The Beginning of a Very Delhi Monsoon

I was witness to a Delhi today that was so different from the usual. It wasn't the burning heat that people curse, it wasn't the bitter cold of December in which natives such unreasonable pride.

It was overcast - the way overcast truly is - an eclipse in broad daylight. The rain drenched everything without boring little holes or lashing the glass panes. It came down sieved through the thick foliage thanks to the trees that line the avenues of Lutyen's vision, which one drove past. It seemed to wait until I got securely into my cab before coming down inevitably, yet never relentlessly, or ruthlessly.

I have always admired the manicured hedges and lawns of the national capital - its well-placed trees and shrubs, and its shower-cleaned-everyday leaves that reveal pure shades of green no matter how scorching the heat, no matter how polluted the air.

I spotted monkeys by the road along the ridge (the real red bummed kinds)! And I thought of my friend from the time we were at undergrad university (though not in the same course, university or even city!), Sajani.

I could fall in love here. Against this setting. Despite the gossipy tweenagers killing time and their closest friends' trust, despite the chooda clanking new bride in hot shorts, almost-South African blonde streaked hair fashionably held together in a messy top bun with Moroccan oiled strays carefully teased out to frame her face (moles surgically removed just before the big day), despite gaping aghast at the sheer entitlement with which men don't even consider the idea of being chivalrous... No no, this trip was not about people at all.

Delhi is actually better suited for recluses than how pseudo Bombay has proven to be so far. It allows you a little bit of open sky and some space to walk outside without being thronged by street vendors to submit to the moat carnal capitalistic need, that is to buy.

Delhi is about space. Space to breathe, space to catch some expanse in one's line of vision, space to  make informed decisions and continue to walk the middle path, space to walk for heaven's sake.

Delhi's middle class has no malice, its poor do not aspire to be rich, its immigrants are not scorned upon for taking away local jobs - see you keep veering me to people, Bombay! Stop it! This is not about people. Your people are finer, happy?

But there is simplicity in people's eyes, in their skin, in their at-least-slightly-imperfect body shapes. There are monkeys by the road! And they coexist with more beastly people. Those monkeys don't need some 100 acre plot in the name of a National Park as an excuse to nurture nefarious activities.

Believers walk all the way up to Gomukh to collect a couple of mud pot fulls of Ganga jal that would be poured over the phallic stone signifying the Vishnu disciple, Lord Shankara, since Saawan is His month (according to the Hindu Vikram calendar).

It brought to mind the several pedestrians one spotted en route to Prabhadevi's Siddhivinayak temple on the odd late Monday night. They think that should do the trick, whatever trick they set out to wield. Then they complain to the elephant God. The only difference, and god, Bombay, will you stop reminding me constantly of - yes, the people?

This piece was written a year ago on a day's "work" visit to Delhi. The day marked the beginning of monsoon (29 July 2016). I was there to meet my then Editor in Chief of a couple of months. Ironically, I post this piece only now, when I'm on a work visit to Bombay (not a moment to look up or breathe) as the rains make their presence felt. I promise I had not a clue the tables would turn so drastically about my city of residence in less than a year!

Precious III: Lawyer Lawyer Lipstick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Pondy Hopping II

I discovered an aspect of Pondy I've so far studiously avoided. And a big part of the motivation was the aspect itself - the people! It is only when you stay there long enough that you realise that the people in Pondicherry have an approach to life that is, most importantly about equality and equanimity. Here are some that surfaced in my six days of wantering there on foot, on bicycle, at restaurants and road side coffee shops, boutiques and beaches.



Limited work hours

Something that a close friend who works there once said rang jarringly this time - it's perfect - you work hard all through the week, because there are no distractions. Over the weekend, you are free to laze, or get out of town to escape to the bustle of the as-urban-as-it-gets Chennai/ Bangalore. However, if you're not a corporate bug in Pondy (far more likely unless you're employed with one of the two or three national or international organizations that bear roots there), it is possible to live the old world or even European life in Pondicherry with absolute ease. Business doesn't start before 10 or 11 o'clock in the morning. Everyone shuts for lunch & siesta, and then it's time to shut shop by 5 o'clock. If you're in the restaurant business, last orders must be wrapped up by 11:00 pm. Even in the 5 stars. That brings me to the next point.

