sid) and disappear from the media, but Ranbir Kapoor will forever remain the iconic just-showered Ranbir Raj from Saawariya – all infamously fair and handsome.

Proving their own worth in the meatpacking business is the young crop of ‘thinking actors’ who are in various stages of undressing. Neil Nitin Mukesh, who has a predilection towards dark roles, has seriously gone the full monty for his upcoming film Jail. Farhan Akhtar gave us a splashy preview in Rock On!! and Abhay Deol was darkly interesting in his lazy, rather hairy topless state in Dev.D. Imran Khan has yet to show us what he’s made of, and he can kidnap us anytime to do so!

Been to the Bachelorette Party?

18 Thursday Sep 2008

Posted by in Features & Trends, Humour, Publication: Verve Magazine, Social Chronicles

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Published: Verve Magazine, Musings, September 2008
Illustration by Farzana Cooper

As women experience a dramatic liberation of the spirit, they flock together in time for the most sensational party in town – the pre-nuptial ‘bachelorette’ aka hen party. What ensues is seductive, exorbitant and completely amoral mayhem, discovers Sitanshi Talati-Parikh

Henparty

Cock-a-doodle-doo. A cackle of resounding proportions ensues, ricocheting from the walls and reverberating in my ears. As the shrieking, excited women gather together in a spacious marble tiled room of a luxury hotel, I sit back in amused anticipation. Taking the been-there-done-there stance, I hold forte as the knowing spectator of a scene that is bouncing with camaraderie, clinging with subtle desperation to a youth that may never return, and high on spirits of every kind – as if this is the last night of fun, ever.

With lurid décor to offset the expensive and borderline sensational clothes, the women in one collective burst cheer the hunky man (is it just me or do I dread the sweaty, hairy ape that may just appear?) who is to make an appearance. In a flash I recall the Friends episode where Danny DeVito appears at Phoebe’s bachelorette party, resplendent in an officer’s uniform, all of four feet tall and I believe I can never forget the look of shock and abysmal dismay on the girls’ faces. I kid you not, an Indian hen party that promises a male stripper leaves me queasy and sceptical. A bronzed Brazilian or Greek God – now that would be my kind of party!

As the inebriation skyrockets, the women get louder and brasher by the minute – and the drinking games begin to take a turn toward the scandalous. From recounting your most brazen sexual escapade, to dares that would make any sane woman shudder with disgust, the parties are simply a way to surrender to impulse and try to do what one may never have or probably never will in the future. Or maybe, it is a way to explore the secret, often subdued kinky streak, to ensure post-marital bliss. Simply by letting your imagination go completely wild.

And while one is speeding down the fast lane, taking off on destination hen parties to exotic locales is high up on the wish list. Where the women can surround themselves with everything they love most – credit cards, friends, hot men, shopping, and a vacation that promises to be embedded in their memories forever. While a fun beach trip in Spain or Koh Samui or maybe even intoxicated rounds of vineyards in Tuscany would suit my taste, there are other more sensational destinations that do the bachelorette party rounds. Take your pick from gambling, striptease and can-can in Vegas to 48-hour raves in Ibiza, from singles-only adult resorts in Mexico to life-threatening adventure sports – the world is a menu, and one just has to pick a spot.

What is it that makes this night such a big deal in a woman’s life? Is it the post-women’s lib take on the bachelor’s party? In my naïve understanding of history, women would gab a bit, have a pyjama party, gossip, paint their nails, brush each other’s hair and share secrets about love and what is soon to come. It was a means of solidifying the female bond at a time when women need it the most – as they are about to enter the big bad world of men, mothers-in-law and the kitchen. And men would sow their wild oats. Literally and metaphorically.

We then arrive at the premise that today’s women have many a wild oat to sow as well – with the liberation and all that. And so, every woman wants to bag (or bed) that last bit of scandal, before she begins the journey of a devoted and chaste life. I don’t think so! As single marriages are passé and divorces are the first resort, hen parties are just that – another party to frequent the colourful social lives of the free-spirited women of today, and one that has the golden ‘Get As Wild As You Can’ pass to make anything that happens at that party acceptable.

