So Many Memories

There are two delights to which nothing compares – the delight of watching the moon last thing outdoors by night fall and listening to the same national radio station first thing in the morning as the one that woke you each morning back at home. Above all, the sense of being connected to someone through not only a tangible common medium is somehow binding in a good way. Visible. Audible. In whatever form. It’ll always be the same across miles. Devoid of barriers of time and space and region.

Crescent or full

In the wake of night

Sinking, sinking

the sepia moon.

This morning I heard Sangeet Sarita on Vividhabharti, the Hindustani classical music programme. They announced Puriya Dhanasri for tomorrow’s episode.

Two nights ago I excitedly cursed the full moon on the horizon to Kshitij on the phone, standing in my balcony. It preened shamelessly in literally all its glory. This side of the city isn’t that polluted so it was whiter than it would seem in the city skies. देखो  वोह चाँद छुपके करता है क्या इशारे lost all significance. No hiding happening here; all clouds sent home; packed in their cold blankets. Subtlety to the dogs. So many memories.

Aazadiyaan, Udaan

It's official. I've been boiling misery the past two weeks - in varying degrees of intensity. and the music - surprizingly - has been of most help. It's been everything, from Gujarati ghazals to retro to jazz to film music. But last evening, it struck me that the most of the music and counselling happened in Upasana's car. In fact, the music played catalyst to the couselling.

And once again, I wept to Tere Ishq Mein as i waited for Upasana to get back from an enquiry for her iPhone motherboard at the Jubilee Hills Technovision. Surprizingly, as we approached the Indu township, Aazadiyan tuned in. पैरों की बेड़ियाँ ख्वाबों को बांधे नहीं रे...

For the past few days, I've been continuously asking myself why I bothered coming to Hyderabad in the first place. What was I thinking?! And this song - my anthem; my mantra; my motivation - beckoned me to think again. I came here for freedom. I came here to realise my dreams. I came here because I was determined to make it a second time - make it big, make it bright. I'd snatched it, not asked for it, not begged.

And when no one could stop me from coming, from flying, why this dilemma? Aazadiyaan brought back my spirit; my revelry in this city. It was never meant to be the end of my quest, but a means to my motives - a means to be happier and more productive.

The song reminded me not to despair for what I'm missing - I should've in fact expected it - कहानी ख़तम है, या शुरुआत होने को है? आने वाला वक़्त देगा पनाहें, या फिर से मिलेंगे दो राहें. So here I am, treating this as the answer to all the chaos in my head. खबर क्या... क्या पता?

Oye Lucky, Lucky Oye!

Waiters have a miserable existence. They can never enjoy a gig at their own workplaces. They must pay attention to work. It must be frustrating to not be able to get carried away with the music. Especially when it's good. Piteous existence is theirs who must drudge for every penny.

Thank you God. For parents who provided. For the comforts. For enough.

Once more, I feel lucky for the parents I was born to. When else though?

A few months ago when I saw Udaan. It's a film that made me thank god for the parents I have. They let me do my thing. They let me make mistakes and learn. They let me carve out my own paths professionally and in love.

Walk in the Wind

I walked in the cold wind today. It of course ruffled my hair and made me shiver and added a shrill bleat to my voice, but little did I figure, that in its anaesthetic numbness, it was injecting a pain in my left knee that would come alive when my limbs warmed up considerably under the blanket.

The first tinge of sensation entered my toes and base of foot just a few moments ago. I know now, more than I’ve known in years, what the word ‘warm’ connotes. My fingers can type again. Efficiently, swiftly. I can differentiate pain from itch and itch from that physical feeling of unfeeling. I feel the vapour of my breath fill up this little tent propped up on my knees at one end and my head at the other.

The smells come alive. The vague stench of the salwar worn all day, which I’m half lazy to change, the sweat, the faint flavour of my toothpaste, the staleness of my day-old washed hair. They all seem to be in conversation, as if to condemn the contents of the book that lies in my lap – open yet bookmarked.

Thank god the tent is lined with a quilt designed out of my mother’s sari on the inside. It makes the shelter, even if makeshift, homely.

Dialogue in the Dark

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Majestic Spook-sion

Majestic Mansion it seems. "BIG SHIT" as Sruti puts it.

Scratch all those paeans I sang about my first house in Hyderabad. Yes it was lovely, yes the balcony was romantic, yes the rooms were big and I had it all to myself, but it’s amazing how tiny a trigger it takes to destroy that feeling of comfort and security in a quiet house by night.

So… how tiny was the trigger?

The size of a palm.

