Precious III: Lawyer Lawyer Lipstick

May 2014 spelled a new phase of my life in Bombay. Suddenly, the focus of my social existence shifted from Engineers, MBAs and PR people, to Pilots, Doctors and Lawyers. I seem to bump into a hell of a lot of the penguins especially.

A few weeks after a most surprising and enjoyable first rendezvous with a couple of them at a dance after-party following a singles meetup (I was signed up for it, for heaven's sake! Really, you think I went to one of my own volition?!), I ended up having a most engaging conversation with yet another at a gymkhana gathering to which I was invited by a friend. Amidst all the chatter about football, common friends, and a LOT of swearing, this gentleman - let's call him The New Precious - mentioned arbitration. Now unlike all the arbitrary cock (ahem) and bull that goes around on all our screens and stages, this one actually made some sense. Drunken stupor and Friday evening notwithstanding, I finally met someone who was as passionate and proud of what he did as the people I adore the most.

Precious-the-Latest (PtL, going further) has changed the course of his career more than once.

While he began with banking - selling accounts to HNIs across the length and breadth of Bombay, he moved to selling tin plate as partner in a friend's firm and even corrugated cardboard products and packaging soon after. Needless to say, success was his to play with. But among the many things I've known about PtL in the past (close to) two years, it is not repeating a pattern that excites him. Ambitious to the point of seeming to spread himself thinner than he can afford, PtL wants more constantly.

He can appear almost jobless (like the first time I met him and lived in the assumption for the next three months), because that's the way he's wired. He thrives on the challenge of citing precedent, while his thoroughness with the law books comes handy.

In a recent meandering post-dinner chat with the young advocate at a south Bombay restaurant, the conversation veered to the skyline of this enchanting part of the city. If you climbed to the terrace or even a high enough storey of any of 'Bombay's' buildings, you'd witness a cluster of some of the most remarkable edifices and a host of shimmery lights. And whether you have Eros Cinema, Flora Fountain, the Oval Maidan, or the Ravissant in your purview at the fore, a significant part of the backdrop is the Bombay High Court.

Much like this hogging of the skyline, practitioners of law cannot be ignored either, wherever you go in ‘town’. The phenomenon is fed by the presence of the TADA Court, Custom Excise & Service Tax Appellate Tribunal, Special Court, Bombay High Court and City Civil and Sessions Court buildings dotting the stretch from Worli, right up to Fort.

As if to mirror this concentration of law professionals in the vicinity, lawyers themselves lead a rather immersive existence. You’d imagine their lives end at knowing the law in theory – at most the years and years of applying those laws. However, as is the rue of many who come at cross hairs with crime and punishment, the law is open to interpretation; the words, yielding to the user’s purpose. As PtL puts it, “The amount of reading is exhaustive. Even a measly order can serve as a significant precedent. A lawyer can never know it all, yet must endeavour constantly to get there.”

Since there is no way for lawyers to publicise their wares, the best law practitioners are known first by their 'hit' rate. But that't not all that they're known for. While previous generations have produced polo champions, social reformers, freedom fathers, ecology conservators, ace pianists and Everesters, along with courtroom drama of the triumphant, PtL also regales me with stories of how he unwinds. Recreation to the him is as immersive as his occupation.

A man of varied interests, one spots him at his childhood friend's apartment complex dribbling a ball to its basket, or at another pal's beating or beaten to a high octane virtual game of FIFA. In the maximum city, where glamour rules the roost, he is not untouched by films, for he much spend at least a third of his monthly wages on late-night shows to the latest releases. He is happy to tag along to catch the latest in the art district with the girlfriend, and excited about a new eatery in town.

And when popular culture gets his goat, he suggests in his powdery baritone, "Let's catch a play this Sunday?"

Navsari

​Navsari, a nondescript little town en route the Western Railways main line, a station between Valsad and Surat, native to many a Parsis and as many Gujarati Jains, the closest rail to Dandi - where India's first realisation of freedom was spelt. The place where I discovered Gujarati gastronomical wonders such as લસણીયા બટાકા, cheese butter masala, Budhiબેન ની ચા and the array of delicacies waiting to put you in a culinary tizzy at Lunsi Kui.

Since that first time in March 2012, it's also been a town, which I've met more people who call home in some form or another. A past that is more resistant to change for fear of losing its heritage than for fear of change itself. An ethos so full of purpose for the causes it had supported so far, and promises to carry forth through generations to come, quietly, but resiliently.

Unlike bigger cities of Gujarat, Navsari has steadfastly spat in the face of bulldozing development, even when its excavators and concrete slabs prevailed, almost as if echoing the sentiment of the man who broke the salt law not farther than 14 km away. It has not cowered in the wake of modern political oscillation. It has shown the middle finger to Bombay.

Then again, it has opened its arms to embrace Bombay's injured and inebriated.

Navsari opens its arms to embrace Bombay's injured and inebriated

And then Navsari comes to Bombay. And it says, you folks don't know how to live; I don't blame you for not singing here in your open voices, and not throwing back your heads uncontrollably when you laugh helplessly; આવ, હૂં તને પમ્પોળું; આવ તને વ્હાલ કરું અને પ્રેમ આપું; તારી ચિંતા અને કદર માં તને વઢુ અને સમજાવુ (come let me caress you, let me give you my affection and love, in caring for you and appreciation, let me scold you and teach you).

I've written about it before on this blog as a place of music, a short drive to the beach, and as the childhood nurturer of my friend, Veeram. Navsari belongs to anyone who wants to be Navsari, really.  In that, Navsari is a sanctuary that is independent of its geography, its people, its old architecture and meandering lanes. Hell, it might be a town with few or no opportunities, but where loans and debts are not equated to sustenance or sustainability. Patience and perseverance get you there.

