Hatt Na! ^@#$*)&<~

In the last few years that I’ve been made aware of the importance of right of way on the road, it always puzzled me why a human being’s life was less precious than reaching a business meeting in a swanky BMW. Why couldn’t people put themselves in the patient’s death bed just for a moment and shift a little for the ambulance driver to wangle his way through? In much smaller Baroda, from where my tiny backpack hails, road bullying is even more ubiquitous.

But I recently saw a heart rending sight in Bombay: an ambulance being given way amid jam-packed traffic at the newly restructured (and heavily criticized) Haji Ali junction. Drivers reversed, steered to the side, did whatever it took to save a life. The crossing is a locality that is known for its deafening honking and ruthlessness on the road, after all, how can you expect higher morals as compassion and considerateness when time's at a premium?

A poignant feature of this incident was that there was no pandu to direct the traffic, or even regulate movement. It has been often observed by old timers, or even those who've spent considerable amount of time driving in Bombay, that when there's no traffic police supervising (or pretending or attempting to supervise) the flow of vehicles on the roads, both, road rage as well as accidents are fewer. What's more, the traffic also seems to (though amble) at least get on, unlike when they're doling out pseudo signals.

Having digressed adequately, we return to the psyche of the regular Bambaiyya - whether the Nariman Point headed sophisticated-looking executive, or the more weathered trader hurrying towards Fort or Tardeo - has undergone change. Sure he's scared more than ever before, sure he wants to stay safe as home even under the humidity filtered sun, but he cares. Even if for the selfish reason of what goes around comes around. Either this attitude of benevolence has evolved from the multiple incidents of mass deaths, where thousands, if not millions lost their loved ones, or an awakening has come that the only way to get on in Bombay is to give way…

Chinchpokli

You think Chinchpokli in the same breath as Timbuktu (if you’re all well-read and know it all) or Jhumreetalaiyya (for the desis-at-heart or those who’ve read Kipling). Some strange place with a stranger name so far away you doubt its existence- ha ha, you take it for granted, it doesn’t. But, ladies and gentlemen, it is very much for real.

Yeah yeah, this is probably no revelation to those of you who’ve lived in Bombay forever, but us गओंठीs who got here by the last train from Baroda, साला ये तो कमाल हो गया! It’s like discovering snow in Hyderabad (Snow World- don’t make the mistake of eating it, you’ll hate your tongue for life :D).

When Allan - my jazz teacher, a PR professional and friend - was moving office to the 90 year-old-Velji-Lakhamshi-Napoo-High-School-इलाका, I laughed! And laughed and laughed and laughed. I wanted to say, You’re gonna be so far from every place else! when in fact, he was going to be closer to Town, and it meant we’d be able to meet for practice with more ease and more often.

Even before that great event occurred, the picture etched in my mind was by my hostel mate, Bindi,the Naagar-desperately-looking -for-a-groom. She made Chinchpokli sound like it was Bermuda Triangle! Untraceable on the map and no vehicle went there, or one that did, never returned. I thought, Askilant this place must be, no?

And then I took a cab from hostel to Neena’s place one evening. From memory of the couple of times that Neena had escorted me, I blurted, “Dada, सात रास्ता से ले लेना,” and then every signboard address of all the tiny shops that lined the stretch read Chinchpokli. Such was my shock- I sat agape with my mouth wide open (to let in god knows what sizes of insects and what quantities of dust) and eyes popping out. I bought a Crocin and a Fa roll-on deodorant to make it all a real experience. It was my way of jerking myself out of disbelief (heights of self preservation, pinch, but don’t hurt).

Long after the fact was ingrained in my existence, I met another (Allan being the first guy I knew at) Hansa Communications designer (whose name I cannot recall for no fault of his) recently at the Bandra Poetry Slam. Post-fun-mingling revealed the fact. I blurted out, “Oh that’s the office at… erm… screwing my nose - crinkling my eyes CHINCH-POK-LEE?” The guy and his girlfriend practically screamed with laughter. I mean, plenty of case-taking had happened through the evening thanks to my “Townie” status –stepping onto foreign territory and all the fuss that surrounds it. But the fascination for one more strange land has been conquered.

Chinchpokli tee hee is no more some remote place where you head to never return, but more real. I now know it is home to the Kasturba Gandhi Municipal Hospital run by BMC, “reputed for the treatment of contagious diseases.” [Wikipedia] I strongly suggest we should add Patratu to that lexicon of faraway lands, though ;P.

Kya Chutiyapa Hai!

 I’ve spent the last eight years of my life studiously avoiding all contact with the nostalgia of the "good ol’ days" of school, only to ram right into not one or two, but four of my oldest school acquaintances. Twako’s always been a constant so she doesn’t count, but the other four…Gosh!

It began with Mital writing a bulkmail to some of us oldies asking if we’d (be willing to) make it to a reunion cuz she’s coming to India and the woman wants to kill time. “Crap,” I thought. Who the fuck wants to meet so fucking soon after the relief of finally not having to see each other EVER AGAIN? Not realising it’ll be a whole decade in another two years, of bidding goodbye. I made some fuck-all excuse and wiggled out.

 In the meanwhile, I bumped into Anand Mehta in the train! “WOHOW!” I thought to myself. The bugger wanted to have a conversation in the frikkin train. Man! Me crouching on the upper berth (his upper berth) while he conveniently tilted his head up slightly. I made the mistake of not changing my cell number after giving it to him. Every weekend since I’ve had to invent new excuses to avoid meeting him.

 Ujjwal managed to add me to his gtalk list in the interim though. This was two months ago. We’ve chatted ever since, ever fucking day. Barring Sundays, of course. This, after zero contact all through undergrad, PG and more. Incidentally, oh lord, a couple of weeks back I gave in to Anand’s invite, and boy, that was a mishtakey.

 Parin Sutariya’s chat applet popped less than a week back. The choot is so fuckin sweet – he even admits to not knowing what to say, and so not pinging. But it felt good to pick up from nowhere in the air.

 The surprise of all surprises sprung when Kanika Singh’s chat invite broke my afternoon siesta at work last week. We were to meet on Sunday morning. The biatch diatched moi.

But the excitement hasn’t ebbed…

Bombay Teaches 'nuther Lesson in Life

Bombay. A city perhaps second only to the Delhi’s Punju pockets in bling; glamour; loudness, is teaching me a thing or two about restraint: at work, in bursting into tears, in allowing others to swoop me into their impulses, in being swept into a massive blunder, in affection.

