#Thappad. A Film Review

#Thappad. A Film Review
Blog Posted Thursday 5th March 2020



This film is a dare.

A test of your ability to come to terms with the breaking of every day norms. Norms unsaid but preset, to condition your relevance in a contract. A breaking that threatens to smudge the line that labels you within our crisp and critical society. And basing it all on one *teeny tiny almost forgettable, nearly forgiveable and yet incrementally huge* Incident.


It, the script by #MrunmayeeLagoo #AnubhavSinhaa and she #TaapseePannu, try you. They question your base instinct... to either squirm a little in your chair at each passing, flowing, seamlessly parallel narrative... or throw your hands up in despair and proclaim "hey that girl, she's just intent on watching it all burn. #WTF."


A lot of us will opt for the latter. It is after all an entire 2.5 hours of your life spent mentally arguing in favour of a woman, unmeasureably happy with her choice of life & life partner, now opting to fling it all out, baby and bathwater, over what looks like an involuntary movement of the right arm, in a moment of duress, in front of a room full of people.

However. If you were those that squirmed, thank you. I am happy for you, you have remained open to evolution.

This movie is not just about a slap. Or physical abuse in marriages or the mental trauma of being controlled, or of being a residue, an ant in the line production of the family industry...or sustained marital rape, among other forms of intimidation.


This is larger, more twisted, if you ask me. It is about the small stuff.

I think the Director #AnubhavSinhaa understood the nature of the tricky sands he was treading when he opted to make this film revolve around the social network of what is considered a *Privilege*. The genesis of it. And most importantly, how it is perpetuated by women at almost every level.

Let's forget the slap. It is almost irrelevant if you ask me. And he isn't in this for the finger pointing. Not once does the film hold a sustained rap on the knuckles for any of the males in the frame. Actor #PavailGulati who plays Vikram, isn't subject to your anger, but let's you breathe this one out. Shit happens.
And yet, of all the men I know, the impact of what occurs, was made plenty clear through the tautness of expressions, the unapologetic punchlines and a very tight script.

It poked all the right holes in all the right places, in the fabric of the *Perfect* institution. Nestled warmly in our #Facebook'd lives and #Instagram lies. Especially the final hesitant despair of #RatnaPathakShah Sandhyaki (Amrita's Mother) with her near-angelic husband #KumudMishra, when she brings to life his gentle crime, of letting it all pass.


It is in the lives that surround #TaapseePannu in the film...those fragile threads, that were woven with great attention to detail, I found some answers. Let's pick at those.

 

One falls in love with the eloquent wisdoms of #DiaMirza who plays the successful merc-driving-she-neighbour with such elegance and a perfectly curated wardrobe, and who admittedly married a near perfect man. She nails the single-mother tagline with such precision, it leaves you smiling. Happy in the knowledge that life can be good with and without.


#TanviAzmi aka the mother-in-law manages to portray so much with so little. Her pain is almost embellished, much like the dark pouches that hang like insults under her eyes and mask her pain, hiding behind a rising sugar level, a missing marriage and meaningless chores. Her response to the series of unfortunate events is classic, nothing out of the ordinary and understandably, depressing.


Let's bring the lawyers in for a bit. #RamKapoor representing the male argument and pitted against the sassy, up and coming #MayaSarao (Amrita’s divorce lawyer) are very adept at their roles. Ram keeps it stoic and real, manly, very legal, patronising and precise in his screentime.

Maya's blunt reality check for the "one slap argument" in court, runs uniquely parallel to Maya's own crises and the shadow it casts on her representing this case, for the finality she finds in the flimsy nature of the argument. This woman holds her own rather well.

 #GeetikaVidyaOhlyan (Amrita’s house help) is a revelation surely. Her mad lust for life, her compromise with it and her deep, gradual coming to terms with what made her man, just a man like any other... is a louder slap than the one you see rip across the main character's face. Her choices throughout the film, her words, her silences and her final comeback, created a lot of static in my head.

Of the younger ones in the script like #NailaGrewal (Amrita's future sister-in-law) who make room for expectations, engage you in quick, short bursts of how much room society is willing to make for her idea of a life-partner.

#MangeshDhakde doesn't overwhelm you with sound. His music is simple and it stays, much like the missing rights of a woman, in the background, like an underscore, a garnish that one uses to season a damn good salad.

