MAYhem

I've maintained even in a previous post, May is a shit month in India.That shit is quick to hit the ceiling - of course, before that, the temperatures soar - and then humidity takes over in preparation of the rains that hit Kerala and the North East by June 1.

My May may not have been a grand departure, but here's a little glimpse of the roller coaster!

So in April this year, my four-year-long chapter in Bombay finally came to an end.

I left two amazing flatmates and a crazy cat behind (who, incidentally seemed to be waiting for me to leave so she would grow significantly in a month!)...

And decided to take a little break before I started my spanking new life in the cliched Rape Capital of India, Gurugram (you can Anglicise the name anytime you like but you can't change Gudgawaan).

My first stop was going to be decidedly Pune, since that's where the boy and a couple of dear friends live. Having lived in Pune before my arrival in Bombay, this seemed like a fitting revisit.

Several evening walks around Koregaon Park's labyrinthine lanes and a lot of indoor time helped me muster some courage to stretch myself some more. I booked myself return train tickets to and from Hyderabad. 

Clearly it had been a very long time since my last visit (2012), because I'd forgotten what bitchass weather was awaiting me. Between the platform and my cab, I spent a baking 10 minutes out in the sun and simultaneously questioned my intelligence and cheered about being able to add a three-digit temperature filter on my Snapchat (for the uninitiated, I'm a big fan and post inanely via bombaychuddies on the ephemeral photo-blogging platform). I had also forgotten how well-versed the locals weren't anymore because Hyderabad was now like any other communally charged city in India. So despite a universal force tying us (a la Uber), I was still hitting my head against an invisible wall with the driver, who managed to arrive after I was legit Baked PUtato.

I did the mandatory trips to my alma mater, EFL University and met both, my prof, and my friend who teaches at the campus and is closing retirement.

Staying with Karthik (that's him in the next picture. I still can't stop laughing at the unintended photobomb) helped because we had some serious catching up to do! It was a strange yet intimate feeling of being with a friend again, who had anchored me. His parents were only warm and caring and adorable. And it tore me to leave. :(

But not before I did the things I had to and wanted to do! I met dear dear friend, photographer and chowkidaar of the online photojournalism magazine, Galli (go cheggit!).

And convinced him to stay on for a play that a bunch of kids from EFL performed in the evening. I had forgotten that this was Hyderabad and on-time meant at least an hour's delay. But the production was surprisingly well put together and the performances were riveting.

Given these are possibly the country's most progressive bunch of humanities post-grads in the making, of course the subject was as sensitive, and handled delicately.

Of course I had to have logistical debacles, but that's my general state of being and Karthik's folks and dog were generously forgiving!

I arrived (with the first sophisticated instalment of suitcases and half a dozen cartons a few days in) in the middle of Gurgaon's April summer onslaught. But Hyderabad had prepared me, or had it

Thankfully, I took a few days to acclimatise to the bhatthi weather again and then start work (by which time it began raining? And dust storms made sure if i was home alone in the evenings, I was positively terrorised).

Soon after was my first real initiation, though. I ended up crashing a pre-wedding party of a friend's friend at a club one night. And that's when I discovered there's a higher chance of encountering better male dancers in this city than women.

Orientation:: So day 2 in #Gurgaon was spent sleeping through the day and partying by night. I suspended my judgement of Bollywood music and decided to just have fun with a bunch of people I was meeting for the first time thanks to a close friend. Turned out it was a gathering for a groom-to-be and I was clearly crashing the party. These people were only welcoming, chivalrous and outstanding fun. Most importantly, this was just the #induction I needed to be ordained into this fearless yet cautious clan of #womenofgurgaon! #gurgaonparty #latergram #instaframe #bollymusic #welcomtogurugram

A post shared by PriyanCa (@bombaychuddies) on Apr 20, 2017 at 8:41pm PDT

And mother nature's bounty is infinite. I had found not only a flatmate, but also a kind, generous, thoughtful and intelligent companion in Swati.

She made sure my first steps in this new city were sure, not uncertain. She has now assumed the role of utmost authority and i try constantly to replenish my respect and adoration for her (apart from filling all the water bottles soon as they're empty and cracking depressing puns with Rahul, her friend seen in the picture above).

There was no question about it. This was to be my summer romance. I mean, what's there not to love in that Laburnum? Or the several tree-lined roads of Lutyen's Delhi? Or the wide pathways to the Parliament and the India Gate? Or the golgappas and samosas in every market. Sigh...

The boy too made a quick visit before getting on the plane for his holiday and we met his spunky ex-colleague from here at the butter chicken haven, Gulati's at Pandara Road.

                     

And very soon after acquaintances emerged from every corner of G-Town! I was amazed at just how happy they were to absorb you into the bunch.

And finally I met this child after an entire decade last week! Aastha and I were roommates along with Tweshaaaa at EFL. She works with special children now and continues to retain that streak of spontaneous madness to this day. Considering she stays right around the corner, I look forward to taking up the offer of a nightover soon!

And of course, this poster in Hauz Khas village outside Elma's reminded me of what I've left behind. 

But warmth and sweetness this fine also gives me the hope that I might just last it!

Hyderabad boy rescues Bombay girl

PU raises a cup to Harsha's support. (Image: PU Selfie2014)

Virtual friendship redefined with friends exchanging banal recipes from YouTube in aid of insomnia & other such nocturnal mental disorders

14th May, 2014, Bombay: In a bizarre turn of events last night, in a crumbling apartment of a housing society in the western suburbs, a girl finally learned how to make decent, edible tea after nearly three decades of ignorant existence.
And loved it.

