Date a guy who reads

So I realised where the men were given directions to date a woman who's literate, you know, read 'n write 'n god alone knows what else, the women are still rather stupid about it - they are making the same illiterate mistakes! PU comes to the rescue with a broad guide of why the reading man will never make you wanna bang your head on the closest wall!

So it is possible to complain against a guy who reads. He will be the talker on the date so he can never complain that you talk too much. When you thank him for the most trivial things, he will come up with a 'for you, a million times over', from Kite Runner. He will never hurry things up. If anything, a book may become his excuse for lingering longer at your place when you really don't want him to go. It may not even be your book.

He will make the coffee you prepare for him sound like some childlike delight from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He will ask you to tell him a story some night, and disbelieve you. And when you show him the book that the story belonged to, he will read it cover to cover all over again. Whether to verify the contents or to just experience the magic all over again, you will never know.

Date a guy who reads because only a true reader will force a book down your throat and demand it back when you're done, in some way, to let you a bit into a part of his essence. Even if it is sci fi and even if you've never bothered with the genre before, nor will ever again. He will be in full awareness of this fact and yet...

A man who reads will always have a bookshelf in his living room. However rudimentary or unembellished. It may probably be his first piece of furniture. Often, the only one in his house - for a very long time. He may use residual space in it to store knick knacks, but when it begins to constrain, the tidbits go out. May be on another rack or just on the floor, he doesn't care so long as his books are well preserved.

Like you, he will love the smell of yellowed parchment. And your need to sit on the floor, even of a crowded bookstore on a sale day because sometimes book sections do that to you. You may not end up buying any of them and yet he will never hurry you out. He may perhaps state the prelude disclaimer that he shall take longer, but that's what sets the bar for you.

He will also understand your need to buy books especially from the second hand stall or raddiwala beside the veggie market because he knows treasure is not found in obvious places. He will perhaps encourage or at least give you the space to browse through many Dr Seusses for your niece or nephew, either for he knows they should start young, or perhaps because he didn't.

A man with books behind him will chuckle at your most nuances jokes - whether comparing someone to a Wodehousean character or just something from a Scottish folklore. The only curvy women he shall openly lust at for hours will be from his graphic novels or comics. For that matter, the only things he shall explicitly admire will be books. Especially a bargain or an unexpected find. And take it from me, it will make you grin ear to ear.

Most of all though, the image of a man sitting in the morning sun rays beside the window, on a couch, in his night clothes, with a book in his hands makes for not only the most impressive, but the most endearing figure.

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 :)

Vodafone-a-rue!

From almost Rs 8k in February to Rs 1.3k this month - the reduction in my phone bill is due to a simple activation of Vodafone’s uniform roaming tariff facility across Maharashtra. Even last month, I experienced the stark difference in the bill. It was only about 500 bucks more than this billing cycle.

Sure, it’s a great facility, but I have problems. And I’m not sure if addressing it to the parent company helps, or is it more to do with the process trickle down in the HR bloodline or the training hands hired. Or is it a pure communication problem?

Unlike most other cities in the country, a Bombay number is treated as an out-of-territory number vis avis Maharashtra. When I first moved to Pune, my bills sky rocketed. I wasn’t sure if it was my internet data usage, or texting or calls. And I hounded several of their contact centers as well as the customer care helpline repeatedly. Of course nothing came of it since each one of them had a different answer, including the website.

One would expect that a company of Vodafone’s size would make sure every face of the company speaks the same language. That, every communication invites interest. Now I have had at least three problems I can list at the tip of my fingers right away:

Outdated form on the Vodafone website, so you end up filling out a second one all over again at the contact centre. If one is in a hurry, or budgets time for several chores in the first week of her or his  arrival in a new city, is this how thou shalt waste her or his time? What a service oriented approach, iSay!

Very poor language at every customer care interaction – whether at their contact centres or on the phone helpline. Logically, if one cannot speak one language, then one switches to another that one is more comfortable with. I understand that most people in this country are short for education, leave alone any level of proficiency in their own mother tongue, English - I won't even get there. What the authorities seem to fail to understand is that the key to solving user problems is clear communications. In whichever language that both parties may comprehend. Why then, are there at least two choices on the electronic auto response system, if your live customer executives are going to neither make sense of what they tell you, nor of what you tell them. Classic case of looking London, Talking Tokyo!

Inadequate information on services, and therefore added inconvenience to the customer. So while on the helpline I am being told that a particular set of documents is valid, either more is actually required at the contact centre level, or worse still, the specifics are not furbished to the last detail.

Dear Vodafone,

I will not be able to dream up your exact documentation requirements.

Yours truly,

The Average Customer-on-the-move

I wish their customer executives would've told me much sooner that it was possible to simply activate this facility! I would not have wasted so much time and energy racking my brains and bothering my dad and friends here to provide me with some evidence of my innocence and banality of citizenship; that I deserved a cellphone connection just as much as the owner of Vodafone. Photocopies of phone bills, bank statements, rent agreements and what not!

