Thinking Cramps

Neither here nor there

2011-12-20T09:17:00.002+05:30

A hand caressed the side of my head and I looked up from my phone. One angry bird went careening wildly off target and the undead pig snorted in glee. My eyes rested on the chocolate, smooth skin she was baring, her blouse back a mere strip and the front as low cut as would help defy gravity. The chiffon of her cheap saree slid dangerously off her shoulder and I realised none of the women around me could take their eyes off the eunuch either.

She swayed over to the next cluster of passengers on our train - the 5.57 slow from Churchgate to Borivili. She flirtatiously cooed at the passengers, blessing them and invoking the gods in a falsetto. Then she began singing, really well ."Man kyun behka re behka, aadhi raat ko..." and the aunty she was eyeing said "Sun, tera blouse to bara sexy hai." She simpered and said, still in a coy, feminine voice, "Arre Aunty, aisa sochne ke din gaye tere, ab to tu puja-paath pe dhyan de!" The entire compartment tittered as she walked off, covering her face in mock-shame as her saree got caught on a screw. Better than any Hindi film actress covering herself from the roving eyes of the hero, she cast her eyes down and adjusted her pallu.

The entertainment continued. The women continued to laugh - nudging each other at each joke. Until a bangle-seller got on with a trayful of green-and-gold bangles - the traditional symbol of a married woman in Maharashtra. And the women got busy choosing new patterns of announcing their status as wives.

The eunuch's laughter faded away and out of our consciousness, and she left the train at the next train station.

Left behind

2011-08-25T23:08:00.004+05:30

And then one day he was gone from her life. Thirty years together gone in a snap and a green unwavering line on a black screen.

No more newspapers left lying around on a Sunday morning. No more loud TV playing in the afternoons. No more subtle requests for pakodas on rainy days. No more. No more. No more.

And she had to live with the dent in the sagging mattress on his side. She'd complained about it each day, nearly wearing down his resistance night by squabbly night. And now, she didn't care to change it any more. She put away one of the two blue mugs and one of the two ceramic dinner plates. She packed away the spectacles. She donated the wrist watch to her nephew. She cancelled the sports channels on their subscription package. And she lived.

And then one day, in her tidy little house for one, with the newspapers neatly piled up and the TV sitting silent and the fry pan lying unused, she opened an old book and a little note fell out: a shopping list from a trip abroad, and on it the last item, neatly crossed out when bought - "earrings for M".

She touched the fading gold of the artificial carved roses on her earlobes. And smiled.

Most mornings

2011-08-17T10:23:00.004+05:30

She's in her usual place most mornings when I board the train. Staring unseeingly out of the window, she seems sullen to me, or perhaps it's her near-permanent pout. Kajal, some of it already smudged, emphasises her eyes. She has a gleaming blue nose-pin.

I pick a window seat. Retrieving my book, I settle in for the journey to Churchgate. The train waits for a few more passengers. She continues to look out of the window, her expression unchanging.

The train starts with a jolt, and as it picks up speed, I quickly tie my scarf around my hair - anticipating the breeze that will soothe me but turn my hair into a crow's nest.

I steal a glance at her as the train gets into its rhythm. She has her eyes closed. Moist breeze streams in at the window and tugs at her hair. She doesn't seem to care. I, on the other hand, pull the scarf tighter, so that just my face is visible.

I lose myself in my book, occasionally raising my head to watch her as she runs her fingers through her loose hair. Flying helter-skelter, it flits around her fingers as she runs grooves in her hair to welcome the breeze. My scarf slips and I tug at it till it covers more of my face, just leaving my eyes free so that I can read.

Half an hour later, we've arrived. The train slows down as the platform appears on our sides. Fisherwomen wait to board the train we'll vacate, baskets of fish on their heads. I carefully smooth the creases on my kurta. I've taken off my scarf and I'm standing near the door. The back of my neck welcomes the fresh air and I finger-comb my hair.

I look at her. She switches off the fan above her. She drags the rubberband from her wrist and uses it to fasten her hair into a bun.

I lean out of the train, gathering its slowing pace into my body as I bend forward. One last glance. I can still see her eyes, and sullen mouth. The black veil is in its place around her head, and she has done up the top few buttons of her burkha. Her nose-pin flashes as she turns to leave the train from the other side. Our business lies on different sides of the tracks.

Birthday girl

2011-08-08T17:01:00.002+05:30

She's seven years old today. At first she kept to herself, shyly venturing a few words here and there. But slowly she found people listening to her. And liking her. So she spoke up more. She watched the world, recognising patterns, people, friends and enemies. And she said what she felt. She descirbed what she saw. She interpreted it.

Occasionally she'd lose a milk tooth and go quiet, too self-conscious to bare her thoughts in a gap-toothed smile. Friends would draw her out, encouraging her to talk more, asking why she was silent.

She knows she could have said a lot more. Should have said a lot more. She's a bit lazy that way. But she stores away thoughts and feelings, relating them to the world around her and using her words to force herself to articulate what she feels. And that won't change.

Happy birthday, Thinking Cramps :)

Not a bad job...

2011-08-03T10:54:00.002+05:30

It's not a bad job, cleaning toilets, she tells herself each morning when the alarm goes off at 5. Correction - it's not a bad job, cleaning toilets at this office, where most women remember to flush, to 'wipe the toilet seat', to 'leave the sink area clean and dry', and to 'leave the toilet the way others would like to use it'. Plus, she gets to wear gloves, fresh ones each month.

She gets lunch and a snack as part of her package, and tea, too. The men she hangs out with - other cleaners in the big office - are generally polite and friendly. She even makes some extra money making small alterations for clothes - word got around and now most of the women hand over little jobs to her, freeing up 30 minutes of their own time and helping her earn an extra 20-30 Rupees a day.

The office is huge, impressive - the lobby alone larger than her little home by the train tracks. Paintings hang on the walls and soft yellow lights line the carpeted corridors. Most mornings when she walks in, a man is contemplatively setting up the day's flower arrangement. It's a large bouquet, adorning the receptionist's desk. When he's done, he uses some leftover stalks and buds to create a small arrangement for the toilet. She takes it from him, wordlessly, and carries it to the bathroom, carefully positioning it at the halfway mark before the wide toilet mirror, under the bright lights.

At the end of the day, she peels off her gloves, changes out of the striped uniform into her graceful salwar kameez, and gathers up the stems of the day. She loves the days he uses rajnigandha in the arrangement. She breathes out the phenyl, breathes in the flowers and freshness, and walks out into the evening.

I am what I read

2011-08-01T13:58:00.006+05:30

I once had a squirrel as a pet. Besides the funny stories I remember about him, I also have a physical reminder of his brief role in my life - a gnawed-at portion on the spine of Haroun and the Sea of Stories.

My childhood books bear the scars of belonging to a little girl who liked to assert her ownership of these books. The first page features her name, class, section and roll number (can't figure why) on the first page. I have an old edition of Ruskin Bond's Grandfather's Private Zoo, with cute illustrations by Mario Miranda. And it's autographed by Bond.

My copy of Murder in the Cathedral belonged, by turn, to everyone in my family who did an MA in English Literature, starting with a great-uncle who bought it in the 1950s. Someday I hope to hand it to someone I know will respect it.

Chrysalids, by John Wyndham, belonged to my mother, and I see her 13-year-old's pencil-scribbled notes and word-meanings in the margins whenever I re-read the story.

Lust for Life was my brother's gift to me when I got my first-ever promotion at work - and he's written naive lines of little-brother admiration for the work I do in his inscription to me.

I have a tattered Jhansi ki Rani by Subhadra Kumari Chauhan, which my father bought me when I was 6. The opening page says "Meri pyari bitiya Anamika ke liye, is asha mein ki woh Jhansi ki Rani jaise veer baney...". Memory of that shames me when, alone at night, I worry about ghosts and fight temptation to sleep with a light on.

Our copy of Ruskin Bond's The India I Love contains its receipt from 6 years ago - Anando had bought the book while he waited at Barista to meet me offline for the first time. He was reading it when I walked up to him on a December evening in South Extension.

You know where this is going, don't you? I ask: Can a Kindle ever contain more than just the words of the author?

I once declared I would never join Facebook, but I succumbed - initially to play Lexulous but eventually to just spy on old enemies/crushes to see what they were like now and how harmless/shiny-happy they managed to appear, even though (or maybe because) I was no longer in their lives.

So while I shouldn't say I would never want a Kindle, or an e-reader device-type-thing, I've been thinking of reasons I prefer old-fashioned books. I know it's an old debate now, but somehow no one has been able to capture for me how I feel about paper and ink books. So who better than me to do it.

I worked in publishing for many years, and I loved the thrill of holding books fresh from the printers', smelling of ink and 6-7 months of hard work, of connecting (or not) with the author, of visualising the cover, of finally, lovingly putting the books in an envelope and sending them off to the proud author with a personal note.

Crisp and clean as new books are, it's the baggage they acquire along the way that "builds character", as Calvin's father would say. While I treasure my books and treat them well, they do pick up some wrinkles along the way - a greasy thumbprint from devouring parathas alongside the story on a rainy day; a dog-ear from carrying it in a crowded handbag to read on the bus; a forever-sticky patch where I peeled off the price-tag in a hurry; a crack on the spine from falling asleep while reading. I pick up a book, and a makeshift page-mark falls out - a boarding card, a coffee-shop receipt, a shopping list, and I remember the last time I read the book - who I met, where I was, what I was thinking....

My books are reminders of all the people I have been. I can hug them. I can hold them. I don't charge them, they re-charge me.

Stopping for you

2011-05-11T18:41:00.004+05:30

Did you ever get the feeling that trains are like opportunities? They stop briefly, giving you a quick moment to decide "Should I?" and then leave, with or without you. As you make up your mind, you know where you'll end up, but aren't sure if this is the way you want to get there.

Will there be friends along the way? Will you have a nice view? Will people smile and make room for you? Or will you hang on by your fingernails, fighting to stay on board till you disembark, victorious. Will you get there with all your belongings intact? Or will you get off and always look back wistfully at what you left behind?

If you don't take them, there's always another option, another route, another train. But you know that if you do take them, when you get there, you'll have arrived.

Question is, is that what you want?

A celebration

2011-04-27T09:36:00.003+05:30

He'd been restless ever since the call came that morning. Thrilled, of course, but frustrated that he could do little to celebrate the news. Childishly impatient that he had to work as usual and that the world around him didn't know the fountain of joy bubbling over inside him. He tried calling his only friend in the city, but the friend, also driving a noisy auto-rickshaw through the noisy streets of Mumbai never answered.

He had become a father. A little girl had arrived in his home, hundreds of kilometres away. And it would be 78 days before he could even see her, kiss her, hold her. And here he was - the same roads, the same traffic, the same humidity, and no one he could celebrate with. All he could do was hum loudly and - though he didn't know it - tunelessly, and drive a bit faster than usual.

A man flagged down his auto and he slowed to a halt, allowing the man to beckon to a young woman standing on the pavement. She climbed in, tenderly holding a bundle. As she settled down on the seat, the auto-rickshaw driver heard a thin wail. He saw in his mirror the tiny feet poking out under the cloth. He eased back into mainstream traffic, keeping an occasional eye on the bundle, and beamed each time he glimpsed a little fist thrown up in the air. He took the turns gently and slowed down on each pothole, humming even as impatient traffic honked at him.

They reached the destination. As the passengers got off and peered at the fare chart on his windscreen, the auto-rickshaw driver smiled and said, "Rehne do, aaj mera dil khush hai." He zoomed off, humming, leaving the couple clutching a bundle and two tenners.

Train of thought

2011-03-09T14:03:00.003+05:30

I think the lulling motion of a train helps your thoughts to wander. Then you reach your destination and immerse yourself in life. But those thoughts stay on the train, imperceptibly taking up a corner of your mind, forming little trains of their own that take you places when you let your guard down.

Taking the train to work everyday has been such a revelation. Not only do I get to hear different accents fight it out over who has a larger behind and is taking up a disproportionate amount of space, I also get to window shop as trinkets, cosmetics, magazines, snacks and clothes are peddled to women who would otherwise never, on a weekday, have time to stop and stare, let alone buy. And I get to people-watch. Which is incredible entertainment for the (amazingly low) price of a train ticket.

Witnessed this morning was an animated conversation between school boys. They rushed onto my coach, four teenagers, and sprawled on the seats in the largely empty coach. I had no idea what they were saying, but they laughed a lot. Their language was unknown to me. All I could do was smile to myself and make wild guesses about what they were discussing (girls? teachers? cricket?). They spoke with their hands, and I realised I had, in my hurry, boarded the coach for the "handicapped and cancer patients". That explained the empty coach.

Their silence was loud, adding weight to their presence, meaning to every gesture, a word in every shake of the head and a joke in every raising of eyebrows. We travelled along in companionable silence, in worlds of our own, briefly overlapping when they surged past me, boisterous young boys, eager to get off the train before it came to a complete halt.

The opposite of silence is found in the other coaches, where the cacophony of "why you pushing, men" and "oof" and "ouch" and "arre jaldi utro na" usually drowns out the gentler side of most of my co-passengers. I watched in surprise as an entire crowded morning local once allowed a raggedy woman to remain asleep, stretched out on a three-person seat, cozy under a too-small, torn sheet, all the way till Churchgate. Perhaps they saw her exhaustion and homelessness etched on the blackened soles of her feet and in the three worn plastic bags that held her belongings.

Or perhaps it was the simplest way to give a little to a fellow being who would be forgotten as soon as everyone rushed off the train to rejoin their worlds.

Except that the little gesture, which meant so much in a crowded train where there's little room to stretch, will stay in our minds, making a home, snoozing under a torn sheet as we live our wakeful lives.

The March of Time

2011-03-03T13:58:00.002+05:30

1993. 2004. 2007. 2011.

Leaving home this morning to return to Mumbai, I went through the usual ritual of touching feet, hugging, and bowing before photos of the dead.

And it struck me, that what began in 1993 as the lightning-quick, unexpected loss of a grandparent, ended last Sunday, with the gradual decline and demise of my grandmother. Fewer feet to touch, more prayers to send into the unknown. One by one, all four of my grandparents have moved to make their homes in photographs. Ever-smiling, healthy and eternal.

I can make my peace with that.

Lasting Impression

2011-02-14T22:15:00.002+05:30

In today's crowded local train on my way home during rush hour I saw a sight that will endure. Somewhere along the way, a girl got on with her mother and little brother. She must have been 7 or 8. The brother, 3. She'd been dressed up nicely, in an altered salwar kameez and a slip of a purple, matching dupatta which she adjusted occasionally. Her nose had been pierced awkwardly, and the grey wire was knotted in an ugly fashion. Her hair was short and held back by an unpretty hairband.

No room to sit. The mother remained standing in the aisle while the girl herded the little boy between two facing rows of seats and took up position near the window, right in front of me.

Heavily barred, it was safe for the little boy. Still, she told him sternly to keep his hands on the sill. He complied. She stood behind him, protective, alert, skinny arms holding on to the window bars on either side of her charge. I smiled to see this elder sister attitude, something that comes easy to me, or did, when my brother wasn't a 6-foot tall adult. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, saw my smile, and shuffled closer to her brother.

He mumbled something to her. She called out to her mother, was handed the water bottle, and opened it carefully, the fat cap unwieldy in her small, bony hands. She helped him drink, tilting his head back enough so he wouldn't spill it on himself. Done, the bottle was passed back to the mother.

Our train passed another train. She pointed it out to him and they started counting carriages. When he raised his hand to point and count, she firmly pushed his hand back down and brought her elbows closer to his shoulders, just in case he tried again.

He was content, counting carriages, watching the tracks from below his long eyelashes as he stood between his Didi's knees, shielded by her thin body.

When I got up to leave, she gently nudged him to the seat, and rushed to take up position so he could sit on her meagre lap.

On a day when people make huge, expensive gestures of love, this struck me as a wordless love, taken for granted by both parties - a little indestructible world oblivious to the world-weary crowd around it.

Smileys

2011-02-02T10:10:00.003+05:30

I've always loved them - people who've known me since college remember the bright yellow Smiley keychain on my bag. A friend bought me a coffee mug from Canada with a smiley face on it. Another bought me a comb with smileys running along the edge. As the Internet caught on and emoticons ruled the day, the smiley was my friend - an easy way to say hello and to express joy or laughter. A bright yellow smiley makes my day. For the past 14 years, I have drunk my morning Bournvita and my weekend coffee out of that mug, taking it with me as moved countries and homes.

Yesterday, I walked into a new office on my first day. After 16 months of freelancing, I walked in, past colleagues- and friends-to-be, full of expectation, excitement and anticipation. Shown to my room, I was greeted with an absolutely bare office, and a man cleaning out the drawers before I took my seat. Empty tag boards with the unused pins clustered in a corner met my eye. And then, a flash of yellow - a smiley rubber ball at the corner of my desk.

I see it as an omen :)

2011-01-18T18:08:00.003+05:30

कुछ हिस्से हैं मेरे जो अब भी दिल्ली में रहते हैं। दुल्हन बन जब मैंने दिल्ली छोड़ा तो कोशिश यही थी की किताबों और कपड़ों के साथ साथ अपने आप को भी डब्बे में बंद कर बम्बई में नई तरह बसा दूं। और सोचा की इसमें मैं सफल भी हुई। पर आज भी मुझे दिल्ली में मैं दिख जाती हूँ।
आसमान से विमान जब उतरने को हो तो जे.एन.यू की हरियाली में छुपी होती हूँ मैं। इंडिया गेट के आइस-क्रीम के ठेलों की तरफ ताकती लालची आँखें मेरी हैं। और चिल्ड्रेन्स पार्क के झूमते झूलों में मेरी भी उड़ान है। हौज़ खास की गलियों में धूल के किनारे मेरे पैरों के निशान हैं। एक स्कूल है, जिसके कमरों में मेरा बचपना कैद भी है, सुरक्षित भी। एक कॉलेज है जिसके बगीचों में मेरे घर से आई पूरियों कि खुशबू है। सर्दी कि सुबहों में मुंह से निकलते धुंध में मेरी नींद अलसा रही है। और गर्मी के दिनों में कूलर के शोर में मेरे कई लम्बे दोपहर झक मार रहे हैं।
सड़कों पे रेंगती हुई मैं चल रही हूँ, और सारे रास्ते मेरे ही तो घर को जाते हैं। जहाँ पहुँच कर मुझे यही लगता है कि इस रिश्ते में दूरी असंभव है।
और अब दूर से दिल्ली को चाहने में अलग मज़ा है। तस्वीर कि तरह दिल्ली मेरी आँखों में आराम से रहतो है। उसे जगा कर कभी कभी मैं मुस्कुरा लेती हूँ।

The Next Table

2010-12-02T19:15:00.001+05:30

She watched him from the shadow in which she was seated. Sitting at the next table, his laugh had caused her to jerk her head up from her menu. Still the dangerously handsome man who had broken her heart and trust when he was still but a boy, and she a young girl. Across from him, his pretty bride smiled and listened attentively, coyly feeding him forkfuls of chowmein, oblivious as the girl from his past looked on.

