Nouveau Art, Nouveau Fun: Bombay reads together

When I returned to Bombay 6 months ago (yes! It's been that long since I got here), I was bogged by several responsibilities. Some of them, in retrospect, I realised I didn't even need. To add to my woes, Bandra seemed like one helluva shallow locality to live in, what with all the fashion forward junta flocking its labyrinthine roads from Hill Road to Pali Naka to Union Park and more. My prejudices, combined with the fatigue of daily commuting and work stress left me rather drained mentally and I found my productivity suffering (apart from receiving a rather stern reprimand from my CEO for getting in at work late quite regularly). It dawned upon me soon that this constant demand upon my creativity at the workplace meant reinventing myself regularly. Three months into trying to settle into this new pace and lifestyle, a Meetup group caught my eye on the website.

The name felt lofty, but inventive. They read plays. The format sounded like all those auditions back in college. So I signed up. Nouveau Art Play Reading Group had met a couple of times already, and had something of a membership already - about a 100 people. The Facebook page showed lovely pictures of each of these meetups: smiling faces, a little relieved after something of a long conversation - only, it was a conversation not so much among them as them.

My first session with them was extraordinary. Moving, not just because the man behind it - Noel - is a sweetheart, but also for the sort of script he chose. Several people in the group have had trouble understanding why he chooses narratives that end on an offhandish sort of melancholy note. For me, that first session set the tone of what was to come, like a sign of the times. By the next meetup, I'd had a minor catastrophe of my own, and it dawned upon me - that's how life is, too: a little sweet, a tad savoury, with a few pungent and bitter moments thrown in for good measure.

By this time, the crowd built up. There were the 'regulars'. Then there were some faces each time. I had made a couple of friends. There have, of course, been several dropouts. But our last meetup, a momentous one (and meaningful in ways that have revealed themselves subsequently), was perhaps the most qualitative so far. I can say without doubt, it's been the best one. Everyone present (regulars and newbies) was there for the love of plays. Not so much theatre. And the difference surfaced ever so poignantly.

Some interesting observations keep surfacing. Every session has a round of introductions either at the end or the beginning. Titled the official 'drama queen' of the group, Nidhu once pointed out - the veterans just say their names, the newbies feel the need to give out more. Artist and Teach For India associate, Mahesh (or Ma Pa as he likes to introduce himself) and I once chatted about how the guy sitting beside me couldn't keep his hands from shaking while he read. He said it happens to everyone. This was Rameez's second time apparently. I have begun to stutter.

But this is not the case for everyone. For some, it comes naturally. There are several innately gifted good readers, with great voice throw and talent for intonation. Some venture to make things more interesting, and break the monotony with impromptu movement and onomatopoeic sounds too!

There is a lot of warmth that I have received at the hands of this group, especially Noel and Cecil (two of the four organisers - Noella and Jay being the other two). Sometimes the warmth can turn into a heat of bugging pings and tags and comments on Facebook and Whatsapp groups during the readings too. But that's a risk one runs with every new interaction. Every time I go to a Nouveau Art Play Reading meetup, my eyes light up at the sight of the familiar faces. I receive the same response from some of these people too, which makes the deal sweeter. And there's always the change of an interesting conversation at the end of the session.

So what's the format? Noel posts details of the next meetup about 2 weeks in advance on the Meetup.com page. People RSVP. About 20 people meet. Noel distributes scripts to those who ask for it before hand. There are some who get their tablets to read it on. We usually meet at a restaurant on condition that everyone must order something. We got thrown out of Candies recently too (because they didn't see any profits pouring in). Much of the group moved to Carter Road and continued there. People are allotted characters on the spot, order their coffee (or iced teas, as in my case *wink*), read, read some lines more than once, a talented photographer (that'd be Jay) literally catches everyone in the act and captures moments and expressions as documents for posterity. And we end with a deep sigh.

What began as a little activity for a bunch of like-minded people has been noticed beyond friends circles too. NAPR group has been featured in the Express Eye (under 'Soul Curry' - scroll to the bottom) as well as MidDay and on Zee News. The crowd that attends isn't exactly the literary types always. My first session saw a dentist, an actuarial professional, a banker, a businessman and an IT professional among others. The motley hasn't stopped being more bizarre. Some members have since moved to other cities, but they are missed, for they are friends, above all. The gooey warmth has only swelled in the core of each one of our hearts. And the excitement of belonging as a Dramebaaz just doesn't cease!

Kahani Filmy Hai!

He stepped into the compartment of my train from Churchgate to Andheri, at Bombay Central? Chomsky had been keeping me utterly engrossed on page 30 of Class Warfare, a book I began to flip through under unusual circumstances at a recent acquaintance's house and decided & requested to borrow soon after.

Back to my he. He stepped into the compartment and almost immediately I got the stare one usually does from travellers who see a woman sitting alone in a general compartment. Even in First Class. Unlike a Delhiite, this look is that of welcome surprise, not one that says, 'How dare you'.

The young man first chose to stand by the door right in front of me. Against the wind - though it was late enough and the weather has been forgiving enough for it to be comfortable under one of the fans. The seats were all empty except perhaps mine and the window spot on the other side. Sunday evening trains to Andheri work like that, I guess.

At Lower Parel, he moved to the door on the opposite side. His back, still technically against me.

Elphinstone went past and he walked to the outer corner seat closest to where he had stood. The thick railing of the entrance divided both our views of each other's faces partially. The eyes, particularly.

Dadar came, and he stood up from his seat and stepped down from the train. One is generally in a hurry to get a bus or a cab or an auto (if in the suburbs) in Mumbai as soon as the train so much as slows on the platform.

This square-faced man, in his powder-blue round neck tee-shirt and light blue jeans with a backpack slung behind, walked a few paces and turned around. He looked straight at me. I knew without looking. Looking yet, at least, anyway. Then I couldn't resist and had to look up. He eased his gaze to his right. I slid mine back down to my book. He turned around with great deliberation and slowly began to climb the stairs of the foot overbridge. I was curious. As if on cue, he stopped at the third step. Looked again. I did too. I don't know if I smiled as I looked away or afterwards, but the only thought that crossed my mind was - 'Bombay...' - and I shook my head like an old granny as the train trudged out of the station and sped its way towards Matunga.

Flying With Wings

A pilot's life couldn't get easier, it is felt. No traffic jams, no drunken driving to mitigate, no question of road rage, and the babes - oh the butterflies fluttering around 'em all the bloody time! Besides, landing those Boeings isn't some rocket science now, is it? 'It's all on auto-pilot - they land themselves,' one has heard several times. Then, you meet a commercial pilot. Sans the pretensions of defending the country or boredom of drills. A pin up image for the service industry. The men who've got it all! Every girl's dream. Everyman's envy. One who spread his wings and took off when most of us were were still contemplating our collective tomorrow, comfortably barricaded behind an ongoing post-grad degree.

The general perception about these 'high-flyers' is that they're just overpaid drivers in the disillusioning lure of a uniform. They are always put up in star hotels and forever look mega groomed for the job. Then you see the mask fall.

A vulnerable, tired face comes to the fore. A face that plainly reflects the relief of touching base, walking without the responsibility of 200 lives on its brow, happy to hear songs from his favourites list and holding doors for a lady instead of worrying about ensuring her child doesn't wake up from the irregularities of the sky in turbulent weather.

