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?

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.

Bombay Belly

It is not funny how food becomes the atom of our molecular existence when we leave home. Hyderabad, Bombay, Delhi, Pune... there's no food better than home. It stops to matter whose home even! You begin to appreciate thick फुल्काs with Amul butter instead of ghee, slightly undercooked rajma and lacklustre saltless दाल - so long as you've witnessed its preparation in copper bottomed हांडीs or aluminium sauce pans.


But some of us are bizarre that way. The addiction of that 'outside' taste practically gags us on our shortest visits home and we see the path to moksha clearly etched on a longer return. Lots'a oil, even more spice, crazy quantity and a crazier budget. They say that while the world eats to live, we Indians live from one meal to the next. Punjus and Gujjus specially mascot the cause.

Quite unlike my two-year hiatus in Hyderabad, Bombay inculcated in me an opposite kind'a taste in food. I enjoy blandness streaked by just one or two dominant flavours now. Whether it was the रोटी-सुब्ज़ी with खट्टा अचार & लस्सी at Crystal, mushroom risotto at Tea Centre, pesto sauce pasta at Under the Banyan Tree, मूर्घ काली मिरी at Maroosh, mint-barley-tofu salad at Moshe's, classic pizza at Indigo Deli or sandwiches at Kala Ghoda Cafe.

Oh. I realise I've just listed the best food there is in Bombay. Apologies to all who read this post at 12 o'clock - am or pm *wink*.

Coming back to blandness, I wonder if it is a weakening of the tongue's sensitivity or sharpening. I consume an almost spiceless diet now. And when ma gets छोले made here at home, I crave for Veg Felafel's hummus with the ancillaries - tahini, pickled salad, pita and their special lemonade-in-a-bottle [!] I remember the time Nina accompanied me to the outlet near my hostel. After the third morsel, he was almost force-feeding himself like those ducks in Sweden are to fatten their livers (Europeans consider this a delicacy). "Hate" was mild.

Veg Felafel became my Saturday afternoon lunch place early in my stay. It was one cuisine I had never tried - and couldn't in Hyderabad - and was most curious about, after an Ian Wright episode of Lonely Planet, on Israel. The first time I walked into the tiny two-storey outlet opposite East at Kemps Corner, I was given ample time to take in the yuppie interiors. Simple, bright and unmistakeable – their grey & green lettering and the steel & wood furniture through the glass facade made it easy to spot the little deli in other areas [there's one opposite the Citibank ATM near Regal Cinema] where I often fell prey to hunger on my Saturday post-work jaunts.

It was THE place that whisked away my inhibitions about eating alone. Not that I was ashamed of appearing a hog, but I hated eating without company. It brought home loneliness in flower-power-print-size and tones. VF was warm. And it was always interesting to see the sort of people who came in, Couples my age, groups of school kids with a mom supervising [and paying for their insatiable appetites], solo Parsi or third generation Gujarati men from the neighbourhood often waiting for their takeaways being packed.

I was never tired of reading the framed newspaper reviews on the wall near the door. There was even a health-benefits-of-hummus chart there [how nutritious and high-fibre it is, etc.]! The wait was never long, yet entertaining. The whole experience gave me time to introspect on the week's madness. The fact that the place was a hop, skip & jump away from where I lived made time a non-factor.

Any place alien becomes real - one's own even - by the variety of culinary stimulation it has to offer. Bombay is perhaps the most widespread and bustling kitchen all the time - beach side food stalls, खाऊ गल्लीs, Mohammed Ali road's Idi festivities that send the palate into a scrumptious frenzy, or the numerous takeaway places and fine dining restaurants that dot the geography of South Bombay.

Unlike most people who miss घर का खाना, I stopped a long time ago...or did I even begin?

Sardar

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

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

So?

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

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

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

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

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

Off Limits

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dombivli is not in Bombay

Neel thought we’ll reach there from Powai in half an hour. Sure.

Parag’s engagement ceremony turned out to be eventful in more ways than we could fathom. Ever. It was supposed to be an evening outing that we figured in the course of our journey, should’ve been more a day trip.

Bare facts:

• Dombivli is a valley town about 20 minutes from Matheran. [*smirk* Ever heard Marianne enunciate the name?]
• It is probably a station away from Panvel, the official gateway to the ghats from Bombay.
• It is beyond Kalyan.

