Eating out in Bombay (and drinking too!)

A new acquaintance, Gautom from Coimbatore asked me to give him a list of 20 place to look out for in Bombay so far as eating/ drinking is concerned. This, over a slightly dizzy dinner at The Den. I found myself scribbling a list almost immediately. He was insistent I Whatsapp them to him, but I realised if I'm going to type them out, I might as well serve the general public.

As I myself approach the last day of my 9-month stint at Madison PR, the discoveries just don't stop. South Bombay alone has a trove of quietly hidden coves to offer. However, I'm going to keep this list strictly top-of-mind! Also all the places are easily searchable on Zomato so please don't pop the question, "Where's that?!"

Safe Go-Tos

Bora bora
Big Bang
Bonobo
Den
Toto's

Salads

Suzette
Indigo Deli
Suzette
I Feel Healthy Today
Moshe's

Quick Meals

Dumpling King
Maroosh
Candies
Greko

End-Of-Month

Gokul
Janta
Yatch

Just Food

Universal
Crystal
Cafe Churchill
Theobroma
Britannia
Taste of Kerala/ Deluxe
Imbiss

Chaat

Elko
Amar
Juhu/ Girgaum Chowpatty
Swati Snacks (for the hygiene snobs!)

And since I was asked to shorten my list, instead of adding onto it, I will simply redirect all further curiosity and arguments to Eating out in Bombay.... Big fan, and ardent follower of all advice. The guy knows what he's talking about. His vegetarianism notwithstanding.

Nouveau Art, Nouveau Fun: Bombay reads together

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pondy Hopping I

This time the Pondicherry trip series will have loads of meat in a day 1 to 5 form. I'd written a series of mails to 5 of my favourite people - to have them live a bit of the fun we were having. Here's day one, from the time we were on our way...

So we just got done with our first midway stop to Pondicherry from Chennai. The first thing to hit me, was neither the dark nor the deserted highway cafeteria itself. The strong cool humid breeze is what freshened me up instantly. Add to that the sweet filter kaapi.

Uff...

Some old Tamil music plays on the radio, lovely Carnatic lull to it, the ghatam and mridangam adding the finishing touches to the first experience of the East Coast Road - one of India's most premium connecting routes.

Needless to say, I've been adequately roused from my sleepy hangover of the train journey. The highway is well fitted with direction reflectors, milestone signs, freshly painted road markers and dividers. Lined with foliage, punctuated by palm trees, about 20 minutes into this second lap, we witness daybreak - almost an ominous
welcome for us into the sojourn, as if telling us to sit back and take in the magic that is Pondicherry...

Oh! We just crossed Pearl Beach! And now the cab races right beside the sea - barely a couple of metres from the road is the coast running parallel - we're hoping to see the sun rise on our way...

Later that night...

The view from Seaside

Pondicherry is like a place of pilgrimage. It calls out to you... And then nothing can stop you from walking the path. But until then, it's an elusive idea. I lie on my bed at Seaside Guest House, tired from the evening jaunt, listening to the sea. The waters are choppy tonight. No, choppy isn't the word, aggressive, in rage, at war almost. Yes, the ocean sounds as if a battle ground. It collides against the land, pushing, hauling its sword, shouting in true warrior fashion to instill fear in its sworn enemy so half the battle's won.

I began my day with a visit to the Eglise de Notre Dame de la Conception Immaculee Church or the Church of the Capuchins here on Rue Dumas. We rented out bicycles and loitered around town afterwards. for 75/- bucks a day, the mostly circles and random lefts and rights seemed something of one's childhood's happy return. Add to that, the beauty of a well planned town - you'll never hit a dead end, though I reckon if you're drunk you'll definitely get dunked in the drain!

We intend to exchange our cycles for motorized 2 wheelers tomorrow so we can go visit Paradise Beach and Auroville, both about 6-8 km from the guest house. Rao says Paradise Beach truly personifies the name.
Looking forward.

I think we shall also end up doing the jetty the day after or on Thursday. The availability of so much time and so much to do is such a rare occurrence...

Accident ho gaya rabba rabba

So almost a year after my last right leg injury, a new one decides to make its presence felt. I've always seen accidents as signs. I've now had three fairly major ones with men whilst riding pillion on their bikes. Same leg. Different spots (god's been kind?). Heck I love them. And accidents with a man for company are even better. Not the injury, of course, just the whole follow-up frenzy ensuing the mishap.