Parag and I were discussing Chaos Theory, the Anuvab Pal play I caught on a stray Sunday last month. The essence of our dialogue revolved around why many of us end up tongue tied when it comes to confessing special feelings for someone. For that matter, most of us suck at confessing in general. Parag’s reasoning may not hold true in other situations, but I’m inclined to believe he is quite reasonable in the case of admitting romantic impulses. Parag pins it on respect – the relationship and what has gone into building it that is, if the love evolves from an existing comradeship or a deepening platonic affection.

And nothing and no one can say for sure whether the evolution is mutual or one-sided. Think about it this way: we all know that we’re going to lose our loved ones someday. The elders sooner, by natural elimination. But the thought gives us the trembles – of the loss; of the absence. Even if you haven’t spoken in a long time. Even if you don’t see eye to eye on some matters. Even if they want you to marry by their choice. Even if they want you educated in a stream they couldn’t choose.

Perhaps losing friendship of the object of your affection isn’t as bad as losing him or her to death, but it is still a thought we shudder to allude. What is that situation, wherein you cannot live without a person, but rather not tell for the fear of having to live in the complete absence from your life?

If you’re already wondering what “this” is doing here, here’s why- I’ve met a few men and women my age who’ve been in love a while (in Bombay that is), some heartbroken, some too scarred or too scared to tell. Some live in the endless optimism that they shall find true love (pardon the cliché), some in the hope that their love will return, and some too hopeless to bother – either wallowing in their misery, or so stoned within that they still look for some contrived interpretation of the goddamn word.

A city that seems to regurgitate Dr. Filmys at every bend has also this face. Once in a while, it sheds the mask of entertainment and reveals this forlorn, alone demeanour. Its fears are fraught with distrust, misgivings, past experience. This city has said to me, “Deal with it,” when I was denied. Like the regular dose of discipline you get from a parent, this one’s training me to grow up once more. All romantic notions dismissed. As Hit recently warned, “Don’t even think of being nice.”

Bombay Heals

Before I began penning this blog, I started with one that was solely meant for the broken hearted. But that didn't last too long. I used to think I felt the pain that many had suffered and that I had suffered often, but  splits, I figured, were just as part-of-life as cell phones and Tantra tee shirts. The calendar ran its course and time worked its magic. However, it was the rush as well as a positive serenity of the old world slumped into the new in the magic that is Bombay, that does not let you wallow in your misery for a day longer than is absolutely necessary.

Ever since I stepped into the city, I've had days that seemed ruinous, almost deadening, making me want to pack up and leave even. The one thing that has held me is the people. Unlike what I perceived initially, it is indeed the people who maketh this city, like any other, considering the cuisine isn't anything distinct and the weather is like a longish March-to-May.

These humans, the special kinds called Bambaiyyas command the pace, the air, the current, the mood of the city. You can have just lost a prestigious poetry contest and yet scream with delight over the phone to a few close friends just because you met the most amazing set of people- smiling, winking, huggable, relatable.

In a conversation with Aditya yesterday, I was told, "Your display picture reminds me of the old you. The you I knew." How, I ask, how can a city considered so ruthless, demanding, swift-to-move-on be such a healing force?

Of Apparel and Apparent Shortness

The novelty of scantily clad women wears off way too soon in Bombay. At ten in the night, on a deserted street such as Babulnath, a woman in a mini skirt is rare. Rarer are three of them, looking to get back home. While a longish stroll home wouldn't harm - not even a mild risk of eve teasing or crime - our bunch decides the occasion calls for an all-out splurge. Small change, the other two consider, the fact that they all seem to have overlooked is that they don't have any.

It surprised me when a pal (visiting from a faraway remote land, far more conservative than apna Bombay) exclaimed, on our walk back to Churchgate station, near a bus stop, at the number of skimpily dressed women who travel by public transport and ogled so lustily and in awe at the bare female human flesh on the little back-n-forth hunt across Pali Naka, though I don't blame him, given the beauty crisis he endures each day.

The ease with which a woman can commute in even starved sections of this cosmo sex-haven, has nothing to do with the men who put up the I'm maha-decent facade. Oh! no sir! It is a simple case of not hitting the kulhadi on the foot. Simple logic: if the "outsiders" did not behave themselves, they'd be either beaten up, or screwed royally by one of the many moral-policing gang bangers. Plus, women's false sense of security comes from this fact, which the men actually use as a means to encourage more women to be less covered up... all for Nain Sukh Praapti!

Of course, some communities are also associated naturally with sexual satiation, or at least the complacency that they can get whoever they want, using slightly more subtle, and even sophisticated means.

The tall and hot bawas have no dearth of nice- NICE women. The Goans are also lucky when it comes to well structured damsels in very little clothing. The Gujju janta (and female jantus) knows how to play around the rules. The bibis live in a different world, and the other locals are a wannabe lot anyway. The greatest benefit from all the men that we women enjoy, is of complete submission and utter helplessness.

It is amusing to walk into a conference room full of Bambaiyya men, raising more than just their eyebrows. While in a less urban setting, women with slightly decent brain power would be ignored or ridiculed or even side-lined, with zero appreciation for the female intelligence, and complete ignorance and neglect of the fact, that instead of concentrating on my obvious assets, they instead of their d**** might want to stand up and take notice. Even in "very professional" Bombay, the d***brains don't really evolve. Only, they know how to conceal better- well, at least they make the attempt. So instead of considering us as dimwitted sex objects, [wo/we]men are a masked as potential threat that our semi-metrosexual boys think will overwhelm their positions at work, in a competitive environment.

The assumption is, a hot woman is hot, looks hot, appears and makes efforts to be that way because she has a motive. The motive isn't even to "sleep" her way up, but simply "tease" her way up the ladder. And when the teasing is done the right way, you never commit to giving the "wrong impression", yet the purpose is served. And this purpose at workplace could be anything at all- anything from some leeway from the IT department, to no-fetching-coffee-for-the-boss, to more frequent increments and rewards in kind.

