88th birth anniversary

Today is my Nanaji's 88th birth anniversary. Had he been alive, he'd have been flummoxed by what I do. Annual Reports without touching the financials?! How is that possible, he would've asked.

And probably raised his brow at facts like I've spend two 45-minute sessions in the midst of the founding Chairman of a prominent bank+NBFC that has just completed 25 years, and plays a prominent role in many a policy framing of the country. He would've asked, what's the office like? Can you see the sea? Good furniture? The art would not have interested him. The size would've.

And he would've found it totally unbelievable that I've had copious (conservative copious, chal na) cups of black tea too. We shall gloss over the details.

And when he'd've seen my company's logo on the back cover of another FMCG conglomerate's annual report, he'd've given a satisfactory nod.

I will never love him. I will never forgive him for how he treated my father. But I learnt what not to be in life. Happy 88 dada...

The sea is me

Every time I'm at Bandra or Amarson's park or even Worli or Nariman Point or Juhu, the one thing I know is that there's someone at the other end, listening to my rant, listening to whatever I have to say, whatever I must blurt out, my mistakes, my frustration, my wants, my regrets. the sea makes the right noises: the "hmm"s, the "I know what you mean"s. In rapt attention.

  

It's the friend I thought I will never have; the unconditional friend; the friend who doesn't feel the need to touch; just the aura is good enough.

  

The light breeze is not didactic or probing. The sea knows many of my secrets, many of my stories, so it is a sea of stories. And every time its waves ebb, it comes afresh with a clear slate to start listening once more. It doesn't change the topic, it doesn't wipe my tears, it's just there.

  

The sea is not pretty or tall or hunky. It is mine yet no one's. It will not deny. It has never said no. It will never go away, if anything, It will just keep edging closer. Like the old doctor husband of Fermina Daza in Love in the Time of Cholera.

  

It is large

  

It contradicts itself

  

The sea is me

 

...

I love

Earthlings all

It is very hard not to notice all the REAL celeb junta that frequents the theatre hub of the country at Juhu. Mostly because of the understatedness, but every once in a while, because of the ADD afflicted minority that must go "Hi daahling! Missed you at someone-insignificant's house warming..."

During my first stint in Bombay (and this precursor will probably precede a lot of my posts to come for a while because I've been infected by the then-n-now bug), the only times I went to Prithvi was to watch plays. The luxuries of lounging, sitting and working, reading poems, critiquing others', etc. was seldom an option. It was always too out of the way.

And now, I'm discovering the tiny pleasure of taking time off work and just sitting there a while - reading, plugging in my music, taking in the sounds and sights of pseudo and serious, veteran and aspiring theatre personalities. It has become my meeting point. The 20-buck addictive chai makes it an inviting meeting point. To be able to occupy only as much space as you need - the stools, the cement benches, the chairs are all share-able.

You can choose to walk down to the beach on a rainy afternoon, or to the many cafes and restaurants around for a meal, or even to the church close by for evening mass.

So when do we meet next@Prithvi?

Kabhi aana tu meri gali

Lahar had warned me: finding a place in Bombay is a matter of luck. The first house I saw, as I’ve chronicled earlier, was worse than a pigeonhole. I was beginning to worry. How long will I have to suffer Masilini – my very own fascist dictator aunt? So a couple of days went by and a Farzana Sheikh called. Her fast and smooth Bombay talk made me a tad suspicious, but she is a woman, I thought. And she echoed the compassion and empathy of one.

The not-so-secret agent convinced me to at least check out the place. I wasn’t quite sure, but मरता क्या न करता? At the end of a tiring day, I hitched an auto and told the driver to take me where I now belong. The lane I was to enter was approached by the heavily-cursed metro railways station site and into a bazaar – fruit, veggies, puja ka samaan, chemists, slinky sequinned gowns – so far so good. Then the agent’s “लड़का” escorted me into the specific lane. And then there were smallish eateries and broilers and pet shops.

We walked and walked – I losing patience with every step and the sudden and growing silence and darkness – him losing patience because of my questions; we came to a halt right in front of the gates of my building. I met the landlady and her mother and there began a relationship. She "liked" me.