The girl, one PU, 29, was online and as per addiction, chatting with her friend, one Harsha, resident of the Himayatnagar locality in Hyderabad, post-dinnertime on Tuesday evening at her Khar residence. With supper put behind a good three hours early, in a vain attempt to regularise her recently disturbed sleep cycle, the extended wakefulness yielded acute hunger pangs in the said girl, originally hailing from Vadodara, Gujarat. Marking a year in the city on the day, she was keen not to celebrate in any significant way.

On revealing the intensity of her atrocity, the friend of nearly a decade suggested she have some tea. We enquired further about Priyanca’s acumen in tea-making and she revealed, "I can't make tea to save a finger, leave alone my life! In the decade that my nanaji stayed with us back in Baroda, he asked me to make tea twice and regretted it on both occasions."

The tutorial was administered via a YouTube video, the link to which, Harsha sent on the chat applet to PU. So easy did the video make the process seem, that she was inspired to refresh her culinary talent in the hot-beverage-making department! The girl entered the kitchen at approximately three minutes past midnight and put some water to boil in a saucepan. At the serendipitous discovery of lemongrass in the deep recesses of her refrigerator and finding all the other ingredients (ginger, pepper, clove, cinnamon and cardamom) by the time the water started to boil, she was encouraged to administer them into the saucepan and claims to "have enjoyed overseeing the recipe first hand, for the first time."

On further probing about how the tutorial came about, PU said, "My friend Harsha is a photo-journalist who keeps late hours on account of his own assignments as well as gatekeeping his photo-journalism magazine, Galli. I figured cribbing to him might be of some use. After coming up with outrageous suggestions such as ice cream at 11:40 pm (why not, you argue? With the spate of attacks on daft women travelling in autos late at night without a care for their blingy handbags that get stolen in a split second without the thief having to put up much of a struggle, the notion of stepping out alone at the hour was insane), he finally said 'चाय बना ले (make some tea)'. First I thought he'll tell me how. After patiently waiting a few sentences, when I had to finally ask for the recipe, he said his is an 'annual event' because his amma makes chai  for him. All these spoiled boys living in their parents' house!  The mention of his amma made me miss mine. But instead of moping about missing home, I decided to explore the YouTube link he had sent in the interim, and get to work."

PU's newly acquired talent comes at a time when her existentialist angst had begun to peak, she rues. In the wake of several extreme epithets being bestowed upon the corporate writer, from 'multi-talented in the singles domain' to 'over-qualified in the eligible bride market', her epiphany has led her to vow she 'will make masala chai every night!'

In refusal of any special commemoration however, PU has declined any direct or indirect self-invites to tea, even at honourable hours, as a clear sign of selfish demeanour. A trait, she declares, Bombay has instilled in her in the year gone by. Ironically, the achiever reveals that she has accomplished the feat of surviving a whole year in Bombay once before, at the start of her career four years ago. Her anguish in the back-linked blog post about Salman Khan not being punished for murder seems to have ominously been answered. Everything else, she says, remains much the same...

Animal People

Malika assigned a very important duty to me the other day as she was about to leave from work a little earlier than usual. She handed over a little tupperware box with dry cat food and asked me to feed a kitten just a block away on my way to the station. Of course I obliged, but little did I know, that when Malika had warned me this one is loud, she meant menacingly LOUD! The kitten, probably about 2 months old, screamed when she saw me and perhaps smelled the food. Of course, wary as they come, this one hovered around but kept distance enough not to be touched. As soon as I put the food down for her, she stopped showing any sign of recognition at all.

When I gave up my cats in August, I was torn. But I realised very soon after that that relationship went beyond spending time with them. It taught me minute nuances, about how not just every cat, but every animal has a personality of his or her own. How some love eating Gujarati friend snacks, and some insist on sleeping with their legs suspended in the air and the quirks never stop! What also never stops, is their love for those who choose to care for them and love them. And they have myriad ways of reciprocating this affection.

One finds several people within the folds of the extended family, friends' circle, workplace and more, the lack of this very understanding. And then, if you are picky, then you get lucky and a trend begins in your life to come across the most special 'animal people', as I like to call them. People, who transcend the space of mollycoddling their pets as if they are lesser, dumber beings, and learn to be compassionate towards them and respect them as really, superior beings. I have been thinking about all the people with whom my bond has strengthened because of this very love and openness to embrace the world's creatures. This post kind of serves the purpose of acknowledging the presence of these special people in my life as well as documenting their presence to serve a case in point that goodness prevails not just despite all odds, but sometimes simply to defy unfounded biases.

Malika

When I was about to move to Bombay  (Summer 2013), my friend Kshitij expressed the desire to adopt a pet. He had been domiciled here for a while longer. However, despite being an experienced dog person, cats were quite a mystery. I suggested cats, and he didn't mind the idea. I decided to speak to a representative from YODA who had posted a couple of pics. When I hit the dial key post punching the girl's 10-digit number, it turned out I already had Malika's number stored on my phone. It took my Goa holidaying mind a while to figure out how this was so. It turned out Malika and Paroma, another animal person I knew from Pune, knew each other from before! Paroma had in fact given me her number when I was looking to adopt a second kitten myself.