Recreation

Pondicherry might seem dry and sleepy to those visiting, but one look at the notices and flyers at the several watering holes and cafes in the French town and Auroville will tell you that's hardly the case. Yoga, dance, theatre, music concerts, it's all there. The town's people have many a ways to keep themselves entertained and in high spirits.

I can't imagine any other town's municipality blocking their most scenic route for a couple of hours in the morning and some more in the evening for its people to stroll and enjoy the sea's roar and breeze. Oh yes, the people treat their daily jaunt like religion in Pondicherry!

Self sufficiency

Watching women on auto-geared two-wheelers is a common site anywhere in India. On a motorbike too, one might spot quite a few of them across most towns in India. With kids, the week's grocery shopping and a work bag - now that was new. Even if this last peculiarity was only a common siting in Auroville, I'd say the foreigners set a blaring example in Pondy and for the rest of us to rely on our strength ability to multitask.

On a less obvious aspect too, people in Pondy seem to be able to do what they like more easily than the rest of us. There seems to be the exposure to do what they want - I haven;t met so many enterprising people in one town - whether it is starting a little curio corner, a restaurant, a toy shop, a bookstore or a bamboo products boutique (that includes possibly the softest fabric I have ever touched!).

Unbiased by gender

My favourite haunt in Pondicherry still remains the coconut vendor opposite the General Post Office and the Governor's Bungalow. That woman exudes not only confidence, but almost terror in many an outsiders' eyes. For me, she has been the ultimate epitome of strength and ferocity - contained in a cheery smile and flowers that match her saree.

I've seen burly women managing cash counters of cycle repair shops, and dainty ones serving three tables at a time in their own cafes. None looking life threatening, all cheery and ready for the world. There is truly nothing a man can do that a woman can't, it seems in Pondy.

The distinction remains

Pondicherry is a paradox. The French town has none or few living there now - the buildings are mostly government property or ancient bungalows owned by Tamilian locals who choose to live in smaller houses for convenience of maintenance and awaiting a mad occupant to revive it while also paying for the rent. Foreigners in general are mostly a feature of Auroville, where Indians are a minority (48% of the members) even if a marginal one.

And yet, the whites vs browns distinction is clear. For even the foreigners who have spent ages here, or born here (second generation and therefore, I'm guessing eligible citizens) either do not choose to serve in government positions or aren't entitled to (not sure which). They stick to their private jobs or occupations or professions while the Indians go about their business in the allies and marketplaces and offices.

Ironically, when just a couple of weeks ago we were hosting a Frenchman here in Pune - my first encounter with the nationality at such close quarters - I realise there is a striking similarity in the obstinate pride of intellect and opinion between the Tams and the French!

Dignity to profession

A quality that makes even the most menial work force in Pondicherry take pride in what they do, is the dignity of labour. Whether it is masons at a construction site, stewards at a restaurant, vendors at the Grand Bazaar's Goubert Market or elsewhere, people truly serve with a smile.

Love for liberty

I've yet to come across more entrepreneurial individuals in another small town as in Pondy. Everyone seems to be an independent professional - either they own a coffee shop (sprouting at the rate of a dime a dozen!) or are designers, architects, consultants, something this or the other. They seem to need little to start and much less to sustain themselves.

Colourful

Clothes and walls seem to be quenchers of Pondicherry's thirst for colour. And it is everywhere. Whether you are eating out or shopping or at work - it seems to almost personify the town. Bright ochre, parrot green, vermilion, lotus pink, cobalt blue, royal purple... You can't miss colour if you're in Pondicherry! And you have little choise but to immerse yourself in it or it would be hard to believe you were ever even there...

