tukde

The Camus Effect

2011-07-13T10:21:00.002+05:30

The journey from childhood to adulthood is fraught with experiments--with substances, relationships, books, music.... We see, hear, touch and taste the world around us to discover not so much the world, but ourselves.

Among the authors recommended for "serious" reading in my growing-up years, was this group of "dark" writers, including Camus, Sartre et al. Having discovered a lot of negativity around me anyway, I decided I didn't want to mess up my life any further by injecting thoughts about the futility of the human condition. Therefore, a lot of my life's early lessons were based on Ayn Rand, Ramdhari Singh 'Dinkar' and and to an extent, Richard Bach (whom a friend once inexplicably called a "fraud").

Age, however, may have debilitating effects on the body, but has a wonderful way of opening up the mind. It was thus that I opened Caligula with much anticipation, and was not disappointed at all.

The tragic story of the Roman king who wants the "moon" or the "impossible" was greatly fascinating. And I realized how wrong it was to call Camus' writing "dark"--for though he speaks about the helplessness of human beings, one can also see that life is still worth living. It has to be age that makes me feel greatly comforted in the fact that none of this humdrum of life really matters, for all of us are destined to one final end. And it is because of that final destination that the journey should be made worthwhile.

"Men die and are not happy," says Caligula. The path that Caligula takes subsequently is perfectly logical, which was Camus' way of showing the logical conclusion of nihilism. But, in the process, Camus also suggests possibilities of other paths, other ways of extracting meaning out of what can be termed a "meaningless" existence.

There are times when the daily process of living does makes one wonder whether there is any meaning in all of this. Works like Caligula answer that well.

Train to the past

2009-07-16T16:55:00.002+05:30

I boarded the Metro from Krishi Bhavan, having followed very clear instructions from concerned parents about how to buy the token and how to use it. The cleanliness of the station, the silence and the discipline were amazing -- it seemed like I had descended the stairs to another world, where rickety buses, shouting conductors hanging out of the doors and rushing hordes of people didn't exist.

The train was 'wow' and the journey was great fun, as I observed fellow passengers, trying to make out how many were regular travellers; how many, like me, were excited, yet apprehensive; and how many were not really there in the train. I disembarked at the DU station, came out, and stood still. A couple of cycle rickshaw guys saw my uncertainty as the opportunity to make a fast buck, but I 've lived long enough to see through that. I didn't know which part of the University I was in. I looked around for familiar landmarks, but much has changed and 10 years is a really long time. Finally, I was able to make out Chhatra Marg and gladly moved that way.

Better dressed students, more cars and mobile phones, more parking, more cycle rickshaws and facelifts to certain areas was my impression of DU, until I entered D School. It was as if I'd never been away. The building's facade was much improved -- seepage ridden walls had been repaired and the canteen looked, to use a less-used word, posh. Ratan Tata Library was under renovation, but everything else was the same, from the colour of the walls to the bench outside the office.

Voices from the past followed me down the corridor, and many faces that I'd all but forgotten suddenly came back. The new-look, much cleaner canteen served filter coffee as before, and, it tasted just as it had all those years back. I wonder if they have a patent on that recipe. Even the man behind the cash counter and the man serving the coffee were the same as a decade ago. The entire experience was like being reconnected to a part of me that I'd forgotten about, that I'd left far behind in the race of life. It was wonderful to be able to find that bit of my life again, to get re-acquainted with the time gone by.

I took the familiar route through Kirori Mal to Kamla Nagar, and was assaulted by the passage of years. The bookshops facing Kirori Mal had given way to those hallmarks of retail culture--branded goods showrooms, Barista, et al. A walk down one radial revealed that the infestation was widespread. There were very few signs of the neighbourhood shops or the humble restaurants that I remembered; everywhere I looked, I could see big showrooms, the 'Hey look, I've got money' syndrome, and exhortations to spend, spend, spend.

The nostalgia trip did me a world of good, though I wish I hadn't been jolted back to reality so suddenly. The one thing that was unchanged, and I was glad of that, was that the biggest stockist of Hindi literature books in Kamla Nagar still existed, and I was able to add to my collection significantly with his help.

Just read...