Only two nights after I wrote about my one-woman house party, I heard noises: first in the balcony, and then scurrying in the kitchen. I was petrified, but got up to check. As I approached the bedroom door, I heard distinct scuttle near my bin – not ten steps away. I screamed. I knew I was gonna be dead. I screamed and screamed. It was amazing that for the time of night, the noises were steady enough to wake me from deep slumber, allow me to get out of bed, walk to the living room door, open the latches and unlock the grille.

I screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed my guts out. Called for help. I thought someone had entered the house. How, though still a mystery, was not even my concern. That someone could, was bad enough. And after all those horror stories that mom and Dida had ranted about how people’s homes were broken into, and when nothing was found, the occupants injured or killed, scared me to almost fainting.

When I think of the night, it injects indomitable fear inside of me. I’ve been a rather fearless soul most of my life. The past few years especially have been a relay of one gutsy decision after another. Stepping into that crazy ass place called Bombay and then chucking a perfectly secure committed relationship ka bubble, sacking my boss a year later, taking a four-month break, taking off again to come farther away after almost being determined to stay closer to home… leaving baby and the comforts of home.

But all those steps were taken not out of fear, but a sense of self preservation. This time, I’m fucking spooked. A month before I moved to Hyderabad, Anuj asked me if I was afraid of ghosts. Who’s seen one, was my reply! But voices can send chills of various kinds. One is the fear of losing one’s sanity, the other of losing life.

In the past two years, I’ve never felt the need to exist for a reason – not for others, least of all, myself. Have you ever thought that your being madly cheerful could teach a child to smile? Or that a ringing smile over the phone could comfort your parents a few hundred miles away that you’re happy and healthy and healing? Or even be so super kicked as to club each night for three weeks straight with someone going through a divorce?

But that night brought with it a fear. Of being lost to all these wonderful people. I’m not implying that these people can’t live without me – not for a moment – but they’ve made me realise what I can give them. And I want to give more, not succumb to some desperate petty thief’s frustration at being so penniless.

Coming back to the question – what was the trigger? Well, a tiny ass rat. A rat, yes. Ha ha. Laugh, why don’t you?

It drove me insane – the noise, even from outside in the distance, echoing around the empty hall. I cried and cried and begged friends to let me stay with them till I found another place. I even reconciled to it, thinking it will go away – the fear, the insanity.

I moved into Malaysian Township three days ago. It’s crazy commuting distance everyday, but it’s nice. The drive isn’t junkyard traffic. And the township itself is self-contained. And guess what? It has a pool! A POOL! But most of all, I have friends there. The warmth of having people around to smile or have a cuppa chai or out hangout late talking about crappy Bollywood movies beats all comforts. And this whole proximity to the workplace is a sham.

I used to wonder forever in Bombay why and how people could travel two hours each day to and from work – in the train or bus or even hailing a taxi or worse still, drive! But it’s ok. It’s an urban reality. So the work place is far far away from home. That’s good no? The boss can’t call you in the middle of the night of a super brilliant weekend. And in my case, the commute is also a good drive!

So all those who would laugh at my shift cuz of a tiny rodent, it is NOT FUNNY. And I’m sure you’ll all mock-sympathise and say “ya ya, we understand and fear is completely natural,” but even coKo admitted, “I dunno how you survived even those two months at the Bs’.”

Not a soul around and a House Party

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PU Guide

When i first did the quintessential Bombay walk, Abhishek showed me how. He did not bother selecting or giving me a choice. The itinerary was in his mind. He knew exactly where to stop, where to stroll, where to take it brisk, what to point out and what to gloss over. He knew me and he knew where I'd feel most "at home". Little did he know though, that four years down from the four days he'd known me, this would indeed end up being मेरा इलाका. South Bombay had never captivated me so much as that late [in terms of time as well as date] November evening, considering मासा would often drive us down to Central or Worli seaface or even Marine Drive. Sure, he had shown us everywhere that the crowds flocked, but not where one found peace. Not where even amidst the mob, one could enjoy the scent of the charmer that is Bombay.

Four years down, the walk [almost] replicated itself with [almost] Abhishek. Precious seemed to have been instructed, yet there was an element of new. In that, I was shown the wooden staircase that made you feel 40 years older and truly regal. The film turned out to be shitty. They couldn't have helped it. The crowd, all there only for the experience, and the boy and I - we should've sat away at the parapet across the Taj instead of scurrying back for the film.

But there was more to see. The first time I met NiNa, I also saw a part of very-much-Bombay that occupied the darkest rumours in my head thus far. Some of them were so false I checked with NiNa twice if we really were in a koliwada. Not only because there were no kolis but also because there was an overflowing number of scorching-sizzling-wow Punjabis and Sikhs in the area. It was beauty crisis plunging deep into the negative. When a few Sundays later he suggested we breakfast at Madras Cafe, I couldn't believe my luck! There was a list of things that one must have stricken off before leaving the metropolitan, and NiNa was instrumental in knocking off a lot of them [though the list remains quite unfulfilled yet]. He showed me the wonders of Bandra - Bandstand, Carter Road, Pali Naka, Hill Road, Perry Road, the junction of Shopper's Stop where he n I had that yummy dinner at Sheesha... I figured it was time to pay back.