Today, successful (and single), she had moved on. But why was it pins still pierced her when she remembered watching his retreating back through her tears?

She paid for her uneaten meal and left on her high heels. Walking a little straighter than usual. Leaving her past behind. And the man, who had been unable to meet her gaze, exhaled imperceptibly and smiled a little wider, opening his mouth for another taste of chicken.

Pappu Paas Ho Gaya

2010-11-23T17:23:00.003+05:30

(I'm sorry this is a long post but I've waited 12 years for this moment so you have to give me 10 minutes of your time!)

Once upon a time, long long ago, in a land far-ish away, I turned 18. I was living away from my parents for college and didn't have access to a car, so the buses remained my lifelines. But eventually it dawned on the family that I needed to learn to drive. I was almost 20. And the driving lessons began. At Nanda Motor Training College, Hauz Khas, New Delhi.

I learnt so much more than just the gears and steering control. I learnt that civilians call cops "mamaji". I learnt that honking was as essential as your clutch/accelerator coordination, that aggression was the name of the game. In all this, somewhere, I didn't quite get a grip on the driving part of it. Oh, I got a license of course. That was easy. I was so excited that I'd be getting one that I went and got a brand new photograph clicked. Where I beamed a little too much. But I thought I looked great, and all grown up. And couldn't wait to hand it to the license people to stick it on my brand new license.

We reached the license office at Sheikh Sarai. It was a hot June day and we hung around waiting for our tests, growing tanned and sweaty. Eventually they called me in and made me sit on a stool and I thought it was a break so I collapsed onto it only to realise that the computer facing me had a built-in camera and it took the worst photo of me. Ever. The license was valid till 2018. And I buried it in my wallet, hoping I'd never have to show it to anyone.

Soon my parents moved back to India, there was a car in the family, and I tried my hand at driving it. Oh, it was ugly. Especially when I tried reverse gear. I would screw up my face, and think, do I turn the wheel this way or that if I want to go that way? Should I scrape closer to that two-wheeler or to the big car? Should I run over the lady on my left or the man on my right? Once, as I was looking in the rearview mirror, pondering these mysteries of life, I spotted my mother cowering in the backseat, flinching at each jerk, gritting her teeth for certain death.

Then there was the famous time she and I argued over my bad driving and she got off the car and stomped off. My father and brother smirked and told me to keep trying. (We're a very supportive family.) I'd have chased her, but the engine stalled. A cacophony of horns erupted behind me and I turned the red of the L that should have been on my rear screen.

So, I learnt to be content to be driven. The years rolled by. Friends who drove were my best friends and escorts back from late evening events. I evolved a finely nuanced strategy of dealing with Delhi auto drivers, alternating between aggression and more aggression. Bus drivers and conductors on regular routes were my friends and blocked seats for me.

I had a dream. I would own an auto. I would paint it pink. Autos don't have reverse gear. You just pull it physically. I would drive it to work and back. And if money was tight, I'd charge people to drop them wherever they were going. (This never happened. None of this. It remained a dream.)

Then, I moved to Mumbai. Where the public transport is simpler than your own car. And my inability to drive got covered up by "it's so much easier to take an auto or the train". But my first monsoon in Mumbai, I was home alone with a delirious husband, no ice in the freezer, no doctor within reach and knee deep water outside. I watched as our car parked in the lane sank to the tyres. And ran down, looking frantically for a driver who would shift it. I found one and he moved the car for me.

But I couldn't believe myself. I was dependent on others for something that belonged to us. I have to learn to drive, I decided. But it wasn't so easy. Still, I kept it up. The two years in Dubai didn't help because I just didn't get around to taking driving lessons for a UAE license (which is notoriously hard to get at the first go).

But then we moved back and I signed up for driving lessons again. The SX4 is a wide car and roads here are narrow. Anando thoughtfully suggested getting me a smaller car but I stubbornly decided I would drive what he drove. And I've kept at it. First, little zips to the nearby restaurant for late dinners. Then early morning drives to the gym and back. But I knew I had to do the most important thing. Drive alone.

It was 6 am and Anando was out of town. I decided to drive alone to the gym. The building guards are used to seeing us leave with him at the wheel. I thought they looked at me suspiciously when I drove out on my own. 50 metres out and it began to pour. Oh no. I'd never driven in rain. Turn back, I told myself. But then the guards will laugh at me, I thought. So I drove on, deciding that I'd circle the neighborhood lanes for a respectable amount of time and then go home so they'd think I actually went to the gym. But then I hit the road, I worked the wipers, "gal mitthi mitthi bol" came on the radio, and I decided to go for it.

There's been no looking back. I've begun driving short distances alone, and in traffic. And today, oh, today was my Everest. I drove alone all the way to Town and drove all the way back. That's 42 kilometres in weekday traffic. When I got off the car and "beeped" it to lock, I almost wanted to take a bow. But it was 3 pm in my building complex and my audience was a bored guard listening to a cracked rendition of "pee loon" on his cellphone radio. So I came home and wrote this post instead.

And oh, in case you don't get the title of this post, watch this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T85trgeuq-M.

A Bad Example

2010-10-27T13:35:00.003+05:30

She's my age. A distant cousin I met just once. Known to be a pretty and smart girl.

When I was in college, worrying over tutorials and classes, entirely focused on studies like the 'good girl' I was, we heard news that she'd run away from home with a boy. The horror of it all. My parents spoke of it disapprovingly, worrying for her parents. Apparently she got married, and then came home to ask for her parents' blessings. We just heard about it in whispers, because she was A Bad Example. To me it seemed she'd done something unthinkable - defied her parents.

I often wondered about her. How their life was. If she ever regretted her actions. If his family accepted her. If they were happy.

She seemed to be. I occasionally saw chirpy messages from her on a cousin's Facebook wall. I heard that her parents eventually came around to the marriage. Especially after she'd had a son.

Her son is 12 now. And this morning I heard she lost her husband to cerebral malaria.

I don't know how her life played out. Or what her future holds. Neither did they. But sitting so far away, I'm glad she went for what she loved. Made a life happen with a man she loved. I hope that she has no regrets.

Agenda for the Day

2010-10-19T12:48:00.003+05:30

Just two and a half centimetres of paper, gripped between my thumb and forefinger.

It's day 292 of 2010, and the bunched pages of my agenda book tell of scrawled to-dos, deadlines met, missed or extended, people I met, people I called, places I went, meetings I attended, invoices I sent, cheques I received, drycleaning dropped off, laundry delivered, tickets booked, plays attended, movies watched. They record birthdays and anniversaries, phone numbers taken down while talking, and feature the inevitable doodles - smileys, signatures, faces, flowers, patterns. I can tell what pen I was using, when the ink ran out, when I refilled. I see entries and remember entering a doctor's appointment with dread, scratching out a completed task with pleasure.

The blank pages tell of days when I was away from my desk, having fun. Thankfully, there are several of those as well. Occasional entries already made for the days to come hint at what is yet to be. Of things I am looking forward to and commitments I must keep.

It is most of 2010. It is a chronicle of my life this year. In point format, though, it leaves out many details, friends and foes, tears and triumphs. But I can fill in those blanks.

19th October 2010. My pen hovers, then writes firmly on Today, waiting to fill up this page before I start on tomorrow.

Incensed mornings

2010-10-07T11:02:00.003+05:30

Spirals waft in my wake, weakening into wisps as I turn away or walk very fast.

The fragrance remains, locked in spaces I choose to enclose. But soon, it escapes into ether, becoming nothing but a faint recollection of a fragrance that once was, clinging only to the folds of clothes unused for long, papers untouched, books unread.

Strong, the smell-strands of lemon grass tickle my nostrils, refreshing the stale air in a room locked for the night. Lavender speaks of flowers from far, reduced to a few moments of magic, meant to soothe and calm, Sandalwood is a prayer, even in the hands of an atheist.

The scented air of freshly-bathed mornings, a scramble to get to work, the last moments of peace before the emails begin.

The stick burns down. It's soul of smoke spins up and away. And the remains of the morning lie on the floor, a pattern of ashes to be swept away.

Till tomorrow.

365 x 3

2010-09-06T22:54:00.005+05:30

Time heals all wounds. But it cannot take away that sudden urge to dial a number still saved on the phone. To share a funny story. To seek a spot of advice. To clear a doubt. To hear a blessing. To recognise silent laughter over the airwaves. To spill all.

And I can never make an insipid adraki gobhi without wishing I'd asked for that recipe while there was still time.

Priceless

2010-07-24T16:17:00.005+05:30

Media pass to watch Mahim Junction: Rs 0

Auto from home to train station: Rs 24

II class train ticket to Churchgate: Rs 6

Being the only one to realize (with horror) that I'd travelled in the first class compartment: Priceless

I Write Like

2010-07-15T22:17:00.002+05:30

Based on this post,

I write like
J. R. R. Tolkien

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

I can live with that!!!

Distraction

2010-07-07T17:17:00.000+05:30

Pouring rain is so much prettier
Than staring at a laptop screen,
It takes your mind to green places
That may be unvisited, unseen.

My mind's divided as I alternate
Between laptop and window in turn,
If I look out the window I’m rejuvenated;
If I look at the laptop I earn.

Mind Your Language

2010-06-24T14:24:00.005+05:30

This is my response to Sunayana's Red Marker Blogathon, which has been going on since the 1st of June and has lots of indignant grammar-worshippers up in arms. As I told Sue, I kept waiting to decide which was the pettest of my pet peeves but the procrastination meant that by now, all my grievances are already taken. I could have aired my complaints abt SMS styles n hw im puzzld wid d things ppl rite al d tym, but then SMSese is not a language in my book, so I won't discuss it.

Instead, I'll talk about a few mistakes that people make:

"To no end": This basically means, "without any result", or "in vain", as opposed to the phrase "no end", which means, simply, "endless". "She complained no end" means the woman would not stop complaining, whereas "she complained to no end" means her complaints made no difference.
"Rest assured": When you are trying to stop someone worrying, you say "rest assured, it will be done," or "don't worry, it will happen." Unfortunately, I find a lot of people saying "You can be rest assured...", forgetting that "rest" is a verb here, and you cannot "be rest", you can straightaway "rest", in an assured manner!
"Few" vs "a few": "Few" means very little. One could say "The pouring rain meant that few people were out on the streets." On the other hand, "a few" means "some". To illustrate, "I met a few of my friends." but, "in my hectic schedule, I have been able to keep in touch with few friends." When I say "the suggestion for a picnic found few takers," I mean not many people were interested and that there's no picnic on the agenda, whereas "the picnic idea found a few takers," means there were some people who were interested and so, pack your hampers.

As a professional editor I'm always spotting and laughing over mistakes people make in the language. Sometimes, I even take a photo. Unfortunately, given the power English wields in India, pointing out someone's poor Hindi or Bangla is usually laughed off, whereas correcting someone's English is a more delicate matter. But over the years I've come to realise how the power of expression is of supreme importance. Few of my colleagues at the ad agency I worked at in Dubai spoke correct English. But sometimes they said things that, though grammatically dubious, were emotionally/practically spot on. Yet, they hankered after my corrections, afraid of looking foolish. I would be requested to draft leave applications, CVs, covering letters and, even the language for a wedding invitation. It reflects poorly on our world that people are judged by their English when so few have access to good English teaching. I had a teacher in class 1 who insisted that the name of the colour-changing reptile was not pronounced as "kameleon", but as "CHameleon", as in "check".

On that note, here is a gem I got from Anando, who studied at a school with a good convent-sounding name in the heart of what is now Jharkhand.

A little boy reached school late. The teacher was in the middle of the lesson. He glowered at the boy and said "Why are you late?" The boy quaked in his shoes, and said, "Sorry Sir, I was stuck in a jam." The teacher fumed and corrected the boy: "Jam is what you put on your bread. Jaaam is what you get stuck in."

But wrong Hindi (or any other language can definitely get you into trouble). A relative, who speaks poor Hindi, lost his ring. Requesting the maid to look for it when she swept the house, he said (to her horror), "Mera angootha kho gaya hai." (Angoothi means "a ring" and angootha is "thumb").

Although this relative found his "angootha", I shudder to think what happened to the sweet Bengali gentleman who, seeing a young girl getting soaked in the rain while he stood dry under his umbrella at the bus-stop, offered, "Meri chhati mein aa jao."

Last light

2010-06-09T19:37:00.003+05:30

He was miserable all day, overshadowed and forgotten. He tried to be seen. To remind people he existed.

He peeked from the left, but they blocked him from view. He tried to peep from the right, but they were on to him. They stood everywhere. Strong and opaque.

Still, as the day wore on, they grew complacent. His time was up, after all. But then, just as he went out, he smiled one last time. And this time, nothing could hide the fire he had within.

In Today's News

2010-06-05T10:09:00.002+05:30

Two pieces in today's Business Standard. I have been trying to write as much as possible this year. The blog's getting neglected as a result - I have Suku's tag to do and Sunayana's Blogathon to write for. But both will happen.

Meanwhile, please read these. For both, there was a 500-word limit, but my thoughts run deeper (and longer) than that!

Watching Shakespeare's bloodiest play: After studying Macbeth in school and in college, I finally got to see it staged at The Globe. I was mouthing some of the dialogues along with the actors and it was a memorable experience.

To Kill a Mockingbird turns 50: A classic. Period.

I spy, with my little eye...

2010-06-02T21:54:00.002+05:30

Ever since I moved to Bombay I keep complaining that I never spot any of the stars who are supposed to be all over the city. Not for me casually running into film stars at Joggers' Park or walking past them in the market. I've had people visit for a week and meet Dimple Kapadia at the airport. Someone else saw Hema Malini. Someone else was late boarding a flight and was put on the last small van to the aircraft with...Shahrukh Khan. And I saw...you know, that guy who dumps his father at 2nd Innings House in Lage Raho Munnabhai...and then doesn't regret it till Munna hangs him by the ankles from his office window....yeah, that guy. Sheesh!!

So many months of whining later, I feel like I totally got my due when I had, 2 tables away from me, Helen and Salim Khan. As I was leaving, I smiled at her. And she half-smiled back. The vamp Helen. The sizzling siren. The one who writhes around Amitabh in Don, and who's always Chin chin choo to me. And with her, Salim Khan, half of the Sholay magic story.

I'll stop complaining now. Besides, Karishma Kapoor walked into Costa Coffee that day and stood around for ages. And I was totally cool about it. I think I'm finally a Mumbaikar now.

Bollywood Backstage

2010-04-18T11:37:00.009+05:30

This was published in today's Business Standard. The slightly longer version appears below.

The mirror betrays its age. Faint brown veins spider against the glass, lending one’s reflection a sinister appearance. The bulb-holders around the mirror are missing several bulbs, giving it a gap-toothed appearance. I imagine all bulbs in place, lighting up as the late Nargis preens at this mirror, pinning up her hair stylishly to one side, framing that sharp profile in readiness for her next scene. Down these corridors, with the unpleasantly green paint now peeling off in patches, down these worn stairs, the wood now concave where most feet have stepped, she would have gracefully gone, into the spotlight and into cinematic history.

Once the fiefdom of the man who gave India classic cinema like Andaz (1949), Aan (1951), and of course the internationally acclaimed Mother India (1957), Mehboob Studios is today a historic, verdant alcove eclipsed by the shops around it. Well actually, at 4 acres of prime property in Mumbai’s Bandra suburb, it’s a bit more than an alcove. And with the who’s who of Bollywood zipping up and down its bumpy driveway in their hot wheels, it’s the hub of much that’s going on in the Hindi film industry. As I enter, a silver Mercedes rolled in, which may or may not be carrying Aishwarya Rai-Bachchan behind its tinted glass.

With so much glamour breathing through its walls, I expect a building that lived up to the gloss of Bollywood. Something shiny and well maintained. But I am met with a solid, school-building-like structure, mundane windows stained with bird-droppings, a simple entrance, and a wood-paneled notice board (announcing, among other things, a salary hike back in 2008, for head carpenters to now receive Rs 902 as wages, up from the previous Rs 801) much like we had in college. The digital clock looks out of place above it, like the afterthought it probably is.

A huge hall, known as “stage” or “floor” by those in the trade, is bare save two large, ancient pedestal fans. One cools down a laborer, whose yellowing vest sticks to his skin as he takes a break from sorting the planks that will form a set for the next shoot. I park myself in front of the other as I look around. This one, stage no. 3, is the largest, at 122 by 115 feet, and a ceiling 55 feet off the ground. I crane my neck to peer to the top. Makeshift corridors fashioned from wooden planks form the grid from which lighting will be set up and adjusted. The language here is unique, I’ve heard. On an earlier visit, I was laughingly told by film-maker Anuradha Tandon, ‘You know, “Baby ka mundi kaatke upar latka de,” which suggests beheading a child and hanging it from the ceiling, actually means taking a small spotlight (baby), covering it up to minimize the light it throws, and suspending it from above!

Padmashree Mehboob Khan’s velvet-upholstered office too is untouched. The walls contain awards and commendations, including the Nomination Certificate for Mother India at the Oscars. A framed letter dated 30^th October 1952, from Cecil B. deMille, President of the Paramount Pictures Corporation, compliments Khan on Aan and says it reveals the “tremendous potential of Indian motion pictures for securing world markets.” Prophetic words.