It’ll remind you of the old area of your town – tiny bylanes with one arterial road to which they all meet. There are shops that sell sweet meats, auto parts, tailoring services, provisions, watches.

So we hitched an auto at the Infotech gate, warned by our autowala that we’ll have to change at Mulund Check Naka.

Neel: Parag, chutiya saala!
I: Shhh!

Off we were, blabbering about the week gone by. Traffic began to thin so were fancy commercial establishments. I don’t remember any malls en route.

“This isn’t Bombay”

We knew this little factoid of life, even if local trains extended to there and beyond. And it was the highway! With green fields on either side, and hills on the horizon, Dombivli still a bleak possibility, “Dude, this is definitely not Bombay. The auto’s moving faster than a Lamborghini!”

Our autowala may not have taken too kindly to our entertaining banter. We had just entered the ghats. This was alarming enough. Who asked for his express advice? But he went on, “ यह Mumbra bypass है.” Uh oh – wherever that was, the name was spooky enough, “आप रात को कैसे जानेवाले हो?”
Neel: Cab से, क्यूँ?
Auto guy: यह area danger होता है. बोहोत खतरनाक.

I panicked at “खतराक”. Neel found it all highly amusing. As usual.

More vroom vroom and having crossed the ghati patch, Neel utters another set of his golden ones, “We are definitely nowhere near Bombay anymore, yaa Priyanca.” Yes Neel, I needed reminding.

Directions were already becoming confusing. Two calls to Parag and one on Baby’s cell and we were still measuring the perimeter of Dombivli. And then came Neelanjan Dasgupta’s priceless-of-the-evening,

“Let’s go back.”

I could hear the sound of vacuum for a while. “Shut the fuck up, moron!@#%$%,” is what I wanted to say. Instead the more mild, almost bland “Don’t be silly. We’re almost there” came out.

6 intonations of “गोग्रस्वादी किधर है?” and lots’a a backing and forthing later, we found Patharli road, at the end of which our destination lay. But as soon as soon as we entered the lane, our irritation, fatigue, complaints about inaccurate directions – and time – all melted away.

Our own sets of memories took us back in time to different places – Neel to Kolkata, I to a bylane in the Lakdi Pul area in Baroda. Tiny shops, a बकड़ा, simple life...

It also gave us both an insight into where this guy we call “friend” comes from: his childhood, his present, how he perceives us, how he perceives it all, his daily commute [and we complain], why he’d do it at all!

Like a pilgrimage, going all the way gave us a capsule of life the way we’ve lived one time not long ago, but shunned to the back burner in our struggle to maintain mundane routine.

The ceremony itself, the milieu, the people & their garb, the food, it all said, “We haven’t succumbed to the pressures that that Dumpyard lays on us.” Its superiority lies in its simplicity, in its non-flashiness, in its welcoming-with-flowers-and-attar and introductions to one’s kith and kin. I was instantly humbled and felt honoured that Parag chose to invite me!

I know he’s as much a tiny-towner as I and it’s perhaps that much easier for him to take to me than all of Bombay’s glamour-collective. Dombivli’s indeed beyond Bombay. Even above.

Haji Ali

We look for peace in the most obvious places – despite also its obvious absence. Our sense of subtlety takes a royal hike, a half drenching walk half a kilometre into the sea on a barely safeguarded pathway notwithstanding; even if the sight of beggars all along numbs you - random limbs absent, too apparent for accident. Also sandwiched is the walk with a trail of makeshift-vendors on the other side – wares ranging knick knacks to religious books, chaddars and sweets. And you almost flip when you spot a goat on the roof of a makeshift shack among many – constantly swept by the sea – a plethora of dirt and rubbish ironically left behind.


My trip to Haji Ali was satisfying, though not spiritually. I found all that I had expected – to comfortably walk right up to the tomb; little interference from the police; lovely elaichi chai and piping hot vada pau inside the dargah periphery; and of course, Nidhi’s suggestion to see the back side that allowed for an audience of qawwali. But ibaadat is not for public consumption. Praise must come from the heart.

