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.

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...

Book Review: Lady, You're Not A Man! by Apoorva Purohit

Anant Rangaswami shared an image quote on his FB timeline yesterday that said, "Seeing someone read a book you love is seeing a book recommending a person". And of course, you'd want to say 'how true!' It got me thinking about all the times that I carry a book to read on my daily commute or to a cafe when I know I'll have to meet a friend who has the CLS (chronic lateness syndrome) or even on a beach holiday. How do people perceive me when I'm holding a Coetzee's Disgrace, or Mistry's Such a Long Journey or Barsamian's series of interviews with Noam Chomsky or - my latest weight-in-the-bag - Radio City CEO, Apoorva Purohit's new self-help bible Lady, You're Not A Man!.

When I was given this book with the prime motive to review it, I dreaded it right from the start. For several reasons:

1. I don't read self-help, so I'm probably the wrongest person to ask for an opinion
2. The title turned me off
3. It would mean reading and then having to write about the writing

I realise I made the mistake age-old wisdom warns you against - you know what they say about judging a book by it's cover.

Lady,... is an easy-to-read-&-implement sort of book. It's the sort of manual that should be prescribed reading in all graduate schools for women. Having known several managers and now being one myself professionally, it's blatantly clear that Apoorva has implemented her b-school lessons in life quite successfully. As someone who has evolved from, instead of placidly accepting life's lemons, you can quite see how she's made serenely pink lemonade out of them.

I love how she has not, even once, fumbled or mixed up feminist sensibilities in her book and cited several anecdotes in the book to make it most relatable. What makes this book most credible is the little acknowledgements section at the end that lists the women whose anecdotes Apoorva has included in the book. A couple, I happen to have known professionally. And that is what makes the book an interesting read.

Whether you're a daughter, mother, wife, daughter-in-law... intern, noob, mid-level manager or part of the senior leadership at your organization... whatever role(s) you play and/or cherish/ detest, this one's a good go-to. It's like Art Of War decoded for the urban woman in the 21st century. Matter-of-fact, practical and compassionate.

Dedicate your next long train commute to Lady, You're Not A Man!. It's not a bad compensation for losing some cradling sleep.

The room of my dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prayers & Mothers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

Duffer @6 Months

Kandivli cat with personality

Settled (Photo courtesy: Aditya Rao)

He gets comfortable anywhere, observed Aditya a few days ago. Truly, he needs little space. He climbs onto our backs when we bend to pick up something off the floor. He perches on the small of a waist when one is lying sideways or just completely against the back. He loves the little space that the top of the cushioning creates with the back of  the bamboo easy chair. He often climbs onto the balcony parapet and crouches on the inner corner.

He loves warm places, the top of the microwave, right next to the naked halogen bulb and underneath the blanket being his favourites. He is himself always a little warm, like a satin quilt with a hot water bottle inside in preparation for bedtime in the coldest month. Like a dash of sunlight one morning after days of thick clouds and rain. That is Duffer: my cat of close to six months now, my constant companion, the only subject of my unconditional adoration.

Closer to camera: Duffer, farther: Raise (right)

Yes, he is adorable. He is gentle, he is trusting and he is extremely clean. Grooming is more part of Duffer’s psyche than a habit. And not only does he groom himself to the elegant perfection that his other name stands for (Jeeves, rightly christened in retrospect), but also anyone who seems imperfect in his eyes. I have often maintained, to his mates, Raise (also Bertie), and Emma, he is a one-tom spa (not much of a man yet)!

A through and through attention seeker, Duffer’s feline instincts are fairly intact, in that, he still ventures to get his own food – no matter where from. Our plates, the kitchen slab, the refrigerator and window sills and grills being his chief climbing haunts. We have probably raised our voices and even shooed him away, but the man persists. His resolve has yet to be broken, and each day, when I return, I see him jump off one or the other of his high resting places and sprint up to me at the door. He is not a dog. He is not a donkey. He is not a bird. He isn’t domestic. Yet he doesn’t merely tolerate the humans around him, he welcomes them warmly. He fools around. With them, as well as food. He’s an instalment eater, but will wipe off every last remnant of fish we offer him every once in a blue moon, at a go!

He has come to be my reason for getting home. He has come to be never late for at least that one date every evening. He loves bags. Chewing them up, or getting right into them. For that matter, he loves narrow places. He’ll even get into the lamp shade at times!

