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?