Majestic Spook-sion

Majestic Mansion it seems. "BIG SHIT" as Sruti puts it.

Scratch all those paeans I sang about my first house in Hyderabad. Yes it was lovely, yes the balcony was romantic, yes the rooms were big and I had it all to myself, but it’s amazing how tiny a trigger it takes to destroy that feeling of comfort and security in a quiet house by night.

So… how tiny was the trigger?

The size of a palm.

Only two nights after I wrote about my one-woman house party, I heard noises: first in the balcony, and then scurrying in the kitchen. I was petrified, but got up to check. As I approached the bedroom door, I heard distinct scuttle near my bin – not ten steps away. I screamed. I knew I was gonna be dead. I screamed and screamed. It was amazing that for the time of night, the noises were steady enough to wake me from deep slumber, allow me to get out of bed, walk to the living room door, open the latches and unlock the grille.

I screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed my guts out. Called for help. I thought someone had entered the house. How, though still a mystery, was not even my concern. That someone could, was bad enough. And after all those horror stories that mom and Dida had ranted about how people’s homes were broken into, and when nothing was found, the occupants injured or killed, scared me to almost fainting.

When I think of the night, it injects indomitable fear inside of me. I’ve been a rather fearless soul most of my life. The past few years especially have been a relay of one gutsy decision after another. Stepping into that crazy ass place called Bombay and then chucking a perfectly secure committed relationship ka bubble, sacking my boss a year later, taking a four-month break, taking off again to come farther away after almost being determined to stay closer to home… leaving baby and the comforts of home.

But all those steps were taken not out of fear, but a sense of self preservation. This time, I’m fucking spooked. A month before I moved to Hyderabad, Anuj asked me if I was afraid of ghosts. Who’s seen one, was my reply! But voices can send chills of various kinds. One is the fear of losing one’s sanity, the other of losing life.

In the past two years, I’ve never felt the need to exist for a reason – not for others, least of all, myself. Have you ever thought that your being madly cheerful could teach a child to smile? Or that a ringing smile over the phone could comfort your parents a few hundred miles away that you’re happy and healthy and healing? Or even be so super kicked as to club each night for three weeks straight with someone going through a divorce?

But that night brought with it a fear. Of being lost to all these wonderful people. I’m not implying that these people can’t live without me – not for a moment – but they’ve made me realise what I can give them. And I want to give more, not succumb to some desperate petty thief’s frustration at being so penniless.

Coming back to the question – what was the trigger? Well, a tiny ass rat. A rat, yes. Ha ha. Laugh, why don’t you?

It drove me insane – the noise, even from outside in the distance, echoing around the empty hall. I cried and cried and begged friends to let me stay with them till I found another place. I even reconciled to it, thinking it will go away – the fear, the insanity.

I moved into Malaysian Township three days ago. It’s crazy commuting distance everyday, but it’s nice. The drive isn’t junkyard traffic. And the township itself is self-contained. And guess what? It has a pool! A POOL! But most of all, I have friends there. The warmth of having people around to smile or have a cuppa chai or out hangout late talking about crappy Bollywood movies beats all comforts. And this whole proximity to the workplace is a sham.

I used to wonder forever in Bombay why and how people could travel two hours each day to and from work – in the train or bus or even hailing a taxi or worse still, drive! But it’s ok. It’s an urban reality. So the work place is far far away from home. That’s good no? The boss can’t call you in the middle of the night of a super brilliant weekend. And in my case, the commute is also a good drive!

So all those who would laugh at my shift cuz of a tiny rodent, it is NOT FUNNY. And I’m sure you’ll all mock-sympathise and say “ya ya, we understand and fear is completely natural,” but even coKo admitted, “I dunno how you survived even those two months at the Bs’.”

Not a soul around and a House Party

Nights can get rather dull or depressing when you're alone at home and there's no real adventure nor expected guest list each night of the week. The quiet, the lack of company, oh merely the absence of noise can get to you. But yesterday was different.
Abhi n coKo picked me up from work for the 7:30 show. Like forever, the movie was uneventful and the intermission seemed like the best part of the film. लेकिन यह movie review तोह है नहीं! So coming back to the point. Promptly dropped at my doorstep at 10:00, this दुखियारी was left to fend for herself :(

Jesus knew what a task cooking and before that having to clean utensils and afterwards cleaning more utensils seemed. As if that was not bad enough the utility water का time was up, so there was no other choice but to wash them out in the balcony. And to top it all it was COLD!!!!!! After the first round, I gave up.

Having changed into my comfy ol' pyjamas, I finally decided to embark upon the daunting task of cooking. There were no groceries to really write home about. Then I opened my fridge (read: Pandora's डब्बा). EUREKA!!!!!! Boiled-to-el-dente pasta made an appearance. Butter, maida and milk danced in front of my eyes. The morning's leftover mushroom masala jumped out next. And then... and then... muhuhahahahahahahahahaha!!!! The wine bottle apparated into my memory. And with it, the brilliant inspiration to make pasta Indian Style.

अरे no no! The wine didn't go into the pasta. As the white sauce thickened through its ten minutes of flame, I sipped a large goblet of wine with loud, very loud dance music on my iPod. And of course I danced to it all as the several elements of the pasta slowly made their way into the big bad steel bowl.

By the time I was ready to eat, I was adequately drunk. After somehow managing to spoon some morsels of the treat into the right place and not my nose or gouging out my eyes and doing an adequately clean job of dunking the sauce pan and my plate into the kitchen sink, there went tipsy me back into bed. Lights off, music tuned to soft ghazals by Mehdi Hassan, Hariharan and Bhupinder; my madness wasn't over yet. I texted out crazy messages to (so far as I remember) three - no - five friends. Two were girls also. One was at Little Italy. [ok PU you're not drunk anymore so stop ranting]

It's amazing how naked you can be around yourself. The lingerie doesn't have to be sexy or new, the night clothes are warm, the wine glass can lie on the balcony parapet, the tree sways silently, and the music - always your favourite - always end up in a Gita Dutt tadbeer se bigdi hui takdeer bana le. And the songs are suddenly in your own voice. You always have an audience. You become your own entertainer.

And the only message I still have from last night is Kshitij's - "wow and wow. both for the solitude. I envy you"

PU Guide

When i first did the quintessential Bombay walk, Abhishek showed me how. He did not bother selecting or giving me a choice. The itinerary was in his mind. He knew exactly where to stop, where to stroll, where to take it brisk, what to point out and what to gloss over. He knew me and he knew where I'd feel most "at home". Little did he know though, that four years down from the four days he'd known me, this would indeed end up being मेरा इलाका. South Bombay had never captivated me so much as that late [in terms of time as well as date] November evening, considering मासा would often drive us down to Central or Worli seaface or even Marine Drive. Sure, he had shown us everywhere that the crowds flocked, but not where one found peace. Not where even amidst the mob, one could enjoy the scent of the charmer that is Bombay.

Four years down, the walk [almost] replicated itself with [almost] Abhishek. Precious seemed to have been instructed, yet there was an element of new. In that, I was shown the wooden staircase that made you feel 40 years older and truly regal. The film turned out to be shitty. They couldn't have helped it. The crowd, all there only for the experience, and the boy and I - we should've sat away at the parapet across the Taj instead of scurrying back for the film.

But there was more to see. The first time I met NiNa, I also saw a part of very-much-Bombay that occupied the darkest rumours in my head thus far. Some of them were so false I checked with NiNa twice if we really were in a koliwada. Not only because there were no kolis but also because there was an overflowing number of scorching-sizzling-wow Punjabis and Sikhs in the area. It was beauty crisis plunging deep into the negative. When a few Sundays later he suggested we breakfast at Madras Cafe, I couldn't believe my luck! There was a list of things that one must have stricken off before leaving the metropolitan, and NiNa was instrumental in knocking off a lot of them [though the list remains quite unfulfilled yet]. He showed me the wonders of Bandra - Bandstand, Carter Road, Pali Naka, Hill Road, Perry Road, the junction of Shopper's Stop where he n I had that yummy dinner at Sheesha... I figured it was time to pay back.

What began as just an idle wandering across Chowpatty - dinner at Crystal, गोला at the beach, a further drive down to the Point and hanging legs off the broad parapet over the brakers - became an obsession. It was a ritual we followed on crappy days - Mondays usually, or long days. Days when I hated my boss or he hated work or both [and sometimes neither]. We may still not have the perfect Queen's Necklace snap, but we ended up taking many silhouettes and even more lit NCPA buildings. The pendant was at least our's to begin with.

Arunav's trip gave me a chance to explore bit of my now informedness. I knew where to ask for Shack - right outside Jai Hind. And who - Anand Tiwari - a lesser known actor though a strong stage personality, who'd just stepped out'a an auto, still paying, and scratching his head at my question, in a khadi kurta pyjama. I don't think I'll ever reember the roads in Bandra. Whether it was while in an auto with Arunav, traipsing with Priyanka or biking to St. Andrew's with NiNa. Or even heading towards Madhavan uncle's house on Perry Road.

Sajani is a creature meant for South Bombay. Or perhaps its intricately fabricated grilles and meandering streets were created to satisfy her curiosity. To fill her camera with images of the Great Western Building or the traffic lights at Opera House and Mint Road behind Kala Ghoda, or the lovely blue synagogue or for that matter, all the sights that the 122 route could present to her unending quest for streetside sepia.

