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...

Gannu Drowns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

5 Steps to Celebdom: Kunal Khemu

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

However, this morning the id pinged.

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

ONE 

11:31

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

I guess I got the wrong person

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

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

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

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

TWO

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

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

THREE 

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

11:42
me: typical

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

FOUR 

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

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

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

kunal.khemu1083: what fuel is this? 

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

But here's what took the cake:

FIVE

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

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

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

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

Hair

THIS short

Cutting my hair THIS short is always an unplanned affair. The itch begins a few weeks before though, but it almost always ends in this length or shorter. Of course, I've achieved a feat I've striven for, practiced and finally mastered over the past 7 years on several occasions. And while both roomies have been spectators, actively eventually assisted me in getting there tonight, and even applauded the outcome, the happiness is of simply losing it all. Yes, it's true. 

I've seen women cut their hair on film in a few films. One image I distinctly remember is Kalki Koechlin at it in Dev D. That is not to say, of course, that my attempt germinated from some sense of anger or suppression. If anything, it has made me so happy, I could dance all night! 

Not only does the loss of all my midway and reluctant-to-grow-more tresses that much less weight to bother with on myself, but also seems like a metaphorical unburdening from all the stress of having to cover my head and fuss over it all the time thanks to the dry and dusty weather of Pune. 

Social commentators the world over have maintained, as has research established, that short hair is the ultimate sign of confidence among women. Well I don't know about all of that. I know it doesn't make me look horrid, and I know my long and slender neck looks fabulous! 

I finally feel like shopping again! Finally going back to being the 13-year-old who cared two hoots about the frivolous housewives in the neighbourhood who thought my mother was mad not to encourage me to look more feminine (yeah, try growing up with a bunch of ruffians for boys, woman!). I don't know if I shall go back to my long hair. The only time it appealed was when I was so preoccupied with the charm of hyderabad; when I thought I didn't even have time to catch a breath because, oh god! there was so much to be done - classes, plays, concerts, assignments, my journo work, music, hanging out with friends who mattered over midnight cups of tang and elaichi cream biscuits. 

No, I am not that anymore. It was my time of being lazy, and stable. That was, actually, my only truly linear phase of life. Uf. Look at me, analysing phases and connecting nonexistent dots over a blasted hair cut!

And remember, घर की खेती... whatever makes me happy... it ain't yours babay!

Song for all seasons

Concert going audiences across this country, it can be safely concluded now, are alike. They can be identified explicitly by their body language. Something in their eyes, their gait, their stance speaks of their discernment. They may not walk straight, or walk at all, they may speak their strange dialects, they may squint despite bottle thick spectacles or stoop from being a genetically mad race, but they all know their ‘shit’.

If they have come especially for the concert, they’ll most definitely be at the very least jacketed or cocktail dressed, flannel trousered or silk stoled. If they have reading glasses, they will be tipped low on the bridges of their noses to read the evening’s programme. They will look for seats farthest from the exits and respect each movement with appropriate applause.

Even pre-performance drone will be in hushed whispers, not cacophonic banter, they will discuss common acquaintances too, but it all stems from a musical reference on the menu. Their next choice, if they’re young, will be jazz or opera. Somehow, Rahul Khanna’s Kabir in Wake Up Sid was highly reminiscent of this profile (of which I stole some snatches last evening with Anjie).

I was at a soprano performance on Saturday when these thoughts intermingled with my sense of gratitude to Aditya for probing me into making it even on my own (much like my good old MA-in-Hyderabad days) came visiting with soul-stirring music for background. Of course, Aditya as well as Veeram were of the opinion that I should have stuck to just enjoying my privilege. But perhaps it was a bigger kick for me to know that I could write with such superior music in the background. Sometimes the focal point of an event makes for stimulating background for another concurrent activity.

Patricia Rozario, Joanne D’Mello and Susanna Hurrel were accompanied by Mark Troop on the piano, bringing songs composed by Handel, Mozart, Bizet, Dvorak, Puccini, Johann Strauss II and more to my ears. More than the music, though, it was a bringing to fore of emotions from history like I may never know. These sopranos sing as if they express in song. The way you and I may animatedly describe our favourite books or films, or weep in excruciating melancholy or even scream in menacing rage.