Up on the second floor of the office building, large offices contain the skeletal 18–20 staff members of the Studios. Cardboard file covers try their best to contain bulging sheafs of papers, with labels like “TDS Challans & Certificates”. Piled to the ceiling are bundles of scripts, posters, trade magazines and paperwork. Plastic cans teeter all the way to the top, each containing negatives for memorable names like Anmol Ghadi, Najma, Anokhi Ada and others. The can colors, once bright, are now fading, just like the studio itself. “Can you ever locate anything?” I ask, taken aback at the carelessness with which these are kept. Rajendra, the Bookings Manager, shrugs and says casually “Haan, mil jata hai.” He tentatively picks up a bundle of magazines, seemingly for the first time, and disinterestedly remarks, “These are all old trade magazines, you know, that keep coming.” Huge, handmade posters of the same movies lie folded in half, yellowing along the crease. What about Mumbai’s humidity and natural wear and tear for these papers? He shrugs again. Later, in the study of Iqbal Khan, Managing Director of Mehboob Studios and son of the late Mehboob Khan, I ask the same question and am shown a pink stationery file of clippings from UK newspapers of the 1950s reporting the release and success of Aan in London. “These are fine,” he insists, “and so are the others.” Unconvinced, I let it go.

Obviously, the past is on its own here. It is the present that matters. With 80 percent bookings, the studio is in demand, though it’s not all Bollywood. “Ads make up three-sevenths of our revenue,” cites Khan. And suddenly he turns the tables on me, asking, “What percentage is that?” Stumped, I grope in my head, dividing 3 by 7, that’s errr, ummm, “42 percent,” he says complacently. “In fact, the music recording studio is now just another stage, where we shoot commercials. We couldn’t afford to modernize the equipment; the Klang Bauer machine was outdated. So, rather than spending 5-8 crores upgrading our studio, we have just stopped music recordings here. Producers can rent the room for their ad-film shoots.” That hall where orchestras lovingly recorded memorable music, most often composed by the lively Laxmikant-Pyarelal, that would have India swaying on its feet is now the mute set for here-today-gone-tomorrow commercials.

But Iqbal Khan has had to be practical to keep the studio going. When his sons inherited the studio after Mehboob Khan’s death in 1964, they also inherited a 5-lakh mortgage on the property, a debt of 28 lakhs, and a court battle with their stepmother. Renting out studio space was the only option. In those days of desperation, truant producers who tried to get away without paying rent found that their film’s negatives were held ransom by Khan till they coughed up the money due to him. “My father built this up from nothing,” Khan confesses, “with Aan, he captured world attention. Though Awaaz and Paisa hi Paisa failed, he made up for it with Mother India but then he destroyed it all with Son of India.” Mehboob Khan had been a stubborn director and producer, and built Mehboob Studios in his own name to serve as the staging ground for his cinematic vision. His legacy survives, some of it half-built, including a brick structure he began constructing for a “must-have” helicopter shot. He died before that, and no one saw any point completing the building. Doesn’t Khan want to construct something else to utilize the space? “No,” the old gentleman responds firmly. “I don’t need the space, so why spend money on it?”

Asked about improvements and renovations, he is non-committal. I suspect there isn’t much on the cards unless it is deemed essential. And indeed, why should they bother? Mehboob Studios is doing fine. Though small-budget producers prefer low-cost shoots elsewhere and the Chopras and Johars wing away to foreign lands, a steady stream of producers films here. For the forthcoming Hrithik and Aishwarya-starrer Guzarish, producer Sanjay Leela Bhansali booked one floor for seven months straight. At rental rates of roughly Rs 65,000 per shift of nine hours, this was a welcome booking. Iqbal Khan invests in no marketing, promotion or publicity. He prefers to let word-of-mouth guide producers to his gates. A new source of revenue has emerged - renting out the studio as a venue for exhibitions and events. Iqbal Khan is pleased as it takes care of overheads worth nearly 5 lakhs per month. “We make profits,” he states modestly.

If the clients are happy, I can hardly complain. In its out-of-shape realness, Mehboob Studios carries on. The Bookings Manager is endlessly on the phone, talking business, as he shows me around. Perhaps these barely-maintained surroundings – masked, wrapped and decorated to create glitzy images that hold millions spellbound – actually help keep the stars grounded, right here on earth with the rest of us.

Reliving 20 months in 3 days

2010-04-15T09:34:00.003+05:30

So I'm going back for a weekend. Will things look the same, I wonder?

So much has changed in Dubai. Someone else must be enjoying the view from our 31st-floor apartment. There must be new restaurants open on The JBR Walk, which we treated as our backyard. More routes will be operational on the Metro. The Burj Dubai we craned up at is now open, and called Burj Khalifa. The company I worked for has collapsed, gone the same way as many small companies in the recession-hit Emirate. The team has scattered.

Yet, some things will be the same. It will be soothing to rediscover that comfortable nook on Gauri's sofa, and to park ourselves on the carpet as we dig into tempting snacks placed on Aditi di's centre-table. Will Irish Village still have the smiling, plump waitress with the cute accent?Possibly the guy who weighed in my vegetables at Al Maya will still be there. Zarine, who blow-dried my hair on occasion and spent 2 years convincing me to cut my hair will still be there, saving up for her kids in Pakistan. Ita will still be working at Pelle Capelli, dreaming of her next trip home to Bali.

Strangely, while I am so sentimental about the past, it's mostly just a nostalgic sweetness rather than a yearning to go back. I am happy to keep it that way. So while Dubai was great, Bombay (part II) has been perfection too. And the last 6 months have flown. So much so that it feels too soon to revisit Dubai. But before my visa gets cancelled, I want to go, put my feet up with friends, laugh, stroll around familiar spaces, and maybe visit some new ones. More updates when I return.

Battle Scar

2010-04-04T12:42:00.006+05:30

He's a sinewy, macho dude. V-shaped body. Heavy-duty sneakers. Gelled-back hair. A powerful neck emerges out of a form-hugging T-shirt. A gold chain nestles near the collar, revealing that his name starts with 'U'. Stands straight. Like he's always on stand-by to spring into action. Speaks little. Effortlessly lifts weights as he trains out-of-shape gym-goers to sculpt their muscles. Secretly smirks when I collapse under heavy weights.

He spoke about his recent accident. A long story involving him, a motorbike, and some sort of obstacle. The bike fell. So did he. He was hurt. But he made it.

In response to widened eyes and a little sympathy, he pulled his tight T-shirt sleeve over a bicep bulge to reveal his wound. There it was. All one square centimetre of it. Covered with a slim band-aid.

Sweet Impulse

2010-02-25T22:17:00.002+05:30

Picking your way through the traffic-ridden streets of Bandra around 7 pm on a weekday evening is an exercise in attempted suicide. So when you have traversed a particularly crowded bit of pavement, logic dictates that you carry on.

But, sometimes, when the feet have moved on, the nostrils stay behind, drawing the body back, telling the mind in a hot, sweet, sticky whisper....'jalebis'.

You peer at the kadhai where he's frying them - the oil so hot it ripples like water, and golden circles form like magic as he spins, rotates and dances his hand high above. All is lost. Especially self-control.

And, armed with a packet that has the sweetness oozing out of every pore, clutched on with slightly sticky fingers...you make your way home and blog about it.

But of course, you eat the entire packet first.

Shortcut Surprise

2010-02-17T22:07:00.002+05:30

I was headed home, cutting through a lane off Linking Road after buying a gift for some friends. And I stumbled across a book sale. I have written about me and book fairs before, but it was a pleasurable enough surprise to warrant a blog post.

The books (many of them second-hand) were arranged on long tables, and these occupied a long driveway of some sort of a school building. As I browsed through the rows of books, the school bell tolled the end of the day, and an army of extremely noisy, hyperactive children came rushing past, playing catch in the aisles and switching rows by ducking under the rickety tables. One minute a mischievous face peeped past a dusty stack of Archie comics, the other minute it was popping up near Deepak Chopra's tomes of self-knowledge. A terror of a man hollered at them till they all cleared out and I was left to look around in peace.

While I love books, I usually prefer to buy books I have already read that I love and want to own. I don't often buy books on the chance that I'll like them. (A recent exception - and a gamble that paid off - was Aseem Kaul's Etudes.)

Searching through books on sale is always such a thrill. They're not really arranged according to a system or a logic. If you're lucky you'll find all books by one author in one place. The excitement lies in running your eyes randomly over piles and thinking - the next book I spot will be something I've been looking for in a long time - and when it is, well, I wouldn't exchange that feeling for much! It's like striking gold!

Since I didn't have too much cash (they don't accept cards), I narrowed my "chosen" pile down to a copy of The Kite Runner (the pirated version was for 195 and the genuine one for 200! - I checked carefully and then bought the original) and, a childhood favorite - Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - the version with the crazy illustrations by Quentin Blake (who's done all of Roald Dahl's books). Yay. I walked away with the two books clutched in my hand, my fingertips a bit grimy after picking up and putting down so many old books, and the bargain-seeker in me very satisfied.

For those of you in Bandra, drop in at the sale. It's on till mid-March, and the hall is in the lane that connects Linking Road and Waterfield Road, opposite Amarsons.

Who Decides What's Right?

2010-02-17T10:56:00.007+05:30

Published on Sunday, 14 February 2010 in the newspaper Business Standard.

Born as a rebellion against indirect censorship of documentary cinema, today Vikalp is a platform for free speech and creative expression

“Censorship is neither possible nor desirable,” asserts Dr Jayasankar, Professor, Centre for Media and Cultural Studies at Mumbai’s Tata Institute of Social Sciences and a founder-member of Vikalp. He cites the famous example of the blank editorial in the Indian Express during the Emergency as the perfect act of silent defiance. “Who decides what’s right? It’s the idea of a less powerful ‘other’, one that cannot handle the truth, that is problematic,” he explains.

It was precisely to give this “less powerful ‘other’” the freedom to choose what it watched, that Vikalp was born. The Campaign Against Censorship – a group of Indian film-makers committed to freedom of expression, reacted strongly when the Censor Board inserted a certification clause just for Indian entries in 2004’s Mumbai International Film Festival. Angry protests forced the authorities to withdraw the clause, but the censorship remained – film-makers soon realized that the selection committee rejected the politically sensitive, controversial films anyway, despite the fact that many of these had travelled to foreign festivals and won awards and appreciation. Rakesh Sharma’s Final Solution (dealing with Gujarat’s communal massacres after Godhra in 2002), Sanjay Kak’s Words on Water (which explores the struggle over the Narmada dam), and Anjali Monteiro and K.P. Jayasankar’s Naata (about two men working for conflict resolution in Dharavi, Asia’s largest slum) were among the rejected films.

A constructive protest

Vikalp: Films for Freedom, began as a six-day festival that screened the rejected films and some more, as film-makers withdrew even their selected entries from MIFF, preferring to screen them at Vikalp instead. “We received a lot of threats to stop us from screening the films,” recalls Dr Anjali Monteiro, another founder-member. She continues, “What was interesting was that even some of the MIFF jury members came to watch the movies we were screening!”

“Vikalp means ‘an alternative’,” says Anand Patwardhan, renowned documentary film-maker (Bombay our City, Father, Son and Holy War, Prisoners of Conscience, Ram ke Naam) who suggested the name. Screening all the rejected films just across the road from MIFF, Vikalp truly became an alternative space for those six days. Today, six years later, what is the organization doing?

“It is not an organization; it is a movement,” clarifies Patwardhan. This loose-knit collective, functioning over e-mails and Yahoogroups has given audiences access to documentary films in India. The movies screened may or may not be controversial. The last year saw screenings of, among others, Lightning Testimonies, Amar Kanwar’s film capturing women’s narratives of sexual violence; The Other Song, Saba Dewan’s exploration of the world of the tawaif; Kora Rajee directed by Biju Toppo of Jharkhand looked at issues of adivasi labourers and displacement; Kurush Canteenwalla’s Goa Goa Gone portrays the impact of mining – Goa’s second-largest industry – on the lives of people. Suma Josson touches on the issue of farmer suicides in Maharashtra’s Vidarbha region in I Want My Father Back. Vikalp has also brought to the screen foreign documentary films, such as Iranian film-maker Nahid Sarvestani’s The Queen and I, an autobiographical account of Nahid’s interactions with the wife of the Shah of Iran.

Encouraging debate

Today one can easily disseminate films over the web – so is Vikalp’s role really crucial anymore? Attend a screening and you would know it is. Vikalp’s USP lies in the opportunity and space it creates for discussion. The film-maker is almost always present, encouraging and answering questions after the screening. The latest session (in January) screened Anand Patwardhan’s Prisoners of Conscience, in which political prisoners of the Emergency narrate their experiences. “Unfortunately, these things still happen,” says the film-maker, which means that an entirely new generation could relate to a film made over three decades ago, resulting in a heated post-screening discussion.

Victoire Guena, Cultural Coordinator at Alliance Francaise, Mumbai, where most screenings take place, says that the 72-seater hall is usually packed for Vikalp screenings, with people spilling over on to the carpets as well. “We welcome people to Alliance to view these movies and are happy to provide a space for this freedom of expression,” says Guena. What does this mean? That there are more people walking the streets of India whose minds have been opened to things they may not have seen and views they may not have heard.

Jayasankar puts it succinctly: “We are all taught to read and write. But we need to be taught to read images.” How true. As we interrogate, as we learn to apply ourselves and infer truths from the images we see on the screen, we are the more powerful “others”, not the “volatile” communities reacting to speeches and books and films on their face value, but digging deeper and making informed decisions. That is the only way to take a stand. After all, that’s how it all began.

Vikalp organises screenings of documentary films across Mumbai. Entry is always free. The next screenings are:

Death, Life Etc. on Wednesday 17th Feb 2010 at Alliance Francaise at 6.30 pm
Doon School Chronicles on Monday 22nd Feb 2010 at Prithvi House at 7 pm

To know more about Vikalp, join the Facebook group Vikalp@Prithvi, or follow the local newspaper and Time Out magazine.

New look

2010-02-15T13:30:00.006+05:30

Makeovers don't come easy to me. My friends have been trying to convince me to get a certain haircut since 1996. It took me three years to muster up the courage to get my second ear-piercing done.

No wonder then, that this blog with the banner (see below) had looked the same for over 2 years now.

But when you've just shifted countries and set up home all over again, it hits you that change can be good too. And that things can always look better. So here's my new virtual home - how do you like it?

And below is my new home - (and my mother) - caught in a lamp-lit moment.

So now you know what it looks like where I live...at home and in cyberspace. Should I get the haircut too?

Real Life

2010-02-13T22:32:00.004+05:30

A peaceful day. Tranquil, easygoing, slow, relaxed. Beautiful weather. Seaside at sunset. Brisk walking. Bumping into friends. Strolling home. Music of choice. A bright kitchen. A successful attempt at a made-up recipe. A good dinner.

And then to switch on the TV and hear about Pune. This is our life. Reminds me of the soap bubbles children were blowing by the sea this evening.

In Her Own Image

2010-02-03T09:43:00.002+05:30

A good friend helped with some valuable contacts, and I got a chance to interview Shabana Azmi after watching her perform her latest play, Broken Images. Business Standard published it last Sunday. I'm pasting the piece here as well. But first, some things I wanted to say but didn't add to what I submitted for publication.

First things first, I should never have tried to interview her immediately after the performance. Reasons:

She was swamped by well-wishers right after. I flattened myself against a pillar as Dia Mirza, Mandira Bedi, Prem Chopra, Divya Dutta and other familiar faces rushed to congratulate her.
Watching her enact her role to near perfection was intimidating, and I felt that all my questions (if I remembered them) would sound silly and completely not worth her time.
My mind wandered during the play because I kept thinking I'd forget my questions.
She eventually said she didn't have time for the interview. Would I mail her the questions instead?

So I did, and in my naivete I actually took down her email address and asked, "You will reply, won't you?" Maybe that's what did it. Because between 10.30 pm when I mailed her my questions, and 8 am the next day, she'd sent in her answers, typing on her Blackberry. Read on below to know how I put them all together.

An actor of her caliber can’t be confined to one role. And Broken Images doesn’t try. In less than an hour of stage time, Shabana Azmi bewilders and stuns with many shades to her stage persona: good, bad, shrewd, cunning, lying, vulnerable, pitiable, helpless and neglected. It’s only a human urge, when watching a story unfold, to find one person on whom to pin our sympathies. While I’m still trying to decide who I should feel for in this play, Shabana says, “The best feedback I got for this role was that the audience can’t make up their minds who the victim is and who the victimizer. I am pleased with that because Girish (Karnad) has built in enough ambiguity to make it a shifting equation.” Ah. So we are not meant to decide. I may as well just go with the flow as I watch acting so spontaneous it seems effortless and natural.

But this spontaneity didn’t come easy. Shabana, who has also acted in international productions at London’s National Theatre and the Singapore Repertory Theatre, observes, “The rehearsal period abroad is from 9 am to 5pm daily. So you get a lot of time to explore, to add and to reject. Here, we rehearsed off and on for about three months, just about two hours in the evenings because we are involved in professions other than theatre. It’s a huge pity that you cannot make a living from theatre in India.”

Arundhati Nag, Padma Shri recipient for 2010, played the protagonist in the Kannada and Hindi versions of the play. Shabana admits that watching her made it easier to play the Image in one single take. The unusual thing in the execution of Broken Images is the presence of the “Image”, a recorded version of herself seen on a large TV screen on stage, opposite which Shabana acts. Usually actors watch their recorded performances to rate their performances by their own, exacting standards. So was it not hard, not to mention distracting, to act with and react to herself? Here, she acknowledges that her sister-in-law, Tanvi Azmi was invaluable. “A very fine actor, Tanvi played both parts during my rehearsals, so that when I actually had to act ‘opposite’ myself, I knew what to expect. And frankly, I find the Image completely different from anything I have done so far, so she surprised even me!” All that preparation paid off, and the shoot, for which they had budgeted two days, was done in a single take of 44 minutes! “Had I gone wrong in the 43^rd minute, we’d have had to do the whole take again,” Shabana points out. Not the sort of tension many would handle with such élan.

But then, Azmi thrives on this very tension. Theatre is about being ready for the unexpected as there isn’t the luxury of a retake, “so the odds against you are higher,” she says simply. “But once you are out there, it is direct contact between you and the audience; you need to strike a very fine balance so you can play with the audience without playing to the gallery.” Of course, being in front of a camera is no easier, she observes, “where the close-up shot can betray fake emotion to even the least discerning viewer. So I think for an actor it’s enriching to work in both mediums.”

Since she has mentioned these mediums, I draw Shabana away from the play in question, asking about cinema and theatre in the larger context. The Padma Shri awards have just been announced; there are 20 awardees in the Arts category for 2010 while just 10 years back there were only seven awardees. Does this indicate a growing recognition of the arts’ contribution towards change in society? Shabana agrees, “About time, don’t you think? All art has the possibility of creating a climate of sensitivity in which it is possible for change to occur.”