This film, is complicated. It will be uncomfortable for many, to watch and to admit. Of being party to the lesser, subtler forms of chauvinism that we Women accept and sanctify with impunity.

Simply because one act, held in solation, lacked critical mass for any of us to call it out for what it was, some good ol' Patriarchy. It will take a while for us Indians, to come to terms with this dare, this growing need, that a woman, can and should, by her own good offices, determine and exact, legally, what is and is not, a "Privilege" she may choose to grant the men in her life.

And yes, just one slap, could be reason enough.

Murshidabad - মুর্শিদাবাদ: Bari Kothi #Sheherwali #ExperiencerareIndia

#Bari Kothi #Sheherwali #Experience #RareIndia
Posted: 20th February 2020

This photo essay on my tour to Murshidabad over the weekend I dedicate to Bari Kothi and it’s team for immaculately executing this road trip to Paradise & back. It’s a warm note of gratitude and love to owner proprietor #DarshanDudhoria for being the most exceptional host at this venue of #RareIndia where #heritage comes alive each morning.



#TheBariKothiexperience will stay with me for a very long time... embedded like a pearl in an ocean bed, deep, resilient, magnificent, untouched by milling crowds and waves of crashing tourists. This one is for the connoisseurs.

From the elegant red and white Sare’e clad, impeccably trained, ever smiling ladies who greet you on the redrafted steps to the extraordinarily delicious vegetarian *Jain meals* hand crafted by the in-house master chef Maharaj from the most Puritan of Jain Kitchens in India...



This almost fantasmorgically transformed property of the Dudhoria’s lets you live a night of dreams in their palace, their home of centuries, that has seen a glorious time of plenty, in gold and stone, a forgotten past, when this erstwhile capital of Bengal alone, accounted for 5% of the World’s GDP through trade in silks and spices.



 
Thanks Darshan for the delightful and dreamy stories ... the hand-me-downs from an oral history, that you shared so seamlessly over your resplendent beard and moustache, chasing one ghost to the next to the many untold tales of loot and midnight robberies, of underground tunnels and cursed nobilities like #JagatSeth and his lost fortunes...all shared over raised glasses of dry and delicious red wine sitting alongside the perfectly curated labeled lunches and dinners held within a hall the size you possibly stared at in awe during the screening of The King & I, in your childhood!






You exclaim in utter glee as you enter the bedrooms, all clad in muted shades and silken drapes and arches ins tone, skylights made of painted glasswork and four poster beds inlaid with Mother of Pearl...each with its own fairytale name, like my very own “Chota Kiran Mahal”.

This night I assure you my friends is set right out of the film sets of #shatranjkekhiladi ... every single detail about Bari Kothi is so uniquely designed, so exquisitely restored, upscaled, reused and delicately managed, but for me most importantly, so well secured for modern times and with such clockwork precision, that one heaves a sigh of relief for old built heritage in private hands.

The Sheherwali’s have a lot to thank You for, Darshan, for not simply bringing back such a nostalgic tryst with the bygones but for restoring faith in a riverine economy and its simple agrarian people, who have so much to gain from such initiatives of young landlords like you and the very determined, erudite and charming Mr #SandipNowlakha who have taken the road less travelled. Your home on the river Bhagirathi made the journey up the river to #Hazarduari #BadaImambara #phutimasjid #KatraMosque and the #Kathgolapalace a trip of a lifetime.






It was perhaps the closest to a #SatyajitRay film one can get when one steps on your thickly paddled, wooden, cushioned steam and serviced Barge, to follow the currents of a wily river that sees villagers, boatmen and fishermen, tourist and trespassers all play their parts to perfection, against the most furiously angry orange setting sun.



I must confess the name #MaghanlalMeghraj did creep into my head more than once going upstream!!



 


And the early morning heritage walk, down your trail to the terracotta ruins along the banks... with Jain, Bengali, Mughal, and British influences was simply spectacular and I can safely say, the high point of the trip.

  


This is my note of thanks, in the hope that such reconstructed heritage projects keep finding fresh leases of life through you, your dedicated footsoldiers, your silk story team and initiatives like those being taken by the Department of Tourism GoWB.