While it hurts some women to do that because either they're just not equipped, or LAZY, some of us are too motivated and dispassionate to care a f*** about what others will say or do as detriments. One just bulldozes one's way through because there's just such a dearth of time. Traditionally, the sex that was perceived as docile and less equipped, is now sly and cunning. Not exactly the vamp, but she knows how to get her way. She will do so without announcing it to the world. And take advantage of the horny, patronising chauvinists who will weave their own intricate traps and get so wound up in them, that they will have no choice but to give in to the demands of the women around them.

All they shall be left with, is delusions of having the final say, the upper hand, and utter cluelessness deep down. And eff the pun!!

M.U.H.U.H.A.H.A.H.A

The Power of Smiles

Last weekend was the most memorable I’ve had so far in Mumbai. Apart from the variety of unrushed fun that the 36 hours offered, the city chose to unleash another human phenomenon to me: the power of smiles.

The action began as I rushed – first to my bus stop, of course – to receive a friend at the airport. What an optimum way to spend two days in Maximum City: Lots’a eating & sight seeing. ALL PUNS INTENDED. But this is not an account of how Arunav Kumar Jha & Priyanca Vibhutiprasad Vaishnav [phew! And no non-South Indian can win with me in length-of-names] spent the 7th and 8th of November 2009. It is a rant about the Power of the Greatest Utility Curve.

When I climbed into the 155, I wasn’t expecting a welcoming empty स्ट्रीयान्साठी seat at 5:15 pm, so I stood near the entry door, beside a wheel-top seat. A mother-son duo was perched on it, with mommy having to instruct her boy (of around 10) not to be so aggressive and grumpy and to stop shouting at passers-by out on the street. The child was uncontrollable. He seemed mentally disturbed, though not entirely “nuts”.

Time soon came for them to get off – it was August Kranti Maidan, I think – so the lady in white-and-yellow salwar kameez urged the child to stand up so they could move ahead to the exit. The kid was obviously unhappy, for his joyride (the little that he was enjoying) was about to come to a halt.

As the Gujju Mom scolded and nudged and prodded the now-completely-aggrieved kid, his eyes and mine met briefly. Never one to fight my habit, I gestured my hands to help him come out through the narrow leg space, and smiled. It also meant I was gonna get to sit now!

Yippee! & Phew!

What followed has stayed with me since: The child tapped on my hand that held onto the seat railing. I looked up. His grey face turned out a smile and a wave to say bye-bye. My worries about reaching not-in-time for Ar’s arrival melted into the oblivion. This moment pervaded me so much…

I told my sister about it last before we slept on Tuesday night. She says it is a sign and a strong one from the Guy-Up-There, that he chooses to bestow me with it. Ages ago, my now-no-more school principal said, “Priyanca’s always got a smile – an honest one, a loving one – a smile that welcomes you into her world.” I hope you’re watching Mrs. Mirchandani. I can still love. I can still welcome. And let go, with a smile. As Mirat once chose to say, I have “so much love to give.”

We all do. And to strangers, even more, because we haven’t given them the power to hurt us. Emotionally, we are still unaccessed territory. What makes us strong is the fact that we ARE emotional (says my daddy).

I have never laughed and smiled and grinned as I did on these two dates. [I laugh like a nutter at work though.] Mirat (again) said, “You throw your head back when you laugh”, when he mimicked Viren and Abhishek. It’s like talking to the stars, indeed. It’s amazing how comfortable you become and make another person when there’s the warmth of that sinking arc with its ends pointing to those stars. It’s like the first rains, or standing in a vast sunbeam in the windy winter of Jamnagar, or when your boss says “Good work” or playing with a Labrador puppy…

The smile works for a pick up line like no other. Try it the next time you spot a cute face at a pub. It is what relieves serious meetings of…well…their seriousness. It is what reminds fellow humans that we’re humans too. That, we are entitled to same treatment; that we can dole out same treatment. It’s what makes us forget and forgive the wrong doings of others, and remember the good that resides in ourselves. It gives us the feeling of

Somewhere in my youth or childhood,

I must’ve done something good

Thank you Ar, for smiling and making me smile so much. :)

Standard Deviation

After my split a month ago, it was a little difficult letting myself out of the city.  As if the fatigue of simply getting someplace got to me.

So apart from the self-mandated Diwali trip to Baroda, I've been avoiding all travel.  Even a biking trip. A lot of people have been complaining.  But since the complaints are seldom in words, I chose to ignore them all.

Something turned around last Friday. Anubhav called unprompted, and we fixed up for me to travel to Pune. Pune, of all the places!  I've always associated Pune with the Shivneri Volvo, the drive through the Pashan DRDO road, E-Square, Not Just Jazz by the Bay, Pizza Marzano, Tareef & Punjabi Tadka, MG Road, Camp, Aundh & Parihar chowk.  Before that, with Kothrud, and Chandni Chowk.

Pune's returned* to me often.  More than once.  It's been my resurrection destination.  Like a pilgrimage that I take to relieve myself of yearning, longing, nostalgia, boredom, pain, loneliness...

It made me nervous all the three times that I've had to make this return.

The first time around was right after high school, when I was seeing my first crush after two years.  It was nerve racking because I didn't know how he would react, how he would behave, how awkward or comfortable it would be.  Always one to obsess about having perfect moments, I was in for a huge disappointment.  D. and I had both moved on.  He didn't quite care, and I thought he walked like a transvestite.  I don't know which was worse.

Meeting Ad. in Pune was insignificant, though it was with him that I discovered the newer parts of the university town.  With him, I experienced Pune in the winters, for the first time. Weather in the city seems to be a constant reason for me to go back and soak some of it in.  You can smell burnt wood in the evening, a little smoky.  And the air is dry, yet a mist seems to kiss your earlobes as if to remind you of what clean air feels to the senses.  Of course, when I was riding pillion with Anubhav back to his shack, I kept wheeeeeing (like the Bombay gaonthi that I have become) about how clean and lovely Pune is and how I was already in love with the decision to spend the weekend with an old pal over alcohol and music we both loved (thanks for Aaj jaane ki zidd na karo, Bunnz).

My most extensive touch-n-feel of the Marathi culture hub though, was with Ni.  Of course, even with him being there, there was never initiative to venture out to watch a play or two every month or music concerts or attend a weekend workshop together.  It was always pizzas and films and dinners and other regular riggin' things IT techies do to kill time over the weekend.