So what are the women really liberated from? Inhibitions – of course. Moral code – probably. A sense of decorum – definitely. And that is what makes it the night of a lifetime. Needless to say – what happens at a hen party stays at a hen party. And that is one pact that strictly cannot be broken – like that of a sorority. No photos, no emails, nothing to leave a trace of what actually took place, except a vaguely delicious memory that leaves you feeling that you’ve been bad, and enjoyed every minute of it. And the best part – there is no hangover of guilt.

Mumbai On The Rocks

19 Monday Feb 2007

Posted by in Features & Trends, Humour, Publication: Verve Magazine, Social Chronicles

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Published: Verve Magazine, Musings, January 2007
Illustration by Farzana Cooper

Sitanshi Talati-Parikh meditates on Mumbai, a city where sex, drugs and alcohol race through the party circuit, Indian traditional values are discussed over sheesha and bhang and the hippest people are those that find a perfect balance between the raciness of the culture and the values that are harped on at home

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Hip, trendy and captivating. When the season to entertain is here, the tourists and diaspora start floating in with the cool Queen’s Necklace breezes, looking starry-eyed and thirsty. Coconut water or lassi isn’t their cup of tea; the quenchers are fresh sugarcane martinis and melon caipirinhas. They move to a beat that is ultimately Mumbai – trippy techno, remixed goldies and American hip-hop. Their cuisine of choice isn’t kebabs and bukharas, but French fusion and Thai curry. The melting pot of cultures that they want to experience isn’t Punjabi, Gujarati, Muslim and Christian, but a svelte girl in a miniskirt, getting ‘hammered’ on a vodka-with-wings, grooving to hip-hop and making eyes at a wannabe American frat-boy. Where sex, drugs and alcohol race through the party circuit, Indian traditional values are discussed over sheesha and bhang and the hippest people are those that find a perfect balance between the raciness of the culture and values that are harped on at home.

They flock in hordes, flooding every fashionable place in sight from Colaba to Juhu, experiencing the way of life that is Mumbai. The Gateway of India is just a landmark for the Taj Tower or Privé, the lounge bar and Elephanta, Ajanta and Ellora are mystical card patterns sold at traffic signals. From breakfast at popular bistro, Basilico, late lunches at Indigo Deli, percussion and cocktails at Henry Tham, wine at Intercontinental’s dome, sushi at Shiru, sheesha at Souk and dinner at India Jones, these tourists are here for the nouveau luxury and sophistication that is creeping into the bumpy roads that still continue to get dug up every few months, whilst fabulous new buildings and sparkling malls pop up at every intersection. The chauffer-driven Mercs and Beamers, bearing Armani and Zara, chandelier earrings, platinum credit cards and stiletto heels, accompany them to all the hot spots, where the conversation is no longer about what is going wrong, but what is going right.

As my friends start holding their designer exhibitions in happening nightspots like Red Light, instead of staid shops, homes and galleries and art is displayed and discussed over wine and hors d’oeuvres at Saltwater Grill and at evening shows at Dusk, before a nightcap at Olive, one begins to wonder whether the city’s nightlife is pervading our everyday existence. Ryan Tham, restaurant owner, believes that it is the constant need to do and try something different. I wonder: are we really so different, or are we aping a culture that we have brought home with us, after our sojourns abroad? Is this who we want to be and is this an organic social change, or one that is racing headfirst towards collision with an intrinsic culture that is no longer in line with what is considered ‘in’?