Until the time we meet again, you have our memories on digital. Au revoir my friend.
Warmly,
Anjita

*Rozaana with Rozario* : An Ode to a Food Maestro

*Rozaana with Rozario* 

Chef Joseph Pradip Rozario
20th February 2020, Calcutta
#KKsFusion

 

This is not a food blog. This is not a fan mail. This is just my personal note to Joseph Pradip Rozario for being the intensely benevolent *Food God* in the lives of one Anjita & two, Saakya for the past year...and making our tastebuds and our simple lives come alive, cometh every odd evening and filling them with recipes and surprises hand delivered by soft spoken team members, of what can best be summed up as World class handmade platters of godsent delight. NuffSaid.

O, What a MasterChef you are!!!
 
There are many ways in which people touch your lives. People you are born to, people you build relationships on contract with, people you work or study with ... give birth to.


And then there is JP Rozario. Truth be told, we have barely ever met. Once perhaps, our lives may have intersected briefly, at a fascinating edition of Good France, where he possibly shook hands with me in formal greeting. A fleeting memory of a chance encounter. I wish it had been more, he is afterall my son's Godfather. And Santa Claus. And Gordon Ramsey. We are still working on this one.

You see, Chef chose to *Foodopt* me and my son a year ago.

 
This culinary master made the unique exception of extending the delicacies of KK's Fusion to my home, come rain or thunder, we ate...off multitude of platters, of gourmet food made with love and such attention to detail, across exquisite recipes that lingered on our palettes long after they had been devoured shamelessly by mother & son alike.




The KK's Grill, Oven and heart has forever been lit for my humble evenings, and then there are those exceptional cakes and bakes and crumbles & pies that came each time I felt life had so little to offer. Ya right! I quit saying that a fairly long time back, when the Chocolate walnut cake arrived.

& No, I didn't share that one. 😀

 

Very few people in this universe reach out to strangers the way this soul has. He writes, he reads, he chats, he works, he endures, he offers and he smiles...and he inspires me to write. O and he Cooks. And Today, as he sets sail far west, I talk about his devilry with World Degustation!

So, here goes.

One evening I arrive from work to see in front of me eyes, in my humble *Salvation army hand me down* home, a parcel lying harmlessly on the glass table...these are sealed pre plated edifices of happiness, covered with aluminium foil.
x

Hiding within, a world of beauty, these plates are simple elegant whites right under. Held within these folds were piping hot, freshly braided, hand rolled, hommade, richly spiced and cleverly mixed, craft Pork sausages.

The platter came with instructions of course. That's how discreet chef is. 🙂
*Kindly get some Indian Dal made with white Rice and Salad. Break Sausage with hands and mix into rice to best enjoy the Indianness of this delicacy. Add lime to mix*

Whoa, what?!! Rice, Dal?
Seriously... it was an et Voila moment for me! 


I have never been more stumped nor stupefied by such a precise idea of what Pork sausages must be done with. And we did as we were told, Children of Gastronomy, we!

And what a delight. What an absolutely, insanely flamboyant mix of masala and meat this man had pulled together on my plate.

The richness of the Pork held the rice and dal together while the caramelised onions and spices which made the sausage whole, made this rice dish, turn into a Near- Columbian discovery.


It was almost as if a Paati Bheyto Baangali had married a guitar strumming hot Anglo Indian (pardon my stereotyping here) on a plate and they lived happily ever after.

But the story never ends there with Chef. Never ever ever ever.

See now, there is the Son, and his tastebuds must not be trifled with according to Joseph.
*Ergo.

Enter the world's coolest looking, deliciously aromatic, ready to gobble, honey glazed, home delivered, platter of Pork chops with saute'ed veggies and crusty breads.

The boy nearly lost a jawline that day, oggling with the entire length of his 12YO grin he greeted this creation. With some effort, he struggled up, shed a cough and fever, being a tad under the weather, from his upturned bed to shout out in joy, plunging merrily, fork and all, into the carved artistic world of Pigs and pleasantries.

I add here of course...the meat was falling off the bones, the juices spilling onto his chin and the vegetables, alas were being tossed by me into his mouth, because (and i pause here for effect), he is a pre teenager...!

What mad genius created such food? This was heaven and the Pig (bless his gut, snout and soul) died for a noble cause indeed. The Tabasco and honey laced the animal fat in exact precision and the tenderness of the meat, rendered delicatedly, was not too thick, the grease stuck like melted chocolate to the sides of the sticky and tender ribs. Let's just call it divine, ya? 


I must however, bring to your attention a small but significant matter of the potatoes. The Potato is something no one ever gives much importance too, but here the mash that outlined this neatly laid series of chops made the child in me sit up and note the disarming comfort of rosemary and butter cream come through...so British the taste, that you make noises not very appropriate for a blog, when you do commence on destroying this work of art with your knife.