Punju Pals

I'm going to come straight to the point, just as a friend recently advised. I've been noticing a lot of Punju or Punjabi presence in my circles lately. And there is a pattern that has emerged: they are all darn warm people and would do anything it takes to help me professionally.

I first met Deepak in Bombay through a friend, at a casual dinner. He was perhaps the only guy on the table who chose to make more than token small talk. A year later, we reconnected and this time, a bond was forged. However, I'm guessing that the fondness had nothing to do with my innate charm (or the complete absence thereof). I had to leave Bombay soon after, but the friendship deepened with Deepak sending work my way. Back then, I cribbed about there being no money in it, but today I'm thanking him for the invaluable experience he gave me in writing corporate film scripts!

My stay in Pune too, has been marked by the presence of some excellent members from the community - both, at work as well as outside. First, Sanjam and later Manish. The first from Pathankot and the latter quite a dapper Delhi boy. Not only have both constantly been around when I needed advice on personal fronts, but when it came time to help, man they were after my life with a whip!

This so called pattern assumed concrete form, though, with Jagpreet Singh Vij, or Bobby, as everyone is expected to call him. [I have yet to understand the Punju fascination for these pseudo nick names - Bobby, Robbie, Bubbly among others - but they somehow seem to personify them with a rather spontaneous ease.]

I had just been given a new script writing assignment (the prior experience for which I am in gratitude to Deepak for). Having received little or no help from my Copy Head or others who had worked on the film, I was pretty much at bay.

That's when Bobby made his grand entry. A few tips here and a little hand-holding there, and I was good to go! Not only did I manage to come up with two original concepts, I was also ready with a rough draft of one script by 2.30 last night.

Sanjam's briefings for every piece of creative copy she extracted out of me were always accurate, concise and simple, without being lucid. Manish's aggressive efforts to find me good openings in Pune were beyond comprehension for me - he hadn't even seen my work!

It wasn't inspiration, it wasn't even spoon-feeding, but all of these people seem to know how to part with just the right amount of wisdom, faith and support to carry one through. And I may not owe my existence to them, but my self-esteem does swell a little when their words and actions convey a high sense of worth they attach to me.

Thanking them on a blog sounds pompous. Then again, it's the least I can do. The overwhelming sense of gratefulness makes me want to promise them a loyalty so blind, they'll probably slap me out of that too!

Yes, that's precisely what I probably adore about them, Without running themselves or others down, Punjus seem to possess this general talent for garnering joint force to produce a certain level of quality. Is it a communal quality of insight or simply my own luck to have bumped into these gems who judge accurately, I do not know, but they seem to have this aura that speaks volumes about their self-confidence, awareness and exposure to the world around. Frankly, I feel rather juvenile in their midst, often.

P.S.: That advice in the first line of this post too came from one of these fab Punjus ;)

Vishrambaug Wada

Where maintenance is forever at Vishram
Laxmi Road, Budhwaar Peth, Pune
Entry: Rs 3 (and a pound of heart burn)
[Built 1803-09; 10 years before the British conquered Pune]

Pune. A history of roughly 400 years. A culture that has absorbed from the fading Mughals, been in loyal servitude of the Maratha rulers, and weathered the peak of British imperialism… but I’m only précising a Wiki page and parroting accounts penned by historians. Stepping on to the other side of the threshold of Vishrambaug Wada, and looking up at the sky from the atrium threatens to erase much of all that background knowledge in an instant. My partner and I try to imprint a preliminary sketch of the sight that we have only seen in several pictures during our individual as well as joint research in preparation for the visit. Our fascination, competitive. Our purposes, different. His was to add a photo document to his portfolio. Mine, another capsule from the city to assign to my memory. Perhaps through the carvings etched in another time, or the wood itself, weathered through the ages.