2009-07-16T16:38:00.004+05:30

"क्या भूलूँ क्या याद करूँ", the first part of Dr. Harivanshrai Bachchan's autobiography. I got this one a couple of years ago from one of the bookshops in Connaught Place, and could come round to reading it only now.

It's the story of a common man, who began his life in a 'mohalla' in Allahabad. The scale, however, is breathtaking, as the writer talks about history, mythology, culture, religion, social issues, art, literature, family, and of course, poetry. Nowhere is it preachy, nowhere is it a dry discourse. The writer weaves in all the influences that have shaped his life so effortlessly, with so much feeling and in such simple, rich language, that I felt part of the story he was narrating.

This is one of the books I read voraciously. After a long time, I've come across a piece of writing that is so human and yet so thought-provoking. It's been a marathon read till 2 am almost every night, until I finished it. And any book-lover who met me in this period didn't even need to ask, "What are you reading?" before I launched into my impressions of the book. My husband, of course, has had to bear the brunt -- I've been exploiting his limited grasp of Hindi literature and yet, his interest in poetry, to wax eloquent.

The second part is waiting to be read, and I'm waiting to read it. It was quite an intense and absorbing experience, but more than me, those around me need a break.

कुछ सुंदर पंक्तियाँ

2009-03-22T08:43:00.001+05:30

हाल ही में फिर से हिन्दी साहित्य की ओर जाने का मौका मिला, तो ऐसा लगा जैसे वर्षों की तलाश पूरी हो गयी। यहाँ दो पंक्तियाँ जिन्होंने दिल को तरंगित कर दिया:

- कवि कुछ ऐसी तान सुनाओ कि सब कुछ उथल-पुथल हो जाए...

-जब भी अतीत में जाता हूँ, मुर्दों को नहीं जिलाता हूँ
पीछे हटकर फेंकता हूँ बाण, जिससे कम्पित हो वर्तमान

मुझे किसी भाषा से कोई आपत्ति नहीं है, मैं उनमें से भी नहीं जो सोचते हैं कि अंग्रेज़ी की लोकप्रियता से हमारी संस्कृति भ्रष्ट हो रही है। लेकिन फिर से हिन्दी पढने से अपने समृद्ध साहित्य की ओर मेरा ध्यान गया। मुझे लगा कि जो हमारा है, उसे हम क्यों भुला दें? क्यों उसे संजोने की, उससे कुछ सीखने की कोशिश न करें? हमारी भाषाओं का साहित्य हमारे अतीत की कहानी है, हमारा सच है। उसे भुलाना मतलब अपनी जड़ों से नाता तोड़ लेना। क्या तभी आज हम इतना भटक रहे हैं? क्योंकि हम अपने कल से नाता तोड़ चुके और आज में अपना अस्तित्व ढूंढ रहे हैं?

हिन्दी से फिर से नाता जोड़ने से कुछ ऐसे महापुरुषों से भी मेल हुआ, जिन्होंने अपने समय में भाषा को बढ़ावा ही नहीं दिया, भाषा को अपनी संगिनी बनाया। उनमें से एक हैं भारतेंदु हरिश्चंद्र, और दूसरे हैं संत कबीर। इनको पढने से भाषा की ताकत का अनुमान हुआ, कलम की ताकत क्या होती है, इसका पता चला। कबीर के बारे में तो सचमुच लगता है कि इतने हजार वर्षों बाद भी, वह जो बोल रहे हैं, आज के बारे में बोल रहे हैं। और क्या साफ़, सपाट भाषा में बोलते हैं कि बात सीधी दिल तक पहुंचे, सोचने पर मजबूर करे। अंत में इनकी कुछ पंक्तियाँ:

पोथी पढ़ पढ़ जग मुआ, पंडित भया न कोई।
ढाई आखर प्रेम का, पढ़े सो पंडित होई॥

काकर पत्थर जोड़ के, मस्जिद लिए बनाय।
तो चढी मुल्ला बांग दे, क्या बहिरा हुआ खुदाय॥

Strike two

2008-09-09T17:00:00.003+05:30

Fellow citizens, beware of being a public personality. Especially beware of being a public personality in Mumbai. And if you have the misfortune of being both, better learn Marathi pronto.