Malika ended up sending me a bevy of some of the cutest kittens ever - grey, ginger, white, combos and black too. And then she sent me a snap of a pair. A grey-and-white and a jet black one. I decided to push the cause further with Kshitij now. Get two, I said. He was already petrified - horror stories about kittens scratching had reached him before my experienced suggestion. I sent him all the photos. Kshitij took more than a couple of days to decide. Much reasoning followed. He was unsure of the black kitten, but the rest, as they say, is history!

They came as Cherry and Berry, they're now Kshitij's regal Amar and Prem!

In the course of those few days of coordinating the adoption, I also discovered that Malika and I were going to be colleagues at my new workplace! I was thrilled. I had at least one other cat aficionado to look forward to! Malika also volunteers with World For All which helps find homes for kitties and pups - both strays, as well as abandoned. Those who perceive these animal welfare volunteers as a particular type would be shocked by the lady's high-fashion diva-like oomph. Clearly, cliches are no more the norm when it comes to recognising from a crowd, just who will turn around and pat and feed a stray.

Nikhil

Another such digression is Nikhil, a software engineer, an avid photographer and a new daddy on the block. A few months back, Nikhil tells me on a phone conversation, 'I spent all last night at a police station.' I froze. His wife was expecting and only his dogs were at home to protect her. He got involved in a brawl with some local goons who had been harassing some street dogs in the locality and preferred to take the legal route, which veered along a meandering and rather messy route.

I have only seen both his Indian mongrels in pictures. And it seems only natural that ever since the arrival of his daughter, the cuteness quotient on his FB timeline has tripled. From volunteering at adoption camps, to caring for stray dogs around his house, to obliging to feed my cats while I was still in Pune - Nikhil is the epitome of compassion when it comes to the four-legged heroes. His affinity with the creatures is infectious. While I worry sometimes about his slightly maverick ways and them affecting his family, obviously, he has trained his guard companions well.

Manjari

The biggest surprise, however, came to me when I moved to my second house here in Bombay. About three weeks into the move, I discovered that my roommate Manjari has two Singaporean turtles! They would mostly bobble about in the aquarium tank, but every once in a while, they'd rise to the rock to sun bathe.

Amy, my roomie's Singaporean Red Eared Turtle

The only other person I knew who had a pet reptile was Jatan, back in Baroda. Somehow, turtles are even more fascinating. You'd think, them with their weird feet would make them rather inept at walking on marble flooring. Then you remember that they swish onto sandy beaches to lay eggs, hibernate. In the past few months of my stay in this house, I've begun to discover several aspects of their personality - familiarity, a little mischief, gay abandon and comfort are as much them as us or conventional cat & dog pets. In fact these days Amy, the female turtle even comes to my room and hangs out with me (not to mention bang her head or shell into practically all surfaces vertical!). It is at times like these when one realises you can gauge the personality of a person by the pet they keep...

My Professor from Baroda

My earliest animal people, however, happened to be closer home. When you're about to enter the gates to this lady's house, you spot a standard pet owner's warning sign with a twist - 'મગર થી સાવધાન' ('Beware of Crocodile'). Of course, there is no such ferocity in their backyard. However, their house was always abuzz with several urban species including a cock-&-hen, a crow, cats and dogs. The cats and dogs continue to be part of the residence. What is most fascinating, though, is the household's constant interaction with monkeys.

Most of the city's colonies of monkeys travel from one side of the perimeter to the other in the morning in search of food and a free terrace or tree top on which to play and rest during the day. they follow more or less the same trajectory back in the evening to return to their safe haven by night. Prof. B's house falls on this trail. Apart from being a regular ER for several of these creatures who hurt themselves, her daughter has even spared a room in the house to rescue and take care of one of their young ones when it went astray. The open space around the house, the trees and the rugged, un-manicured garden all invite you, along with these charming personalities. A Sunday brunch with all three - Prof. B, her husband and daughter and their lovely companions should be an experience for every animal lover - whether a resident of the city or a visitor. If Baroda needed an alternative animal lover's paradise, this family would be its first patrons!


I distinctly remember the day I became an animal person. It started with a cat, really. However, your affinity to animals can never be absolute. It also involves the embrace of the people you love, including family. We used to have a cat that roamed the house like Sphinx. At some point, she was ousted for having bitten me. Soon after, I left home for my MA in Hyderabad, where I met a dog named Sundari (with a loud bark and a lot of bulk, the name was only because she was white - I know, lame, but the poor bitch is stuck with it for life) guarded the women's hostel and Appy, the only woman who truly loved her. I have moved a few cities since, and had cats of my own too.

They say like minded people naturally gravitate towards each other in a new environment. I have begun to judge the hell out of people who do not like animals around them at least at all times. My space is incomplete without them. Even if just my mind space.

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!

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!

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!

Highway to high way

3 days. A long weekend. Many cat lovers. And a chocolate cake. As soon as I had moved to Pune three months ago, I knew this place had energy in store for me. I began to unlearn all my previous paces: of home, of Nizami thaat, of hapless filth. Even before I had arrived, I had been sold its lures. And the lure didn't lie so much in the monuments, in the food, in the city's chaos, oh no. Just people.
Plain vanilla people. 