I could go on about all those evenings, when Chef Joseph Pradip Rozario has brought my family, my friends and my soul into order. Given us peace. Told me ever so calmly, to just let it be, you just eat, then spend time with your son... don't get worried about anything in life. Life will sort itself out. Bless you.

And I haven't. I simply sit now, smiling to myself, plate in hand, counting my blessings, as I watch my son, chugging along spoon in hand, through his moment of pure sin and feel an immense sense gratitude for a man, I hardly ever met.

Thank you Chef. Bon Voyage & Bon Courage, to heartier shores and newer adventures with your spatula and spices. I end here today, but your *food therapy* and love sealed in KK packets and hot boxes will remain, with me & Saakya forever.

Warmly, always.
Anjita

#FordVFerrari, A review. #imdb IMDb

#FordVFerrari
A review. #imdb IMDb

For some people, like me, going to the movies is usually for reasons that are rather personal. And for me this weekend “Needed” urgent redemption. And so I went alone.

I am a decently huge #christianbale and #Mattdamon follower. Exceptional men with an eclectic career chequered with high points and lows. Added to the mix was the fact that I was a Motörhead for a while before domestic life and breadwinning won my days.

So. #Ford. Not a name we have ever drunk to for speed or sheer love of the machine. Crafted for numbers and sold for those who need to go from point a to point b in one single attempt at the wheel. And Eventually get there.

Pit that against the mad genius that was Enzo. His work, his life, his search for perfection never really ended. His hunt went beyond the wheel and the seat covers lined in fine leather. He wanted his babies to talk to the winds. And god knows the #Ferraris...they did! And yes I am and shall always be a #Schumacher and #AyrtonSenna fan, that being said... let’s race you through this season on what made the life of #kenmiles played by an understated and very delightfully American Christian Bale so unique and eloquent as a story.

Note: At some point it almost hurt when they made the Italian car maker feel almost like the “big bad daddy of car racing”... before you are allowed to identify and admire quietly, his one true love, as his goggled eyes trace his red beasts along the track, even as you watched a margin loving Ford Jr II take off in a fancy chopper for a fancy dinner bang in the middle of #lemans ... now Enzo, this guy owned the sport. It was a touching and deeply historic moment watching Ken and the Italian papa doff their hats to each other in acknowledgment.

Luckily, the film stays true to what history will only underline... without Enzo the race track would have been so so boring, so slow, so lifeless and so lacking in Adrenaline! Becos He be da man.

Bale, I marvel at his choices. His oeuvre is so unpretentious and yet so versatile. He never hesitates to let you know what lies under that Batman suit and those incredibly Dracula teeth. He makes you smile and weep in turns. It’s a story lined by many stories...simple life stories. When fate robs you, redeems you, loves you back and then destroys you. He gets every single turn on this gruelling lap of life perfectly and brings it home. A gentle soul with a very gentle touch with machines. You will fall in love with his #kenmiles.

#JoshLucas take a bow for the mealymouth you managed to be without losing that charming smile that had us all weakkneed back in your prime. You did Leo Beebe to perfection. Without you the bad guy would have stayed so typically monied and blah. You made it personal and that’s what this sport has always been! Too damn personal.

For Matt Damon who lives out the life of one #CarollShelby - best known for his involvement with the AC Cobra and Mustang for Ford Motor Company, he makes this role look easy but it couldn’t have been. To be the man to give up his own passion only to stand by a very difficult friend for life ... battling the Ford way to try and find meaning in the machine. Slow clap. It was done with class and old school style. You can feel his pain. And that’s not the only good thing about this narrative.

The one scene where the movie takes you out of your seat and right behind the wheel, is the spin Matty does for Ford Jr at a speed that only a racer can secure without shitting his pants. That weeping of joy and terror mixed on #TracyLetts face, makes it all too real.

The endurance of the sport tested timelessly at #lemans. The sheer courage it takes to remain on the road when the world fades away, when at 7000 rpm you ask yourself the only question that matters, and this film does. Over and over.

Who are we and what are we here for? One does find this film answering that in layers. Your friendships, your bonds, your affections and your soul. Every single time Ken shares a moment with his son, played by a very UnAmerican unspoilt and adorable #NoahJupe or clangs a beer with his devoted wife the gorgeous #CatrionaBalfe playing Mollie Miles, the point is made. Emphatically.