I take care of him. Only just. He takes care of me. In ways I could never imagine.

He’s the tall one. He’s the quiet one. He’s the friendly type. He’s the asking type. He is never angry. He is scared of crackers. Loves people most of the times. He seems a little high all the time. He teaches me something new every day. He makes us laugh every day.

Tyger, Jeeves, Hobbes, Junglee Maharaj... Duffer!

Thaaaaaaaaat's Duffer!

I am surprised that little Duffer doesn't have a whole post dedicated to him yet. Not because he's just so significant an entrant into my life, but for the simple reason that he occupies more head space for at least a dozen people I know already! And he's been in town only a month!

Like every new kid in the family, he's had some specials for him. He has not only been adopted by mommy - PU (me that is), but also has a creche and weekend getaway, a godmother, a granny and a couple of aunts. He must also aspire for the grumpy expression that Sajani's gift to me carries - a ceramic cat face mounted on a copper ring, not to mention toil hard to escape the shadows of a name so cruel.

So it turns out what Hitanshu said about the feelings of mothers feeding their children is in fact, a fact We are indeed orgasmic about it. As I watch Duffer, aka Junglee Maharaj finish his rice-and-fish breakfast, a comforting calm sets in inside of me. I know little about motherhood. Even less about childbirth. But when this closet butler hops about at play, eats to what we may think – his heart’s content, shits the right colour and texture, and sleeps like he were living Lennon’s Imagine, a mother couldn't ask for more.

Adopting a cat away from home had always been on my mind. City hopping more than twice seemed to be a self-disqualifying criterion. And my record was superlatively appalling.

And just then, opportunity knocked. Aditya’s mail brought to life an almost dormant ability. Of course, Sajani made the journey literally, a breeze. Perhaps it had been the wish to take care of another being and give one’s all. Some of us enjoy being depended upon. Even if at times the pressure may get to us, we continue doggedly towards being carers: carers of the sick, carers to the old, carers to our spouses and children. I chose Duffer – my tom cat of about 6 weeks now. Yet, using words like chose and adopt fall flat. It is always the other way around with them felines. They just deign upon us the privilege, really.

In the past month, many lessons have been wielded my way. From the everyday phenomena of worms and gas, to more startling realizations about forced stability, independence and channelling energies and one’s attention.

My hot hangouts and places to meet new and interesting people are vet clinics and pet stores or pet sections in malls now. I bond over felines and canines and read up about food grade diatomaceous earth online.

Feminism, existentialism, communism, cataclysm have all been tossed out of the window. People are judged on the basis of their ability to get along with quadrupeds, not bipeds anymore. Compassion and not sympathy are prized. Education or the lack thereof is completely ignored. All that rules… is instinct.

Season of song or song of the season?

My jazz teacher wrote the most wonderful words for me in a mail two days ago. Not like ‘you move like a gazelle, my love’, more the sort that could only come from him. For my poems, for my words, for me.

Allan is on the mailing list of my poetry blog along with only 9 other people since quite a while. From time to time, when my verse strikes a chord with him particularly, he responds on email. I don’t know if the personal note is a conscious effort to not make too much of a footprint on the public web, or just his way of showing he’s not flippant.

Either way, his mails have always been thoughtful. Barely a few lines. Usually one or two, Allan would never end at just one empty word though. 'Nice's and 'good read's are not his thing.

But this time, his mail was not only different from usual, it became something of a short conversation. He asked if I wrote what I felt or just random thoughts. In my response, I told him that usually it's just collated thoughts - ideas of which one may think, thoughts others voice or just words I may have read somewhere.

He replied with appreciation for my 'capture of emotions'. He said they are 'the kind of thought that one thinks, staring at the ceiling or when silent tears soak the pillow' and signed off with this line "Lie, that you want to lay beside me".

When someone writes to you and chooses also to add just one more simple thought, can you help but sit back and recall your favourite memory of such a being?

Allan had taught me my first jazz number. When I was barely quitting teens and in the middle of my first college play (managing music, and still in school myself), Allan and I met a second time and spent much time bonding over my lack of any awareness of Western Classical music and his expertise in it. Not only did he teach me the basics, but also tested my voice right then.