But last weekend was different in such myriad ways.  I met Meenakshi. I mean, I've met her before alright, but I spent time with her.  Saw the vulnerability of a woman dying to get out, but stuck at home with of parents who aren't exactly conservative, but not quite willing to let go.  Get out Meera, get out'a that place, I maintain.

It was also the first time ever that I've actually slept with a guy.  Slept.  Like snoozed off listening to his snoring and sleep-chattering (yes, Bunnz, you talk in your sleep- Meera will vouch for it). What's poignant about the fact is that he made sure I was absolutely comfortable.  The razaii,  the food, the alcohol, even letting me mop the floor when I broke the glass and allowing me to prepare dalia next morning for breakfast (at lunch time :P).  The champi was my tiny thank you note, Bunnz.

Parallel to my physically being in Pune, I was also living the nostalgia of a boy who spent his most precious moments in this city.  My first drink went out to him.  In my thought, in my sip.

To be in the warmth of a home with pals can be healing.  It's like phoenix tears or vampire blood.  Mytically healing, yet unexplainable.

I'm ready to start traveling again, come January+.  Make the most of my quota of PLs and explore places on my list.  Being in Bombay only helps - you can get anywhere within a reasonable time frame, whether by train or a flight.

I'm finally solo. On a trip of my own.  Single and Unavailable, as my Tantra tee announces!

*It is remarkable how I'm so full of myself to talk of places returning to me, and not me returning to them. But it is the idea that visits me, that makes them return in thought, and therefore, beckon me to revisit. Not to revisit a past memory or an old haunt, but to explore it in its all new avatar.

+Pondicherry is first on list in February.  I'm afraid it will have to be solo. No tag-alongs this time. Heck, they might all end up solo trips to pile on friends to take me around and show me their place of thrive.


IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER:
Kolkata | Chorwad | Kutch | Pushkar | Gokarna | Cypress | Vizag | Greece | Sicily | Berlin

An Evening That Never Was, And Might Just Be

Have you ever seen the stars light up on Marine Drive- the few that do show up- when the moon's absent, right before the dawn breaks, with the whole queen's necklace sparkling, giving you the hope that some day one of those diamonds will sparkle in your beloved's eyes?

Have you ever sat at Under the Banyan Tree and thought this is where you'd've liked your first date to be?

Have you been to the Mocha at Churchgate and sat on the largest table with only your girl at it and just cracking inane jokes and laughing your head off over an M&M shake?

Have you ever sat at Bandra Promenade at 2 in the night and thought you could listen to the music of the waves forever... and make music of your own... an alaap from Malkauns that turns into Summertime...?

Have you ever walked from Churchgate to Colaba to the Taj/ Gateway back on Colaba Causeway to Theobroma, nibble at some chocolate indulgence, move into a cab, and make out as you head back for a private room to follow things up?

Have you ever walked through Dadar Parsi Colony late in the evening and smelt the October Fragrance and had a "haaaaa" moment every time it finds you?

Have you ever (/been) bought the biggest bunch of ANY white flowers across the Not Just Jazz by the Bay and felt so elated about it you thought you didn't need any particular person to be in that state of being in love?

Have you seen a movie at Regal or Sterling and kissed the neck of the girl sitting right beside who you might just have the most amazing evening with, or might just get slapped?

Have you gone shopping at the Fabindia in Fort and ended up making out in the changing room cuz no one cares there?

Have you gone visiting Jehangir Art Gallery to see crazy modern art and ended up explaining or being explained something and then actually liking it? Follow it up with a cuppa chai at Samovar and memorabilia s/he will never forget?

Bombay has just so much love in the air you'd have to be two to take it all in.

Overrated

I actually managed to arrive at the title for this post even before beginning to pen it. Perhaps because I’ve been saying it too often lately about so many things. Though it’s not necessarily about the things and people in Bombay, I guess it gets place on Bombay Chuddies for the fact that it is here that I’ve had these realisations.
So here’s my list (editable and addable) of things overrated:

1. MBAs are top of the list for now. It’s like a done-to-death topic with all my MBA as well as non-MBA pals already, but I just need to put it in writing now. High time. What about them fascinates people to gawk open mouthed and wide-eyed? They’re horny like any other, though have no horns on their heads (or even nose, like a rhino, which would be really something). And they can’t talk about anything beyond… uhm… 5 lines? And their passions are so… lame. I haven’t used that word in ages for anybody, but it’s just erupted out of nowhere. It’s as if their being from a premier b-school makes them superior to intense emotions; as if banalities such as a chhotu yellow butterfly are too frivolous for their over-exploited time. Juiceless.

2. Crowds in the Virar Fast local train. It is not crowded all the time, so stop looking so aghast, for heaven’s sake! I travel in them all the time (ok, non peak hours, but so what?) and I’ve managed to get off everywhere… from Dadar to Bandra to Andheri… Beyond that, of course, I refuse to tread, so I don’t know.

3. Living in South Bombay. It is not always expensive to live in this precious part of the city, unless you’re a spoilt brat who’s had EVERYTHING all his/her life. I mean seriously, how hard is it to alter your life to fit in a 6:00 am to 10:30 pm open-gates hostel lifestyle? You have Lata Mangeshkar, the Ambanis and Rahul Bose in the neighbourhood. The sea isn’t farther than a 10-minute walk. It’s a bargain I’d say.

4. Sex. Yes, sex. It is kissing that needs some serious attention now. Men go about grabbing your jaw, biting, licking, exporting litres of saliva and just don’t know the art of kissing. How the heck are you supposed to get to base 4 if you can’t even get past base 2?

5. Pollution in Bombay. A couple of months back, when I was still at the Bakhtawar office, and when I still hitched a bus from Mantralaya, a woman snubbed me for throwing some plastic in my haste to catch the bus. I mean, what’s the hullabaloo about messing up the air, water, roads, et el? As Abhishek once said, if we didn’t diry, the cleaners would lose their jobs (aside: Steve Jobs didn’t lose his despite long sick leave and despite Apple thriving even while he was gone- saala… as Chintan says it). They say it’s the developed country that can add maximally to environmental redemption substantially. Developed nations must develop, must use, must waste resources and dirty the whole place nicely and become all big and developed and thriving before it can be shaken into eco-consciousness. So, jaa na be!