If certain individuals in Mumbai are to be believed, not speaking the language, even though you've stayed here for decades, is tantamount to being a traitor. Never mind that Hindi is our national language; never mind that you, as an individual, have made significant contributions to the pride and culture of your country.

What's the point of all this? Gujarat is all for Narendra Modi, not because of his ideologies, but because of all that he's done for the economy and security of the state. Ditto for the State Government in Delhi. Given that Maharashtra is plagued with even bigger problems, aren't there many other grassroots issues for over-enthusiastic politicians to handle? Issues that would give them the necessary political mileage and lots of positive press, and in the process, also create some benefits for the aam junta.

Marathi is already a compulsory language or a compulsory third language in many schools, and generations of non-Maharashtrians speak it with more comfort than their so-called native tongues. Vijay Tendulkar's plays are just an instance of how popular Marathi literature is.

And if the concerned gentleman feels so strongly about his Marathi antecedents, why not organize poetry reading sessions and other literary activities that would induce people to know and appreciate the language? Why is it that so many public reading rooms are closing down, when the Marathi language has such vociferous well-wishers?

As usual, issues are made out of non-issues for some quick brownie points; while the real issues languish by the wayside, along with the scores of people they affect.

mi mumbaikar

2008-09-04T21:47:00.005+05:30

In the big cosmopolitan city of Mumbai, my locality is a microcosm, a small sample of what the city at large stands for and entails. One of my first thoughts after coming to Mumbai was how easy it was to integrate into the city and its lifestyle. Despite Shiv Sena bandhs, loud exhortations about 'immigrants' and the growing stronger by the day 'Marathi manoos' stand, my faith in the city's fundamental pluralism is unchanged.

But that faith suffered a serious dent recently. Overnight, nearly every shop in my locality has undergone a transformation. Hastily painted cloth banners or signboards or strategically inserted words in the original signboard proclaim shops' names in Devnagri script, ostensibly to say that the shop does have a Marathi signboard. Never mind that people haven't bothered with translation; the speed with which the change occurred meant that the Marathi language had to make do with transliteration from English to Devnagri.

When you've invested lakhs of rupees in setting up a business and spend most of your living hours in growing it and make it profitable, it's fairly understandable that you don't want a bunch of hooligans swooping down to attack and loot your enterprise. Principles and culture don't come into it--it's all a matter of saving your life and belongings.

And that's where politics of the 'danda' scores. Common people are vulnerable, because their livelihoods often depend on the very resources that are attacked by politicians and their supporters in the name of community or religion or culture.

If it's a matter of a mere signboard change, most traders would willingly oblige. Consumers wouldn't care much about that signboard, most of them find it a blind spot after the first few visits anyway. Most languages, including Marathi and English, don't lose or gain; they're too powerful on their own to even suffer the slightest scratch. MNS and Raj Thackeray gain a few column centimeters of print space and a couple of airtime hours; some lawkeepers get a chance to earn their wages; some people are disgusted, while I guess some do feel that it's a victory for the 'Marathi manoos'.

At the end of the day, all that I feel is a bad taste in the mouth and a frown in the mind. Not enough to anger, nowhere near enough to galvanize into action. Just a mental shrug and a sinking thought of where all of this will end.

Memories of a weekend in Alunda...

2008-08-19T13:26:00.004+05:30

Alunda is a typical village off NH8 that links Mumbai to Ahmedabad. The closest town is Wada, which is probably the size of, or smaller than, Lokhandwala. In good weather (read roads that haven't been ravaged by the monsoon) and average traffic conditions, the distance between Borivali and Alunda takes about two hours. My in-laws have built a cottage on a plot in Alunda. Their society is surrounded by the hills and lies adjacent to a vast tract of adivasi, agricultural land. Here are some impressions from a recent visit to that haven of silence and peace.