And in the classical tradition of students carrying their teachers’ legacy a notch higher in quality, Joanne and Susanna carried forward what teacher Patricia probably taught them to toil after. The matronly Rosario on the other hand is no dull wad. Here’s a weathered voice rippling with experience not only of men, and the world, but also of being drenched in her own emotions, prodding all those who will listen or care, or both, to take that risk around the blind bend.

And Mark Troop’s piano work on the Bluthner brought back an old fantasy. Sometimes I imagined being in company of a pianist. One who knew what to do with his lambs and not stand around like a dandy. Nimble fingers, quick on feet. Always a tune on his notes stand, forever ready to break into a number. I recently realized pianists can be of the soul as well. Slender hands and lithe palms trace their way even in the most velvet darkness, a song that is meant only for me. Just like Saturday night.

What shall I say about the songs themselves? From the show, I mean. Mentioning each one would mean nothing. I’m an illiterate. But let it suffice to say that each one was sung with a certain abandonment of inhibition of the beholder: a flamboyance that was meant to be felt, rather than witnessed. The experience of so many travails, practicing in so many halls, trials in so many green rooms and post-performance cuisines from a hundred backstage dinners came through in the level of confidence each performance exuded.

After what also seems like an eternity of the commencement of my quest for the perfect live performance. Mazda Hall in the Dastur School compound seems to have presented itself as the prize for all the years of waiting, struggling through commutes, risking late nights, suffering some atrocious fusions and even more irksome pure forms, and worst of all, tolerating the most ill mannered and uninformed audiences in Hyderabad and Mumbai.

As I stood on the lawns outside the hall under an ominously beaming moon, I awaited the opening of the second part before leaving the delightful show. Yes, show. The women didn’t just sing, they enacted each song to the hilt. They became the song. They became Cleopatra, Juliet, queen and pauper…

Moony

I wanted this thought to be in writing as soon as could be because this feeling seldom stays very long. What feeling you ask? This realisation about why I keep returning to base after each hiatus in another city (I talk as if I've travelled the world by now - seriously, the loftiness, doesn't it kill you with mirth sometimes?). I'm filled with glee right this moment... and several before this one, for over an hour now. Considering the past couple of weeks and more have been absolutely tiresome and often downright irritating, tonight was such a return of positivity.

After a gruelling three days of trying to finish editing a boring finance management and accounting paper for a journal, it was time to heave a sigh in triumph this evening. The finish line was finally arrived at, and I was determined to make a celebration of it. Of course, I had forgotten that it was a night of celebration anyway.

In the past four or five years, the times I have missed home the most, right from the first time, have been on festival days. Diwali, Sankranti, Holi, Rakhi,  and Sharad Purnima. The last isn't a very big or significantly happening time in most households - Gujju or otherwise - but here at home, it's a special time.

For as long as I can remember, the family gathers on the terrace for dinner in the moonlight. The high point is the simple almond sprinkled, kesar scented doodh-poha kheer. We've had countless memories of these from the past 15 odd years in this house - the time that my uncle and aunt were here from Jamnagar, when Sriram had come home once, another time that Twara was over... This year too is special - with Maneeti.

The little one had a gala time tottering about on the white mosaic tiled terrace that reflected the moon's regal magnanimity in all its glory. Of course, it was extra neat that we had our favourite Gujarati songs - numbers my parents have reared us on - romantic, playful and upbeat (yes, there are regular songs, other than the regular garba shit in Gujju too). What came back once more, and full throttle, was the fact that I was with family. I may not be one of those घरेलु कुलीन कन्याs who enjoy the home thing very much; we're not even a very enthu or loud let's-socialise quartet at home.

And despite all the massive cribbing sessions about boring food, or the lack of anything to do, or Late Harvest craving or the extreme desire to go hog at Maroosh, I wouldn't trade this time for anything else. Tonight, I'm happy to be home. Tonight's a good night.