Women with pishvis, men in collared tee shirts or bush shirts, young techies with id cards dangling around their necks like nooses, kids in uniform with oil drenched hair, the big cars and their humble drivers, the autowalas and their माझ. Indeed, the rosy winters and the perennial bougainvillas did their bit in making me fall in love with Pune, but it has, honestly, been the people who have visited me or the friends who I've met whilst they were here on business, that have strengthened the heartstrings even more. I am yet to strike out any of the items I had jotted down on my to-do list while I'm here. But no matter. There's a vintage Beetle, ragged and rusty, cobwebbed, with its paint chipped, waiting each day for me to turn right from - a landmark not preempted. A charm that has the power to surprise everyday.

And yet that is also not it. What about Veeram's house? What about my own? What about my favourite restaurant? And its काली दाल and बैंगन bharta that I've yet to savour again?

So Sajani was here over the weekend. Here only to see me and, on short notice, also to rescue Duffer, my newly adopted tom. Having known Saj for almost seven years now is a tad hard to believe, because really, it was only that first week of spending concentrated hours with each other several times that account for our experience of each other. For our knowing of each other. For our comfort of each other. We have never lived in the same city, leave alone studied or worked together. We come from culturally diametrically variant backgrounds. Our achievements differ from one another's, and so do our losses, but expression has been so liberating with her! And perhaps our judgement and opinion of each other came about painstakingly slowly, but it is only a thing of wonder how often through both our car rides to and from bombay this time, we seemed to have been having two parallel conversations with each other: a verbal one, that goes yaketty yakk, and then there's our eyes that meet almost as often as there is stupidity prevailing. And Saj's talent allows her to speak even with a poker face, where I may be tempted to break into a giggle, roll my eyes or simply hit my palm to my face.

I reckon that our judgement of people comes partly if not entirely, not only from our experience of the world, but also from our mothers. We often don't get their kinks, and yet. For hours, we would lie in our PJs analysing the people we love and hate, and when a third person would enter, suddenly shut our eyes - Eyes, gobs, tolerance too actually.

Bus ride with Sajani, Bombay, 2010

And that familiarity manifests itself in myriad ways. Whether it is her calming me in my own house after an especially tiring trip by articulating my thoughts exactly, whether it is to get chatty with my roommate, whether it is taking a bus ride across town right after a long flight or train journey, whether it is to wait in the lounge area of my office as I get my stuff and swipe out after bunking half the day in my boss's absence, whether it is to tolerate an especially irritating boyfriend for his inane and dated arguments and fielding each one with a hard verbal slap back in the days, whether it is cycling in the hot sun across her university campus. And yet none of these episodes quite define the scope of our friendship. If she were a guy, I'd have probably professed my undying devotion to him. Not only for what he'd've been, but for what he was doing to me.

Her pune trip, like all her visits to all the cities I've stationed myself for a while in, was short, but not meaningless. It was rich in conversation, in experience, in details and in thought. She fished out a teracotta ring for me with a grumpy cat on it from Milan. She took care of Duffer in his most critical first journey across towns. She ate whatever I gave her. And she drank simply. She walked, because she enjoys roads and trees just as much as I do. She warmed up to Veeram simply for the warmth I had for him. She fussed not. She complained not. She remarked. She judged. She dismissed.

She got me a box of strawberries so I could sing for her and we could smoke outside a shut shop sitting on the ledge in Aundh.

To be friends with Sajani is not an ordinary honour. She takes forever to warm up. Her mocking smile is hard to fathom - am I her subject of scorn, and therefore ridiculed, or does she truly respect me? Three years it took me to know what she thought of me, and she chose to bare all one evening in 2009 when all was beginning to look bleak, loss seemed inevitable, and abandonment seemed to look like the only way out for us cats.

There are people we feel the need to understand in order to love. Then there are people we must accept and love.

Take Me Home

Few amongst us choose to return after a longish hiatus outside the comforts of home. Many of us grow so accustomed to being uncomfortable, that home makes us almost queasy. What with that bed whose mattress took our shape even as we grew, and the unending space of our closets, the home provides at least three ways in which we can explore our favourite music and books and food and selves.

I’ve been home about three months now. The first month was one kind of frustration. I was healing told my folks, and therefore was excused from waking up early, helping around with household chores, socialising, and whatever else is associated with being active-member-of-the-family. Quite apparently, the folks have grown accustomed to get by without you, darling. You are no more indispensible. But what’s even more surprising is the drastic change in routines and their and your definitions of discipline. They awaken at least two hours later than they did in the morning. That you STILL have a deadline. And in your mind at least, you protest – but I’m 26, for god’s sake!

Month two: my niece sort of began to get to me. Half the reason I’ve missed home is her. Half the reason I chose to return instead of staying on and finding a new job was her, half the reason home is where my heart is, is her. And now helping raising her began to unsettle me. I realised a few weeks back, that like it or not, I must contribute to it – wash her poo, get her to eat, read to her, dress her up, comb her hair, sit on the swing with her, entertain her, sing and dance for her…

The third month, last four weeks, have been about observation; about learning. My sister’s Diwali holidays cue in a trip for her and the niece to head for her granddad’s house in Surat. We were dreading it. We’d grown so accustomed to being in service of the little princess, that the new found (even if just for a fortnight) freedom seemed meaningless to us. For the first few days we stared either at the walls or at each other. Gradually movies began to be lined up on the DVD. And then, a space for conversation. The emptiness also gave all three of us to exchange notes on how things are for one who lives solo, and what it is to stay away from home.