6. Cell phones. Another over-researched point of contention. When I didn’t have my phone all of last Thursday, it felt so cool to be just living in the here, not just the now. I realised if anyone needs to reach me, they have my landline number. We seem to hate the prospect of anyone but the intended receiver picking up our calls. Why? Are we so important or busy that we cannot waste those two minutes on introducing ourselves to a stranger, making conversation, requesting to be connected? As a species noted for its social tendencies, we’re losing them.
7. Non-vegetarian food. Now I hear a loud murmur about how wrong I am, how Bandar kya jaane adrak ka swaad (which, btw, is ironical), but come on! If you’re a “pure non-vegetarian” – which is such crap, man – you can’t be Indian, have Indian non-vegetarian cuisine and then claim to be pure anything! What about all the hefty amount of spice and ancillary veggies that go into making that aromatic curry or slurp roast or fry… sigh… All there is to it seven different meats for the days of the week, as opposed to a whole new concoction every single day of the month. Variety baby, variety.

8. Poets. I had this conversation with A. last night: so many of us seat poets or even the aspiring good ones on a pedestal for nothing. You understand jack shit of what they write and think, ‘Wow he knows his shit man. He can put so much into a few words/ lines/ verses/ rhymes.’ No, no, no, love! They’re just so bad with vocabulary that they try to fit in everything into short sentences and finish it off as soon as possible. And because it’s all so ambiguous, you think they’ve been born with higher sensibilities. And shit like that.

9. T.V. Need we say more?

October Fragrance

It is what I call the October Fragrance.

And it's returned to me. I used to associate it with my neighbourhood back in Baroda, but it's caught up with me, like the flamingoes that return to the Rann of Kutch each year. It returns like the mating season, like a festival, like the falling beauty of autumn. With autumn.

It's probably got something to do with me. I was traveling to Powai the other day, late in the evening, in a cramped auto, with Nishant and his friend, when the fragrance suddenly emerged from all the wooded corridors along the road and the darkness. Looking for the source would'a been vain, because there are no street lights on that road. But I smelt it again last night, while I was driving to KC, and it found me again!  And I go a little ballistic inhaling it. And I try exhaling as quickly as possible so that I can take another shot...

These flowers are mysterious. Their fragrance hits you first. Then the curiosity of where from it emanate, and finally if you're lucky and persistent enough, you might spot the picture perfect tree. Like a cluster of umbrellas-in-miniature, waiting for the rain to stop, shading the white bunches from its wrath.  The strangest thing about this sweet odour is that you cannot taste it.  It is not like a Mogra or Jasmine, you cannot feel it on your tongue.

What a pity to not be able to feel something with all your senses...  You can seldom spot it, you can't feel it on your tongue, and it's so light it barely stays in your nose for a while.

Cheap at Half Price

My own version of the Jeffery Archer title.

Bombay freaks me out!!!

I recently committed the crime of being clad in a green kurti and jeans with purple hair clips.  When it was brough to my attention, I casually dismissed it, "Do you actually expect me to care?" The response was both, overwhelmingly daunting as well as ridiculous. "Why the calssy pair of jeans then?"

The word "classy" echoed in my ears like those Ekta Kapoor dialogues - Mai tumhaare bachche ki maa banne waali hoon... maa! maa! maa!

I almost smirked, is this what you call classy?!! Thought it to be pretty tacky.  At some point I'd almost vowed never to put it on again.  No, it has no embellishments or noticeable flaws, except that I thought it was a tad too tight n low at the waist.  Of course, one doesn't mind a 400/- buck spending being stashed away in the dark recesses of my ever undone closet.

Classy.

That word still rings in my head like the last swear word a loved one used for me.

I have religiously worn the pair at least three times a week since then. To office.  In a city I find every next guy in the local train ticket line at the Bandra station to be a glitteratti aspirant, I've been accepted at too low a price.

Not complaining.  Next purchase in clothing: more sasta slim fit black/ gray jeans.

Precious

Bombay's pulled all stops for me, it seems. After seven months of being in this "natural port city", I come across Precious. He is the Quintessential Face of the City. The face that shines in the street light, the feet that hate walking and yet walk a mile a day, the hair-do that conforms to corporate norms of the business district, the thin lips that twitch when they mention the name of an ex yet never fail to mention it every time...

He looks with piercing eyes. As if accusing you of amusing him. He says things the way you'd say it to your English professor: like you don't like yourself much, yet sustain for that is your duty in this world of mindless existence. He argues with his mother, yet wouldn't leave her. He's never asked a girl out, yet the confidence of living in Bombay reeks from every pore in his anatomy. He doesn't care for art, yet knows the art district in Bombay like the back of his palm.

He has, what photographers call, an "interesting" face. The ability to look into space, without gaping at anything in particular, not looking like a doper. The cleft on the chin, the eyes, the jaw, the shoulders (yes, yes, Precious, "Shoulders baby, Shoulders!") all invite you to a glimpse into his genealogy.

After successfully securing all the support systems in the strange place to keep the tear bottle in check, I'm ready - ready to laugh and smile again, unconditionally. And Precious is my partner in that crime called madness. Not the kind that leads you to asylum confinement, the kind that sets you free. Free from fears, free from hurdles, free from yourself. You know how in a partnership, there's often two kinds of investors? The kind who put in the tangible resources and the other who channels the non-tangible energies? We're that kind'a team.

I like teams. There's logic to it. Like marriage, or siblings, or best friends, or a visualiser-writer pair. Precious and I are the he-makes-me-laugh-I-make-him-laugh kind'a team.  And teams of two always rock. Two people are in constant touch not because there's just need, but a sense of harmony engulfs them.  A sort of energy and renewed vigour that then extends up to everything and with everyone they touch.

So why is Precious "Precious" and not just good old Anmol, Maulik or some such what's-in-a-name? Because he's intimidating, do you mind?!?!? He's not one to smile because these are the things that I choose to write about him on Bombay Chuddies, which, about... six (at least?) people read in all. Because there's bound to be more than a name and a face. This is one of those people who've plopped into my world. Like all the people I’m so obsessed about in life.

There are no questions on how long it will last, or will he be bothered. It is like jaywalking. Being a couple of shed feathers that matter not to the bird - the rest of the world. I hope you enjoy this jaywalking trip, my precious.

Sutta by the Sea

I hung back at the bus stop.
No reason.
The rain - no - only a drizzle
Changed it for me.
A chill swooshed in
Mist diffused across my path
And every time it breezed
It diffused some more.