There are few people in the midst of whom I feel rather small. My music teacher is one. Singing to Allan Rodrigues was only the second. And then it happened. He taught me Summertime. I’ve probably heard more versions of the song since than I can remember – Sarah Brightman, Louis Armstrong, a Latino version, and more.

In my following mail, I told him of how this thought keeps visiting me from time to time – I don't see him for such long interims, it's not funny. But I feel honoured that despite his utterly reclusive disposition, he chooses to stay connected – and I don’t mind the seeking of an appointment the previous night on text or early morning on mail. His presence at my sister's wedding, all the music sessions with him at King's Circle...

I also told him how much glee I still experience when I sing my version of Summertime with a Malkauns bandish to those who will care to listen. How much surprised they look, and how thankful I am to him.

Somehow, the line he had signed off with  fit into my poem harmoniously. I felt compelled to weave it in and asked if I could flick it. The beautiful soul that he is to me, here's what he said...

"Your writing moves me and makes me want to respond. Strangely, whenever I am at my busiest, your writing appears in my inbox. Am at a day long workshop and here's the lovely poem...

Sing away. Summertime was my gift to you. Your rendition of it is your gift to me and others who hear it.

And to think that you want to use my line... feels nice inside. Didn't think I had an atom of writing in me.

Remember the time I used your line that said 'And some midnights,/ Many miles away,/ A text stirs you mid-slumber.'

I often hear your voice in my mind and think of songs you'd sing. I'd love to hear you again..."

Here's Lie on Mush Room, my poetry blog, with Allan's line incorporated.

Highway to high way

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

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

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

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

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

Bus ride with Sajani, Bombay, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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.

 

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...

Pondy Shondy IV: Putting up and getting around

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.

If you’re a lover of trees and the colour ochre, and if rising wave and ebb means music, then hiring one of the many gearless motor two wheelers would not be an option for you. And a bicycle might be more your thing. Staying at one of the several guest houses on the promenade or on the road running parallel to it is a great idea – for they are fairly inexpensive, located conveniently in the midst of all things nice and clean.

Of course Pondy has enough for the five-star hospitality lover (boutique hotels, heritage bungalows turned into hotels, a sexy Accord coming up at the city entrance) who would prefer buying branded underwear and baby clothes (Casablanca’s definitely your haven!) and do the spa trip mid stay. Hire yourself a day long taxi service or even one for the entire duration of your stay (grumpy Kamraj at Autocare will be more than cheerful if you’re doing that rather than putting forth a tiring enquiry about his bus service to Auroville, said Mrs Indira Kapoor – more on her later) and you’re good to go!

Pondy Shondy I: The Retreat

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 (Puducherry I’m still not quite comfy with and they’re not too bent upon it), a roaring tumultuous monsoon sea and a fishing boat risking a session at some distance, with a road and an adjoining ten-foot pavement with an occasional motor vehicle and 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 last five days.

There are few things about which one can say they are, as you left them. The Retreat at Pondicherry’s Goubert Avenue is one of them. Dressed just like the Sea side Guest House a couple of blocks away, where I put up last year on my birthday, this new extension of the older Shri Aurobindo Society guest house is a replica. And while same-same predictable has always put me off, the comfort of returning to The Retreat’s familiar white-and-rosewood, simple elegance is more than worth its 11:15 pm deadline. (I hear the scoffs already)

The basic layout and furniture apart, they even managed to find more from where the old fittings and frames came from! Door knobs to electricals and the back garden – it is much like taking off from where I had left.

Khushboo Gujarat Ki

Sole trees on desi meadows of parched grass, geometrical angularity on sugar fields mid-harvest, asbestos roofs and abandoned control rooms of the railways - the elements one spots on the Gujarat landscape along its rail routes are mostly dull.

Much like its crops are the people of Gujarat. Frayed yet revealing solidarity in times of crisis are the Kathiawaris of Saurashtra - you'd think they muster their gall from the groundnut they produce. A race of accepted norms of beauty are the Naagars. It has been said about them, that they are a strain of the Aryans that have strayed into this side of the country (highly speculative); they are to Gujarat what the Bengalis are to the country. Intellectual, educated, artistically inclined, service oriented. Add to that the obsessive fairness prevalent in the stock and a brand of humour impossible to find elsewhere, one would imagine them to be exotic creatures. Insufferable they are.