Happy Engineers' Day

I’ve lived with some, I’ve worked with many and I’ve dated only them. The story of several nations begins with them, and often enough, develops into legends. They’ve made our hospitals, our schools, our homes and offices. They’ve made the infrastructure that runs them, and the technology that makes them better than previously.

Man or woman, I do believe they’re the only ones in this country who take on the pressure of proving themselves beyond their qualification. They’re the only ones who want to tamper with a DSLR, or spend a train journey reading by the window, rather than choosing the upper berth to catch up on much lost sleep. They’re the only ones I know who appreciate art, business as well as the nuances of science.

They’re practical. They know when to be around and when to step back. They’re the only ones I know whose embraces stay. They spend four years in college, toiling on assignments and poring through journals just so that degree will give them the freedom to explore the world. I used to think, what a waste of a whole seat. But an engineer who does not think that way, is really just so limited. It is not about being the jack of any trades and master at none – no, it isn’t about mediocrity at all – though, I do often label them all with that blanket for the sake of convenient argument. But a workforce that emerges from its hefty contribution to the business of education, can’t be neglected. They’re the crème de la crème among the call centre-ites. They’re the ones preferred over even commerce students at business schools. They’re the ones our Tier II city dwellers still pay handsome dowries for – second only to the docs. So hey, if you can have a Doctor’s Day, why not this?

The country celebrates the 44^th National Engineers’ Day on the 15^th of September 2011. So what are we celebrating? Nation building? Sounds L&Tish. Logic? Sounds CATish. One of the most lasting careers? That’s almost wannabe-in-the-USish. Perhaps it is all these and then some more. Actually, much more. It is that spirit of being boisterous. Of stressing over trivialities. Of competing for the IITs, NITs and then the IIMs and IITs again. It is the celebration of the world looking to India to not only direct (which just sounds so damn pompous), but also design the future. To physically shout out instructions to labour and contractors. To prevail when others are dilly-dallying in contemplation.

Then I’ve also known of those who drop out. Those who commit suicide because of all the pressure. Those who abandon the cause because it’s just not their calling.

Hopefully, we shall respect them a little more. Hopefully, we’ll honour their place in society a tad more. Hopefully, we shall not in our generation, aspire for our sons and daughters to be part of a mob. A significant mob, nonetheless. Hopefully, we will know that being an engineer is about being a certain way. That, despite half the country’s science students blindly heading for a tech school, it is not the end of the path to progress, but only one of the trajectories that lead to a beginning.

Bawa's the Boss

I was watching this hilarious episode of Koffee with Karan last week (before you jump on me with "How can you say humor and Gay Johar in the same breath, PU, lemme clarify, it was just a one off thing), which brought a very special memory of Bombay. Since the url of this blog and its mores root from there, I guess I will never really stop writing about my memories of the city. Coming back: this particular episode of the soppy director/ producer's talk show played host to three performers by who I'm quite tickled. Riteish Deshmukh (for his comic timing), Sajid Khan (for his unabashed bitching of all of the Hindi Film Industry) and Boman Irani (for the life he brings to every character he portrays, his svelte personal countenance and of course, those Bawa dimples).

Boman Irani and I have a personal connection. And while it may sound completely outrageous because he probably didn't even notice it and celebrity encounters happen all the time in a place like Bombay and I
have no reason to claim mine was special, it changed a day and reaffirmed a young girl's belief: that Boman's the Boss! Like ANYONE cares for such a belief either.

Exactly a year ago, when I was barely coming to terms with my job and what not in Bombay, and life seemed nothing short of a hell hole, one evening, I wept silent tears riding pillion behind a jam weilding NiNa
before Khodadad Circle on the bike.

As suddenly as it seemed to have dissolved in the thick traffic, there appeared a white sedan with a very reclined driver's seat and a driver who seemed to have come straight from a trip to the Bahamas. Music
gentlemanly plugged in through the earphones and a boy of about 12 sitting beside him doing ditto.
In a jiffy, Irani and my glances met, and he had this mischievous wink 'n smile as if to say, 'god's design, what to do?'

