Deception

He watched her sashay in, all shampoo-ad hair and generous smiles. A couple of boys from the crew around hastened to find her a place. Even the way she said thank-you, if only seen with audio on mute, seemed as if she were saying 'You're welcome. For not many have the privilege to serve me. Yeah, I am that precious.'

He couldn't help noticing her. Having spent the last five minutes figuring out a strategy to extend his stay in the coffee shop without having to spend another rupee, he was both attracted and repelled by the aura of easy privilege that surrounded her. He didn't get paid for his job at the upscale apparel store, where he worked as a sales assistant, till the week after and he had just enough money to scrape through. More importantly, he had a paper coming up, one of the important ones if he wanted to get a degree in Accounting, and he needed someplace quiet to study.

He couldn't tear his eyes away as she sat down, looked around, her glance alighting on him for a second but moving away with an expression of having wasted that second. She took out her phone, which looked more like a piece of jewelry due its glittery case, than something that had functionality, and proceeded to furiously type. He was struck by the speed of her typing, somehow attributing that too to a pampered upbringing. He thought of his own basic phone, and how his skeletal contact list didn't have anyone he wanted to exchange speedy messages with. He had spent most of his life avoiding interaction with peers, and most had been only too happy to oblige. In school, he had always felt ashamed of his holey hand-me-down keds, belts whose leather was always peeling away like skin and worst of all, the faded, too-tight school uniforms.

Two years in the apparel store had taught him much. He now hand-washed his clothes carefully, preferring to splurge on detergent instead of meals, routinely oiled the two belts he owned and gave his shoes a good airing out and a brisk polishing every week. Best of all, he had a deal worked out with the store manager where for every twenty hours of overtime, filling in for somebody or during peak times, he would be allowed to choose an item of clothing from the defective pieces in the inventory. He didn't look anymore like a forlorn neglected little boy living off scraps thrown his way by well-meaning but equally beaten-down relatives. He knew that and was proud of it.

So he thought, this..princess didn't have a clue of how the real world functioned. She and him, they inhabited different worlds, and that they were now breathing-in the same air, struck him as one of the many marvels of this universe.

***********************************************************

Just before entering the coffee-shop, she took a deep breath and with great deliberation told herself, 'You are a Queen. Everyone you meet aspires to be like you - smart, fun and stylish. You own this. You OWN this.'

She walked in, outwardly packing a nonchalant swagger in her walk, inwardly calculating carefully the swing beyond which it would start to look unnatural. Judging by the attention her entry garnered, she seemed to be doing it right.

Today was the ninth job interview she was going for. And given how difficult it was turning out to be, landing a receptionist's job, one would think it was the most important work anyone did in an organization.

She sat down and did a quick scan of the room. Not too many people around at this time, which is why she had suggested this time slot for the interview. Her desperation was a tangible presence to her, more solid than her shadow, and definitely more persistent - never leaving her side. She thought others must smell it too. And so she did her best to mask it. The carefully selected perfume, the self-made mobile case, the leather bag from Dharavi. She was especially proud of her perfume, it was a replica of the expensive one she had liked at the mall and then of which she had carried the stick to her local beauty store, asking them for something similar. She had got it at one-tenth the cost.

She took out her phone and quickly sent a couple of texts to her two best friends, to remind them to text her back during the course of the next one hour. It always helped to appear in demand.

She looked at her watch nervously, involuntarily letting her diva act slip for a second; but quickly realized it and a-fixing a contemptuous look, glanced around the room again. This time she noticed this well-groomed young man sitting at a table nearby, watching her. Why was he watching her? It irritated her, made her want to check her hair, maybe a strand was out of place, maybe her lipstick had smudged? It irritated her even more that she cared so much. Judging by the amount of gel in his well combed slicked-back hair, he probably didn't know how difficult it was for a girl to appear put-together on almost no money, one had to use creative solutions like borrowed hair rollers and hot-air hand-driers in less used washrooms at malls. He probably didn't know. She flicked her hair away, as if flicking away a lifetime of self-doubt and told herself again, quite sternly this time, 'You are a Queen.'