"You get used to it," he dismissively shrugs, and takes another deep drag of his B&H cigarette - checking his phone now, his wrist watch now, making a couple of calls (identifying himself with his official designation prefixed to his full name), yet surprisingly mostly attentive to what you may have to say. He doesn't have a vicious social media footprint. His Facebook pictures are mostly with friends at parties or poses straight out of a Bollywood romance.

I wonder what piques his curiosity. Just then, as if telepathic, he expresses an afterthought, "It's awesome to see Bombay at landing... the shanties give you a strange feeling." He pauses. Then he asks, "What's the best place for pancakes in Bandra?"

Gannu Drowns

18th of the month was not my first Visarjan in Bombay. However, the experience was vastly deviant from the expected. And yet I don't know where to begin. So the best place would be work. Like all offices in SoBo, ours too shut early that day (late afternoon which extended into early evening really thanks to work taking unusual affinity towards a day everyone was looking forward to running back home soon). The roads were comparatively deserted and a colleague was kind enough to drop me at Churchgate.

The train was emptier than Sunday afternoon in general compartments and the weather added its two bits. When I was exiting Bandra station though, the drama of an unusual quietness struck me. I touched KFC at Linking Road in a record three minutes. Suddenly I had a LOT of time, no crowds by which to be bothered, with all the shops still open, thorough policing on the roads and nothing to do. So I shopped and managed to walk home.

I still had time on hand and so decided to go visit my cats. By this time night had fallen and I could already hear drums and recorded dance music hollering from the loudspeakers on the roads. 'Shit' was my first feeling. So I avoided the main road and trod the inside roads of Khar to get to the closest exit near the old Santacruz house. I prepared myself at the last leg (read: the last crossroad where I had to turn left towards Linking Road) to confront the cacophonic crowd.

I was shocked. One side of the road was completely empty. The other side had people dancing, vans-trucks-motorbikes-wheelers carrying the deity as well as at least 4 bazooka speakers that played one or the other of the (by now-) standard 5 item numbers. Traffic was still passing smoothly beside them, and people were fearless to walk past them.

What took me completely by surprise was a servicing tradition I have never witnessed anywhere ever. Several housing societies that line the arterial road were out supporting & cheering these pedestrians out to say goodbye to the elephant Lord for the year, imploring him to return again next Chaturthi. But the act wasn't empty - they had set up stalls with water, soft drinks and other light refreshments to keep up the morale of these night walkers. But not for no reason - for all said and done, this was quite a show! The procession of colours, music and creatively rendered forms of Ganpati enthralled an audience not only of passersby and the refreshment stall attendees, but also attracted more who had parked their cars and were sitting around with their own popcorn-n-cold drink for the show.

On my way back, I even saw quite a few oldies sitting out on plastic chairs firmly footed on the pavement on the opposite side for a comfortable view!

I've seen this city enjoy free shows of all sorts. The other day a tight-rope-walker distracted me while I was in a cab taking my boss's call. Brawls in Dadar and the chawls of Bandra and Dharavi are probably everyone's favourite live (& free!) entertainment. Watching a Ganpati Visarjan rally was something of a novelty that will take its time to wear off...

The room of my dream

The first time is always hard. It's as if snippets of its appearance or fragrance or layout are from another time and space. Unknown yet familiar. Like they belong to several parallel universes. Like déjà vu. Like a Freudian slip coming back. The darkness pierces and comforts, all at once.

It is a simple standard square. The dulled pale yellow distemper on the walls and oil paint on the room; balcony doors & window frames, at first sight, make the place look stale, unlived-in, un-cared for, for a while. The latent odour of seepage and peeling paint begins to build something of a personality in your mind. But before you form a middle aged graying figurine in your head, a whiff of cool breeze from the window and balcony, that was just opened, hits you to shake things up. It's the effect that twilight's hues have on a dusky face, taking away the years, adding charm and youth.

You begin to look at this space in a new light. The light of street lamps along the highway that seeps in from the window, the high mast florescent light within the oil company's housing campus in Bandra, in the wee hours of the weeknight. The light of comfort that leads to a new excitement, and opens avenues for the brewing anticipation.

The room is compartmentalised in clutter as well. A wall closet and another steel almirah, a functional desk laden with assorted items of use – a strip of medicine, a shaving kit, some books, a pair of spectacles. Hooks on the adjacent wall do their job with assembly-line efficiency. At a level a tad lower than one's hips is a plain sand-papered wooden shelf, about six feet long and peppered with more items of male clothing. I notice a swivel chair later too – happily filled, not with the wearer but with his wares - a towel, laundered clothes, freshly discarded garb - the yield of the exploits from that building store of energy dying to pound.

Wires, papers, a water bottle, a wrist watch - all jostle for the spotlight on the little bed-side table. They all struggle to tell their story. A story of exhaustion from a long day at work, of haste to get out as soon as one gets in.

Then there is the flooring - an 80s style mosaic - functional; serving the dual purpose of lasting sturdiness and camouflaging occasional aberrations, smoothed over the years. Clean.

I have been here before, says a voice inside. Then I remember my friend from Baroda whose dad too retired from the same organisation. Memories of a simple standard layout company quarter come surging. Memories of laughter, late night tangents and giggles and gossip ensue. The immediate present slaps me back to reality almost instantly. A slap almost welcome. For this moment too has been joyous, perhaps in a more evolved way - hardly qualifying to be grown up, however definitely as peaceful and satisfying.

The last time, I noticed a metal name plate on the door too. In a child-like notion of being grown up. Not his name. Hardly the idea of the current occupant. This room of my dream is more real, more tangible, more accessible, hardly embellished. I stepped out of that dream and woke up to a reality that is truly liberating. Space comes in so many forms.

Prayers & Mothers

The month of August has been nothing short of eventful. From catastrophe to serendipity, it has given me the proverbial new life that Indian Monsoon is said to bring. One struggle was finding a new house. Having been written off as being too picky and having too many criteria, and being indecisive over and above, and coming across some of the worst maintained and most over-valued living spaces in Santacruz, Khar and Bandra, a couple of nights ago, I sent off a mass message to 16 people:

'Pray for me. Don't ask why or what just do.'

A whopping 14 came back saying they did. A few couldn't resist the temptation of asking why and some got worried also, but here's the thing, I must be darn lucky. they all responded in a hopeful positive. A couple followed up immediately or the next morning. One had a wise one to crack as well. Funnily enough, the idea was to not jinx what good may have been coming by saying it too often or jumping the guns or counting my chickens before they hatched or whatever, but in a fit of anger I did end up slapping it upon my current roommate's face when I was pestered and driven up the wall. Yes it has been two of the most excruciatingly painful and anxious days of my time in Bombay so far, but all the prayers, I'd say, paid off. I paid the token amount for the new place I'm moving into on Sunday, and have the weight off my chest finally.

So what's special about the place? It's a dilapidated old 3-storey building with no lift and the house is on the top floor, not to mention crammed and what will be my room, rather like a hole. So why clamber about such a place? Because of the roomies. Now, perhaps, I'm jumping the guns again, but my first interaction with both was full of laughter and empathy. They were not just sweet, but real. Who, after all, lives with a grumpy douche if one has the choice?

