Pune 6.0

A whole’s night’s restlessness, a whole day’s sleeping, a home cooked meal with drinks and friends and laughter in tow. It’s what Pune has come to mean for this soul who’s always reluctant to go all the way. Change modes, ask people to pick up and drop, wait, travel. Uf.

In one sense, I’ve been there so often, counting isn’t possible anymore. In another though, these visits can all be clubbed into clusters of ages of their own. Each cluster of varied degrees of engagement with the people I go to meet there, and the people I end up meeting there. Each one is deviant from the other in length of time. Always, my visits have been to spend time with a beloved or an old friend. Always, they have been only visits, not longer than a weekend.

But at different times of the year, Pune evokes different sentiments. I remember the first time I set foot – more like drove into – the city, right after high school. In the heat of May, my cousin had driven MA, my sister and me to the city of his first bank posting – also perhaps the first and only city he had ever lived in outside of Bombay. The elder bro has seldom been too protective and trusted me with old school friends to go explore some more.

What parts I saw, do not come back to the mind, but I distinctly recall how similar I thought Pune was to Baroda. Only later did I find out that it was the monsoon capital of the Bombay Presidency, of which my own city was a part as well till independence. Was it the flood of two-wheelers? Was it the many 18^th Century Peshwa edifices? Was it the marked Marathi presence (and a literacy rate of 81%) or the eateries?

The end of my grads saw me reluctantly applying for post graduate programs. That the next best thing to do was to simply apply outside to make successes out of them was natural. There for my Pune University MA entrances, the rains unleashed another aspect of the city’s beauty. The many lanes lined with नीम and gulmohar trees and thick foliage come alive in the rains. It is also the first time I met Nishant. The Crossword Bookstore that landmarked the otherwise unremarkable back road parallel to FC Road closed a couple of years ago. I had wept.

As if in royal welcome, the cobbled and patched streets slope here and there to allow processions of leaves floating along the streams of rainwater along the sides. The clichéd romance of the rains couldn’t be better illustrated.

A little over a year later, I was to enter into something of a long term treaty with the city of the Sawai Gandharva Festival. Yet to attend a season, the December tradition started by the late Pt Bhimsen Joshi is one I so eagerly want to absorb in its entirety.

The winters are for long walks and house parties that involve much spirit – of the kinds one partakes, and the other that one allows to soar. These parties, devoid of agenda, sans fancy dress and music or games, are conducive to conversation. Freewheeling and meandering into brief silences of satisfaction that simple homemade grub provides with. Laughter is integral. The clock is ignored and sleepovers are the call of the – er – night. After all, drinking and driving is as good as singing while diving, no?

After my split was when I had made a hesitant trip to Pune again. Anubhav had coaxed me into it, and played the gracious host replete with a Rajasthani razaii, safety, alcohol, mad banter, female company.  I had made a new friend.

And I made more new friends. My recent day-and-a-half trip was also serendipitous. Not only did it surprise me but also shock and even turn hilarious for the contrarian turn of events, but also reinforced my belief in the city’s power to erase selectively parts of one’s memory. Each time is such an improvement from the last. Each trip presents an opportunity to discover even more of even if just the new portion of the city that I’ve now begun to reckon familiar.

For the past few days that I’ve been back, I’ve wondered why Pune was never on the city-to-work-in list. Even if not awfully long, it is a city I could live in. the crowd is great (some puns and some truths), the weather’s charming, the Marathis are a superior breed here, it’s still affordable and close enough to a metro.

Here’s an excerpt from my chat with a friend who enquired about the trip after my return:

16:32 him: What's pune like?

16:33 Have only breezed through it

 me: this is the perfect weather to be there actually

16:34 if you have pals there, just put up with one

  walk walk walk

  you smell the smoke from burning wood in the air

  coupled with a strange wetness

  not humid

  sharp

  like you were being tricked

16:35 it's very wooded in a lot of parts

  about 2000 ft

  above sea level

  so cooooooold

  young

  charming

 him: Cold aah?

 me: yess

  not cold like delhi

  or even calcutta

  but unique in itself

16:36 ask someone to give you a ride thru the army cant or the police R&D facility areas

  catch a marathi children's play

  december is time for the savai gandharva festival

16:37 if you enjoy hindustani classical music then you must do it

16:38 it's got great clubs, great restos

  parsis and liberal marathis

16:39 english the way she's spoken

  horses the way they're bred

  some really fantastic stone buildings

16:40 him: Ok

  I get the feeling that you like pune

Take Me Home

Few amongst us choose to return after a longish hiatus outside the comforts of home. Many of us grow so accustomed to being uncomfortable, that home makes us almost queasy. What with that bed whose mattress took our shape even as we grew, and the unending space of our closets, the home provides at least three ways in which we can explore our favourite music and books and food and selves.