Parallel Universe

Languorous evenings, with me ensconced in my sofa, the world outside in the first throes of dusk. Birds chattering back to their nests, as I lazily plan the rest of the day. Snacks, chai, conversation. Planning done, I pad around the house without any slippers on, setting this into place, straightening that, maybe finding the time to take a couple of inspired photographs in the gorgeous golden light streaming in through my painstakingly selected gauze curtains. And just then it occurs to me, how nice it would be to sit in the balcony, reading, waiting, listening to the cosmic rhythm - a palpable beat - complex rich homogeneous, emanating like a single piece from the orchestra of the universe. A universe I feel delighted to be a part of. Such is the magic of my balcony.

Disclaimer: All persons/events in above note are works of fiction, and bear absolutely no resemblance to anything or body, living or dead. Mostly dead.

Ek Villian - a premature review

I am completely hooked on to this song, 'Banjaara', from the film 'Ek villain'.

While I love the song, absolutely soul stirring, I cannot figure out if there is something wrong with Shraddha Kapoor's character.

Meaning, there are moments in the song when she seems a bit mentally challenged - like when she is shrieking with glee at the motor fan-type toy, like when she is dancing in the white dress - first the careful slo-mo movements and then that windmill arm step with the world's widest most daft grin on her face, followed by a cute childlike cutting of the wedding cake with some cute childlike hand clapping, and finally the scene where she falls down, and stays down in that awkward pose for some seconds, but before you can say WTF, starts some hand clapping again and then the raising up of arms happens, all innocent like, indicating to the six men around that she feels the need to be helped up and indicating to the audience that for some, gravity can be a real bitch.

But on the other side of such histrionics are the words of wisdom she spouts - Andhere ko andhera nahin, sirf roshni mita sakti hai, nafrat ko nafrat nahin, sirf pyaar mita sakta hai, and the noble deeds she does - I am guessing (given my vast experience with Hindi cinema) that the elderly wedding she is shown organizing, dancing and cutting cake in, has been solely nurtured on the milk of human kindness flowing out of her saintly person. There are also some kids involved, they are probably homeless, who have undoubtedly been adopted by Ms Mother-Teresa-come-to-life-again. And there are also some romantic scenes with Mr Villain/Gangster. All of these indicate that she is not, in fact, mentally challenged.

They also indicate that I have a special kind of expertise at killing time.

Anyway, so what is the answer to this quandary? How do you explain this diverse character? Is she simply a beautiful girl, pumped up on sugar, channeling the spirit of Mother Teresa? Or is there more?

There is more. Shraddha Kapoor is portraying the character of a girl, who is simply soul. A beautiful soul, who is touched (pun not intended) by everything she encounters - a dance step, a motor fan-type toy, a falling down - she lets it all sink in and enjoys all of these feelings to bits. Javed Akhtar (if he is associated with the film) will describe it more beautifully - Her joyous presence was like the rustle of grass in the meadows, like the pearlescence of the morning dew drop, like the laughter of trees as they swayed in the breeze, like the warmth of the morning sun as it warmed the back of your neck - he will compose it in Hindi of course, and then some Baritone will narrate it as the film introduces its heroine to us - this joyous creature with a heart of gold. She does only two things - experiences the joys of life and performs good deeds for the children, the elderly and some gangsters as well.

So Shraddha Kapoor will be playing this role, which is SO different from how Hindi film heroines are usually portrayed.

NOT.

Hindi films have mostly only portrayed two kinds of women - serious types with hearts of gold, joyous types with hearts of gold. The latter category is what they have latched onto recently, their idea of women's liberation being that a woman is now allowed to laugh, enjoy nature, the wind, the sun, motor fan-type toys etc without being labelled easy or slutty. Think Geet from Jab We Met, a joyous specimen if ever there was one, or Akira from Jab Takk Hai Jaan, whose joy quotient resulted in an earthquake in Japan. Great.

Well, I find this overdose of joy and noble intentions annoying. I am not like this and don't know many women who are. I am NOT cheerful all the time (and never as cheerful as these cinematic women), and unfortunately, I rarely do anything which can be classified as noble. I am too busy being involved in my own life and those of my loved ones to have the bandwidth to make a difference to the children, the elderly and the gangsters. I have regrets about things I didn't do right and didn't do well. I don't chatter away ad infinitum, I don't spew holy diktats on 'how to live your life and love your neighbor' to all and sundry.

I am complicated, struggling, conflicted and flawed. And I would like to see more women like me in Hindi cinema.