The rush to the closest clinic to get the injury checked, being lifted by three men because I’d have fallen otherwise, to be bought and brought a way-too-big bar of chocolate and glucose to prevent me from fainting, the cleaning of the wound, the stitches, the dressing, the affectionate care, buying medicines, getting me to eat (evidently I’m pretty difficult to bring to that at such times), the making me comfortable… The process is much like taking a trip with someone. Suddenly you know so much about him or her. Kind'a in isolation, because he or she takes on the carer's role. And when you're away from home, you can't really take them for granted unlike the mother at home.

I reckon, like anyone else, I too prefer physical injuries to hurt of the heart.

But I think what I’m already beginning to enjoy even more than I did last night, as I told Veeram, is his house. Our Saturday night haunt, Veeram’s house aka The Weekend Getaway (TWG :P) is truly just the therapy one wants at the end of an especially unfavourable week. Of course, when you arrive at the humble 2 BHK abode, the clutter of mattresses, antique furniture, clothes, curios, books, condom and cigarette boxes, rum bottles, sheaves of papers, musical instrument first hits you and you want to flee as soon as. Then a veteran privileged holds your hand and leads you to the sanctum – the shrine of Veeram – and then it dawns upon you  as you take in these extremities, that this house is really beautiful!

To be absorbed into V’s space is a lot about one’s personal fortune. By nature, the man (and one of the most cultured hosts) is a recluse. His space is so his and shut away from all things commercial and dispassionate, that you’d have to be a musician to gain license to enter. And once you have won his approval, you could be a third grade architecture student or even just an ordinary copywriter, and yet be personally invited for successive weekends to spend hours elaborating and exploring the intricacies of Raag Desh punctuated with some Puriya or the dreaded Todi, and gracefully end with Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here.

And yet V’s place is not even about the things in it, or its people. It’s really about him. How warm he makes one feel on the coldest winter nights, how free he can set you from the clutches of where you come from and where you must head afterwards. You might get to listen to staples and a few new numbers. Some classical, some jazz, some baroque melodies.

There is of course, the conversation that meanders with sharp turns and steep falls and sudden heights of passionate discourse about music, love, freedom, values, religion, food (of course!). To most, V would seem something of an idealist oddity amidst compromising commercialization of our time and place. And even that is not what defines his home. One time he might tell you how he egg-napped a pigeon’s egg to teach it a lesson to not hover around his balcony again, and then he would also keep it safe. One of those puppy kidnappers, this.

I have still not managed to articulate what it is about V’s place that elates me each time I’m here. Veeram says, (about the walls in his house) “they have absorbed everything in the past two years.” And why not? The evidence is all over the place. Dates, arbitrary mind-thoughts, caricatures have been graffitied on all the walls of the house – in paint, felt pens, pencils even (like a 4-year-old that’s just learnt to write and draw)!

I have now flown kites here, spent nights, taken in the night’s horizon and the day’s view of the hills, swum, cooked, lay injured, sang and confessed in this house.

Comfort is an understatement for what one experiences here. Let it suffice to say then, that it’s the only place in years where I sleep like a child. For someone who is a light sleeper, it’s like letting a mask slip. Deliberately. In blind trust.

 

Pondy Shondy VI: The Retreat's own queen mother

An old lady walked into the dining hall the night of our arrival as we hogged supper. Solo, in a confident slow gait, the wrinkled demeanour did not succeed in veiling the beauty she must have surely been of her time. In her pale pink salwar kameez and well set salt and pepper hair, she settled alone on a small table to dine. We noticed in her plate unusual portions for a woman that old and that petite. Even we ate less!

“Please,” I said, holding the door gesturing for her to pass first at the reception later that night as I made to go for a stroll with Twara after our meal. “No, no,” she insisted I pass through first. After a short battle with the obstinate old woman, I relented. It was embarrassing of course, but the beginning of a rendezvous that would last the duration, at least of our stay at The Retreat.

And of course we invited her to join us for breakfast next morning. Over the period of our time there, we ate several homely meals together at the guest house dining hall. Conversations revealed that she has been a regular to Pondicherry now for 11 years and spends a full two months beginning each December.

