An Email That Cracked Me Up

I made this post after meeting the girl in question that evening, who reads this page as well. The One In Love was on a date with her boyfriend and obviously couldn’t talk much, but needed to be made severe fun of anyway.

What brings this back, though, is an email I received from a fake address last night. It was perhaps a woman, going by the tone of her message. It read, aside from things that suggested extreme discomfort with my declaration, like this:

So you think men would be okay with cool girls for partners? The poor girl is usually forced to change herself, because of you guys. Once you guys go out with them, you talk of things girls think you’ll like. You don’t even know what a girl goes through while dressing up before the next meeting. Forget it, you’re one of those guys who are full of their ideas and don’t consider the situations girls find themselves in.

Thanks for your brilliant insight dear defender, but I have this question I need to ask you: Really?

So you’re suggesting that these girls, who never knew about thirty-five types of bags, suddenly start matching them with their dresses because we tell them to? You’re saying that one of us, who is obviously indecisive enough, raises such meaningful concerns and pollutes the cool universe willingly?

Of course, what am I smoking, guys are screwed up after all. Some of us, who are sane enough to not fall for girls who fight over lip colour of the season, decide to disown our ideas and convert the few interesting girls we meet. Yes, we’re twisted enough.

The funny thing is that if it’s true of guys to indulge in such a manner, their requests clearly meet with a favourable response. *cough*

The Dumping Ground

Things I’ve been told:

• You never know what to say.
• You don’t like Savage Garden? Whaaa?
• I’m better off without someone who can’t be sweet.
• I’d rather have Ma talk safe sex to me than your sarcasm in the name of conversation.
• You don’t even know that purple is my favourite colour.

Same girl, mostly. Convenience happens to be a very friendly thing.


Things I’ve told them:

• Colour coordination is good for furniture, walls. Maybe.
• I grew up on Jim Morrison and Gilmour.
• What’s Saturday night got to do with a book?
• How can you not like beer?
• Back To The Future?

(I’ve dumped only one girl. Several times over. Rest of them have been quick with their business.)

Circles

The only band in India that can give you a trip worth three joints.

This track, Circles, will feature in the upcoming album. Till then, enjoy this extraordinarily original, progressive composition. The vocalist was sick this particular evening, so the bass guitarist took over. And it's so trippy..

It's not much of a live video, but my camera behaved well in terms of the audio.

And The Award Goes To...

Seen in Kalkaji, Delhi.

That Four Letter Word

Some girls are just cooler than the ones you meet every day. They don’t mind a suggestive joke once in a while, they don’t care if the colour of their footwear doesn't match with their earring, they don’t mind more beer, they like metal (occasionally), they even ridicule Valentine’s Day and similar pink stuff with you. Simply put, they are one of the guys and never complain about it.

And then, they suddenly turn into, howdoIputthis, a girl.

You know, the kind to expect a phone call regularly, buy a John Mayer disc, throw a fit if you don’t notice the new haircut, narrate a story that ends with a bouquet at her doorstep.

I had only heard of this dramatic change but I witnessed something similar and extremely shocking this evening. I am told she is in love.

People change. It's fucking true.

menwhopause

Live at Turquoise Cottage, Gurgaon (October 21, 2009)

It's comforting to find musicians in this country with balls. Perhaps the most original band in India at the moment, these guys never fail to amaze me with the number of ideas in their music. The writing is memorable, the arrangements fresh. After their concept album Home, the second album Easy will introduce the complex, progressive stuff we tripped on that night.

These guys go on stage, do their business and leave. Unlike those bands that go on talking about their music, their inspiration, and their neighbours while trying to sound cool. Only a band like menwhopause can bring hope to Indian rock. And I am not counting things like Them Clones or Indigo Children in that category.

Thank you, editors

I picked up the October issue of Rolling Stone and I can safely announce that I have new-found respect for the editors. I have not been a fan of the Indian edition as much because they tend to suck up to artists like Pink and Bon Jovi once in a while. I’m told it’s something to do with popular music and readers’ preferences.

But what made me invest in the magazine this time was an article on menwhopause. My love for them is widely known, but I’ll talk about the other thing that really made my day. They reviewed the recently launched album by that godwaful band, Them Clones. Their brand of songwriting has been described as “formulaic and predictable.” It also reads, “…not a band one looks to when one’s concern is originality.”

