The novelty of scantily clad women wears off way too soon in Bombay. At ten in the night, on a deserted street such as Babulnath, a woman in a mini skirt is rare. Rarer are three of them, looking to get back home. While a longish stroll home wouldn't harm - not even a mild risk of eve teasing or crime - our bunch decides the occasion calls for an all-out splurge. Small change, the other two consider, the fact that they all seem to have overlooked is that they don't have any.
It surprised me when a pal (visiting from a faraway remote land, far more conservative than apna Bombay) exclaimed, on our walk back to Churchgate station, near a bus stop, at the number of skimpily dressed women who travel by public transport and ogled so lustily and in awe at the bare female human flesh on the little back-n-forth hunt across Pali Naka, though I don't blame him, given the beauty crisis he endures each day.
The ease with which a woman can commute in even starved sections of this cosmo sex-haven, has nothing to do with the men who put up the I'm maha-decent facade. Oh! no sir! It is a simple case of not hitting the kulhadi on the foot. Simple logic: if the "outsiders" did not behave themselves, they'd be either beaten up, or screwed royally by one of the many moral-policing gang bangers. Plus, women's false sense of security comes from this fact, which the men actually use as a means to encourage more women to be less covered up... all for Nain Sukh Praapti!
Of course, some communities are also associated naturally with sexual satiation, or at least the complacency that they can get whoever they want, using slightly more subtle, and even sophisticated means.
The tall and hot bawas have no dearth of nice- NICE women. The Goans are also lucky when it comes to well structured damsels in very little clothing. The Gujju janta (and female jantus) knows how to play around the rules. The bibis live in a different world, and the other locals are a wannabe lot anyway. The greatest benefit from all the men that we women enjoy, is of complete submission and utter helplessness.
It is amusing to walk into a conference room full of Bambaiyya men, raising more than just their eyebrows. While in a less urban setting, women with slightly decent brain power would be ignored or ridiculed or even side-lined, with zero appreciation for the female intelligence, and complete ignorance and neglect of the fact, that instead of concentrating on my obvious assets, they instead of their d**** might want to stand up and take notice. Even in "very professional" Bombay, the d***brains don't really evolve. Only, they know how to conceal better- well, at least they make the attempt. So instead of considering us as dimwitted sex objects, [wo/we]men are a masked as potential threat that our semi-metrosexual boys think will overwhelm their positions at work, in a competitive environment.
The assumption is, a hot woman is hot, looks hot, appears and makes efforts to be that way because she has a motive. The motive isn't even to "sleep" her way up, but simply "tease" her way up the ladder. And when the teasing is done the right way, you never commit to giving the "wrong impression", yet the purpose is served. And this purpose at workplace could be anything at all- anything from some leeway from the IT department, to no-fetching-coffee-for-the-boss, to more frequent increments and rewards in kind.
While it hurts some women to do that because either they're just not equipped, or LAZY, some of us are too motivated and dispassionate to care a f*** about what others will say or do as detriments. One just bulldozes one's way through because there's just such a dearth of time. Traditionally, the sex that was perceived as docile and less equipped, is now sly and cunning. Not exactly the vamp, but she knows how to get her way. She will do so without announcing it to the world. And take advantage of the horny, patronising chauvinists who will weave their own intricate traps and get so wound up in them, that they will have no choice but to give in to the demands of the women around them.
All they shall be left with, is delusions of having the final say, the upper hand, and utter cluelessness deep down. And eff the pun!!
M.U.H.U.H.A.H.A.H.A
13.11.09
The Power of Smiles
Last weekend was the most memorable I’ve had so far in Mumbai. Apart from the variety of unrushed fun that the 36 hours offered, the city chose to unleash another human phenomenon to me: the power of smiles.
The action began as I rushed – first to my bus stop, of course – to receive a friend at the airport. What an optimum way to spend two days in Maximum City: Lots’a eating & sight seeing. ALL PUNS INTENDED. But this is not an account of how Arunav Kumar Jha & Priyanca Vibhutiprasad Vaishnav [phew! And no non-South Indian can win with me in length-of-names] spent the 7th and 8th of November 2009. It is a rant about the Power of the Greatest Utility Curve.
When I climbed into the 155, I wasn’t expecting a welcoming empty स्ट्रीयान्साठी seat at 5:15 pm, so I stood near the entry door, beside a wheel-top seat. A mother-son duo was perched on it, with mommy having to instruct her boy (of around 10) not to be so aggressive and grumpy and to stop shouting at passers-by out on the street. The child was uncontrollable. He seemed mentally disturbed, though not entirely “nuts”.
Time soon came for them to get off – it was August Kranti Maidan, I think – so the lady in white-and-yellow salwar kameez urged the child to stand up so they could move ahead to the exit. The kid was obviously unhappy, for his joyride (the little that he was enjoying) was about to come to a halt.
As the Gujju Mom scolded and nudged and prodded the now-completely-aggrieved kid, his eyes and mine met briefly. Never one to fight my habit, I gestured my hands to help him come out through the narrow leg space, and smiled. It also meant I was gonna get to sit now!