If you're wondering where do mums come into the picture? Well the day after this mass message was mom's birthday. And she said that Dida, one of the people whose prayers I believe to have significant power, told her about the message. She concluded simply - 'beta, remember,' she said, 'god helps those who help themselves, and you help yourself phenomenally! You'll always succeed.'

They say blessings from elders especially on their birthdays are nothing short of divinity itself at work. I concur.

Wondering about Wandering

8 good things about that bane called stability

I heard myself say this last evening to a person I have met recently: 'I love Bombay.'
It's strange that it came out so strongly, so spontaneously. Was I trying to impress him? Was I lying? Did I ever hate it in the first place? I wonder now.

For the first time in a while, I've begun to enjoy the convenience that this city practically brims with. e-Commerce flourishes here and commuting is a no-brainer. Domestic help knows what to do from Day 1 and instructions are usually extended only for really individualist needs - a pet or specifics in food, etc. But I still find it hard to digest the fact that I said it. I love Bombay. What kind of love? And wasn't I disenchanted with this place completely even until a couple of months ago? The stench at KalaNagar, the Rats on the railway tracks, the roaches near the sea faces...

Anything even akin to love is quite unimaginable in the present context. Not because I know some different unlikeable version of it, or because of the chain of big and small events that have shaped my very recent past, but because I have indeed met an exquisite crop of natives and non-natives here at the onset of this third stint. And while some have proved to be sour and/ or bitter, more have found a special place in my heart.

Bombay is indeed like New York, isn't it? Lines from Baz Luhrmann's Sunscreen Song come to mind:

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard
Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.
Travel.

The hiccups that ensue moving towns are nothing short of royal pains, especially when you do it at a frequent flier rate. And so, this time I'm in the mood to stay put for just a while, even if, to enjoy what they call stability. Looks like a rather peaceful space to be in and this is how!

1. Paid Leave

Imagine being paid your work pay for 7 whole consecutive days away from your smartphone and laptop and number crunching and deadlines and sheaves of paper and late nights - instead getting a massage on a secluded beach, sipping on a long island iced tea or getting yourself some wholesome family time gorging on your mum's awesome delicacies! I've had the chance only once before, and I blew it by not taking it. Now I'm determined to make use of the mundane perk.

2. Taxes

I did my own taxes this year, and the anxiety and last minute frenzy was far from fun. For a math challenged human being with absolutely no patience for government forms, this was torture personified. Finding an agent at the 11th hour may have been a blessing, but it cost me a stiff fee that worked fairly well as a lesson for life.

3. House Hunt

As a veteran home searcher in Bombay, I may have lived in all kinds of spaces - hostel, PG, rented accommodation, a relative's house, a friend's bachelor pad, and more - but the peace of familiarity and conversation with neighbours, the knowledge of all the provision stores, doctors and salons in the vicinity and being able to walk around without losing your way (very possible when you are me) is beyond compare.

Of course, the task of looking for a place to stay and the irks and pains that accompany - agents, misfits, inappropriate spaces (or the lack thereof), last minute denials - squeeze the life out of you even if for just a few weeks at most.

4. Soaking Local

And by that I don't mean having to be the sponge that must bear the wrath of sweaty co-commuters on local trains. Every place offers its unique flavour in terms of food, people and architecture - India is blessed that way - and getting acquainted beyond your neighbourhood usually takes at least a couple of rounds of the cycle seasons.

5. Weekend Trips

All the three cities I've lived & worked in so far are blessed with fantastic weekend getaway options galore. With a fantastic natural boulder-laden landscape in and around Hyderabad and the ghats as well as beaches around Pune-Mumbai, one should be driving out/ taking off at least once every month if not more frequently. There's so much ground to cover, literally!

6. Phone Number

Changing numbers is such a pain! Letting people know, and then changing the number in all official documents and some forgotten ones complaining on public digital forums about how irresponsible you are as a social animal... no ya.

7. Suitcases...

...and therefore packing and unpacking is possibly one of the biggest and most tiring chores of moving frequently. Instead of a trash-discarding activity, it becomes a matter of how best to pack it all and lug it around. The number of bags begin to feel meagre and stuff just keeps collecting. Often, memories begin to be thrown with what may seem dispensable in the short term.

8. Pets

Anyone who has had them will vouch for just what a source of comfort domesticated animals can be. Whether you have a farm for a few horses or just a little balcony for a guinea pig, and all the beautiful creatures in between, they all require time and love and staying put makes for wonderful time off with creatures other than our own kin.

Of course, there are minor advantages of staying put - the little DIY projects you may take on, hosting Couchsurfers or just old friends on stopovers and catching up or even just a weekly off or holiday with that someone special over a game of chess or scrabble. As a wanderer and pseudo nomad coming of age, I'd say injecting structure into your jaywalking isn't that bad an idea!

On Sale Sans Discount

Blonde, long, straight tresses, shining under the street light on the shoulders of a pretty, broad framed, fair and clear skinned woman at 11:45 pm, across the street from my house overlooking one of Bombay's arterial roads – home to shoppers from across the city by day – and as I was to discover as soon as I kept up late, by night too. The age of the woman is hard to decipher, but her clothes, today a coordinated red trouser with a pale red deep neck tunic, preserve her radiance well. She constantly plays with her hair, adjusting her tee shirt now, standing akimbo now, resting her gaze at male passers-by: sometimes anxious, sometimes dismissive, sometimes tired, always cool and up for a haggle.

A stamped Gulmohar just fell out of the back pages of the book I've been reading – Ismat Chugtai's The Quilt Stories. That's what broke my description of one of the three prostitutes who operate out of the nondescript old mansion.

It's been only a while that I have begun to acknowledge the presence of sex workers as a prevalent and unavoidably huge chunk of society. Three set up shop late each night in full view from my living and bedroom window, which I observe in the comfort of the locked and safe darkness of my house. A faceless spectator for as long as I want.

Yes, yes, now you'll say you stare at prostitutes from your window? Haw.

But they're fascinating, I'd say. It's hardly voyeuristic when you think about it. Yes, they're people your parents, your boyfriend, your boss, your neighbours, your friends don't want you crossing paths with. And I ask, why not? I wonder what it would be like to have a cuppa चाय with her at the neighbourhood after-hours टप्री . Or cook and eat with her. Plain old दाल - चावल . And laugh. Laugh about the bumbler, my cats, the dogs on the streets – the ones they must dismiss and the ones they love petting.

It is uncanny, this constant parallel universe I've found myself in, overlooking a prostitute's. From being just a bridge-and-a-lane away from Bombay's oldest red light district, to witnessing transvestite sex workers at peak business hours on my way back from work to the wannabe film star's haven. Now here.

The journey has been from sheer ignorance and denial, to indifference to interest. The indiscriminate and infinite curses and descriptions of partition that Ismat Chugtai's stories are made up of, are a wealthy demonstration of both 'our' perceptions, and 'their' attitudes.

Don’t they have as much a God as we do? Don’t they feel as much pain in dealing with autowalas as we do? Don’t they work harder (sultry summer nights, heavy monsoon rains, fatigue, injury, fever) than we might ever have the gumption to?