Asking the guard at the doorway for a sangrahalay does not yield much of a response – no directions nor recognition of the word itself; he does point towards a signboard about 15 feet high. The entrance has two rooms on either side of the door, beyond which is the chowk, typical to old houses around the country. Vishrambaug’s identity, though, lies in the exteriors. Said to be the only surviving Peshwa wada, its meghadambari or curving pavilion at the front entrance is lavishly carved in cypress wood in the kalamdani style. The others were destroyed by fire in the 19^th century for reasons I’m yet to discover. This one too was victim of some minor flames, but was saved and restored in time. The restored motifs are believed to be more akin to the neo-Gothic mould – one finds depictions of a monkey and dragon instead of just the erstwhile intricate flowers and creepers.

The edifice has played several roles, like the recycled others of its grandeur. After the then Peshwa was exiled, Vishrambaug Wada assumed the part of Pune’s first British sponsored educational institution – the Poona Sanskrit College and went onto become the Deccan College. The Pune Municipal Corporation finally deigned to set up a tacky ‘heritage display’ within the premises, on the first floor. The last development is rather recent.

The rooms at the entrance are a handicrafts outlet run by an NGO for women’s empowerment. The rest of the ground floor is some kind of a printing press, devoid of charm or any sense of even monotonous regularity or neatness. A feature that held both our attention is the spiral wrought iron staircase that leads up to the second floor and meets a jammed closed window, overgrown with weed.

This is where you will begin to suffer the full throttle of my lament.

When I mentioned the fires of the 19^th century at the beginning of the write up, I’m sure a disdainful ‘why’ came to your mind, but the present state of Vishrambaug Wada hurt more on our visit recently. The efforts of the powers-that-be to suppress its splendour have borne copious fruit. We climbed up the stairs that led to the permanent display to be welcomed by a polite but fairly bored looking young lady at the ticket counter. Tickets paid for (PMC, I implore you to charge more and please justify the building’s history, if not what is left of it), my partner’s helmet left on the side, we walked on to behold bhwhat made both our jaws drop. We seemed to have disembarked onto another planet. The planet of a primary school local history project abandoned to dilapidate in layers of dust. The ante room of the heritage display at Vishrambaug Wada is created with wood planks from floor to ceiling, vainly camouflaged by lengths of black chart paper, textured with forks to give the feeling of old stone walls.

Yes, please laugh.

The displays conform to the primary school project imagery: low resolution photos blown up and labelled neatly on handwritten notes. Rudimentary hand drawn maps and sketches on more chart paper (yellows, pinks, greens and blues), again labelled in fountain ink, follow. The absurdity does not end there. Dark brown varnish covers ALL of the once-elegant wood carved angles, balustrades, pillars and beams of Vishrambaug Wada. To add to the beholder’s anguish, these cakey fixtures have obviously not been dusted in at least a few months. Now if it was a bachelor’s shack, the present state of affairs would have been acceptable. But we’re talking about a monument, however minor.

To illustrate the sense of the culture, they’ve spread moth-eaten double-bed mattresses and bolsters in the coves, with old style desks for company. These mattresses and bolsters have been wrapped in handloom sheets with cheap orange and brown floral prints. When you peep out into the the market surrounding Vishrambaug Wada, you see identical linen hanging from cabin shop displays. The studied neglect all around amalgamates to corner you into helpless disgust. Much like incestuous rape. Fucked by one’s own kith and kin.

The disrepair gets clearer when I tried to open one of the large low windows (that was me monkeying around) by unlatching the links at the top. Varnish has been so ruthlessly, thoughtlessly and in such haste pasted all over, that removing the links to cover the surface beneath did not occur to them. The pale yellow paint from a previous effort patiently peels away. Furthermore, the musicians’ jharukha in the front (the balcony that you admire from the outside sheltered by the pavilion arc) has been sealed off with the exception of one grilled door open so you can see where they sat. I saw a red plastic bucket and some length of wire eating more dust and rotting more merrily.

Apart from the shocking upkeep, the layout of the display too is quite confusing. You may lose your way! No directions (an elderly solo gentleman asked us how to get out) – somebody’s idea of showing the place to public. Yes, lock away what you can’t have cleaned every day and confuse the visitor to prevent other conceivable damage.