To be fair there have been a few: Tabu in Astitva, Rani M in No One Killed Jessica, Alia Bhatt in Highway, Parineeti C in Hasee toh Phasee, Kangana R in Queen and yes, even Sonam K in Ranjhanaa.

These movies are certainly not perfect but best of all, these characters are not perfect. They aren't uni-dimensional, they have/portray real world problems like infidelity, women's rights, coming-of-age and discovery of self, social awkwardness, even selfishness. The triumph of Ranjhanaa, Hasee toh Phasee and Highway is that these films are not 'women-oriented' but have equally meaty roles for the men as well. The choice isn't between making a film only about a woman's perspective or giving her the depth of an amoeba.

Well, going by the above, definitely does seem like things are changing - from a handful of Shabana Azmi movies a few decades ago to many more now.

But till the time that portraying a real person who also happens to be a woman and the heroine becomes imperative, we have these stereotypes and worse, the decoration pieces to deal with. These heart of gold types, for whom the hero feels absolutely compelled to change his evil ways, and horror of horrors, even become a human umbrella. Ankit has never shown any inclination ever to shield me from the sun with his person, that's a bummer. But on the other hand, he has never shown any inclination to choose a gangster's life as his profession, so overall, I think I might have lucked out.

DINKs

It ain't easy, and cursed are we
With dreams as tall as coconut trees
And love as deep as sea

Time does sprint, ever a mile ahead
As mails pile up and paint comes off
When do we go to bed?
(We do. Sometimes. Kind of.)
Yes, we stay hungry, oh so foolish!
With the heart the mind the body
each chanting a different wish

But if love there is, the bed rock
With cracks a few but ne'er a break
'Twill take-in all the shock
(And cause some bloody havoc)

So will never be easy, as cursed adventurers we be
With dreams as tall as coconut trees
Still love as deep as sea

A tall tale

Yesterday I went for this 'Tall Tales' event in South Mumbai (SoBo). The concept seemed pretty cool, and there were no movies (that I was interested in watching) releasing this week. Thus the long pilgrimage to SoBo.

The idea of Tall Tales is that people who have an anecdote interesting enough to recount gather there to do so in the full 24 gun salute fashion - gripping language, humorous description, voice and story inflection, accent, modulation. It is not impromptu, but said stories and storytellers are screened, auditioned, trained and then put up on the small informal stage.

It was an idea radical enough to drag us out of our Bandra-bubble and into the arms of the famed SoBo bustling with charming old Victorian architecture and reverse snobbery. What be reverse snobbery, you ask? Okay, let me attempt a colorful description. We reached the venue, and looked around for a building that looked like it could host a literary gathering. But couldn't find anything to fit the mental image. A couple of phone calls established that we were indeed standing right in front of the hallowed portals beyond which floated our tales, waiting for us in anticipation. This unlikely looking building was rickety, its staircase long, winding and wooden with a general air that whispered to you in perfect English at every breath you took (breath which was shortening by the second due to the long ascent) - We be SoBo. We no have new buildings, working lifts, air-conditioners or any of them gaudy and low-class trappings of the nouveau-riche. You wanna watch play? You wanna hang with us, poor burb-ites? You gotta earn it.

We wanted to play with them. So we climbed, albeit a little cautiously lest the staircase collapse. And we let the tales begin.

To be honest, while the concept was interesting, not all of the tales turned out to be so. But the majority of them were amusing, told impeccably, in a rich descriptive humorous manner, keeping us in moderate splits.

The whole thing led me to wonder if ever I would be interested in putting out one of my tales and if so, which one of them would meet the criteria of being interesting and insightful enough. While there can be many and with some embellishment a few of them can be made into screenplays for KJo's next, there is this one episode which seems the most worthy of being recounted. KJo won't touch it with a ten feet barge pole, and I also fear the poor thing will be rejected by the Tall Tales team for being too edgy and not nearly amusing enough, but let me put it down here as bits & bytes, for public consumption.

It was a few years ago - four to five at the most. I was living in Bandra and enjoying every bit of it - the cafes, eateries, the sea, crowds when you needed them and serenity when you knew where to find it, freedom, most of all the freedom to do and be as you pleased, without fearing anybody would care, judge, persecute or pester. But I soon realized the horizon was not all that wrinkle-free and that morons sometimes get a free pass into heaven.