In three days I moved in – no lock, hardly any stock, and sans barrels.

My first night was uncertain. I didn’t have a pillow, but a mattress with a clean sheet was in place. The room is furnished with apparent necessities, but it is still in need of a full-length mirror. The house does not have a filter, but I have my kettle so I boil tap water. No fridge either. No gas stove.

When I woke up that first Monday in my own space, the brilliance of a big square window took me by surprise. Calm windows at respectful distance with one humouring a cage with yellow parakeets, the noise of children playing in the courtyard downstairs, and the drone of a bunch of girls singing Hindustani classical music were some of the first elements that struck me about the place. I am still not entirely in love with the place, but I’m warming up to it.

It has been about a month since I began staying at one of the many CHSes that line the maze of middle-class Four Bungalows. The lane is lined with avenue trees – Neem, Gulmohar, Mango, Ashoka. It is paved with cement tiles to reinforce the road beneath – a phenomenon that is trademark to Bombay. One end (towards Juhu) opens out to a quiet main road nearer to some good eateries (important, right?) and the other end opens out to the Manish Market – fruits, veggies, a fruit juice-and-sandwich bar, a फरसान shop, provision store, broiler, bar, medical shops, and a bank. In short, everything I need.

In a couple of years, by the time I’ll have been bored to death and preparing to leave the city once more, the Versova Metro station will also have come up. For now, I must suffer the brief spell of construction site dust each morning and late evening when I cross the junctions underneath the pillared bridge.

The place is within a 15 minute radius of my office, an ultra mega super super-specialty hospital, my aunt’s and brother’s homes, some of the best restaurants in town (again, so important no?), a few laundries, and Neel’s and my boss’s residence (the last two are inconsequential, but heck).

My landlady is the conservative types who would much rather have me home by 6 and then just hang about so she can eventually do away with the maid-cum-caretaker. I don’t return until the wee hours. I make sure I run off to Baroda over many weekends. I refuse to take charge of the place. Being responsible for a house that isn’t yours in spirit, or sans anyone to come back to is not worth it. Let it be an expensive crash pad, but I’d much rather the attachment ended there.

Mumbai Masala

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

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

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

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

Sign of the times

Brutus and I had a meandering conversation last Navratri about what he was doing in an engineering conglomerate when his real place was at the feet of an arts faculty or in the dark, cozy lap of an ad agency. He hated me for rekindling what was until then dying its natural trickling death, his ability to write.

When a few months before that, we had just been introduced, he ended up trusting me with a piece he'd written to edit the following saturday noon. Edit I did, and make it sound future-usable we managed, but something within me wanted it to go farther. I wanted Brutus to do what most engineers only idle fantasise about, and the fantasy fades into the utopic horizon of the past, as the future bogs them down or heaves them to a height from which the only way to descend is to jump.

Then courage and reason both visited my Brute. He took the MICAT a couple of months back. Last month he received a notification inviting him to appear for the group discussion and interview. Apparently some are also offered spot admissions. Either because they aren't worth being given the arduous wait of 20 days for the results, or that they may decide right away before the complacency sets in and others may be admitted at the end of those 20 days. My guess is as good as anybody else's.

Brutus will now be my visitor's pass at the fifth prestigious national institution in Ahmedabad.

Brutus' admission, Siva's extension for friendship and Mayur and Amrita's reunion feel like signs. I don't know what of, but as Ujjwal and Ranju had said, this stint in Bombay might bear sweet fruit for me...

"Aap midiya mein ho?"

I'm beginning to get used to this Media career tag. I wouldn't be surprised if my landlady threw me out'a the house soon for never really showing my face, but I really can't be bothered.

So it's been just over a week since I began work here and the pace seems to be consuming me. I haven't FBed in what seems like ages and social life is crammed to a phone call to Kshitij or Karan, a weekend trip home, misal pao with Siva or stray smses to Twako. I haven't done the ice cream; dinner; night time walk; stay over or even drinks any of the days. My office is flanked by an Adlabs and a Cinemax on either side, but I itch to watch a movie and then by the time I leave work, I'm already hallucinating of my pillow-less bed.