You are here for redemption and this film is all about finding that through pure love for something you are lucky enough to be good at. Finding purpose in what you do. Because like all things beautiful and trippy this too must come to an end, after 2.5 hours of hard motoring and gear shifting. It ends well. Too Painfully well.

One thanks #JamesMangold and Motörheads like him for loving the skills and the brilliance of Ken Miles enough to honour his dream, his skills, and love for the car, because, left to the industry and it’s two faced middlemen - the man behind the wheel would have met a nameless end, way before his time.

Joker the Movie

A Review. No spoilers.
Posted 2nd October 2019
#imdb IMDb

It is one of those movies you cannot begin dissecting without going back in time. #HeathLedger made sure of that. The character, its ashen whiteness, the dark coal of burning eyelids, the unblurred version of pure evil flicking like pupils in it and the idea of why would someone be that person, may have left all of us at some point wondering ... how did the Joker get this far out?

The latest from the timeline of the Batman saga ... unfair to say that it was anything less than what I expected... but then I am an unfair sort of reviewer. So bear with me.

For me, just me, the joker (articulately and deftly handled by a maniacal and tragicomic #joachinphoenix) was everything and more. It has pain like you haven’t felt in a while. A stab, a gangrenous wound a burning bullet hole.

But then came the preaching, the soothing sad telling, the narrative makes you weep for the good guy talking, the uncelebrated idea of “feel bad for me because god knows I was wronged”. That just didn’t sit well with me.

Call me cynical but for me the joker was best unapologetic for trying to be the divine artistic balance to the insanely plotted goodness of the Batman ilk. I do not for a moment feel that his character needed to be justified.

I wanted to know that for once evil was unprecedented. Mad. Pure. Thorough. That god sends a measure of everything to this godforsaken planet because that’s the way I wanted it. The menace the extended red grin that spread across ledger’s face was not of a man from a history of sorrow. It was a man who did not believe in any system at all. It was his system and no other. And yes, he did like to watch the world burn.

How good is the acting you ask. Don’t. It’s superlative. It’s an ode to a man who died too soon ... his craft unfulfilled by drugs and depression. And Phoenix rises to the calling, to this role like a bird risen from the ashes. He reenchants it, he recrafts it, he reboots it, to suit the script with such unaffected crystal perfection.

There are moments when you feel the editing, especially the ending, could have ended 3 edits sooner, but then I edit for a living and chopping is what I like best.

Extra pounds didn’t add meat to this story: but what a story. It reminds you of the graphic novel “the killing joke” at every turn of the camera and yet I longed for more, for more sin, more insanity, more lust for the wrong - yes it is true, I found the film falling short of making me feel horrible about the joker, because that’s what I wanted to feel. I didn’t want to feel bad for him. He has been the one connoisseur of darkness i found unparalleled in any depiction on celluloid and I wanted to keep it that way.

What the movie has managed is that tiny tiny slit between the lids, the difference that marks a brilliant film from a good film. This one is somewhere in between. It’s brilliant in its performances and good in its storytelling. I wish I could say more, but then I can’t expect you to feel what I feel, given I secured the first day first show. Buy that ticket and celebrate these two greats - Heath Ledge will forever rule this kingdom but Joachin Phoenix is for sure the only other man he would have liked to take his throne.

Because.
This joker is moulded in pure love. Pure unrequited love. In horrors that only bring laughter that is but a “medical condition”. Because we are all Jokers at the end of the day... and one must ask at the end of every such screening... “why so serious?”

From #Greymatter to #GreyPride

Blog posted: 15th September 2019

Yes I greyed before my time. And please do not ask me what that time was supposed to be.
At 40 I earnestly believe it’s still not my time.

Having said that, these urgent unrestrained declarations of maturity made their presence felt in ways that intersected with social ideas of youth much sooner than I had anticipated or desired.
Sincerely speaking I have always accused the first splash of L’Oréal in my youth for this cranial disaster.

The story goes, as is usually quoted to my loved ones, “had I not coloured my hair so early, for reasons of fashion and profession, I would not be stranded with so many white strands today”.
Clear and precise bullshit. Which is where this take comes from.

Some people grey so exquisitely, esp some men that it hurts. They even have a moniker for it “the salt and pepper look”... well let’s just say I am partial to salt on my platter.