So one dark evening, I was heading home leisurely, back from a walk. I lived then in an apartment housed in a building on Union park road, which is the street perpendicular to Carter road. If you have been there you would immediately be able to conjure a mental picture when I tell you that the building I lived in was beyond that part of Union park road which has half the restaurants and hole-in-wall eateries of Bandra and where half of Mumbai congregates on a weekend. That part where I lived can get quite deserted.

Well, I was strolling along peacefully, with not a care in the world when I noticed this boy walking alongside me. He was a boy, probably not more than 18 or 19 years, with a back-pack, looking like he was heading home from tuition classes or college or something. I didn't pay much attention and continued on my way. But then he said something and I looked at him, my first thought being that he was asking me for directions. He repeated what he had said, and what he said is not something I can or want to repeat here. Suffice it to say it was a most vulgar thing to say. I was shocked. The boy didn't look the type - the very fact that he was coming from someplace where an effort had been made to educate him - seemed to suggest that he should have been above this kind of behavior. He took encouragement from my momentary stupefaction and dialed up his perv-quotient. He started saying more similar stuff and even adding obscene visuals to this degenerate speech.

Now I wasn't exactly a spring chicken. As a young school girl in Mumbai, I had had more than my fair share of molestation. But I wasn't a school girl anymore and more so, Bandra was my turf. This green-under-the-thumb boy here had decided to mess with a fully grown adult, with a head full of feminist ideas and a job description that read as 'Area Sales Manager' entailing regular interactions with wily old businessmen and other tough nuts. I wasn't about to take this shit.

I started talking back to him - How dare you talk like this, you moron - kind of stuff. He seemed taken aback. I raised my voice, faded memories from similar long past incidents (where flight rather than fight had seemed like the prudent option) suddenly coming alive filling me with an incandescent rage. I realized that there was a smattering of people around - shopkeepers, lone walkers like me, some cars etc and as my decibel rose, some of these started looking my way. I don't know what led me to attempt enlisting their attention, but I did. I found myself screaming at the top of my voice, telling everyone around that this here boy had been trying to act fresh with me.

By that time the boy had smelled trouble and started walking away quickly. Perhaps he sensed that the atmosphere was getting uncomfortably charged, that people around were suitably mobilized and so they were. In a matter of seconds the situation escalated such that the boy broke into a run, with several people at his heels. I saw shopkeepers come out of their shops, drivers out of their cars, people walking on the street turn direction, even a car turn around, all to chase after him.

I was still screaming, I don't remember exactly what, but something to the effect of dragging him to the police station, when I realized that he had got away. Normalcy returned with frightening speed and soon I was walking back to my building, looking as if nothing untoward had happened in the last five minutes.

But I was terrified inside. And for a very different reason. Yes, I was surprised that one as young as this boy and seemingly from a family of some means and desire to get their children educated, could have behaved in such a perverse manner. But in general this sort of an encounter isn't new, we regularly encounter men who have a twisted idea of what it means to be a man and how a woman should be treated, looking to get cheap thrills from such escapades. It continues to be abhorrent, but is nothing new. What was truly terrifying to me was the behavior of the crowd turned mob. That mob meant murder and had the boy been caught, he would have been in all likelihood ground to pulp that day.

Was it the anger of a crowd wanting to teach that disrespectful moron a lesson or was it something else? Today, is our frustration bubbling and boiling over so, that it channelizes itself through such dangerous acts of good samaritanism? Where does proportionate redress stop and barbarianism begin? 

Passport to somewhere

Lots of things happened today.

I went to get my passport renewed. Some place in Andheri, a bunch of documents, a million proofs of address, some attested by self and some by slightly more authoritative entities like banks and such. What's not to love, right?

Right. The first thing that happened was that I was told to come back with a printout of my application form. Hmm..like when the Ambanis would have arrived designer bag and baggage at the long-awaited door-steps of Antilia, only to be told that its Vaastu wasn't right. Like that. What are you laughing at. Exactly like that.