I’ve been home about three months now. The first month was one kind of frustration. I was healing told my folks, and therefore was excused from waking up early, helping around with household chores, socialising, and whatever else is associated with being active-member-of-the-family. Quite apparently, the folks have grown accustomed to get by without you, darling. You are no more indispensible. But what’s even more surprising is the drastic change in routines and their and your definitions of discipline. They awaken at least two hours later than they did in the morning. That you STILL have a deadline. And in your mind at least, you protest – but I’m 26, for god’s sake!

Month two: my niece sort of began to get to me. Half the reason I’ve missed home is her. Half the reason I chose to return instead of staying on and finding a new job was her, half the reason home is where my heart is, is her. And now helping raising her began to unsettle me. I realised a few weeks back, that like it or not, I must contribute to it – wash her poo, get her to eat, read to her, dress her up, comb her hair, sit on the swing with her, entertain her, sing and dance for her…

The third month, last four weeks, have been about observation; about learning. My sister’s Diwali holidays cue in a trip for her and the niece to head for her granddad’s house in Surat. We were dreading it. We’d grown so accustomed to being in service of the little princess, that the new found (even if just for a fortnight) freedom seemed meaningless to us. For the first few days we stared either at the walls or at each other. Gradually movies began to be lined up on the DVD. And then, a space for conversation. The emptiness also gave all three of us to exchange notes on how things are for one who lives solo, and what it is to stay away from home.

I had had a brief conversation with a friend recently about training one’s parents to not pass value judgements or be strict moral supervisors on matters of our friends or acquaintances even. That, it is hard, but it is possible. After all said and done, our folks trust our views the most. They never see us as too divergent in opinions from them even if what we might say may sound preposterous.

It is mostly about the parents, our coming back. Then it is about some other things too. What seemed cultural differences at first now become parts of the landscape. Depending upon how long one has spent in one place, the native rituals – however minute or insignificant locally – acquire something of a magnified prominence when one has decided never to return. Or at least stay put in this ‘new’ old.

Whether you have stayed as away as another town within the country, or flown overseas, you are bound to miss your own sense of discipline and freedom to do what you’ve always done, even if your folks won’t protest. What you’ve grown accustomed to, then, is not yourself, but the lack of anyone else around. Surely as the clichéd social animals, allowing that for ourselves is blasphemous.

It is not time that heals, it is the revisiting of your earliest memory. And for those of us who’re born, bred and bored in a town for at least 20-odd years, that’s not going to change. That ‘town’ could be Baroda, Bombay or Paris. Call me old fashioned or just conservative. I still miss the sea of Bombay, I still miss the nip in the air of Hyderabad, but every time I chuck a job, every time I’ll experience heartbreak, and each time my work overwhelms me into negativity, I shall return only to my little town. Here lie people who shall, surprisingly give me just enough space, accept me unconditionally, and let bygones be bygones.

Heritage Walk

Waking me up in the morning, Ma complained to our neighbour Sweetu last evening, is an arduous task these days. She first calls me on my cell phone since she is of the opinion that I listen more to the damn phone than her live voice. Gone are the days when Ma would whistle to wake me - almost as if she were calling out to a canary in the zoo. The ઉઠે છે કે? (are you going to wake up soon?) is replaced by a long, monotonous ringtone which I often cut short by pressing the end call button in my half sleep.

Like a lot of nights preceding important mornings when I must get up early enough to get dressed for an outing with one or both of them, last night too was a sleepless one. That meant I was terribly drowsy this morning. To top it, dad had scheduled a trip to the old city to pick up some miscellaneous stuff that "you only get there". Of course, he had told me so I'd get my ass out of bed and finish breakfast in time to leave.

Surprisingly, despite the grogginess, my body somehow yielded without much prodding from either Ma or dad. The prospect of going across the Vishvamitri river ("gutter ganga" for Ma) to the old city is not many people's idea of fun. Unlike the majority of Vadodara's 1.6 million people, I revel in ambling in the 11 o'clock sun in the crowded old city area - start at the end of Raopura at Amdavadi પોળ and don't stop till Music College, taking in the sometimes breath-taking sites (the Faculty of Performing Arts and Sur Sagar Lake with and despite the monstrous Shiva statue and the funny fountain behind it) and sometimes the breath-blocking ones (same lake from close quarters mostly).