Dear editors, you guys just revived my faith in humanity. Thank you for politely agreeing with the fact, that, in simple terms, this band sucks. It disappoints me to hear people talk passionately about what can only be described as unimaginative, painfully ordinary music. Not forgetting that with a name like theirs, attempts at pulling a Pearl Jam or a Stone Temple Pilots number are never shocking. It's unbelievable they have been around for nine frikkin' years. I want to shoot them, their supporters, and their manager.

By the way, the fact that Megan Fox features on the cover had nothing to do with this purchase. There is an entire story on her, where she proudly declares that she “wasn’t born with a special vagina” and that men are scared of powerful, confident ones. I’m afraid I’ll have to let that go, not because it’s a Supermodel Statement with memorable entertainment value, but it’s Megan Fox we’re looking at, forgodssake.

And Then Some

We’ve been on separate wheels
Everything’s been under cover
Chasing time to no effect
Maybe it’s time to reconsider

My Newspaper Moment Of The Day

That’s not saying much, because in the name of a newspaper, I was reading Hindustan Times while waiting at the dentist’s this morning. That’s the profound moment in time I came across a column on page 2. The editors call it Anti Aunty.

I always thought there were HT Delhi / Delhi Times and such upbeat, hopeful supplements for these things but maybe it’s just me. It also invariably reminds me of something that rhymes but I don't plan on being called a 'bloody corrupt person' more than once in a day.

Well, it’s essentially a column where readers write in with some of the most perplexing issues of their lives. Instead of rambling on, let me share some of those gems here.

"My professor, I suspect, wears padded underwear to give the impression of a non-existent behind. How do I find out?"

"My girlfriend refuses to wax. She says I should love her in spite of body hair. My point is, if I shave for her, why can’t she have smooth skin for me? Is this her revenge for me cheating on her?"

"If a guy says to you that you are my soul mate, what does it mean?"

Throw Up Sid

I am under immense pressure to make this post. Because this evening, I saw the latest Johar offering, the suitably titled Wake Up Sid. It’s been personally enlightening an experience and involved a great deal of learning. That the next best idea to adopt in case your original plan falls to pieces and nothing else seems visibly exciting, is going home. Now, had I known this about five hours ago, I’d have gone home instead of settling for this masterpiece from the Johar family, when we failed to find tickets for Tarantino’s latest.

But there are some remarkable things about this movie. In no particular order:

Original, Gripping Plot: The mother of everything unpredictable. Our character is an aimless college going kid, survives on a credit card his dear dad pays for, parties hard, never studies, fails his graduation exams. He fights with his parents, carelessly blames them, and moves out of their mansion. All this is happening while he is getting friendlier with new girl in the city who, by the way, happens to be older than him and wishes to be independent and talks endlessly about her goals. He moves in with her, falls in love, realises his mistakes in the meantime, as he finds what he wants to do with his life. By now, he’s also sufficiently grown up. Work of genius, really.

Wake Up The Cast: I'd think the entire cast & crew was snoring while shooting, but that's not one of the strong points of this impressive piece of work. Konkona Sen Sharma, perhaps the only element I was secretly looking forward to, looks underslept throughout. There are always a few people you have some faith in and then they shatter it, you know. (We won’t get into the recent, other significant movies she chose to feature in.) Then you sit and wonder what’s wrong with the world...

Ah, The Music: The talented composers, Shankar Ehsaan and Loy, do a wonderfully forgettable and unimaginative job again. Another soundtrack that essentially reminds you of pretty much everything you’ve heard on screen lately. Incidentally, most of it belongs to the Johar brand.

Insightful and Wonderful Dialogue:
“Hum dost hi achhe hain, Sid.”
“Tumhari umra main, my father was dead.”
“Please, hum sirf dost hain.”
“Tum bade ho gaye beta.”

I’d let it pass if you face another social condition and are made to nod in approval when this movie is in consideration. This particular situation involves any feisty female around you, unfortunately, who happens to find Rahul Khanna very hot and desirable and understandably believes it is a reason good enough to invest the next two and a half hours of your life staring at the screen, grumbling under your popcorn breath.

(I realise I need to apologise for the strange title - that being respectful of the words I chose myself. In my defence, I offer two reasons. The first being rather simple: crap movie, crap post title. I shall blame it on the inspiration, etc. Secondly, I am a jobless, frustrated copywriter who needs to remember how to come up with crap phrases in case the clients start interfering.)