Little could that vaastu-haastu know, while pronouncing his judgement, what Mukesh A must have felt. It isn't easy, hiring a team of consultants and paying them top dollar to do an incisive analysis of the richest men on the planet (past, present and future), to find out where they lived and how expensive their homes were (NPV and inflation accounted for); combining that intelligence with knowledge gained from coffee-table-book immersion into the art & architecture of eras gone by; and combining these two streams of thought into a buzzing whirring cesspool alive with mongrel-like images of what Antilia should look like.

And then he hired the architects. And then the builders. The plumbers, the carpenters. The gardeners. The ants came uninvited.

His one unforgivable error was to forget to call in a vaastunomist while the blue-print was still in baby-neuron form inside the architect's inflamed head.

Yes that very same thing happened to me today. I too entered the passport seva kendra with elan, dust in my hair, tan on my face, but pride in my step. And just like that, I was refused entry. Having made the rare effort to dig, procure, scan and staple in an uncharacteristic burst of documentality, in that moment I couldn't help but concede defeat to the God of No-matter-how-hard-I-try-just-don't-get-the-paperwork-right.

Okay I am done being funny. From now on this is a sensitive tale of meaning found in the mundaneness of life.

Right. So I turned tail and went to get this bloody printout. Rumor had it, there was a Sun hotel in the vicinity, serving as landmark to a cyber-cafe. A dubious looking short-cut, with many a crest and trough, was pointed out to me and onward I went. Mission got accomplished and back with said document I attempted entry again, this time steely glint in eye accompanying aforementioned pride in step. As I was walking in, I saw a guy saunter out. He had been standing at the end of the line in my pre-printout phase and I was partly alarmed (at the thought that people in my 'time-slot' were already done with) and partly curious as to the reason behind his hasty retreat. So I asked him and he told me that he didn't have a printout of the application form! Gasp! Like Jesus beginning to hand out loaves and fish to the first starving man (yes exactly like that) I told him about this miraculous cafe next to the Sun, in a galaxy not so far far away, but he seemed unimpressed and chose to come back another day.

Hmm.

Inside I went, and the powers that be seemed surprised to see me; turns out there was another fellow writhing and whining to be let inside without having in his possession...guess what...a printout of the application form! And apparently he had been at the whining since some time too. They told him, 'Itne time mein tum bhi le aate printout.' Our hero answered, 'Arre duur hai.' So they said, 'Agar ladies jaa ke le aayi, toh tum ko kyaa tha?'

I felt some confusion. Why does being a lady (hardly) mean that I am not expected to apply myself? On the other hand, I got it. People are the sum of their experiences and if you have never been called upon or encouraged to find your own way out of sticky situations, you won't suddenly start doing it unless something big really comes and shakes you up. Lots of girls in this country don't get opportunities and frankly are not brought up with the mindset of 'yes you can' and I get it. I did feel some renewed respect for my own self though #Fighterlady. Now if only the damn passport would deign to get renewed as well!

Well, inside the hallowed portals of Passport seva kendra I rode. And fell off my galloping steed just a few minutes later, when the woman at the counter asked for proof of my marriage. A scuffle ensued, an argument at the very least, me at my wit's end, not understanding why I needed my spouse's name on the passport, and she, rightly so, telling me that it was mandatory.

In all that mela and jhamela, I found myself asking her if this was as mandatory for any male applicants. No sooner was this ferocious line of questioning out of my mouth than I had an out-of-body experience - with my saner self detaching itself to watch the tamasha. Fortunately the lady confirmed it was mandatory for the males too; it was fortunate 'cause even I don't know what I would have done otherwise - a misplaced dharna, or a speech at the very least, on feminism, female emancipation and the role of the husband in a modern marriage.

Didn't come to that and she, being conscientious, informed and surprisingly patient, instead of flicking me and my objections away, offered to put me on Tatkaal. She sent me inside to meet the APO to get her sign-off as well. While giving me the file which I was to take to this APO person, she said, a little mischievously and very wisely, 'APO madam is the highest ranking officer here, so ask her a little nicely.'

I did. Madam APO agreed. And in spite of me not having had all my docs today and exhibiting a severe lack of grace in accepting that, I am now a token number, in the Tatkaal way, only required to go in tomorrow and submit said certificate.

So many things.

What a brilliant girl she was, she stood her ground but also stayed true to the motto of the 'seva kendra'. What patience, what wisdom. Inspiration strikes anywhere and that is what she was to me today.