Papa n I reached the carpet wala only to be told he had left them "at home" (sounded like a bloody Grade 3 excuse for not presenting homework), so we were left with a 15-minute waiting. Lingering at the basement shop was out of the question for my claustrophobic daddy so we emerged from the cluster of shops that sell several home odds and ends opposite the Gandhi Nagar Gruh near Jubilee Baug. We strolled towards Sur Sagar in the hope to get some cool breeze - no such luck, not only was it a still morning, but also rather sunny with someone breaking a steel structure with an oxy actylene torch (dad must've repeated it at least five times and I still had to double check with Kshitij - uf!) and some urchins and rickshaw walas and street vendors making their noises.

The Sursagar lake with Music College or
Faculty of Performing Arts, MSU in the background

Just then I remembered there was a juicewala in the lane opposite (Kalamandir નો ખાંચો). I had obviously either conjured the vision or was thinking back a long time. After walking up to the crossroad that marks the beginning of Bajwada, dadda suggested we trudge a little ahead - "જોવા માટે". I was game. We had time to kill and the closely placed buildings on both sides of the lane screened the sun adequately.

Prof Ashok Parikh's residence at Bajwada, Vadodara
(with the ghastly water auto)

to the right: the side of Ashok bhai's હવેલી

Suddenly we were met by this house in the Baroda Gaekwadi colours of brown and cream. The carvings at the top and base of the pillars and balcony on the first floor were striking for two reasons - as you can see in the accompanying picture, there was an ugly water flasks tempo parked outside the house along with an electricity pole and some damn ugly new age houses erected on either sides of the beauty.

Even after this RED auto and the other heritage building behind it caught our eyes, we didn't return to the verandah of our discovery-of-the-day with much change - a puny bike instead. Just then, Papa commented that our old Prof Bharti Parikh lived somewhere around here. Having NEVER attended her classes during my Third Year of BA, I was in no mood to go pay a visit now and remind her of just how boring I found her classes. We decided to venture into the lane from where the red auto had emerged to take a closer look at the other site.

Bharti Ma'am. Feeding cows. The lady and her professor husband have known my father for long enough to forget his daughter's puerile follies. My sister teaching at the same department as Bharti ben seemed to have erased much of my scams from her memory. Greetings were exchanged and we were immediately invited into the house. Just as we made to walk towards the "entrance", she asked us, like the goodly hostess, to enter from the front - yup, you guessed it - the house we'd been so vehemently photographing with the phone camera (and thus the horrid resolution) had been hers!

Ashok bhai's mother's photograph taken from a Daguerreotype camera
sandalwood frame, polished, classified antique

Perhaps one of the few people in India who still read SPAN

We were enthralled by the interiors - having only witnessed the living room, the old furniture and family heirlooms were both charming and a matter of wonder all at once. During the conversation several trivia and little facts were revealed - The house is 110 years old and situated in the Bajwada area, which is said to have a recorded history of 2500 years (no sir, I'm not kidding you). The house has beams closely fixed with Burma teak to reinforce the ceiling. Since cement was not found back in those days, they used a mixture of jaggery water and calcium oxide to build the basic structure - the area of a single house that could easily put to shame one of those "mansions" (six-apartment buildings, really) in South Bombay. As we were leaving, Ashok bhai pointed out the initials of his forefathers etched on the entrance punctuated by faces of gods from the Vaishnava pantheon.

What fascinated me most were two things in all of this:
1. the pride of the residents of this century old house, and
2. the things they chose to put on display in their living room - one of those old reel recorders, the frames, a 70-year-old English made steel trunk, and those copies of the SPAN magazine beneath the centre table, apart from all the volumes that adorned a built-in display shelf in a corner of the vast hall. Even the steep and narrow staircase that led to the upper floor of the house was right there, in the living room!

Our 15-minute time killer stroll had clearly turned into a 45-minute unplanned social visit. We were still in no hurry and were rather elated (as an after thought) about the mint-and-lemon sherbet that Bharti Ma'am offered. It was so effortless - the whole impromptu nature of socialising... no calling beforehand to check if the occupants were home, no elaborate sweets and farsaan (a humble bowl of dry fruits and prasaad from the Haveli), no fancy gifts exchanges... Forget all that, one could have a fairly detailed conversation with even a stranger vessel-shop owner in the vicinity whilst looking for antique brassware. We topped out visit with a token purchase of water chestnuts (શિંગોડા) from a lady of about 30 daintily clad in festive red with a kumkum swastika on her weighing scale, cheerfully doling out her day's first sale.