But undeniably, it is traumatic for us, the womenfolk, predestined to bear the brunt of such an unruly mob that rules the tête so impartially and brutally. Murder by keratin loss. Most Definitively.

You go from girl to woman, didi to aunty in 3 seconds flat. And that’s not how you planned on being a Ferrari at 40. You wanted that drive to be a long slow one, gazing at the Amalfi coast, wind blowing your dark luscious brown tresses at the Mediterranean. Sigh.

So how do you cope with these self proclaimed displays of intellectual pride and joy before their time?
How do you handle these stray comments that go...
-“ hey you have a lot of greys...how come?” (Let me google that one)
- “Wow you really do take a lot of stress huh?” (Yes, it’s a thing you know)
-“you really like your whites, no?” (She must be referring to my kurta)
-“Was it the divorce?” (Mm let’s see, that’s plausible, but no)
-“How old are you..? No, really?” (He meant that in a nice way... surely)
-“They look nice but have you tried the latest Schwarzkopf line of soft browns?” (No actually. I am more the electric blue sort of girl)

Do you:
- blink and stare into eternity like a lost puppy who just swallowed his master’s philosophy paper?
- you stare them down with a superior, wisened narrowing of eyes and come back with a cool repartee about fine wine?
- you go full battle mode and vomit the feminist spiel you prepped for this moment?
- you underline how you have come to adore theselittle streaks of defiance and can’t bear to undo the look?
- you tell them how the love of your life loves your greys with a passion?
- you call up Bridgette Jones and book the Monday 3pm slot for an additional spa and colour!

...You can add to that list.

For me, it has been the last option for a fairly long time. Frankly I could never really manage to come up with a smart one liner to breach that pertinent youth-loss status barrage of queries with total domination: until recently.

My own son isn’t very comfortable either with the idea of me looking my age or older as is often the case with such a mane. But then he is figuring out this time, she isn’t too keen to look any younger.
I, for my own person have lingered on this thought for a while now...since July to be precise, whence came the momentous turn of turning 40.

It changes you, these trips around the sun: they make you come to terms with your body and what it’s trying to tell you. You learn to accept who you are. In that little tête. Physically. Emotionally, Socially. And most significantly, personally.

I am learning to love these lines that mark my face with laughter. Loving the long tired looks I give people after a long day. I don’t mind telling friends I want to just hang at home over a coffee and music and not at a pub where the dj spins music I can’t connect with. I am feeling refreshed with the idea of a carrom evening with the son and a loser film at inox with friends which end in politically correct bed time rituals.

But right now what I am loving the most are my greys.
They give me great hope. They are indomitable. They make a comeback every single time I try to convince them with a monthly shot of ammonia, beseeching them to hide or disappear. They are determined and bold: strong and resilient. They are my constant; they are my favourite on the shade card....but most importantly they are mine.

And. It is time to be who I am.
40, Grey and happy.

‘When Comfy ate Libido for dinner’

Post: 14th August

Do married couples have these conversations in their heads or just the divorced ones? I mean I talk a lot to myself these days. I sound very calm, composed and collected in my head, especially dealing with subjects I don’t have to deal in any more.

We all marry for reasons that make sense and sometimes for reasons we force fit to make sense. Usually love bears the brunt of this choice. Some are honest enough to admit it was the hormones, for many it’s the persuasive whining of family or an innate need to procreate. Others need to find someone sober to settle down with, because alone and lonely start disconcertingly merging together, too often.

But deep into these relationships, what precisely is it that becomes of this *reason*, this Choice?
It starts on a high, a very high *high*, some would agree. A high which some would again agree, becomes unsustainable. The usual courtship and mating rituals follow and keeping hands off each other becomes practically impossible. (You can see Lothario strut the street style every time the couple enters the room).

The indiscreet pleasure of being able to just hold, touch, caress, feel, is a wonder of wonders. No one seems to have a problem any longer how often you are caught kissing on the sly. The simple thrill of being able to get away with the naughty stuff so often and so easily keeps the couple grinning like imps in the early years, and that secret pleasure is what maketh many a sardonic proverb on this rather erotic yet pious scheme of things.

You hang around each other, you hang on to each other’s words, hang on to those clandestine urges, you hang on to your mobile phones, your senses soaked in pheromones jumping all over, thanks to an unchecked and fire at will libido. How much better can it get. She makes the tea and he tosses the eggs. You can almost hear the harp playing in the background.