Yippee! & Phew!
What followed has stayed with me since: The child tapped on my hand that held onto the seat railing. I looked up. His grey face turned out a smile and a wave to say bye-bye. My worries about reaching not-in-time for Ar’s arrival melted into the oblivion. This moment pervaded me so much…
I told my sister about it last before we slept on Tuesday night. She says it is a sign and a strong one from the Guy-Up-There, that he chooses to bestow me with it. Ages ago, my now-no-more school principal said, “Priyanca’s always got a smile – an honest one, a loving one – a smile that welcomes you into her world.” I hope you’re watching Mrs. Mirchandani. I can still love. I can still welcome. And let go, with a smile. As Mirat once chose to say, I have “so much love to give.”
We all do. And to strangers, even more, because we haven’t given them the power to hurt us. Emotionally, we are still unaccessed territory. What makes us strong is the fact that we ARE emotional (says my daddy).
I have never laughed and smiled and grinned as I did on these two dates. [I laugh like a nutter at work though.] Mirat (again) said, “You throw your head back when you laugh”, when he mimicked Viren and Abhishek. It’s like talking to the stars, indeed. It’s amazing how comfortable you become and make another person when there’s the warmth of that sinking arc with its ends pointing to those stars. It’s like the first rains, or standing in a vast sunbeam in the windy winter of Jamnagar, or when your boss says “Good work” or playing with a Labrador puppy…
The smile works for a pick up line like no other. Try it the next time you spot a cute face at a pub. It is what relieves serious meetings of…well…their seriousness. It is what reminds fellow humans that we’re humans too. That, we are entitled to same treatment; that we can dole out same treatment. It’s what makes us forget and forgive the wrong doings of others, and remember the good that resides in ourselves. It gives us the feeling of
Thank you Ar, for smiling and making me smile so much. :)
The action began as I rushed – first to my bus stop, of course – to receive a friend at the airport. What an optimum way to spend two days in Maximum City: Lots’a eating & sight seeing. ALL PUNS INTENDED. But this is not an account of how Arunav Kumar Jha & Priyanca Vibhutiprasad Vaishnav [phew! And no non-South Indian can win with me in length-of-names] spent the 7th and 8th of November 2009. It is a rant about the Power of the Greatest Utility Curve.
When I climbed into the 155, I wasn’t expecting a welcoming empty स्ट्रीयान्साठी seat at 5:15 pm, so I stood near the entry door, beside a wheel-top seat. A mother-son duo was perched on it, with mommy having to instruct her boy (of around 10) not to be so aggressive and grumpy and to stop shouting at passers-by out on the street. The child was uncontrollable. He seemed mentally disturbed, though not entirely “nuts”.
Time soon came for them to get off – it was August Kranti Maidan, I think – so the lady in white-and-yellow salwar kameez urged the child to stand up so they could move ahead to the exit. The kid was obviously unhappy, for his joyride (the little that he was enjoying) was about to come to a halt.
As the Gujju Mom scolded and nudged and prodded the now-completely-aggrieved kid, his eyes and mine met briefly. Never one to fight my habit, I gestured my hands to help him come out through the narrow leg space, and smiled. It also meant I was gonna get to sit now!
Yippee! & Phew!
What followed has stayed with me since: The child tapped on my hand that held onto the seat railing. I looked up. His grey face turned out a smile and a wave to say bye-bye. My worries about reaching not-in-time for Ar’s arrival melted into the oblivion. This moment pervaded me so much…
I told my sister about it last before we slept on Tuesday night. She says it is a sign and a strong one from the Guy-Up-There, that he chooses to bestow me with it. Ages ago, my now-no-more school principal said, “Priyanca’s always got a smile – an honest one, a loving one – a smile that welcomes you into her world.” I hope you’re watching Mrs. Mirchandani. I can still love. I can still welcome. And let go, with a smile. As Mirat once chose to say, I have “so much love to give.”
We all do. And to strangers, even more, because we haven’t given them the power to hurt us. Emotionally, we are still unaccessed territory. What makes us strong is the fact that we ARE emotional (says my daddy).
I have never laughed and smiled and grinned as I did on these two dates. [I laugh like a nutter at work though.] Mirat (again) said, “You throw your head back when you laugh”, when he mimicked Viren and Abhishek. It’s like talking to the stars, indeed. It’s amazing how comfortable you become and make another person when there’s the warmth of that sinking arc with its ends pointing to those stars. It’s like the first rains, or standing in a vast sunbeam in the windy winter of Jamnagar, or when your boss says “Good work” or playing with a Labrador puppy…
The smile works for a pick up line like no other. Try it the next time you spot a cute face at a pub. It is what relieves serious meetings of…well…their seriousness. It is what reminds fellow humans that we’re humans too. That, we are entitled to same treatment; that we can dole out same treatment. It’s what makes us forget and forgive the wrong doings of others, and remember the good that resides in ourselves. It gives us the feeling of
Somewhere in my youth or childhood,
I must’ve done something good
Thank you Ar, for smiling and making me smile so much. :)
4.11.09
Standard Deviation
After my split a month ago, it was a little difficult letting myself out of the city. As if the fatigue of simply getting someplace got to me.