Even A Survey Can Make You Happy

This survey doesn’t really come as a surprise, but it's definitely relieving. It is unfortunate that a reason that reads, “love the feel of a book -- taking Kindle to bed just seems wrong” features later. Hell, whatever the reasons, I am going to hope sincerely that e-books stay a distant dream (no matter how a few facts come to mind.)

Amazon and Sony, among others, can only try for a while. We can all stay calm for now.

The Ideal Woman

In an endless and ambiguous conversation with a friend this evening, it occurred to me how abused the idea of the perfect woman really is.

It was also reminiscent of the few girls I have dated over the years. It was always essentially a couple of phone calls that eventually made me look for excuses, going out a few times but facing her unpleasant taste in books, or declaring the girl a self-obsessed, anniversary keeping freak in a couple of months.

I am sure all of us feel/have felt that the idea of that one person is rather ridiculous and demanding, and can only exist in stories (or a friend’s seemingly untrue relationship saga) but damn it, I personally know of many people who believe they will bump into someone who will be the face of all things on their list of the desired one. Do I have the insensitivity to break into their bubble of hope and yell that it’s never going to happen, shithead, so concentrate on what’s around? I do, but I don’t.

I mean, what are the chances of me running into Celine, from Linklater's Before Sunset? I have seen that movie nearly 345647 times and after falling in love convincingly every single time and then snapping out of it, because you know, it is a movie after all - I have concluded that a) I am a sucker for such complex characters and b) it’s impossible. It’s almost as if that character doesn’t exist in reality. How did Linklater nail it? How did he write this really smart, funny, unthinkably interesting woman, who is aware of her sexuality but doesn’t rub it on you? No, she can’t be real.

Therefore, until the next person gives you a reason to make up another swear word, it’d be wise to compromise a little, my heartbroken friend, or however long you can, and I’ll sob over how Celine is only a work of fiction...

The Same Old Story

The good stuff first: Delhi Metro has new trains running on trials perhaps, because last I read they were expected in October. The existing pipe-like trains seem like a bad Lego arrangement in front of the compact, seemingly fit German coaches. They have digital route maps (they blink when the station’s being announced so this works if you’re on your headphones and you don’t have to look all over for the display band), they have an energetic seating plan, with poster-size advertising messaging space available along with sleeker display bands. Basically, everything done in good taste. And yes, I notice these things.

Blame what advertising has done to me, but the text is cleaner, well laid out, emphasised at the right places. The approach is way smarter than the regular, yawn-inducing, complex route charts. The thing that stands out is the non-fluorescent light arrangement. It’s as if they knew what I was looking for.

Since it was the first day, as you’d imagine, it was sparkling clean (if you forget those two chocolate wrappers lying close to the last exit.) I stepped out happy, to find a crushed Pepsi bottle and polythene bags lying close to the waiting area. But that’s what these stations are for, really. My pan-chewing brethren should spit without looking. It’d be unfair to expect them to target a bin, that's a remarkably silly idea.

I felt pretty sorry for the guys at DMRC this evening – for once the authorities are doing their best to educate commuters everyfuckingday. There are the announcements, there are posters, there are volunteers picking up the stuff lying around (they do it for their own good, after all). Which is why people in my city really make me proud, with their absolute disregard of public property and the tremendous ease with which they shun responsibility. They overlook when the volunteers direct them to the bin. They are thoughtful enough to leave entertaining drawings on signboards. You know, the stuff that makes them cool and rebellious, in The World of Twisted Sensibilities.

No, it’s plain disgusting.

I wish they would throw challans at all those idiots in return. That's perhaps the only way these poopheads can be told to respect what's not exclusively theirs.

Symmetry and more

Location: the forgotten corridors of a building that had nothing else to offer. Taken during the inspirational and wonderfully eventful time known as notice period, after I had taken care of the Resignation Business in the interest of my sanity.

Wake Up Call

For those of you who are aware of the Copenhagen December meeting about global climate change, go here, figure how you are placed today, and make the Wake Up Call. Tell your leaders what you need from the deal that could define everyone's destiny. Ask for what you think is important, apart from the reduction of developed country emissions by at least 40% by 2020.