It will be a while before I return to this part of the city - Ma had some bone china purchase in mind... Tomorrow morning's going to be another tricky wake up call - we head to Nareshwar on the banks of the Narmada River...

Moony

I wanted this thought to be in writing as soon as could be because this feeling seldom stays very long. What feeling you ask? This realisation about why I keep returning to base after each hiatus in another city (I talk as if I've travelled the world by now - seriously, the loftiness, doesn't it kill you with mirth sometimes?). I'm filled with glee right this moment... and several before this one, for over an hour now. Considering the past couple of weeks and more have been absolutely tiresome and often downright irritating, tonight was such a return of positivity.

After a gruelling three days of trying to finish editing a boring finance management and accounting paper for a journal, it was time to heave a sigh in triumph this evening. The finish line was finally arrived at, and I was determined to make a celebration of it. Of course, I had forgotten that it was a night of celebration anyway.

In the past four or five years, the times I have missed home the most, right from the first time, have been on festival days. Diwali, Sankranti, Holi, Rakhi,  and Sharad Purnima. The last isn't a very big or significantly happening time in most households - Gujju or otherwise - but here at home, it's a special time.

For as long as I can remember, the family gathers on the terrace for dinner in the moonlight. The high point is the simple almond sprinkled, kesar scented doodh-poha kheer. We've had countless memories of these from the past 15 odd years in this house - the time that my uncle and aunt were here from Jamnagar, when Sriram had come home once, another time that Twara was over... This year too is special - with Maneeti.

The little one had a gala time tottering about on the white mosaic tiled terrace that reflected the moon's regal magnanimity in all its glory. Of course, it was extra neat that we had our favourite Gujarati songs - numbers my parents have reared us on - romantic, playful and upbeat (yes, there are regular songs, other than the regular garba shit in Gujju too). What came back once more, and full throttle, was the fact that I was with family. I may not be one of those घरेलु कुलीन कन्याs who enjoy the home thing very much; we're not even a very enthu or loud let's-socialise quartet at home.

And despite all the massive cribbing sessions about boring food, or the lack of anything to do, or Late Harvest craving or the extreme desire to go hog at Maroosh, I wouldn't trade this time for anything else. Tonight, I'm happy to be home. Tonight's a good night.

Dancing Queen

I was recently at MICA and of the many things that became memorable of that evening, one was the dance party. Now I’m not commenting on the quality of music or crowd present there – simply because, perhaps either it was one of those bad days when the DJ sucked, the crowd was in an especially academics-discussing mood, my friend (also the chap who invited me to visit) was especially busy organising (read binging on) booze, and I had been delegated to people who were not really in the mood to entertain, or I have just been to too many grown up  parties to enjoy the college campus imperfections anymore.

But you know how dance parties go… and unless it’s especially un-relatable music, it’s all familiar noise to which you can move and goof about. Kush ended up being my partner for the evening (very graciously and without qualms) and even accompanied me on my breaks. Of course the friend who had invited me found me every now and then on the dance floor to shake a leg and make his general lack of presence even more prominent.

It has often struck me as odd in recent times when I’ve been told I dance decently. Not because I don’t think I dance well or whatever, but my general awareness of my own body is pretty low. Grace and the completeness of a move... The technicalities, in short. I mean, I know I would fade into the background in presence of elegant Twara who has over a decade’s training in Bharatnatyam and some more in Kathak on, say, a Garba ground; or even Apeksha with her sleek salsa and jazz twirls during the most insignificant jam sessions at MA. The latter had rhythm ingrained in her DNA! Whether it was the corridors of the ladies’ hostel or the streets of the university campus, Apeksha could do her little jig just about anywhere with her iPod plugged in.

I wouldn’t dare. It is not my place. It is not my comfort.

What’s different, you ask. It’s all public. In fact, it’s a lot of crowd in some milieus. It is India. And it’s us women.

I first danced on a floor at the little concluding put-together at LACs when I was in the Third Year of my BA. Most people were strangers and Haem was the first to teach me a couple of the basics. But it was not to be the start of a new interest or way of recreation for me just then.