No. Not complaining yet. This is probably the story of a million and one people in this city who come here for whatever reasons. But bombay would be surprised to know that it can be a healer too. Tiny nicotine doses are even employed in medicine.

Finding acco in Bombay

Day1. Ew. Thru broker. Totally trying to shove his dick up my arse. Turned me off instantly. The place itself was like the owners thought it was their last resort. 1bhk. The bedroom had just enough space for the cot, closet n table n chair. The living room was sparse. Obviously the mother and daughter need the money. The daughter works for the hilton at nariman point. They're muslims. If the house were larger I woudn't have minded it. It was constricted though. We'd have kept bumping into each other all awake hours.

Day2. Masi has been trying to 'help' all morning. I'm feeling PMSy. I need to sleep. I need home. I want daddy.
Going to see a house in a while at lokhandwala market. It's a shared 2bhk. There's another girl staying there.
Not bad. Airy, bright, small rooms but spacious. I dunno why the lady's being so dildaar though. She paid a lakh for deposit and expects me to shell out only 25k. Also she negotiated rent. Very fishy. Whatever. I'll give her a call tomorrow after I see Karan's place. That should gimme some clue. It all seems darn bleak right now.
And masa said again this morning, that I could stay here so as long as I liked. Do they not talk? Masa n Masi? One keeps trying to kick me out n the other keeps saying soothing welcomes. There's no consistency, I say.
Today's a hot day. Significantly so. I'd like nothing better than to change into my salwar kameez and sleep. Lunch can go for a hike.
I also considered the hostel as an option, but it's too far n I'll  never end up with dinner. Also an hour's commuting to n fro each, everyday sounds killing. Not my cuppa tea. Tomorrow I go look at a flat that a guy wants to share and one other that an old lady would like company. I'm hoping that'll be different.

Day3. Acco found. Well, escape found. And an ideal one at that. Something ferpect to show the masi and mother and the world at large. Lahar Joshi was wrong. It didn't take me months. Or may be I am lucky enough. Yes, the company of the old lady turns out to be my fate for now, and I'm not complaining. There was warmth. There were smiles. And a lot was left to the winds. So there.

My 'struggle' for a place to crash has not been stretched beyond imagination. I will survive out here after all. Hurdle number 2 also overcome after Hurdle 1 (living in masi's territory). Hurdle 3 - changing numbers now.

Next due: a book on Hyderabadi autos

Why are the auto guys in the city so goddamn dim? The kind'a stupid questions they are capable of asking, makes me believe they'll be the first ones to ask if it's raining when it does, and if the earth's falling apart if that was the case. It seems awful bright that they can even get by with the new charges charts, considering the kind'a damage math can do and looking up can wreak. In fact, sometimes I think the meters read the exact fare for as long as they could sustain them, just so passengers would be spared the fury of having to deal with a total nincompoop first thing each morning or while turning back from a back breakingly monotonous day at work.

Passive anger

Of course everything changed. What took 10 years now took two, so what the fuck was I thinking? This is not the shade under a banyan tree, darling, it's the glare of the igneous. No one can stand it. Everyone's keen to demolish the boulders. To make space for shelter. It's probably the only way there'll be a home for the people as well as creatures in the city.

Until the last day of my MA, I'd never known what KPHB stood for. Today will be my last day here, in its heart. Does it even have one? Heart? I'm sad that I'm leaving Hyderabad, but not because I fell in love with it, but because I had a fallout. All the things I loved about it stopped to exist. The easily approachable locals, the by-meter autos, the efficient public transport, the wide 'n smooth roads, the class, the intellect... Not once did I manage a nocturnal trip to Charminar for that memorable cup of Irani chai, though Geetha's place was a regular feature for so long thanks to coKo.

The one time that biryani happened at Paradise, it was so terrible I wanted to run home. It didn't even remind me of Veeresh or the spin he gave me along hi-tech city and Durgam Cheruvu. When I saw Tumhari Amrita, it had none of the student charm of watching Aapki Sonia at Shilpakala Vedika. There was no one to delight. There was no one to shock.

And the pace! God, many times slower. Painful even. The attitude, conceited, convoluted. The men here have no balls. And while plenty of those will muster up some two ounce of fury to proclaim that it's ''not true'', please keep it for your three-minute ejaculation. Hmph.