If art can do all this, I am further tempted to ask my next question: there has been a burst of interest in Islam in the last decade and everyone wants to understand and depict their perception of Islam – its followers, its philosophy and its misuse by extremists. Can Indian film and theatre really contribute towards this understanding? “There have been attempts by film, though theatre, I am not so sure,” she muses. “To handle a subject as complex as this you need an in-depth understanding of the issue. It works in Khuda Kay Liye, which was technically weak but well written. Firaaq was a sensitive film that managed to stir you without manipulating you. But if the film just uses the issue as a peg on which to hang a routine story, it ends up doing more damage than good.”

Given that Shabana is one of those who firmly believe in doing good, she has worked to help slum dwellers over the last 25 years. As leader of the Nivara Hakk movement, Shabana ensured that 12,000 homes were built, free of cost for slum-dwellers evicted from Mumbai’s Sanjay Gandhi National Park. This, the single-largest rehabilitation project in Asia, is a matter of pride for Shabana. “But it is not even a drop in the ocean in the larger scheme of things,” she confesses, realist to the core. It helped to be an MP in the Rajya Sabha (1993–2007), so that she could influence policy for the powerless, but she continues her work even now. “My father said to me, ‘When you are working for change you should build into that expectation that it may not occur within your lifetime. But if you carry on regardless, one day the change will come.’ And that is my mantra for life.”

THE REVIEW:

BROKEN IMAGES

Written by Girish Karnad

Directed by Alyque Padamsee

Produced by Raell Padamsee

Cast: Shabana Azmi

Running time approximately 55 minutes

The play opens with Manjula Sharma, a college teacher and extraordinarily successful first-time English novelist, seated in a television studio and telling us about the storm her success has generated. Coolly, she refutes allegations of being a money-grabbing, opportunistic writer who betrayed her first language, Hindi, to write in English. The tension between the glamour of English literature and the step-sisterly treatment of Hindi language novelists is finely nuanced and brought forth by a now defensive, now offensive Manjula, as she flaunts the huge publishing advance and the unexpected fame she has received. Inordinately pleased for having smoothly hit out at her critics on television, Manjula prepares to leave the studio. That is when the live TV screen flickers to life again, an Image of Manjula staring out from it as it engages the author in conversation. Thus begins a riveting dialogue, eliciting truths as it goes along, that eventually strips Manjula down to a reality she has always known and denied.

The confessions the Image extracts from Manjula through simple but incisive questions reveal much about the complexities of human relationships, the love-hate bond between siblings, the significance of intellectual companionship in a marriage, and the irreversible consequences of a lie told so often, it becomes the truth, even to the one who utters it. When we create an Image of ourselves for the outside world, we run the risk of the Image dominating over our sense of self, and that is what Broken Images brings out – not in a soft and subtle way but with the brutality of a reflection that tells the truth and will not be silenced.

Along on stage throughout, Shabana Azmi is not so much an actor as she is Manjula herself: Torn, self-interrogating, and devastated as she gives voice to the truth she has subconsciously been aware of all along. More than watching a performance the audience witnesses the many protective layers around a celebrity peel away till she stands exposed, for our pity and our judgment.

The TV screen on stage has its own significance. To quote Girish Karnad, the playwright, “New technologies whisper to us in shimmering figures, seduce us with moving lines, colors and luminosities. Softwares speaking through microprocessors mould our tastes, question our judgments, persuade us to take their messages as our own, so that simulation furnishes us with copies more real than normal reality.” And so this play turns reality on its head, blurring the line between good and bad, selfish and selfless, lies and truth, and the self and the other, making it all seem one. The play is, in director Alyque Padamsee’s words, “A masterpiece about self-delusion and phantom images.”

For fans of Shabana Azmi the stage actor, don’t watch this play expecting anything like Tumhari Amrita or Kaifi aur Main. But do watch it if you want to witness an engrossing performance about the darkness within us all as the dark of the theatre surrounds you.

Upcoming shows of Broken Images:

MUMBAI

Sunday, 7February, Sophia Bhabha Auditorium, Mumbai
Saturday , 20February, Sophia Bhabha Auditorium, Mumbai
Sunday, 28 February, Sophia Bhabha Auditorium, Mumbai

HYDERABAD

Thursday, 11 February, Hyderabad International Convention Centre

The Goddess of Learning

2010-01-20T09:14:00.004+05:30

A sincerely sung vandana rewarded with a motichoor laddoo at school. Yellow clothes. Wishful, wistful genda phool stolen from Saraswati's white feet and tucked into the Maths textbook. The advent of final exams and this big chance to seek divine intervention.

My textbooks today? My computer. The Chicago Manual of Style. The Illustrated Oxford Dictionary. The window near my desk. The rusting piece of lettuce in my fridge. E-mails from my parents. Marriage. And my reflection.

Here's a virtual genda phool for all of them. May reality always be as multi-layered and may it always look just this pretty. And may it be a capsule for memories when it dries up and grows old.

http://images.flowers.vg

The Reader

2009-12-09T11:14:00.005+05:30

I watched the movie yesterday. What a perfect story. What I liked perhaps was that there was no sugary forgiveness. The movie just portrayed humanity.

Since words like "human" and "humanitarian" have such positive connotations, we forget that humanity is also basically flawed. That sometimes we agree because it's easier than disagreeing. That sometimes we don't see the humanity of others because the instinct for self-preservation kicks in. This, too, is totally human.

Kate Winslet packed it all in her performance. The mature and sure older woman in the relationship, now vulnerable, now harsh. The uncomprehending defendant, following her orders. The defeated old prisoner, who, in a spurt of excitement, blue eyes flashing through the wrinkles, learns something that has evaded her all her life.

David Kross who emoted beautifully - the besotted underage lover, the confused yet involved spectator at the trial, torn by the unique dilemma of protecting a woman he once loved, but unsure whether to protect her from shame or imprisonment. And then, as a successful but haunted adult, Ralph Fiennes takes over seamlessly, unable to forgive her crime yet unable to forget his love. And so he reaches out only halfway, hesitantly, helping the stranger he had once loved in the only way he can. So simple, and so beautiful.

Every actor was so right. The knowing Professor of Law, who says, "It doesn't matter what you think! It only matters what you do!" The unspoken words hang in the air - "...and what you don't do." The Auschwitz survivor, cool, composed and very rich - yet forcefully convincing that "Nothing comes out of the camps. Nothing." As if the nothing itself were cancerous, destroying a bit of humanity.

The movie takes no sides. It didn't really make me cry, because it was a piece of life: never perfect. Instead it left me aching a little for the sort of humans we all are, sometimes by choice and sometimes for lack of it.

The Future?

2009-11-26T10:52:00.004+05:30

"He's totally deaf, I tell you. It's impossible to talk to him. Now he's reached the restaurant early and is waiting for us and grumbling. What's the point of giving him a cellphone if he can't hear on it. And he thinks it's already 8.45. It's not!" So complained a dear aunt as Anando, she and I hurried towards the restaurant from the car park.

An hour earlier I had met the uncle being criticised so, and he'd complained non-stop, "Go for a walk," she tells me. "Arre, I don't want to go for a walk. All the nerves in her head are creating a short circuit and her brains are fried," diagnosed the old man.

Once inside he muttered that he'd refused a friend's invitation to join him for a drink because we were on our way, and he may as well have gone if he'd known we'd stand him up like this.

Conciliatory, at the dinner table we offered him the drinks menu. I asked the aunt, "What will you have?"

"Water," he replied on her behalf, even as she wrested his cane from his grip and leaned it against the sofa.

Anando and I exchanged smiles.

Forty years ago, they got married, after our aunt fought to convince her rich ghoti family because she had fallen in love with a bangal man.

Four minutes ago, our aunt said as an interlude to her grumbling, "When I see all these old men I still think your Pishe is much more handsome."

Exactly three years ago, Anando and I got married.

Forty years later, I wonder where we'll be!

Celebrate Bandra

2009-11-12T10:14:00.004+05:30

The festival begins on 14th November, and goes on till the 29th. The big parade to kick it all off starts from St. Stanislaus School on Hill Road around 5 pm on Saturday, 14th November, and will proceed down Bandstand Promenade to end at the Amphitheatre.

In addition to the usual music, dance, theatre and other staples, the theme this time is "Go Green". There will be nature walks, recycling initiatives, and all residents of Bandra are requested to avoid using plastic bags for at least the duration of the festival, and for as long as possible after that. There will also be one day that all residents will be asked to keep their cars off the roads and walk, cycle or use public transport.

Do participate, even if you live halfway across the world, by at least avoiding plastic bags, or walking instead of driving. In the go green spirit, I leave you with this strip.

Lookie! A Cookie!

2009-10-28T18:00:00.002+05:30

Now that we're in Bombay, we're staying in a serviced apartment till we can move into the flat. This is our 4th day here and each evening we've come back to the room to find a little glass jar containing 4-6 cookies, some chocolate and some plain. They're rather yummy and Anando and I started looking forward to it the moment we realized it was a pattern. We polish them off and the next day the empty jar is removed when they clear the room. This evening I happened to be in the room when the doorbell rang (5 minutes ago). I opened the door to find a uniformed staff-member grinning at me. Holding out the jar he said with a cheerful smile, "Hello ma'am, evening snacks for you!"

Wow. I feel like I'm at a school picnic or camp, with allotted meals. But if snacktime equals cookies, I'm not complaining! Will keep this short as it's hard to type with a crumbly cookie in one hand.

Flight from the Desert

2009-10-24T12:54:00.003+05:30

Mixed feelings, as always. We leave Dubai for good in another hour's time. Although you might argue that I "left" when I closed that bank account, got my cable TV refund, or when I locked the doors to an empty house one last time. But that moment, when the aircraft noses upwards and I crane my neck to watch those skyscrapers give me a standing ovation in the sun for 20 months well spent, will really be it.

I am pretty sure I will have moist eyes and a lump in my throat. There is so much to look forward to. But I am glad there is so much to look back on with joy and nostalgia as well. There had better be. It would be a shame if I'd spent this time of my life here and found nothing worth remembering. It's not Dubai, but a life, a lifestyle, a friends' circle, and the last of my 20s - which I saw off here - that will forever linger in the desert haze of Dubai.

I will be back to reclaim it, but always briefly, and always temporarily. I don't mind. It's going to be my very own time capsule.

Memories for Sale

2009-10-07T15:37:00.006+05:30

It's that time of life, again, when you put a price tag on things you cannot keep any more, and try and convince other people to buy them. Moving to smaller accommodation in a different country means rationalizing, and I mean really rationalizing, what all you can make room for. And the things you give up move into a mental shelf instead, where they will defiitely remain, unspoilt for much longer than their physical incarnation.

But even though you put a price tag on some things, you only realise their true worth when someone tries to haggle over it. So I dusted, polished and photographed our shoe cabinet and posted the ad online.

Within hours, I got a curt response "How old? Is it scratched and much used? I will give you ___ (insert woefully low amount here) Dirhams for it and pick it up this evening."

Well I beg your pardon!!! How presumptuous. Did he really think I would just worship him for extorting it from me! My shoe cabinet is unscratched, very new, and definitely worth more than that, thank you very much. And so, indignant and emotional, I took the ad off the Net.

What's left? The washing machine that knows my dirty linen inside out and tumble dried; the sofa-bed which...hmmm; oh well, the cooking range where I experimented with hotplate cooking; and the bean bags that enveloped my family on relaxed afternoons on our balcony.

Visitors to our Bombay house - do not be surprised if you find woodwork emerging from the inhabitants, as at this rate I doubt I will sell anything.

Wuff...

2009-09-26T14:37:00.004+05:30

In all my blogging negligence, I forgot to introduce a new arrival at my parents' home. So just for the record, here's Kaizer. Watch out, he bites. But he'll also drop whatever he's doing for a tummy rub.

The Flower

2009-09-10T10:15:00.001+05:30

It’s Thursday today. She used to need hibiscus flowers on Thursdays for her pujo. When younger, she would go to the park herself, looking through the shrubs for perfect flowers to pluck for her gods. A twisted ankle thanks to an unseen pothole ended the independent trips. Then it was up to us to fetch her flowers. As pollution and cars around the neighborhood park increased, I returned empty-handed on Thursday mornings, rushing to change into my school uniform. By the time I joined JNU, she had given up expecting fresh flowers, making do with a refrigerated garland of marigolds, bought the previous evening. Rushing to class through the campus wilderness, I would chance upon the red flowers, but it was too late to pluck them and take them home. By then her pujo would be done: her wet hair drying down her back as she read the paper and chewed her paan in the wintry noon sunshine, rising briefly to rescue the prasad placating her gods before the ants and lizards got to it.

It’s Thursday today. And exactly 2 years after I said my last goodbyes to her, I was greeted this morning by a nodding hibiscus flower on a balcony some floors below me. A living, breathing reminder of a love-and-tears memory.

Farewells

2009-09-09T10:21:00.003+05:30

I said my first Dubai good-bye yesterday: to a neighbor who left this morning and won’t be back in Dubai till the end of the year. We weren’t close, we just met occasionally while waiting for the lift. J, who lives alone, is an elegant, charming lady, probably in her early sixties, an Iranian who has her family (and some posh homes) scattered across the world. So she spends the summer between South Africa, LA, Paris and wherever else she wants to go. She has visited India seven times.

She had invited us over for dinner some months back. The evening had been pleasant, though rather amusing thanks to two show-off men who competed to tell a rather undressed, hot, blonde, Australian diamond buyer how they had been all over the world, really, and “even eaten fried tarantula” (“oh it tastes awesome” nodded show-off #2). But J herself has no airs about her. She has a quiet dignity and wealth she takes for granted but needn’t flaunt.

So anyway, I had hoped to call her over one evening and really get to know more about all she’s done, places she’s lived, and her opinions of Iran. But she was away in LA and came back just briefly before heading off to Paris. And I told her we were going to leave in October for good. So over sticky Iranian sweets and a quick tete-a-tete to say bye, all I learnt was her childhood memories of Maxim’s Restaurant in Paris and how Pierre Cardin has ruined it by buying it and setting up chains all over the world (“It used to be so nice, like a club, you knew everyone, and you had your personal table right from your father’s time…” she protested) and how she is a “bad Moslem” (she doesn’t fast for Ramadan and she served and drank wine when we’d visited her).

And I came away with a box of Maxim's chocolates and a little card with her name and Paris address on it, and an invitation to visit her anytime I like, and an email address where I can contact her. And memories of a smiling neighbor who genuinely seemed to like us. And I hope she remembers us as the smiling young couple across the hall whom she will someday meet again.

I think traveling helps you to leave little bits of yourself all over the world. And that’s what I like best about it.

Time to Go

2009-09-06T16:16:00.002+05:30

Uproot. Unroot. New routes.
Changing the soil beneath our boots.
Watching, observing, experiencing.
Thinking, feeling, hearing, glancing.
Stability. Comfort. Routines to follow.
Cultural differences to swallow.
Time flying on calendar pages.
Just yesterday. It’s been ages.
Uproot. Unroot. Time to pack.
Stability under attack.
Excitement and anticipation too
Unfamiliar. New. And yet not new.
Old town. Old friends. Shops we know.
Places where we used to go.
Uncaring. Certain. Bombay awaits.
Omnipresent in our fates.
We’d gone to save. To live. To earn.
She always knew we would return.

Oops!

2009-07-16T10:13:00.002+05:30

I was waiting in a hotel lobby for Anando, leafing through a magazine. At each 'ping' announcing a lift's arrival, I would look up to see if it was him. A lift arrived. 'Ping'. A man stepped into the lobby, looking a little bewildered, a heavy laptop bag weighing his left shoulder down. He was dressed in a t-shirt and baggy jeans. His head swiveled this way and that, not sure which way he was meant to turn. At that crucial, absent-minded moment, a voice warned him, "Sir, your zip...". The poor man wildly reached for the fly of his jeans, starting to raise the hem of his t-shirt, when the Good Samaritan added, "on your bag."

For the next few seconds I had to bury my nose in the magazine as I stifled my giggles.

Thankam

2009-07-12T14:59:00.003+05:30

After my last post, I had hoped to write something more cheerful. Of course, I had also hoped to blog sooner than I eventually have. But this one is sad too.

She used to make us the most amazing idlis. With this awesome chutney which would just drape itself all over the idlis and the shining stainless steel boxes in which she carried them to the office. And all of us would descend on the box, devouring huge quantities and licking it clean before washing it and handing it back with a big smile, already asking for the next installment. When I had stayed long enough in the company and she thought I was important enough, I would sometimes get an entire box to myself.

Her spellings were terrible, and when she typed letters on our behalf we had to be careful to avoid hilarious bloopers. The day we received emails from TS full of spelling mistakes, we knew she was filling in for his regular secretary, and would call her to warn her before he realized his carefully dictated mails were full of embarrassing errors.

She had a clear plan for the future. Her only child was 25. She and her husband would arrange his wedding, and then move back from Delhi to Kerala and live a retired life.

This was 3 years ago. She came for my wedding. I left Delhi, but very occasionally I would call and speak to her. We spoke after TS passed away. And now I heard that she lost her husband all of a sudden. They still hadn’t moved back to Kerala. They still haven’t married off their son.

At a time in my life when I am anticipating with excitement our return to India from Dubai, a home of our own in Bombay, and a new set-up in a familiar city, I wonder how it feels when dreams are denied. Not deferred, but lost forever because the other half dreaming them with you is gone. I’m waiting for Thankam to return to Delhi so that I can call her. But I don’t know what to say.

Update: I found out later that Thankam's son had got married earlier this year and her husband was well and present at the wedding. I also got around to calling her. And after a little awkwardness and consoling, she turned the tables on me in Thankam fashion, reminding me I'd been married almost 3 years now, where was the "good news" and listed all the others who were ahead of me in that race! The conversation ended with laughter, and that's the best way, always, to hang up!

Toss

2009-05-17T19:45:00.003+05:30

She lay next to him, a young bride, flushed and incredibly happy. He held up a coin. "This is the coin I tossed to decide whether to come home from the city when my parents said they had found me a bride. It told me to come home, and I did. And now I am with you."

She did not know what to say, except stare at him with all the love she could muster in her eyes. He was handsome, loving, and more understanding than she had been brought up to expect in her small patriarchal town. And he would remain loyal to her in 44 years of marriage, through difficult times, joblessness, complaining relatives, and occasionally ungrateful, always forgetful children.