The first week into MA and the seniors announced a jam session for us newbies. Yes it was fun, the music ranged everything from the latest in hip-hop and house to Bolly and even Tollywood. But I guess I was still rather in my own shell.

So what has changed and what remains as was?

I have got to give it to Arunav for taking away the inhibitions that every non-dancer would first experience on the dance floor. The not-knowing what to do or where to go when being jostled in a constricted space at the safe-bet retro-and-bhangra-playing Hawaiian Shack can be a unnerving when you’ve never done it before. Everyone around seems so with it and adept – lip syncing whatever songs around (and believe me I’m pretty much a gowti dehaat when it comes to club music). But one realises very soon, that it’s not about making appearances. Those who sweat the most, move closest to the rhythms, smile the most and have a wild glint in their eyes are the ones who are said to be having the best time! You don’t have to be Shakira (cuz believe me, no one except your partner is really watching), and so long as you’re not injuring people with your hands or heels, nobody cares.

And so I still thought that was the first and last time. It made me no authority to judge what a good party was or wasn’t. But when you go to another venue with the same company, and you begin to yawn mid song 3 (and by then you’ve figured pretty much the whole playlist – Backstreet Boys, Michael Jackson and Elton John for example), you know for a fact that just strolling down Colaba Causeway would be more fun.

My most memorable dance do by far though, is still the Times party in Hyderabad. Not for the music or ‘crowd’ per se, but definitely the company and again, a great dance partner. Needless to add, the time of year made it even more fun. I had read somewhere a couple of years ago in a celeb interview that this chap wouldn't sleep the 24 hours of his birthday. And I thought, what could be more precious than just doing nothing on your birthday. But my 26th was to be a novel experience. 300 people at a 5 star hotel banquet, free booze and food and the girl’s birthday was announced by none other than her mad cracker friend-chauffer-neighbour-colleague-and what not. I also discovered that one can have the most unlikely colleagues around. So Santosh, who happened to be one of the few people who joined the same or next day that I joined, and the only chap from sales who I was friends with back then, turned out to be a great dancer. Again, someone who had trained.

When I left Hyderabad for Bombay, I thought this is it: the end of all the frolic and fun of dancing. But Harshil and gang positively kidnapped me to Sutra for a night out. Not only did I discover potential for fun, but also met a girl I now call friend. That night wasn’t just about dancing because I needed music, but also about unwinding. I realised yet again, that dancing isn’t about tiring oneself out, but regaining some of that lost life. What still remains a cherished dance is the one with Abhishek at Salt n Pepper (I think) afterhours. The resto owner was nice enough to put a great song and allow us our little quirk. Despite the limited space and for them to almost shut for the night, we were given the time and leisure of moving to a tune, smiling, forgetting, remembering.

So you see, it is just too predictable that Navratri comes each year at this pre-designated time and lasts a certain set of days and dictates that you wear only a certain kind’a clothes and make up and jewellery. There is none of that last minute dilly-dallying of red dress or black, or gold danglers or matching stones, or stilettoes or wedges. Because really, the joy of dancing came from looking forward to an opportunity that presented itself at the most unlikely times!

Moudja, Souad Massi

I have shared this song with a few people now. I can actually count them on just one hand, in fact. Mirat first gave it to me. Back then it sent shivers down my spine. What's strange is that it's been over two years and the song still has the said effect. Goosebumps.

The song begins with the sound of waves crashing. A sound that created such a lasting image in my mind that for the longest time I harboured the wish for a tattoo of the same design. It's what Bombay had come to mean to me. But the song transcends any place or person, or episode.

When I close my eyes and play the song, the sea, the stars, the longing and tears, all come flooding back. And no, it is not even a melancholy song. It is a song that asks for permission. To love. And not on some whim, but the strong reason, that with that man alone, the feeling is of talking to the impossible - the impossibly far away, the impossibly unreachable.

Some day, I'd like to be able to vocalise it myself. For now, I am happy I have it on my iPod for every possible time of day, season of year.

Happy Engineers' Day

I’ve lived with some, I’ve worked with many and I’ve dated only them. The story of several nations begins with them, and often enough, develops into legends. They’ve made our hospitals, our schools, our homes and offices. They’ve made the infrastructure that runs them, and the technology that makes them better than previously.

Man or woman, I do believe they’re the only ones in this country who take on the pressure of proving themselves beyond their qualification. They’re the only ones who want to tamper with a DSLR, or spend a train journey reading by the window, rather than choosing the upper berth to catch up on much lost sleep. They’re the only ones I know who appreciate art, business as well as the nuances of science.