I had had a brief conversation with a friend recently about training one’s parents to not pass value judgements or be strict moral supervisors on matters of our friends or acquaintances even. That, it is hard, but it is possible. After all said and done, our folks trust our views the most. They never see us as too divergent in opinions from them even if what we might say may sound preposterous.

It is mostly about the parents, our coming back. Then it is about some other things too. What seemed cultural differences at first now become parts of the landscape. Depending upon how long one has spent in one place, the native rituals – however minute or insignificant locally – acquire something of a magnified prominence when one has decided never to return. Or at least stay put in this ‘new’ old.

Whether you have stayed as away as another town within the country, or flown overseas, you are bound to miss your own sense of discipline and freedom to do what you’ve always done, even if your folks won’t protest. What you’ve grown accustomed to, then, is not yourself, but the lack of anyone else around. Surely as the clichéd social animals, allowing that for ourselves is blasphemous.

It is not time that heals, it is the revisiting of your earliest memory. And for those of us who’re born, bred and bored in a town for at least 20-odd years, that’s not going to change. That ‘town’ could be Baroda, Bombay or Paris. Call me old fashioned or just conservative. I still miss the sea of Bombay, I still miss the nip in the air of Hyderabad, but every time I chuck a job, every time I’ll experience heartbreak, and each time my work overwhelms me into negativity, I shall return only to my little town. Here lie people who shall, surprisingly give me just enough space, accept me unconditionally, and let bygones be bygones.

Dancing Queen

I was recently at MICA and of the many things that became memorable of that evening, one was the dance party. Now I’m not commenting on the quality of music or crowd present there – simply because, perhaps either it was one of those bad days when the DJ sucked, the crowd was in an especially academics-discussing mood, my friend (also the chap who invited me to visit) was especially busy organising (read binging on) booze, and I had been delegated to people who were not really in the mood to entertain, or I have just been to too many grown up  parties to enjoy the college campus imperfections anymore.

But you know how dance parties go… and unless it’s especially un-relatable music, it’s all familiar noise to which you can move and goof about. Kush ended up being my partner for the evening (very graciously and without qualms) and even accompanied me on my breaks. Of course the friend who had invited me found me every now and then on the dance floor to shake a leg and make his general lack of presence even more prominent.

It has often struck me as odd in recent times when I’ve been told I dance decently. Not because I don’t think I dance well or whatever, but my general awareness of my own body is pretty low. Grace and the completeness of a move... The technicalities, in short. I mean, I know I would fade into the background in presence of elegant Twara who has over a decade’s training in Bharatnatyam and some more in Kathak on, say, a Garba ground; or even Apeksha with her sleek salsa and jazz twirls during the most insignificant jam sessions at MA. The latter had rhythm ingrained in her DNA! Whether it was the corridors of the ladies’ hostel or the streets of the university campus, Apeksha could do her little jig just about anywhere with her iPod plugged in.

I wouldn’t dare. It is not my place. It is not my comfort.

What’s different, you ask. It’s all public. In fact, it’s a lot of crowd in some milieus. It is India. And it’s us women.

I first danced on a floor at the little concluding put-together at LACs when I was in the Third Year of my BA. Most people were strangers and Haem was the first to teach me a couple of the basics. But it was not to be the start of a new interest or way of recreation for me just then.

The first week into MA and the seniors announced a jam session for us newbies. Yes it was fun, the music ranged everything from the latest in hip-hop and house to Bolly and even Tollywood. But I guess I was still rather in my own shell.

So what has changed and what remains as was?

I have got to give it to Arunav for taking away the inhibitions that every non-dancer would first experience on the dance floor. The not-knowing what to do or where to go when being jostled in a constricted space at the safe-bet retro-and-bhangra-playing Hawaiian Shack can be a unnerving when you’ve never done it before. Everyone around seems so with it and adept – lip syncing whatever songs around (and believe me I’m pretty much a gowti dehaat when it comes to club music). But one realises very soon, that it’s not about making appearances. Those who sweat the most, move closest to the rhythms, smile the most and have a wild glint in their eyes are the ones who are said to be having the best time! You don’t have to be Shakira (cuz believe me, no one except your partner is really watching), and so long as you’re not injuring people with your hands or heels, nobody cares.

And so I still thought that was the first and last time. It made me no authority to judge what a good party was or wasn’t. But when you go to another venue with the same company, and you begin to yawn mid song 3 (and by then you’ve figured pretty much the whole playlist – Backstreet Boys, Michael Jackson and Elton John for example), you know for a fact that just strolling down Colaba Causeway would be more fun.

My most memorable dance do by far though, is still the Times party in Hyderabad. Not for the music or ‘crowd’ per se, but definitely the company and again, a great dance partner. Needless to add, the time of year made it even more fun. I had read somewhere a couple of years ago in a celeb interview that this chap wouldn't sleep the 24 hours of his birthday. And I thought, what could be more precious than just doing nothing on your birthday. But my 26th was to be a novel experience. 300 people at a 5 star hotel banquet, free booze and food and the girl’s birthday was announced by none other than her mad cracker friend-chauffer-neighbour-colleague-and what not. I also discovered that one can have the most unlikely colleagues around. So Santosh, who happened to be one of the few people who joined the same or next day that I joined, and the only chap from sales who I was friends with back then, turned out to be a great dancer. Again, someone who had trained.