I will never forget the 0 to 60 my tears did with drying up. I've always believed Irani to be one of the most charismatic personalities among recent entrants in the indian film industry. He has the power to bring terror as efficiently as joy to a room full of individuals on the silver screen. But this one time, he proved he
could also mesmerize off it.

Thank you Boman bawa, for making my royally screwed day better. *hug*

Dialogue in the Dark

For an hour on Saturday evening, I turned blind. Visually impaired, as they call it. No vision, no I could see NOTHING. कुछ भी नहीं. And after my last exchange with the dark, this was a paradoxical experience. It was, to use a cliché (because clichés are true nevertheless), an eye opener in more ways than one. It was literally a walk in the dark. Pitch dark. The kinds in which you can’t see your own hands. And the only thing to lead you is a walking stick. Of course, the banging into each other (we were a group of seven), stepping on someone’s foot and hitting-the-ground you do, are not even a fraction of the amount of assistance that you discover your senses can lend. Your companions become the subjects of most concern.


I’ve always believed that it takes only short of five hours to be physically attracted to any human being, whether or not you like him or her. But to genuinely care for someone takes as little as an hour in the dark! It is a kind of dependence that links the two beings. The dependence to know that all shall be well and al manner of things shall be well.

What may seem like a rant so far, is a mere scratch on the ambience created solely for the ‘unseeing’. I ‘saw’ today the fickle and unnecessarily complex exterior of people who find it hard to simplify. I saw a woman who could not come to terms with the fact that being unable to see does not enable us to be or do the metaphysical. I also sat with another woman to whom it mattered more how our guide lost what he had lost, and not what he had gained. We still hoped to glorify a man who was being himself. Quick to label him “Shahrukh Khan”, we needed a parallel, a precedent, because this was too unique to have happened to us for the first time. The first time in years, or the first time in life.

I smelled the coffee for the first time in ages. I differentiated Cuticura and Ponds talcum powders. I tasted Colgate tooth power for the first time. I swayed in a boat all over again. And sang प्यार की कश्ती में and ओ माझी रे with Upasana. I touched the bark of an Ashoka tree. I shouted, and screamed and ate a packet of chips in there. I used my fingers to sort a fifty from a tenner to pay for it. I felt the spray of the winter winds on Hussain Sagar lake. I held hands and shirt sleeves and shoulders. I followed a voice – in fact, many voices. I recognized them all. I knew where they came from. I knew they were going nowhere. I felt solid ground beneath my feet. I felt a carpet of lawn and pebbles. I felt the steel new seats at the bus stop on Pedder road. A little water wet my shoes too. I felt cold, but not alone. I felt protected. I felt full of purpose. And the dark… the dark was not of the night, or like Kshitij’s “velvet”, but it was definitely “alive... so much that its smoothness could be felt on the back of my hand, around my neck and my ankles...”

“Like silken threads… millions of them… lying as if someone had dropped them in the breeze… scattered… each strand tracing itself on my skin… the strands lay together yet distinguishable.”

My hand holder, the one to lead in a calm voice, the one to challenge my judgement, to ask me what an odd apple was doing amidst another pattern, to get me humming, to say my name, was a voice all of 19! Nasir his name.

When our walk was done, when out questions asked and answered, when our perceptions shaken and when we were allowed to walk 30 times slower than ever, Nasir led us back to our world - the world of light, colour, lines and eyes, with the souvenir of a card with our name written in Braille.

Nasir is really a 30-year-old from Bombay who worked as a tele-caller at TATA Indicom for two years. He lost his vision at 21. Equipped with rudimentary English and working Hindi, our man has been in Hyderabad for the past two months training as a guide at Dialogue in the Dark, which opened to public on Sunday, 9 January 2011, at In Orbit mall, Madhapur on level 5.

Nasir told me something no Hyderabadi will ever be able to: the number of species of flora at KBR Park. Any guesses?