Such action is, (I’m willing to withdraw the opinion if anyone proves otherwise) representative of the attitude of the city’s denizens at large. I speak from not just my visits to the city, but also from observation in my six and a half months of residence in Pune. The city’s façade may portray a certain dispassion. Puneris take this maaz to the next level. They seem to revel in their blind adoration for the status quo; for mediocrity, for what they call balance and outsiders term laziness. Balance or laziness, they have little regard for their architectural legacy. Little wonder then, that their old buildings are either the colleges or left behind in debris and ashes. What remains, is their aggression towards preserving this blindness as if it is the answer to all questions of the universe and their narrow path to salvation.

This aggression manifests itself in many ways: verbal hostility comes first. Masochistic offense and unapologetic defence follow close behind – those are the only remaining elements in their anyway rusty armour.

My disgust though is for this obstinate protectiveness for the long gone. Of which remains only faded memories, guesswork and speculation. This mutual back-patting diplomacy discourages constructive criticism or novelty or both.

Pune’s attempts at the new seem like juvenile gun jumping. Unplanned in its layout, its civic infrastructure is its only saving grace. First it attracts throngs of techies and culture vultures, then it leaves them to forage. Its people endeavour twice as hard as say, a Bong to appear worldly wise. However, like an 11-year-old, Punekars live in the contentment of false, shallow promises without any grasp for posterity. Fancy malls, cafes and chains of bookstores do not a city’s characters make. Where is the human infrastructure to support the service experiences and details for which these brands have stood? Dishevel is ingrained, not studied or striven for in Pune.

My melancholy is for Vishrambaug Wada, but a latent sense of brotherhood between my city of birth (Baroda) and Pune absorbs me more. The former was a key province of the Bombay Presidency; the latter its monsoon capital. Sons of a mother, to use a cliché. The rooted Marathi culture. Cultural capitals of their respective states. Perhaps I should not claim the epithet for Baroda anymore. I have nothing to support it with. But Pune does. And yet its proximity to Bombay, its non-dry status, and heavy cosmopolitan student influx seem to give no momentum to its pace. They continue to start their day at 11:00 am, take their three-hour siesta break from 1:00 pm, return from work at 5:30 pm; their day still ends at 8:30 pm. 11:00 pm is late.

But I stray.

Vishrambaug Wada does not care for frowns – yours or mine. The intricately carved pavilion can eat the dust it is force fed each day. Its age can go live its reclusion in inattention. Its utilised spaces can be spat upon, iron trunks be dragged upon its flooring, and its general state of upkeep can leave as much to desire as it likes.

My reaction to this visit has built upon itself over a period of over a week. I was asked to build my writing upon this criticism even before we visited Vishrambaug Wada, but the dissatisfaction and despair is my own, and runs deep. In hindsight, both, my partner and my own motives for the visit sound not only pompous but a tad misplaced.

Questions surged.

What is the state government doing towards this end? Or the city’s municipal corporation. Is it not the responsibility, at least in part, of the keepers of official administration? Where is this city’s own pride of inheritance, however meagre?

I’m not yet entirely willing to write off Pune. मला हि नगरी आवडली, पण लग्गेच नाही . तरी एक दिवशी ती नक्कीच माझी होइल , तश्य भावनेची मी वाट बघते ...*

*SPECIAL THANKS TO Aditya Kulkarni & Ankur Hande for all the editing help with the last two lines in Marathi :)

Under the Banyan Tree

The Banyan - वड़, as in the name of my city, वड़ोदरा, has always fascinated me for being perhaps the most disheveled, yet giving tree. From the one at the University campus here and the two in the enclosure in front of the Lal Bahadur Shastri Halls for men, to the giant one in Pondicherry and the two at my favourite vegetarian Italian restaurant in Mumbai called Under the Banyan Tree, the Ficus Benghalensis has held my attention wherever I've had the pleasure, opportunity, good fortune to spot it.