What began as just an idle wandering across Chowpatty - dinner at Crystal, गोला at the beach, a further drive down to the Point and hanging legs off the broad parapet over the brakers - became an obsession. It was a ritual we followed on crappy days - Mondays usually, or long days. Days when I hated my boss or he hated work or both [and sometimes neither]. We may still not have the perfect Queen's Necklace snap, but we ended up taking many silhouettes and even more lit NCPA buildings. The pendant was at least our's to begin with.

Arunav's trip gave me a chance to explore bit of my now informedness. I knew where to ask for Shack - right outside Jai Hind. And who - Anand Tiwari - a lesser known actor though a strong stage personality, who'd just stepped out'a an auto, still paying, and scratching his head at my question, in a khadi kurta pyjama. I don't think I'll ever reember the roads in Bandra. Whether it was while in an auto with Arunav, traipsing with Priyanka or biking to St. Andrew's with NiNa. Or even heading towards Madhavan uncle's house on Perry Road.

Sajani is a creature meant for South Bombay. Or perhaps its intricately fabricated grilles and meandering streets were created to satisfy her curiosity. To fill her camera with images of the Great Western Building or the traffic lights at Opera House and Mint Road behind Kala Ghoda, or the lovely blue synagogue or for that matter, all the sights that the 122 route could present to her unending quest for streetside sepia.

But it was that little talk on parenting with Subir at Samovar, and then another talk about everything with Fir and then yet another solo to honour the memory of Abhi T - sitting under the poster of Neruda with lines from his poems inscribed underneath. Always chai, always samosa, always always. There is no way one can by pass the art gallery on the right at the Jehangir Art Gallery. But in order to satisfy the hunger of the tummy, the aesthetic hunger must be satisfied first. Or perhaps it is the appetizer to the main course.

And then Anuj happened. Anuj? Arre Anuj! First he mentioned, then I was lugged, then he dragged and finally I tagged along. Our drive from Bombay Central station to Vashi was a long journey through nostalgia. That thing I detest most. A cigarette accompanied us both. He was sleepy, my eyes moist. "It's time you made new memories." Truly, the bike trip back was a memory alright!

Auto Pilot

The autos - it always boils down to the auto rickshaws. Unwilling, stubborn, obstinate, vain and lazy! Not themselves, of course not. What renders them so wonting? Povery, greed or just the absence of fear? Three just passed me. The drivers looking askance. She doesn't wanna go home? What's she scribbling that's more important than reaching home in this weather (it was pouring)? Doesn't anyone see the plainly writ "I've had enough" across my face? How's it so invisible? So not apparent and obvious? my godsend asked me to wait right here.

Another auto just passed; slowed by; stared; curious bastard. Fuck you bitch! I feel a curse surging. Shhh, says another voice.

A hurting woman. Devoid of love. I hate this whole business of rceiving favours and not returning them. Hate... hate, hate...

Old City New Charm

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

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

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

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

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

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

An evening with an ET reporter

We met on Monday morning. Enough paper strewn about the table to make me cringe all morning. But a bright "G'morning!" changed all that. A brief conversation and I was off on my amble to the office - Day 1.

Shekhar promised he'd see me at dinner. Promised kya, he had little choice but to. I was hungry by 8:30 so didn't bother waiting. Besides he was busy on a call and I had a PG Wodehouse for company.

What began as a casual exchange about humorists went on to a serious discussion on our favourite writers, films, music, existential topics, microfinance... I sang some, we laughed some more... He told me about his best friend Rafaq and his wedding, I told him about a former Accounts Comptroller General of India. He made funny faces. I sang some more... I told him I was scared - well at least apprehensive. He said I couldn't ask for more.

I've stayed in guest houses aplenty. Some from L&T, and others as guests of employees. Citibank. Lalbhai Realty. Arvind Mills. Fancy, well kept, expensive upholstery and even classier gadgets. Yet something was always amiss.

And then I arrived at the ToI guest house. The security men have been overwhelmingly polite and well behaved and even cheerful. So have the caretaker and cook. The morning actually becomes good when they wish you. Bunch of Oriyas all. Rather scared of being ousted for any inane reason that the supervisor fancies. Safe.

The place itself is rather simple. The linen's all local. None of that synthetic, heavy stuff that reeks after the first fortnight and is hard to weild. Cotton weaves. Handloom. Simple white sheets to sleep on. Just the way I like it. Just what puts me to sleep.

Precious II

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

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

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

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

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