For those of you in Delhi, join us today by reaching India Gate at 12 PM, to make the Wake Up Call to PM Manmohan Singh. He needs that and your inputs. He needs to know you care.

Why I Need Pepper Spray

I am the guy who loves guzzling beer while people run, shoot, with litres of blood in a frame. That’s that. In school, you could never see me fight anyone. Even if I was angry, I would usually fake confidence while the Bigger Guy was reaching out for me, but more often than not, I was nearly shitting in my pants. I’d criticise everyone with such a record, sitting in the Geography Room staring at the world map, talking endlessly about my Norway dreams.

I have now concluded there must be something unbelievably wonderful about my widely known to be missing ass. The Horny Class of our twisted race has left me unnaturally disgusted, angry, and well, in the need of a Thigh Guard, Chest Guard and Jockstrap. Perhaps some sort of a Muscle Suit would work better, since I won't run to hit the creep going by my history.

These wonderful ideas arrived as in the last two weeks, in the typically crowded Delhi Metro, someone chose to appreciate my behind, let’s say in a very unfriendly manner. I turn around to find no women (hopeful that I am) and only a couple of men. Over a month ago, I was at a club buying a few drinks while having to wonder who tried to reach out for, you know, my stuff. All I saw was people dancing like the jiggling disco lights and some guys waiting at the bar. I am sure most of them are not getting any action, are gay, hence find my ass exceptionally delightful. May I suggest complimenting me verbally? Or take my number and leave me a message. But DON’T FUCKING GRAB IT.

Now I know how women feel out there. I really do.

Shit Aaj Kal

In a very random drunken situation, I realised I was witnessing one of the lousiest, the most pretentious pieces of crap ever. I am talking about the wonderfully titled Love Aaj Kal.

I’d think they had a paragraph in the name of a script when they started shooting and the director subsequently smoked it. Saif StraightFace Khan looks his gay best and A Pretty Face With Nice Legs couldn’t do much to save frames that could do with some composition. Fortunately, I figured two things this afternoon:

a) My friend, who is unemployed, like me, is an idiot to have suggested we watch this because nothing else is senseless enough and hence suited for a lazy Monday afternoon. Partly correct, though.
b) Woody Allen would have done justice to the idea of presenting love in different times. He would have written memorable characters, thrown in the standard confused and irrational traits to present people you can identify. But then, Woody Allen is a talented man who thinks of more interesting stuff anyway.

It’s a shame I wasted an entire afternoon watching utter nonsense from a couple of incompetent nincompoops. I will now go watch a Woody Allen movie and be amazed by his wit and powerful writing again.

The Selfish One Starts With The Face

I killed you last night.

Paint in my fingers
I saw red into green
When I killed the ghost of tomorrow

I find my eyes sparkle
As I remove your mole
I give you a big dimple
It really goes with my mental picture

If you had a chance
Wouldn't you do the same?
Wouldn’t you?

Your hair is now all black
That’s how I want it
Now it won’t unite
With the brown of my rack

All I ever asked for was black

I really did.

So tell me
If you had a chance
Wouldn't you do the same?
Come on
Wouldn't you do the same?

Oh alright, let’s get done with the cuts
Make you all darker
Since your white drives me nuts

Wouldn't you do the same?

Inebriated Insight

I’ve been sleeping by the rainbow, hoping the colour would wash every B&W patch away and become the lightbulb of my dream.

Going green?

Like some of those horrifying facts that revisit you, I came across the latest, mind-boggling figures today. Apparently, a book is published every 30 seconds somewhere in the world. Over 4 gallons of water are used to create a single book(!). (Well, that should at least be a good answer to those who cry over the demise of books.)

Many suggest and argue that e-books are the way to go. Now, I am not personally a fan and I doubt the idea will ever fully appeal to me, but I really understand the concern being the wannabe green living enthusiast that I am. But isn’t the energy issue staring at us there?

I recently read that Random House announced being committed to printing 30% of its books on recycled paper by early next year. (In fact, only 5% of the 4.15 billion books produced in 2006 used recycled paper. Ouch.) I guess we’ll have to wait for other publishers to get their act together, that’s all. And share books till then, so they suggest. (Yeah, just that I won’t since I am the stuck up, obsessed, I-don’t-share-my-book-asshole. Kill me.)