So apart from the self-mandated Diwali trip to Baroda, I've been avoiding all travel. Even a biking trip. A lot of people have been complaining. But since the complaints are seldom in words, I chose to ignore them all.
Something turned around last Friday. Anubhav called unprompted, and we fixed up for me to travel to Pune. Pune, of all the places! I've always associated Pune with the Shivneri Volvo, the drive through the Pashan DRDO road, E-Square, Not Just Jazz by the Bay, Pizza Marzano, Tareef & Punjabi Tadka, MG Road, Camp, Aundh & Parihar chowk. Before that, with Kothrud, and Chandni Chowk.
Pune's returned* to me often. More than once. It's been my resurrection destination. Like a pilgrimage that I take to relieve myself of yearning, longing, nostalgia, boredom, pain, loneliness...
It made me nervous all the three times that I've had to make this return.
The first time around was right after high school, when I was seeing my first crush after two years. It was nerve racking because I didn't know how he would react, how he would behave, how awkward or comfortable it would be. Always one to obsess about having perfect moments, I was in for a huge disappointment. D. and I had both moved on. He didn't quite care, and I thought he walked like a transvestite. I don't know which was worse.
Meeting Ad. in Pune was insignificant, though it was with him that I discovered the newer parts of the university town. With him, I experienced Pune in the winters, for the first time. Weather in the city seems to be a constant reason for me to go back and soak some of it in. You can smell burnt wood in the evening, a little smoky. And the air is dry, yet a mist seems to kiss your earlobes as if to remind you of what clean air feels to the senses. Of course, when I was riding pillion with Anubhav back to his shack, I kept wheeeeeing (like the Bombay gaonthi that I have become) about how clean and lovely Pune is and how I was already in love with the decision to spend the weekend with an old pal over alcohol and music we both loved (thanks for Aaj jaane ki zidd na karo, Bunnz).
My most extensive touch-n-feel of the Marathi culture hub though, was with Ni. Of course, even with him being there, there was never initiative to venture out to watch a play or two every month or music concerts or attend a weekend workshop together. It was always pizzas and films and dinners and other regular riggin' things IT techies do to kill time over the weekend.
But last weekend was different in such myriad ways. I met Meenakshi. I mean, I've met her before alright, but I spent time with her. Saw the vulnerability of a woman dying to get out, but stuck at home with of parents who aren't exactly conservative, but not quite willing to let go. Get out Meera, get out'a that place, I maintain.
It was also the first time ever that I've actually slept with a guy. Slept. Like snoozed off listening to his snoring and sleep-chattering (yes, Bunnz, you talk in your sleep- Meera will vouch for it). What's poignant about the fact is that he made sure I was absolutely comfortable. The razaii, the food, the alcohol, even letting me mop the floor when I broke the glass and allowing me to prepare dalia next morning for breakfast (at lunch time :P). The champi was my tiny thank you note, Bunnz.
Parallel to my physically being in Pune, I was also living the nostalgia of a boy who spent his most precious moments in this city. My first drink went out to him. In my thought, in my sip.
To be in the warmth of a home with pals can be healing. It's like phoenix tears or vampire blood. Mytically healing, yet unexplainable.
I'm ready to start traveling again, come January+. Make the most of my quota of PLs and explore places on my list. Being in Bombay only helps - you can get anywhere within a reasonable time frame, whether by train or a flight.
I'm finally solo. On a trip of my own. Single and Unavailable, as my Tantra tee announces!
*It is remarkable how I'm so full of myself to talk of places returning to me, and not me returning to them. But it is the idea that visits me, that makes them return in thought, and therefore, beckon me to revisit. Not to revisit a past memory or an old haunt, but to explore it in its all new avatar.
+Pondicherry is first on list in February. I'm afraid it will have to be solo. No tag-alongs this time. Heck, they might all end up solo trips to pile on friends to take me around and show me their place of thrive.
IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER:
Kolkata | Chorwad | Kutch | Pushkar | Gokarna | Cypress | Vizag | Greece | Sicily | Berlin
So apart from the self-mandated Diwali trip to Baroda, I've been avoiding all travel. Even a biking trip. A lot of people have been complaining. But since the complaints are seldom in words, I chose to ignore them all.
Something turned around last Friday. Anubhav called unprompted, and we fixed up for me to travel to Pune. Pune, of all the places! I've always associated Pune with the Shivneri Volvo, the drive through the Pashan DRDO road, E-Square, Not Just Jazz by the Bay, Pizza Marzano, Tareef & Punjabi Tadka, MG Road, Camp, Aundh & Parihar chowk. Before that, with Kothrud, and Chandni Chowk.
Pune's returned* to me often. More than once. It's been my resurrection destination. Like a pilgrimage that I take to relieve myself of yearning, longing, nostalgia, boredom, pain, loneliness...
It made me nervous all the three times that I've had to make this return.
