white or dark?

Somewhere in one of those boxes that hold stuff that in the post-school life has little meaning, there is a bundle of cardboard cuttings. Remember the Amul chocolate wrapper that had the picture of a boy and a girl, in different colours for different ages, pictured in an oval? Well my sister had a funny fixation for those, and we seem to have them by the dozen. But my memories of chocolate eating from then are sunshiny clear, and considering the number of days spent in collecting enough coins to get one bar from the canteen at Rai, the laws of proportion tell me there is something fishy about the number of wrappers she got hold of.

But she's the one who made me imagine fairytale chocolate houses and tried, what if failed, to teach me the pleasures of saving pieces for later, so we'll forgive her any possible indiscretions.

Importantly, now that she lives minutes away from "The Sweetest Place on Earth", and with a trip home planned for next month, I'd rather keep the complaints to myself!

But that is not the point of this post.

Even in those times of Amul block-duels, the one thing neither of us could stand was the Milky Bar. I mean, seriously, who eats white chocolate?!

A whimsical argument over dark or white later, a compulsive Wikisearch revealed that the vile thing is not even considered chocolate by most people! Add to that an unrigged, honest poll of randomly selected bunch of people that confirmed what I always suspected, I think I'm ready to start a campaign to throw that faded country cousin out of the chocolate class. Who comes onboard?

:)

makes the world go round

The net was about as friendly to him as to a fish. And if you could start by returning the serve, the job was as good as half done.
Andy Roddick had one Grand Slam, some weaknesses, many critics. He was beaten by Federer in all those Wimbledon finals (only two, you say?), was beaten by Luxembourg's gift to the tennis world, Gilles Muller, as defending champion at the 2004 US, was beaten by really anyone on the slippery clay.
Winners go around gathering fans, but for me, all those wins that have kept him in the world top ten for six years, have made him the star that he obviously is in America, never registered.
Of course, every win was followed by a smug look to anyone who dared criticise him in my presence; but it was the long, searing, heart-wrenching, pull-you-hair-out losses, the suffering, that lost puppy look on his face, that made me fall hopelessly in love.
I diligently joined fan clubs on websites, tried to keep a tab on gossip about him, defended his obvious flaws, his evident lack of belief against Federer. Now I've declared to anyone who bothered that I'll turn non-vegetarian if he won another Slam, and wipe that grin off, thank you.
The twitchiness just before serving, his utter inability to sit down at changeovers, that awkward smile, those hilarious comments, the clowning around, the absolute heart he puts in his game..from the time I saw him play that impossible 21-19 fifth-set quarter-final against El Aynaoui, I've been smitten.

As I sit right now, watching him beat Lopez in Paris, easily, I don't know what has made me write this.
Hehe..I'm going to regret this post when I wake up saner, but what the heck, go Andy! :)

dark, deep, lovely

Over all these years, I've had bouts of unflinching loyalty and bursts of utter disgust. But if there is a state I absolutely adore Delhi in, it's the after-work time of the day in this just-before-winter time of the year.
Have you noticed how late nights just make everything look so different? Things you're too unbothered to note in the day, or which are just hidden by the sea of humanity around, suddenly become so clear. Ever seen the backlanes of Daryagunj at night? Pretty pretty pretty. Old-world, fairy-tale streets, and more greenery than the chaotic afternoons when I pass through it on way to work let me imagine.
Everywhere, the roads widen, the air suddenly has musty, woody smells. Right now there's this tree (I'm botanically-challenged) that's flowering. Pass Ashok Vihar at night, and you'll know what I'm talking about. It's yummy, the smell.
Give me Delhi after 12 in October all year round somebody.

somewhere in the middle

After several failed starts, false tries and familiar abandonment, I'm going to give one proper try to this blogging business. I hadn't thought writing without boss's judgment on it would be so bloody hard.
Anyhow, now that we're here, again, somewhere in the middle, let's hope the newfound excitement lasts.