As a matter of fact, I feel like a banyan tree right now. A young one. But not too young. My first few ariels have just reached the ground. Perhaps not strong enough to make another tree trunk, but they sure strengthen the one that already exists. So many use me for their purposes and stay on, but nothing thrives if I try to protect. I'm a shelterer, not a shield. Something about my core refuses to change. As if I would diminish if that core ceased to be. Am I complaining? Not quite. Because this too has its advantages.

Advantage.

Sometimes the word is so favourable, and at others, such an expletive.

And so, how is it useful to the banyan to be a shelterer?

It is that much harder to destroy it. They let it be. They allow new ariels to sprout and reach out. The branches spread eider and shade more. And eventually the table turn. There is a little bit of that tree in everything it touches. Those who have gained from it, those who can't fathom its use, those who attempt to break it down, and those who embrace it in return for favours rendered. To be hated is also an impression, an element of oneself planted in another forever.

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.

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?

Resume redux

I am a team player.

In a resume, the cliche would play spoiler with my recruiter. It would sound only unbelievable. But four jobs and five years in the industry later, I can't shy away for the sake of being original.

I've become a catalyst to quality as well as productivity. When I'm not churning our edited reams of annual report text, I'm talking. I'm reasoning, I'm justifying, I'm dictating, I'm correcting. Without condescension. I ideate, I plant seeds in people's minds to focus at work, on work. I'm always polite to the generally abrasive and brusquely dismissed, and snap and dole out sarcasm to those who can take it and glean value.

I embrace, I kiss foreheads, I pat backs.

I'm loved, I'm missed, I'm respected, I'm sought. I'm your quintessential rockstar.

I'm the office DJ.

And this statement could cost me even my current job - perhaps the worst thing attached to one's professional  profile, but i'm proud of it. For the first time ever, I'm not ashamed of liking more than a genre or two in music. In fact, I'm proud I can take them all and have great taste so I can play the best to cater to all at work: old Hindi, new Hindi, Hip Hop, Bhangra, Heavy Metal and Rock, Ghazals, Jhataak, anything melodious.

Music binds us, it keeps us upbeat, it helps us work tirelessly. Despite the rats, despite the filth, despite the lack of water.

Makes us our own little Monsantos. Makes us active CSRers.

Kabhi aana tu meri gali

Lahar had warned me: finding a place in Bombay is a matter of luck. The first house I saw, as I’ve chronicled earlier, was worse than a pigeonhole. I was beginning to worry. How long will I have to suffer Masilini – my very own fascist dictator aunt? So a couple of days went by and a Farzana Sheikh called. Her fast and smooth Bombay talk made me a tad suspicious, but she is a woman, I thought. And she echoed the compassion and empathy of one.

The not-so-secret agent convinced me to at least check out the place. I wasn’t quite sure, but मरता क्या न करता? At the end of a tiring day, I hitched an auto and told the driver to take me where I now belong. The lane I was to enter was approached by the heavily-cursed metro railways station site and into a bazaar – fruit, veggies, puja ka samaan, chemists, slinky sequinned gowns – so far so good. Then the agent’s “लड़का” escorted me into the specific lane. And then there were smallish eateries and broilers and pet shops.

We walked and walked – I losing patience with every step and the sudden and growing silence and darkness – him losing patience because of my questions; we came to a halt right in front of the gates of my building. I met the landlady and her mother and there began a relationship. She "liked" me.

In three days I moved in – no lock, hardly any stock, and sans barrels.

My first night was uncertain. I didn’t have a pillow, but a mattress with a clean sheet was in place. The room is furnished with apparent necessities, but it is still in need of a full-length mirror. The house does not have a filter, but I have my kettle so I boil tap water. No fridge either. No gas stove.

When I woke up that first Monday in my own space, the brilliance of a big square window took me by surprise. Calm windows at respectful distance with one humouring a cage with yellow parakeets, the noise of children playing in the courtyard downstairs, and the drone of a bunch of girls singing Hindustani classical music were some of the first elements that struck me about the place. I am still not entirely in love with the place, but I’m warming up to it.