When I left Hyderabad for Bombay, I thought this is it: the end of all the frolic and fun of dancing. But Harshil and gang positively kidnapped me to Sutra for a night out. Not only did I discover potential for fun, but also met a girl I now call friend. That night wasn’t just about dancing because I needed music, but also about unwinding. I realised yet again, that dancing isn’t about tiring oneself out, but regaining some of that lost life. What still remains a cherished dance is the one with Abhishek at Salt n Pepper (I think) afterhours. The resto owner was nice enough to put a great song and allow us our little quirk. Despite the limited space and for them to almost shut for the night, we were given the time and leisure of moving to a tune, smiling, forgetting, remembering.

So you see, it is just too predictable that Navratri comes each year at this pre-designated time and lasts a certain set of days and dictates that you wear only a certain kind’a clothes and make up and jewellery. There is none of that last minute dilly-dallying of red dress or black, or gold danglers or matching stones, or stilettoes or wedges. Because really, the joy of dancing came from looking forward to an opportunity that presented itself at the most unlikely times!

My favourite painter

The title to this post may sound rather like one for a primary school essay, but then, that's the way I felt about the grand old man of Indian art. Picasso of India Dies, flashed Times Now as I waited at the lounge of CORE.


When the first time I walked past a lowered shutter in Town, opposite the David Sassoon Library at Kala Ghoda, my heart stopped - an MF Hussain horse head painted on it in one bold stroke. Needless to say, the classic head was impossible to miss. The mystery of Kala Ghoda was finally solved in my head. That, for me, became a symbol of perhaps the most accessible and self-righteous celebrity painter ever to be born.

And today, he breathed his last.

Hussain, they said, had kept very ill lately. He was in London to to treat a lung infection, said a relative.

It will be interesting to see to see the the report on his burial. I wonder if his soul will ache or laugh at the controversy. Gulzar sa'ab was quoted saying, "The country will repent that this happened outside his land."

Until last night, Titli Daboch Li Maine from Minaxi played on my laptop. This morning it will play for a reason. Who will adore movement the way he did? Who will put it into strokes on canvas like his? Who will love the Indian woman his way? And who will paint horses like his now? And his red Ferrari?

There is a print of one of his paintings at office. I know of another painter who considers Hussain (incidentally his name is Gossain) his guru and inspiration.

Koi Sachche Khwaab Dikha Kar....

Passive anger

Of course everything changed. What took 10 years now took two, so what the fuck was I thinking? This is not the shade under a banyan tree, darling, it's the glare of the igneous. No one can stand it. Everyone's keen to demolish the boulders. To make space for shelter. It's probably the only way there'll be a home for the people as well as creatures in the city.

Until the last day of my MA, I'd never known what KPHB stood for. Today will be my last day here, in its heart. Does it even have one? Heart? I'm sad that I'm leaving Hyderabad, but not because I fell in love with it, but because I had a fallout. All the things I loved about it stopped to exist. The easily approachable locals, the by-meter autos, the efficient public transport, the wide 'n smooth roads, the class, the intellect... Not once did I manage a nocturnal trip to Charminar for that memorable cup of Irani chai, though Geetha's place was a regular feature for so long thanks to coKo.

The one time that biryani happened at Paradise, it was so terrible I wanted to run home. It didn't even remind me of Veeresh or the spin he gave me along hi-tech city and Durgam Cheruvu. When I saw Tumhari Amrita, it had none of the student charm of watching Aapki Sonia at Shilpakala Vedika. There was no one to delight. There was no one to shock.

And the pace! God, many times slower. Painful even. The attitude, conceited, convoluted. The men here have no balls. And while plenty of those will muster up some two ounce of fury to proclaim that it's ''not true'', please keep it for your three-minute ejaculation. Hmph.

I had once been told, ''that was British style Bombay, enjoy hospitality in Hyderabad Nizami style.'' No thank you. Quite apparently the Nizam had no sense of punctuality, priority nor heart. I'm disenchanted with Hyderabad, and I shall make no bones about it. I also know that I'll probably boast how broad were the roads or how authentically Tam the food and ambience at Minerva or even how well maintained and accessible the amenities in my township.

I found a big fat rat scurrying out of the dustbin downstairs. I wonder what Priyanca has to say to that!

And while I'm all upset and giving an old acquaintance a second shot, neither of us are doing each other a favour. None of the parties will pay more than her share this time. They will all be exact transactions. However cut and dried. Better anaesthetised than numb, no?

I hope the cheque deposited smoothly, Mr. New.

Shantamma

Think of waitlisted admissions and small numbers in classes with alternative teaching methods and you’d think the principal of thie school has to have a waiting lounge, an ante room and must make you wait at least the Hyderabadi 15 minutes before inviting you into her chamber.

Snap out of it. You’re meeting Vidyaranya’s founding Principal, Mrs. Shanta Rameshwar Rao. The Fabindia-clad frail frame is home to one of the most determined educationists of Hyderabad. After my preliminary apologies of turning up late and being told (I still don’t know if it was sarcastic), “Pretty women are allowed to be late,” I was asked to be the silent spectator to a conversation between a volunteer parent, who conducts assembly for Classes 5 and 6, and Shantamma.

Without any pretensions of minding the flash of my camera or that an outsider was privy to a conversation about the school’s goings-on, Mrs. Rao displayed her many moods – amusement, concern, intent listening and approvals.