Then one day, he was gone. She saved the coin, secreting it into her purse so that it would always be with her, to remind her of love, and what a matter of chance it was.

And now, it lay in the mud, slipped from her arthritic fingers. And all the world passing by could see was an old woman, stiffly bending to reach below a parked car, as a shining coin of no value lay just out of her grasp.

Last Orders

2009-05-07T12:48:00.005+05:30

Delhi really isn’t the same anymore.

My brother called me to say that Grub Pub is closed. For good. Apparently the owner passed away. I can remember his face. His voice when he answered the phone with “Hello Grub Pub”. The scooter he used to ride around the lanes of Hauz Khas. His curly-haired little girl. And I am so sad to hear not only of the family’s loss, but also to think that there is no one who will carry forward this small but important restaurant, which was probably the first taste of Chinese food for most Hauz Khas residents.

Set by the main central park of Hauz Khas, one in a row of shops – hardware, tailoring, rickety stairs going up to courier shops – Grub Pub was your average greasy cheap Chinese joint. Except that it was our average greasy cheap Chinese joint.

In all the years I knew it, Grub Pub didn’t change, except to get air-conditioning. An unassuming glass and wood door with some stained-glass pattern and the instructions “Pull” formed the entrance to gastronomical bliss and contentment on a budget. You walked in, the unmanned reception said “Please ring bell for service”. Rickety stairs went up at a steep angle into a hole in the ceiling. If you were new and rang the bell, after 5 seconds one of the staff would come thumping down the thinly carpeted stairs. You could order and wait on bar stools while they packed your food.

But if you were a returning customer and meant serious business, you would go up the stairs, pull back the standard-issue, airport/hospital waiting room chairs with a loud noise, and park yourself at the sunmica-topped tables. The kitchen’s swing door would open and someone would emerge, look at you, go away, come back with menu cards and glasses of water.

I devoured my first momos at Grub Pub. With incredible amounts of chilli paste. Knowing that the chilled Thums Up Grub Pub always stocked would bail me out when I turned into a fire-breathing dragon. My standard order:
Ek Chicken Momos, steamed
Ek Veg Hakka Noodles
Ek Chilli Chicken Boneless, Dry
Ek Chicken Manchurian
Ek Thums Up

And then sit back and wait, drooling a little already. The table would have those plastic sauce bottles, and steel containers for 3 sauces, with holes cut in the lid for the spoon to go in. You could while away the short wait for your food by looking around. There was that never-changing, ever-green moneyplant near the bathroom door. A never-changing poster of George Michael graced one wall. There was another poster, a surreal, blue and purple, semi-illustration of a lonely island amid stormy seas, no people, done in a style that I have only ever seen on Magic game cards. Years later, when I first saw Brooke Shields on TV, I recognized her from Grub Pub’s poster, where she gazed steamily at indifferent, pre-Cable TV middle-class families who were intent on eating their fill off those brown chinhat plates. The meal would end with a pleasing figure scrawled on a piece of paper, and, years later, proper bills, resting on a bed of saunf. It was the essential Indian restaurant, even if it served Chinese.

Later Grub Pub expanded to kathi rolls and some other Indian stuff. But we stuck to our preferences.

Grub Pub was our break from monotony. On boring food days, we would order in for a plate of momos and rush out to get some Thums Up to accompany it. There was no minimum order. On busy days, on oh-no-there’s-tinda-days, Dida-doesn’t-want-to-cook days, we’re-whitewashing-and-the-house-is-upside-down days, we would rely on Grub Pub. Budget birthday treats happened there. Surprise meetings with old friends happened there. Fits of hysterical laughter happened there.

I still have the Grub Pub number stored on my phone, though I have changed phones twice since I left Delhi. Not that I need it, because 26966317 rolls off my tongue like my date of birth.

When I heard the news, for the first time ever I Googled Grub Pub to see what the WWW has to say about it. And the answer – nothing. There is an entry on Sulekha but the map is wrong. Another site says “no customer reviews”. No one ever debated on Grub Pub food. You ate it. You loved it. You loved the price. You got the recognition from the staff. And you left, mouth bulging with free saunf. It was an institution, and that was that.

An era is over.

Why Me (Incident # 2684982)

2009-04-16T10:17:00.005+05:30

I had an Anamika episode this morning. That's about all that can explain the "why me" feeling I frequently experience.

I eventually reached office, unscathed, a free woman - my dignity creeping back to normal. Thinking, "Well, of course I will blog about it, but I don't have to go out of my way to tell Anando." And I get a call from him. The man actually snickers on the phone and says "tsk tsk...chhee chhee...". And I know. Word has got around. Oh well. I wait. "How did you find out?" I ask.

"I was in the gym, and the guy at the reception came and told me, 'Sir, your wife is stuck in the bathroom.'" Of course, Anando in his oh-my-god-my-poor-wife sympathy (NOT) asked "still?" I can just imagine him barely blinking or missing a step on the machine as he received this report. His only concern, is the ordeal over? And, how many of the fellow gymmers heard this guy make my wife sound like a 2-year-old?

I plead guilty. Here's what happened.

Anando and I usually get to the gym around 7.20 am. This being Dubai, there are separate halls for men and women. I walked in, smiled at the lone girl in the gym whom I see sometimes, and walked ahead to the locker area. She was not wearing earphones, I noted. And that knowledge helped when I was screaming my lungs out about 80 seconds later.

Aside: It's a boring gym. Very few people come in except for the aerobics sessions in the evenings. Mornings, especially Thursdays, are very quiet. The music player only works when the staff handle it, the air-conditioning makes a lot of noise, the water heater is often out of order, but in these recessionary times I guess we'll take what we get.

Okay, so I got to the locker, put away my bag and stepped into the toilet (got to get rid of that 500 ml of water I drink first thing each morning). Now, I have a horror of getting locked in a public toilet so I always check the door lock before shutting myself in. Did that too. Then I turned towards the toilet and realised it wasn't quite usable. (Let's just say the previous user had poor civic sense.)

So I turned to get out and enter a different cubicle, only to see that I was locked in! Hmmm....Let's try this one more time. No, it really doesn't work. So I am actually locked in.

First thoughts: embarrassing.
Second thoughts: thank goodness that girl is on the treadmill outside.
Third thoughts: She may have walked out.
Fourth thoughts: Her bag was in the changing room, so she will come back.
Fifth thought: EXCUSE ME....
(As you can see, by now I was thinking aloud. Very very aloud.)
The fifth thought turned into a sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth...nth....And finally I heard someone approaching.

Anyway, it was all under control after that. The guy at the reception was called in. He took a look at the door and me (there's a crack between the door and door frame) and said "I'll just be back." (I thought then that he went to fetch help, but now I think he went to tell Anando.) He came back with a spray (no label) and sprayed it at the lock from outside. I couldn't believe it. I thought it might be some sort of acid that just magically, MI-3' ishly melts away metal. But then he passed it to me through the gap between the door and the roof, and asked me to do the same. I still don't know what he planned to do with that. When that didn't work, he went off again.

Eventually I rescued myself. I discovered that the knob was loose. So I pulled it out entirely. And went at the screw below it. And a few seconds and half a fingernail later I was free. Just as the mechanic was walking in. Hah! I dusted my hands and looked a bit aggrieved in an "it's okay" effect. And said nonchalantly "You had better put an 'out of order' sign on that door."

Profuse apologies followed from the staff. When they left I admitted my desperation and offered profuse thanks to my knight in shining armor. (Okay, so she was a girl in stretch pants.) She said she had barely heard the sound over the noise of her treadmill. (Next person who calls me loud please take note. I can't be loud to save my life. Ahem) And first thought it was coming from outside. I am so glad she chose to stop, catch her breath, and investigate. If she hadn't been at the gym this morning I'd have been stuck in the loo till I don't know when. And it wasn't even a clean loo. If I'd been there all day, I might even have cleaned it. My office would have missed me. But I don't know if they'd have called Anando. And so I may have been there till, let's see...tomorrow's Friday and the gym is closed on Fridays....

Okay, I'm alive. Let's celebrate that this weekend.

And oh, these embarrassing things have happened before. Enjoy.

Desert Rain

2009-04-13T10:06:00.002+05:30

...has a surprise element, and so it fascinates and energises the spirit more than monsoon rain.

What can be more pleasant a surprise than to wake up on a Dubai April morning, when summer is mustering its batallions to plague us, and find the pitter-patter of raindrops on windows, to open the doors expecting a blast of hot air, but to be caressed by a seductive breeze instead, to dash for shade from the harsh sun, only to find clouds dogging your steps as you dodge puddles and let the raindrops kiss your arms.

India Helps

2009-04-09T10:25:00.006+05:30

A classic example of getting started. I am humbled by the quiet determination of the people who have put this organisation together in the last 4 months. Please spread the word.

Here Kitty

2009-04-05T10:33:00.005+05:30

My description of the exciting jungle safaris in Zambia appeared in today's Business Standard, on page 10. Do take a look! Unfortunately I don't know how to show you the epaper, only people who are registered can see it! So this is just the web version.

Edited to add: Now that it's old news, read it here:

A thrilling hunt for big cats in the tranquil jungles of Zambia.

An inattentive passerby might ignore the innocent patch of Nile cabbage on the swampy lagoon, as it mysteriously moves towards the shore. But in the jungle, survival depends on sharp sight. So I focus my city eyes carefully on the limp leaves, watching in fascination as an enormous, slimy, blubbery back rises out of the water in the semi-dark, pushing the cabbage aloft, and a hippopotamus heads off to sleep, ending a busy day spent soaking in the mud.
This watering hole which we are scouting for wildlife lies in the South Luangwa National Park in north-eastern Zambia. Lush green and thriving along the sluggish and impossibly winding Luangwa River, the park has a tremendous variety of birds and animals living in 9,050 square kilometres of protected forest, full of baobabs, mopane, leadwood and other trees. It offers near-certain sightings of four of Africa’s “big five” — lions, leopards, elephants and buffalos. The notable exception is the two-horned rhino, found elsewhere in Africa.
We start to ask a question when a shrieking yellow baboon destroys the silence of the rapidly darkening forest, followed by a sudden, low growl. Paul, our forest guide, announces, “Leopard,” and starts the engine.
Moses, his assistant, beams a powerful spotlight in an arc before us, splitting the blackness as his namesake once split the sea, and our necks swing in tandem, following the light. The anticipation mingles with slight fear… it could be anywhere in the dark, on top of the baobab tree, for instance, that we’re driving below. As the engine slows over a bump, the leopard growls again, closer, and the baboon repeats its warning. “Mating call, that means we might see two leopards,” Paul comments. Sheer foolhardiness, says my cautious self, city mortals actively hunting out a big cat in the shroud of darkness. There’s no question of a stealthy approach; the engine roars as Paul drives through the tall grass, dodging bushes and revving over small shrubs in pursuit of the elusive feline.
Then we turn a bend, and come upon the leopards lying in a clearing, unsurprised.
I realise they are waiting for us. And I feel small and insignificant before them. They really don’t care. They could have disappeared by this time, alerted by our noisy approach and human smell, but they don’t dignify our presence with an escape. Our intrusion is the same irritant as the fly they swat with sheathed claws. One blinks drowsily in the light, and when the paparazzi camera annoys, it rises majestically and merges into the bushes just beyond, inviting his mate elsewhere. There are babies to make and a magnificent lineage to continue. And we are left, with silly grins, a few beads of sweat, and some dark photos.
The next morning we are greedy again. Zebras, giraffes, hippos, crocs, check, check, check, check. Elephants, check. Buffalos, check. Leopards, check. What about lions? Poor Paul has never been far from the forest for longer than three weeks and loves each animal equally, showing us a microscopic bee-eater bird with as much excitement as he devotes to the gangly giraffe blocking our way. But bloodthirsty city-dwellers that we are, we want our money’s worth. “Where are the lions?” we whine after politely photographing an endless variety of impalas, pukus, and other herbivorous, harmless forest residents. “Look, yellow-billed oxpecker,” Paul says, to distract us. My brother grumbles at the back: “South Luangwa Bird Sanctuary.”
Then, as we sulkily watch a bunch of grazing Bambis, the wireless radio crackles and Paul throws the gear (and us) into reverse. The previous day he has told us that the 11-seater, modified-for-the-jungle Landcruiser can race at up to “100 ks” (no one in Zambia says kilometers). Today, we take his word for it, especially since the speedometer is broken, showing zero even as we whiz through speed-blurred, thick forest.
When Paul races past a lilac-breasted roller bird without pointing it out to us, we know he’s on a mission. And after 10 minutes of silence as we speculate on where he’s leading us, we turn into a clearing and see the Big Cats for the first time.

It is a pride of 12 lions from far-off Bushcamp Lodge, which has surprisingly found its way to Mopane Spur, Paul informs us. They are feasting on the remnants of a zebra. Well-fed, they stagger over to the shade, while white-headed vultures start circling overhead for the feast.
Four safari cars are parked haphazardly and cameras click crazily. While the younger lions stretch out lazily in the sun, belly up, the older lions watch us, wary yellow eyes making sure we don’t try any primate business. After several minutes, they all disappear for a nap into the innocuous shrubs behind them. Show’s over. Half-heartedly, and with many backward glances, we turn away. We have left the lions in their home, and now it is time for us to return to ours.

Occupational Hazards

2009-03-31T16:59:00.003+05:30

One of the drawbacks of working as an editor is that I am constantly nitpicking for faults. Matar Paneer spelt as Mutter Paneer on the menu triggers off hysteria and I cannot send an SMS without putting a space after a full stop, even if it means spilling over into a 2nd SMS and paying double.

I even mailed Google's support team once because one of the pop-up information windows on Gmail had a spelling error which I thought didn't gel with Google's reputation. They corrected it promptly.

And today, someone's messing around with Gmail, because the link to the inbox on the sidebar says "inbox" instead of "Inbox" whereas above and below it are links to Compose Mail, Starred, Chats, Sent Mail, Drafts, All Mail - everything starting with a capital letter except Inbox.

As you can see, I don't have much to do at work!

Paul

2009-03-30T16:36:00.001+05:30

9,050 square kilometers of forest, and he knows it all like the back of his hand. He’ll stop where you can see nothing and point out a fist-sized bird with a lion-size name, telling you what it eats, where it sleeps, how it hatches its eggs, and possibly, if you press a little, its horoscope as well.

In the dark, he’ll hear a grunt and tell you that’s a leopard’s mating call. He’ll even ensure you look in the right direction and spot the spots, waiting while you take photos, softly explaining what’s going on.

50 meters from well-fed lions, he’ll pick up a recently gnawed-at zebra leg and hold it up for you to inspect from the safety of your car, smilingly confident that he can leap onto the car and drive away if a yellow-eyed predator comes charging out at him.

In the blackness of night he will remind you to look up and point out the Southern Cross as starry sawdust litters the sky.

In his entire life he has been away from the forest for only 3 weeks, to a nearby city.

So I was really disappointed when he told me that in those 3 weeks he’d not missed the forest at all. It would have been so much more romantic if he’d said he couldn’t sleep all those nights rather than that he enjoyed visiting the clubs.

But that’s what makes him human.

Signing Off

2009-02-19T10:21:00.002+05:30

No no, I'm not shutting down my blog (though the past month of silence may have suggested so).

Just popping in from a very busy time at work to share some sign-off gems I received in my email:

"Yours delightfully"
&
"I remain at your entire disposal."

But I will be patient, because a client recently told me, "Please bare with me for a while."

The Doll

2009-01-13T14:34:00.000+05:30

In 2 days, he will be in his home. The women in his family will be planning the cooking already – for though they have limited means, it’s only once in 2 years they can indulge the breadwinner of the family. It’s only once in 2 years that he can sleep and wake at leisure, not following a clock determined by construction timelines and investor stakes. It’s only once in 2 years that his employers give him a return ticket on the cheapest airline to go home for a month.

Right now, he is standing in a shiny mall. His ill-fitting, rarely used, casual clothes hang awkwardly on the lean frame. They were bought for a healthier body, when he was packing to come away to this land of opportunity. He had thought that in return for his farmland he would be a rich man. But he only creates houses for the rich, remaining on the outside. Even in this mall, he is the outsider. He smells a little – of perspiration, cement and sparingly used soap. People don’t stand too close to him. He doesn’t notice. He is looking at a doll.

She has black hair, bright eyes, and chubby limbs. Her frock is usually stained and ends too high above her knees. Her mother makes her wear an ugly pair of thick, too-loose pantyhose to cover the limbs that will offend the radical Islamic group that is in control of his village. She has asked her father, 2 years ago, to bring him a doll next time. She whispered it in his ear when he hugged her one last time as his wife looked on.

She has blonde hair, blue eyes, and skinny limbs. A plastic purse dangles from her shoulder. Her plastic pink heels arch her foot at an unnatural angle. She has a pet plastic dog. And 2 changes of wardrobe. The whole package is pleasing pink. He knows she will love the doll.

But the price. He could eat a week's meals for this cost. Should he? Perhaps she’s too grown up to like the doll anymore. He could pretend he’s forgotten and put it off till next time. 2 years later. By then she would certainly be too grown up to ask for a doll, if not to want one.

He walks out. Glad that he did not spend those dirhams. As he walks towards the exit, a young family enters. And again, he is looking at a doll.

She has black hair, bright eyes, and chubby limbs. She clings to her father’s hand, knee-high as he slows his step to match hers. She is laughing – a pure, happy sound - and her father is ruffling her hair with his free hand.

He turns around and goes back to the shop. The doll is waiting for him.

W

2009-01-07T17:55:00.002+05:30

What is a woman?

At times a comfortable cliché. At times an unruly rebel.

Now a simple stereotype. Now a dynamic daredevil.

Shape-shifting like her life depends on it.

Over-achieving to break all barriers.

Yesterday a girl. Tomorrow a girl.

And today?

A heart. A passion. A dream. A hope. A bubble. A wall.

Love. Ambition. Forgiveness. Endurance. Patience.

Vanity. Envy. Anger. Rage. Hate.

A woman is all or nothing.

But when this happens, they reduce her to exactly one thing.

Nothing.

Wind your body...

2009-01-06T10:37:00.001+05:30

It seems I’m terrible at following instructions. There’s this svelte, gorgeous woman in front of me telling me to raise my hand, turn this way, look that way, shimmy shimmy shimmy and shake, and stop! And instead of copying her moves, I am mirroring them, turning left when she turns right, raising the left foot when she says right, and that too, a few seconds late each time. Ands I’m not even supposed to be here. My place is on the treadmill, in the other corner. In my sneakers. Sweating off that morning donut. Not on this lovely parquet floor. Barefoot. Shaking the belly I should be working off. After all, this is a belly-dancing class.