Sunday brunches are the new buzz in a city that apparently has no limits – it is no longer chic to throw a party into the wee hours of the night – rather, it is delicately suggested to drop by for a Sunday brunch at one of the happening lounges – Vie, Squeeze, Taxi, Ra. As the sophisticates stroll in by 2 p.m., the welcome drink is a shooter – tequila, kamikaze, and slammer. Inside, the liquor and rhythm are readily flowing, replicating a night-time soirée. The only noticeable difference between the partying a few hours prior and the afternoon lies in the designer pair of sunglasses that must accompany every man and woman, to be considered fittingly attired for the occasion. To be seen without one of those, is a faux pas of the biggest sort! It is mid-afternoon, after all, and what better way to hide the previous night’s hangover than with a pair of gargantuan Versace or Gucci shades that cover most of the painstakingly made-up faces? Fabulous summer dresses, skinny heels and matching totes are perfect for the occasion, where conversation gets tiresome and the music gets louder until the invitees inevitably get completely inebriated by early evening. The ‘lunch’ is of course served by 4 p.m. and eaten in most part by 6 p.m. As I wondered why these invasive, but inordinately jolly, gatherings sliced straight through my routine massage on my only free day of the week, I was perkily asked by one very tipsy girl, what better day to party than that of the Sabbath? Besides, the best way to get rid of Saturday night’s hangover is to simply roll out of bed and drink some more! The future of cosmopolitan India suddenly looked painfully bright through the skylight.

This is the much-touted ‘McDonaldisation’ of Indian culture. Our Art of Living has found a new form of materialistic meditation, where money flows like a brook, as easily in as out. I am not surprised to find friends under 30 with complaints of high blood pressure, premature balding, cholesterol and heart trouble. Stress amongst the youth is as common as a Louis Vuitton at a party and as high as the sensex. In the race to become a Manhattan, we are quickly becoming mad hatters. Life is on speed dial and a party’s calling.

For those aching for a different scene, Goa is the ultimate weekend spot right around the corner. From ramshackle beach shacks to exquisite luxury resorts, they zoom in by the hordes. Bathing, tanning and getting ‘stoned’, Goa is their escape from the reality of their lives. They’re quietly raving but not ranting; the youth has given up complaints in lieu of escapist complacence. From Manchester to Mumbai, people ironically swoop in to hide in this ecstasy-driven pleasure haven. King’s beer, Goan curry, Domino’s pizza served on the beach, entrancing music, bohemian culture and a pace of life that refuses to speak of stress or worry, ease the harried nerves and form a balm to the acid of each day.

From the palaces of the North, to the spas of the South, India has now begun selling a lifestyle that is contemporary and current, instead of the history and glory of the past. Whether this lifestyle is appropriate is no longer the question but the worldly Mumbaikar has arrived, with luxury, sophistication and ideas galore. The icing on the cake is his endless desire to party, every night, every day and on any occasion. As the visitors flicker in by the dozens, they feel more at home, away from home, where the metropolis buzzes with excitement every minute, laced with an intoxicating flavour that is truly, Indian cosmopolitan.

My American-born-desi friend looked scornful and shocked when my husband and I announced our decision to leave the Bushy ‘country of dreams’, to take the rickety and bumpy ride home. The same person, while visiting us recently, was culture-shocked by the life that was now Mumbai. After 12 event-packed days, he left, hung over, a few kilos heavier and determinedly clutching the business card of a real-estate agent in Mumbai.

From the Scandinavian girls in small-town Italy, who speak not of the Taj Mahal (monument), but of plush Indian resorts with fabulous swimming pools and massages, to the Argentinean couple touring China, who talk of the cultural differences and expensive lifestyles in cosmopolitan India, foreigners are no longer bewildered and querulous of this poor, once-rich country. They are now in awe of this rich, poor country that is climbing the lifestyle ladder faster than they can build rungs to the top. What is it that amazes them? The ability of this Asian peace-haven to break the Lakshman rekha of tradition and dance on the bar-top of fire? Or is curiosity to see how this yogic nation can successfully climb out of the quagmire that has been sold to them by a country that failed miserably in doing the same? And can we, the brainiacs of the globe, manage to come a full circle and find material peace with the fire that burns in our souls?