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."

Bawa's the Boss

I was watching this hilarious episode of Koffee with Karan last week (before you jump on me with "How can you say humor and Gay Johar in the same breath, PU, lemme clarify, it was just a one off thing), which brought a very special memory of Bombay. Since the url of this blog and its mores root from there, I guess I will never really stop writing about my memories of the city. Coming back: this particular episode of the soppy director/ producer's talk show played host to three performers by who I'm quite tickled. Riteish Deshmukh (for his comic timing), Sajid Khan (for his unabashed bitching of all of the Hindi Film Industry) and Boman Irani (for the life he brings to every character he portrays, his svelte personal countenance and of course, those Bawa dimples).

Boman Irani and I have a personal connection. And while it may sound completely outrageous because he probably didn't even notice it and celebrity encounters happen all the time in a place like Bombay and I
have no reason to claim mine was special, it changed a day and reaffirmed a young girl's belief: that Boman's the Boss! Like ANYONE cares for such a belief either.

Exactly a year ago, when I was barely coming to terms with my job and what not in Bombay, and life seemed nothing short of a hell hole, one evening, I wept silent tears riding pillion behind a jam weilding NiNa
before Khodadad Circle on the bike.

As suddenly as it seemed to have dissolved in the thick traffic, there appeared a white sedan with a very reclined driver's seat and a driver who seemed to have come straight from a trip to the Bahamas. Music
gentlemanly plugged in through the earphones and a boy of about 12 sitting beside him doing ditto.
In a jiffy, Irani and my glances met, and he had this mischievous wink 'n smile as if to say, 'god's design, what to do?'

I will never forget the 0 to 60 my tears did with drying up. I've always believed Irani to be one of the most charismatic personalities among recent entrants in the indian film industry. He has the power to bring terror as efficiently as joy to a room full of individuals on the silver screen. But this one time, he proved he
could also mesmerize off it.

Thank you Boman bawa, for making my royally screwed day better. *hug*

Ooh! -pasana

A few weeks ago Neel stumped me with “Where do you get your Bong music from now?” after I shared a sassier jazz version of a number to which he had first introduced me.

It did not seem normal for me to say, “But of course, Upasana, who else?” because there is nothing ‘but-of-course’ about it. But Neel’s question got me pondering and only two startling similarities came out: Both Bongs who have lived in Bombay for a considerable time and in Kolkata long enough to worship it.

While Neel is, what my music teacher calls a kaan-sen, Upasana also sings. And that is where the two seem to walk their different directions. Oops or Upas (the latter is what I often refer to her for convenience) has become so many things for me in a matter of weeks. While she jests with her husband about it, it is a fact that she and I spend more awake time with each other than she does with her husband!

I’ve now seen Upas around Ron, her mom-in-law, the bosses, her friends, et el and the one thing that hits you, even before the big brown lemur eyes do, is her very active nod, as if to say, “Yes! Yes! I’ll help you with WHATEVER you need!” – From coffee coupons to helping you get to speed with work to finding you the broker’s number for acco in her township to car pooling to letting you use her microwave to cook pasta for a week. There is nothing this angel will say no to if it is in her power. Actually, I could’ve stopped at “There is nothing this angel will say no to,” even if it means bending few rules or just getting by them *wink wink*.

And yet, even this attitude of helping-them-all won’t be what stays with you spot in the middle of a serious meeting as you suddenly start grinning at the memory of a pathetic joke she cracked last afternoon. Her repertoire spans such abysmal excuses for humour that you’d have to be insane to laugh (as we are and so we do). She can beat Sriram Ayyar, Priyanca Vaishnav AND Akhil Chakravarty hands down. The incidental one-off-ers don’t even stand a chance!

A chance is what Upasana will also not give you when it comes to desserts and food. Think butter chicken and the first image that pops in my mind, is of a salivating Upasana Sanyal. When cake is ordered for a birthday celebration at office, not the budday-boy/ girl nor the cake shop is consulted on what would be the best flavour. Madame Sanyal fields “आज कौनसा order करें?” with panache: “Belgian chocolate? Strawberry and Black Forest?” And when her majesty, the queen of desserts and the best judge of ANY cuisine is to pass her final verdict, everyone awaits it with bated breath.

Upasana has cheered up many a heart-broken evenings and the ends of several straight-from-hell days at work with her upbeat chatter and mad acts like waving crazily at the boss from the driver’s seat like we haven’t seen her in ages (while actually saying bye to her only less than half an hour back). Upasana is also capable of leaving you alone when you need to shed the silent tears or extract them from you when you’re suppressing them to evade attention with a simple five-worder.

It is not hard to comprehend Upasana. It is, though, to fathom her energy.

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.