Hyderabad boy rescues Bombay girl

PU raises a cup to Harsha's support. (Image: PU Selfie2014)

Virtual friendship redefined with friends exchanging banal recipes from YouTube in aid of insomnia & other such nocturnal mental disorders

14th May, 2014, Bombay: In a bizarre turn of events last night, in a crumbling apartment of a housing society in the western suburbs, a girl finally learned how to make decent, edible tea after nearly three decades of ignorant existence.
And loved it.

The girl, one PU, 29, was online and as per addiction, chatting with her friend, one Harsha, resident of the Himayatnagar locality in Hyderabad, post-dinnertime on Tuesday evening at her Khar residence. With supper put behind a good three hours early, in a vain attempt to regularise her recently disturbed sleep cycle, the extended wakefulness yielded acute hunger pangs in the said girl, originally hailing from Vadodara, Gujarat. Marking a year in the city on the day, she was keen not to celebrate in any significant way.

On revealing the intensity of her atrocity, the friend of nearly a decade suggested she have some tea. We enquired further about Priyanca’s acumen in tea-making and she revealed, "I can't make tea to save a finger, leave alone my life! In the decade that my nanaji stayed with us back in Baroda, he asked me to make tea twice and regretted it on both occasions."

The tutorial was administered via a YouTube video, the link to which, Harsha sent on the chat applet to PU. So easy did the video make the process seem, that she was inspired to refresh her culinary talent in the hot-beverage-making department! The girl entered the kitchen at approximately three minutes past midnight and put some water to boil in a saucepan. At the serendipitous discovery of lemongrass in the deep recesses of her refrigerator and finding all the other ingredients (ginger, pepper, clove, cinnamon and cardamom) by the time the water started to boil, she was encouraged to administer them into the saucepan and claims to "have enjoyed overseeing the recipe first hand, for the first time."

On further probing about how the tutorial came about, PU said, "My friend Harsha is a photo-journalist who keeps late hours on account of his own assignments as well as gatekeeping his photo-journalism magazine, Galli. I figured cribbing to him might be of some use. After coming up with outrageous suggestions such as ice cream at 11:40 pm (why not, you argue? With the spate of attacks on daft women travelling in autos late at night without a care for their blingy handbags that get stolen in a split second without the thief having to put up much of a struggle, the notion of stepping out alone at the hour was insane), he finally said 'चाय बना ले (make some tea)'. First I thought he'll tell me how. After patiently waiting a few sentences, when I had to finally ask for the recipe, he said his is an 'annual event' because his amma makes chai  for him. All these spoiled boys living in their parents' house!  The mention of his amma made me miss mine. But instead of moping about missing home, I decided to explore the YouTube link he had sent in the interim, and get to work."

PU's newly acquired talent comes at a time when her existentialist angst had begun to peak, she rues. In the wake of several extreme epithets being bestowed upon the corporate writer, from 'multi-talented in the singles domain' to 'over-qualified in the eligible bride market', her epiphany has led her to vow she 'will make masala chai every night!'

In refusal of any special commemoration however, PU has declined any direct or indirect self-invites to tea, even at honourable hours, as a clear sign of selfish demeanour. A trait, she declares, Bombay has instilled in her in the year gone by. Ironically, the achiever reveals that she has accomplished the feat of surviving a whole year in Bombay once before, at the start of her career four years ago. Her anguish in the back-linked blog post about Salman Khan not being punished for murder seems to have ominously been answered. Everything else, she says, remains much the same...

Gannu Drowns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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 ;)

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.

Hair

THIS short

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Song for all seasons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My favourite painter

The title to this post may sound rather like one for a primary school essay, but then, that's the way I felt about the grand old man of Indian art. Picasso of India Dies, flashed Times Now as I waited at the lounge of CORE.


When the first time I walked past a lowered shutter in Town, opposite the David Sassoon Library at Kala Ghoda, my heart stopped - an MF Hussain horse head painted on it in one bold stroke. Needless to say, the classic head was impossible to miss. The mystery of Kala Ghoda was finally solved in my head. That, for me, became a symbol of perhaps the most accessible and self-righteous celebrity painter ever to be born.

And today, he breathed his last.

Hussain, they said, had kept very ill lately. He was in London to to treat a lung infection, said a relative.

