‘Tis the season to feel guilty …la, la, la, la, la

I love Christmas. In fact, I love most festivals. Any time there’s a reason to dress up, drink and eat too much – you’ll find me first in the queue.

Even taking a bus ride into central London becomes a magical experience this time of the year. Thousands of twinkly fairy lights mesmerise you en route, creating sparkling tapestries above tiny streets. Soft glowing beacons shaped like gift boxes and reindeers promise to whisk you away to fairyland. Every shop window lures and tempts with an array of glittering little treats.

The nip in the air holds all the promise of cosy evenings by the fire, warmed by mulled wine, Christmas cakes and mugs of steaming cocoa.

Everything seems softer, all the sharp edges blurred like some soft focussed film from the 50s. Everyone seems happier, more excited - anticipating the good times ahead.

However there is one jarring note to mar the festivities. The guilt. Oh yes, it’s everywhere.

Open the evening newspaper and it shouts at you: You there! Are you sure you’ve bought the best possible Pineapple Cutter for your Mum? Remember, this is the woman who was in labour for 22 hours to bring you into this world.

On the tube journey back home, the tarted-up twenty-something in crimson underwear nudges and winks at you: See, I’m taking care of my man this Christmas. What have you done?

Switch on the telly and it demands to know what fabulous presents you’ve bought for your kid: Here’s this lovely new gizmo. Only costs 200 quid. Now, if you really loved your child…!

You try and escape into your emails and the comforting vastness of the world wide web. But not for long. A pop-up interrupts: Haven’t you forgotten the Mulled Wine? Another one yells: What about presents for old Uncle Somebody and Aunty Somebody Else in the depths of Devon.

Before you can switch the damn machine off, you’re deluged with all the other million must-haves for Christmas that you don’t have and cannot possibly afford to have.

I’m not surprised that some people hate Christmas so vehemently. Because the guilt is slathered thicker than the icing on the Christmas cake. Just masses of it, everywhere you turn.

Because what every canny marketer wants us to think is: the amount of money you spend on someone during Christmas is directly proportional to the amount you love them. So spend more, to show you care more. Simple.

So that’s why on the weekends before Christmas, we find ourselves marching with hunched shoulders alongside the other stressed millions along Oxford Street or your local high street. I love, I love, so I’ve got to show it – don’t you see?

I must admit that I love presents – both giving and receiving them. It always brings a warm glow to my heart. But surely, we’ve gone past some boundary with all this mindless buy, buy, buy. Most of these Christmas presents end up discarded and useless, sometimes even before the New Year. A friend at work recently told me she had to buy presents for 50 people –50 – that is a lot of presents and a lot of money, surely?

Here’s an idea – what if we only bought presents for the kids in the family? Or just restricted it to immediate family members? Or what if was decreed by lawy that everyone, and I mean everywhere, was only allowed to spend a fiver per present? I don’t know what the solutions is, but there’s got be something surely.

The other alterative is that the mound of unloved, unwanted Christmas presents just keeps growing and growing, takes up the entire planet at some point – leaving us without space or money. I know that’s a bit over the top, but…

Meanwhile, I shall join the millions of crazed shoppers this weekend on the trail of the perfect Christmas present. So…la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la.

Why Indian men can’t dance

I’m putting myself at risk of being labelled a man-hater for saying this. But it’s true – Indian men, at least the lecherous, pot-bellied middle-aged ones, cannot dance. In fact, they should not be allowed to dance or even step into a nightclub. And before you label me - let me tell you, I have a good reason for what I say.

A few weekends ago, my girlfriends and I went out dancing on a Saturday night. The mood was giggly, the hope was for an evening of dancing and some good, clean fun. So with our sparkly tops in place and favourite perfumes wafting in the air, we headed into one of the numerous clubs dotting London’s West End.

At first, it was all as expected – top-tapping music and some serious bogeying on the dancing floor. About half an hour into our evening, we had some new arrivals at the club. You guessed it – we were invaded by a gang of Indian men. Now, I am Indian and like most things Indian – with these particular exceptions.

Allow me to describe these men and their behaviour. They were all in their mid-forties. They all wore the bush-shirt and Polyester trousers uniform favoured by their generation. And, here’s the killer, they all wore identical lustful expressions, like villains from a 70s Bollywood film.

They muscled their way into the heaving dance floor. The only part of their bodies that moved or danced were their elbows – which moved like parts of machinery that hadn’t been oiled for a while. But mostly they stood and stared, just stared with mouths gaping at every woman on that dance floor. Thank God it was dark or else we’d probably see the saliva dribbling out of their mouths.

Having spotted me on the floor – I look Indian – one of the men turned to me and his lascivious grin grew even wider. Me Indian, you Indian – it seemed to say. In your wildest dreams buddy, I thought to myself. I gave him my deadliest ‘I’ll kill you’ glare. It seemed to work, as he turned his attention back to the other women.

By now, the men didn’t restrict themselves to just looking. They sidled up to various women on the floor and started to inch closer. A lot of the women, understandably horrified, left the floor. The only ones left were so drunk, they didn’t seem to care who was rubbing up against them.

By this point, my friends and I’d had enough of trying to evade the attentions of these creeps and trying to dance at the same time.

I mean seriously, did these guys really think that just by being at a club and grinning at women – they were going to get lucky. Maybe they come into places like this hoping that some woman is going to be drunk enough to go home with one of them. I can’t imagine that happening, no matter how much alcohol is involved.

My friends asked me at this point whether these guy were Indians. I would’ve liked to deny this vehemently as I am rather proud of my Indian heritage. But the truth prevailed and I said yes.

I felt ashamed – the country with centuries-old culture and rich traditions, the country that was zooming ahead as one of the most strongest economies of the world – surely that country could not have produced these idiots.

But as any woman who’s grown up in any Indian city will tell you – India does produces these pathetic little men in millions. As a young Indian girl growing into a woman, you learn the delicate art of maneuvering your body away from sweaty, grabbing hands on crowded streets and transport. And you learn this as instinctively as learning to eat or walk. The sad thing is – we all accept this as a fact of life, almost like the scorching sun in the afternoon or the fury of the season monsoons.

I mean, why is it that in a crowded European street – you’re not forced to use your handbag to defend your body from some Neanderthal jerk. Why is it that in India, we have given our men this unquestioned right to touch our bodies? What does that say about us and where we are going?

Just last week, I read in the papers about a pregnant women being thrashed and paraded naked in a village in Uttar Pradesh. All, for the unforgivable crime of trying to protect her property. After reading that, a few men groping women on a dance floor in London doesn’t seem like such a big deal. But ignoring is kind of like saying it’s ok, isn’t it? And it’s not you know – it really is not.