Besides I realized that because I am so used to thinking that any government office exists only to make life difficult, my strategy has always been to bully. It is unthinkable that there are people in admin/government jobs who truly want to help you. It shifts the paradigm drastically. You realize how you've been hammering away at what you thought was stone, when a hot-knife-through-butter-maneuver would have accomplished the job.

I saw a woman around my age whose husband had accompanied her there and they were applying for a passport for her, and besides the fact that her husband had to come in with her, there was also that her id documents were all from college. It spoke about the chasm between her life and mine - I have come a long way since college, every document in my kitty today is evidence of a step forward. Should I be proud at what I have made of myself (a person with multiple and varied documentation to prove existence and residence, haha) or sink to my knees and thank providence for giving me all those opportunities.

A bit of both maybe.

On the other hand, I still have a lot to learn. And on that note - life is like a slab of hardened butter. Sometimes what even the sharpest knives can't cut through, a hot one can.

Harry Potter redux

I find myself thinking on and off about the Harry Potter series. The fact that the books are hugely enjoyable and the reasons behind why they are so, are obvious to everyone. However it is not equally widely acknowledged that the books have the power to enrich our lives, proving themselves to be far more layered than just any well-written set of books. 

For the ones who feel as I do, here are some of the things I love about the Potter series and which have led to J.K Rowling being, for me, a leading light among the illuminati who walk this planet. 

1. Hermione Granger - An all-time favorite literary character. She is all those things I admire, many of which I wish now that I was when I was her age - fearless, self-respecting, resourceful, and absolutely completely herself. I heard JKR say somewhere that at an age when a lot of girls are trying to fit in, are willing to tweak themselves in order to do so, become popular, Hermione never played to the gallery. For example, she never considered that in order to win Ron's affection, she would need to be less intellectual and less frequently right. Her character grows naturally through the series, both softening and strengthening, in an uncompromising manner.

For the brilliant role model she is to young girls and people in general, I love her and JKR for creating her in her own image.

2. "It's not your abilities, but your choices that make you what you are". 

“‘It only put me in Gryffindor,’ said Harry in a defeated voice, ‘because I asked not to go in Slytherin…’ ‘Exactly’ said Dumbledore, beaming once more. ‘Which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.’”

This is one thought from HP that lies around like a sleeping dog inside my head, with one eye and ear open, looking for moments to prove itself useful or just get up and bound around with joy. 

And while it may sound obvious, a proverb, a saying or a moral doesn't hit home till you see it take shape in front of you. This one comes to life beautifully and tragically throughout the series.

3. When Harry's mother sacrifices her life for Harry, it is this act of sacrifice and love that magically protects Harry from Voldemort, and so the curse famously back-fires. 

Voldemort is unable to touch Harry due to the power of his mother's love.  

It 'tangibalizes' something we have heard preached down to us so many times. Tolkien also did the same thing, with Bilbo's act of sparing Gollum's life eventually helping save Frodo's at Mount Doom. Brilliant, both of them. What beautiful ways to express that no good deed, act of kindness or love goes unseen and unrewarded. And in HP, it also says that a parent's love really does have power. 

4. Severus Snape - We don't understand what his deal is till the end but once we do, we realize the full weight of what JKR has done - created a character that is so complex, so rich, so heroic in his own way, that the mind boggles at how she did it in such an inconspicuous manner. 

His love for Lily, justified dislike for James Potter and his rowdies, his bad boy days, and then reform - sweet dangerous reform. 

Lovely shades of grey. 

5. “‘Tell me one last thing,’ said Harry. ‘Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?’ Dumbledore beamed at him, and his voice sounded loud and strong in Harry’s ears even though the bright mist was descending again, obscuring his figure. ‘Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?’”

Pure gold. Free to be interpreted in multiple ways. Today I choose for it to mean that the mind shapes and controls the 'real' world and in that sense is more real than anything else. Our thoughts, visions, dreams are the true source of everything and everyone. Today, that's what I choose for it to mean.

Acknowledgments -
http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Rebirth_of_Tom_Riddle
http://thenectarcollective.com/2013/10/life-lessons-learned-harry-potter/

Happy New Year

My wish for you for the new year is that you identify and acknowledge what your most fundamental flaw is.

The seven deadly sins. Pick yours.

Frameworks. They work.

Happy New Year.