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.

Tamasha

I'm probably one of those who enjoy a good impromptu road show and what I'm about to say has probably been done to death way too many times already, but honestly, I'm really enjoying all the तमाशा that's building up around the CWG issue. The first time I heard about our organizers' inadequacy was when Sajani or Hitanshu told me about the swimming pool not being ready yet and that was just two months back...

"What," you ask, "this controversy's been hyped for only less than two months?" Then why does it seem like forever? Duh, no-brainer! What's astonishing, is the fact that someone's finally taken ownership of the calamity. That, for once, a Kalmadi has said 'ok, I am to blame.' But very smart the man is - he's accepting it all to be his fault only when nothing can be done about it. All the mud-splashing's done, all the contingents are here, they've all figured a way out of the "mess" and aall izz well! It's like... after Indira Gandhi was killed, the world's Sikhs were in danger, and not just the the bodyguard who assassinated her. Arre kee fark painda hai. Maaro sabko! How come all sportsmen don't riot? Uthao apne apne hockey sticks, javelins and discuses and bolo dhaava! Why not kill all the Kalmadis in the country?

How come we suffer the false promises of infrastructural development at the beginning of every ministerial election campaign and promptly forget, submitting to the notion that we have no choice. So most commoners are dimwitted morons who vote cuz they're really twisted or bummy in their heads. But what about our sportsmen? They have what is real education. Hands-on training. Like Guru Dronacharya's training in honing Arjun's artillery acument. If they can wield a bat or raquet with such accuracy and know the right kind'a force, why not use the same strength into blowing the brains out'a a liar politico?

To think, it isn't even a politician who took on the blame. This guy probably has a job to lose; a reputation. Politicians don't even have a reputation! Nothing to write home about anyway... They can just take a year's sabbatical and then get back to their scheming ways and yet...

Kalmadi is no Gandhi - it's too late for that, but at least the man had guts. To shoulder responsibility. To say it's all my fault, if not my lack of foresight. The guy's acquired PR skills. He's shut the reporters up. Now what?

Sardar

Disclaimer: all those who're expecting this piece to somehow relate Bombay with Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, please stop reading right now. You'll be irritated to the hilt by the time you reach end of line1 para1.

I saw a sardar today! I saw a sardar today!

So?

Anyone acquainted long enough with my sophisticated tastes in men [that was NOT a pun, ok?] would not gasp at the prospect of me ogling at any male member of the clan. Especially the tall-slim-collar bone showing & veined armed versions. Actually only those. Oh! God bless them.

For a fat chunk of time that I stopped frequenting the King's Circle flat, it was the NSP of these Aryan descendants that I missed considerably [yes, yes, apart from you two Nishants]. The "Sindhi Colony" at Sion-Koliwada is one of the original resettlements of Sikh refugees from Partition, Sumit had told me [Sumit being a Surd himself - though a more hybrid one from Mulund].

In the hottest months of sultry-humid-bitchy Bombay, I've walked all the way from King's Circle station to Pushpak just to catch a glimpse of the eye-candy. Earlier, the day's exhaustion would make me beg NiNa to gimme a ride home. But ever since the first sighting, this ornithology enthusiast became more enthusiastic! *wink wink* I would walk even when I was chumming! Really but, isn't to see something nice [ok not exactly "thing" in this case], when you're feeling like shit, therapeutic?

I've never spotted such strapping young Surd lads even on my trips to Delhi. Perhaps cuz I'd found a part-Surd of my own. Who knew... This bunch was groomed. Neel once jibed me, "how" do I see anything behind that thick "outgrowth"? These chaps were so clean and always well turned out. Such beautiful features: sharp eyes, the quintessential "aquiline" nose, full jaws... even their religious markers are appealing - the kirpaan, the tightly twisted turban [ha ha, just produced a tongue twister! – I know I know – PU shut up]…

