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.
14.5.10
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.
Dark & Dead.
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?”
- If I’m way too tired or with Rashna, KC.
- If Neel’s the travel partner, then – ha ha, no bus 122 in the first place – cab to Churchgate.
- If there’s something neat at Jehangir, or today feels like shopping at Colaba, then KG.
- If Parag’s coming along to J, then walk. If I’m going with him to VT, same.
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.
12.5.10
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'd walked in with lemonade and samosa in mind. I also ordered tea at the end for sake of the old memory.
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.
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 want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees
I'd walked in with lemonade and samosa in mind. I also ordered tea at the end for sake of the old memory.
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