That was my last day at L&T – two days before I’d leave Bombay for at least a while, if not good. But god comes in myriad forms. Shafquat Qualandar’s Damadam Mast Kalandar flowed in the languid force of the scorching Swaraj Express’ already late huddle to Bombay. The singers, a trio of young men, barely old enough to squeak “As Salaam Valai Kum” sang in the voices god: loud, clear, never-out’a-tune and ever reverential. The dholi’s throat was ivory – washed in perspiration, veins throbbing as he sang, “हर दम पीरा तेरी खैर होवे. ” Another older percussionist, with a hoarser pitch, no less forceful, chorused the first’s young passion. The third voice on the harmonium remained just a voice. All I remember of him was that he conformed in garb – chequered blue lungis and mulmul kurtas with black knitted caps on each of their heads.

These boys sang with authority – a quiet dignity – a love for the creator. It is predictable, God will come to them; to them he will yield; to them he will deign; them, he will reward.

Why are we so afraid of praising god? Why do we hesitate to believe in our own faith? What holds us back from loving? Is it the fear of losing our own positions? Is it the fear of losing our object of affection? Has the fear of god’s tests and wraths ever held us from committing our daily quota of minuscule crimes and sins? How do you explain sleeping dreamlessly despite them? Is it fear at all?

To be afraid of praise (whether for oneself or directed towards another) is to be afraid of criticism (often being diplomatic or vain to the point of irritation). To be afraid of loving then, would amount to fear of pain itself – all inevitable? It is to merely breathe like vegetable, afraid of converting the potential of each living moment into a kinetic event.

Sometimes it feels criminal to equate peace with silence or inaction. Sometimes peace comes in the satisfaction of exhaustion. Sometimes it seems to percolate to the very core of chaos.

Tonight: Alam Ara

Ever wondered why old old ooooooooooooooold  Hindi or regional film music is always associated with early morning? Chai shops and news stands and all things ancient and shady-looking assume a dignified air when their radio plays some golden oldies. Is it the unpredictability of it that makes it so special? Is it the peculiar tabla-harmonium-taisokoto sounds that make songs from the 30s and 40s so so SO romantic. Even if you don't know the lyrics. Even if you don't know the tune. Even if you don't know the singer or composer or film. The nasal playback notwithstanding, an old song lends dignity to an otherwise ordinary household.

Leesel and I stood near Tiger Gate today at lunch time. A cobbler was sitting nearby, doing his thing. Old Marathi film songs played on the medium wave.

A Day in the Life of Working Women’s Hostel Resident

5:15 am. First alarm goes off. Conscious. Alive. Today is neither a holiday, nor Sunday, nor calamitous - no escaping the drudgery of yet another day at work.

6:30 am. Alarm 2, this time. Awake. When I slept last night [before 11:00 or after 01:00], will dictate whether this is when I’ll shake myself out of my mattress [I don’t sleep on a bed. I hear the noises beneath me. They say sleeping on a wooden floor is healthy] or wait for the third alarm.

7:30 am. Alarm 3. “Dude!!! GET UP. In this half sleepy state, I must remember to carry my toiletries and towel and clothes for the day to the bathroom – which is other side of the planet. If it’s a Wednesday, then I must also remember to gather my clothes and dump on to the laundry guy. Note to self: don’t forget to give him a piece of your wisdom on carrying change, which he will promptly forget by next Wednesday. The bastard.

7:50 am. God save me if I wake up with a hunger pang. Rush for breakfast only to find something insipid like kanda poha. Ew.

8:15 am. All dressed up, fed and ready to leave. Yeah, ideally.

8:30 am. Either the bus is taking forever to come, or the ideal situation above has not really transpired. Frantic SMS to Rashna [if it’s the summer holidays or a Saturday, which is when she comes to stay at her uncle’s house at Kemps Corner] if I can hitch a ride with her in her husband’s car.

Walk down to Cumbala Hill Hospital and there starts the F1 ride in Max’s Esteem. Head down, read to distract from Max’s highly erratic and rash though amazingly fast driving. Otherwise, “Taxi!”

8:45 am. Punch in at work. The rest of the day occurs like a surprise a minute – wow! I’ve survived so far.