The first time around was right after high school, when I was seeing my first crush after two years. It was nerve racking because I didn't know how he would react, how he would behave, how awkward or comfortable it would be. Always one to obsess about having perfect moments, I was in for a huge disappointment. D. and I had both moved on. He didn't quite care, and I thought he walked like a transvestite. I don't know which was worse.
Meeting Ad. in Pune was insignificant, though it was with him that I discovered the newer parts of the university town. With him, I experienced Pune in the winters, for the first time. Weather in the city seems to be a constant reason for me to go back and soak some of it in. You can smell burnt wood in the evening, a little smoky. And the air is dry, yet a mist seems to kiss your earlobes as if to remind you of what clean air feels to the senses. Of course, when I was riding pillion with Anubhav back to his shack, I kept wheeeeeing (like the Bombay gaonthi that I have become) about how clean and lovely Pune is and how I was already in love with the decision to spend the weekend with an old pal over alcohol and music we both loved (thanks for Aaj jaane ki zidd na karo, Bunnz).
My most extensive touch-n-feel of the Marathi culture hub though, was with Ni. Of course, even with him being there, there was never initiative to venture out to watch a play or two every month or music concerts or attend a weekend workshop together. It was always pizzas and films and dinners and other regular riggin' things IT techies do to kill time over the weekend.
But last weekend was different in such myriad ways. I met Meenakshi. I mean, I've met her before alright, but I spent time with her. Saw the vulnerability of a woman dying to get out, but stuck at home with of parents who aren't exactly conservative, but not quite willing to let go. Get out Meera, get out'a that place, I maintain.
It was also the first time ever that I've actually slept with a guy. Slept. Like snoozed off listening to his snoring and sleep-chattering (yes, Bunnz, you talk in your sleep- Meera will vouch for it). What's poignant about the fact is that he made sure I was absolutely comfortable. The razaii, the food, the alcohol, even letting me mop the floor when I broke the glass and allowing me to prepare dalia next morning for breakfast (at lunch time :P). The champi was my tiny thank you note, Bunnz.
Parallel to my physically being in Pune, I was also living the nostalgia of a boy who spent his most precious moments in this city. My first drink went out to him. In my thought, in my sip.
To be in the warmth of a home with pals can be healing. It's like phoenix tears or vampire blood. Mytically healing, yet unexplainable.
I'm ready to start traveling again, come January+. Make the most of my quota of PLs and explore places on my list. Being in Bombay only helps - you can get anywhere within a reasonable time frame, whether by train or a flight.
I'm finally solo. On a trip of my own. Single and Unavailable, as my Tantra tee announces!
*It is remarkable how I'm so full of myself to talk of places returning to me, and not me returning to them. But it is the idea that visits me, that makes them return in thought, and therefore, beckon me to revisit. Not to revisit a past memory or an old haunt, but to explore it in its all new avatar.
+Pondicherry is first on list in February. I'm afraid it will have to be solo. No tag-alongs this time. Heck, they might all end up solo trips to pile on friends to take me around and show me their place of thrive.
IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER:
Kolkata | Chorwad | Kutch | Pushkar | Gokarna | Cypress | Vizag | Greece | Sicily | Berlin
28.10.09
An Evening That Never Was, And Might Just Be
Have you ever seen the stars light up on Marine Drive- the few that do show up- when the moon's absent, right before the dawn breaks, with the whole queen's necklace sparkling, giving you the hope that some day one of those diamonds will sparkle in your beloved's eyes?
Have you ever sat at Under the Banyan Tree and thought this is where you'd've liked your first date to be?
Have you been to the Mocha at Churchgate and sat on the largest table with only your girl at it and just cracking inane jokes and laughing your head off over an M&M shake?
Have you ever sat at Bandra Promenade at 2 in the night and thought you could listen to the music of the waves forever... and make music of your own... an alaap from Malkauns that turns into Summertime...?
Have you ever walked from Churchgate to Colaba to the Taj/ Gateway back on Colaba Causeway to Theobroma, nibble at some chocolate indulgence, move into a cab, and make out as you head back for a private room to follow things up?
Have you ever walked through Dadar Parsi Colony late in the evening and smelt the October Fragrance and had a "haaaaa" moment every time it finds you?
Have you ever (/been) bought the biggest bunch of ANY white flowers across the Not Just Jazz by the Bay and felt so elated about it you thought you didn't need any particular person to be in that state of being in love?
Have you seen a movie at Regal or Sterling and kissed the neck of the girl sitting right beside who you might just have the most amazing evening with, or might just get slapped?
Have you gone shopping at the Fabindia in Fort and ended up making out in the changing room cuz no one cares there?
Have you gone visiting Jehangir Art Gallery to see crazy modern art and ended up explaining or being explained something and then actually liking it? Follow it up with a cuppa chai at Samovar and memorabilia s/he will never forget?
Bombay has just so much love in the air you'd have to be two to take it all in.
Have you ever sat at Under the Banyan Tree and thought this is where you'd've liked your first date to be?
Have you been to the Mocha at Churchgate and sat on the largest table with only your girl at it and just cracking inane jokes and laughing your head off over an M&M shake?