Yeah, it’s my slot at the gym and although I have about forty thousand left feet I couldn’t resist abandoning the treadmill and joining the circle of multi-shaped women aged anywhere between 17 and 40 who’d converged on the gym for a free belly-dancing class that happens twice a week. “I can make a fool of myself for free,” I thought. Yeah, I can totally do that. I’m doing it. So I scurried off to join them.

It was tough, it was fun, it was pointless. But that was the point.

Empty Nest

2008-12-31T10:38:00.002+05:30

So the house"guests" have left. Barring a pair of trousers that were left in the cupboard because "Those are Anando's, but they look just like Baba's. Oh wait, they are Baba's trousers. Will they fit in the hand baggage now?" So anyway, I think all that they've left behind is lots of home-cooked food and blessings - after all, we need food for the body and the soul, right?

A crucial to-do on the agenda with my parents this time was a matter of tech-literacy. From gifting my parents a digital camera to teaching them how to use it to teaching Ma how to download pictures on to the computer to teaching her how to mail them to people...it was an exercise which, fortunately, was successful. Appearing below is one of her best photos, taken when we went on the desert safari to the dunes of Lahbab outside Dubai.

The other big achievement: launching my father's blog. The man who motivated me to start writing, from whom I learnt how to compose letters to relatives, how to write to famous people seeking autographed pictures, who encouraged me to send my writings to newspapers, who promotes my writing as only a proud parent can do, who dreams that someday (soon) I will write a book, and who sent me a lovely ink pen when I declared that I wanted to write more and type less - he finally has a blog up. The intensely personal nature of the first post doesn't prevent me from telling the world about it. I don't think he will mind.

So now that the nest is empty and the fridge is full, I shall think of the next project at hand. Getting Ma to start a blog. Maybe a photo blog :) As you can see, I am always thinking of work for other people. Meanwhile, a deadline is perishing. Tata.

House"Guests"

2008-12-20T10:35:00.001+05:30

It's a bit strange to have your parents come to your house to stay. I mean, these are the people from whom you have learnt your definition of home. You have watched them run a house, a kitchen, and you have seen what works (and what doesn't). Then of course you apply it elsewhere with your own 2 cents thrown in and create your ideal home.

Then they arrive, and they're like any other guests you may have at your place. You need to point out the dustbin's location. They ask you which way the bathroom is. You tell them which switch is for the bathroom light and ask whether they need anything else. You explain which cupboard door is a bit loose. Which window doesn't close properly. Where the salt is in the kitchen.

And then of course comes the excitement of showing them a new place which you have discovered independently of them. Where once you saw everything through their eyes, and they kept you safe and cushioned you as you learnt your way around, it's now the other way around. If they go out alone in the neighborhood you give them precise directions for coming back.

And of course if they are coming to Dubai tonight to stay for 9 days, you sit at work and suppress your excitement, blogging to tell the world you are too excited to work while you hide it from your colleagues.

Tag Taggle Toggle

2008-12-15T16:28:00.004+05:30

This one comes from Eve's Lungs. It's the perfect tag for someone like me because I tend to live in the past. Mulling over the state of the world takes a backseat as I delve into memories and recall instances and conversations and people with clarity. So, here goes.

My oldest memory: Is boring. My mother can't believe I remember this - I toddled over to the lowest shelf of the kitchen and knocked over an entire bowl of dal, creating a mess. So I must have been less than 2 years old. Sigh...butterfingers even back then.

Ten years ago: I was finishing college and agonizing over staying on at Stephen's versus going to JNU. Ah, that tiny sphere of concern.

My first thought this morning: Not already!

If you built a time capsule, what would it contain: Not sure of the principle of a time capsule, but it's like preserving things for eternity, right? In that case, it would hold everything and everyone from my present world, except, oh...cockroaches, terrorists, alarm clocks (ironic, in a time capsule..hah) and other irritants.

This year: I turned 30 but it was the least significant part of the year. I think that's what being an adult is all about. Much has happened - I have gone back to fulltime work, my brother has learnt to live on his own, I have said goodbyes, and hellos, and generally become more of what I want to be.

14 years from now: Is impossible to predict. I live in the past, remember?

Tagging: MM (as if she didn't have enough to blog about already), A Muser, Suku, and Audacious, just to get her to blog!!! And a dear cousin who has just started blogging and is thinking of topics - Chandra didi.

Perspectives

2008-12-11T09:52:00.002+05:30

I've blogged about my gymming experiences before. But that was before I turned 30. And about x kilos ago. So, ladies and gentlemen, the gym is back in my life. Every morning, I realise how old I'm getting when I can't drag myself out of bed to get in an hour, no scratch that, 45 minutes, of gymming before I head to work. Funny, I thought people slept less with old age. What is this? Some sort of weird sleep-while-you-can gift before insomnia and dementia set in?

Each morning, make that every other morning, make that most mornings, make that...oh well, I went today...so anyway, each morning that I go to the gym, I dress in my faded t-shirt, slightly too-long track pants (I want to buy cool new Adidas ones with the stripes down the side but somehow can't justify them to myself until I make the gym a regular habit), and sneakers that will soon - if I exercise enough - allow my toes to peep out (previous parentheses apply).

Anyway, so the other morning Anando and I were walking towards the gym, which is near our offices, when I noticed a bunch of women walking ahead of us. Backpacks, sports shoes, frumpy clothes (branded though). And I looked down at Anando and me - backpacks and assorted bags containing change of clothes, office shoes, lunch, laptop. We were all dressed the same. Happily, Holmes-like, I conjectured - "Oh look, they're going to the gym too."

Anando sighed. His delusional wife, he must be thinking. "No, they're just students."

When you start thinking students dress like they're going to the gym, you really are old.

Reflection

2008-12-06T15:22:00.005+05:30

He checked his hair in the mirror and groaned - this Keo Karpin oil was no good, he would switch to coconut. He'd been losing hair and it had changed the way his face looked, now that he had an extra 2 inches of forehead! His gaze moved lower and, oh no, were those wrinkles? Couldn't be, he decided. It was too early for him to be getting wrinkles. He was just getting paranoid about his skin.

His kurta was crisply ironed and the gold buttons he'd inherited from his grandfather gleamed back at him, winking at his vanity as he ran his hands over them, feeling the familiar texture of the chipped design.

As he walked down to the nearby shop, he knew she would be sitting on her porch, her hair loose as she sat and daydreamed, working on some embroidery for her family. Would she even look up at him, he wondered. He would have to find something to talk to her about as he walked past. Something casual, but that would interest her. But he must remember to act nonchalant. Yes, he'd ask about her sister, hadn't she been ill lately? He couldn't remember. He really should have paid more attention when she talked, rather than thinking of a smart retort that would impress her.

His eagerness made him smile. In a corner of his heart he felt a pang for the other woman he had once impressed, successfully. But she was gone, and life carries on, he rationalised, overlooking the way he had mourned her.

He was ready, a few dashes of Old Spice, and he was all set to storm the neighborhood. He went down the stairs. They seemed higher than they had been when he was a child. Strange, he thought.

At the door, he paused, breathing in the fresh air. Ah, how wonderful to be alive! He was about to march out purposefully when the little boy stopped him. "Won't you take your walking stick with you, Dadu?"

Prove It!

2008-11-29T15:21:00.006+05:30

Pakistan has refused to send the ISI chief to India, instead sending a "representative". How can they do this? It's making me furious. If they want us to believe that this was not an act supported by the government they need to prove by standing alongside India in this investigation. Reports of late night meetings between the Pak President, PM and Army chief sound suspiciously like a huddle, as if they want to get their "story" right.

Okay, so maybe I am pointing fingers here, but I don't care. This is no time to be sensitive to governments, only to individuals. I will never forget the sight of Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan's shocked mother caressing his cold forehead.

Update: (in response to OJ) As subsequent coverage and speculation suggests - the government is just a puppet and faced a lot of flak from the Opposition, the Army and even (annoyingly and dishearteningly) from the media - for agreeing initially without consulting with everyone. Some have apparently said that for Pak to send their Chief would be an admission of guilt. You should see Karan Thapar grill Zardari about this on IBN.

Reality TV

2008-11-27T10:33:00.002+05:30

The city people arrive in to touch the stars - when that city turns into a nightmare, there is betrayal, anger, horror, and a fascinated magnetism for watching the same reels of blood, gore, death and hatred playing again and again on every news channel.

Images of a young man with crazed eyes - is it his expression or a red-eye malfunction - wearing a T-shirt and a backpack slung on his shoulder, fill the screen. If it were not for the gun in his hand and the blood on his face he would seem just a college student.

As I type there is some sort of operation about to be initiated - and I hope it will be successful. Media have been requested not to broadcast details, and I don't mind. I'd rather the media conspire with the law-keepers than blab it to the world (and terrorists) in the name of information.

Every news channel - Indian and international - we turned to during the long night was showing just this. The worst ever terror attack on Bombay. And the most organised. I just hope it ends soon.

Tracks of Change

2008-11-24T15:30:00.004+05:30

If I had to mime a train's action, I'd place my palm vertically against my nose and go Koo jhik jhik jhik, picking up tempo with the jhik jhiks and putting all my energy into going KOOOO in a quick regression to childhood and train games of travelling to exciting destinations.

I sometimes wonder how kids growing up in the age of electric trains will represent trains.

A cousin's memories of childhood train rides brought back to me the wonder trains had once been. The longest train ride I ever took was 2 nights and 3 days from Delhi to Vishakhapatnam. My brother, 2 years old then, was petrified when the train let off its first hoot and refused to get in. Once in, he looked around and asked, "Where did the train go?" And so began a long journey where we even played cricket with a plastic bat & ball in the corridor.

Much later a huge group travelled to Chennai for a wedding, and my cousin and I could barely chat over the collective Mukharji/Banerjee/Sen snores that erupted all around us once night fell. Afraid that other passengers would ask us to tell our family to hush, we quickly pretended to fall asleep ourselves!

Nowadays the most train travel happens when we go to Shantiniketan from Kolkata. The first time, we went in an unreserved compartment because Singur protests in December '06 delayed our travel. We listened to bauls and also bought the famous "Joynogor-er Moa" from a vendor who boarded the train. The moas were had and we began dissecting how it didn't quite taste too good and my poor mother-in-law tried to defend her enthusiasm by saying they no longer tasted like they used to. At that point the gentleman who had been hanging on to the overhead rail near our seat with one hand and picking his nose with the other chose to inform us that these weren't the genuine article anyway and the real stuff would come a few stations later.

Last year, at Agra station I had occasion to peer in through much-tinted windows at the hyped Palace on Wheels. While I've never travelled in that much luxury, I certainly am tempted to try and plan a long train holiday to someplace to recapture some of that laidback travel. Yes, the toilets may be a deterrent and I may control my beverage intake to counter that, but I think it would be worth it for a bit of time-travel!

Serious Business

2008-11-19T20:01:00.002+05:30

He entered the meeting with a serious expression. His forehead was furrowed with years of work experience and business worries. His business suit was pin-striped, impeccable, and perfectly coordinated with his tie and cufflinks. His hair and hands were well-groomed. He sat down and seriously started explaining what he required in their new corporate brochure. He complained that the rough-cut we had shown him was not up to the mark. He contradicted what his marketing manager had told us. He contradicted what their mission statement said. He contradicted himself. He confused us.

But me. I just giggled inside. After all, how can you take someone seriously when they wear grey socks that have purple polka dots on them.

On Shaky Ground

2008-10-29T15:59:00.004+05:30

My taxi driver this morning was a Pathan from Pakistan, near the border with Afghanistan. The short drive was a pleasant one, because after asking if I'd mind some recorded music, he turned on a tape of Pashtun songs. It was a lilting, repetitive tune, and in bits and pieces it reminded of some Hindi film song or the other, especially from the black and white era. I think one of the main new learnings of moving to Dubai has been the chance to speak to Pakistanis, hear their political views, tap to Pashtun music, learn to make out Pathans by their accent, and to be able to think of them as people and not just an ethnic-group statistic.

And so the news of the earthquake near Quetta, which happened just a few hours before that, was twice as shocking. It's not been long enough since the last one, in early October 2005. And now, they're on their knees in a tragic repetition of last time. Three years is not enough time for people to start trusting the ground beneath their feet again.

Lights from the Darkness

2008-10-27T12:15:00.002+05:30

When I lived in Hauz Khas in Delhi, our first donation-seekers for Diwali came from the Blind Relief Association. A young man with a happy smile and vacant eyes would be accompanied by a volunteer, and in exchange for a cotton duster and 2 tall, white candles we would hand over our donation of the year. It never occurred to me then that here was someone giving us candles who would never be able to see the light they spread.

At Diwali everyone sends wishes for joy and prosperity. Ornate and opulent Lakshmis decorate walls. Shopkeepers open fresh account books. Firecrackers cost a bomb. It's all about noise and show. But in the middle of it all, as we light up our rooms with a soft glow, as we crouch on the floor to perfect a rangoli, or gaze excitedly at fireworks in the sky, we forget how lucky we are to have the eyes to see it.

I'm in Dubai this year. So Diwali will be less of the noise and more of the lights. And as I give my ears a rest and focus on just seeing all the lights around me, I'm just going to count myself lucky that I can really see the beauty all around me.

Declare or Dump

2008-09-30T06:16:00.002+05:30

Australia has really weird regulations on stuff you bring into the country. Perhaps their fears are justified, but it just seems so bizarre and such suspicious, high-moral ground behaviour that it annoyed me no end. Especially when we had about 10 points on the immigration form where we were asked about what sort of stuff we were bringing into Australia, right from plants and plant extracts (I declared Darjeeling Tea!) to the soil stuck on your shoes!!! Huge posters at the airport announce "Declare it or Dump It". Sniffer dogs come and take a whiff at your baggage as you wait in a serpentine queue that only seems to belong in Indian airports. And it worried me so much because I kept thinking of stuff I may have in my bag that I take for granted which may just arouse suspicion because I never thought to declare it. I was carrying some vibhuti - that sacred ash from Shirdi Sai Baba's temple and it's always in my bag. So I suddenly began wondering whether the x-ray might spot it and then I'd have to admit that yes, it is a plant derivaative after all and okay, please take me to jail!

Since I am not writing this from jail you can safely assume that the vibhuti cleared customs without any incidents! Tata people.

The "Fast" Life

2008-09-25T10:03:00.003+05:30

It's Ramadan time. Dubai, being less Middle-Easty than most other Middle East type places, has free zones, such as where my office is, which allow restaurants to serve food during the day though in a place like Saudi Arabia you wouldn't even get a drink of water if you asked for it (which you shouldn't).

Apparently police vans patrol the streets and you can be unpleasantly reprimanded if you are seen eating or drinking in public, even in Dubai. The food court near my office has set up cane screens behind which it's business as usual. As you walk through suddenly narrower corridors, you can catch glimpses of people eating, of hear the clink of cutlery, smell food being cooked, but it's all covert, so you are not seen to be eating, drinking or smoking in public.

I have always known I could never fast. It definitely wouldn't bring me closer to my inner soul or to God or anything but starvation. But I respect people who can do it, even if I haven't always noticed them. Growing up as a majority member in India - a Hindu - in a big city like Delhi, I never had to adjust or accommodate another culture's constraints. At least, it never inconvenienced me before. Muslim friends have fasted around me. Christians have given up a favorite item during Lent. Hindus have gone vegetarian during Navratra. Life just went on.

But being in Dubai during Ramadan, you cannot miss what's going on. Restaurants are closed outside the free zones. There are smoking tents set up in the public areas of the free zenes so that can puff away without offending others. You can't drink water in public or even chew gum. At iftar time it's impossible to get a taxi because most cab drivers are eager to go and pray and then break their fast. There are huge Ramadan tents set up across the city where iftar banquets are served up daily. And when I go for my daily (okay, okay, weekly) evening walk/jog, I work up a sweat even as my nostrils register grilled chicken and french fries cooking at the nearby Ramadan tent. Work ends at 4 instead of 6 and everything is slower because you can just say "Ramadan timings".

Anyway, I type all this as Ramadan goes into the last week of fervour and excitement. It's Eid on the 2nd I believe, and the city is gearing up for a week of holidays. And, I am gearing up for vacation! This post is being written from the AbuDhabi airport, where I will shortly board a flight to Sydney. After 15 hours of non-stop flying while my knees get bent at a 90 degree angle for eternity, we will be welcomed by Anando's brother and family for 10 days of fun, camping and sight-seeing. And of course, food anytime, anywhere. Let the fun times begin. I AM ON VACATION!!!

Unidentified Objects

2008-09-15T13:23:00.002+05:30

I was at McDonald's yesterday. And a white man sitting at a nearby table suddenly attracted the attendant's attention. Pointing to a black bag left at an empty table, he said something.

After Saturday's events in Delhi, I froze a little, even though I am sitting safe and sound in far-off Dubai. I was impressed that he was so alert, pointing out an abandoned bag to the staff. I smiled at him.

Only when he looked blankly at me did I realise that he had just been pointing out something that may have been forgotten by its owner. Whereas I sprang to the conclusion that he was being a vigilant civilian pointing out a possible threatening object.

They say we go on. That we are indifferent. That this is oblivion and hard-heartedness. But we change. In small ways. In what we expect. In conclusions we jump to. In judgements we make. And that is the worst change of them all.

What can we do? The media were complaining that people just pick up the pieces and move on. But what would they want us to do? Sit at home? That's not life. So if moving on, if making a few phone calls to check that our loved ones are fine, before going back to our lives means we are immune, then so be it.

Yes, we pick up the pieces. But some pieces are shattered so fine that we never find them in the aftermath of a tragedy. We just rebuild with some chinks and carry on. For some of us the chinks are chunks of emptiness. For the rest of us, they are still chinks, thankfully. And may they remain that way.

An Important Parcel

2008-09-12T12:00:00.003+05:30

He strode into the lobby of a small-time Dubai hotel. Approaching the reception desk, he said "There's a parcel left here for me by a colleague who was your guest last week. It's addressed to ___" The clerk rises to his feet, looks a little confused, consults with some others, and says, "Just a minute, Sir."