The other evening I got home late and almost scolded my autowala for stopping right in their midst. That is also the night I discovered they aren't your regular prostitutes, they are also transvestites, which kind of makes them rather 'multipurpose' from our angle and 'ingenious' from theirs.

It will take me forever to enter into a conversation with one of 'them'. Their ability to snub so confidently intimidates me.

Art

Halfway through his month-long stay in Bombay, Anubhav Rao, a fresh tweenager intern and I were in the auto late one weeknight heading to Bandra's cheap watering hole, Janta. Among the few things we spoke of on the quick drive, work - his & mine - came up. Anu completes his internship at Crude Area next week. At the time of our conversation, he had been asked to write short descriptions for a few art pieces, since Crude Area sources, curates and sells affordable digital prints by artists from around the world.

Anubhav was confronted with a dead end on the assignment. As articulate and competent he is with words, arty jargon was a first. I began rattling off some areas of focus – colour, treatment, elements, mood – and then a mildly amusing 'texture' he chorused with me.

We meandered to other related and tangential topics through the course of the evening. He is observant, even if not a talker. But the comical one-word chorus set me thinking.

I've known about, and the people behind, CA for barely a few months now. Their hard-to-miss ethos, however, even in a front page ET story from last weekend, is to make art 'accessible'. As author of the Prix Moliere winning play Art suggests, "There's no point… if it isn't accessible, because no one will see it. The greatest… were also accessible."

Art is a limited space & time play about three friends and their perceptions of a really expensive 5' X 4' white painting with some barely perceivable white diagonal lines on it. In the course of the play, their discussion heats to a violent brawl and the three end up questioning the very fabric of their friendship.

Art. A space that is hazy as hell and crazy as can be; chaotic as peak-hour traffic in this city and peaceful as the desert landscapes of the Iceland Pico Iyer describes in his travelogue, Falling Off The Earth. And amid all of those anomalies and harmonies lie the sometimes elitist, sometimes nonsensical, sometimes baroque and sometimes relatable pieces of art. As an increasingly unsurpassable factor in cultures across the globe – especially with pop versions and styles gaining strength of numbers and prominence – art of any kind has become impossible to ignore. But how do you enjoy it? Surely a 14" laptop screen isn't the best way to take it in – however convenient. Most of us can't spare the hours to gape at an original at an art gallery or museum either. In the constant vying for mental space that music, fiction and visuals squabble with on TV, on the internet and of course in our world around, isolation of any one form of aesthetic rendition is not only a ludicrous thought but also a rather narrow approach.

Like meditation, any, however menial, study of aesthetics requires at least one catalyst. It could be a drone or a refrain, a painting to complement what you might be reading.

A few days back, someone shared a recent piece by Stephen Fry on Facebook. The immediate impulse was to click on the link and quickly skim through its contents. Fry quotes one of literature's most famous speeches from Shakespeare's Hamlet:

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

But it wasn't half as much fun as I thought it would be. The mind demanded a far heightened experience of the passage from Hamlet's Act 3 Scene 1 that Fry quotes in his piece. There was also an immediate urge to open YouTube and play the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby, because he finishes with a line from the song.

So I went back to the soliloquy from one of Shakespeare's most renowned and depressing tragedies of blind distrust in love. But half way through this altered reading, I caught myself, this is no good. The vocals in the song hampered the absorption of the monologue. How about an instrumental orchestra version then? The last one is not hard to find since several 50-piecers of repute have attempted it to great degrees of success.
Since I tend to read with pauses of moments to look up, a new craving launched. My eyes wanted a view of this painting from my living room (thank you CA!).

Killer Tune by Enkel Dika

I finally played it all out in my head, like the final take of a film reel. So perfect, so harmonious, so ironically peaceful, for Fry's piece was about loneliness.

Now I had an element each to enamour my senses – my vision, hearing, speech, intellect, touch (for it sure gave me goosebumps). If only I had my sister's often-opened copy of the volume to read it from, as the aroma of yellowing paper would make my olfactory go into a tizzy.

Then again, if wishes had wings, I would have few new experiences in art to look forward to. For now, I revel in the sheer possibility of recreating this delight.

First Rains: Third Time Lucky

On the first day-time early evening drizzle in Bombay, as I walked briskly in the solitude of the mob from Horniman Circle to Churchgate, I couldn't resist the spontaneous urge to take in the lightly brighter version of the city through the wide panes of a BEST AC bus. Albeit, the journey would eat a full hour and a half extra into my evening, but the wish was to embark upon a secret recap and relive nostalgia of a route I lumbered upon often during my very first stint in Maxcity was overwhelming. Like swimming or cycling or any other learned synchronised body movement, this memory demanded to surface that evening last week. And then this thought came surging: some things never change.

Perhaps never is too harsh a word. Perhaps these things take their syrupy sweet time, more like, to relent to the elements. And these things I speak of could be a shrub of pale pink Champak flowers outside a modern landmark in Worli, or the mellow erosion on the side wall of a bicentennial edifice in Mahim. Then again, it could just be the square-faced, bushy moustachioed sev-puriwala who hasn't budged an inch from his spot right outside your first home on Pedder Road along its undulations. The signboards of old housing colonies with moss growing over them, flourish on the first paint, immune to its chemicals, adequately dried by the briny mist wafting from the sea nearby – perhaps even consumed and digested – an ironic testimony of their depletion.They all stay put – in denial of the world around them that moves and moves on.
In this city of fleeting glory, 15-minute fame, fast-expiry attention spans, and a pace highly governed by money, even new-age smokescreens find a way to keep loyalists and convert more:some through the spiel of heritage, others resort to synthetic calisthenics.

The wrinkles may iron out; the blotches erase, but in the face of constant influx, what do the old do? Some battle it out,some cash in, some play passive spectators. The last allow the new to pass – like a Monday-to-Friday fad – knowing the clouds must clear for ominous blue skies to materialise.

On this journey, there will be dispute, indecisiveness, and doldrums. Pulling the shutters down and letting fungus ease the demolition or looking smart and allowing a swift execution is then a personal choice and a tactical one respectively. The former earns respect, wrath and mirth, the latter, reverence, mockery and disgust. A commotion of reactions for a plethora of emotions. And from the chaos arises a pattern clear as an engineer’s drawing. Detailing not just contours but also virtual tours; elucidating the details and the drastic anomalies.

The chaos becomes the pattern.The design begins to throw up a design, and follow a routine, a process, a cycle. And then his cycle becomes that thing. That thing that seldom changes? Or takes what seems like forever to undergo any noticeable transformation.

7 Battles of May

May is not a fun month in India. Or for that matter, any tropical country. The climate is by no means pleasant and tempers tend to fluctuate without little or no warning. Mine may not have been very different from others', however, they had original touches and interesting twists!