Have you ever sat at Bandra Promenade at 2 in the night and thought you could listen to the music of the waves forever... and make music of your own... an alaap from Malkauns that turns into Summertime...?
Have you ever walked from Churchgate to Colaba to the Taj/ Gateway back on Colaba Causeway to Theobroma, nibble at some chocolate indulgence, move into a cab, and make out as you head back for a private room to follow things up?
Have you ever walked through Dadar Parsi Colony late in the evening and smelt the October Fragrance and had a "haaaaa" moment every time it finds you?
Have you ever (/been) bought the biggest bunch of ANY white flowers across the Not Just Jazz by the Bay and felt so elated about it you thought you didn't need any particular person to be in that state of being in love?
Have you seen a movie at Regal or Sterling and kissed the neck of the girl sitting right beside who you might just have the most amazing evening with, or might just get slapped?
Have you gone shopping at the Fabindia in Fort and ended up making out in the changing room cuz no one cares there?
Have you gone visiting Jehangir Art Gallery to see crazy modern art and ended up explaining or being explained something and then actually liking it? Follow it up with a cuppa chai at Samovar and memorabilia s/he will never forget?
Bombay has just so much love in the air you'd have to be two to take it all in.
21.10.09
Overrated
I actually managed to arrive at the title for this post even before beginning to pen it. Perhaps because I’ve been saying it too often lately about so many things. Though it’s not necessarily about the things and people in Bombay, I guess it gets place on Bombay Chuddies for the fact that it is here that I’ve had these realisations.
So here’s my list (editable and addable) of things overrated:
1. MBAs are top of the list for now. It’s like a done-to-death topic with all my MBA as well as non-MBA pals already, but I just need to put it in writing now. High time. What about them fascinates people to gawk open mouthed and wide-eyed? They’re horny like any other, though have no horns on their heads (or even nose, like a rhino, which would be really something). And they can’t talk about anything beyond… uhm… 5 lines? And their passions are so… lame. I haven’t used that word in ages for anybody, but it’s just erupted out of nowhere. It’s as if their being from a premier b-school makes them superior to intense emotions; as if banalities such as a chhotu yellow butterfly are too frivolous for their over-exploited time. Juiceless.
2. Crowds in the Virar Fast local train. It is not crowded all the time, so stop looking so aghast, for heaven’s sake! I travel in them all the time (ok, non peak hours, but so what?) and I’ve managed to get off everywhere… from Dadar to Bandra to Andheri… Beyond that, of course, I refuse to tread, so I don’t know.
3. Living in South Bombay. It is not always expensive to live in this precious part of the city, unless you’re a spoilt brat who’s had EVERYTHING all his/her life. I mean seriously, how hard is it to alter your life to fit in a 6:00 am to 10:30 pm open-gates hostel lifestyle? You have Lata Mangeshkar, the Ambanis and Rahul Bose in the neighbourhood. The sea isn’t farther than a 10-minute walk. It’s a bargain I’d say.
4. Sex. Yes, sex. It is kissing that needs some serious attention now. Men go about grabbing your jaw, biting, licking, exporting litres of saliva and just don’t know the art of kissing. How the heck are you supposed to get to base 4 if you can’t even get past base 2?
5. Pollution in Bombay. A couple of months back, when I was still at the Bakhtawar office, and when I still hitched a bus from Mantralaya, a woman snubbed me for throwing some plastic in my haste to catch the bus. I mean, what’s the hullabaloo about messing up the air, water, roads, et el? As Abhishek once said, if we didn’t diry, the cleaners would lose their jobs (aside: Steve Jobs didn’t lose his despite long sick leave and despite Apple thriving even while he was gone- saala… as Chintan says it). They say it’s the developed country that can add maximally to environmental redemption substantially. Developed nations must develop, must use, must waste resources and dirty the whole place nicely and become all big and developed and thriving before it can be shaken into eco-consciousness. So, jaa na be!
6. Cell phones. Another over-researched point of contention. When I didn’t have my phone all of last Thursday, it felt so cool to be just living in the here, not just the now. I realised if anyone needs to reach me, they have my landline number. We seem to hate the prospect of anyone but the intended receiver picking up our calls. Why? Are we so important or busy that we cannot waste those two minutes on introducing ourselves to a stranger, making conversation, requesting to be connected? As a species noted for its social tendencies, we’re losing them.
7. Non-vegetarian food. Now I hear a loud murmur about how wrong I am, how Bandar kya jaane adrak ka swaad (which, btw, is ironical), but come on! If you’re a “pure non-vegetarian” – which is such crap, man – you can’t be Indian, have Indian non-vegetarian cuisine and then claim to be pure anything! What about all the hefty amount of spice and ancillary veggies that go into making that aromatic curry or slurp roast or fry… sigh… All there is to it seven different meats for the days of the week, as opposed to a whole new concoction every single day of the month. Variety baby, variety.