The plains of Gujarat are not picturesque as in the North. They do not overflow with pretty mustard fields. The aridity of cotton and tobacco hits first by its sheer shortness and then its lacklustre textures. Their latent heaviness prevents them from dancing with the breeze even at full length. There seem to be no tips. The Patel-like thickset grand dames have no use for such esoteric charms. The sugarcane rise high, much like the tall Gadhvis tower above other communities, keepers of rights and what must be preserved within society - tradition, values, prerogatives. Men who will storm into a nationalised bank with guns and have the security guard seal the place from outside until the backlog is cleared. The police can only turn deaf ears. Yet they are the very same that come together when a Kurien rises to modernise the cooperative dairy development model and revolutionise the way the country drinks milk!

But as one trudges southward, the breeds change. Businessmen in Ahmedabad and Surat, though birds of a feather, would never flock together. The former know not the art of pleasant speech, the latter sound sweet despite the generous slathering of expletives. Their mangroves, their chickoo orchards, their berry trees seem to seep into their veins as the most pleasant to be around.

But what about where I come from? I suppose a city where one is born and raised has so many layers of meanings and connotations for different people at different junctures, that beginning at one's own birth, or one's ancestors', or the 2500 year old history of its erstwhile fort walled contours could all seem false or unfair or both. To say the least, Vadodara is myriad things to as many people as it lends itself. Twara n I have always maintained, it's the cosmopolitan with reachable boundaries. Like a lot of the metros and mega cities, the city is host and eventually becomes home to several communities from outside the state, and from across the country.

For want of a more emancipating word, traditionally the city is like a marriage consummate, a naive cultural space with little or no regard for conventions or political agendas or ideologies. It has been like a third grader's exploits in the laboratory accidentally successful in some inexplicable and purposeless way. The Emergency was marked by one of its earliest and most controversial turn of events here with the Dynamite case. Countless communities invaded, trickled in, emigrated, got transferred, stopped by and stayed in this city. Vadodara derives its name, among other explanations, but most simply and satisfactorily, from its banyan trees. वड़ in Gujarati is what the tree is called.

Much like the aerial roots of the tree are its people. Rooted, outgoing, earthy, individualistic, subdued, its strength. And don't be surprised if our educated bourgeoisie judge you correctly on the basis of what might seem insufficient data. As the Big B proclaims in the Gujarat Tourism advertisements, प्रगति की कठिनाइयों को दिल पे नहीं लेते यहाँ के लोग... (The people here do not take to heart the hurdles of progress) कुछ दिन तो गुजारो गुजरात में (Come spend a few days in Gujarat)!

Pune 6.0

A whole’s night’s restlessness, a whole day’s sleeping, a home cooked meal with drinks and friends and laughter in tow. It’s what Pune has come to mean for this soul who’s always reluctant to go all the way. Change modes, ask people to pick up and drop, wait, travel. Uf.

In one sense, I’ve been there so often, counting isn’t possible anymore. In another though, these visits can all be clubbed into clusters of ages of their own. Each cluster of varied degrees of engagement with the people I go to meet there, and the people I end up meeting there. Each one is deviant from the other in length of time. Always, my visits have been to spend time with a beloved or an old friend. Always, they have been only visits, not longer than a weekend.

But at different times of the year, Pune evokes different sentiments. I remember the first time I set foot – more like drove into – the city, right after high school. In the heat of May, my cousin had driven MA, my sister and me to the city of his first bank posting – also perhaps the first and only city he had ever lived in outside of Bombay. The elder bro has seldom been too protective and trusted me with old school friends to go explore some more.

What parts I saw, do not come back to the mind, but I distinctly recall how similar I thought Pune was to Baroda. Only later did I find out that it was the monsoon capital of the Bombay Presidency, of which my own city was a part as well till independence. Was it the flood of two-wheelers? Was it the many 18^th Century Peshwa edifices? Was it the marked Marathi presence (and a literacy rate of 81%) or the eateries?

The end of my grads saw me reluctantly applying for post graduate programs. That the next best thing to do was to simply apply outside to make successes out of them was natural. There for my Pune University MA entrances, the rains unleashed another aspect of the city’s beauty. The many lanes lined with नीम and gulmohar trees and thick foliage come alive in the rains. It is also the first time I met Nishant. The Crossword Bookstore that landmarked the otherwise unremarkable back road parallel to FC Road closed a couple of years ago. I had wept.