Why do documentation requirements keep changing from time to time? Considering the excellent ability of our defense forces to protect us – our intelligence and technological advancement, I don’t reckon adding to the paperwork is going to ensure security to the country in any way. Drugs continue to be peddled; ammunition continues being transported and our buildings and monuments still burn.

It was a fluke call to customer care when a senior executive wanted to know why i wanted to terminate my Bombay number. When I told him I'd found a temporary prepaid connection to solve my expensive problem, he finally came out with the solution! Is that also an indication of our tendencies as a country to not supply those we serve with proper answers?

Or is it the norm at Vodafone to practice the policy of zero-information-unless-dug?

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.

"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.

Ash Tuesday

When you shake off ash, the last flakes that fly in their negligible weight along the ever-so-slight current of air personify the story of a saint. Like a parakeet free to soar but ignorant of where, for all its life it has known only captivity. Like a butterfly out of its pupa, a little unsure so it climbs to the top most branches of its tree – the tree, an unaware shelterer – but is innately destined to vanish into oblivion. Like instrumental music that translates into different thoughts for each new listener. Like the feather of a rooster that has shed itself in a cock fight, unknowing of the reason for its abandon yet preening in admirable glory.

It is the story of every celibate monk ever to have taken the vow of solitude. It is the beginning. It is where infantile steps towards learning begin. In that sense how is an infant any different from a sanyasi? Both at the mercy of others.  One for sustenance, one for penance.

My First Bad Time

I've always found Bombay people extremely easy to tread around. Even late at night - established even in my blogs, right? Broad daylight can be a digression, though.

A couple of Sundays ago, I was out on a solitary outing. Like a date with myself. Movie - saunter from Metro to Marine Drive - a bit of the sea to end the hot afty. It was all great. I didn't mind the tan either. The breeze more than made up for the lack of good company, the recent lows and more. Upon crossing the road from the Pizzeria corner, it suddenly struck me how long it had been since I visited the Drive on a holiday and how crowded it got.

A largish man clad in shades of rust also entered my frame of vision. Haywire yet "set" curls, he stood out without much effort - the air of a "townie". Looking into the distance... Strolling, not walking; not in a hurry.

I sauntered off to a clearing on the parapet between numerous couples with my back against the sun - the sun still too harsh. All of a sudden, the peculiar man seemed way too close for comfort. For a while, looking in the other direction seemed quite the adequate thing to do. All of a sudden, I hear "I love your neck piece; it's quite nice." "Thanks." Period. No, really, I thought that would be the end of it.

You really think it would be, at least - it was broad daylight, after all. So many people. It was beginning to get onto my nerves. No, he didn't hurl any physical abuse at me, nor words. I said I'd like to be left alone. He began talking about healing and life and freaky things that I'd probably discuss with Nidhi or Neel and NO ONE ELSE EVER.

That was it. My only escape without either attracting any attention or getting the chap into trouble with the police was to get up at once hitch a cab.

One associates intrusion as a "gowti" trait. People being nosy, never letting you be alone and always trying to know what it is that bothers you - as if sure of being the only rescue or resort. For once, I look up to the suburbites as more respecting of privacy, even in public. Letting you be alone. Letting you do your own thing. Allowing you to be in a shell or out as you may please. Incidentally, anyone come across a PG in Bandra, please to be telling moi.

Of Obsessions and Anger Bursts

Have you ever been so angry you wanted to break something? And then you HAVE broken something? Not somebody’s nose or limb or some such atrocity, but incurred loss of some kind all the same, because you couldn’t bear to harm the one who caused it? Because you are so aware of your physical strength?

At the end of the first year of any new situation or a change, I seem to vent out all my frustration on a personal belonging. Is it the impulse and the happening-to-be-around-ness of an object that leads to what follows? Or is it my inability to use sarcasm, a good old slap, or a cab to get out’a the situation?

It's a pattern: the things [three in a span of 10 years] that I detest or am bored of for a while have faced batter. Minor instruments that have lived their lives with me and I’m stuck with after a while, meet their fate at such moments – my first set of spectacles when Lavanya irritated me to the end of my wits; my first cell phone, when I couldn’t stand guilt trip spiels form the ex who gifted the instrument to me, and now my last phone. For a 25 year old, I’ve lived a rich life as far as phones are concerned, a new one each year since the 3rd year of undergrad – after my latest buy, six in all (including one borrowed for a while).