But here’s where this ancient relic became an indelible memory of my second trip to Pondy. I got shamelessly greedy for an extra birthday wish on my birthday and let it slip over breakfast. Not only was she the loving Punjabi granny to embrace me on the morning of my 27^th, but when we returned from our jaunt the next day at lunch, we found a plum cake from Grand Bakery waiting for us at the reception, the tag said “Best wishes from Indira Kapoor, R. 211”.

The ways of knowing someone’s name…

Pondy Shondy III: Taking it in

Pondy’s like poetry: everyone reads it differently. Every time. Sitting at the granite top study table by the window, as I pen the first impressions about my second visit to Pondicherry, a roaring tumultuous monsoon sea and a fishing boat risking a session at some distance, with a road in the middle and its occasional motor vehicle, an adjoining ten-foot pavement and its decorative pedestrians on this sunny morning keep nudging me to look up from my notebook and out towards them all.


A series of seven posts cover some aspects that most appealed to me and kept me preoccupied during the holiday.

The thing to do is to pile up on the booze, because it’s cheap, and go see Auroville (which I refused to do) and buy Hidesign products and eat at Satsanga. If you love to stop and gape at anything that catches your fancy, you’d instead loaf till your legs say no mas! In the French areas. And eat when you hit upon an interesting café and plomp on one of the several seats along the sea side. Don’t touch the lentil concoction commonly sold on the promenade. It is boring.

The French fries and Café Dip ice cream at Ajanta, yes yes yum yum

Do make space for a genuine Italian meal at Corelli’s Don Giovanni, run by the jovial, always drunk and Camel smoking flirtatious Max from Bologna. The Ravioli pesto and homemade pizzas are a must try. You could also combine taking a stroll at Le Maison Rose’s knick knack store and binging on their French food. But a personal favourite was the fine dining set up at Le Dupleix. The tiramisu is to die for. Ahaan.

Or walk into, instead of by, the grand churches that may catch your fancy (photography allowed – the nuns will even bestow one of their pious smiles upon thee). One you may spot from the promenade, though you’ll have to get onto the back street. This is the church of the Capuchins (Eglise de Notre Dame des Agnes) with a rather interesting piece of history attached to it.

The Cathedral at Mission street

The defunct jetty is not open to only-women travellers

Perhaps you’d try to buy your way into the Port Trust jetty. The place is not open to only-women travellers, so make sure you find yourself an impressive bloke for the evening and then throw him over on your way back. Alternatively you could just get under! Walk all the way beyond Le Café and the back side of Park Guest House right in the corner, where a little path opens to the quay. If you’re too lazy to explore one of the beaches some distance away, this works perfectly.

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.

Power-food

Aditya Roy Kapoor says food makes him feel sexy. Except the fact that I knew I was adding another mm, on both sides, to my now-showing love handles, I know what he means.

The friend I met last evening went on and on about how hot some girl or the other was, yesterday. Then it happened. I caught hold of the long-handled spoon on the side of my frappe and dipped into the mound of cream. The steel emerged with a nicely peaked curiosity. His eyes followed the brevity of my fingers' grip, from the tall glass to the tip of my lips. I couldn't help but chuckle inside, how not only his nasal yakkety yakk ceased, but even his eyes fell silent.

And it was only after the cream melted in my mouth, that conversation resumed.

Not for long, of course. I like the power that food has over people. Whipped cream. Melted chocolate. Cookie crumbs. :D

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"

PU Guide

When i first did the quintessential Bombay walk, Abhishek showed me how. He did not bother selecting or giving me a choice. The itinerary was in his mind. He knew exactly where to stop, where to stroll, where to take it brisk, what to point out and what to gloss over. He knew me and he knew where I'd feel most "at home". Little did he know though, that four years down from the four days he'd known me, this would indeed end up being मेरा इलाका. South Bombay had never captivated me so much as that late [in terms of time as well as date] November evening, considering मासा would often drive us down to Central or Worli seaface or even Marine Drive. Sure, he had shown us everywhere that the crowds flocked, but not where one found peace. Not where even amidst the mob, one could enjoy the scent of the charmer that is Bombay.