8. Poets. I had this conversation with A. last night: so many of us seat poets or even the aspiring good ones on a pedestal for nothing. You understand jack shit of what they write and think, ‘Wow he knows his shit man. He can put so much into a few words/ lines/ verses/ rhymes.’ No, no, no, love! They’re just so bad with vocabulary that they try to fit in everything into short sentences and finish it off as soon as possible. And because it’s all so ambiguous, you think they’ve been born with higher sensibilities. And shit like that.
9. T.V. Need we say more?
So here’s my list (editable and addable) of things overrated:
1. MBAs are top of the list for now. It’s like a done-to-death topic with all my MBA as well as non-MBA pals already, but I just need to put it in writing now. High time. What about them fascinates people to gawk open mouthed and wide-eyed? They’re horny like any other, though have no horns on their heads (or even nose, like a rhino, which would be really something). And they can’t talk about anything beyond… uhm… 5 lines? And their passions are so… lame. I haven’t used that word in ages for anybody, but it’s just erupted out of nowhere. It’s as if their being from a premier b-school makes them superior to intense emotions; as if banalities such as a chhotu yellow butterfly are too frivolous for their over-exploited time. Juiceless.
2. Crowds in the Virar Fast local train. It is not crowded all the time, so stop looking so aghast, for heaven’s sake! I travel in them all the time (ok, non peak hours, but so what?) and I’ve managed to get off everywhere… from Dadar to Bandra to Andheri… Beyond that, of course, I refuse to tread, so I don’t know.
3. Living in South Bombay. It is not always expensive to live in this precious part of the city, unless you’re a spoilt brat who’s had EVERYTHING all his/her life. I mean seriously, how hard is it to alter your life to fit in a 6:00 am to 10:30 pm open-gates hostel lifestyle? You have Lata Mangeshkar, the Ambanis and Rahul Bose in the neighbourhood. The sea isn’t farther than a 10-minute walk. It’s a bargain I’d say.
4. Sex. Yes, sex. It is kissing that needs some serious attention now. Men go about grabbing your jaw, biting, licking, exporting litres of saliva and just don’t know the art of kissing. How the heck are you supposed to get to base 4 if you can’t even get past base 2?
5. Pollution in Bombay. A couple of months back, when I was still at the Bakhtawar office, and when I still hitched a bus from Mantralaya, a woman snubbed me for throwing some plastic in my haste to catch the bus. I mean, what’s the hullabaloo about messing up the air, water, roads, et el? As Abhishek once said, if we didn’t diry, the cleaners would lose their jobs (aside: Steve Jobs didn’t lose his despite long sick leave and despite Apple thriving even while he was gone- saala… as Chintan says it). They say it’s the developed country that can add maximally to environmental redemption substantially. Developed nations must develop, must use, must waste resources and dirty the whole place nicely and become all big and developed and thriving before it can be shaken into eco-consciousness. So, jaa na be!
6. Cell phones. Another over-researched point of contention. When I didn’t have my phone all of last Thursday, it felt so cool to be just living in the here, not just the now. I realised if anyone needs to reach me, they have my landline number. We seem to hate the prospect of anyone but the intended receiver picking up our calls. Why? Are we so important or busy that we cannot waste those two minutes on introducing ourselves to a stranger, making conversation, requesting to be connected? As a species noted for its social tendencies, we’re losing them.
7. Non-vegetarian food. Now I hear a loud murmur about how wrong I am, how Bandar kya jaane adrak ka swaad (which, btw, is ironical), but come on! If you’re a “pure non-vegetarian” – which is such crap, man – you can’t be Indian, have Indian non-vegetarian cuisine and then claim to be pure anything! What about all the hefty amount of spice and ancillary veggies that go into making that aromatic curry or slurp roast or fry… sigh… All there is to it seven different meats for the days of the week, as opposed to a whole new concoction every single day of the month. Variety baby, variety.
8. Poets. I had this conversation with A. last night: so many of us seat poets or even the aspiring good ones on a pedestal for nothing. You understand jack shit of what they write and think, ‘Wow he knows his shit man. He can put so much into a few words/ lines/ verses/ rhymes.’ No, no, no, love! They’re just so bad with vocabulary that they try to fit in everything into short sentences and finish it off as soon as possible. And because it’s all so ambiguous, you think they’ve been born with higher sensibilities. And shit like that.
9. T.V. Need we say more?
6.10.09
October Fragrance
It is what I call the October Fragrance.
What a pity to not be able to feel something with all your senses... You can seldom spot it, you can't feel it on your tongue, and it's so light it barely stays in your nose for a while.
And it's returned to me. I used to associate it with my neighbourhood back in Baroda, but it's caught up with me, like the flamingoes that return to the Rann of Kutch each year. It returns like the mating season, like a festival, like the falling beauty of autumn. With autumn.
It's probably got something to do with me. I was traveling to Powai the other day, late in the evening, in a cramped auto, with Nishant and his friend, when the fragrance suddenly emerged from all the wooded corridors along the road and the darkness. Looking for the source would'a been vain, because there are no street lights on that road. But I smelt it again last night, while I was driving to KC, and it found me again! And I go a little ballistic inhaling it. And I try exhaling as quickly as possible so that I can take another shot...