Since a couple of weeks I had been contemplating buying a new piece. But stopping to use the old one hurt – considering Papa got it for me when I first moved to Bombay. A lot of sentimental value was attached. Like the pens he’d gifted. Each one maintained and used with a lot of love and emotion. But the need to change my phone persisted. The tugs of emotion and vanity was beginning to get to me. The silly superstition that the phones I bought myself never stayed with me for long was gluing me to my sleek little brick device beyond imagination – it had begun to hang like a monkey - both literally as well as technically!

not only have I tolerated it, but even found it a little endearing

The mention of a game being the reason for my agitation was unacceptable to quite a few, including he who mentioned it. He’s been following it for as long as I’ve known him and before. And not only have I tolerated it, but even found it a little endearing. All of a sudden though, it began to get to me. Why must it occupy so much of one’s psyche that it is put on the same pedestal as classical music or good weather in a conversation?

In recent times, I’ve been less and less fond of cricket and I’ve even met some who’re are crazy about the game yet find it demeaning in its present state. What’s more, the craze seems to pervade all time slots vulgarly – work, recreation, outing, quiet time, sleep, meals … how do you explain its intrusion into other people’s tired end-of-days that look forward to something less obsessive-compulsive? Why can’t it be kept to oneself? Why can’t it be more understated and unspoken?

Perhaps I’m overreacting. Perhaps I’m touchy. Perhaps I’m one of those who don’t know the game so act uppity about it. Or maybe the idea of pursuing this obsession, even though other than pursuing one's profession, like a habit sounds vanilla boring to me.

Whatever the case, March has been a month of angry moments for me. And the chief cause is that wretched Indienne Parasite Le grande. It may be easy for many to dismiss this sudden outburst as uncalled for or laugh off as something of an eccentricity. But really, are the lines between passion and obsession blurring?

"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.

Sajani Was Right

Trees. Sajani and I are probably among the few zany ones who look at trees like other people look at Naseeruddin Shah or Sean Connery. We look at their personalities. Their characters. Their patterns and elements and dances and calm.

I was on the motorbike with Nishant this morning. Quite unusual – we weren’t talking while he rode. Usually I regale him with all my inanities all the way. Today, I was solving the Sudoku [which turned out to be so easy I left it midway]. Useless only men [in true ma-ka-pao style].

Anyway, the trees.

The trees.

The queers grow around strange things. Electricity poles, concrete homes from a couple of decades ago, stone walls from another era – these trees wrap themselves around whatever’s available. Or rather whatever comes in their way. Almost unobtrusive, they leaf and flower and slant not by the position of the sun, but wherever there’s room. Bombay’s trees aren’t manually prunes into their places. They’re just allowed their space. Like all of us singletons – who are subjected to innocent statements like “I haven’t seen you in a while” implying “where [the fuck] were you????”

And this is true of all parts of Mumbai most sought after - whether it’s the embankment area down the harbour side, the eastern-most vein of urban Bombay, or the busy western suburbs or just the good old South. I’ve realised that these towering oldies add not only add, to an otherwise busy and uninteresting road, shade, but also a sense of prestige therefore. The breeze that sieves through the leaves along with specks of sunlight translates into the romance of an introspective walk – not necessarily a lone one.

Sajani was right. She was right about the trees. They follow no rules. No directions. No regulations. They don’t hinder – neither block nor destruct. Their job is no more the take-in-CO2-fart-out-O2 rigmarole. They’re beyond routines.

Like Paro Anand’s Gulmohar, their innocence is deep rooted. It finds ways to thrive.

And I Almost Left!

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chaos Theory

Doesn’t it get on to your nerves when you just can’t decide one goddamn thing? All of a sudden, you turn into an indecisive nincompoop from being the determined, sorted hard-to-crack nut? That there are so many choices, you realise there’s no real choice at all! You stick to a rut just so you can avoid stepping out of line and be pinned down for an injury – whether ‘tis to yourself or another? You find yourself all alone, even though whatever may happen, you’ll still have a bunch’a people to love you and support you?

For every step you take, there’s a pothole waiting to suck you in and spit you out; your energy all drained and left to restore by unscrupulous means – means that you may never have explored, or even known. People from as varied backgrounds as each day in your life, doling advice (or worse yet, shooting questions) to which you may not be prepared or have the intellect to respond.

There is a heightened need within to “verbalise” everything I feel, sometimes to the point of hyperventilating. Like sophisticated melodrama – what an oxymoron! I’ve been told to not “think so much” but the point is, not everything you think needs to be blurted out. Even if someone asks. Even if it may take you somewhere in the scheme of things. All you’re doing is creating a more intricate mesh that appears to be impenetrable.

Verbalising yourself seems to give tough situations rigidity and concrete form that is more difficult to destroy, combat, knock off, mitigate, defy, resolve. Mr. Nilose spoke of clarity coming out of chaos at a conference held early last year for senior executives of the Heavy Engineering Division of L&T. Back then, the chaos was of noise, of what was tangible. This time, the chaos is within, and Mr. Nilose’s thought comes to the rescue.

As Aakash says to Sameer when the latter’s in a dilemma of how to tell Pooja that he loves her, in Dil Chahta Hai, “Mere bhai, kisi ko kuch matt bol! Tera koi bharosa nahin – aaj Pooja, kal koi duja!”