It has been about a month since I began staying at one of the many CHSes that line the maze of middle-class Four Bungalows. The lane is lined with avenue trees – Neem, Gulmohar, Mango, Ashoka. It is paved with cement tiles to reinforce the road beneath – a phenomenon that is trademark to Bombay. One end (towards Juhu) opens out to a quiet main road nearer to some good eateries (important, right?) and the other end opens out to the Manish Market – fruits, veggies, a fruit juice-and-sandwich bar, a फरसान shop, provision store, broiler, bar, medical shops, and a bank. In short, everything I need.

In a couple of years, by the time I’ll have been bored to death and preparing to leave the city once more, the Versova Metro station will also have come up. For now, I must suffer the brief spell of construction site dust each morning and late evening when I cross the junctions underneath the pillared bridge.

The place is within a 15 minute radius of my office, an ultra mega super super-specialty hospital, my aunt’s and brother’s homes, some of the best restaurants in town (again, so important no?), a few laundries, and Neel’s and my boss’s residence (the last two are inconsequential, but heck).

My landlady is the conservative types who would much rather have me home by 6 and then just hang about so she can eventually do away with the maid-cum-caretaker. I don’t return until the wee hours. I make sure I run off to Baroda over many weekends. I refuse to take charge of the place. Being responsible for a house that isn’t yours in spirit, or sans anyone to come back to is not worth it. Let it be an expensive crash pad, but I’d much rather the attachment ended there.

Sign of the times

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

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

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

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

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

"Aap midiya mein ho?"

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

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

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

Dialogue in the Dark

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a soul around and a House Party

Nights can get rather dull or depressing when you're alone at home and there's no real adventure nor expected guest list each night of the week. The quiet, the lack of company, oh merely the absence of noise can get to you. But yesterday was different.
Abhi n coKo picked me up from work for the 7:30 show. Like forever, the movie was uneventful and the intermission seemed like the best part of the film. लेकिन यह movie review तोह है नहीं! So coming back to the point. Promptly dropped at my doorstep at 10:00, this दुखियारी was left to fend for herself :(

Jesus knew what a task cooking and before that having to clean utensils and afterwards cleaning more utensils seemed. As if that was not bad enough the utility water का time was up, so there was no other choice but to wash them out in the balcony. And to top it all it was COLD!!!!!! After the first round, I gave up.

Having changed into my comfy ol' pyjamas, I finally decided to embark upon the daunting task of cooking. There were no groceries to really write home about. Then I opened my fridge (read: Pandora's डब्बा). EUREKA!!!!!! Boiled-to-el-dente pasta made an appearance. Butter, maida and milk danced in front of my eyes. The morning's leftover mushroom masala jumped out next. And then... and then... muhuhahahahahahahahahaha!!!! The wine bottle apparated into my memory. And with it, the brilliant inspiration to make pasta Indian Style.

अरे no no! The wine didn't go into the pasta. As the white sauce thickened through its ten minutes of flame, I sipped a large goblet of wine with loud, very loud dance music on my iPod. And of course I danced to it all as the several elements of the pasta slowly made their way into the big bad steel bowl.

By the time I was ready to eat, I was adequately drunk. After somehow managing to spoon some morsels of the treat into the right place and not my nose or gouging out my eyes and doing an adequately clean job of dunking the sauce pan and my plate into the kitchen sink, there went tipsy me back into bed. Lights off, music tuned to soft ghazals by Mehdi Hassan, Hariharan and Bhupinder; my madness wasn't over yet. I texted out crazy messages to (so far as I remember) three - no - five friends. Two were girls also. One was at Little Italy. [ok PU you're not drunk anymore so stop ranting]

It's amazing how naked you can be around yourself. The lingerie doesn't have to be sexy or new, the night clothes are warm, the wine glass can lie on the balcony parapet, the tree sways silently, and the music - always your favourite - always end up in a Gita Dutt tadbeer se bigdi hui takdeer bana le. And the songs are suddenly in your own voice. You always have an audience. You become your own entertainer.