As we launch into the interview, one of the first things that comes to fore is Mrs. Rao’s devotion to education. That her ideas have arisen from the ideologies of Maria Montessori, MK Gandhi and J Krishnamurti is anybody’s guess, but to start one’s own school, is quite another ballgame. And a much bigger deal it must have been 50 years ago.

Vidyaranya is not the success story of one woman, but the will of one, definitely. What’s more, Shantamma is selfless about it. An atheist, the veteran educationist speaks plainly whenever confronted with ‘what after you?’ “It seems everyone wants me to die or is waiting for the eventuality! What after me? The school’s plumbing is managed by the plumbers and the teachers are doing their jobs. I think the school will go on even without me.”

“Even if it doesn’t work, what of it? At most they will turn it into a hospital – a children’s hospital, or even a hotel! We think too much about the future. We lose sight of the present.”

Shantamma is quick to dismiss the suggestion that her school is a women’s initiative. “It is just a co-incidence that most teachers are women – predominantly the mothers of students. But we are being supported more and more by male parents as well.”

Mrs. Rao comes across as a firm believer of gender equality. When quizzed about how she encourages the girl students at Vidyaranya High School for Boys and Girls, she allows one of her colleagues to respond. To them, having to especially encourage them would, in itself, be the first step towards proving them inferior. “Boys damage property sometimes,” she remarks, “There are just one or two in each class that cause a chain reaction. Girls are usually cooperative – we probably scold them for being talkative, but they’re never destructive,” says Shantamma.

"I trust you to return this book," (she's lent me a copy of 50 Years of Vidyaranya to look up basic factoids) she finishes, "I will sue you for 700 rupees."

Ooh! -pasana

A few weeks ago Neel stumped me with “Where do you get your Bong music from now?” after I shared a sassier jazz version of a number to which he had first introduced me.

It did not seem normal for me to say, “But of course, Upasana, who else?” because there is nothing ‘but-of-course’ about it. But Neel’s question got me pondering and only two startling similarities came out: Both Bongs who have lived in Bombay for a considerable time and in Kolkata long enough to worship it.

While Neel is, what my music teacher calls a kaan-sen, Upasana also sings. And that is where the two seem to walk their different directions. Oops or Upas (the latter is what I often refer to her for convenience) has become so many things for me in a matter of weeks. While she jests with her husband about it, it is a fact that she and I spend more awake time with each other than she does with her husband!

I’ve now seen Upas around Ron, her mom-in-law, the bosses, her friends, et el and the one thing that hits you, even before the big brown lemur eyes do, is her very active nod, as if to say, “Yes! Yes! I’ll help you with WHATEVER you need!” – From coffee coupons to helping you get to speed with work to finding you the broker’s number for acco in her township to car pooling to letting you use her microwave to cook pasta for a week. There is nothing this angel will say no to if it is in her power. Actually, I could’ve stopped at “There is nothing this angel will say no to,” even if it means bending few rules or just getting by them *wink wink*.

And yet, even this attitude of helping-them-all won’t be what stays with you spot in the middle of a serious meeting as you suddenly start grinning at the memory of a pathetic joke she cracked last afternoon. Her repertoire spans such abysmal excuses for humour that you’d have to be insane to laugh (as we are and so we do). She can beat Sriram Ayyar, Priyanca Vaishnav AND Akhil Chakravarty hands down. The incidental one-off-ers don’t even stand a chance!

A chance is what Upasana will also not give you when it comes to desserts and food. Think butter chicken and the first image that pops in my mind, is of a salivating Upasana Sanyal. When cake is ordered for a birthday celebration at office, not the budday-boy/ girl nor the cake shop is consulted on what would be the best flavour. Madame Sanyal fields “आज कौनसा order करें?” with panache: “Belgian chocolate? Strawberry and Black Forest?” And when her majesty, the queen of desserts and the best judge of ANY cuisine is to pass her final verdict, everyone awaits it with bated breath.

Upasana has cheered up many a heart-broken evenings and the ends of several straight-from-hell days at work with her upbeat chatter and mad acts like waving crazily at the boss from the driver’s seat like we haven’t seen her in ages (while actually saying bye to her only less than half an hour back). Upasana is also capable of leaving you alone when you need to shed the silent tears or extract them from you when you’re suppressing them to evade attention with a simple five-worder.

It is not hard to comprehend Upasana. It is, though, to fathom her energy.

Not a soul around and a House Party

Nights can get rather dull or depressing when you're alone at home and there's no real adventure nor expected guest list each night of the week. The quiet, the lack of company, oh merely the absence of noise can get to you. But yesterday was different.
Abhi n coKo picked me up from work for the 7:30 show. Like forever, the movie was uneventful and the intermission seemed like the best part of the film. लेकिन यह movie review तोह है नहीं! So coming back to the point. Promptly dropped at my doorstep at 10:00, this दुखियारी was left to fend for herself :(

Jesus knew what a task cooking and before that having to clean utensils and afterwards cleaning more utensils seemed. As if that was not bad enough the utility water का time was up, so there was no other choice but to wash them out in the balcony. And to top it all it was COLD!!!!!! After the first round, I gave up.

Having changed into my comfy ol' pyjamas, I finally decided to embark upon the daunting task of cooking. There were no groceries to really write home about. Then I opened my fridge (read: Pandora's डब्बा). EUREKA!!!!!! Boiled-to-el-dente pasta made an appearance. Butter, maida and milk danced in front of my eyes. The morning's leftover mushroom masala jumped out next. And then... and then... muhuhahahahahahahahahaha!!!! The wine bottle apparated into my memory. And with it, the brilliant inspiration to make pasta Indian Style.