My steps slowed
The angst subsided
Like a puddle dousing a match.
The eyes began to look tonight
At colour like colour was never before.
My feet felt winged
A floating plane ashore
Like the sea itself
Asking for more.

Where's the Devil in Evelyn... Where's the Blood in Bloody Mary?

Bombay hasn't met Bloody Mary. Yes, the famed entity that's supposed to spice up your meals, however plain. Here in Bombay, people make their BMs plain as routine. It lacks the spice. The Tabasco seems amiss. The BM is truly characterless here. It has no body. No zing. No kick. It does not make you wanna finish it n then want some more. It makes you wonder, for a city that rapes and kills its women so keenly, so skillfully, they do a bloody bad job of the ooze. Of what's bound to splatter. Of what separates one's own from others, of what is thicker than water, of why step ones are always loathed.

Food, it seems, is only second to leave its imprint on a city's visitors. In a metropolis as frequented as Bombay, it extends to its drink. Still, in the quest for the perfect Mary. Like a whore, like a lover, like a thief, like some fever, like dope mid-week, like a prisoner with cheek, like dreams gone awry, like a muffled scream.

That'll be my Bloody Mary.

At a Meeting with Boss, Superboss, Parag 'n his Boss

Shit. I've been noticing blackheads and white heads. On the faces of men. I thought I was idle-obsessing over Neenu - jobless as both of us were and distracting as his daane are. Either it is a genuine new 'interest', or my attention span is weaning. Writing poems during meetings, doodling, interspersing long monologues from the three grey-heads with doubts or silly, childish questions... Yawning.

Staring at people's shoes. Shoes, just shoes. Period. And hair. Jairam's is quintessential Mallu curls. Sajeev has happy, wavy "set" hair. Imagine it slightly longer. Almost hippie-like. Mr. Morada's... is crinkly. It's crinkly, thin, long on top and neatly trimmed at the back.

And where Satish's is the neatest, most appropriate, most suitable for his age-position-personality-style, one must see Parag to believe how untidy-yet-cute a guy can look. I have a feeling he puts gel in his hair to make it look that messy. Then there's Vijaya and Yogita who have pan-Mumbai hair-dos. Neat, functional, nothing fancy.

Sanchita's is a standard new-in-Bombay-cut: well conditioned and taken-care-of, but can turn pretty bad given a chance. Oh, and she wears the cheap Nariman Point- inner road- wayside shop-sandals. Thick sole, inadequate heels, all puffy and dusty and plastic. The straps, tacky; broad; out-dated.

Heels. I'm obsessed with those as well these days. Height is highly (pun! pun! pun!) underrated.

Written during a meeting at the Bakhtawar Office

My boss's boss is really just a child. He goes up to others for approval. Professionally or personally. Whether it is a business decision, a doubt in sentence construction, a proposal he must make to the Chairman, a new white shirt he may have recently bought and worn to office, or even a tacky navy blue tie with tiny L&T logos splattered all over, like mud stains on a 3rd standard football player's white sports t-shirt (God knows why schools have white uniforms for PT classes).

He could be easily perceived as young-at-heart, passionate, dedicated, et el. Alas, his height gives away his insecurities, his diffidence behind the heavy facade of aggression and understanding - of knowledge as a weapon of mass control.

*whistle*

Ab pata chala police streeling kyun hai!

Gurpal's humor has never amused me much, but this statement has been playing itself on loop ever since I heard him on Tedhi Baat. Not because it was funny, or oh-so-clever, but because every time I see the police women in Bombay, my mind goes in fifth gear and begins to wonder what they are like.

The ladies in uniform that I so often come across, are mostly young. Below, say, 30. Surprisingly, they draw a very different picture of the profession. They too huddle in groups, stomping, wearing trinkets, worried about how their superior will bajao their band.

I've seen them sitting together at security posts at Kemps Corner, travelling in uniforms as well as in plain clothes in local trains, at the railway station of course, and sometimes more unexpected locations like a departmental store. They're the same as us ordinary girls- giggly, chirpy (the word is chanchal, my Hindi teacher's memory tells me), and have little or no more exposure to the world of spineless scheming politically motivated superiors than 16 year old girls right out of high school.

They talk to their boyfriends (or at least boys/men they fancy) on their new flip cellphones, or to their mothers, declining marriage for now, putting it off a few months- years- lives. "I don't want to marry," they say, "I want to take care of you two, aai-baba." "Woh mere ko kaam karne dega kya?" The questions remain the same.

So what's the hype surrounding the stature of the police services? These girls bring it all down to the level of human basics. There is no higher motive/ purpose/ stature of these guys. All of a sudden, I've begun to perceive them less as a scared member (me) of the society, and more like a fellow contemporary- more or less competent and at par when it comes to reacting to everyday situations.

Nothing sets them apart. Nothing about them is different. Nothing is so dangerous about them. They all depend on other men to do their bidding. To protect them. Thank you girls, for bringing them Potbelly Pandus down to ground zero.

Bombay Made Me Queasy Once

Does the sight of kites circling really close to the ground make you queasy?

I saw one such herd this evening at Haji Ali, taking turns plunging into the shallows near the shore. The scene brings a churning feeling in my tummy, like it was my fault whatever is being lunged at has ended up being nutrition for the omnivores. It is like a nightmare.

Everyone charging at you with ammunition ranging the unimaginable to the most ridiculous. You twist and turn and thrash in your sheets until, finally, your slumber cannot contain the wilderness of your imagination.

(A)ND

It was this afternoon, when Neelanjan was fooling around with Parag's poetry (Parag writes soulful Marathi poems in first person), at office today, that it dawned upon me that he happens to be a variety of Bambaiyyas the city seldom acknowledges.

'Neel', as we like to shorten, is like a visitor who's decided to extend his trip to no particular date in the future. A tourist who forgot he must return. An 'objective observer', an outsider for whom it is and will always be "Mumbai", not "Bombay". Despite a confident gait, Neel still fumbles with new routes; he is totally kicked by the whole idea of the purple Merc AC buses; shows streaks of literary brilliance in banal bitching/ pep talk, like, "I know what it's like to be in a relationship with a voice." This is a man who reads Marathi Poetry with a Bong accent and understands all the scattered English sprinkling. He's a complete goof with lots'a taste when it comes to beauty. He's still the fucking intellectual, who refuses to wear tapered shirts to look all "with it" or go gymming for that dream physique every Bombay-boy fantasies. He loves Monalisa-smile Marianne's sarcasm- the privacy of her humor to which even he is often debarred.