They’re practical. They know when to be around and when to step back. They’re the only ones I know whose embraces stay. They spend four years in college, toiling on assignments and poring through journals just so that degree will give them the freedom to explore the world. I used to think, what a waste of a whole seat. But an engineer who does not think that way, is really just so limited. It is not about being the jack of any trades and master at none – no, it isn’t about mediocrity at all – though, I do often label them all with that blanket for the sake of convenient argument. But a workforce that emerges from its hefty contribution to the business of education, can’t be neglected. They’re the crème de la crème among the call centre-ites. They’re the ones preferred over even commerce students at business schools. They’re the ones our Tier II city dwellers still pay handsome dowries for – second only to the docs. So hey, if you can have a Doctor’s Day, why not this?

The country celebrates the 44^th National Engineers’ Day on the 15^th of September 2011. So what are we celebrating? Nation building? Sounds L&Tish. Logic? Sounds CATish. One of the most lasting careers? That’s almost wannabe-in-the-USish. Perhaps it is all these and then some more. Actually, much more. It is that spirit of being boisterous. Of stressing over trivialities. Of competing for the IITs, NITs and then the IIMs and IITs again. It is the celebration of the world looking to India to not only direct (which just sounds so damn pompous), but also design the future. To physically shout out instructions to labour and contractors. To prevail when others are dilly-dallying in contemplation.

Then I’ve also known of those who drop out. Those who commit suicide because of all the pressure. Those who abandon the cause because it’s just not their calling.

Hopefully, we shall respect them a little more. Hopefully, we’ll honour their place in society a tad more. Hopefully, we shall not in our generation, aspire for our sons and daughters to be part of a mob. A significant mob, nonetheless. Hopefully, we will know that being an engineer is about being a certain way. That, despite half the country’s science students blindly heading for a tech school, it is not the end of the path to progress, but only one of the trajectories that lead to a beginning.

Saptaparni

I used to call it October Fragrance. because I couldn't remember its name and never remembered to ask Dida either. And somehow, the name has just stuck.

I was nearing the last lap of my very zig-zag and impossibly unpredictable "business trip" to Hyderabad that also extended to Delhi, last Sunday. I thought there was only so much excitement that could enthrall me at one go. The resort at Vikarabad, the Mineral Museum behind Shankar Market in Delhi, Sushmita's god level sprouts-n-daal-chawal dinner and our BDC party...

So the bus swerved left towards Kala Ghoda from Fatehgunj (all this is Baroda talk haan), and suddenly this overpowering fragrance pervades my olfactories and I'm in a daze. I was frantically looking for its source. Turning my head almost like an owl's 180 degrees, I spot the Saptaparni. In full bloom, the while flowers in their bunches emanated this heady aroma...

I was already looking forward to the tree near my house - albeit it had not caught up with the season yet. But the fragrance had not left my senses yet. It took me back to those several rides down the road in Wadala...

Mobile Boutique

I bought my first Dhakaii cotton sari this morning. And my first Kota-zari yesterday. The Dhakaii couldn’t be more typical in terms of the work, but the body motifs took my breath away. Vermillion neem leaves on a turmeric background. I still remember my first. It was the green batik border-and-pallu on white I got from Shilpakala Vedika – the Hyderabad version of Delhi Haat. That was followed by a simple bandhej (a different shade of green from the previous) in a similar design. The Kota in midnight blue with a Banarsi style pallu and border from a small shop in the city’s newer shopping hub, and the Dhakaii bought today will be the only ones added since. The rest are mostly silks or chiffons.

Today’s buy was different in many ways.Not just the women, but also the man of the household was involved in selecting the right number.

My father is not one to visit sari shops, or for that matter, accompany us on our clothes-buying sprees. So it was novel to have him around as we got dada to open his potla (small pile packed in a cloth) of weave after weave of the nine-yard.

Why just a potla though? Apparently this chap picks pieces himself and comes to a select few families in the city. He’s like a mobile boutique. And he remembers each customer and the sari he sold to them. In his pile are none of those ordinary minimal weaves. His auction starts somewhere at two grand and can escalate to any heights he pleases (depending upon the time of year). He’s eager to sell right now so he can make some moolah and go home to his village in the 24 Paraganas and make it in time for the Pujo celebrations – the man is also an artisan. He decorates pandals, though I don’t suppose he’s very adept with the brush. His fingers aren’t nimble enough – they laze to fold the more difficult-to-fold silks.