The young man waits, impatient. There's a taxi waiting for him outside and his wife is in it. He really needs that parcel in a hurry. He's had to go out of his way to pick up this package, and he can't afford to come again. The one-week wait has been long enough.

Meanwhile, the clerk and a few others are looking puzzled and unsure of what to do. The young man receives a call and wanders off to a corner of the lobby as the hotel staff buzz without arriving at a conclusion. Finally, the call ends and they approach him worriedly, "Sir, it's in the store room, and the key can't be located." Without waiting to see if this angers him, they hurry to assure him, "But we've called for the carpenter to come, Sir. He's on his way. He'll break the lock."

The young man nods and looks at his watch. His wife peers anxiously from the taxi into the lobby to see what's taking so long. The taxi driver grumbles a bit, then turns to the radio for solace. There has been some trouble in his country and a shrill-voiced woman protests in Urdu that the only way to stop men like these is to have someone like Phoolan Devi to stand against them. The wife is intrigued, forgetting about her husband and the parcel and the long wait.

In the lobby, the carpenter has arrived. The clerk briefs him, he nods. In a timely manner, the senior manager walks in. "What's going on?" he asks, as if to establish that he is the problem-solver in the building.

The situation is explained. The man looks annoyed and produces a key from his pocket.

The door is opened. The parcel retrieved. The young man receives it with thanks and hurries out. His wife asks, "What took so long?" He outlines it briefly and asserts, "But we got it."

She's looking at him in shock. "You'd have let them break the door?" she asks.

"Sure," Anando replies. "He brought the packet all the way from India for me, as a favour."

"But still!!!" I protest. He shrugs. I understand, I am compelled by the same attraction for the contents of this package as is Anando.

Obviously, nothing gets between us and our Sunfeast Glucose biscuits.

Standing Together

2008-09-10T21:54:00.002+05:30

They could spend ages on the balcony, staring at traffic and life passing by till the day darkened and they came back indoors, to turn on the lamps, switch on the light in the prayer room, and get busy with an evening routine. The old woman would prepare dinner. The young girl would study for a while or watch TV before getting up to help with the rotis just before dinner. Long chats, family gossip, histories, mysteries, nostalgia, curiosity.

It has been a year now since the girl stands alone. Or at least, so she thinks. She hopes. She prays. And the face that flickers on the photograph by the memorial candle smiles knowingly.

Teppan-yaki, Teppan-yummy

2008-09-10T00:01:00.003+05:30

Sukh Sagar opened near our house a month back. Anando and I had watched with keen interest as the shop was readied for its opening, droolingly anticipating a homely food experience in Dubai. We kept track of when the tables were set up, when the tablecloths were laid, when chairs were brought in. If one of us walked past the restaurant we'd report the visible progress to the other.

Finally it opened, and a friend who had eaten 3 meals there in 2 days urged us to try the "all you can eat Teppanyaki dosa", recommending it highly.

"All you can eat" is always music to the ears, and yesterday we strode purposefully to check out what all the fuss was about. To watch the teppanyaki dosas being created, we perched on bar stools, banana leaf covering our plates kept on the bar counter, as the chef deftly served us rounds of a mind-boggling dosa variety! Mushroom, spinach and cheese, Szechwan, rawa, and so many more I can't remember. I was quite excited about the whole concept of teppanyaki dosa now that I could smell it, and peering over the counter, I watched as the man cooked up the crisp marvels.

And then, I realised, this wasn't new at all. I had been eating teppanyaki dosa since the age of 9! The school canteen cooked dosas in front of us at lunch time! Back then, being given money rather than a lunch box was always a special occasion, with the pride and maturity I felt at being allowed to handle money to buy a meal. I'd check my pockets all day to make sure the coins hadn't fallen out. If it was a note, it would be carefully tucked in my pencil box. And at lunch time, trying to appear nonchalant, I would enter our high-ceilinged, bustling canteen.

I still remember the faces of those dosa-makers. tall, dark, moustached - they would scoop out the dosa paste with a bowl, tap it on the griddle to create a small, puffy circle of not-yet-dosa, and then, flipping the bowl over, would use its base to spread, spread, spread the paste outwards, creating a solar-system shaped, crisp dosa that was brown on the outside and white on the inside. A quick two-scoop of masala aloo, and my dosa was on my plate, and drowning in sambhar before I could voice my objection. I watched that process in fascination for 7 years, growing from the tiptoe-height of the flame to a height where I could look down on my lunch being prepared.

Sometimes it would be Narayan making the dosas. Versatile Narayan - who was my bus conductor on PV 11 when I first joined school, and assured my parents I would reach the correct classroom, who brought in trays of water glasses during exams, grinning conspiratorially at the kids taking advantage of the temporary break to peek at other papers or sneak in a quick consultation, who updated us on cricket scores on days we were unwillingly at school while cricketing history (or so we thought) was being made elsewhere, whose moustache is finally turning grey and whose hair is at last thinning.

So what made the dosas last night especially yummy was the memories that sizzled off the griddle and wafted me back in time - when bliss meant having a jingling 2 Rupees in your pocket for a hot, hearty meal.

Elevator Etiquette

2008-09-06T08:58:00.004+05:30

He was on the phone as he entered the elevator. It was just the 2 of us. He hung up and both of us watched the floor-display like our lives depended on it. As his floor arrived, he stepped out briskly, but not before smiling widely at me and saying "Have a great day then." I was taken aback and said "fjghafklgh" with a feeble smile but by then he had left already.

Our Bombay apartment had one of those old-fashioned, sliding grill-door lifts, which had a one-track mind. So if Floor 5 called it, and on its way from Floor 1 to Floor 5 it also registered a request from Floor 3, it would ignore it happily, gliding in its transparent empty splendour, mocking the waiting passenger on Floor 3, before drawing up - a worthy, loyal chariot - on Floor 5. Floor 3 and 5 would then play a game of one-upmanship. Once Floor 5 got in and slid the door shut, the lift was fair game for everyone. So if Floor 5 hesitated even a second before hitting the "G" button, and Floor 3 hit the "call" button first, the lift would forget all about the Floor 5 passenger standing in it, and fly off to Floor 3. Of course, if Floor 5 hit "G" first, Floor 3 could "call" the lift endlessly, but the lift wouldn't deign to go to it before safely depositing Floor 5 at G.

So when you come from a place where the person in the lift is your rival, and has established their superiority by winning at "First-press-first-serve", politeness in lifts is a bit alien!

Elevators are funny places. Everyone tries to find a little space for themselves on the ride. Of course, it's the four corners that get occupied first. Then the middle, then the middle back, and then middle front. Anyone who comes in after that destroys the balance and necessitates a collapse of public space boundaries that most people find uncomfortable. (Of course, if you've done 5 years of higher studies hanging in a DTC then elbow room is a luxury, so I'm more relaxed than many.)

But what I find even funnier in elevators in Dubai, and elsewhere outside India, is the social code. The Westerners usually nod/smile/say good morning. The Indians rarely bother. The Arabs never do. The others fall somewhere / anywhere in between. And so, I am never sure whether to say it first. I have on occasion brightly smiled and met with a blank face. I have tried to strike up conversations and realised language was a problem. And then I feel really stupid. Like, who tries to make friends on a 15-second elevator ride anyway? And come on, isn't it totally mechanical to do this anyway? I don't get the whole smile-when-you-get in/stare-at-your-feet/ watch-your-phone/stare-at-the-floor-display /inspect-your-nails/smaile-when-you-get-out funda. I mean, really it's just a half-hearted social thing to do. In India, with how many people and for how long do you just smile and move on? Sooner rather than later they will find out whether you had an arranged marriage and where your family is from.

Here, you could smile at the same woman in the lift everyday and never go further than that. And I am never sure what the other person expects. I guess this comes from my whole personality flaw of always wanting people to like me. So if I decide to smile and the other just looks taken aback, I feel silly. Or if I decide to just look at the wall the other will turn out to be a social butterfly and give me a happy grin and make a general remark about the weather, and then I look anti-social. Me anti-social? ME? ME? I am then seized by the urge to restrain them from leaving the elevator, talk to them about a while to establish just how social I am, and then let them go their way. Thankfully I have not tried it yet.

Too much pressure. What do you do in the lift? I know, I know, all you sane people out there will say, just smile anyway. Reminds me of that T-shirt "Smile at a stranger, it'll scare them silly." I'm not sure I really want to practise that.

Recognition

2008-09-03T11:44:00.006+05:30

from A Muser

Someone once told me that every blogger is extremely self-conscious while writing, because you know that the world is reading what you write. I completely agree - after all, every individual who gets out of bed every morning is a self-conscious being, "preparing a face to meet the faces that you meet...", dressing a certain way, speaking a certain way, being a certain way. Even if you profess that you don't care what people think, that too is a face.

And so, when my blogging face gets a really cool recognition like this, it sure makes me smile! I started this blog on an August evening in 2004. What is this blogger deal, I had wondered. Candy was already blogging at a different location and she is the first blogger I knew. I can write, I thought, so why not start this? And so I did. And then it carried on, very slowly and sporadically, until I found myself in Dubai last year, newly married, newly freelancing, newly questioning how I wanted to live the rest of my adult "settled life". And then I wrote, jerky writing at first, but soon my thoughts flowed faster, I wrote more, and I found some great, likeminded people on the web who were generous with compliments (so important for an aspiring writer) and seemed to find the time to read my ramblings.

There is so much about my life that I keep private on this blog, using it more as a platform to present thoughts and observations through my writing, rather than my innermost secrets. But I guess if you're still reading myramblings you've liked what you have seen, and A Muser has decided that I deserve this. I had been seeing this award on other blogs and was wishing, hoping, rationalising. "It's not so different, my template." "I don't blog that often." "I'm not doing anything new that earns me this award." I consoled myself!

And then, this morning - taraaaaaaa!

Now, to do my bit by passing it on to at least 7 others:

Tharini: Who writes with love, wisdom, and that mix of knowledge and curiosity that keeps me coming back! I love her template, the way her photos have wavy edges, and how pretty her blog looks.
Itisha: Whose blog design is so perfect for the sort of posts she writes - cute, but often wry and amused at herself - that the upside down flower cannot be beaten for aptness.
Sandeepa: Who I am sure has been given this award before. Because she takes the best pictures of food and has such an eye for color in the way she puts up her photos, and whose recipe for pineapple malpua makes my mouth water even though I read it a year ago and have never tried it!
Orange Jammies: Who can make me laugh at feel jealous with her writing skill and her control over words.
Kathy: Who cares for her 80-year-old father and has still not let him realize he has Alzheimer's, keeping his spirit and dignity intact, and also helping others find information and a laugh nearly every morning.
Eve's Lungs: For articulating what often seem to be my thoughts!
Kiran: For her ability to laugh at herself - supermom and super-exasperated mom at the same time!

Well that's it from me, regular transmission will resume from tomorrow!

This award is for blogs whose content and/or design are brilliant as well as creative.The purpose of the prize is to promote as many blogs as possible in the blogosphere.

1. When you receive the prize you must write a post showing it, together with the name of who has given it to you, and link them back
2. Choose a minimum of 7 blogs (or even more) that you find brilliant in their content or design.
3. Show their names and links and leave them a comment informing they were prized with ‘Brilliant Weblog’
4. Show a picture of those who awarded you and those you give the prize (optional).
5. And then we pass it on!

Blog winners, you know what to do!

Say Cheese

2008-08-27T10:18:00.003+05:30

Today is team photograph day at work. Shirts have been tucked in. Ties rule. Borrowed jackets all around for the guys. Some have even shaved. The group of dishevelled looking young men who usually traipse around our office are suddenly walking straighter with their tummies sucked in. There are some odd combinations - like striped shirts and pin-striped trousers. But anything that helps you smile wider for the camera, with confidence, can only be good.

Peking at Beijing

2008-08-17T11:41:00.004+05:30

...is what I called it. But they thought differently :)

If you look at the epaper (Travel Agenda page), you can actually see the way it looks in print!

6 Months

2008-08-12T16:40:00.002+05:30

On the 12th of February Anando and I woke up a little earlier than usual, brushed our teeth for the last time at the tiny sink a little larger than my cooking wok, packed up the linen we had used for our last night in Bombay and wandered through the house to make sure we had packed everything. The packers had removed all the cartons the previous day. As we talked from one room to another, our voices echoed in a suddenly empty house. The early morning of a hazy day made it necessary to turn on the lights. The lit-up apartment that had been home ever since we got married suddenly looked unfamiliar. The ugly furniture from the landlord, which we'd camouflaged with our own stuff, stood out starkly - reminding me how unattractive I'd first found it. Over time I had got used to it, like I take in my stride scars from chicken pox and bicycle crashes.

I locked our door and left, remembering when we had excitedly walked in 3 weeks after the wedding, to call it our home. When we took our suitcases down to the taxi, a normal day was just starting in the building. The bathroom singer across the shaft was massacring a popular song as usual as I switched off the lights one last time. Kids were getting ready for school. The tiny grocery near our gate was stocking its wares for the day. And we turned away from it all and came away to Dubai.

6 months later - the shiny new apartment we rent here is home. We chose all the furniture, so it's all our fault if people don't like it. We can't blame a landlord like we used to in Bombay! We have a routine. We know some of our neighbours. Family have visited and warmed up our guest room. Friends have come and partied at our place, smoked on the balcony, admired the view. I have cleaned every corner of the kitchen and swept the house - a distinct assertion of ownership as far as I am concerned. Plants have agreed to flourish indoors (ahem...most plants. shhhh!).

All I'm trying to say is : it's been six months. In which I have ceased to complain about missing India because I have met innumerable people who have left behind much more. Lebanese and Iraqis whose countries are in flames. Afghanis who sweat it out here to support large families back home and haven't gone back in 5 years. Sri Lankans who clean other people's homes so that they can feed a home back in Colombo. Filipinos who will never find work in Manila because there just aren't that many jobs. Bangladeshis who are trying to escape poverty. Pakistanis and Indians who construct buildings so that the tin roofed house back home doesn't disintegrate. Taxi drivers, beauty parlor girls, maids, nurses, waiters, labourers...all of whom are in this gilded cage called Dubai. They rail against it because it holds them by the power of salary. They criticise it because it exploits their weakness for money to grow stronger, because the city is as big as the dreams of the people toiling to create it. They hate it because it is shiny and new whereas all they love and have left behind is dusty and ancient. But they all carry on like worker ants. Because of what they have left behind. Because they are responsible for it. Because they want the best for it. Because they have a chance to change it for the better.

Dreams on Wheels

2008-08-05T10:58:00.000+05:30

He worked far away from his country, creating a family out of the other young bachelors who worked at the office – playing pranks, eating with them, confiding in them. His parents lived in a small town in the depths of India – and when he offered to buy them a car they protested the expense out of habit. He wore down their resistance, telling them to go ahead, visit the showroom, pick a color, take a test-drive. After repeated assurances that he could afford the EMIs, they accepted his offer to buy a car while he waited in the sharp desert sun to take a bus to work every morning.

The car was chosen, the color picked, the downpayment made, with him pulling the strings by remote control with the power of a foreign-currency chequebook. They drove it home, stopping by the temple to submit a coconut to the Gods before driving home along palm-lined narrow paths in a sturdy 4-wheeler that shone black against the green all around.

And he sat at his faraway desk, with a picture of the car on his desktop, answering to clients and pouring his creativity into making a living. Dream 1, at least, was achieved.

Tourism in Dracula's Kingdom

2008-07-16T14:42:00.004+05:30

This is my offering for a magazine's inaugural issue. Am still researching for the rest of the article. But I think it starts pretty well and so I decided to share it with you all :)

Innocent women run for their lives as a shadowy vampire snarls in pursuit, baring oh-so-white fangs in his bloodthirsty desperation. Blood-curdling shrieks, strings of garlic, and a suspiciously pale, tall, menacing figure form the popular imagination of that place called Transylvania.

But the reality belies the myths and legends surrounding the region.

Verdant mountainsides undulate into the distance, and occasional tall spires poke into the skyline, the unusual green of their old copper reminding us how ancient this land really is.

Immortalized as the home of the sun-hating and haemoglobin-guzzling Count Dracula (ordinarily, but no less creepily, called Vlad the Impaler), Transylvania lies in the western part of modern-day Romania. In reality the Carpathian landscapes of the region are pleasing to the eye and hold no terrors, neither in the bright hours of sunshine nor after dark. Don’t forget your camera.

That Blood-sucker

2008-07-14T11:53:00.002+05:30

Vladdy hell, we're talking about Count Dracula (also known as Vlad the Impaler). My pet project at work right now: projecting Transylvania as not just where Dracula came from. It's involved bumping into fascinating Eastern European words like Szekelys, and realising that Transylvania basically means simply 'beyond the forest' (all it needed was a sandhi-vicched).

So while some windows on my screen focus on the serene and sylvan settings of Dracula land, the others are personal blogs with images dripping blood, lots of garlic ringing the screen, and Flash-animated bats winging into the twilight as Dracula comes forth.

What do you guys know about Transylvania? Anyone ever been there? Would love to hear about it.

Hunger pangs

2008-07-03T12:16:00.004+05:30

I'm at work right now. And while there are deadlines threatening to devour me, I'm also really hungry. I ran through the options in my head - there's a nice food court nearby that I usually love. But what I feel like eating right now is an entire experience:

Greasy street-side chowmein. Served on just-washed steel plates to be eaten with tin forks that jar your ears when they strike metal. A white non-absorbent paper napkin with fading red borders - offered just because the dhaba is trying hard. Balancing plate while resting gingerly against a parked scooter or car. The spice making your eyes water just a little bit. People jostling past you in a busy market area. You balance all your shopping bags in one hand - slinging them through to your wrist so that the same hand can also hold your plate. The other shovels fat noodles into your mouth. Orange carrots stray from your fork and withered cabbage sticks resolutely to the plate bottom.

This was not good therapy. I am even hungrier now.

While I can just walk across to the food court anytime I want, there are millions who have no such option - and Aunty G just shared a great idea to help them. I can't believe it is so simple and yet a genuine way to help. Try it.

Autoblography

2008-06-07T09:54:00.005+05:30

Tagged by Eve's Lungs and A Muser. Gosh, this is too much me. Will try not to be flippant. It helped that I recognised so much of myself in what I read on their posts.