Neel would dance his fave step with panache, when no one's looking at work, in that photocopy enclosure for his seating space, as he listens to Arnob or Manna De buried in his laptop screen. He's noisy when he laughs his nasal laughter, loud in expression (read: foulest sprinkling through a 20-minute lunch chatter), yet his ways are quiet, calm even.

He's not a loner, but in his body language, you sense a looking down upon yourself for being the dud you ARE. And he knows you: smart, stupid, emotional (read: stupid), practical (read even more stupid), brilliant, happy, melancholy, miracle maker, heart breaker, funny, never-boring, all-knowing, wise.

So, why the rant about some colleague/ friend at office? Because, my dear, as I began, this city often ignores this extremely entertaining yet endearing variety of individuals, who you must be lucky to come across, yet, merrily dissolve into the flow that throngs the Mantralaya-to-Churchgate parade every evening. One more virtue that resurrects Bombay for me. It shelters quirks. All sorts.

Footsie

The count is going up rapidly. I've been noticing more n more people whose shoe sizes, in proportion to their heights, are, well, not proportional. So many men who're tall as hell but have feet of dwarfs. Terrible! I feel like a giant in their midst! A giant with a gigantic foot.

How do they carry themselves? Don't they fall? The bulk! And their poor little feet! Some of them even look shrunk. :(

And the aesthetics are all skewed. Broad shoulders, lovely long fingers, beautiful torsos, daddy-long-legs even, and then the feet. They are a more pitiable sight than an inadequate other size.

It's not even a disorder, or a handicap (I care two hoots about political correctness). It's not like they don't walk properly, or walk at all. Some of them jog, and a lot of them do more.

So what's the point? Duh! Just told you! I've been noticing a lot of these weirdos! Even that's under scrutiny these days, kya?

Rockstar Rider

Leather makes him
And weather strengthens:
He is seasoned by the earth.
Ever free, the quadrilateral isn't home:
He dwells amid the hills
And the rain and green thrills,
Though posterity misses by inches,
Pity him not an ounce.
Analysing each isolation,
Not a cheetah, he wouldn't pounce.
~Priyanca, Biker


Unlike most Bambaiyyas who have a routine for everything including catching the 8:20 bus to commute to work, I've not yet "settled" into any such comfortable schedules. I reach work any time between 8:00 and 9:00 am, which is a huge margin even by Bombay standards. And I seldom give it a second thought. I never know how long it will take me to reach by bus- sometimes it takes me just 15 minutes, sometimes a whopping 45. Of course, what route I get on is an important factor.

Ruts apart, the city's been resurrected for me. Just when I thought it's lost its charm, reclamation's come to Backbay once more.

The stop closest to my hostel gates does not attract the AC buses. Well, not officially, at least. The average drivers are faithful to their vardhi and discourage taking on and allowing passengers to get off away from assigned stops. They don't want to be the cause for traffic ever, which is an excellent attitude. They also always avoid accidents and road rage. They're almost a whiff of fresh air as compared to the regular fellas.

But the AS-2 route rider is an exception. Not in stopping where I wait for the mundane 88s or 93 Ltds, when I wave, but in this: a nod, a smile, a good morning!, reciprocation for recognition of a human face. And when my cold-ridden throat squeaks askance, "aap yahaan rok doge," he responds with, "mai wahaan bus rokta hoon toh yahaan kyun nahin?"

The warmth in those words glued me right back to this place. The redemption of a people I once thought were heartless, relentless.

Roti, Kapda, Makaan: Old News

I was talking to mummy when it occurred to me: people's lives in this city revolve around three pedestals. Rains, trains and lanes.

It is always warm, so the precipitation is always a threat. When they say "It's hot!", it's funny. When they get all paranoid about the rains, it's funnier. The local trains get disrupted even when three people sneeze together (as Jairam once mentioned in jest)! So during monsoons it's like all hell's been let loose.

The cacophony of mobile phones and landline ringers goes off to sound distress or simply to discuss exactly how many extra milliseconds one spent on the way. How the slow trains swept past or how the fast trains swum at Ghatkopar. How Ollie got onto a bus at the signal and it was running empty on a shunting route, because the station had no crowds to vomit into it, this morning. How I'm so lucky to be living where I do, the roads ever empty, devoid of traffic and gurgling drains.

The politicos proclaim their influence on on-the-rise infrastructure, the mango people crib how every road's a pothole enlarged. When there are too many traffic signals, the citizens complain about too many hurdles. Once the flyovers are under construction, they say there's no place to walk. And there's no dearth of pedestrians.

So you see, it's a vicious circle. Unending, concentric, incomprehensible, yet lucid, really.

Fly

There is a fly,
It deserves to die:
It is very irritating.
Spreading illness like that
Bringing shit to your hat
It's a claimant on collective hating.
Rubbing its hinds,
About to devour your health
Disgusting like a Star Wars villain.
Let the electric fly killers
Attract them and burn them
Let the swatters take care of
The carcasses in flight
Let newspapers get to their real jobs
Let the hum finally cease.

From Another Time

It's almost a bimonthly affair now, my Hyderabad-Delhi- Hyderabad trips. What is so special about travelling between a big city and the State-Capital, you'd ask: ordinary Second Class Sleeper, 26-30 hours, the extreme weather of the plains, and rotten police afsars between Jhansi and Agra who insist on harassing anyone remotely urbane in appearance.

The price tag: Rs. 649/- one way.

The safety: I can't begin to describe the extent.

The pleasures: Countless.

Since food becomes top-priority on a long distance journey, let me begin by stating that the Indian Railways, under the guardianship of the greatly revered Railways Minister Laluji, have converted into a sort of chain of a-la-carte restaurants, the likes of food courts at malls, almost. From the heavenly, yet earthy adrak (ginger) chai, to the slightly upmarket cutlets/ omelet-bread, to the standard set meal- all at your beckoning. Did I mention the in-betweens?