But it was that little talk on parenting with Subir at Samovar, and then another talk about everything with Fir and then yet another solo to honour the memory of Abhi T - sitting under the poster of Neruda with lines from his poems inscribed underneath. Always chai, always samosa, always always. There is no way one can by pass the art gallery on the right at the Jehangir Art Gallery. But in order to satisfy the hunger of the tummy, the aesthetic hunger must be satisfied first. Or perhaps it is the appetizer to the main course.

And then Anuj happened. Anuj? Arre Anuj! First he mentioned, then I was lugged, then he dragged and finally I tagged along. Our drive from Bombay Central station to Vashi was a long journey through nostalgia. That thing I detest most. A cigarette accompanied us both. He was sleepy, my eyes moist. "It's time you made new memories." Truly, the bike trip back was a memory alright!

Auto Pilot

The autos - it always boils down to the auto rickshaws. Unwilling, stubborn, obstinate, vain and lazy! Not themselves, of course not. What renders them so wonting? Povery, greed or just the absence of fear? Three just passed me. The drivers looking askance. She doesn't wanna go home? What's she scribbling that's more important than reaching home in this weather (it was pouring)? Doesn't anyone see the plainly writ "I've had enough" across my face? How's it so invisible? So not apparent and obvious? my godsend asked me to wait right here.

Another auto just passed; slowed by; stared; curious bastard. Fuck you bitch! I feel a curse surging. Shhh, says another voice.

A hurting woman. Devoid of love. I hate this whole business of rceiving favours and not returning them. Hate... hate, hate...

Old City New Charm

A week into my stay in Hyderabad and the culture vulture within can't sit in one place only. Waat to do saar??? So last weeked was yet another exciting trip across the city - and my सारथी, none other than Mr. Kotha. Of course, he was also playing porter on Saturday. To make amends, we decided to make a quick trip to Geetha's. Ha ha. What a jox. Quick trip and Geetha's. What was tentatively planned to be merely a social visit to the jungle resident, turned into a feast. Gee reminds me of my mom's aunt in Baroda. The food keeps coming out of the fridge like an unending flow! Seamless conversation that began with concerts, what one MUST wear, meandered to Karthik's super brat brother and finally to women and marriage. [Looks like this is more or less the range we're always going to follow.] Of course, there's so much talk about teaching and kids happening, it's not funny.

I'm most amazed at how the lines between Kart and Gee blurred almost instantly the first time I got them to meet. Their Chennai connection was so much stronger than having me as a link, which is seldom the case when I get any of my friends to meet for the first time. It is an overwhelming experience when two people from seemingly different spheres socialise and how! I thought Chennai could probably be a starting point, but they had so much more to exchange, I felt rather inadequate (:P).

But neither Kart nor I knew what the concert on Sunday had in store for us. The Chowmahalla Palace played host to one of the greatest concerts I've ever attended in my omnivoric hunger for great music. Hyderabad seems to always attract the best talent there is. I've often heard of its audience being intelligent and well read and widely travelled. The audience at Chowmahalla proved the point. even when it came to requesting, nothing short of an Amir Khusro popular would do!

That it was begum Abida Parveen on stage brought the kind'a audience that had to be either niche - pretty much mostly the old affluent - or outsiders (that's me!) who had a sense of the scale and concept that is Parveen's voice and area of expertise. I was simply taken by the simple fact that she sounds on stage exactly like she does on recording. I mean... the sound editor hasn't to work at all on getting the सुर right at all! Of course, what hits you as the listener is the instant and constant connect that she established with and when she began every composition with "मौला...".

They taught us, when I was training in classical music, that संगीत is the combination of getting the notes right and getting the thought spot on. Begum sahiba personified the definition flawlessly. Of course, my saying it adds no value and perhaps if I didn't, it would take away nothing, but the experience was made surreal: every time she began a new song, the cold drizzle, that threatened to bring the show to an abrupt end, ceased. That is the power of music, I guess.

Overall, a fantastic first weekend in the city that raised my bar always always.

An evening with an ET reporter

We met on Monday morning. Enough paper strewn about the table to make me cringe all morning. But a bright "G'morning!" changed all that. A brief conversation and I was off on my amble to the office - Day 1.

Shekhar promised he'd see me at dinner. Promised kya, he had little choice but to. I was hungry by 8:30 so didn't bother waiting. Besides he was busy on a call and I had a PG Wodehouse for company.

What began as a casual exchange about humorists went on to a serious discussion on our favourite writers, films, music, existential topics, microfinance... I sang some, we laughed some more... He told me about his best friend Rafaq and his wedding, I told him about a former Accounts Comptroller General of India. He made funny faces. I sang some more... I told him I was scared - well at least apprehensive. He said I couldn't ask for more.

I've stayed in guest houses aplenty. Some from L&T, and others as guests of employees. Citibank. Lalbhai Realty. Arvind Mills. Fancy, well kept, expensive upholstery and even classier gadgets. Yet something was always amiss.

And then I arrived at the ToI guest house. The security men have been overwhelmingly polite and well behaved and even cheerful. So have the caretaker and cook. The morning actually becomes good when they wish you. Bunch of Oriyas all. Rather scared of being ousted for any inane reason that the supervisor fancies. Safe.

The place itself is rather simple. The linen's all local. None of that synthetic, heavy stuff that reeks after the first fortnight and is hard to weild. Cotton weaves. Handloom. Simple white sheets to sleep on. Just the way I like it. Just what puts me to sleep.

Precious II

And here I am, back in Hyderabad, yet feeling like I've never been here before. The roads are all pretty and the weather's phenomenal. And interactions with the few people that I've had here so far, have reinforced that every city has a precious for me.

This time too, as caring, as quiet, as amused by my madness, as scarred, yet hopeful. This precious smiles like a child - dimples and all. Sometimes he cups his face sides in both palms and looks as if to ask "Now what shall we play?" Like a bored mischief monger looking for new avenues, the expression is of utmost intent. And when he laughs, you wouldn't guess he is all of 28!

He acts not pricey. So unassuming, so comfortable yet not. He isn't fidgety, yet jumps to action without a second's thought. But his greatest virtue emerges from the nature of his position vis a viz his family. Perhaps one never to give the family second place on the priority list, my precious Hyderabadi miraculously makes time for everyone! Friends, clients, brother, mother - home, shopping, picking me up from ANYWHERE (mostly super hero rescues them all), a liesurely evening out or business. He's perhaps never said no. He's perhaps never said may be.

KK's worries are borne not out of what would trouble him or what would perhaps pose a threat to his growth - personal or professional. The creases on his forehead and the bit of a receding hairline are a result of his constant big-brotherly-god-fatherly-best-friendly concern. Gosh! If he were to be even a tad nicer he'd be suffocating! But he even knows where to draw the line on that!

His slang is his own - "Gay ass" - ever heard that one? Not me. He would even take over your frown. He's the evening rescue from a whole day's harassment. He has a one-line solution to every paragraph problem. He's a saviour. He's a gem. He's precious. All over again.

Tamasha

I'm probably one of those who enjoy a good impromptu road show and what I'm about to say has probably been done to death way too many times already, but honestly, I'm really enjoying all the तमाशा that's building up around the CWG issue. The first time I heard about our organizers' inadequacy was when Sajani or Hitanshu told me about the swimming pool not being ready yet and that was just two months back...

"What," you ask, "this controversy's been hyped for only less than two months?" Then why does it seem like forever? Duh, no-brainer! What's astonishing, is the fact that someone's finally taken ownership of the calamity. That, for once, a Kalmadi has said 'ok, I am to blame.' But very smart the man is - he's accepting it all to be his fault only when nothing can be done about it. All the mud-splashing's done, all the contingents are here, they've all figured a way out of the "mess" and aall izz well! It's like... after Indira Gandhi was killed, the world's Sikhs were in danger, and not just the the bodyguard who assassinated her. Arre kee fark painda hai. Maaro sabko! How come all sportsmen don't riot? Uthao apne apne hockey sticks, javelins and discuses and bolo dhaava! Why not kill all the Kalmadis in the country?

How come we suffer the false promises of infrastructural development at the beginning of every ministerial election campaign and promptly forget, submitting to the notion that we have no choice. So most commoners are dimwitted morons who vote cuz they're really twisted or bummy in their heads. But what about our sportsmen? They have what is real education. Hands-on training. Like Guru Dronacharya's training in honing Arjun's artillery acument. If they can wield a bat or raquet with such accuracy and know the right kind'a force, why not use the same strength into blowing the brains out'a a liar politico?

To think, it isn't even a politician who took on the blame. This guy probably has a job to lose; a reputation. Politicians don't even have a reputation! Nothing to write home about anyway... They can just take a year's sabbatical and then get back to their scheming ways and yet...

Kalmadi is no Gandhi - it's too late for that, but at least the man had guts. To shoulder responsibility. To say it's all my fault, if not my lack of foresight. The guy's acquired PR skills. He's shut the reporters up. Now what?

Ash Tuesday

When you shake off ash, the last flakes that fly in their negligible weight along the ever-so-slight current of air personify the story of a saint. Like a parakeet free to soar but ignorant of where, for all its life it has known only captivity. Like a butterfly out of its pupa, a little unsure so it climbs to the top most branches of its tree – the tree, an unaware shelterer – but is innately destined to vanish into oblivion. Like instrumental music that translates into different thoughts for each new listener. Like the feather of a rooster that has shed itself in a cock fight, unknowing of the reason for its abandon yet preening in admirable glory.

It is the story of every celibate monk ever to have taken the vow of solitude. It is the beginning. It is where infantile steps towards learning begin. In that sense how is an infant any different from a sanyasi? Both at the mercy of others.  One for sustenance, one for penance.