As if in royal welcome, the cobbled and patched streets slope here and there to allow processions of leaves floating along the streams of rainwater along the sides. The clichéd romance of the rains couldn’t be better illustrated.

A little over a year later, I was to enter into something of a long term treaty with the city of the Sawai Gandharva Festival. Yet to attend a season, the December tradition started by the late Pt Bhimsen Joshi is one I so eagerly want to absorb in its entirety.

The winters are for long walks and house parties that involve much spirit – of the kinds one partakes, and the other that one allows to soar. These parties, devoid of agenda, sans fancy dress and music or games, are conducive to conversation. Freewheeling and meandering into brief silences of satisfaction that simple homemade grub provides with. Laughter is integral. The clock is ignored and sleepovers are the call of the – er – night. After all, drinking and driving is as good as singing while diving, no?

After my split was when I had made a hesitant trip to Pune again. Anubhav had coaxed me into it, and played the gracious host replete with a Rajasthani razaii, safety, alcohol, mad banter, female company.  I had made a new friend.

And I made more new friends. My recent day-and-a-half trip was also serendipitous. Not only did it surprise me but also shock and even turn hilarious for the contrarian turn of events, but also reinforced my belief in the city’s power to erase selectively parts of one’s memory. Each time is such an improvement from the last. Each trip presents an opportunity to discover even more of even if just the new portion of the city that I’ve now begun to reckon familiar.

For the past few days that I’ve been back, I’ve wondered why Pune was never on the city-to-work-in list. Even if not awfully long, it is a city I could live in. the crowd is great (some puns and some truths), the weather’s charming, the Marathis are a superior breed here, it’s still affordable and close enough to a metro.

Here’s an excerpt from my chat with a friend who enquired about the trip after my return:

16:32 him: What's pune like?

16:33 Have only breezed through it

 me: this is the perfect weather to be there actually

16:34 if you have pals there, just put up with one

  walk walk walk

  you smell the smoke from burning wood in the air

  coupled with a strange wetness

  not humid

  sharp

  like you were being tricked

16:35 it's very wooded in a lot of parts

  about 2000 ft

  above sea level

  so cooooooold

  young

  charming

 him: Cold aah?

 me: yess

  not cold like delhi

  or even calcutta

  but unique in itself

16:36 ask someone to give you a ride thru the army cant or the police R&D facility areas

  catch a marathi children's play

  december is time for the savai gandharva festival

16:37 if you enjoy hindustani classical music then you must do it

16:38 it's got great clubs, great restos

  parsis and liberal marathis

16:39 english the way she's spoken

  horses the way they're bred

  some really fantastic stone buildings

16:40 him: Ok

  I get the feeling that you like pune

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.

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.

Mobile Boutique

I bought my first Dhakaii cotton sari this morning. And my first Kota-zari yesterday. The Dhakaii couldn’t be more typical in terms of the work, but the body motifs took my breath away. Vermillion neem leaves on a turmeric background. I still remember my first. It was the green batik border-and-pallu on white I got from Shilpakala Vedika – the Hyderabad version of Delhi Haat. That was followed by a simple bandhej (a different shade of green from the previous) in a similar design. The Kota in midnight blue with a Banarsi style pallu and border from a small shop in the city’s newer shopping hub, and the Dhakaii bought today will be the only ones added since. The rest are mostly silks or chiffons.

Today’s buy was different in many ways.Not just the women, but also the man of the household was involved in selecting the right number.

My father is not one to visit sari shops, or for that matter, accompany us on our clothes-buying sprees. So it was novel to have him around as we got dada to open his potla (small pile packed in a cloth) of weave after weave of the nine-yard.

Why just a potla though? Apparently this chap picks pieces himself and comes to a select few families in the city. He’s like a mobile boutique. And he remembers each customer and the sari he sold to them. In his pile are none of those ordinary minimal weaves. His auction starts somewhere at two grand and can escalate to any heights he pleases (depending upon the time of year). He’s eager to sell right now so he can make some moolah and go home to his village in the 24 Paraganas and make it in time for the Pujo celebrations – the man is also an artisan. He decorates pandals, though I don’t suppose he’s very adept with the brush. His fingers aren’t nimble enough – they laze to fold the more difficult-to-fold silks.