Four years down, the walk [almost] replicated itself with [almost] Abhishek. Precious seemed to have been instructed, yet there was an element of new. In that, I was shown the wooden staircase that made you feel 40 years older and truly regal. The film turned out to be shitty. They couldn't have helped it. The crowd, all there only for the experience, and the boy and I - we should've sat away at the parapet across the Taj instead of scurrying back for the film.

But there was more to see. The first time I met NiNa, I also saw a part of very-much-Bombay that occupied the darkest rumours in my head thus far. Some of them were so false I checked with NiNa twice if we really were in a koliwada. Not only because there were no kolis but also because there was an overflowing number of scorching-sizzling-wow Punjabis and Sikhs in the area. It was beauty crisis plunging deep into the negative. When a few Sundays later he suggested we breakfast at Madras Cafe, I couldn't believe my luck! There was a list of things that one must have stricken off before leaving the metropolitan, and NiNa was instrumental in knocking off a lot of them [though the list remains quite unfulfilled yet]. He showed me the wonders of Bandra - Bandstand, Carter Road, Pali Naka, Hill Road, Perry Road, the junction of Shopper's Stop where he n I had that yummy dinner at Sheesha... I figured it was time to pay back.

What began as just an idle wandering across Chowpatty - dinner at Crystal, गोला at the beach, a further drive down to the Point and hanging legs off the broad parapet over the brakers - became an obsession. It was a ritual we followed on crappy days - Mondays usually, or long days. Days when I hated my boss or he hated work or both [and sometimes neither]. We may still not have the perfect Queen's Necklace snap, but we ended up taking many silhouettes and even more lit NCPA buildings. The pendant was at least our's to begin with.

Arunav's trip gave me a chance to explore bit of my now informedness. I knew where to ask for Shack - right outside Jai Hind. And who - Anand Tiwari - a lesser known actor though a strong stage personality, who'd just stepped out'a an auto, still paying, and scratching his head at my question, in a khadi kurta pyjama. I don't think I'll ever reember the roads in Bandra. Whether it was while in an auto with Arunav, traipsing with Priyanka or biking to St. Andrew's with NiNa. Or even heading towards Madhavan uncle's house on Perry Road.

Sajani is a creature meant for South Bombay. Or perhaps its intricately fabricated grilles and meandering streets were created to satisfy her curiosity. To fill her camera with images of the Great Western Building or the traffic lights at Opera House and Mint Road behind Kala Ghoda, or the lovely blue synagogue or for that matter, all the sights that the 122 route could present to her unending quest for streetside sepia.

But it was that little talk on parenting with Subir at Samovar, and then another talk about everything with Fir and then yet another solo to honour the memory of Abhi T - sitting under the poster of Neruda with lines from his poems inscribed underneath. Always chai, always samosa, always always. There is no way one can by pass the art gallery on the right at the Jehangir Art Gallery. But in order to satisfy the hunger of the tummy, the aesthetic hunger must be satisfied first. Or perhaps it is the appetizer to the main course.

And then Anuj happened. Anuj? Arre Anuj! First he mentioned, then I was lugged, then he dragged and finally I tagged along. Our drive from Bombay Central station to Vashi was a long journey through nostalgia. That thing I detest most. A cigarette accompanied us both. He was sleepy, my eyes moist. "It's time you made new memories." Truly, the bike trip back was a memory alright!

Bombay Belly

It is not funny how food becomes the atom of our molecular existence when we leave home. Hyderabad, Bombay, Delhi, Pune... there's no food better than home. It stops to matter whose home even! You begin to appreciate thick फुल्काs with Amul butter instead of ghee, slightly undercooked rajma and lacklustre saltless दाल - so long as you've witnessed its preparation in copper bottomed हांडीs or aluminium sauce pans.


But some of us are bizarre that way. The addiction of that 'outside' taste practically gags us on our shortest visits home and we see the path to moksha clearly etched on a longer return. Lots'a oil, even more spice, crazy quantity and a crazier budget. They say that while the world eats to live, we Indians live from one meal to the next. Punjus and Gujjus specially mascot the cause.

Quite unlike my two-year hiatus in Hyderabad, Bombay inculcated in me an opposite kind'a taste in food. I enjoy blandness streaked by just one or two dominant flavours now. Whether it was the रोटी-सुब्ज़ी with खट्टा अचार & लस्सी at Crystal, mushroom risotto at Tea Centre, pesto sauce pasta at Under the Banyan Tree, मूर्घ काली मिरी at Maroosh, mint-barley-tofu salad at Moshe's, classic pizza at Indigo Deli or sandwiches at Kala Ghoda Cafe.