Bombay Belly

It is not funny how food becomes the atom of our molecular existence when we leave home. Hyderabad, Bombay, Delhi, Pune... there's no food better than home. It stops to matter whose home even! You begin to appreciate thick फुल्काs with Amul butter instead of ghee, slightly undercooked rajma and lacklustre saltless दाल - so long as you've witnessed its preparation in copper bottomed हांडीs or aluminium sauce pans.


But some of us are bizarre that way. The addiction of that 'outside' taste practically gags us on our shortest visits home and we see the path to moksha clearly etched on a longer return. Lots'a oil, even more spice, crazy quantity and a crazier budget. They say that while the world eats to live, we Indians live from one meal to the next. Punjus and Gujjus specially mascot the cause.

Quite unlike my two-year hiatus in Hyderabad, Bombay inculcated in me an opposite kind'a taste in food. I enjoy blandness streaked by just one or two dominant flavours now. Whether it was the रोटी-सुब्ज़ी with खट्टा अचार & लस्सी at Crystal, mushroom risotto at Tea Centre, pesto sauce pasta at Under the Banyan Tree, मूर्घ काली मिरी at Maroosh, mint-barley-tofu salad at Moshe's, classic pizza at Indigo Deli or sandwiches at Kala Ghoda Cafe.

Oh. I realise I've just listed the best food there is in Bombay. Apologies to all who read this post at 12 o'clock - am or pm *wink*.

Coming back to blandness, I wonder if it is a weakening of the tongue's sensitivity or sharpening. I consume an almost spiceless diet now. And when ma gets छोले made here at home, I crave for Veg Felafel's hummus with the ancillaries - tahini, pickled salad, pita and their special lemonade-in-a-bottle [!] I remember the time Nina accompanied me to the outlet near my hostel. After the third morsel, he was almost force-feeding himself like those ducks in Sweden are to fatten their livers (Europeans consider this a delicacy). "Hate" was mild.

Veg Felafel became my Saturday afternoon lunch place early in my stay. It was one cuisine I had never tried - and couldn't in Hyderabad - and was most curious about, after an Ian Wright episode of Lonely Planet, on Israel. The first time I walked into the tiny two-storey outlet opposite East at Kemps Corner, I was given ample time to take in the yuppie interiors. Simple, bright and unmistakeable – their grey & green lettering and the steel & wood furniture through the glass facade made it easy to spot the little deli in other areas [there's one opposite the Citibank ATM near Regal Cinema] where I often fell prey to hunger on my Saturday post-work jaunts.

It was THE place that whisked away my inhibitions about eating alone. Not that I was ashamed of appearing a hog, but I hated eating without company. It brought home loneliness in flower-power-print-size and tones. VF was warm. And it was always interesting to see the sort of people who came in, Couples my age, groups of school kids with a mom supervising [and paying for their insatiable appetites], solo Parsi or third generation Gujarati men from the neighbourhood often waiting for their takeaways being packed.

I was never tired of reading the framed newspaper reviews on the wall near the door. There was even a health-benefits-of-hummus chart there [how nutritious and high-fibre it is, etc.]! The wait was never long, yet entertaining. The whole experience gave me time to introspect on the week's madness. The fact that the place was a hop, skip & jump away from where I lived made time a non-factor.

Any place alien becomes real - one's own even - by the variety of culinary stimulation it has to offer. Bombay is perhaps the most widespread and bustling kitchen all the time - beach side food stalls, खाऊ गल्लीs, Mohammed Ali road's Idi festivities that send the palate into a scrumptious frenzy, or the numerous takeaway places and fine dining restaurants that dot the geography of South Bombay.

Unlike most people who miss घर का खाना, I stopped a long time ago...or did I even begin?

Sardar

Disclaimer: all those who're expecting this piece to somehow relate Bombay with Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, please stop reading right now. You'll be irritated to the hilt by the time you reach end of line1 para1.

I saw a sardar today! I saw a sardar today!

So?

Anyone acquainted long enough with my sophisticated tastes in men [that was NOT a pun, ok?] would not gasp at the prospect of me ogling at any male member of the clan. Especially the tall-slim-collar bone showing & veined armed versions. Actually only those. Oh! God bless them.

For a fat chunk of time that I stopped frequenting the King's Circle flat, it was the NSP of these Aryan descendants that I missed considerably [yes, yes, apart from you two Nishants]. The "Sindhi Colony" at Sion-Koliwada is one of the original resettlements of Sikh refugees from Partition, Sumit had told me [Sumit being a Surd himself - though a more hybrid one from Mulund].

In the hottest months of sultry-humid-bitchy Bombay, I've walked all the way from King's Circle station to Pushpak just to catch a glimpse of the eye-candy. Earlier, the day's exhaustion would make me beg NiNa to gimme a ride home. But ever since the first sighting, this ornithology enthusiast became more enthusiastic! *wink wink* I would walk even when I was chumming! Really but, isn't to see something nice [ok not exactly "thing" in this case], when you're feeling like shit, therapeutic?

I've never spotted such strapping young Surd lads even on my trips to Delhi. Perhaps cuz I'd found a part-Surd of my own. Who knew... This bunch was groomed. Neel once jibed me, "how" do I see anything behind that thick "outgrowth"? These chaps were so clean and always well turned out. Such beautiful features: sharp eyes, the quintessential "aquiline" nose, full jaws... even their religious markers are appealing - the kirpaan, the tightly twisted turban [ha ha, just produced a tongue twister! – I know I know – PU shut up]…

That apart, for a city whose population threatens to spill out into its creeks, turbaned Sikhs are hard to come by. A community held in high regard for its physical strength and business acumen and ridiculed at for their imagined inanities, has been unduly discriminated against on the basis of their appearance. Like a lot of Jews who are abandoning their peyots to fit in with natives in foreign societies, more and more Sikhs are abandoning their turbans and beards to reveal their chiseled faces. A people we’ve often dismissed upon as the hairy funny men might just steal your chance of making it to the college sweetheart’s notice. With looks to kill for, and an acute sense of protecting their women, the laughed-at will emerge hero. A tall, broad chested, suited Surd at work or clad in casuals at a pub or disc is such an answered prayer… sigh…

Off Limits

Bombay. The city meant liberation to me at age 19. At 24, when I finally barged into its labyrinth, a secret unfolded. There was none. Liberation that is, not secret. Duh PU.

The liberty, not of being clad in skimp or drinking like no tomorrow or having clandestine affairs, but of being at ease. Grabbing some me-time from no-time and withdrawing. Ridding myself of restlessness and a forced sense of duty. Effectively.

As I sit on my balcony ledge, a menthol in one hand [yes Neel, still prefer the ‘shit’ to all else] and Azar Nafisi’s book in the other, the thought crosses my mind: my hostel was even beautiful-ler.; why didn’t I ever sit and read there as happily? On the terrace, in the porch, the lounge, the stairs, the library, why my room even! There was more open space to be found there. More guiltless abandon for routine [skip washing clothes one day, ironing a heap another, miss a meal, avoid calls from folks]. Even more breeze and wider seat space too.

Ledges at angles perpendicular to vertical walls to lean on are my weakness. A member from my Nanaji’s beloved collection of transparent glass tea cups sits on the painted marble like a stowaway. Mint tea half finished – a thin film of मलाई on its surface – cold.

A light breeze graces the otherwise only near-perfect frame, gently cradling the 3-storey high palm tree; the Bottle Brush in an overreacting sway, tickling my elbow against all my attempts to brush it away.

My legs too carelessly rest beside the cup and the pack and phone, on one of the slippers – the other shaken off, lying capsized on the floor: all superstition be damned.

First 11 pages of Lolita Read in Tehran later, I’m so “infinitely happy”, I get off the unsafe part of the first floor, collect all the gleesome items and once more, latch the door to my private haven. I perform the studied routine of pinning my hair into a bun, washing up, gargling with Listerine, marinating my hands in copious amounts of sanitizer and sprucing up. More silent, more composed, at peace.

*Cuz the carpenter cleans up after he's done for the day. the bai's a ucking excuse left to herself.

Dombivli is not in Bombay

Neel thought we’ll reach there from Powai in half an hour. Sure.

Parag’s engagement ceremony turned out to be eventful in more ways than we could fathom. Ever. It was supposed to be an evening outing that we figured in the course of our journey, should’ve been more a day trip.

Bare facts:

• Dombivli is a valley town about 20 minutes from Matheran. [*smirk* Ever heard Marianne enunciate the name?]
• It is probably a station away from Panvel, the official gateway to the ghats from Bombay.
• It is beyond Kalyan.

It’ll remind you of the old area of your town – tiny bylanes with one arterial road to which they all meet. There are shops that sell sweet meats, auto parts, tailoring services, provisions, watches.

So we hitched an auto at the Infotech gate, warned by our autowala that we’ll have to change at Mulund Check Naka.

Neel: Parag, chutiya saala!
I: Shhh!

Off we were, blabbering about the week gone by. Traffic began to thin so were fancy commercial establishments. I don’t remember any malls en route.

“This isn’t Bombay”

We knew this little factoid of life, even if local trains extended to there and beyond. And it was the highway! With green fields on either side, and hills on the horizon, Dombivli still a bleak possibility, “Dude, this is definitely not Bombay. The auto’s moving faster than a Lamborghini!”