4:55 pm. Visit to the washroom. Spruce up for and if date/ party/ outing scheduled; relieved that the day’s over.

5:07 pm. Pick up bag and start marching.

5:15 pm. Curse inwardly – “Is this bus ever trudging?" The bus driver promptly listens to this telepathic enquiry; climbs on & starts the engine. Conductor also. Not start engine. Just climb on. “Shit! Think fast! You wanna get off at Kala Ghoda or Churchgate or Kemps Corner?” 

1. If I’m way too tired or with Rashna, KC.
2. If Neel’s the travel partner, then – ha ha, no bus 122 in the first place – cab to Churchgate.
3. If there’s something neat at Jehangir, or today feels like shopping at Colaba, then KG.
4. If Parag’s coming along to J, then walk. If I’m going with him to VT, same.

6:15 pm. Finally at KC (assuming it is 1). Walk to hostel. Crash.

8:10 pm. Nidhi knocks. Wake up/ dinner call. Soak clothes to wash. Block space on table nearest to tv. That’s where the funny ones sit. Food: not bad, as usual.

9:20 pm. Retire to kholi. Read. Call home/ Sajani/ Twako/ Ar/ Nina/ someone I haven’t spoken to in ages.

10:00 pm. Shiitake!! Remember clothes to wash. Drag self to.

10:25 pm. Run shouting at Pratima to delay locking terrace by 10 minutes. Hang clothes to dry.

10:30 pm. Lights-off-bell rings.

10:35 pm. Come back from terrace.

10:55 pm. Sylvie knocks, “Light off karo.”

                Oh alright!
                Dark & Dead.

Samovar

Its chairs have borne many an artist, the fans have cooled many burning passions, the outside fuses with the indoors through its barbed wall - and we thought that's what fences make.

Samovar oozes an ethos of the 80s' elitism-meets-flower power-hippie culture. It's where iced tea is just that, not some corrupt concoction of flavours suited to PMSing tempers. Its lampshades hang in no perfect symmetry except their uniform face.

I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees

This evening was a memory of a previous one. Same time - time of day, time of year too, perhaps - or at least it breezed like it. A picture of Neruda hung by my table - some of his lines beneath the grinning black 'n white portrait. This one stuck, "I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees." Ananda Shankar played unintrusively loud, sinking all traces of work, scatterbrain emotions, the mundane din of traffic at Kala Ghoda.

I'd walked in with lemonade and samosa in mind. I also ordered tea at the end for sake of the old memory.

Spontaneous Thrash

This  post comes more out'a irritation towards tiny little things for tiny little moments and so it may not seem like it's saying much. But heck! I wanna scribble some!

Got back to my personal diary with a vengeance this weekend. Figured out things in my inward conversations and analysed behavioral eccentricities. While most of my thoughts through the last whole year have been centred around the city, there's obviously personal growth and therefore chaos brewing in my head. Several people have coined several phrases and terms for it - "मगज ना घोडा", "Govind Nihalani", "daily reports" and what not. But thinking has never brought more clarity. Thankfully Nidhi was around and that gave me strength.

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Saturday afternoon was a solo lunch after a long time. Nice Thai chicken sandwiches from Markiv's, Churchgate. YuM-Mee! Dated later. Unusual as usual. Had dinner that started with Vada Pao for aperatif, Pani Puri for some more goading of the digestive juices, and finally a Ceasar Salad and Death-by-Chocolate. Good conversation is always added incentive. The in-betweens turned out to be excellent confidence-boosters.

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Cough-cold-fever. It's been torturing my innards for over a week now and getting onto my nerves. I need something drastic. Hot water, cinnamon and Levocet haven't aided much. Entering the BEnadryl phase and hating it - hating it entirely. Sleepy.

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Work should go fuck itself. It such anyway.

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Completely glued to A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth. Engaging yet going nowhere. Let's see when my patience ebbs. Picked up a tatterred copy from the रद्दीवाला around the corner at Kemp's Corner near Esbeda. It occupied the top place on a stack and my instinct said, "Dude PU, you're said to be a lit student and you've never even attempted Seth." Thank God  I listen to myself.

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Wanna travel, but the heat is forbidding. just came back from the chemists' this noon. The blasted sun should be shot!

******************

YAWN

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.