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.

5 Steps to Celebdom: Kunal Khemu

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

However, this morning the id pinged.

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

ONE 

11:31

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

I guess I got the wrong person

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

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

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

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

TWO

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

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

THREE 

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

11:42
me: typical

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

FOUR 

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

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

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

kunal.khemu1083: what fuel is this? 

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

But here's what took the cake:

FIVE

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

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

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

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

Hair

THIS short

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Ittefaaq ya What the Faack?!

In October, whilst attempting to churn out a good school book for ToI, I wanted to do a story on private equity investments. My research was meagre, and the resources that came up were either unwilling to talk or rather hush-hush about it – “प्यार भी यहाँ लगे है गाली” types. After innumerable attempts, I had to give up, के हट साला नै हो रहा है. Time was running out, the deadline loomed awfully close, book बंध.

It has been nine months since. The baby is ready to come out. I’ve just read a comprehensive analysis of the K12 business around the goddamn world. साला no one can ace me on it now. And I’d probably be able to vomit out not just a story, but perhaps a whole goddamn pamphlet on it! All this out of an annual report का MDA.

And then I met an old college acquaintance last night! And that was a seriously IYWTF moment. We actually stay just across the street from each other. And that is a scary prospect, cuz we didn’t even bother speaking to each other in college, beyond the passing acknowledgement of a smile to suggest any of the following: 1. You too are human; 2. You exist; 3. Er...; 4. *royal roll of the eyes*

So from avoiding, if we could help it, to adding each other on Facebook and meeting for ice cream last night, we seem to have come a long way – in growing up perhaps, having an hour-long civil conversation – ice cream, and walk, our only companions. In a strange land, it is funny how two people belonging to totally different worlds unite in some ways: noticing the transvestites that dot the street, thinking how funny is all the make-up and beef cake that suddenly spills out post-9 ’o clock on the streets, missing food, adjusting with new company, being slaves of a job that you somewhere have begun to love, and a guy who we both met about two months ago for the same purpose (only his was served and mine, well, I was destined to be his neighbour).

No, I don’t find him as much of a pain as I did all those juvenile years ago. He even ventured to call me a friend he was out with, to a friend on phone. He was gracious enough to hang up on a call and continue speaking. To me. And listening. Wishing for some quiet. Looking forward to returning to our comfortable grottos in a while.

Takes me back yet again, to that passage we read in school about Tolerance by Forster?

Shantamma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ooh! -pasana

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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