अरे no no! The wine didn't go into the pasta. As the white sauce thickened through its ten minutes of flame, I sipped a large goblet of wine with loud, very loud dance music on my iPod. And of course I danced to it all as the several elements of the pasta slowly made their way into the big bad steel bowl.

By the time I was ready to eat, I was adequately drunk. After somehow managing to spoon some morsels of the treat into the right place and not my nose or gouging out my eyes and doing an adequately clean job of dunking the sauce pan and my plate into the kitchen sink, there went tipsy me back into bed. Lights off, music tuned to soft ghazals by Mehdi Hassan, Hariharan and Bhupinder; my madness wasn't over yet. I texted out crazy messages to (so far as I remember) three - no - five friends. Two were girls also. One was at Little Italy. [ok PU you're not drunk anymore so stop ranting]

It's amazing how naked you can be around yourself. The lingerie doesn't have to be sexy or new, the night clothes are warm, the wine glass can lie on the balcony parapet, the tree sways silently, and the music - always your favourite - always end up in a Gita Dutt tadbeer se bigdi hui takdeer bana le. And the songs are suddenly in your own voice. You always have an audience. You become your own entertainer.

And the only message I still have from last night is Kshitij's - "wow and wow. both for the solitude. I envy you"

Old City New Charm

A week into my stay in Hyderabad and the culture vulture within can't sit in one place only. Waat to do saar??? So last weeked was yet another exciting trip across the city - and my सारथी, none other than Mr. Kotha. Of course, he was also playing porter on Saturday. To make amends, we decided to make a quick trip to Geetha's. Ha ha. What a jox. Quick trip and Geetha's. What was tentatively planned to be merely a social visit to the jungle resident, turned into a feast. Gee reminds me of my mom's aunt in Baroda. The food keeps coming out of the fridge like an unending flow! Seamless conversation that began with concerts, what one MUST wear, meandered to Karthik's super brat brother and finally to women and marriage. [Looks like this is more or less the range we're always going to follow.] Of course, there's so much talk about teaching and kids happening, it's not funny.

I'm most amazed at how the lines between Kart and Gee blurred almost instantly the first time I got them to meet. Their Chennai connection was so much stronger than having me as a link, which is seldom the case when I get any of my friends to meet for the first time. It is an overwhelming experience when two people from seemingly different spheres socialise and how! I thought Chennai could probably be a starting point, but they had so much more to exchange, I felt rather inadequate (:P).

But neither Kart nor I knew what the concert on Sunday had in store for us. The Chowmahalla Palace played host to one of the greatest concerts I've ever attended in my omnivoric hunger for great music. Hyderabad seems to always attract the best talent there is. I've often heard of its audience being intelligent and well read and widely travelled. The audience at Chowmahalla proved the point. even when it came to requesting, nothing short of an Amir Khusro popular would do!

That it was begum Abida Parveen on stage brought the kind'a audience that had to be either niche - pretty much mostly the old affluent - or outsiders (that's me!) who had a sense of the scale and concept that is Parveen's voice and area of expertise. I was simply taken by the simple fact that she sounds on stage exactly like she does on recording. I mean... the sound editor hasn't to work at all on getting the सुर right at all! Of course, what hits you as the listener is the instant and constant connect that she established with and when she began every composition with "मौला...".

They taught us, when I was training in classical music, that संगीत is the combination of getting the notes right and getting the thought spot on. Begum sahiba personified the definition flawlessly. Of course, my saying it adds no value and perhaps if I didn't, it would take away nothing, but the experience was made surreal: every time she began a new song, the cold drizzle, that threatened to bring the show to an abrupt end, ceased. That is the power of music, I guess.

Overall, a fantastic first weekend in the city that raised my bar always always.

An evening with an ET reporter

We met on Monday morning. Enough paper strewn about the table to make me cringe all morning. But a bright "G'morning!" changed all that. A brief conversation and I was off on my amble to the office - Day 1.

Shekhar promised he'd see me at dinner. Promised kya, he had little choice but to. I was hungry by 8:30 so didn't bother waiting. Besides he was busy on a call and I had a PG Wodehouse for company.

What began as a casual exchange about humorists went on to a serious discussion on our favourite writers, films, music, existential topics, microfinance... I sang some, we laughed some more... He told me about his best friend Rafaq and his wedding, I told him about a former Accounts Comptroller General of India. He made funny faces. I sang some more... I told him I was scared - well at least apprehensive. He said I couldn't ask for more.

I've stayed in guest houses aplenty. Some from L&T, and others as guests of employees. Citibank. Lalbhai Realty. Arvind Mills. Fancy, well kept, expensive upholstery and even classier gadgets. Yet something was always amiss.

And then I arrived at the ToI guest house. The security men have been overwhelmingly polite and well behaved and even cheerful. So have the caretaker and cook. The morning actually becomes good when they wish you. Bunch of Oriyas all. Rather scared of being ousted for any inane reason that the supervisor fancies. Safe.

The place itself is rather simple. The linen's all local. None of that synthetic, heavy stuff that reeks after the first fortnight and is hard to weild. Cotton weaves. Handloom. Simple white sheets to sleep on. Just the way I like it. Just what puts me to sleep.