There are always such things that allow you to share books across the world and contribute in some way. But what about the new titles? Perhaps we’ll never know. Or wait for Google to throw some figures at me. Facts suck.

This Love

Meet Jude*.

These guys really know how to make sumptuous, smart things. I bled and saved for the longest time to be able to pick this baby. It's incredibly intuitive, powerful and well, pretty stunning. It's been over three months but I clearly can't get enough of it.

Don't blame me if this page sees a lot of it.

*Used earlier for my iPod which now goes by Jude Jr.

Your Logo Makes Me Barf

It's funny how many logos here remind me of the stunning art I saw at the agency I'd rather not tell anyone about. Many things cracked me up but they are sickening nonetheless.

What would I do to work with talented art directors again? Kill such m*f*s to begin with.

Bollywood Cool

I am not sure if it’s time to call Bhardwaj our Guy Ritchie. Not yet. Plus it'd only be unfair. But here’s a ballsy and brave attempt at a story about drugs and deception. Only a man like him can manage to have fun and produce something worth your time.

Kaminey starts and flies off. It’s fast. What I particularly love about the film is Tassaduq Hussain’s work. There’s spectacular camera work, incredible colouring, smart editing – these guys really know their stuff. It’s comforting to see such detailed effort. It really adds to the atmosphere.

What truly comes across is that Bhardwaj respects your intelligence. He leaves a few things afloat cleverly, rolls them out recklessly later. He’s figured a smart plot for an entertaining jigsaw. There are moments when things happen in Marathi and Bengali. Completely unexplained, completely awesome.

Also, Bhardwaj has written some truly delicious characters. They are immensely amusing, immersed in realism and contribute to the story. The narrative is so witty, there are the recurring jokes, it drives you well through the dual plot. There is one who stutters, one lisps, one giggles under his moustache and shoots, there are the typical bhais and the real ones. Dark humour has been managed so impressively that you figure out the barks into a goddamn cellphone later. And mutter what the all you want, it's fucking enjoyable.

Great job on having Gulzar on board. Only a man as talented as him handles stuff with such elegance. Bhardwaj has thrown in a Burman track efficiently – usually it’d have pissed me off.

You’re good, dude, Vishal. The film is dark, funny and mean, driven by some memorable characters (Bhope is way too cool) - let's face it, we've had some adorable ones but this is just what you expect from a few gangsters running after a musical instrument. I must mention Priyanka Chopra tries hard. But that’s about it. My neighbour likes her anyhow.

Mr Toledano

Every once in a while you come across someone’s work that makes you stare at your screen for hours. I felt abnormal today when I found myself checking out everything this guy has done. He’s a genius.

One of his projects, Phone Sex The Book focuses on “theatre” that phone sex is. He has clicked several phone sex operators in the rooms they work from. It’s interesting how genuinely he studies their personality, adds some of their words and builds a wonderful description.

Another immensely impressive piece of work is his project Days With My Father, where he tells you some very personal, some characteristic things about him.

There’s some unusually simple work in his project Arctic as well. I wonder what he’d do if he gets to work with war heroes or comedians. I think such exceptional talent would make for some great pictures.

They called him talented. Poo.

I’m officially sick of hearing/reading/MTV VJ giggling over Farhan Akhtar. The ‘talented’ man who ‘has it all.’

Let’s take it one by one. Direction, alright, I’ll give that to him. Random nothingness about three guys well told. I was a teenager, you know, and I’d say I honestly enjoyed almost the entire movie.

Acting? Along with those bandannas and nut-hugging faded jeans, there was just a straight face. When I finally got the DVD, quite a wonder that the fast-forward mode is, I saw these men driving wistfully, head banging (fake riffs - it even hurts to put that down here) Farhan Actor Akhtar wearing suits in a fancy office with a dumb woman for a wife, and then there was the revolting moustache – all this mostly in obscene jump cuts, in that one godawful movie our man is known for. The album has been called Indian rock ‘n’ roll. What the fuck? What are you smoking? Drinking water through the nose? Indian rock is full of talented musicians my friend, not three musician shitholes playing with a guitar. So shut up with the praise, actor man.

Oh yeah, he sings too. Yes he can. That character needed it, isn’t it? Honest, raw vocals? Yes, like one of those aspiring ones on painfully arbit reality shows every evening on our TV sets.