It will be interesting to see to see the the report on his burial. I wonder if his soul will ache or laugh at the controversy. Gulzar sa'ab was quoted saying, "The country will repent that this happened outside his land."

Until last night, Titli Daboch Li Maine from Minaxi played on my laptop. This morning it will play for a reason. Who will adore movement the way he did? Who will put it into strokes on canvas like his? Who will love the Indian woman his way? And who will paint horses like his now? And his red Ferrari?

There is a print of one of his paintings at office. I know of another painter who considers Hussain (incidentally his name is Gossain) his guru and inspiration.

Koi Sachche Khwaab Dikha Kar....

Mumbai Masala

Men in bombay are deceptive. In the way they're turned out. You can never decipher what they do or must be like from the way they're dressed. The most ragged looking man will turn out to be an eloquent speaker of at least three languages, keenly opinionated, street smart, and extremely sensitive. The most sharply dressed on the other hand, may be an utter disappointment to have a conversation with, not to mention a cunning manipulator. And his ability to hold your attention may not even last half an hour. What's worse? The kinds who dress adequately well, yet not straight out of the next cover of a men's fashion magazine.

Whether it is the office boy at work or the hot tall hunk who walks in at 11 in a popular pub in the suburbs on a weekday. There are no parameters on which to assess or judge and tread the next step of initiating a conversation, leave alone flirt or perceive lasting friendship.

With the availability of export quality garments and accessories, and equal access to latest trends in popular fashion, most bombay males get it right from the word go. Yet there is a handful who consciously sidle towards the imperfect.

These are men who would much rather look out of shape, or out of line, for the love of deception. In many cases, they will come forth with fashion or health advice to their woman friends, but never would they want to err and crawl towards health or into a retail store out of season or during a sale.

Bawa's the Boss

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old City New Charm

A week into my stay in Hyderabad and the culture vulture within can't sit in one place only. Waat to do saar??? So last weeked was yet another exciting trip across the city - and my सारथी, none other than Mr. Kotha. Of course, he was also playing porter on Saturday. To make amends, we decided to make a quick trip to Geetha's. Ha ha. What a jox. Quick trip and Geetha's. What was tentatively planned to be merely a social visit to the jungle resident, turned into a feast. Gee reminds me of my mom's aunt in Baroda. The food keeps coming out of the fridge like an unending flow! Seamless conversation that began with concerts, what one MUST wear, meandered to Karthik's super brat brother and finally to women and marriage. [Looks like this is more or less the range we're always going to follow.] Of course, there's so much talk about teaching and kids happening, it's not funny.

I'm most amazed at how the lines between Kart and Gee blurred almost instantly the first time I got them to meet. Their Chennai connection was so much stronger than having me as a link, which is seldom the case when I get any of my friends to meet for the first time. It is an overwhelming experience when two people from seemingly different spheres socialise and how! I thought Chennai could probably be a starting point, but they had so much more to exchange, I felt rather inadequate (:P).

But neither Kart nor I knew what the concert on Sunday had in store for us. The Chowmahalla Palace played host to one of the greatest concerts I've ever attended in my omnivoric hunger for great music. Hyderabad seems to always attract the best talent there is. I've often heard of its audience being intelligent and well read and widely travelled. The audience at Chowmahalla proved the point. even when it came to requesting, nothing short of an Amir Khusro popular would do!

That it was begum Abida Parveen on stage brought the kind'a audience that had to be either niche - pretty much mostly the old affluent - or outsiders (that's me!) who had a sense of the scale and concept that is Parveen's voice and area of expertise. I was simply taken by the simple fact that she sounds on stage exactly like she does on recording. I mean... the sound editor hasn't to work at all on getting the सुर right at all! Of course, what hits you as the listener is the instant and constant connect that she established with and when she began every composition with "मौला...".

They taught us, when I was training in classical music, that संगीत is the combination of getting the notes right and getting the thought spot on. Begum sahiba personified the definition flawlessly. Of course, my saying it adds no value and perhaps if I didn't, it would take away nothing, but the experience was made surreal: every time she began a new song, the cold drizzle, that threatened to bring the show to an abrupt end, ceased. That is the power of music, I guess.

Overall, a fantastic first weekend in the city that raised my bar always always.

Tamasha

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

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

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

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

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

"Idoling" away on a "holy" day

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

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

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


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


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

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

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