That apart, for a city whose population threatens to spill out into its creeks, turbaned Sikhs are hard to come by. A community held in high regard for its physical strength and business acumen and ridiculed at for their imagined inanities, has been unduly discriminated against on the basis of their appearance. Like a lot of Jews who are abandoning their peyots to fit in with natives in foreign societies, more and more Sikhs are abandoning their turbans and beards to reveal their chiseled faces. A people we’ve often dismissed upon as the hairy funny men might just steal your chance of making it to the college sweetheart’s notice. With looks to kill for, and an acute sense of protecting their women, the laughed-at will emerge hero. A tall, broad chested, suited Surd at work or clad in casuals at a pub or disc is such an answered prayer… sigh…

"Idoling" away on a "holy" day

Wednesday was a holiday for me. Ram Navami. Turned out to be a blessing, considering I had decided to put me through the ordeal of auditioning for a reality show. By the end of this post, I’m more than sure you’ll know as to what programme I refer.

Apart from all the melodrama of “When you enter, shout and show your madness for the show [even if you’re not really crazy about it],” and “at the count of three, shout ‘AAMCHEEE MUMMBAIIIIIIII!!!!” I began to realise what television reality shows are all about.

Honestly, this experience was to know first hand the behind-the-scenes of reality TV. To say the least, it turned out to be fun. They made sure no one was waiting too long – not in one place anyway. First it was an hour outside the gates; the about half an hour inside; another two hours on the stadium steps and finally less than fifteen minutes in the final lap. The heat was bad enough, so they couldn’t have got too many retakes on stampeding crowds or youth shouting the name of the show or the name of the city to which they belonged or were auditioning from.
Some of it was plain inane. Some of it was plain touching. Most of it, as I said, fun. Winners of the first season came in to talk to the crowds and cheer them, sing with them, dole out clichés such as “Singer के लिए गाना ही खाना होता है” and rubbish time-pass like that to discourage people from being seen eating thepla or opening biscuit packets and sipping on Frooti on camera.
I learnt two important lessons though. If you wanna do well on a new-singing-talent reality show, you’ve got to know “कुछ new Sunidhi-Shreya fast songs” [or whoever the male equivalent is for the men] and these shows aren’t looking for good singers so much as great performers.
Here’s an excerpt of my conversation with a pal post-audition, who guided me on my choice of music – this is not to begrudge him.


Piyush: how did it go?
Priyanca: pretty fun
met so many weird people man
loved it
Piyush: what kinda weird?
Priyanca: people who'd appeared for auditions in other cities and had come here just to see how it was here
one from ahm
one from kolkata
these toh i met
many more from outside
people from all sorts'a chhotu places who'd travelled just for this ya
plus i have new found respect for tv crews
Piyush: being part of a tv crew is rather painful
Priyanca: ya
and to be so patient and courteous to people
SO MANY PEOPLE
the kind'a functions they have to carry out
the way they take care of people
the way they communicate
they all know it's all fickle
it's all downright dumb n stupid
and yet
Piyush: :D
Priyanca: and the kind'a things that bother people
procedures
and washrooms
and... staircases
:)
Piyush: :)
Priyanca: such innocent people...
Piyush: thy are all lured to be the bait u know
the audience on this side of the TV rates it high seeing so many ppl


I’ve done this before, but that was another time, another era - when music shows still preferred to test people on their vocal chords, not their suitability to camera angles, “base”, whether they know what are the latest chartbusters on FM radio.

I’ve been asked often why I wouldn’t go in for something like this, and I’d always dismiss it with “Who wants to be insulted in public by a bunch of show people who don’t know jack shit about music?” Today I can probably give a more substantial answer. Who has the patience? The waiting can get to you. People will get friendly and when you’ve exhausted conversation, they’ll ask, “आप इतना book क्यूँ पढ़ते हो?” And one really searches within for a satisfactory-yet-not-offensive answer. And to listen to a woman repeating a dozen times in half an hour, “toilet जाना है” is NOT FUNNY.

The heat gets to you. The waiting gets to you. The cameras get to you. Like all miraculous things in life, this too has no real criteria for who’ll be The Chosen One.