1. Moving Base.
   Location: Tier 2 to Big City
   When: May 13, 2013
   Fight: Employment documents; cats; time; LBT strike
2. Cats.
   Location: Western Suburb
   When: May 13 to May 25, 2013
   Fight: To let them go out or not.
3. House-keeping.
   Location: Same as Above.
   When: May 15 to present, 2013
   Fight: Agent says speak to handy man; Handy man does not receive calls; Carpenter loses estimates; Building Secretary raises objection to changing piping for water force improvement (read: some in exchange for non-existent)
4. Commute.
   Location: Western Suburb to South of the City
   When: Mornings & Evenings; First week since joining, 2013
   Fight: Bus or Auto? Bus or Train? AC bus or direct route? Fast Train or Slow?
5. Work Place.
   Location: South of the City
   When: Recently, 2013
   Fight: OfficeBitch on laziness overdrive - I was to replace her old seating and storage space yet to be emptied of her remnants
6. Weather.
   Location: Big city
   When: Yesterday
   Fight: Rains
7. Time.
   Location: Big city
   When: Everyday
   Fight: Work? Socialising? Pets? Groceries? Shopping? Reading? Beauty regime? Dinner? BREAKFAST?! Sleep?

However, I see that as the days go by, the creases are ironing out, and a smile, some patience and irreverent following up does the trick. Then again, you can't control everything. For everything else, as the famous tagline goes, there's MasterCard!

This Day, Every Year

So today is the morning of my sixth Last Day at Work of my career. Sounds skewed and suicidal for any rocket scientist’s career, doesn't it? But it's surprisingly emancipating. There have seldom been interesting last days, but this has been by far the jitteriest. I have yet to receive my resignation acknowledgement email and relieving date officially. Yup, beat that. However that's not what's really bothering me.

A lot of movement is in the pipeline. A lot of changes, and a lot of adjustments.

The last time I was taking this decision, I had a choice - I was asked. This time, I've been told. I am not resenting it, I appreciate the break. The fact that I've been presented with ample time to get used to being truly myself. Not having to think of other people - just the cats.

This time alone has freed me of my fears, hesitation, mind sets, judgement, dependencies... Stimulants, decadent food, loud music, jarring yellow lights, other people - I have lost the need for any of these and realised the stark difference between want and need.

This phenomenon has helped me sort out precisely what gets packed and what goes into the bin, to the maid, or just stay back. I wouldn't say I have lost my sense of attachment, but even the stalest of shirts lose their stench after a few days. All that remains is the physical accumulation of dust on them, and then they must be given to the laundry guy.

As for the last day at work, I foresee a lot of boredom, barring some work here and there - just because most people may not want to accept the fact that I am leaving - and some do not know still that I'm leaving. The latter variety is mostly those who I, nor anyone I know around work, speak to. Last days are strange. There is this sense of emptiness. Of everything snapping in just a fraction of a second. Whether there is disapproval from your employer or complete support, the feeling is always that of having fallen short. Of course, in my case I have almost always fallen short. I put myself in the employer's and the spectators' shoes.

I have always been happiest when I've discontinued working with an organization. The opportunity to revive oneself as a person and as a professional presents itself like a clear slate on which to draw a brand new picture. The relief of not having to see the same old faces of course is unparalleled. Isn't there any job that allows one to meet new people and take in a plethora of experiences each day? I reckon it's a rather superficial and flitting attitude towards work - this not wanting to know people – colleagues –under their skins. Then again, I've never much enjoyed socialising with people at work barring one job. And even there, my eventual pickiness got me quite a bit of scorn.

I wish all of these negative thoughts would leave me. For once and for all. It’s not worth thinking so much. Shouldn’t I be putting all this energy into more positive affirmations? Thinking forward; looking towards how best I shall give myself to my new employer. But how do I do that, when that very idea has come under scrutiny? Will I or won’t I? Both parties will surely make me slog before I make any headway.

It is not time. There’s a bigger plan. It is not right. God always answers a prayer. It may not be to your liking, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t for your best. Surrender. Accept His ways. You shall be more at peace. This has been my greatest takeaway from Goa. That too from a tv programme that I chanced upon in the midst of a disinterested weeping session about my predicament!

Ajanta-Ellora: Worth the hype!

It's taken me a fair bit of time to even begin to write about this trip. Of course, it was overwhelming and a lot to document at one go, but I realised this was a travelogue, not a user manual.

So Ajanta & Ellora – the two UNESCO classified World Heritage Sites about which more information can be found ALL OVER THE INTERNET had suddenly surfaced on our Maharashtra-trips radar for the simple fact that we indeed wanted to travel, but the beaches were getting too hot to handle and too expensive – not to mention the lack of being able to strip into your bare minimums and saunter around (c’mon pardon my first world problems, will ya’?).
The buses to Aurangabad were surprisingly cheap – however if you are a boy-girl duo travelling anywhere in India, I suggest either book yourself into a very fancy 5 star or carry a fake marriage certificate, if you don’t have a real one. Sorry, but in India, we are fine gaping at even fully clad women but not with another man. No sir.
But as always, the feminist Jhansi ki Raani in me digresses.

We didn't begin too early in the day - by the time we were at Ellora, the clouds were our only protectors!

We divided the trip across two days with Saturday for Ellora and Sunday for Ajanta – or Ajintha, as you will discover on the signboards. Aurangabad itself is like every other city that the Moghuls ever touched. Sturdy grand gates with their elegant pointy arches, with little or no ornamentation, but plenty to awe.


The comparatively easy and planar walk at Ellora; entrance visible in the distance

Silhouette of the monolithic pillar
at the entrance of Ellora's cave #16

But this story still hasn’t begun. We wondered if our Couchsurfing karma had matured enough to pay yet, and tried our luck with Joshua – the journalism student from Kenya studying in Aurangabad. Joshua Boitt couldn’t have done more than he did for us. Not only did he make sure we had a warm place to sleep, but also one that was free from mosquitoes! He let me cook classic Indian fare in his kitchen (on a fancy automatic stove!) and gave us the experience of eating with a warm bunch of friends over some conversation and laughter. His roommate, John too kept us company. In fact, he insisted he cook us something Kenyan too – and made this sooji-halwa kind’a preparation – except it had nothing but water and broken rice – no salt, no sugar, no nothing. Needless to say, to our spice and salt-bomb accustomed tastebuds, it was nothing short of vile. However, they tried and we couldn’t have said on their faces that it sucked. Rao even downed it like a good boy. I reckon I’m a tad less tolerant.
It was then that I realised how contagious the disease of hospitality is. Whether you are a guest of India for a few odd years, or an Indian far away, you just can’t help host like a pro when there’s an Indian somewhere in the whole circuit.

And to top it, Josh made sure we were two well-fed children at breakfast so our travails would not be hindered by oddities such as hunger! He even noticed the chain with the filigree pendant on it that I had on – my grandmother’s, when I told him, he smiled.
Ellora was our first experience of sheer open-mouthed wonder. The very first cave you see there – #16 – is a temple complex carved out of one solo rock. How they cut metres of rock vertically with such geometric precision all those centuries ago is what leaves you staring at the heavens – and to the top most part of the atrium.

The Mahadev temple at Ellora

Cut to precision: Ellora

Very oriental lions at Ellora

And while Ellora is an easier linear walk to the left and a slight climb on the right, it was Ajanta that felt even more worth our while. 3/4 of a horseshoe, the caves have been carved out from a natural ‘U’ shaped hillock of rock along the river Waghora in Maharashtra. The very first climb up is just of feeler of things to come. As you proceed further, there are all sorts of climbs up and down, gradual and steep. And this is where you discover far more intricate forms of the two arts in their resplendent display – sculpture and painting. The vegetable dye paintings have lasted over a couple of centuries, and the sharpness and attention to detail threaten to take your breath away. With much of the depletion of the paintings caused by flash photography, I don’t blame the ASI having banned it. But if you have a great digital SLR that can withstand a moving hand and produce some good photos with prolonged exposure, you will have captured something that peaked over 2000 years ago.