And the only message I still have from last night is Kshitij's - "wow and wow. both for the solitude. I envy you"

Precious II

And here I am, back in Hyderabad, yet feeling like I've never been here before. The roads are all pretty and the weather's phenomenal. And interactions with the few people that I've had here so far, have reinforced that every city has a precious for me.

This time too, as caring, as quiet, as amused by my madness, as scarred, yet hopeful. This precious smiles like a child - dimples and all. Sometimes he cups his face sides in both palms and looks as if to ask "Now what shall we play?" Like a bored mischief monger looking for new avenues, the expression is of utmost intent. And when he laughs, you wouldn't guess he is all of 28!

He acts not pricey. So unassuming, so comfortable yet not. He isn't fidgety, yet jumps to action without a second's thought. But his greatest virtue emerges from the nature of his position vis a viz his family. Perhaps one never to give the family second place on the priority list, my precious Hyderabadi miraculously makes time for everyone! Friends, clients, brother, mother - home, shopping, picking me up from ANYWHERE (mostly super hero rescues them all), a liesurely evening out or business. He's perhaps never said no. He's perhaps never said may be.

KK's worries are borne not out of what would trouble him or what would perhaps pose a threat to his growth - personal or professional. The creases on his forehead and the bit of a receding hairline are a result of his constant big-brotherly-god-fatherly-best-friendly concern. Gosh! If he were to be even a tad nicer he'd be suffocating! But he even knows where to draw the line on that!

His slang is his own - "Gay ass" - ever heard that one? Not me. He would even take over your frown. He's the evening rescue from a whole day's harassment. He has a one-line solution to every paragraph problem. He's a saviour. He's a gem. He's precious. All over again.

Tamasha

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

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

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

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

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

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?

Sardar

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

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

So?

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

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

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

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

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

Off Limits

Bombay. The city meant liberation to me at age 19. At 24, when I finally barged into its labyrinth, a secret unfolded. There was none. Liberation that is, not secret. Duh PU.

The liberty, not of being clad in skimp or drinking like no tomorrow or having clandestine affairs, but of being at ease. Grabbing some me-time from no-time and withdrawing. Ridding myself of restlessness and a forced sense of duty. Effectively.

As I sit on my balcony ledge, a menthol in one hand [yes Neel, still prefer the ‘shit’ to all else] and Azar Nafisi’s book in the other, the thought crosses my mind: my hostel was even beautiful-ler.; why didn’t I ever sit and read there as happily? On the terrace, in the porch, the lounge, the stairs, the library, why my room even! There was more open space to be found there. More guiltless abandon for routine [skip washing clothes one day, ironing a heap another, miss a meal, avoid calls from folks]. Even more breeze and wider seat space too.

Ledges at angles perpendicular to vertical walls to lean on are my weakness. A member from my Nanaji’s beloved collection of transparent glass tea cups sits on the painted marble like a stowaway. Mint tea half finished – a thin film of मलाई on its surface – cold.

A light breeze graces the otherwise only near-perfect frame, gently cradling the 3-storey high palm tree; the Bottle Brush in an overreacting sway, tickling my elbow against all my attempts to brush it away.

My legs too carelessly rest beside the cup and the pack and phone, on one of the slippers – the other shaken off, lying capsized on the floor: all superstition be damned.

First 11 pages of Lolita Read in Tehran later, I’m so “infinitely happy”, I get off the unsafe part of the first floor, collect all the gleesome items and once more, latch the door to my private haven. I perform the studied routine of pinning my hair into a bun, washing up, gargling with Listerine, marinating my hands in copious amounts of sanitizer and sprucing up. More silent, more composed, at peace.

*Cuz the carpenter cleans up after he's done for the day. the bai's a ucking excuse left to herself.