I had once been told, ''that was British style Bombay, enjoy hospitality in Hyderabad Nizami style.'' No thank you. Quite apparently the Nizam had no sense of punctuality, priority nor heart. I'm disenchanted with Hyderabad, and I shall make no bones about it. I also know that I'll probably boast how broad were the roads or how authentically Tam the food and ambience at Minerva or even how well maintained and accessible the amenities in my township.

I found a big fat rat scurrying out of the dustbin downstairs. I wonder what Priyanca has to say to that!

And while I'm all upset and giving an old acquaintance a second shot, neither of us are doing each other a favour. None of the parties will pay more than her share this time. They will all be exact transactions. However cut and dried. Better anaesthetised than numb, no?

I hope the cheque deposited smoothly, Mr. New.

Power-food

Aditya Roy Kapoor says food makes him feel sexy. Except the fact that I knew I was adding another mm, on both sides, to my now-showing love handles, I know what he means.

The friend I met last evening went on and on about how hot some girl or the other was, yesterday. Then it happened. I caught hold of the long-handled spoon on the side of my frappe and dipped into the mound of cream. The steel emerged with a nicely peaked curiosity. His eyes followed the brevity of my fingers' grip, from the tall glass to the tip of my lips. I couldn't help but chuckle inside, how not only his nasal yakkety yakk ceased, but even his eyes fell silent.

And it was only after the cream melted in my mouth, that conversation resumed.

Not for long, of course. I like the power that food has over people. Whipped cream. Melted chocolate. Cookie crumbs. :D

Shantamma

Think of waitlisted admissions and small numbers in classes with alternative teaching methods and you’d think the principal of thie school has to have a waiting lounge, an ante room and must make you wait at least the Hyderabadi 15 minutes before inviting you into her chamber.

Snap out of it. You’re meeting Vidyaranya’s founding Principal, Mrs. Shanta Rameshwar Rao. The Fabindia-clad frail frame is home to one of the most determined educationists of Hyderabad. After my preliminary apologies of turning up late and being told (I still don’t know if it was sarcastic), “Pretty women are allowed to be late,” I was asked to be the silent spectator to a conversation between a volunteer parent, who conducts assembly for Classes 5 and 6, and Shantamma.

Without any pretensions of minding the flash of my camera or that an outsider was privy to a conversation about the school’s goings-on, Mrs. Rao displayed her many moods – amusement, concern, intent listening and approvals.

As we launch into the interview, one of the first things that comes to fore is Mrs. Rao’s devotion to education. That her ideas have arisen from the ideologies of Maria Montessori, MK Gandhi and J Krishnamurti is anybody’s guess, but to start one’s own school, is quite another ballgame. And a much bigger deal it must have been 50 years ago.

Vidyaranya is not the success story of one woman, but the will of one, definitely. What’s more, Shantamma is selfless about it. An atheist, the veteran educationist speaks plainly whenever confronted with ‘what after you?’ “It seems everyone wants me to die or is waiting for the eventuality! What after me? The school’s plumbing is managed by the plumbers and the teachers are doing their jobs. I think the school will go on even without me.”

“Even if it doesn’t work, what of it? At most they will turn it into a hospital – a children’s hospital, or even a hotel! We think too much about the future. We lose sight of the present.”

Shantamma is quick to dismiss the suggestion that her school is a women’s initiative. “It is just a co-incidence that most teachers are women – predominantly the mothers of students. But we are being supported more and more by male parents as well.”

Mrs. Rao comes across as a firm believer of gender equality. When quizzed about how she encourages the girl students at Vidyaranya High School for Boys and Girls, she allows one of her colleagues to respond. To them, having to especially encourage them would, in itself, be the first step towards proving them inferior. “Boys damage property sometimes,” she remarks, “There are just one or two in each class that cause a chain reaction. Girls are usually cooperative – we probably scold them for being talkative, but they’re never destructive,” says Shantamma.

"I trust you to return this book," (she's lent me a copy of 50 Years of Vidyaranya to look up basic factoids) she finishes, "I will sue you for 700 rupees."