Intricate & uniform

Ellora and Ajanta have also been maintained surprisingly well. I reckon just as the Golconda in Hyderabad or any other place of archaeological heritage under the UN’s straight supervision, this one too has been spent upon. A sense of pride and reflection fills you. We saw a foreigner reading right outside the caves at Ellora under a tree. His sense of calm flummoxed me. At the time, I thought, what a man to come so far and sit here to read. Now I see what he did – a sense of gratitude towards those who built something so strong and beautiful that all this time later, we in our retarded sense of what is precious, can sit and enjoy still.


Cathedral, Ellora

But the trip in itself was a humbling one. Our host Joshua lives on one side of the outskirts of Aurangabad in a fairly newly constructed tenement. From his terrace is visible a huge horseshoe of hills on three sides. On the fourth, where the terrain dips towards the river, you see the Rani ka Maqbara. Apparently a miniature version of the Taj Mahal built by Aurangzeb (possibly in some fit of juvenile competitiveness to his ancestors), this one presents a soothing view to the eyes. By night, when the stars light up the sky, or perhaps when the moon shines on the horizon, I’m sure the Maqbara looks nothing short of charming.



Quirky Aurangabad!

But as is the case with every city with a considerable and prominent Muslim population, Aurangabad also has an aromatic culture of food. We ate our last meal at Sagar – Rao was too sold on the idea of Naan Quaila and it was ordered. The influence of rich Mughal cuisine is high on the dish – but so is the spice of the Maharashtrian interiors belt.


Cathedral with painted frescos, Ajanta

All in all, if you’re in for a new experience with the ancient, do it differently – register with Couchsurfing, book on RedBus, meet a few strangers and load up on the food you get. The memory – that’s how it becomes something of a capsule to last forever!
 

More ceiling frescoes, Ajanta (read last paragraph for preparation method)

Guhagar: 6 things you'll love!

Last weekend was the beginning of Rao & my joint exploration of Maharashtra - we figured we might as well tick off all that's on this immediate travel list instead of day dreaming about utopian distant lands (in terms of time as well as miles). We began with Guhagar. Rao had sung paeans about the place and that had sort of made me a tad skeptical. However, on arrival, I realised he didn't do justice to his description. To have a clean stretch of sand in your backyard and staying at a simple cottage is a regular feature of accommodation at several places along the Konkan coast. But even that is not it.

Getting there

Guhagar is about an hour from Chiplun by the rickety State Transport bus (no private ones, or cabs - sorry). It's about 270 km from Bombay. You can take an overnight sleeper to Chiplun and then the hourly ST bus from there to Guhagar. The care-taker of our cottage (we stayed at Nishigandha, more on that here), Deepak told us he could arrange for a cab so we could drive around and go to Hedvi too. But we decided paying a full grand instead of the unbargained 400 bucks was a steal.

Besides, Konkan's beaches are dissimilar not so much for what's right next to the sea, as the things and places you stumble upon in the villages. That is not to discount the beauty and charm of Hedvi, but as a professor once said to me, 'where you have been twice, you must go a third time.' And so perhaps Rao will make it to Hedvi as well next time, and hopefully I'll be lucky to be his companion again!

Stay Put

Surprisingly, even thought there weren't many tourists to be spotted in Guhagar, there were several guest houses all around town. We later discovered that most foreigners on their way to Goa on New Years' Eve invariably break the journey at Guhagar. This little snippet of information made the plethora of places to stay obvious. All these places are more or less cottages and promise access to a little piece of private beach.

In themselves, they're clean and well ventilated. we had access to a fairly spacious attached bathroom as well. Only, the hot water was a challenge on day 1 because the boiler had burst. But our host actually came in early on Sunday and boiled a full two bucketfulls of water so we could dunk ourselves in fresh, hot and steaming peace!

Painting the Town

Guhagar is a small Mahadev & Laxmi-Narayan-worshiping town. In fact, the cottage where we stayed was right across the road from what seemed like an ancient structure. Gargoyles in animal forms were seen on all the outer roof skirting. However, the compound was large enough to house not only two medium sized temple buildings, but also a badminton court!

Guhagar also has quite a few 'kund's or ponds. The water, as you may imagine, is not clean, but green with algae and out of maintenance. Some of these stepwells are quite apparently meant for washing. I saw once in the marketplace that was all marble!

The narrow lanes make walking around town even at midday quite easy with all the share of shade - of both trees as well as shops and houses. We had to walk about 10 minutes to reach the town centre, and realised it was so much easier getting around here on foot! I even got my long-pending revenue stamps at the post office on the way to one of our lunches.

Houses in Guhagar are just the most charming you might ever come across. They all have sloping roofs with drying little premature coconuts fallen from the coconut trees in their gardens. You'll catch an octgenarian or a couple of women in the neighbourhood gathered in the mornings in the verandahs preparing one or the other food item. The compound walls are all moss ridden and thick - the bricks that give them their form can easily be mistaken for red stone - somehow, the holes in them and their texture gives them the appearance. You can see that the people of Guhagar take good care of their abodes.

The shy Starfish - it was actually as big as the outside outline of the sand
that looks all dug out!

Sea Surprise

The beach is a pristine stretch with hardly a soul around. We spotted a few starfish on the shore - tiny ones and rather dull looking. But then, I guess when you look like that, you hardly need colour!

But that's not the only way to take in the vast exposure of Guhagar to the sea. Drive up to the lighthouse for better views - you'll pass steep slopes and a mesh of mango trees growing wildly on them along the way. You have to cross a bit of the goats in a rickshaw and the valley views are as pretty as they come. And then you suddenly rise to a flat table land. The surprise wears off in a while but the cool breeze even at midday is refreshing. You might spot remnants as well as developments on the Enron project. The facility runs for miles and so does heartache. We end up ruining so much in the name of infrastructure. The steep slopes of the valley are all chockablock with mangos trees. You can only imagine how much they've cleared off to build their factories and smoke emitting power stations. The ones that are now out of commission because the company filed for bankruptcy to save the asses of a few suits.

Gobble-de-Gook

It took me a while to begin this section. Not because I had a hazy memory about it all, but because there's just so much to try out. It's not a tourist town, so you won't find any hip shacks like you would in Goa. The Lagoon comes closest to what one might call a diner. We entered the town and had poha-sheera-chai at the first place we could find, Musale, which later turned out to be run by the same people who ran our guest house. But those who've visited Guhagar swear by Suruchi.

And while this unremarkable-in-appearance place has a community kitchen sort of seating, with everyone in town (from local affluent middle aged businessmen to young Bihari labourers) and the tiller attended by 3 different people depending upon the time of day (the owner in the morning, the caretaker/ waiter/ steward in the noon and the missus in the evening). Suruchi serves classic Maharashtrian fare - thali-pith, misal, vada, bhakhri, puri-shrikhand, sol kadhi (which I have finally come to LOVE) and the standard limited thaali.

