Mumbai Masala

Men in bombay are deceptive. In the way they're turned out. You can never decipher what they do or must be like from the way they're dressed. The most ragged looking man will turn out to be an eloquent speaker of at least three languages, keenly opinionated, street smart, and extremely sensitive. The most sharply dressed on the other hand, may be an utter disappointment to have a conversation with, not to mention a cunning manipulator. And his ability to hold your attention may not even last half an hour. What's worse? The kinds who dress adequately well, yet not straight out of the next cover of a men's fashion magazine.

Whether it is the office boy at work or the hot tall hunk who walks in at 11 in a popular pub in the suburbs on a weekday. There are no parameters on which to assess or judge and tread the next step of initiating a conversation, leave alone flirt or perceive lasting friendship.

With the availability of export quality garments and accessories, and equal access to latest trends in popular fashion, most bombay males get it right from the word go. Yet there is a handful who consciously sidle towards the imperfect.

These are men who would much rather look out of shape, or out of line, for the love of deception. In many cases, they will come forth with fashion or health advice to their woman friends, but never would they want to err and crawl towards health or into a retail store out of season or during a sale.

Sign of the times

Brutus and I had a meandering conversation last Navratri about what he was doing in an engineering conglomerate when his real place was at the feet of an arts faculty or in the dark, cozy lap of an ad agency. He hated me for rekindling what was until then dying its natural trickling death, his ability to write.

When a few months before that, we had just been introduced, he ended up trusting me with a piece he'd written to edit the following saturday noon. Edit I did, and make it sound future-usable we managed, but something within me wanted it to go farther. I wanted Brutus to do what most engineers only idle fantasise about, and the fantasy fades into the utopic horizon of the past, as the future bogs them down or heaves them to a height from which the only way to descend is to jump.

Then courage and reason both visited my Brute. He took the MICAT a couple of months back. Last month he received a notification inviting him to appear for the group discussion and interview. Apparently some are also offered spot admissions. Either because they aren't worth being given the arduous wait of 20 days for the results, or that they may decide right away before the complacency sets in and others may be admitted at the end of those 20 days. My guess is as good as anybody else's.

Brutus will now be my visitor's pass at the fifth prestigious national institution in Ahmedabad.

Brutus' admission, Siva's extension for friendship and Mayur and Amrita's reunion feel like signs. I don't know what of, but as Ujjwal and Ranju had said, this stint in Bombay might bear sweet fruit for me...

"Aap midiya mein ho?"

I'm beginning to get used to this Media career tag. I wouldn't be surprised if my landlady threw me out'a the house soon for never really showing my face, but I really can't be bothered.

So it's been just over a week since I began work here and the pace seems to be consuming me. I haven't FBed in what seems like ages and social life is crammed to a phone call to Kshitij or Karan, a weekend trip home, misal pao with Siva or stray smses to Twako. I haven't done the ice cream; dinner; night time walk; stay over or even drinks any of the days. My office is flanked by an Adlabs and a Cinemax on either side, but I itch to watch a movie and then by the time I leave work, I'm already hallucinating of my pillow-less bed.

No. Not complaining yet. This is probably the story of a million and one people in this city who come here for whatever reasons. But bombay would be surprised to know that it can be a healer too. Tiny nicotine doses are even employed in medicine.