These flowers are mysterious. Their fragrance hits you first. Then the curiosity of where from it emanate, and finally if you're lucky and persistent enough, you might spot the picture perfect tree. Like a cluster of umbrellas-in-miniature, waiting for the rain to stop, shading the white bunches from its wrath. The strangest thing about this sweet odour is that you cannot taste it. It is not like a Mogra or Jasmine, you cannot feel it on your tongue.
15.9.09
Cheap at Half Price
My own version of the Jeffery Archer title.
Bombay freaks me out!!!
I recently committed the crime of being clad in a green kurti and jeans with purple hair clips. When it was brough to my attention, I casually dismissed it, "Do you actually expect me to care?" The response was both, overwhelmingly daunting as well as ridiculous. "Why the calssy pair of jeans then?"
The word "classy" echoed in my ears like those Ekta Kapoor dialogues - Mai tumhaare bachche ki maa banne waali hoon... maa! maa! maa!
I almost smirked, is this what you call classy?!! Thought it to be pretty tacky. At some point I'd almost vowed never to put it on again. No, it has no embellishments or noticeable flaws, except that I thought it was a tad too tight n low at the waist. Of course, one doesn't mind a 400/- buck spending being stashed away in the dark recesses of my ever undone closet.Classy.
I have religiously worn the pair at least three times a week since then. To office. In a city I find every next guy in the local train ticket line at the Bandra station to be a glitteratti aspirant, I've been accepted at too low a price.
Not complaining. Next purchase in clothing: more sasta slim fit black/ gray jeans.
Precious
Bombay's pulled all stops for me, it seems. After seven months of being in this "natural port city", I come across Precious. He is the Quintessential Face of the City. The face that shines in the street light, the feet that hate walking and yet walk a mile a day, the hair-do that conforms to corporate norms of the business district, the thin lips that twitch when they mention the name of an ex yet never fail to mention it every time...
He looks with piercing eyes. As if accusing you of amusing him. He says things the way you'd say it to your English professor: like you don't like yourself much, yet sustain for that is your duty in this world of mindless existence. He argues with his mother, yet wouldn't leave her. He's never asked a girl out, yet the confidence of living in Bombay reeks from every pore in his anatomy. He doesn't care for art, yet knows the art district in Bombay like the back of his palm.
He has, what photographers call, an "interesting" face. The ability to look into space, without gaping at anything in particular, not looking like a doper. The cleft on the chin, the eyes, the jaw, the shoulders (yes, yes, Precious, "Shoulders baby, Shoulders!") all invite you to a glimpse into his genealogy.
After successfully securing all the support systems in the strange place to keep the tear bottle in check, I'm ready - ready to laugh and smile again, unconditionally. And Precious is my partner in that crime called madness. Not the kind that leads you to asylum confinement, the kind that sets you free. Free from fears, free from hurdles, free from yourself. You know how in a partnership, there's often two kinds of investors? The kind who put in the tangible resources and the other who channels the non-tangible energies? We're that kind'a team.
I like teams. There's logic to it. Like marriage, or siblings, or best friends, or a visualiser-writer pair. Precious and I are the he-makes-me-laugh-I-make-him-laugh kind'a team. And teams of two always rock. Two people are in constant touch not because there's just need, but a sense of harmony engulfs them. A sort of energy and renewed vigour that then extends up to everything and with everyone they touch.
So why is Precious "Precious" and not just good old Anmol, Maulik or some such what's-in-a-name? Because he's intimidating, do you mind?!?!? He's not one to smile because these are the things that I choose to write about him on Bombay Chuddies, which, about... six (at least?) people read in all. Because there's bound to be more than a name and a face. This is one of those people who've plopped into my world. Like all the people I’m so obsessed about in life.
There are no questions on how long it will last, or will he be bothered. It is like jaywalking. Being a couple of shed feathers that matter not to the bird - the rest of the world. I hope you enjoy this jaywalking trip, my precious.
He looks with piercing eyes. As if accusing you of amusing him. He says things the way you'd say it to your English professor: like you don't like yourself much, yet sustain for that is your duty in this world of mindless existence. He argues with his mother, yet wouldn't leave her. He's never asked a girl out, yet the confidence of living in Bombay reeks from every pore in his anatomy. He doesn't care for art, yet knows the art district in Bombay like the back of his palm.
He has, what photographers call, an "interesting" face. The ability to look into space, without gaping at anything in particular, not looking like a doper. The cleft on the chin, the eyes, the jaw, the shoulders (yes, yes, Precious, "Shoulders baby, Shoulders!") all invite you to a glimpse into his genealogy.
After successfully securing all the support systems in the strange place to keep the tear bottle in check, I'm ready - ready to laugh and smile again, unconditionally. And Precious is my partner in that crime called madness. Not the kind that leads you to asylum confinement, the kind that sets you free. Free from fears, free from hurdles, free from yourself. You know how in a partnership, there's often two kinds of investors? The kind who put in the tangible resources and the other who channels the non-tangible energies? We're that kind'a team.