I am: hot-tempered
I think: I should sleep less
I know: how lucky I am
I want: to learn another language
I have: poor time-management skills
I wish: globe-trotting wasn't so expensive
I hate: hypocrites
I miss: Dida
I fear: that I will lose my memory with age
I feel: the texture of book pages when I buy/read them
I hear: someone from my family calling me when I miss them - it's just my imagination!
I smell: what I'm cooking to figure if it will taste good
I crave: not much nowadays, but brownies are always welcome
I search: for too many things that I myself misplace at home
I wonder: How others feel about all sorts of things - I keep trying to put myself in their shoes
I regret: Nothing yet. Would like to keep it that way (touchwood!)
I love: intensely
I ache: when I see old people fending for themselves, trying to timidly cross a busy road, queueing at banks or post offices
I care: about what people think. I tell myself I shouldn't, but I do
I am not: a gossip
I believe: not in God, but in the goodwill of those who love me
I dance: when I iron (to Punjabi pop...Kendi PUMP up the JAM)
I sing: whenever I know the lyrics of the song playing
I cry: when I am angry and frustrated at being helpless. And oh, when I am sad. And when I miss someone a lot. Oh, I cry a lot.
I don’t always : get my way in life
I fight: with Anando
I write: My to-do list for the day, this blog, my journal. I write myself in all that I write.
I win: people's confidence
I lose: patience easily
I never: judge people at the drop of a hat
I always: try to see two points of view
I confuse: others by talking too fast
I listen: with varying levels of attention because I am always dying to start talking
I can usually be found: at the computer/reading a book/making goo-goo eyes at brownies in shop windows
I am scared: of being alone when I die
I need: to have regular contact with family
I am happy about: the way my life is playing out

I tag: Anyone who wants to do this :) And to the entire list, I will add one more: "I imagine:___". Let me know if any of you take this up!

The Took Bag (or the "Book Tag")

2008-06-02T19:56:00.004+05:30

Pardon the spoonerism! I couldn't resist.

Okay, so Eve's Lungs has tagged me to do this. And it's a remarkable coincidence that a book we both have in common is what I am re-reading (for the nth time) right now.

The rules are:

Pick up the nearest book.
Open to page 123.
Find the fifth sentence.
Post the next three sentences.
Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you .

And I have, from The Chestry Oak by Kate Seredy (I'd so much rather be blogging my favorite bit instead of random lines from page 123):

"Take each piece of happening that, by itself, was just a meaningless hurt and
find its place in the big picture. Do it over and over, because that way one
came to understand things, and they hurt less. He had, since his seventh
birthday, come to understand a lot and the knowledge he now held within himself
was not made of sharp, separate hurts."

Wow. Would you look at that. "Random lines", I said, and yet they hold . They cope with pain. And make you stronger as you relive your own pain. This is why - though the book is prescribed reading for 9-12 year olds - I still love it, and it moves me every time.

I tag Sbora, Aunty G, Diligent Candy, A Muser and Dipali. Please tell me when you've done the tag!

Thanks Eve's Lungs :)

O Great Altar of Passive Entertainment

2008-05-26T21:36:00.003+05:30

When you are travelling in a foreign country on work, TV is often a refuge from boredom. Of course, if all the channels are in German, and the pay-per-movie channel offers only x-rated entertainment, it can be rather dull. Unless of course you are that kind of couch potato.

But of course, late one night, when the channel that had German soap operas all day suddenly starts showing something very, umm, educational, you tend to get worried. "Did I press that button by mistake?" you ask yourself, as you sink down on your pillow and (okay, i'll admit it) watch in horrified fascination. You change the channel, but your fingers go to the "back" button just to see if it is still there. And it is. Did you really subscribe by mistake?

And then you realise, this hotel bill is going to go to the client and OH MY GOD, it's going to say "xxx-erotische" on your room bill. And your heart pounds faster not because of what's on TV but because your client will never see you the same way again. And you start planning how to leave the country in the dead of night, how to pre-pay your bill with your own credit card, and maybe even how to find another job.

And then there's a commercial break, and the jingles bring you back to earth and you realise, "Oh, this is Friday night entertainment in Germany"! It's not going to be on a bill, it's a free-to-air channel and this is their idea of a weekend bonanza. Phew.

Notes from Dubai

2008-05-17T11:16:00.005+05:30

Did you know that in order to get a residence visa in the UAE they test you for HIV? Anando is my 'sponsor' in the UAE and so once he got his visa, he applied for mine, and then I went along one day and got 5 ml of blood poked out of my arm. The woman at the counter apparently just looks at you and decides whether you also require an X-ray or not. I evidently looked like all my bones were in the right place, so she said "only blood test" and let me pass.

Meanwhile, Anando had to sign a form promising that as my husband and sponsor he was responsible for all my actions in the UAE. (Don't even get me started on the unfairness of it all.) So if I am caught with illicit liquor he's the one who goes to jail. Cheers...hic!

So anyway, after 2 weeks, I got my passport back, and yay, I had my visa. I hadn't really thought I wouldn't get it, but what shocked me was, in capital letters written across my visa, was "HOUSEWIFE. NOT ALLOWED TO WORK."

Does this mean I don't have to take the garbage out? That I should never wash the dishes? That I can be jailed for watering the plants? That the local authorities can blow the whistle on me if they discover I have been cooking meals?

I think I should put my feet up and do nothing that can be defined as "work". Thank you, UAE government. You are very kind. You have shown that you recognise the worth of housewives all around the world.

Green and Serene

2008-05-14T22:25:00.003+05:30

It was only when I knew I'd be moving away from Delhi that I suddenly began to appreciate all the greenery I had always taken for granted. Long, tree-lined roads on furnace-like summer afternoons welcomed a baking metal vehicle as it turned along shimmering-hot roads, and suddenly there was a coolness in the air, like getting an extra punch in the oxygen you breathe. In winters the trees clung to the mist, looming grey and bare on hazy mornings as we went to school, rubbing our hands to keep warm as icy winds tickled our ears and nostrils. In the monsoons, freshly bathed, they rationed out the rain through rejoicing leaves, and the tip tip that carried on long after the clouds were done ensured delightful, sudden showers as we puddle-hopped below sweeping branches.

Here in Dubai, one of my favourite moments is when I cross a carefully-cultivated grassy roundabout on my way to the bus-stop each evening. Even if I am hurrying, craning my neck to see if the bus is going to get the bus-stop before me, the old-friend smell of grass adds a touch of homeliness to the concrete that surrounds me.

The Ground beneath my Feet

2008-05-11T17:01:00.005+05:30

So you get dressed for work, and you put on your nice, slight mirror-worked sandals that go perfectly with white pants and a maroon shirt. And you step out feeling professional, feminine and oh-so-ready for the day.

Then you leave your seat in a hurry. Right foot steps on left foot and snap, there goes the strap on your left shoe.

So then you are hobbling around barefoot. Hoping people will just think you like the feel of solid ground beneath your feet. (Though regular readers of my blog will know better - see point 3 of that post.) Or that you are giving up the world and all material possessions. But when you need to discuss the first issue of a luxury magazine barefoot, no one will quite jump to that conclusion. And then you remember that you have safety-pins. Yay. And then you play cobbler and try to make ends meet. And then do. And you take your first confident step forward and it disintegrates. And to add injury to insult, the safety-pin pokes into your toe.

Sighhh...and it's just the first day of the week...

12-Lakh Vehicle

2008-03-30T21:13:00.002+05:30

Back in college one joke that never got old (I hope, because I used it a lot) was "Meri 12-laakh ki gaadi aa rahi hai, with driver" (My 12-lakh Rupee chauffeur-driven vehicle is on its way). And that expensive vehicle, of course, was the good old public bus! Waiting at a swelter-shelter, hoping against hope that (a) the bus would arrive; (b) would arrive on time; and (c) would have (standing) room for us, we consoled ourselves that it was chauffeur-driven, we didn't have to worry about parking or driving in stressful conditions, and it was incredibly cheap.

Getting on a DTC bus as a student meant we had a pass, and we declared it, with not-so-subtle undercurrents of power, to the conductor when he looked towards us. "Pass hai," we'd proclaim, and that was that. He wasn't getting any money from us! Oh, the authority with which we said it! Standing at the back of crowded U-Specials, swaying this way and that with the rhythm of the bus with our feet planted firmly on the metal floor, legs a little apart to maintain balance better - these were unconscious lessons we learnt in the laws of motion as the bus trundled (or zipped) its way to College.

It was an unspoken courtesy on buses, especially our Univ Specials, that if you were so fortunate as to have a seat, you'd offer to hold the bags, books, umbrellas, etc. for the standing population. That was the least you could do. And so, we'd clamber on to the bus, regardless of heavy backpacks, and immediately look for a welcoming face on the bus - the stranger we could hand our bag to. And then, stretch out, space permitting, in the aisle, holding tight to overhead bars, bending occasionally to peer out of the windows and assess how far home was.

It's easy to forget the complete unpredictability of waiting for public transport in a place like India when you haven't depended on buses for a while. The freedom of hailing a taxi or auto at whim brings in the self-righteous feeling that our time is too precious to waste at a bus-stop. But as students, time was the one thing we had, as we chattered about teachers, books, music, movies, boys, and waited, endlessly, for when the bus would take pity on us and deliver us from the waiting. Of course, I used the bus regularly as long as I was in Delhi, and only had access to a car in the last 2-3 years.

Why am I talking about all this today? Because public transport in Dubai is terrible. At rush hour you cannot find a single taxi. I've been curious about using the local bus, and I noticed the same bus number near my house and near the office. But the local buses are not known for punctuality so I didn't know how to get one, nor could I locate the bus shelter. So last week, I just walked home from work - it took me all of 1 hour, but I did. And today, I decided that my time wasn't so precious, and when I was striding past the bus stop to walk home again, I decided to wait instead. After 15 long minutes, it came. Pakistani driver. Some polite words in Hindustani and he assured me that I'd reach home just fine. And as I stood steady in the aisle, refusing offers to share some space with seated women, I remembered all those long afternoons, when we waited for the bus, not knowing what it would be like when it came, just like the future that awaited us then.

Dadu

2008-03-28T14:08:00.003+05:30

My grandfather would have turned 94 today. Too early in life, he lost his eyesight. But when I visited my grandparents in Allahabad, he always gave me reason to look forward to opening my eyes each morning. I would wake up, a hot and sweaty little girl on an unforgiving June morning, and slip my hand excitedly under my pillow. And it would always be there - a little gold coin. Eagerly unwrapping it with fumbling, hurried hands, I'd peel away the sticky gold foil to reveal the treasure within. If my parents weren't around, the chocolate would be in my mouth before I had even brushed my teeth.

I never really had heart-to-heart conversations with him. But he was a doting grandfather - jalebis or imartis for breakfast every Sunday, when he'd walk a long way (sometimes with me tagging along) to fetch them from his favourite shop. I remember he took me to watch The Jungle Book at a local theatre. And he would make faces at my Thakuma behind her back - provoking giggles from my brother and me.

A short-hand teacher all his life, his study was a somber room, with an ancient cupboard bulging open to reveal yellowing papers, and a large portrait of Pitman dominated the wall. Long benches lined the mammoth wooden table, and when the students had left for the afternoon, this was our dining table too. Dadu would sit at the head of the table, and we, like most self-respecting Bong families, would devour aloo bhaja, aloo bhate, aloo posto and I think the fish curry had aloo (potato) in it as well!

Dadu's failing eyesight never made his walk unsure. When he visited us in Delhi, he would walk around very fast, as if to prove a point. And my grandmother, who had a leg problem, would lag behind. My brother and I would have to split up - taking a grandparent each to keep pace with! With his dhoti (no trousers for him) pleats neatly in his silken kurta pocket, he would walk steadily and swiftly, as I hopped-stepped-and-jumped to keep up with him!

The radio was Dadu's friend, and it hugged his ear for a large part of his bed-ridden life. "Yeh Akashvani hai" and the BBC signature tune were familiar sounds in the house when Dadu was around. He had been a Shakespeare fan. And in his last days, with suspected Alzheimer's and a mind dulled with age and blindness, he would rejoice afresh each time I told him that I had studied literature at college. He would name his favourites, and smile eagerly as I talked about the plays I had read, punctuating what I said with "wah!" from time to time.

But what I remember most about Dadu is his passion for aftershaves. Unable to see, his nose was his source of pleasure, and he enjoyed trying different scents each day after the ritual shave. Body talc, deodorants, after shaves - these filled up his dark world with sensations and made him smile.

He's been gone for over 3 years now, but even today thoughts of Dadu remind me of the excitement of waking up to treasures under my pillow.

All in a Day's Work

2008-03-26T09:04:00.003+05:30

The charming, spaced-out lady across the table explained conscientiously what she wanted. Her words were carefully enunciated, as English is not her first language and she has a somewhere-in-the-former-USSR accent.

"No bosoms. No bottttoms, No stuff below here," she stated, indicating her neck. And I made mental notes for this post.

If I can do interesting things like this at work, I occasionally have to take the dullest briefs possible, but its statements like these that lighten up the boredom. This lady's business is all about supplying mannequins for window displays (yawn). I was mentally dozing as she explained the different kinds of mannequins to us - "Zere aaar ze non-head mannequins, abstrrraaaact mannequins, forrrm mannequins and the nurrrmaaaal mannequins," she clarified, holding up pictures of each kind like flash cards. It felt like biology class. I've always found the headless mannequins really spooky - why would you want to buy something that's been displayed on a headless figure?

Anyway, so the brochure we make for her cannot display any naked mannequins. That's the UAE for you - it's as simple as that, and I guess it's understandable. So when we'd sent her a sample with nice photos of mannequins - naturally mostly naked ones - she got all panicky and called us to explain that this would not do. So now, all the naked pictures need to be photo-shopped and dressed up. No naked mannequins please, we're in the Middle East.

A Legacy

2008-03-22T11:57:00.005+05:30

For as long as I can remember, there is one thing that the women of the Bose, Chatterjee and Mukharji family have used, and which I have now introduced into the Ghose family as well. That noble item, smoothening out the creases in the linen of our lives is, tan-tan-taraaaaa:

A simple jhainta, the one here has been dressed up with my scrunchie for a festive look. I don't know what you call it in your language, but I am sure this picture will be worth a thousand synonyms.

For as long as I can remember, every morning my grandmother and mother would get up and start whipping things around them into shape. As we ducked out of range, the bed would be dusted using this jhainta, beating all creases out of it. Pillows and cushions would be walloped and plumped into the shape they were meant to be. When I grew older and began doing my bit, I realised the satisfaction of watching microscopic dust particles flying off the bed with each stroke, creating a dust haze in the morning sunlight filtering through the windows. And no bed could ever be properly made without this mandatory corporal punishment. Thwack, thwack thwack goes the jhainta, and it keeps time with the user's mood that morning. I had never questioned it, and I had always taken it for granted.

I got married, moved to Bombay, and realised that without the jhainta the bed just didnt feel properly made. I had to go out and buy one. The maid promptly took it into the bathroom and used it to wash the floor. Which is what most normal people would use it for, I guess. But my houseproud grandmother and mother had turned it into an ally in the rest of the house as well - straightening out their lives with its help. And I bought a replacement and hid it from the maid.

When my mother-in-law first visited us, she came to the room in the morning when she heard the unfamiliar thwack thwack thwack. I propounded at length on its qualities, and when I next visited Kolkata, I found one in the corner of our room, for me to use while I was there!!!

My jhainta has accompanied us to Dubai. And each morning I use it and think of the long history I am honouring with this simple act. And how, in a very special way, this is a legacy too - a little domestic tip, a secret to a better made bed, and a virtual pranam to the women who have used it before me.

Blogger Bother

2008-03-18T09:40:00.003+05:30

(My comment responses appear at the end of this post)

Just a small note to all of you: For the past few days I've been having trouble getting on my blog. I can get to my dashboard (mostly), write new posts, but I cannot write my own comments in response to yours, or open my blog page at all. And no blogspot pages are loading on my computer, either at home or at work.

It reminds me of the time blogs were banned in India and we all went to pkblogs.com to access our pages. But even that isn't working this time. Is anyone else facing this probem, especially if you are (or if anyone you know is) blogging from Dubai? And if so, any solutions/suggestions?

Comment responses:

Sandeepa: Thanks. Will try doing that. And no, "view blog" isn't working either. It's most annoying.

Dehydration

2008-03-17T09:38:00.002+05:30

I watch her walk by, oblivious to my pain. In her hand is a tall, cool drink. The glass is getting frosty and little droplets of water form on her hand as she holds the glass, sipping from it occasionally. I try to attract her attention, but I can't speak. I try moving to remind her that I exist, but I seem to be rooted to the spot. How long has it been since I drank some fluids? The dehydration is killing me. I can feel that it's getting harder to breathe. My skin is starting to turn yellow. Even the ground around me feet is parched and getting cracked. In this desert land, how can she have left me to fend for myself without a drink of water for three days??? What does she think I am? A cactus? I'm just a simple money plant. I need my water.

Wanderlust

2008-03-11T17:24:00.004+05:30

While I still find my feet in this new city, my settling-in was disrupted by some mental gypsy wanderings yesterday. I went off to Greece. And there was Plato propped up against a pillar of the Acropolis, telling a bunch of toga-clad Greek fellows about the ideal Republic and the philosopher-ruler. The blue sea glimmered in the background and the white-painted buildings shone in the sun. Of course, everyone was drinking some ouzo, and eating olives. Just as I was planning to join them and dredge up my memories of what Arjun Mahey taught us in first year, someone rapped on my desk and brought me rudely back to reality.

With a sigh, I got back to work on the travel brochure for "World Destinations", which is my latest assignment at work. So all of yesterday, I just wanted to be nowhere but Greece. Today, it was Jordan. After wandering through Petra, I stopped by the Dead Sea. Excuse me while I go off to wash the Dead Sea rejuvenating mask from my face.

Tomorrow, Turkey.

Getting Comfortable at a New Workplace

2008-03-03T17:56:00.004+05:30

Make sure your seat is at the correct height versus your computer screen.
Personalise your computer - this involves changing the wallpaper, downloading cursormania.com and Smiley Central, playing around with the font of your outgoing mail signature, and naming folders of your documents after yourself.
Locate and master the coffee machine/befriend the woman who makes the coffee.
Get a strategically-sized waterbottle (not too big/too small) that you can refill from time to time as an excuse to leave your desk.
Practice the busy face: lips pursed, eyes squinting in concentration, finger tapping the pen or on the mouse.

An office desk after a year and a half of working from home. Colleagues. Inside jokes. Sign in/sign out registers. Team deadlines. Here I come....