But then again, there is a damn good reason why they anointed this phase *honeymoon*. I love the energy with which young couples talk about weddings. Honestly, it’s so fetching, so Karanjohar in your living room.

It starts very small. Tiny adorable arguments. Small stolen moments of freedom between urgent emergent lists of to dos. Quick romantic dinners sliced between school fees and EMIs. Holidays in between year ends and budgets. It goes on for a while.

Time passes. The lacy stuff goes to the back of the drawer. The Jockeys come out in full freedom and flourish. Time brings home a new friend from work one day. He's cute, chubby, smiles a lot, loves your Jockey collection and an untimely snooze. Enter Comfy.

Now this fellow, he has a very persuasive voice. And it makes sure he befriends you. He also is the sibling Abel to your Libidinous Cain.

Some find a sense of purpose in explaining why Comfy is always welcome everywhere, even in the bedroom, where Libido marked his territory with random ease, once, in a galaxy far far away. Some make it their life’s mission and some have children to explain his intrusion. He is so, you know...comfy. This pattern is not unhealthy, nor unusual. It’s what makes the first few years seem memorable in hindsight. Circa 20 something B.C (Before Comfy).
.
Creepeth the hour, cometh the boredom. And one fine morning, you start feeling it in your bones. The slow and drugged walk of the everyday. The silent march of routine. The monotony of shopping. Deciding what to make for Dinner. How the weekend could be, should be something more. Movies, endless chatter about the hottest series downloading impatiently on your #Netflix. The unending spinning cycles of this and that. Books, music, friends, Facebook, family, alcohol and food. They add up the equation beautifully.

So the partner has downloaded stuff for you. It’s a movie night. No wait, what the hell, it’s a documentary. Damn, it’s 10.30pm. You are eating, slowly, very slowly, masticating every morsel...sneakily watching the hands tick past...you are observing your food ingredients with great intent. Naturally, you have missed 3 big end-of-the-world punch lines by Sir #DavidAttenborough in the meantime. You swear under your breath. This wouldn’t happen if it was #BenedictCumberbatch now would it, but no, let’s do wild life nights. You have ideas of a certain kind of wild life of your own, which your mate simply won’t comprehend anymore. He sits fuming under the kebab rolls. You settle the dishes and plonk on the warm little hole you dug for yourself earlier. The silence of the TV is matched evenly by the two souls trying to pretend how urgent tomorrow morning is going to be.
You know it’s disconcerting how No one ever ever ever ever talks about which partner farted or burped first and openly in the bedroom. Now that’s a huge Mount Sinai right there!! And who do you think got you past that? Eh? Eh? (*notice the smug look on Comfy’s face?).

Maybe this chubby happy go lucky fellow eats conversation for appetizers. Big appetite the bloke has. You feel no great need to speak of the irrelevant stuff anymore. I mean, seriously, what would she care about the moron at office who simply won’t fix the printer or the moron for that matter you have to call Boss every day...In any case one prefers the sports channel or NGC, or maybe she is on that episode of #Suits where Mike gets arrested. (Now I would love to tell you about Sasural Simran Ka here, but I haven’t the foggiest, so I am guessing it has its moments). And all these episodes, sans interruption, it just sums up the day so perfectly. Like that neatly tied bun on her head. So tidy, so effortless, so er...not sexy.

Thing is she just served dinner. Everyone looks fed and peaceful. The house smells of contentment and roasted cardamom. Sounds have petered out. Even the In laws look stoned, the curry was that good. You deserve this hour with your book and your music and your TV. But you are not out of the woods yet. One partner for sure will give the horny look. Some people just don’t believe in that childhood *early to bed* axiom. You still have that presentation to wrap. Sir Libido flexes his muscles in full abandon. It’s going to be a long night.

You don’t wake up very fresh. You make a mental note to tell the other how this exercise must commence sooner and definitely before dinner! What do they know of deadlines??!!
Gone is the need to be stupid, to indulge in the banter, the teasing, the touching… feels meaningless somehow to repeat the obvious with someone you know will respond in a particular way to a particular stimuli. The once shiny New has left and with her walked out her petulant child, Libido. Comfy owns you now. You are comfy. Your pyjamas are divinity itself. Believe me it is damn inoffensive and deeply comforting to be in bed with your life partner. In bed, and to be fair not always trying to adapt the latest paperback of ‘’Kamasutra for the uninitiated’’.
You see, it is after all, school night.