Oh. I realise I've just listed the best food there is in Bombay. Apologies to all who read this post at 12 o'clock - am or pm *wink*.

Coming back to blandness, I wonder if it is a weakening of the tongue's sensitivity or sharpening. I consume an almost spiceless diet now. And when ma gets छोले made here at home, I crave for Veg Felafel's hummus with the ancillaries - tahini, pickled salad, pita and their special lemonade-in-a-bottle [!] I remember the time Nina accompanied me to the outlet near my hostel. After the third morsel, he was almost force-feeding himself like those ducks in Sweden are to fatten their livers (Europeans consider this a delicacy). "Hate" was mild.

Veg Felafel became my Saturday afternoon lunch place early in my stay. It was one cuisine I had never tried - and couldn't in Hyderabad - and was most curious about, after an Ian Wright episode of Lonely Planet, on Israel. The first time I walked into the tiny two-storey outlet opposite East at Kemps Corner, I was given ample time to take in the yuppie interiors. Simple, bright and unmistakeable – their grey & green lettering and the steel & wood furniture through the glass facade made it easy to spot the little deli in other areas [there's one opposite the Citibank ATM near Regal Cinema] where I often fell prey to hunger on my Saturday post-work jaunts.

It was THE place that whisked away my inhibitions about eating alone. Not that I was ashamed of appearing a hog, but I hated eating without company. It brought home loneliness in flower-power-print-size and tones. VF was warm. And it was always interesting to see the sort of people who came in, Couples my age, groups of school kids with a mom supervising [and paying for their insatiable appetites], solo Parsi or third generation Gujarati men from the neighbourhood often waiting for their takeaways being packed.

I was never tired of reading the framed newspaper reviews on the wall near the door. There was even a health-benefits-of-hummus chart there [how nutritious and high-fibre it is, etc.]! The wait was never long, yet entertaining. The whole experience gave me time to introspect on the week's madness. The fact that the place was a hop, skip & jump away from where I lived made time a non-factor.

Any place alien becomes real - one's own even - by the variety of culinary stimulation it has to offer. Bombay is perhaps the most widespread and bustling kitchen all the time - beach side food stalls, खाऊ गल्लीs, Mohammed Ali road's Idi festivities that send the palate into a scrumptious frenzy, or the numerous takeaway places and fine dining restaurants that dot the geography of South Bombay.

Unlike most people who miss घर का खाना, I stopped a long time ago...or did I even begin?

Samovar

Its chairs have borne many an artist, the fans have cooled many burning passions, the outside fuses with the indoors through its barbed wall - and we thought that's what fences make.

Samovar oozes an ethos of the 80s' elitism-meets-flower power-hippie culture. It's where iced tea is just that, not some corrupt concoction of flavours suited to PMSing tempers. Its lampshades hang in no perfect symmetry except their uniform face.

I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees

This evening was a memory of a previous one. Same time - time of day, time of year too, perhaps - or at least it breezed like it. A picture of Neruda hung by my table - some of his lines beneath the grinning black 'n white portrait. This one stuck, "I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees." Ananda Shankar played unintrusively loud, sinking all traces of work, scatterbrain emotions, the mundane din of traffic at Kala Ghoda.

I'd walked in with lemonade and samosa in mind. I also ordered tea at the end for sake of the old memory.

And I Almost Left!

The last couple of months (actually more) have been so terrible [as perceived by yours truly, until Monday] that I wanted nothing better than to leave. Chuck all this and take the easier route out. Interview happened; got the job; things almost fell in place. I was all set to return home. Then I got cold feet. Twako finished it with a most bleak picture of how bad life would be back in Baroda for me.


It made me think of all the things that I’ve yet to have enough of, or can never get enough of.