You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave

If you want to be (in) Navsari, you needn't even take that four-hour train ride, for it is not some memory stamped on your heart or nostalgia.

Navsari is a state of mind. To achieve it, you must be honest to yourself constantly.

And then you enter the realm of the real and the realistic. Then even your tiny hole-in-the-wall-like room in the queen of Bombay's suburbs would feel like Navsari.

Navsari is like that. You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave.

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.

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!

Pigeon hole

Pigeons are born cat food. That I've maintained for a while now. Even if they're all huddled together on a ledge or a tiled roof, at the appearance before all but flat frantically away to safety.

The foolishness of the species does not end there, of course. Pigeons have been known to hole up at the oddest spots - sometimes even among live electrical wires in exposed fuse boxes whose doors may have been miraculously unhinged by strong winds. But what do pigeons know of the dangers of being electrocuted, right? So what if they're the most thriving creatures in urban cityscapes around the world, after perhaps roaches and rats? They're really just vermin with wings, as the latest Sherlock Holmes film declares.

Then again, their utter lack of perception isn't even limited to that. Do you know that they can't even make out dust laden glass on aluminum shutters? So a couple manages to sneak in as often as we forget to close our living room windows. This morning was no different. The two made their noises as soon as they'd perched on the cupboard by the window in the hall. Obviously the sudden absence of any real smooth and warm surface caused much disconcert among the two. Anjie caught them amid this commotion and tried shooing them away. The idiots are too dim to understand what the onomatopoeic shoo refers to, and flew all over the living room - finally being driven away by yours truly with carefully guided claps.

I seem to be cursed or haunted by the pigeon gods. When I was in Bombay the first time around, I met NiNa who positively hated the poor creatures. Little did I have an idea of just how much, for warding them away seemed to be every Bombay resident's primary home mission - nets over balconies, shutters, open areas closed later, sealed AC windows and even makeshift blockages like a pillow against it.

Even the next time I was there, two of them slept on my window sill. How easy it seemed to have been for them to find accommodation in Bombay. How few were their needs. One look at their home would tell you neither did they know how to build a nest, nor did they seem to need to know. They didn't need a बाई to clean up after them. They seemed to love the mess. I was almost their janitor, for that matter!

And now here...

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.

Sign of the times

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

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

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

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

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

"Aap midiya mein ho?"

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

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

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

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"

A Day in the Life of Working Women’s Hostel Resident

5:15 am. First alarm goes off. Conscious. Alive. Today is neither a holiday, nor Sunday, nor calamitous - no escaping the drudgery of yet another day at work.

6:30 am. Alarm 2, this time. Awake. When I slept last night [before 11:00 or after 01:00], will dictate whether this is when I’ll shake myself out of my mattress [I don’t sleep on a bed. I hear the noises beneath me. They say sleeping on a wooden floor is healthy] or wait for the third alarm.

7:30 am. Alarm 3. “Dude!!! GET UP. In this half sleepy state, I must remember to carry my toiletries and towel and clothes for the day to the bathroom – which is other side of the planet. If it’s a Wednesday, then I must also remember to gather my clothes and dump on to the laundry guy. Note to self: don’t forget to give him a piece of your wisdom on carrying change, which he will promptly forget by next Wednesday. The bastard.

7:50 am. God save me if I wake up with a hunger pang. Rush for breakfast only to find something insipid like kanda poha. Ew.

8:15 am. All dressed up, fed and ready to leave. Yeah, ideally.

8:30 am. Either the bus is taking forever to come, or the ideal situation above has not really transpired. Frantic SMS to Rashna [if it’s the summer holidays or a Saturday, which is when she comes to stay at her uncle’s house at Kemps Corner] if I can hitch a ride with her in her husband’s car.

Walk down to Cumbala Hill Hospital and there starts the F1 ride in Max’s Esteem. Head down, read to distract from Max’s highly erratic and rash though amazingly fast driving. Otherwise, “Taxi!”

8:45 am. Punch in at work. The rest of the day occurs like a surprise a minute – wow! I’ve survived so far.

4:55 pm. Visit to the washroom. Spruce up for and if date/ party/ outing scheduled; relieved that the day’s over.

5:07 pm. Pick up bag and start marching.

5:15 pm. Curse inwardly – “Is this bus ever trudging?" The bus driver promptly listens to this telepathic enquiry; climbs on & starts the engine. Conductor also. Not start engine. Just climb on. “Shit! Think fast! You wanna get off at Kala Ghoda or Churchgate or Kemps Corner?” 

1. If I’m way too tired or with Rashna, KC.
2. If Neel’s the travel partner, then – ha ha, no bus 122 in the first place – cab to Churchgate.
3. If there’s something neat at Jehangir, or today feels like shopping at Colaba, then KG.
4. If Parag’s coming along to J, then walk. If I’m going with him to VT, same.

6:15 pm. Finally at KC (assuming it is 1). Walk to hostel. Crash.

8:10 pm. Nidhi knocks. Wake up/ dinner call. Soak clothes to wash. Block space on table nearest to tv. That’s where the funny ones sit. Food: not bad, as usual.

9:20 pm. Retire to kholi. Read. Call home/ Sajani/ Twako/ Ar/ Nina/ someone I haven’t spoken to in ages.

10:00 pm. Shiitake!! Remember clothes to wash. Drag self to.

10:25 pm. Run shouting at Pratima to delay locking terrace by 10 minutes. Hang clothes to dry.

10:30 pm. Lights-off-bell rings.

10:35 pm. Come back from terrace.

10:55 pm. Sylvie knocks, “Light off karo.”

                Oh alright!
                Dark & Dead.