19.5.11

88th birth anniversary

Today is my Nanaji's 88th birth anniversary. Had he been alive, he'd have been flummoxed by what I do. Annual Reports without touching the financials?! How is that possible, he would've asked.

And probably raised his brow at facts like I've spend two 45-minute sessions in the midst of the founding Chairman of a prominent bank+NBFC that has just completed 25 years, and plays a prominent role in many a policy framing of the country. He would've asked, what's the office like? Can you see the sea? Good furniture? The art would not have interested him. The size would've.

And he would've found it totally unbelievable that I've had copious (conservative copious, chal na) cups of black tea too. We shall gloss over the details.

And when he'd've seen my company's logo on the back cover of another FMCG conglomerate's annual report, he'd've given a satisfactory nod.

I will never love him. I will never forgive him for how he treated my father. But I learnt what not to be in life. Happy 88 dada...

The sea is me

Every time I'm at Bandra or Amarson's park or even Worli or Nariman Point or Juhu, the one thing I know is that there's someone at the other end, listening to my rant, listening to whatever I have to say, whatever I must blurt out, my mistakes, my frustration, my wants, my regrets. the sea makes the right noises: the "hmm"s, the "I know what you mean"s. In rapt attention.
  
It's the friend I thought I will never have; the unconditional friend; the friend who doesn't feel the need to touch; just the aura is good enough.
  
The light breeze is not didactic or probing. The sea knows many of my secrets, many of my stories, so it is a sea of stories. And every time its waves ebb, it comes afresh with a clear slate to start listening once more. It doesn't change the topic, it doesn't wipe my tears, it's just there.
  
The sea is not pretty or tall or hunky. It is mine yet no one's. It will not deny. It has never said no. It will never go away, if anything, It will just keep edging closer. Like the old doctor husband of Fermina Daza in Love in the Time of Cholera.
  
It is large
  
It contradicts itself
  
The sea is me
 
...

I love

11.5.11

Earthlings all

It is very hard not to notice all the REAL celeb junta that frequents the theatre hub of the country at Juhu. Mostly because of the understatedness, but every once in a while, because of the ADD afflicted minority that must go "Hi daahling! Missed you at someone-insignificant's house warming..."

During my first stint in Bombay (and this precursor will probably precede a lot of my posts to come for a while because I've been infected by the then-n-now bug), the only times I went to Prithvi was to watch plays. The luxuries of lounging, sitting and working, reading poems, critiquing others', etc. was seldom an option. It was always too out of the way.

And now, I'm discovering the tiny pleasure of taking time off work and just sitting there a while - reading, plugging in my music, taking in the sounds and sights of pseudo and serious, veteran and aspiring theatre personalities. It has become my meeting point. The 20-buck addictive chai makes it an inviting meeting point. To be able to occupy only as much space as you need - the stools, the cement benches, the chairs are all share-able.

You can choose to walk down to the beach on a rainy afternoon, or to the many cafes and restaurants around for a meal, or even to the church close by for evening mass.

So when do we meet next@Prithvi?

10.5.11

Kabhi aana tu meri gali

Lahar had warned me: finding a place in Bombay is a matter of luck. The first house I saw, as I’ve chronicled earlier, was worse than a pigeonhole. I was beginning to worry. How long will I have to suffer Masilini – my very own fascist dictator aunt? So a couple of days went by and a Farzana Sheikh called. Her fast and smooth Bombay talk made me a tad suspicious, but she is a woman, I thought. And she echoed the compassion and empathy of one.

The not-so-secret agent convinced me to at least check out the place. I wasn’t quite sure, but मरता क्या न करता? At the end of a tiring day, I hitched an auto and told the driver to take me where I now belong. The lane I was to enter was approached by the heavily-cursed metro railways station site and into a bazaar – fruit, veggies, puja ka samaan, chemists, slinky sequinned gowns – so far so good. Then the agent’s “लड़का” escorted me into the specific lane. And then there were smallish eateries and broilers and pet shops.

We walked and walked – I losing patience with every step and the sudden and growing silence and darkness – him losing patience because of my questions; we came to a halt right in front of the gates of my building. I met the landlady and her mother and there began a relationship. She "liked" me.

In three days I moved in – no lock, hardly any stock, and sans barrels.

My first night was uncertain. I didn’t have a pillow, but a mattress with a clean sheet was in place. The room is furnished with apparent necessities, but it is still in need of a full-length mirror. The house does not have a filter, but I have my kettle so I boil tap water. No fridge either. No gas stove.

When I woke up that first Monday in my own space, the brilliance of a big square window took me by surprise. Calm windows at respectful distance with one humouring a cage with yellow parakeets, the noise of children playing in the courtyard downstairs, and the drone of a bunch of girls singing Hindustani classical music were some of the first elements that struck me about the place. I am still not entirely in love with the place, but I’m warming up to it.

It has been about a month since I began staying at one of the many CHSes that line the maze of middle-class Four Bungalows. The lane is lined with avenue trees – Neem, Gulmohar, Mango, Ashoka. It is paved with cement tiles to reinforce the road beneath – a phenomenon that is trademark to Bombay. One end (towards Juhu) opens out to a quiet main road nearer to some good eateries (important, right?) and the other end opens out to the Manish Market – fruits, veggies, a fruit juice-and-sandwich bar, a फरसान shop, provision store, broiler, bar, medical shops, and a bank. In short, everything I need.

In a couple of years, by the time I’ll have been bored to death and preparing to leave the city once more, the Versova Metro station will also have come up. For now, I must suffer the brief spell of construction site dust each morning and late evening when I cross the junctions underneath the pillared bridge.

The place is within a 15 minute radius of my office, an ultra mega super super-specialty hospital, my aunt’s and brother’s homes, some of the best restaurants in town (again, so important no?), a few laundries, and Neel’s and my boss’s residence (the last two are inconsequential, but heck).

My landlady is the conservative types who would much rather have me home by 6 and then just hang about so she can eventually do away with the maid-cum-caretaker. I don’t return until the wee hours. I make sure I run off to Baroda over many weekends. I refuse to take charge of the place. Being responsible for a house that isn’t yours in spirit, or sans anyone to come back to is not worth it. Let it be an expensive crash pad, but I’d much rather the attachment ended there.