I still wonder when a vendor says, “Madam ka choice bohot badhiya hai,” what it really implies. Is the statement made because “madam” chooses the most expensive piece? Is it because she chooses the most muted? Or is it because she chooses after him having displayed all his wares?

In that hour-long interaction in my living room though, I also sat amidst a philosopher – what “poverty makes one”, as papa puts it. The man spoke simple truths. How diplomacy works at the grassroots. In his little village, the Mamtadi government is not about radical changes. Well, definitely not changes in how the system functions, but surely the alliances men like my sariwala must strike up. “homara kya haay… aaj iska baju mein, kol uska torof…”

That statement alone took me back to all the Bengali connections I've ever had - alive and even the ones long gone - my dadi, the whole झुण्ड at CIEFL, Neel, Subir, Upas, Sushmita... a race that has earned its reputation of being a thinking one; of thinking enough to take care of the finest nuance of any task - cerebral or material - that comes their way...

I don’t know when I will wear these saris. It is most likely to become a family heirloom of sorts. 

Gaay ka ghar

I’m dying of laughter here – tears rolling – tummy in convulsions – the works.

The subject of our humour is Lucy-poosi-puchki. Our...who? Gayatri and I. Gayatri began by imitating the way Lucy scratches herself, “Like Bharatnatyam,” it seems. Suddenly Gaay contorts herself with a twist at the waist, and one leg lifted like she’d just had her love kiss, the face looks pretty much like the spitz’s anyway, and then she sticks out her tongue like one too. And then begins the scratch. That cracked me up. You know the silent laughter I laugh, when it becomes impossible for me to laugh any more helplessly?

Then I couldn’t help it so I asked G what Puchki was up to last night, making that strange noise jumping about on the giant pink stuff toy hippo’s stuffed foot. “Masturbating,” said Gayatri matter-of-factly. Imitation Round 2. In the kinky mind, I’m sure it already gives rise to plenty of ideas.

It would be of vital importance to describe Gayatri here.

My landlady is a short, stout Assamese 35-year-old. Well endowed, but not pretty. Neutral features, the Bollywood costume designer knows how to look good in whatever she’s clad – and she knows in what to be clad. A trendy haircut and clear skin, Gayatri is a strict landlady when it comes to tidiness. She is clean, hygienic and extremely minimalist-stylish. And considering the amount of screaming she does at Tania for leaving the house in a mess every so often, she does not come across as someone who would be funny. However, I wouldn’t call her menacing per se.

So I’ve seen Gayatri do the occasional jig of a Freddie impersonation in her high pitched voice, “when you call him to slap him also he comes wagging like-this, like-this (and she’ll do a little butt wiggle) and come as if to say ‘yes yes slap me now!’” Freddie’s a total simpleton. You kind’a come to expect dumbness out’a him. But really he’s just the tolerant man of the house, who takes shit from ALL the bitches in the house and keeps them humoured. And sometimes be the butt of their humour.

But mentioning Lucy’s romp was just the thing to get Gaay started. Since she wanted to avoid having to get out of bed in the middle of the night, and have the act carry on elsewhere, the hippo went into the living room. As Lucy followed close behind, Gayatri went, “Go! Go have fun with your King Kong Hulk boyfriend!”

And as Lucy turned to have a go at her new giant dildo, Gayatri says casually, “her tail is longer than her body.” Lucy the spitz is the strangest little hooch. I didn’t think lapdogs would be so hilarious – not only to look at but also in their mannerisms. She jumps all the time. She jumps when she runs, she jumps when she barks at Fifi, she jumps when she greets, she jumps when she wants a chewy, and of course, she jumps when she’s jerking off. Lucy is one jumpy bitch. If ever there was one.

And then there’s Fifi. Fifi and I have found each other. When I’ve barely opened the gate of our building complex, Fifi is already at the door waiting in anticipation. What of? Frankly, is still a mystery. All I do is play ball with her. But the deep blue doe eyes (a dog with doe eyes, yeah right) are the nicest thing to wake up to each morning and come home to each night. And the ivory ringlets are almost a dog’s-world representation of Belinda’s locks from La Belle Dame Sans Merci.

Sometimes I identify with Fifi. Sucker for a little bit of love. Slave of just the tiniest gesture.