Rao had more than his fill of the local sea fare at Annapurna. His Kalamari and prawns even made me salivate! The sol kadhi competed with Suruchi's, however the difference was stark - this was quite apparently made of fresh ingredients while Suruchi's was some sort of a pre-made concoction. The service at both places was unintrusively attentive.

Round and about

Ah! This is my favourite part - the juicy bit of the whole trip. There's the Anjanvel lighthouse about half an hour from the town. A pleasant drive along the river that ultimately meets the sea at Guhagar, you can hire a local auto-rickshaw for about 400 bucks. The chap should be willing to wait and also take you around to the nearby fort.

On your way to the little lighthouse, you encounter hundreds of mango trees that grow on the steep slopes of the hillside. Much like other parts of the Western Ghats, you'll definitely spot the trademark red mud. What you'll also see is a combination of that and yellow and black soil. Something that flummoxed me beyond words. However, a sight that is both overwhelming and hurtful both at once, is Enron's now-dysfunctional plant. Just their cooling towers occupied the length and breadth of a whole table land! The only thought that raced through my mind was... what a waste. Of time, money, resources. Such a compromise and deep impact on the environment this scam made. What was the outcome?

You leave this cry for help behind as the road finally yields you to the coast again - through a little town and then a dust track upwards again to the light house.

I was perhaps singularly unfortunate in not being able to get entry into either the lighthouse or the fort. The lighthouse at Guhagar is open to public only between 3:00 pm and 5:00 pm, which no auto guy chooses to tell you. But we did get to walk right up to one of the many tips of the land mass and take in the mighty ocean in its entirety - its currents, its colours, the fishing boats and the crooked rocky coast.

If you go there later in the evening though, may be after your lighthouse visit, you can walk down to a site that seems to be in the preliminary stages of development as a particularly fine viewing point. Situated just 10 minutes away this viewing point is at the end of a long dust track that is currently being flattened and concretised. You'll find a railing only at the end (they were probably hoping that will prevent a truck from sliding on and tumbling over). The pathway itself if the upper slope of the hill parallel to the road that leads to the lighthouse, and the other side is yet another steep slope that overlooks more of the rocky façade that runs along Guhagar. In short, don't venture there with your kids or even wobbly, accident-prone adults (like me). I imagine that as one of the many tips of land spilling into the Arabian Sea, this would be breath taking - with the water shimmering and the mellow breeze. Actually, it'd make for a swell sunset point!

View from the temple outside the lighthouse

Our information on the Shivaji Fort nearby too was outdated. Apparently it's closed to the public since someone has actually claimed ownership of the property and cordoned it off as a private mango plantation. You can still take in breath taking views of the sea from around both these spots.


So that is Guhagar. With its decent men, hardworking women, coastal weather, views of the hills and some awesome food even for vegetarians this little town really set the tone for our series of sojourns!

5 Steps to Celebdom: Kunal Khemu

So a couple of days ago, this id added me to its gmail chat list. I typically add everyone. Don't ask why - it's like adding everyone who sends me a request on LinkedIn gets accepted. When someone with a name identical to a personality THIS unpopular (no offence to the personality) establishes touch with you, you are sure to treat with some level of doubt.

However, this morning the id pinged.

11:30kunal.khemu1083: Hi, I needed Kanaka's number urgentlykind of in a fix...between shootsme: i think you've got the wrong priyanca here

ONE 

11:31

k.k: oh dear lord.. am so sorry

I guess I got the wrong person

me: i was actualy wondering why you added me in the first place
yupk.k: just saw ur pic..
me: yeano worriesk.k: do me a favor, will u?me: ?k.k: pls don't let my id out to anyone in ur orbitme: okayk.k: privacy sakes.. 

11:32
me: yeawhy would anyone want it?k.k: that's another issue altogether..

Now I'm guessing either the person in question was indeed the person he claimed to be or was just doing this out of some strange sense of having fun in the name of an entity who has little to lose. No offense meant, once again.

I expected the conversation to end there, but...

TWO

k.k: am actually held up here with my 11 yr old nieceand she's so damn naughty
 11:39
if i was in bombayd've baby sat her
have a 3 year old niece myself
k.k: she's playing with the stove.. despite my repeated warnings
11:40
me: just turn it off from the cylinder partand put the lighter in lock-n-key
k.k: i don't know how that's done
just know that its not an electric stove 

11:41
me: if you go to the stoveyou'll see the pipe at the back/side of the stove attached to a red cylinder
about the height of your niece

THREE 

k.k: i guess I'll just punish my niece 

11:42
me: typical

I was beginning to be persuaded that this was indeed the person in question - are film professionals really this stupid? And then, can one really blame the tongues that wagged about him at the time of Tiger Pataudi's memorial lunch in London? The conversation proceeded:

FOUR 

11:43k.k: ok trying your trick (didn't know common sense was a form of trickery now)what does the cylinder do? (doesn't blow up as easily as my head will if you keep up these inane questions)just so that I know how this worksme: there should be a knob at its neck (just like my hands at yours to wring it)just turn it to the opposite sidek.k: what will that do? 

11:44
me: that'll stop the flow of fuel to the stove
it will not catch flamedo you smoke?kunal.khemu1083: yesoccassionallyme: then i'm guessing you have a lighter?

Before I could tell him to test out the burner once he was done turning the knob -

kunal.khemu1083: what fuel is this? 

11:45
me: jesus did you go to school?!it's usually propane or butaneand there's some mercaptan for the smell so leakages can be detectedkunal.khemu1083: i know its some liquid (seriously?)me: cuz the gasses themselves are odorlessand no it's not some liquidit's gas (much like the matter in our hero's head)under a lot of pressure

But here's what took the cake:

FIVE

11:49
kunal.khemu1083: guess i am irritated cause i am nt feeling wellbad stomach ache.. overate..had a lot of beansme: i don't need to knowyour films are a turn off enough
11:50
kunal.khemu1083: u dont know much abt movies, so u shud probably stop judging (argh spelling is such a deal breaker for me)and I am not not even starting on about the technical knowledge of it

Technical knowledge? At this point I was willing to bend backwards laughing because quite apparently this sounded like a wannabe fan, rather than someone who's been used to the popularity (refer the snap in the ToI link above).

I'm still willing to give this id the benefit of the doubt - maybe the real Kunal Khemu should clear his name (even change his email id and skim through a few textbooks, if that's what it takes), because right now, I'm not only judging all of the film fraternity (the kind closely knit or otherwise) for their blatant disregard for any awareness of the world around them or farther still, but also all the secondary aspects associated with such a person - Bombay boy, gossip mills, all his films (Hum Hain Rahi Pyar Ke being an exceptional farcry).

I wish the actor all the best, but Kunal Khemu's Twitter profile makes me just sad for him. And believe the genuineness of the id more and more.

An elegy to Abhiram

This is perhaps not quite a poem, but I surely mean to remember Abhiram Kotha fondly.

It was in early August 2010, that Karthik sent me a snap of his dilapidated car over Whatsapp. The message he sent with it said, ‘this is gonna cost me a few tens of thousands.’ His brother, Abhiram Kotha had met with an accident in the heart of Hyderabad city – late at night. I don’t quite remember if he was driving it or drunk. But it gave me the shivers. Karthik went on to say, ‘if he doesn’t mend his ways, he’s gonna meet with a fate others will be sorry for.’