I still wonder when a vendor says, “Madam ka choice bohot badhiya hai,” what it really implies. Is the statement made because “madam” chooses the most expensive piece? Is it because she chooses the most muted? Or is it because she chooses after him having displayed all his wares?

In that hour-long interaction in my living room though, I also sat amidst a philosopher – what “poverty makes one”, as papa puts it. The man spoke simple truths. How diplomacy works at the grassroots. In his little village, the Mamtadi government is not about radical changes. Well, definitely not changes in how the system functions, but surely the alliances men like my sariwala must strike up. “homara kya haay… aaj iska baju mein, kol uska torof…”

That statement alone took me back to all the Bengali connections I've ever had - alive and even the ones long gone - my dadi, the whole झुण्ड at CIEFL, Neel, Subir, Upas, Sushmita... a race that has earned its reputation of being a thinking one; of thinking enough to take care of the finest nuance of any task - cerebral or material - that comes their way...

I don’t know when I will wear these saris. It is most likely to become a family heirloom of sorts. 

Wrapping it up

I miss dad. He's like a ready reckoner, advisor, judge all rolled into one. I miss his floatered big feet. I miss the four new front teeth. I miss the bhaloo dance. And the salt and pepper hair. Lately, I've begun to miss him even more. Perhaps because he has always managed to forgive me despite my follies and falls caused by my stubbornness.

Perhaps because he has been kind when the world was harsh, and ever so sharp when the rest just played along. And he has been the only one, much before Neel, who's wanted me to publish my first book. Perhaps, cuz in his growing old, he is trying harder than ever to be young. To be cool in the true sense. Young in emotions, young in thought, young in understanding the young.

Not because it is easy, but for it is tough. That phrase has stuck with me, Suvarna.

Neel said i'm just being lazy. But really, i am. I need to relook all my poems and edit them. Perhaps they sounded great at 21, but the me@26 does not think so. I'm hungry not for praise, but for criticism. For someone to correct me till it arrives at a point of no return. Like I've always taken myself to one. Living every moment. Breathing it so deep and letting it fill me up to the core. Tasting it, listening to its journey, the way it raises the hairs on my arm, watching it sweep me away even as it stinks sometimes and smells oh-so-delicious.

Tum Mile, title song in all three voices

I heard Tum Mile for the first time in Ajay's car when mom 'n pa were here in late May. I discovered it was one of the most frequently played songs on radio. Because soon after (probably the same day in less than two hours), I heard it in Madhavan uncle's car too. And then the following weekend when I was enjoying my Musk Melon ice cream at Natural Marine Drive, and blurted, "I'm beginning to LOVE this song" (when actually I'd already downloaded all three versions and played them on the loop some 30-odd times) to Vivek when they were playing it.

Ironically, like the flavours of ice cream, a lot of Pritam's songs come in at least two or three voices. So Baatein Kuch Ankahi Si in Life in a Metro came in Suhail Kaul and Adnan Sami's voices, and now Tum Mile in Javed Ali, Neeraj Shreedhar and Shafqat Ali's voices. Now I was also recently watching tv when Javed Ali made an appearance on one of these silly reality music shows and the conversation started. So this guy who's a casting director at Fremantle told me the so-called Javed Ali version has actually been sung by Mohit Chauhan. And I'm yet to be convinced. Even as I write this piece, I'm listening intently, and there's just too much of the melody and sur for the song to be a Mohit Chauhan spoil. I'm sorted. It's not Mohit Chauhan.

Ok now that we're done having the little discussion, we may move on.

So I'm yet to figure out what it is that draws me to the number. Each has a very different feel to it. The lyrics are different from each other. While the Javed Ali version is the weakest, it obviously has an initial attraction, or I don't know if I would've bothered with all the tedious downloading and transferring to the iPod. The Neeraj version has probably exhausted its rounds with the DJs. Of course, Shafqat's voice sustains anything for the longest - I recently heard the Coke Studio cover of Khamaaj in his voice with all the chords changed and his voice still carried the song to another level.

Much has been written or spoken about Shafqat's voice. It is probably even fashionable to criticise him or for him to stoop a little in quality, considering the technical clean-ups that wield their magic wands anyway. but surely there must be something in his voice to lend even an otherwise ordinary song a most extraordinary magical quality. His elongated alaaps are not avoidable. You may say they are meddled with, but how can the man's voice be so sand-papered and polished? That comes out of his innate excellence alone.