Our autowala may not have taken too kindly to our entertaining banter. We had just entered the ghats. This was alarming enough. Who asked for his express advice? But he went on, “ यह Mumbra bypass है.” Uh oh – wherever that was, the name was spooky enough, “आप रात को कैसे जानेवाले हो?”
Neel: Cab से, क्यूँ?
Auto guy: यह area danger होता है. बोहोत खतरनाक.

I panicked at “खतराक”. Neel found it all highly amusing. As usual.

More vroom vroom and having crossed the ghati patch, Neel utters another set of his golden ones, “We are definitely nowhere near Bombay anymore, yaa Priyanca.” Yes Neel, I needed reminding.

Directions were already becoming confusing. Two calls to Parag and one on Baby’s cell and we were still measuring the perimeter of Dombivli. And then came Neelanjan Dasgupta’s priceless-of-the-evening,

“Let’s go back.”

I could hear the sound of vacuum for a while. “Shut the fuck up, moron!@#%$%,” is what I wanted to say. Instead the more mild, almost bland “Don’t be silly. We’re almost there” came out.

6 intonations of “गोग्रस्वादी किधर है?” and lots’a a backing and forthing later, we found Patharli road, at the end of which our destination lay. But as soon as soon as we entered the lane, our irritation, fatigue, complaints about inaccurate directions – and time – all melted away.

Our own sets of memories took us back in time to different places – Neel to Kolkata, I to a bylane in the Lakdi Pul area in Baroda. Tiny shops, a बकड़ा, simple life...

It also gave us both an insight into where this guy we call “friend” comes from: his childhood, his present, how he perceives us, how he perceives it all, his daily commute [and we complain], why he’d do it at all!

Like a pilgrimage, going all the way gave us a capsule of life the way we’ve lived one time not long ago, but shunned to the back burner in our struggle to maintain mundane routine.

The ceremony itself, the milieu, the people & their garb, the food, it all said, “We haven’t succumbed to the pressures that that Dumpyard lays on us.” Its superiority lies in its simplicity, in its non-flashiness, in its welcoming-with-flowers-and-attar and introductions to one’s kith and kin. I was instantly humbled and felt honoured that Parag chose to invite me!

I know he’s as much a tiny-towner as I and it’s perhaps that much easier for him to take to me than all of Bombay’s glamour-collective. Dombivli’s indeed beyond Bombay. Even above.

Haji Ali

We look for peace in the most obvious places – despite also its obvious absence. Our sense of subtlety takes a royal hike, a half drenching walk half a kilometre into the sea on a barely safeguarded pathway notwithstanding; even if the sight of beggars all along numbs you - random limbs absent, too apparent for accident. Also sandwiched is the walk with a trail of makeshift-vendors on the other side – wares ranging knick knacks to religious books, chaddars and sweets. And you almost flip when you spot a goat on the roof of a makeshift shack among many – constantly swept by the sea – a plethora of dirt and rubbish ironically left behind.


My trip to Haji Ali was satisfying, though not spiritually. I found all that I had expected – to comfortably walk right up to the tomb; little interference from the police; lovely elaichi chai and piping hot vada pau inside the dargah periphery; and of course, Nidhi’s suggestion to see the back side that allowed for an audience of qawwali. But ibaadat is not for public consumption. Praise must come from the heart.

That was my last day at L&T – two days before I’d leave Bombay for at least a while, if not good. But god comes in myriad forms. Shafquat Qualandar’s Damadam Mast Kalandar flowed in the languid force of the scorching Swaraj Express’ already late huddle to Bombay. The singers, a trio of young men, barely old enough to squeak “As Salaam Valai Kum” sang in the voices god: loud, clear, never-out’a-tune and ever reverential. The dholi’s throat was ivory – washed in perspiration, veins throbbing as he sang, “हर दम पीरा तेरी खैर होवे. ” Another older percussionist, with a hoarser pitch, no less forceful, chorused the first’s young passion. The third voice on the harmonium remained just a voice. All I remember of him was that he conformed in garb – chequered blue lungis and mulmul kurtas with black knitted caps on each of their heads.

These boys sang with authority – a quiet dignity – a love for the creator. It is predictable, God will come to them; to them he will yield; to them he will deign; them, he will reward.

Why are we so afraid of praising god? Why do we hesitate to believe in our own faith? What holds us back from loving? Is it the fear of losing our own positions? Is it the fear of losing our object of affection? Has the fear of god’s tests and wraths ever held us from committing our daily quota of minuscule crimes and sins? How do you explain sleeping dreamlessly despite them? Is it fear at all?

To be afraid of praise (whether for oneself or directed towards another) is to be afraid of criticism (often being diplomatic or vain to the point of irritation). To be afraid of loving then, would amount to fear of pain itself – all inevitable? It is to merely breathe like vegetable, afraid of converting the potential of each living moment into a kinetic event.

Sometimes it feels criminal to equate peace with silence or inaction. Sometimes peace comes in the satisfaction of exhaustion. Sometimes it seems to percolate to the very core of chaos.

Tonight: Alam Ara

Ever wondered why old old ooooooooooooooold  Hindi or regional film music is always associated with early morning? Chai shops and news stands and all things ancient and shady-looking assume a dignified air when their radio plays some golden oldies. Is it the unpredictability of it that makes it so special? Is it the peculiar tabla-harmonium-taisokoto sounds that make songs from the 30s and 40s so so SO romantic. Even if you don't know the lyrics. Even if you don't know the tune. Even if you don't know the singer or composer or film. The nasal playback notwithstanding, an old song lends dignity to an otherwise ordinary household.

Leesel and I stood near Tiger Gate today at lunch time. A cobbler was sitting nearby, doing his thing. Old Marathi film songs played on the medium wave.

A Day in the Life of Working Women’s Hostel Resident

5:15 am. First alarm goes off. Conscious. Alive. Today is neither a holiday, nor Sunday, nor calamitous - no escaping the drudgery of yet another day at work.

6:30 am. Alarm 2, this time. Awake. When I slept last night [before 11:00 or after 01:00], will dictate whether this is when I’ll shake myself out of my mattress [I don’t sleep on a bed. I hear the noises beneath me. They say sleeping on a wooden floor is healthy] or wait for the third alarm.

7:30 am. Alarm 3. “Dude!!! GET UP. In this half sleepy state, I must remember to carry my toiletries and towel and clothes for the day to the bathroom – which is other side of the planet. If it’s a Wednesday, then I must also remember to gather my clothes and dump on to the laundry guy. Note to self: don’t forget to give him a piece of your wisdom on carrying change, which he will promptly forget by next Wednesday. The bastard.

7:50 am. God save me if I wake up with a hunger pang. Rush for breakfast only to find something insipid like kanda poha. Ew.

8:15 am. All dressed up, fed and ready to leave. Yeah, ideally.

8:30 am. Either the bus is taking forever to come, or the ideal situation above has not really transpired. Frantic SMS to Rashna [if it’s the summer holidays or a Saturday, which is when she comes to stay at her uncle’s house at Kemps Corner] if I can hitch a ride with her in her husband’s car.

Walk down to Cumbala Hill Hospital and there starts the F1 ride in Max’s Esteem. Head down, read to distract from Max’s highly erratic and rash though amazingly fast driving. Otherwise, “Taxi!”

8:45 am. Punch in at work. The rest of the day occurs like a surprise a minute – wow! I’ve survived so far.

4:55 pm. Visit to the washroom. Spruce up for and if date/ party/ outing scheduled; relieved that the day’s over.

5:07 pm. Pick up bag and start marching.

5:15 pm. Curse inwardly – “Is this bus ever trudging?" The bus driver promptly listens to this telepathic enquiry; climbs on & starts the engine. Conductor also. Not start engine. Just climb on. “Shit! Think fast! You wanna get off at Kala Ghoda or Churchgate or Kemps Corner?” 

1. If I’m way too tired or with Rashna, KC.
2. If Neel’s the travel partner, then – ha ha, no bus 122 in the first place – cab to Churchgate.
3. If there’s something neat at Jehangir, or today feels like shopping at Colaba, then KG.
4. If Parag’s coming along to J, then walk. If I’m going with him to VT, same.

6:15 pm. Finally at KC (assuming it is 1). Walk to hostel. Crash.

8:10 pm. Nidhi knocks. Wake up/ dinner call. Soak clothes to wash. Block space on table nearest to tv. That’s where the funny ones sit. Food: not bad, as usual.

9:20 pm. Retire to kholi. Read. Call home/ Sajani/ Twako/ Ar/ Nina/ someone I haven’t spoken to in ages.

10:00 pm. Shiitake!! Remember clothes to wash. Drag self to.

10:25 pm. Run shouting at Pratima to delay locking terrace by 10 minutes. Hang clothes to dry.

10:30 pm. Lights-off-bell rings.

10:35 pm. Come back from terrace.

10:55 pm. Sylvie knocks, “Light off karo.”

                Oh alright!
                Dark & Dead.

Samovar

Its chairs have borne many an artist, the fans have cooled many burning passions, the outside fuses with the indoors through its barbed wall - and we thought that's what fences make.

Samovar oozes an ethos of the 80s' elitism-meets-flower power-hippie culture. It's where iced tea is just that, not some corrupt concoction of flavours suited to PMSing tempers. Its lampshades hang in no perfect symmetry except their uniform face.

I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees

This evening was a memory of a previous one. Same time - time of day, time of year too, perhaps - or at least it breezed like it. A picture of Neruda hung by my table - some of his lines beneath the grinning black 'n white portrait. This one stuck, "I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees." Ananda Shankar played unintrusively loud, sinking all traces of work, scatterbrain emotions, the mundane din of traffic at Kala Ghoda.