Fresh, intoxicatingly sweet fruit of the season: oranges, guavas, chickoos. And about two hours before Nagpur, start the flat cries of "Agra ka Petha" and namkeen. As you manage to get over these temptations, samosas and vadas- piping hot- come knocking at the doors of your palette. So potent are their delicious smells that they possess the power to awaken you from the deepest slumber caused by the cradling motion of the train. Madhya Pradesh is the most deadly though.
The dacoits of Chambal would eat themselves if they ever knew of the culinary delights lay in the bogies of the Sampark Kranti Express: Ratlami sev and bhujia, Imarti, puri-bhaji, Mathura Laddu. It just doesn't stop!

It's a ceaseless flood now, and you'd better turn a saadhu to remain determined. To not give in. And just as you've managed to save yourself from the clutches of a night that'd lead you to a three-day course of Pudin Hara/ Eno/ Triphala, the early morning chai arrives at Mathura in heart warming kullad to break your resolution.

$#&^*(#%+ Rains

She plays hide and seek
Where trees lie mobbed together:
A veil of shower
Or just peek-a-boo.

Her games are an open secret,
Like a burqua that covers beauty
And intrigues the onlooker too.

She dances on the ledge
And climbs in through the window.
When the winds chase her elusive arrival,
She gushes through tiny bylanes
And beckons all on the way—
The myna to sing,
The grass to beam,
The puddles to splash,
And lovers to dream.

The dreams shatter as she lashes about,
The puddles meander into streams,
The grass sinks, stamped upon,
But the myna remains on the brink—

On the brink of madness,
She wades through the fog
Climbs each branch higher
Forks further, flits farther,
The friend catches up, at last.
~ Priyanca, The Rain

The rain in this city has as much shame as its people. It barges into your taxi like it's gonna pay half the fare plus damages for wetting the seats. The pitter patter isn't consistent. It kisses my lips sometimes and at others, just drenches me like it was holi. Zero modesty or sense of timing.

And then the taxi.

Fiats have a distinct smell. A smell very different from other cars. It is the smell of the steering wheel and the dashboard. In the rains, the moss threatens to erupt all day if you don't clean it often. It is probably the stench of that threat that marks all taxis in the rains. You just can't keep the water out. The odour seems to me an inseparable part of the monsoons here. It's like those lines from Hotel California, You can check in anytime you like/ But you can never leave.

Spooky, I say!

And when you try turning up the windows in an attempt at keeping the vaachhant* out, you feel gagged, like the lack of air had taken over from the mold and now that's a menace you SHOULD be scared of.

*Gujarati for the spray of water, especially rains, reflected from a surface because of the force of the water itself.

This City Breathes

Its beauty lies not in its people, but in a yesterday that ponders. And though it treads the path of now, they merely shed the load of the day and get on with tomorrow. The city ain't for the weak of heart, for a weaker hearth ties them. Grand in wrath, more grandiose in recovery, their scars too are a thing of the past.

Like the numerous buildings that line all the six-lane roads in South Bombay. Like the statues that stay put, even with flyovers erected around them- almost Matrix-like. They have resisted time, space (or the increasing lack of it) and the sea.

I feel like an alien here. Not because the pace is too fast for me, or the decibels too loud, but it always boils down to the people. I have made a few acquaintances though. Some, I call friends too. But they're not warm.

The distance bothers me here. Not because it is too large, but because there is so little space to travel it. So few means despite the buses and taxis and autos and private vehicles, despite the flyovers and bridges and sea link and foot-overs.

They have built their tiny bridges, when a large one could not be afforded. They have fought their way through train trips, when the larger wars gunned them down. Their angst is their own, no one shares it outside the city. Their problems are their own, not even their neighbours share them. So if this city's so synthetic, why do I love it so much?

I've never been happier than I've been the past 6 months. I'm left alone when I need my solitude. There's no dearth for good conversation. The breeze blows all the time. The stone buildings always offer the occasional marvel. But two years is all I can take of it. The happiness would kill me.

Shh...

The sea brings my day to me,
And the lullaby to slumber.
Last night, he came a tad sooner,
Whispering a tide on my shore.
He slipped in through no secret door
No crevices led him in
He needed no permission,
I couldn't bar his entry.
Shhh, he grunted.

Written at the L&T Orientation Programme

When I was on the bus to Haji Ali last evening, I noticed a house. All that was available to the eye, from my vantage point on the road, was the verandah on the first floor, with a couple of windows open. The windows allowed a peek into what could be the outermost "layer": clotheslines, spare mattresses stacked one on top of another, toys from another era, peeling paint, rusting pot stands, corroding aluminium on the windows themselves.

It was a feeling of deja vu. As if I have been told about this house, this verandah, this place before. A few years ago, may be. And then it strikes where, by whom I was told. I remember exactly my source of this prior description. Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance told me.

What came as a surprise though, was how close the house was to the vicinity where I live. And how close to the description's likeness.

Bombay takes me back to books now.

Nerd.

Sweet Flower Bus Trip

A couple of days back, I had an intriguing conversation with a lady in the bus Iwas travelling to go to... Dadar, I think. It all began with this sweet smell that stung me while I sat on a window seat, practicing the songs I was to sing for the rehearsal (yes! I was going to Sion for my rehearsal, not Dadar) that day as the brackish sea air mixed with the salty mist hailing from the Haji Ali shore came flooding in the face.

It was probably so stark because it wasn't the regular stale jasmine or jui or rajnigandha. It was different, despite emanating the same sweet headiness of white night flowers.

I was in two minds, to ask or not to ask the lady what those flowers she'd put in her hair were called. She had the air of studied dishevelledness- like all Marathi women of a certain age do. a dark green sari with red and gold border, oiled hair tied into a tsotli . So raked some guts (as if I were a boy of 14 asking some girl), "Auntie, aapne jo baal mein phool lagaye hain unko kya kehte hain?" She smiled (Oh! the smile that lit up my day!) and told me the name of the flower [which i've forgotten now :( ], and then she told me the jhaad is called bakul. "Shivaji Park mein Ganesh Mandir ke paas hai."

Photo courtesy: http://www.flickriver.com/photos/noshin_me

I've stopped putting flowers in my hair. The last time I did was at my sister's engagement. It scares me to attract someone now. Not because I'm "booked" or because my loyalties lie in a home far away- perhaps the prospect of being so subtly attractive scares a lot of us. There's something demurely sexy about flowers - especially the way we Indians tend to use them for shringaar. It is like wearing a love potion. Devilishly sweet, yet elusive.