Farhan Akhtar, please stick to direction. You can’t act, really. You can’t sing, oh no. If there’s another Rock On!! or Luck By Chance, it’ll only add to your Facebook fan score and probably get you another talk show so women can call you 'cute' endlessly. Now I have a wonderful brief to take care of, thank you. You can focus on holding a guitar for a car hoarding. But please don’t make me go ahead with insane blog entries.

Uhm.

I have a lot of respect for musicians who constantly experiment with their work. I like the fact that some artists go out of their way, produce albums with other artists and prove themselves and make some memorable music. That’s perhaps the reason I pick up anything and everything Trent Reznor and Steven Wilson are even remotely associated with. They know their music; they know their words and create a different atmosphere in every track. Quite unlike Metallica (although I am a poster-boy fan) where you can invariably figure out the entire album if you hear one track.

Having said that, I’m up for a confession. Last week, I happened to chat up with a friend who is currently tripping to Temple of the Dog. It’s one of Chris Cornell’s greatest efforts. But it quickly turned around on me when his latest, Scream, came to my mind. I remember waiting for it eagerly as it was announced late last year. Gradually, names like Timbaland came up. It broke my heart.

First single, second single. What’s wrong with the man? I recently read that he compared his glorious piece of R&B-rock trash to The Dark Side of the Moon, apparently for the "psychedelic" elements. Again, what’s wrong with the man? I don’t even find him comfortable with his vocals at places. How is he convinced it’s a creative success?

So alright, Chris, take some time off and come back. I don’t even mind you with something like Audioslave. Frankly, that band had nothing to offer but your voice. And that’s saying a lot. You were amazing on BBC Sessions with the guys. You seemed to have fun there.

We’re all waiting.

The Great Indian News Network

I’m mad. It’s 11.30 pm and all I cared about after a long Sunday was some news. I get myself some coffee and all I see on our wonderful TV channels are “live” images from Rakhi’s swayamvar.

I hope the dumbfucks at NDTV Imagine are reading, because I have an idea for another TRP winner. Rakhi’s First Night With The Canada Man. Coming soon, have the drinks ready. Keep wondering how and when commercial breaks will be announced on that show. Any ideas?

The Others

So what do you do when the IIM brand, laptop carrying, suit wearing people walk into their office with big windows and turn the lights on, when the room is well lit naturally? Worse, waste paper?

All this for educated people being aware and socially responsible. Bravo.

Green Sweater

She's the one who disliked winter
Upon her skin is a fine cluster
Is there a story
In the green sweater resting on her shoulder

She lies there waiting
For the day to end
Took lemon with her vodka
Missing the warmth of the one
Whose love she had spent

Is there a story
In the green sweater resting on her shoulder
She never liked the winter
She never liked the winter

Ate boxes of raisins
Shivering, holding her drink
Is there a story
In the green sweater resting on her shoulder

She'd only eat a peanut butter sandwich
Thinking it'd soak
The vodka in her foodpipe
Could she gulp it all away
Could she gulp it all away

Is there a story
In the way she held her drink
Steady
Away from the green sweater resting on her shoulder

The Beginning

It took me a while to have a new page in place. Perhaps it was the unconvincing idea to move to white. It’s not really appealing as of now but I am trying to find some comfort around here.

I really don’t have much to write about for now, as all I can think of is my future, thanks to the weekend ritual where I revisit such profound thoughts. Not forgetting how I felt cheated by my doctor this morning.

I really did. You know how they call them family doctors? He is one of those. For years my folks have trusted him with every colourful defect I have had. We will call him The Backstabber.

One of his favourite activities apart from wondering about the number of years Sachin Tendulkar will stick around was staring at a random table and expressing with immense grief that I am still underweight. Over the years, The Backstabber tried everything – tablets, syrups, suggested diet including milk shakes, bananas, etc. I am still thin. You could call me a hanger with a face.

This morning I met him and asked, with a general air of randomness, if beer could prove to be useful. Presenting my case with an innocent face and curiosity, I got him to believe I’d only heard people notice satisfying changes once they start drinking regularly.

It all started there. He feigned support. I was convinced I’d sold the idea to him, and that would effectively convince Dear Dad.

It seemed that almost unnaturally, he’d forgotten about a conversation I was hopeful about.

The problem is, this wasn’t a stupid dream.