I reckon this of anyone 10 -15 years into their wedlock and the answer will likely correspond with,
- that’s not fair, it was just one match... Manchester United Vs Chelsea, I mean c’mon!!
- of course she is still hot, but, I mean it’s her, what’s the big deal? We still do it once a week anyway
- it’s the kids, you know, ever since the second one...
- yes he looks fit but you know, I get so tired by the end of the day
- but we just had dinner and I get all gassy you know right after…

Let’s not get judgmental. It is effing unfair to poke horny fingers at people who see each other dressed like delinquent inmates, intermittently released on parole, desperate for a bunker, on a self-styled prison life term.

The morning after, you start with a whimper. It’s a toothbrush and loo chatter that coalesces at a table of bread and #Kellogg and usually ends with speed marching to an #uber or a car. Sometimes a metro or even a brisk run. Now sexy couples and some determined souls don’t give in so easily... they keep on trying. So amend that stuff above and add this. A quick peck or sometimes even a friendly hug followed by a fussed over lunchbox usually kicks off this delightful routine of *I still love you*.

This pattern is sometimes broken by a sudden and recurring urge. She is wearing this beautiful dress and looks terrific in it. He smells good. Some old things get rekindled. You both smile at each other a lot. You both walk home from a movie. You dump the kid at the grandparents and sneak off for the weekend. This happens. A lot. It keeps the oxygen supply to the ”bleary which” project going. It’s that charming god particle I think that has been observed as the single biggest religious cause for content grey haired mildly out of shape fifty somethings looking at their spouses with deep affection at weddings and other collective gatherings.

But the following day pattern, by now so ingrained in the life of, sets in. One doesn’t even realize how efficiently the banal has overpowered the adorable, the cute small stuff that made this adventure all so exciting in the first place. The office hours and the chores of the day take up the big half, the rest of the space gets Venn-diagrammed between the kids while the remaining quarter, earlier saved sacredly to risqué chats and hush-hush giggly plans of *let’s do that right after…* gets gently swallowed by silences.

The way home is an unusual space for the employed. It varies between a dreary walk back to a house which has too little and nothing new to offer or an exhausted march to get a cup of tea with the family and some much needed R&R. Some lucky people love this trudge home. Home. Where the other waits. Smiling. But it’s rare.

Chop chop to the majority. This walk home can get really long if your partner doesn’t share your interests or looks down on those tiny windows of all that inanity that made you whole once, but now seem unbearable or plain juvenile. Your space, that box of *today I want to do this* gets slowly corrupted with ideas of what suits your partner. You seek your space to simply be. You start making check boxes of things. You work at it. Relentless to please. Or you simply take a detour for that drink or a cup of coffee with someone, someone who likes talking about the latest gaming console or some such.

For those who miss the attraction the most...the drift settles in rather rapidly. They usually find excitement elsewhere. Some look for love in people while others sort trinkets and expensive baubles when the partner seems too distant to bother. And some just walk a lonely path back and forth from the kitchen to the bedroom each night.

Marriage is beautiful for millions, make no mistake. And I for one, have always wondered what is it that makes these two divergent worlds of almost perfect and utterly boring, spin differently from the other. And it has forever escaped me, while I was happily married, what was it that couples forgot to do. What is it that one could do different? Was it just the loss of attraction? Was it important to keep saying those things that were so casual and yet pleasant to the ear? Is it that important to seduce or be seduced from time to time? How important are looks, is it key to stay in shape these days? Do children bring in a whole new dimension that makes sure the partner starts looking at you differently? Is it the whole family thing?

Surely, it must be wonderful to come home to something as welcoming as a family. But why does Libido keep walking off in such a huff? What’s his problem anyway?
Or did you just grow up? You now understand and appreciate what’s really at stake? Does reality bring in a status check on what’s truly important? Education, health, celebrating the small stuff ...forgetting yourself for the larger audience? The smile that lights up his face when you bring home that lemon tart which he loves to eat...now that smile right there, how do you beat that?

For some this comfy chap brought in a much larger slice of life...he simply taught you to fall in love with the teddy bears on the pyjamas. For some this gap between pyjamas and passion only split the two siblings, into parallel universes. Do some of you now exist in your own separate solar systems? I don’t know. I am not on that trajectory anymore. But it would be an interesting and rather liberating evening, to have an uninhibited chat with my muchly married friends on what they feel, sometime soon.