I like teams. There's logic to it. Like marriage, or siblings, or best friends, or a visualiser-writer pair. Precious and I are the he-makes-me-laugh-I-make-him-laugh kind'a team. And teams of two always rock. Two people are in constant touch not because there's just need, but a sense of harmony engulfs them. A sort of energy and renewed vigour that then extends up to everything and with everyone they touch.
So why is Precious "Precious" and not just good old Anmol, Maulik or some such what's-in-a-name? Because he's intimidating, do you mind?!?!? He's not one to smile because these are the things that I choose to write about him on Bombay Chuddies, which, about... six (at least?) people read in all. Because there's bound to be more than a name and a face. This is one of those people who've plopped into my world. Like all the people I’m so obsessed about in life.
There are no questions on how long it will last, or will he be bothered. It is like jaywalking. Being a couple of shed feathers that matter not to the bird - the rest of the world. I hope you enjoy this jaywalking trip, my precious.
11.9.09
Sutta by the Sea
I hung back at the bus stop.
No reason.
The rain - no - only a drizzle
Changed it for me.
A chill swooshed in
Mist diffused across my path
And every time it breezed
It diffused some more.
My steps slowed
The angst subsided
Like a puddle dousing a match.
The eyes began to look tonight
At colour like colour was never before.
My feet felt winged
A floating plane ashore
Like the sea itself
Asking for more.
No reason.
The rain - no - only a drizzle
Changed it for me.
A chill swooshed in
Mist diffused across my path
And every time it breezed
It diffused some more.
My steps slowed
The angst subsided
Like a puddle dousing a match.
The eyes began to look tonight
At colour like colour was never before.
My feet felt winged
A floating plane ashore
Like the sea itself
Asking for more.
8.9.09
Where's the Devil in Evelyn... Where's the Blood in Bloody Mary?
Bombay hasn't met Bloody Mary. Yes, the famed entity that's supposed to spice up your meals, however plain. Here in Bombay, people make their BMs plain as routine. It lacks the spice. The Tabasco seems amiss. The BM is truly characterless here. It has no body. No zing. No kick. It does not make you wanna finish it n then want some more. It makes you wonder, for a city that rapes and kills its women so keenly, so skillfully, they do a bloody bad job of the ooze. Of what's bound to splatter. Of what separates one's own from others, of what is thicker than water, of why step ones are always loathed.
Food, it seems, is only second to leave its imprint on a city's visitors. In a metropolis as frequented as Bombay, it extends to its drink. Still, in the quest for the perfect Mary. Like a whore, like a lover, like a thief, like some fever, like dope mid-week, like a prisoner with cheek, like dreams gone awry, like a muffled scream.
That'll be my Bloody Mary.
Food, it seems, is only second to leave its imprint on a city's visitors. In a metropolis as frequented as Bombay, it extends to its drink. Still, in the quest for the perfect Mary. Like a whore, like a lover, like a thief, like some fever, like dope mid-week, like a prisoner with cheek, like dreams gone awry, like a muffled scream.
That'll be my Bloody Mary.
5.9.09
At a Meeting with Boss, Superboss, Parag 'n his Boss
Shit. I've been noticing blackheads and white heads. On the faces of men. I thought I was idle-obsessing over Neenu - jobless as both of us were and distracting as his daane are. Either it is a genuine new 'interest', or my attention span is weaning. Writing poems during meetings, doodling, interspersing long monologues from the three grey-heads with doubts or silly, childish questions... Yawning.
Staring at people's shoes. Shoes, just shoes. Period. And hair. Jairam's is quintessential Mallu curls. Sajeev has happy, wavy "set" hair. Imagine it slightly longer. Almost hippie-like. Mr. Morada's... is crinkly. It's crinkly, thin, long on top and neatly trimmed at the back.
And where Satish's is the neatest, most appropriate, most suitable for his age-position-personality-style, one must see Parag to believe how untidy-yet-cute a guy can look. I have a feeling he puts gel in his hair to make it look that messy. Then there's Vijaya and Yogita who have pan-Mumbai hair-dos. Neat, functional, nothing fancy.
Sanchita's is a standard new-in-Bombay-cut: well conditioned and taken-care-of, but can turn pretty bad given a chance. Oh, and she wears the cheap Nariman Point- inner road- wayside shop-sandals. Thick sole, inadequate heels, all puffy and dusty and plastic. The straps, tacky; broad; out-dated.
Heels. I'm obsessed with those as well these days. Height is highly (pun! pun! pun!) underrated.
Written during a meeting at the Bakhtawar Office
My boss's boss is really just a child. He goes up to others for approval. Professionally or personally. Whether it is a business decision, a doubt in sentence construction, a proposal he must make to the Chairman, a new white shirt he may have recently bought and worn to office, or even a tacky navy blue tie with tiny L&T logos splattered all over, like mud stains on a 3rd standard football player's white sports t-shirt (God knows why schools have white uniforms for PT classes).
He could be easily perceived as young-at-heart, passionate, dedicated, et el. Alas, his height gives away his insecurities, his diffidence behind the heavy facade of aggression and understanding - of knowledge as a weapon of mass control.
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