I'd walked in with lemonade and samosa in mind. I also ordered tea at the end for sake of the old memory.

Spontaneous Thrash

This  post comes more out'a irritation towards tiny little things for tiny little moments and so it may not seem like it's saying much. But heck! I wanna scribble some!

Got back to my personal diary with a vengeance this weekend. Figured out things in my inward conversations and analysed behavioral eccentricities. While most of my thoughts through the last whole year have been centred around the city, there's obviously personal growth and therefore chaos brewing in my head. Several people have coined several phrases and terms for it - "मगज ना घोडा", "Govind Nihalani", "daily reports" and what not. But thinking has never brought more clarity. Thankfully Nidhi was around and that gave me strength.

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

Saturday afternoon was a solo lunch after a long time. Nice Thai chicken sandwiches from Markiv's, Churchgate. YuM-Mee! Dated later. Unusual as usual. Had dinner that started with Vada Pao for aperatif, Pani Puri for some more goading of the digestive juices, and finally a Ceasar Salad and Death-by-Chocolate. Good conversation is always added incentive. The in-betweens turned out to be excellent confidence-boosters.

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

Cough-cold-fever. It's been torturing my innards for over a week now and getting onto my nerves. I need something drastic. Hot water, cinnamon and Levocet haven't aided much. Entering the BEnadryl phase and hating it - hating it entirely. Sleepy.

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

Work should go fuck itself. It such anyway.

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Completely glued to A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth. Engaging yet going nowhere. Let's see when my patience ebbs. Picked up a tatterred copy from the रद्दीवाला around the corner at Kemp's Corner near Esbeda. It occupied the top place on a stack and my instinct said, "Dude PU, you're said to be a lit student and you've never even attempted Seth." Thank God  I listen to myself.

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

Wanna travel, but the heat is forbidding. just came back from the chemists' this noon. The blasted sun should be shot!

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

YAWN

My First Bad Time

I've always found Bombay people extremely easy to tread around. Even late at night - established even in my blogs, right? Broad daylight can be a digression, though.

A couple of Sundays ago, I was out on a solitary outing. Like a date with myself. Movie - saunter from Metro to Marine Drive - a bit of the sea to end the hot afty. It was all great. I didn't mind the tan either. The breeze more than made up for the lack of good company, the recent lows and more. Upon crossing the road from the Pizzeria corner, it suddenly struck me how long it had been since I visited the Drive on a holiday and how crowded it got.

A largish man clad in shades of rust also entered my frame of vision. Haywire yet "set" curls, he stood out without much effort - the air of a "townie". Looking into the distance... Strolling, not walking; not in a hurry.

I sauntered off to a clearing on the parapet between numerous couples with my back against the sun - the sun still too harsh. All of a sudden, the peculiar man seemed way too close for comfort. For a while, looking in the other direction seemed quite the adequate thing to do. All of a sudden, I hear "I love your neck piece; it's quite nice." "Thanks." Period. No, really, I thought that would be the end of it.

You really think it would be, at least - it was broad daylight, after all. So many people. It was beginning to get onto my nerves. No, he didn't hurl any physical abuse at me, nor words. I said I'd like to be left alone. He began talking about healing and life and freaky things that I'd probably discuss with Nidhi or Neel and NO ONE ELSE EVER.

That was it. My only escape without either attracting any attention or getting the chap into trouble with the police was to get up at once hitch a cab.

One associates intrusion as a "gowti" trait. People being nosy, never letting you be alone and always trying to know what it is that bothers you - as if sure of being the only rescue or resort. For once, I look up to the suburbites as more respecting of privacy, even in public. Letting you be alone. Letting you do your own thing. Allowing you to be in a shell or out as you may please. Incidentally, anyone come across a PG in Bandra, please to be telling moi.

Of Obsessions and Anger Bursts

Have you ever been so angry you wanted to break something? And then you HAVE broken something? Not somebody’s nose or limb or some such atrocity, but incurred loss of some kind all the same, because you couldn’t bear to harm the one who caused it? Because you are so aware of your physical strength?

At the end of the first year of any new situation or a change, I seem to vent out all my frustration on a personal belonging. Is it the impulse and the happening-to-be-around-ness of an object that leads to what follows? Or is it my inability to use sarcasm, a good old slap, or a cab to get out’a the situation?

It's a pattern: the things [three in a span of 10 years] that I detest or am bored of for a while have faced batter. Minor instruments that have lived their lives with me and I’m stuck with after a while, meet their fate at such moments – my first set of spectacles when Lavanya irritated me to the end of my wits; my first cell phone, when I couldn’t stand guilt trip spiels form the ex who gifted the instrument to me, and now my last phone. For a 25 year old, I’ve lived a rich life as far as phones are concerned, a new one each year since the 3rd year of undergrad – after my latest buy, six in all (including one borrowed for a while).

Since a couple of weeks I had been contemplating buying a new piece. But stopping to use the old one hurt – considering Papa got it for me when I first moved to Bombay. A lot of sentimental value was attached. Like the pens he’d gifted. Each one maintained and used with a lot of love and emotion. But the need to change my phone persisted. The tugs of emotion and vanity was beginning to get to me. The silly superstition that the phones I bought myself never stayed with me for long was gluing me to my sleek little brick device beyond imagination – it had begun to hang like a monkey - both literally as well as technically!

not only have I tolerated it, but even found it a little endearing

The mention of a game being the reason for my agitation was unacceptable to quite a few, including he who mentioned it. He’s been following it for as long as I’ve known him and before. And not only have I tolerated it, but even found it a little endearing. All of a sudden though, it began to get to me. Why must it occupy so much of one’s psyche that it is put on the same pedestal as classical music or good weather in a conversation?

In recent times, I’ve been less and less fond of cricket and I’ve even met some who’re are crazy about the game yet find it demeaning in its present state. What’s more, the craze seems to pervade all time slots vulgarly – work, recreation, outing, quiet time, sleep, meals … how do you explain its intrusion into other people’s tired end-of-days that look forward to something less obsessive-compulsive? Why can’t it be kept to oneself? Why can’t it be more understated and unspoken?

Perhaps I’m overreacting. Perhaps I’m touchy. Perhaps I’m one of those who don’t know the game so act uppity about it. Or maybe the idea of pursuing this obsession, even though other than pursuing one's profession, like a habit sounds vanilla boring to me.

Whatever the case, March has been a month of angry moments for me. And the chief cause is that wretched Indienne Parasite Le grande. It may be easy for many to dismiss this sudden outburst as uncalled for or laugh off as something of an eccentricity. But really, are the lines between passion and obsession blurring?

Smooth by Santana [feat. Rob Thomas]

It’s Friday night and even though I’m reporting to work early tomorrow, no way am I gonna miss tonight’s Remmies. All I wish for is a dance party that peaked with the drunken heavy vocals of Rob Thomas’s This Night Ain’t Good Enough!

When the song released in ’99, I was still a school kid with little English music behind me. Cassettes were still the order of the day and Dida’s bestie, Ruma gave her a decent copy as part of a compilation for her birthday. Neither of us was a dancing queen back then, the tape was only played on the other side – classic numbers from the ’50s and ’60s.

It was for an interschool dance competition that I finally inaugurated Side A. We never ended up dancing to the song [Ricky Martin was the hottie back then – of course, that no one understood Thomas’s song was the real reason], but it caught my fancy. The next best thing to dancing is making out. The next level of rhythm – movement. Heavy percussion, the vocals and of course, Santana’s intricate guitar work are intoxicating. It’s like guzzling a few पटिअलाs and then reading Faiz.

The fever obviously mellowed in a few months’ time… The third time I visited my Ahmedabad guy, bang in the middle of a make-out session in progress, his Windows Media Player bellows Smooth! Something happened. Like a rope snapping from a crane that lets a heavy slab of iron fall from a considerable height – the distance being a build-up to the massive blow when it lands.

As in the case of most of my favourite songs, the hattrick-1999-Grammy-winner has come to be synonymous with blood-red nail paint, the LBD, white wine, cheap thrills, skinny dipping and all things risqué. Despite a definite vagueness in lyrics [which practically sound nonsensical to say the least], the show-stealer sent even my retro-loving dancing partner at Hawaiian Shack in a fit of renewed dancing vigour [and me in a right state of screaming & hooting].

Smooth must play at ANY party this weekend!

"Idoling" away on a "holy" day

Wednesday was a holiday for me. Ram Navami. Turned out to be a blessing, considering I had decided to put me through the ordeal of auditioning for a reality show. By the end of this post, I’m more than sure you’ll know as to what programme I refer.

Apart from all the melodrama of “When you enter, shout and show your madness for the show [even if you’re not really crazy about it],” and “at the count of three, shout ‘AAMCHEEE MUMMBAIIIIIIII!!!!” I began to realise what television reality shows are all about.

Honestly, this experience was to know first hand the behind-the-scenes of reality TV. To say the least, it turned out to be fun. They made sure no one was waiting too long – not in one place anyway. First it was an hour outside the gates; the about half an hour inside; another two hours on the stadium steps and finally less than fifteen minutes in the final lap. The heat was bad enough, so they couldn’t have got too many retakes on stampeding crowds or youth shouting the name of the show or the name of the city to which they belonged or were auditioning from.
Some of it was plain inane. Some of it was plain touching. Most of it, as I said, fun. Winners of the first season came in to talk to the crowds and cheer them, sing with them, dole out clichés such as “Singer के लिए गाना ही खाना होता है” and rubbish time-pass like that to discourage people from being seen eating thepla or opening biscuit packets and sipping on Frooti on camera.
I learnt two important lessons though. If you wanna do well on a new-singing-talent reality show, you’ve got to know “कुछ new Sunidhi-Shreya fast songs” [or whoever the male equivalent is for the men] and these shows aren’t looking for good singers so much as great performers.
Here’s an excerpt of my conversation with a pal post-audition, who guided me on my choice of music – this is not to begrudge him.