Sea
Oh the sea! Every time I still stroll or brisk-walk by Marine Drive, Frank Sinatra’s Somewhere Beyond the Sea always begins to play in the background. I’m sure I’ve said this before, but the sea always brings back memories of the tune when Uttarika played it on her laptop in hostel.
Universal
The place I had my first glass of Sula’s Chenin Blanc. The old Irani café to which Sunil introduced me. The 1926 sepia yellow-n-wood interiors brought alive by shimmering chandeliers and the owner’s pudgy dog. The oldest, safest, most elegant and enchanting pub in Fort. Sports Bar is the only other place I’d ever be found having दारु in Bombay outside the confines of home.

Shopping
Confession: Bombay turned me into a shopaholic. Hill road at Bandra for western formals, Colaba for bohemian casuals and silver nose studs, Lifestyle at Phoenix for Ginger tee-shirts, Vaman Hari Pethe for my next piece of gold, Crawford market for fruit and Baby-ware, Breach Candy and Warden road for crazy cheap classy party footwear (I found my first pair of heels here)…

Music
Where else would I get to plan a concert-outing by lunch for evening the same day? It’d take Baroda ages to warm up to the idea of an SOI concert. And where would it get the stairs of the Asiatic Library to sit on and listen to Ustad Rashid Khan one dry spell evening between the showers of July?

Dust-less roads
I don’t mind the कीचड़  in monsoons near Vile Parle Station, I don’t mind the इधर-खुदा-है-उधर-खुदा-है situation in Wadala, but the dust back home gives me a bad allergy-cold in just half a day.

The As and the Ns
I can’t believe both the Abhisheks and Nishants I’m closest to are in Bombay. But other than them too, there’s Allan, Appy and, Neel & Nidhi, and B for Bindia, C for Chintan, and P for Parag too to keep me sane (or insanely amused). And it’s a great excuse to get T for Twara to travel out! Life without them is out’a question. At least for now.

Salad
The only place I know that’d give me interesting salad back home is home. And I’ve begun to enjoy iceberg lettuce in lemon & olive oil dressing with iced tea…

Bad Day

Yesterday was rotten; by far, one of the worse days at office. I wanna thank Mummy here, for bringing the workplace into perspective for me. No, I didn’t speak to her or anything, but it’s something I learnt from her over the period of our acquaintance or a year and a half.


Don’t bring work home.

And of course also thought of her later in the evening.

Here’s an excerpt of my gleeful chat with Neel this morning:


Priyanca: something wonderful happened last evening
Neel: ?
Priyanca: after leaving, i just switched off my cell and was expecting to cry it out or sleep- in the bus and then
once i reached hostel, some more
instead i remembered i had my crochet to finish
so i did that
Neel: so can i see it?
Priyanca: and then i reached hostel and....

[then i rattled off my entire day's crap to the poor chap]

i went to my pal's place
cooked pasta
and we drove all the way to haji ali juice centre at half past 12 and had their strawberry fruit cream (it is yummy personified)
life is too blissful to call even a bitch this morning
:D
Neel: :)
Priyanca: you should try the Haji Ali Juice Centre ka fruit cream man...
it beats any, i mean ANY dessert any day
it's so good it's not funny

I first had the delectable fruit cream at the IT guest house at Somer Villa just a couple of blocks away. I couldn’t do it much justice thanks to the sumptuous food there and the absolute lack of space in my tummy. But all that’s changed thanks to Nishant. When I’m eating with him, my tummy seems to miraculously expand to accommodate everything on the platter. Half a dinner after dinner and then the fruit cream helping to top it. I really didn’t think I’d be able to finish it. But the fresh figs and the fresh strawberries… But for Ma, I’d’ve never ended up sampling the delicacy ever.

I’ve wanted to get back there for ages, but never had inclination, or it just never happened for some reason or another. And the shop’s huge, not missable. And it’s right there at the Haji Ali junction. How can you ever pass the place without either gobbling up some of that godly fruit cream, or at least packing it for a romantic night ahead? They’ve redefined strawberries-’n-cream into a whole new dimension.

The effects of the dessert have been overwhelmingly miraculous. I’ve been thinking so positively and the day’s been progressing on a note of absolute optimism. All of this to result in my raking up courage enough to send some blah draft of a direct mailer to my boss, face him after yesterday after all the shit he gave me, and even coolly hand over work to the department biatch.

Even chocolates that the company union distributed today – which I thought was crazy – cheered me more. The ostentation could kill you; everyone is bubbling with joy about it around here… but that, my dearios, is another topic.