As for the permutations that Pritam experiments with, I'd unwillingly have to agree that they do turn out well. I've often wondered how one song would sound in another voice. Ok, so the experimentation was carried out in, say, 1942 A Love Story with Kuch Na Kaho, but everything remained the same, right? Only lyrics changed. Whereas in Pritam's case, he changes the chords, the lyrics too sometimes, the voice is of course the biggest alteration, the beats or their treatment is revamped completely. What I'm yet to understand is, why Pritam can't make his women singers work the same magic?

How many Sunidhi Chauhans, Shreya Ghoshals or any of the more obscure ones manage to stand up to the challenge? Is it even a challenge? Wouldn't it be fun for someone as trained and versatile as Ghoshal to play with an Anushka Manchanda number or an Alisha Chenoy trip? what's with the vanity?

I suppose Tum Mile illustrates for the entire Hindi music fraternity, that the concept of cover songs should be encouraged. It would stimulate listeners so much more! And, chalo, Pritam does a bit of an overkill with the three versions in the same album, but surely over time, with changing trends, this sort of thing done over a longer period would bring fresh perspectives to an otherwise single reading - I guess I'm delving into Death of an Author here...

Gaay ka ghar

I’m dying of laughter here – tears rolling – tummy in convulsions – the works.

The subject of our humour is Lucy-poosi-puchki. Our...who? Gayatri and I. Gayatri began by imitating the way Lucy scratches herself, “Like Bharatnatyam,” it seems. Suddenly Gaay contorts herself with a twist at the waist, and one leg lifted like she’d just had her love kiss, the face looks pretty much like the spitz’s anyway, and then she sticks out her tongue like one too. And then begins the scratch. That cracked me up. You know the silent laughter I laugh, when it becomes impossible for me to laugh any more helplessly?

Then I couldn’t help it so I asked G what Puchki was up to last night, making that strange noise jumping about on the giant pink stuff toy hippo’s stuffed foot. “Masturbating,” said Gayatri matter-of-factly. Imitation Round 2. In the kinky mind, I’m sure it already gives rise to plenty of ideas.

It would be of vital importance to describe Gayatri here.

My landlady is a short, stout Assamese 35-year-old. Well endowed, but not pretty. Neutral features, the Bollywood costume designer knows how to look good in whatever she’s clad – and she knows in what to be clad. A trendy haircut and clear skin, Gayatri is a strict landlady when it comes to tidiness. She is clean, hygienic and extremely minimalist-stylish. And considering the amount of screaming she does at Tania for leaving the house in a mess every so often, she does not come across as someone who would be funny. However, I wouldn’t call her menacing per se.

So I’ve seen Gayatri do the occasional jig of a Freddie impersonation in her high pitched voice, “when you call him to slap him also he comes wagging like-this, like-this (and she’ll do a little butt wiggle) and come as if to say ‘yes yes slap me now!’” Freddie’s a total simpleton. You kind’a come to expect dumbness out’a him. But really he’s just the tolerant man of the house, who takes shit from ALL the bitches in the house and keeps them humoured. And sometimes be the butt of their humour.

But mentioning Lucy’s romp was just the thing to get Gaay started. Since she wanted to avoid having to get out of bed in the middle of the night, and have the act carry on elsewhere, the hippo went into the living room. As Lucy followed close behind, Gayatri went, “Go! Go have fun with your King Kong Hulk boyfriend!”

And as Lucy turned to have a go at her new giant dildo, Gayatri says casually, “her tail is longer than her body.” Lucy the spitz is the strangest little hooch. I didn’t think lapdogs would be so hilarious – not only to look at but also in their mannerisms. She jumps all the time. She jumps when she runs, she jumps when she barks at Fifi, she jumps when she greets, she jumps when she wants a chewy, and of course, she jumps when she’s jerking off. Lucy is one jumpy bitch. If ever there was one.

And then there’s Fifi. Fifi and I have found each other. When I’ve barely opened the gate of our building complex, Fifi is already at the door waiting in anticipation. What of? Frankly, is still a mystery. All I do is play ball with her. But the deep blue doe eyes (a dog with doe eyes, yeah right) are the nicest thing to wake up to each morning and come home to each night. And the ivory ringlets are almost a dog’s-world representation of Belinda’s locks from La Belle Dame Sans Merci.

Sometimes I identify with Fifi. Sucker for a little bit of love. Slave of just the tiniest gesture.