Piyush: how did it go?
Priyanca: pretty fun
met so many weird people man
loved it
Piyush: what kinda weird?
Priyanca: people who'd appeared for auditions in other cities and had come here just to see how it was here
one from ahm
one from kolkata
these toh i met
many more from outside
people from all sorts'a chhotu places who'd travelled just for this ya
plus i have new found respect for tv crews
Piyush: being part of a tv crew is rather painful
Priyanca: ya
and to be so patient and courteous to people
SO MANY PEOPLE
the kind'a functions they have to carry out
the way they take care of people
the way they communicate
they all know it's all fickle
it's all downright dumb n stupid
and yet
Piyush: :D
Priyanca: and the kind'a things that bother people
procedures
and washrooms
and... staircases
:)
Piyush: :)
Priyanca: such innocent people...
Piyush: thy are all lured to be the bait u know
the audience on this side of the TV rates it high seeing so many ppl


I’ve done this before, but that was another time, another era - when music shows still preferred to test people on their vocal chords, not their suitability to camera angles, “base”, whether they know what are the latest chartbusters on FM radio.

I’ve been asked often why I wouldn’t go in for something like this, and I’d always dismiss it with “Who wants to be insulted in public by a bunch of show people who don’t know jack shit about music?” Today I can probably give a more substantial answer. Who has the patience? The waiting can get to you. People will get friendly and when you’ve exhausted conversation, they’ll ask, “आप इतना book क्यूँ पढ़ते हो?” And one really searches within for a satisfactory-yet-not-offensive answer. And to listen to a woman repeating a dozen times in half an hour, “toilet जाना है” is NOT FUNNY.

The heat gets to you. The waiting gets to you. The cameras get to you. Like all miraculous things in life, this too has no real criteria for who’ll be The Chosen One.

Aaj Jaane Ki Zidd Na Karo, Farida Khanum (orig.) & Asha Bhonsle (recon.)

Perhaps the simplest, yet the most heart rending ghazal of the 20th century, AJKZNK (pardon me for making it sound like a film title - but agree with me, it has potential, na?) - the Yaman Kalyan - Rupak taal number leaves nothing to the imagination of the listener on the face of it. But isn't that the beauty, you wonder, when you listen to it. I first came across the song in Monsoon Wedding - the Meera Nair crossover.

"I HAVE to find this song," I thought. The original played fucking hard to get - and the internet, a spoilsport as usual. I found the CD in Twara's house! Her dad's a huge fan, and lent me his Collection. Talk about गोद में बच्चा गाँव में ढिंढोरा!

Listen to the number with your eyes closed and the lights off, let the dim light of your laptop pervade the calmness with a Breezer or green apple vodka-Tonic. And if you have a good pair of earphones, carry it with you on your next long trin trip too. It should be the last song you hear before you get off the train in the middle of the night on a little-known station, as the rain pours and and the cold seeps in.

Asha Bhonsle sang a reconstructed version a couple of years back in a private album. A fair deviation towards jazz, I prefer this one for its technical excellence and proximity to perfection. As a film singer, Asha obviously has the upper edge, but it stops being the artist's song and stands more on its own merit in the recent redo. Asha and the sound editor together seem to have polished the sharp edges into a more rounded piece.

The taal is in order, the aalaaps introduced by music arranger Somesh Mathur are fabulous and the minimalist beats as opposed to the thus-far-flurry of the sitar-tabla-harmonium is a relief, to say the least. While I wrote this piece, I was looking for the arranger's name and came across quite a few negative reviews of the song. The argument being "we are Indians", no saxophone for us, please.

Who said? It's such a perfect night song. It's the truly global make-out song for heaven's sake. The eternal song of parting - perhaps in the league of Chandni Raatein or Tanhaii, Aaj Jaane Ki is made for those who appreciate classical music in its beauty for technique, not the accompaniment of instruments and quality of voice and the eminence of a particular singer (or its lack).

Sajani Was Right

Trees. Sajani and I are probably among the few zany ones who look at trees like other people look at Naseeruddin Shah or Sean Connery. We look at their personalities. Their characters. Their patterns and elements and dances and calm.

I was on the motorbike with Nishant this morning. Quite unusual – we weren’t talking while he rode. Usually I regale him with all my inanities all the way. Today, I was solving the Sudoku [which turned out to be so easy I left it midway]. Useless only men [in true ma-ka-pao style].

Anyway, the trees.

The trees.

The queers grow around strange things. Electricity poles, concrete homes from a couple of decades ago, stone walls from another era – these trees wrap themselves around whatever’s available. Or rather whatever comes in their way. Almost unobtrusive, they leaf and flower and slant not by the position of the sun, but wherever there’s room. Bombay’s trees aren’t manually prunes into their places. They’re just allowed their space. Like all of us singletons – who are subjected to innocent statements like “I haven’t seen you in a while” implying “where [the fuck] were you????”

And this is true of all parts of Mumbai most sought after - whether it’s the embankment area down the harbour side, the eastern-most vein of urban Bombay, or the busy western suburbs or just the good old South. I’ve realised that these towering oldies add not only add, to an otherwise busy and uninteresting road, shade, but also a sense of prestige therefore. The breeze that sieves through the leaves along with specks of sunlight translates into the romance of an introspective walk – not necessarily a lone one.

Sajani was right. She was right about the trees. They follow no rules. No directions. No regulations. They don’t hinder – neither block nor destruct. Their job is no more the take-in-CO2-fart-out-O2 rigmarole. They’re beyond routines.

Like Paro Anand’s Gulmohar, their innocence is deep rooted. It finds ways to thrive.

Nobody does it better, Carly Simon

Nobody does it better is not one of those songs that strike a chord with you immediately. It’s a context-song. It’s what you listen to repeatedly among many songs, and then one fine winter afternoon, just begin to treat as “your song”. It says all that you want to say… it wishes for you… it even mourns for you, and then praises the love of your life. Just the words…


The Spy Who Loved Me may not have been the most well-known or even the most popular of Bond films, but none of the other Bond OSTs beat the melody of NDiB. The song conjures not a feeling of having been composed for the film, but quite contrary – as if the film was conjured around it (although how Roger Moore could give anyone any competition is still a mystery to me - Brosnan, why weren’t you born sooner?!!).

Where NDiB lacks the general techno-ness of other Bond OSTs, it makes up on technical prowess of composition. The harmonies, the crescendos and falls... No wonder then, that it went on to being nominated for the Oscars that year for Best Song.

The Mozart-inspired Hamlisch ‘Golden Single’ may have found top places in practically every chart it entered. Way after the weeks it stayed there, it’s also flagged a special place in the minds of those of us who heard the number much later.

This is probably the “cleanest” post-first-time-sex number I’ve come across. It’s the kind’a song you associate with making love, actually. I’d probably start with it and then go on to You Can Keep Your Hat On, Smooth, You Sexy Thing, Strokin, and The Heat is On. I recently sent it to someone for a love-filled-éclair moment over the email. Wrap up your day with this croon for a love hangover morning-after!

…cuz… nobody does it better…

Ab Mujhe Koi, Rekha Bhardwaj

राख रे रूखी

कोयले से काली

... is how I describe Rekha Bhardwaj's voice - also the lyrics of her debut तेरे इश्क में. Dark, grey, velvet, powdery; haunting, content, melancholy, patient. Probably one of the only voices I've followed right from the beginning, Bhardwaj's voice is like listening to an inner voice. Her's is the voice of our generation. Like a rock icon. Like John Lennon. One would imagine a light-'n-shade larger-than-life photo of hers scanned onto a t-shirt worn by a mass of students who find intellect in sound. She's the Che Guevara of Bollywood music, one might say. Only, deeper.

A follower who has risen higher than her god, Rekha says in an interview, "Lataजी is my Saraswati." The ash-voiced singer is the humility of अब मुझे कोई.  This is perhaps a rare song where I shall not do-to-death for the nth time, Gulzar's ponderous lyrics or even Vishal - Rekha's husband's minimalist tune. For a celebrity so picky, RB's worked with "interesting characters" in recent times, not to mention, delivering the goods quite accurately.

But back to AMK: there's a rawness about the song that's hard to ignore. Never besura it cuts at the edges. Like a trained singer humming in the kitchen while cutting veggies for slightly creative instant noodles. And the mood, oh! the mood. The song changes moods like a chameleon. Not on its whim, but on yours. Just split? Dating someone new after ages? Enjoying the March late evening breeze? Walking on the beach? Got a new job? It's like सब बन्दर के व्यापारी.

And yet, when I first heard the number, I was dumbfounded. It is so pure it takes a few sittings to soak in. I couldn't figure out the emotion immediately. It left me admiring yet wondering.

Tonight, sync Ab mujhe koi for peace. For love. For a good weep.

Strokin’, Clarence Carter

Have you ever made love just before breakfast? Asks Clarence Carter, among many thought provoking (or plain provocative) questions. Strokin’ is a late entrant in my new-found love and list of numbers from the ’70s and ’80s.