Late last night, a common friend gave me some news I was too shocked to react to for a while. Abhiram Kotha passed away yesterday, Rishabh mentioned in the passing.

The first thoughts that came to my mind, uncannily, were not that Abhiram may have suddenly fallen ill, but the possibility of a massive accident.

Accident it was indeed. 

Abhiram Kotha was neither violent, nor impulsive. He had aggressively attempted to save my own life once – not through some superficial act of bravado or machismo, but with words, thought and reason. Words were Abhiram’s greatest strength. His articulateness often made me sit back and think. He was pragmatic, thoughtful, charming beyond imagination.

I believe the last couple of years had also seen him successfully progressing in his brand consultancy business. His curiosity, passion and energy could put an infant to shame. I remember just how rich he made our concert outing by simply giving me tiny insights into a movement or style. I believe he was a fabulous violinist himself. Abhiram Kotha sure was a powerhouse.

I believe it is strong personalities such as Abhi that are most missed by loved ones. His family has been even more unfortunate in the last few years. Losing a child however, is unparalleled.

Precious he was. Remembered, he will be.

Pondy Hopping III

On Day 2 in Pondy, I biked through the busy streets of Grand Bazaar early in the morning. The closed Goubert Market in its centre is a maze full of several flavours and colours and textures and noises. The place surely lives up to the name and the ride surprised me with sites I had intended to uncover during the trip. Asking around didn't help on the first day, biking around definitely did! I rode by what I believe is the oldest and prettiest church in Pondicherry. While I could never go back to see it from inside, but perhaps that I'll leave for next time!

The first smells to hit me at the Grand Bazaar in Pondy were the masalas. Mint, coriander, lemons, garlic, ginger... Strong, yet not sneeze-inducing. Gunny bags full of veggies, some I didn't recognise, were being hauled down from the trucks. And since the market hadn't settled yet, there was none of the buying crowd there. Just vendors getting ready for the day.

Going to the Amrakunj or Khanderao or Mangal Bazaar in Baroda was a pain, unlike at the Grand Bazaar. Not only because it was dirty and usually the cows from the nearby village treated it like their go-to hangout, but also perhaps because I did not appreciate the bustle and aromas of a fresh produce gathering. The colours, the flavours, the noises and the sense that vendors and visitors made out of the chaos. As if the neighbourhood market wasn't bad enough, there is a big wholesale market and the other old city retail market. That place was sheer cacophony. Impossible to get in, and beyond comprehension to navigate!

It was the small but extremely well-organised veggies aisle at King's Cirle in Bombay that made me sort of in love with the concept of going to buy fruits and veggies myself. It took little goading, and the friends I made was an unparalleled perk. Of course, the metro also gets some of the best produce in the country, so that was an added attraction. But when I first stepped into Crawford Market, it was as if my perception of a foods market did a complete turnaround, and for good. Everything - I mean EVERYTHING one could ever conceive edible is available there - red meat, poultry, sea food, greens, spices, chocolate of various intensities of darkness, pickles and preserves, jams and jellies, preservatives and food grade chemicals - it was any chef's haven - almost like a mini replica of the Grand Bazaar!

In Hyderabad, I discovered supermarket grocery shopping like the Jubilee Hills and Banjara Hills residents do it. Among the first SPAR stores in the country, this one at Begumpet was a joy to shop at. Not only was it clean and well laid out, there were also none of the intrusive and superfluous staff that gets in your way arranging stuff at peak shopping times and helps in no way when you ask (no wonder people in India can only barely tolerate Big Bazaar/ Food Bazaar and most of the rest are closing down). It was such a truly holistic shopping experience - also the first time I bought alcohol at the grocers. Hypercity there was next in line - far bigger and spacious, though I thought they'd nailed the marketing ethos of making people want to buy more than they needed rather than ticking off their weekly/monthly grocery list.

Pune was a gala surprise at Aundh's fresh produce market, and winters are just the time to enjoy it. The colours and aromas of fresh raw fruit and veggies and herbs and spices is beyond anything that relaxes at the end of a long day at work. To carry as much as you can handle in a trip is like a bull in a china shop. You want it all. You nail it all. And it;s a nice straight walk up one side of the road, so there are no distractions and the vendors are all a friendly, generous lot. Going to the now closer-home Food Bazaar is a slightly detached experience. There are none of the smiles, the banter, the letting go of a buck or two, and the constant feeling that you're being cheated. So I continue to buy at least the veggies and the odd south Indian rice batter from right outside - funnily I never spotted this batter at the Grand Bazaar in Pondy - perhaps because it's too much of a staple.

When I think back about the Goubert Market at Grand Bazaar, the idea to get up and get out early that morning was the best decision ever! Not only was the market fresh, but it was also the only time of day in Pondicherry when the heat wasn't singing and bicycling was sheer delight. I still remember my last long ride across Anand's Agricultural University campus with Sajani. In juxtaposition, while the ride across the campus was all about exploring space Grand Bazaar was about the convenience of occupying minimum space on the road and getting the most in. I could never thank Rao enough about goading me onto one. I had little confidence in my foot-eye coordination - but I discovered that day that it is indeed true - you never forget swimming and you never forget how to bicycle!

The advantage one has with the traffic when one is on a bicycle is brilliant - you don't have to wait for the red lights to turn green, you can ride in the opposite direction, take U-turns where none are allowed, and so much more! Bicycling is the best way to break rules and be proud about your sins. You discover so much on the way!

Some DIY fun!

I enjoy my share of DIY activities - and creating chapbooks - whether a little picture storybook or a collection of memorable quotes and writings from one's favourite writers. Here are two projects I undertook during 2012, that struck a chord and carried a distinct imprint.

Leveled Chapbook - Birthday gift to the boy

This one was a collection of lines from my own poems for him, his favourite books & songs, and quotes in general that ring with him, about things that he and sometimes I are passionate about.

The material: Basic art paper or handmade paper, coloured felt pens, a ruler, glue & pencil. I also had some stamps & stamped flowers handy 

I stamped the top & bottom of the pages to give an elegant customised touch without cluttering the page.

Voila!

Picture Story Book - Secret Santa gift at Work

This one was a quick fix, and one of those ideas that come to you in the grogginess of morning dumps on the pot. Anonymous gifts were asked for and I had nothing ready for the D-day. And the idea of anonymous gifts was mine in the first place!

I made simple Warli art inspired line drawings fused with elements from the comics of my younger years

Again, the material remained more or less the same. Art paper was replaced with a sheaf of newly acquired handmade paper from Pondicherry's Handmade paper factory & centre pinned to hold together

Thankfully, since I'd already sketched on the pot, it was only a matter of tracing or copying the illustrations onto the book with roughly done margins for frame.

Presto!

These illustrations are going onto my bookcase as slightly larger versions painted on a warm ochre yellow soon!

Then there are times when one just doodles to keep the sketching skills oiled!

A little window fun @ work at my previous office - yes it's a cat peeping into a cummode :P

And some wearable DIY!

I thought this was a fabulous DIY jewellery idea. Spotted this folded & glued newsprint at Kasha ki Asha in Pondicherry.