A romance that began with another less lasting, (though as engaging and stimulating) has reached a plateau; a stability in taste for Hawaiian Shack’s ground-zero hits. It may not be unusual for people with innate rhythm to enjoy retro sounds, but for a graceless musician with two left feet [also embarrassed of the fact] this is nothing short of a feat.

Bawdy a.& n. humorously indecent

To many, Strokin’ falls in the category of bawdy. But heck! It’s the song that found a new audience for Carter’s otherwise suffering career post the advent of the 70s’ disco.

A rhythmic comment on the most evolved post-Industrial Revolution reproductive organisms, Strokin's its desperate voice that avoids that very basic function sans compromise on coital pleasure.

Strokin’ is fresh-off-the-shelf slam poetry. Club that with disco beats, psychedelic lights, gold body suits and finger-pointing-arm swinging diagonally up ‘n down and you get for the uptight, self-obsessed urban male, a most detailed guide on how to go about… Strokin’!

When I first heard the song, I smiled a blissful I-wish-that-could-be-smile to Carter’s next hard, long, soft, short enquiry, how long has it been since you made love, huh?

It’s a song that’ll leave you sassified…

If you’re 32, it’ll bring back memories of your 23rd birthday...
If you’re 23, you’ll have instant recall of last night’s goodness.
But if you’re 32 and male. It’s gonna slap your bed failures in your face.
And if you’re a 23 year old guy, Strokin’s you bible, baby!

Ek Hi Khwab, Bhupinder Singh

Bhupinder Singh’s voice is not the kind you listen to without a good two drinks down and a couple more in the waiting. But when, in the dead of night, a night before a final exam, AIR flashes a rare melody from Kinara (1976), memorising anything skips your agenda gladly.


Ek Hi Khwab is not a song. It isn’t a ghazal. Not even a nazm, really. It is a rant. A tease. The question is can you take it? Or worse, can you get enough?

It took two years for some charitable clairvoyant to upload it on the internet, post the shareware boom. I’ve had the song on my iPod ever since it became available, and heard it every single day the past 17 months.

The tune reveals once more, the genius of Gulzar–Pancham. It also unleashes a little known fact: Hema Malini can also sing.

Sensuality in Ek Hi Khwab is so pure, it leaves you joyful ear-to-ear. What’s most remarkable is the peace that pervades your personage. It’s the kind of music you’d enjoy if you liked Apocalypta’s quiet bass version of the Metallica number – Nothing Else Matters. The melody, peace and profundity of poetry unite to deliver a most supreme piece of music. Almost dreamlike.

Milind's House on Kennedy Bridge

I've only been to my aunts' and uncles' places in south Bombay so far - one opposite Congress House, one at Chowpatty and one at Napeansea Road. The other homes I've been to have been only in the suburbs. But I've wanted to experience a middle class old Bombay home. And the freelance artist's parents' place provided the perfect opportunity.

So Saturday morning turned out to be a relaxed one - woke up a little late and ambled down to the artist's set up. As if the area I live in isn't quaint enough all through the week, it acquires an extra glint of Technicolour over the weekends. Routines assume an even slower pace and the breeze cooling instantly under the shade of bougainvilleas towering over high compound walls of old Parsi "mansions" add to the romance. I got off the taxi right before Kennedy Bridge and ambled wondering-eyed towards Behndi गल्ली. It is truly only a गल्ली. The distance between two BUILDINGS is about three fourths the length of your arm. I am not exaggerating. Promise.

This distance, or the lack thereof continues until the end of the building [which thankfully doesn't span too far and wide], after which the गल्ली widens to allow a motorbike to stand across and block it comfortably. Not a soul here except a couple of passersby using the lane as a short-cut. I follow the rule of three to ask where "Raut building" is, and the watchman finally emerges and directs me. Raut building is a two-storey dilapidated version of all those homes you see on American tv shows and movies - only, it stands individually with the same 3/4 hand length distance from the houses on either sides.

The staircase leads straight to the door. Quite no-nonsense in that. It reminded me of the old houses at Mandvi and even the description daddy ranted of his place at Rajmahal road in Baroda. Once I entered, I seemed to have left Bombay for the umpteenth time. Wood. All around. And space! And a cat looking ominously at the door, perched on the sill of a pane-less window opposite the entrance. Except the occasional space utilization measure [like a sliding door instead of one on hinges], everything was so home. The flooring, good old concrete tiles smoothened over the years from growing - growing older and growing old. The walls, probably painted for Diwali or Gudi Padva last year. Everything neat, in its place. No embellishments, yet aesthetically non-conformist. As any home in any old city area. Functional. Comfortable. Comforting.

A mixer-grinder buzzed from somewhere inside and my heart leapt! It reminded me of ma being all enthusiastic about making धनिया चटनी for the week's breakfast sandwiches or grinding दाल for idli batter for the evening's बड़ा खाना. The door was knocked a couple of times - the रद्दीवाला once and then the fish vendor. The disruptions of a regular Sunday morning while you're trying to finish things you put down on your to-do list through the week.

It's such a luxury to be able to offer water/ chai/ coffee/ neembu pani to even a casual visitor like me, leave alone guests. The more we isolate ourselves, the more we distance ourselves from our culture; our traditions; the little parts that make whole that phenomenon we call childhood. And it doesn't take much in this city - just three fourths the length of an arm.

Bombay, 16 Feb 2010

This poem appears on both blogs for it's, well, a poem, as well as about Bombay.

A year In Bombay

I’ve been with my present employer for as long as I’ve been in Bombay as a resident. And it feels strange that even though each day is still a new challenge and brings new learning, I’ve never meditated on its effects on me – as a growing tweenager, as a woman, as a writer, as an editor, as a musician, as a foodie, as a daughter and sister, as a companion and friend, as a human being divided into so many parts that the whole, though greater than the sum of its parts, is unrecognizable. It’s like loving Salman Khan without so much as acknowledging that he’s a murderer – the assassin of not only speechless animals but also people. Not only has he broken law, but the law also chooses to turn its blind eye to his crimes.

I often wonder how many murders does god forgive. Where do we derive inspiration for punishment? Is Bombay my punishment or reward? Has it happened because Somewhere in my youth or childhood/ I must’ve done something good? Or is it the result of my many indulgences and bad karma?

And I Almost Left!

The last couple of months (actually more) have been so terrible [as perceived by yours truly, until Monday] that I wanted nothing better than to leave. Chuck all this and take the easier route out. Interview happened; got the job; things almost fell in place. I was all set to return home. Then I got cold feet. Twako finished it with a most bleak picture of how bad life would be back in Baroda for me.


It made me think of all the things that I’ve yet to have enough of, or can never get enough of.

Sea
Oh the sea! Every time I still stroll or brisk-walk by Marine Drive, Frank Sinatra’s Somewhere Beyond the Sea always begins to play in the background. I’m sure I’ve said this before, but the sea always brings back memories of the tune when Uttarika played it on her laptop in hostel.
Universal
The place I had my first glass of Sula’s Chenin Blanc. The old Irani café to which Sunil introduced me. The 1926 sepia yellow-n-wood interiors brought alive by shimmering chandeliers and the owner’s pudgy dog. The oldest, safest, most elegant and enchanting pub in Fort. Sports Bar is the only other place I’d ever be found having दारु in Bombay outside the confines of home.

Shopping
Confession: Bombay turned me into a shopaholic. Hill road at Bandra for western formals, Colaba for bohemian casuals and silver nose studs, Lifestyle at Phoenix for Ginger tee-shirts, Vaman Hari Pethe for my next piece of gold, Crawford market for fruit and Baby-ware, Breach Candy and Warden road for crazy cheap classy party footwear (I found my first pair of heels here)…

Music
Where else would I get to plan a concert-outing by lunch for evening the same day? It’d take Baroda ages to warm up to the idea of an SOI concert. And where would it get the stairs of the Asiatic Library to sit on and listen to Ustad Rashid Khan one dry spell evening between the showers of July?

Dust-less roads
I don’t mind the कीचड़  in monsoons near Vile Parle Station, I don’t mind the इधर-खुदा-है-उधर-खुदा-है situation in Wadala, but the dust back home gives me a bad allergy-cold in just half a day.

The As and the Ns
I can’t believe both the Abhisheks and Nishants I’m closest to are in Bombay. But other than them too, there’s Allan, Appy and, Neel & Nidhi, and B for Bindia, C for Chintan, and P for Parag too to keep me sane (or insanely amused). And it’s a great excuse to get T for Twara to travel out! Life without them is out’a question. At least for now.

Salad
The only place I know that’d give me interesting salad back home is home. And I’ve begun to enjoy iceberg lettuce in lemon & olive oil dressing with iced tea…

CATch You Later!

It is impossible to separate cats from Bombay, I’ve discovered. And considering the affinity that the Parsis have towards them, it’s not surprising that every Parsi Colony in the city is haunted by at least a dozen of the Egyptian live gods. The fish and chicken surely keeps them happily settled, unlike the traditional belief that a cat changes at least 7 homes in her lifetime. And of course, nature probably freezes the law of nine lives for them – why bother when they’re having so much fun in just this one!

I’m surprised by the absence of their much-demanded mention in my blog. Here’s a lowdown of four of my most catty experiences in Bombay that got me packing my favourite cat books to bring them back from my last Baroda trip…

I recently made it to an exhibition of paintings by B.B. Bhaskaran. He “loves painting animals, especially cats.” When an art connoisseur complemented and followed it up with “Why cats?!” we both exchanged a look to suggest “ridiculous question!” The paintings mostly depicted poses typical to the domestic felines (another one of our imbecilic assumptions – the pad-footed noiseless creatures have merely condescended to blessing us bipeds with their mysterious presence)… the interesting textures created from oil, chai-n-ink, coal, water-colour and pencil on paper or canvas brought alive the very essence of the felines some of us have grown up...

   matronly | piercingly suspicious | strict | painfully bored
   waiting impatiently | oblivious to names & commands

The paintings brought back memories of home; of hour-long phone conversations with Sajani about how her cats and mine respond to music, chats, food and more; of visits to Suzan ma’am’s place on breezy summer evenings in Baroda only to discover that some cats can be Gujju enough to enjoy dhokla & gathia & khaman & handvo and demand their share with the most economy in expression and gestures.

Until recently, I often walked up to the end of the bridge to catch a bus (free NSP* at the Porche showroom). There is a ginger cat at Kemps Corner that reigns the turn towards Crossword on the way. Cats evoke the usual onomatopoeic ‘puch puch’ in me, and this one responded like she’s known me forever. And she’d follow up to a point. She’s also attempted climbing onto the cab with me a couple of times!

For a while, I did a break journey from my hostel to work – the first half by any one of the 8- buses that ply on that route, and then a taxi or a 66 to Ballard Estate. On my first day of the series, I found this most amusing five siblings – toms and ladies at Opera House, Girgaon road. Quite apt, considering the sophistication with which they all sit-stand-crouch-lick themselves to glory-bask in the sun-nap near the taxi stand there. Every now and then, when I take one of those buses, I look for the familiar five. If I don’t find a window seat in the ladies’ section, I sit at the back at the risk of inviting some seedy looking pervert to occupy the adjoining seat. I have a feeling I’m going to alight from the bus at that stop to click a few snaps one of these days.

But my favourite sight is the Colaba Causeway, where, beginning a little after Theobrama, right down to the bus depot, cats in many hues and shapes and sizes carelessly sprawl by the road within grilled compounds so fearlessly it makes you wish life was as easy for us humans too.

Tequila Pro!

I can't be bothered with preludes and introductions to this post.

I can finally down tequila like a pro!

Well, perhaps not a "pro" pro, but at least I know it's overrated until you attempt the second one. I had an introspective little chat with Jayanta on my bus journey to Churchgate yesterday. He asked me if I've always been such a दरुबाज़. But that was a silly thing to ask - no one's always been a बेव्ड़ी ! But honestly, you can never be a real connoisseur of दारू unless you have the moolah, lack of money limits experimenting. So I began earning middle of last year. But a beer-"barred" town can suspend all aspirations alcoholic in nature. And then came Bombay. By the time I had "arrived", I was fed up with the Bloody Marys, Screwdrivers and Mojitos that the city offered.

The next step was to either get onto classy cocktails or shots. Jha got me started on the cocktails, googled the wines, and Gaurav's blog was a realization in all things spirited. Now I just needed someone who'd guide me in the art of an evening out with pals over a couple of drinks - which left me wondering who'd be "safe" to pair a shot with. After disasters galore [considering I don't get tipsy yet end up doing something stupid intentionally or otherwise], I was the diligent pupil in waiting - the Eklavya raring to find a willing Drona.

This is where enters our rockstar of drinks - Al-Ok. Really, life does seem all ok when he puts things in perspective. His perspective of course, which comprises a straight line and zero ideal situations. This is probably a guy who believes in the "enjoy the orgasm if you can't escape the rape" philosophy. Works for me.

Our man n I met after what seemed like ages, after crossing paths once post my shifting to the land of reclamation. Sports Bar at Phoenix blurted out and the fella  agreed. *see how easy it is to get a chap to meet you. Give him sports and दारु*

A green apple vodka-sprite down and some inanities later, Alok announced, "I need a tequila shot!" To which I evening-dreamed away in the other direction. Then I was asked if I'd be game for one. "It's a wake-me-up!" I confessed I'd never done it before. He gave me a look of I'm-not-asking-you-to-do-grass-girl-!

The procedure was explained and the deed was done at the count of three. I was not headed for doom yet. SO to Alok I turned and said, "What?" He instructed me to wait. And then what happened was miraculous! It felt like I hadn't gone to work that day; like a beam of the first light of morning was about to sneak in from the entrace. I was fresh as spring (and my breath mildly stank from the spring-onoion-&-garlic-chicken)!

But I'm never doing it with anyone else. Ok All?

High Street [and while we're at it- Low Space-Little Air-Disparate] Phoenix

Fever barely gone a few hours, cold still lingering, Nishant n Nishant decided the old gal needs an outing. After what seemed forever in the cash line (well, I spent all that time merely sitting somewhere on the shop floor - all tired n dizzy - with a woman who shouldered the mantle of redirecting people to the actual end of the line... which, my dears, is a terrible place to start at a sale).

I'm at the phoenix mills big bazaar. It's supposed to be the year's most inexpensive 4 days. Kids of mostly middle class folks are picking up absolutely anything they like n the parents look almost powerless-they're succumbing to these childish demands like they can do nothing about it. These kids should be made to earn just a month n then come here n shop. I just saw a TROLLY full of only cold drinks. Crazy litre n 2 litre bottles of coke n pepsi that looked like a tv campaign for the two joining hands or some such rubbish.

There's a man in front of me talking on his expensive HTC phone - he's travelling to singapore tomorrow. Not even a while ago, his wife ranted away about how some kg of rice n sugar is being distributed free with 5 kg of oil. The irony lies here- there are expensive food joints all around, hoping some of this crowd will spill into their traps too. Quite the contrary. We've never had it this easy getting a table at Maroosh. Despite all the Muslim n Parsi junta all around.

And I've never caught sight of so many outsiders - non-bambaiyyas in one ground. All vying to stock up for a couple of lazy months ahead. सब सड़ जायेगा सालों! It'll all pass expiry before you even touch it!

This is the Indian mall.

[ELE] [fan] [ta] [stic]

Geetha Durairajan, my prof-pal from Hyderabad was in Bombay since Saturday morning. Contrary to expectations, I ended up spending a substantial amount of time with her. Work schedules cleared out and people made space so I could loaf with a person I share the most bizzare-yet-special relationship.

And once more, I explored an element of Bombay (not literally, but associated) with yet another outsider. Even before we met, Gee had clearly indicated that she wanted to do Elephanta Caves on Sunday morning. The Marathon immediately rang alarm bells. But, I thought, there's gotta be a way around. There's always one where Gee's willed to go. So I jumped to accompanying her.

We were to meet over dinner with two other classmates the previous evening. Of course the other two wiggled out - or - ok, they couldn't make it. Honestly, the E Caves have always sounded like a hyped picnic spot meant for those who live in the suburbs or visiting the city on holiday. I would've probably never suggested the place to a guest I was hosting. But it became special in several ways.

First of all, it was Geetha I was accompanying. My first full length Bharatnatyam recital was with her. So was my first commercial play. Geetha has style - the kind that comes naturally to those who grow up like that. She was often the one to coax me to "dress up!" for an outing - especially events. To the extent, that for the Gujarati New Year in my MA-II, I decked up in a brand new green-bordered white cotton saree to go seek her blessings. She became my वडिल. She performed a little puja, my menstruation notwithstanding, and even organized breakfast! Quite frankly, it was more than would've happened at my own home in Baroda. The acceptance of me as me was unexpected and overwhelming all at once. I love to relate the story of how Gee 'n I became friends, but that is, as they say, another story. Back to our Elephanta trip.

My attraction to Bombay stems out of the fact that it is a sea facing metropolis. It is perhaps the same reason why I pine to visit (or rather stay in) Kolkata or even (now) Chennai ('cuz Pondicherry's just three hoursce). One of the things I did on the first empty weekend in the city was the half-hour ferry from Gateway. A full hour, no hurry to return, and the motive to reach another land, the notion of "commuting" even if for just pleasure was added attraction. To me, the sea is reminiscent of grim beauty, like the descriptions in the last act of Macbeth, or the Old Man and the Sea. The slow cradle of the catamaran induces so many feelings... If you're with an old friend, it feeds conversation; if you're alone, it shows you the nature of possibilities; if you are sad, it shows you happiness and if you are gleeful, it brings you back to your axis. It is humbling, it is peaceful and it is itself - in the most raw, unadulterated form. It shows you how potent the creator is and how powerless and miniscule you are in His scheme of things.

But one of the most humbling experiences of my visit to this 12th century establishment was the stone. Huge monoliths - slabs of stone turned into semi-intricate and symmetrical barriers, as if to prevent the casual onlooker from disturbing dark acts, or acts not meant to be spectated. Stone absorbs (/barricades) so much - energy, heat, sound, rain, noises - sound - voices... When Gee figured out the centre of Elephanta, she made me stand on the pedestal where it lay. It felt protected, though exposed to the elements; to the afternoon sun, to the midnight moon, to rains that must pour, to whirlwinds that must circulate within the walls of the hollow, to only those who must be willing and to yield to those who will.

Elephanta became a journey of the spirit. It became a travail, in which, though I was partnering somebody, I was on my own; though I had conversation to engage in, it was largely within; though its significance is jaded, our discoveries were our own. It was the first time I wanted to meditate - not with my eyes closed or sitting in a corner, secluded, but by just sitting quiet, watching the monkey take away my tetra pack of grape juice, deriving happiness in giving so little yet yielding satisfaction (almost glee) of robbed proportion.

Thanks Chintan, for insisting that Gee make the trip - not for the architecture, but for the energy.