The first view from the bus of a green carpet of paddy fields, tall grass, lush trees and swollen rivers and ponds
A lazy afternoon with the sound of the wind through the garden, the occasional birdcall, and the constant tinkling of wind chimes
Untamed greenery almost five feet in height, growing thickly, running over every bit of available soil
Watching spiders build webs to catch their dinner; a bulbul's nest on a frangipani tree; a chameleon concealing itself on the trunk of a drumstick tree
A spider and its tiny web on a leaf, caught under a dewdrop in the early morning
The ride back home in a Qualis, accompanied by the owner of the car who wasn't too confident about driving on the highway; the local panwallah who acted as driver due to his prior work experience as a truck-driver; and the local odd-job man who came along because "I want to see Mumbai, aur hamare gaaon ki gaadi jaa rahi hai."

e by Matt Beaumont

2008-07-29T20:00:00.004+05:30

A new author, a new format, and generous helpings of contemporary, Dilbertian humor. The book's called e, and it's written as a series of e-mails floating through the computers of the various characters that inhabit an advertising agency.

The story's told brilliantly and the characters etched out wonderfully through the e's, as they're called. You get to see everything from petty office politics to high-level corporate intrigue, crises, deadlines, affairs... you name it and it's there. I've never been on edge to know what would happen next in a book that's supposed to belong to the humor genre. Apart from a couple of P. G. Wodehouse classics, I've never read a humor book more than once. And very rarely have I laughed out loud at something I'm reading in a crowded Mumbai local. Clearly, this book was a harbinger of many firsts.

The Unchanged Value of Things

2008-07-29T19:45:00.002+05:30

As a child, I remember making an 'eeks-I'm-going-to-throw-up' face at the sight of cream or 'malai' in my glass of milk. I also remember my mother trying to use every bit of malai. She collected it in a bowl by skimming it from the top of cold milk, one or two teaspoons every day, till she had enough to make butter. She would then spend a precious evening making pure ghee from that butter. When she kneaded atta, she ran the dough through the empty milk vessel, to collect the cream stuck in it. If they could have afforded it, my parents and many more people of their generation would probably have bought and used full-cream milk; my parents often talked about the taste of curd made from that milk.

Today, my generation can afford full-cream milk. We can buy a whole pack of cream from the supermarket without a second thought. But, when we see malai or ghee, we think 'saturated fat' and 'high cholesterol'. We'd much rather buy olive oil, which is much more expensive than pure ghee or cream ever was.

To a generation that valued it, it was out of reach. To a generation that can reach it, it holds negative value. Makes me wonder whether value is the inverse of what money can buy.

dilli ka badalta roop

2008-05-30T18:46:00.004+05:30

Maybe because I traveled more in this trip, I saw much that has changed in Delhi from even six months ago. Many of those changes may have been building for a while and are manifested now.

The much-maligned and much-cursed BRT corridoor has made life tough for private vehicle-owners and auto-rickshaw drivers, but pedestrians have never had it better. The traffic flow is much more organized and crossing the road is a breeze; many roads have the prized commodity that was non-existent earlier: pavements that cyclists do not encroach upon, since they have a separate lane to themselves.
The new buses (Tata Marcopolo) that run in these corridoors are a dream. The ride is smooth; the bus design is good; the journey is as fast as it can be in a bus; and people don't crowd the doors. The only thing is that the buses seemed poorly ventilated, due to the strange positioning of the windows.
The one thing that Delhi had and Mumbai didn't--precious green cover--is fast depleting. The coming of the Metro sounded the death-knell for lakhs of trees; the regret was palpable in the voices of whoever I had this discussion with, but there was also a resignation to the march of progress.
Was I lucky, was I so used to it that I didn't notice, or do auto-rickshaw drivers in Delhi throw less attitude at you now? I also figured that the fare calculation is done as follows: average fare to destination rounded to the next high figure + markup of Rs. 10. If the chap wasn't interested in going, he didn't haggle any more, but shook his head firmly. Strangely though, I did not encounter as many refusals this time as I have done in the past.
The gap between Mumbai's and Delhi's night-life seems to be reducing. While roads in Delhi used to be dead by 8 pm earlier, I saw a fair amount of traffic, bright lights and activity even past midnight on a Saturday night.
Traffic jams, the bane of Mumbai, are multiplying alarmingly in Delhi, despite the fact that Delhi has larger, wider and better roads. Unless it's an emergency, the office hours need to be avoided like the plague.
The mall culture has asserted itself with a vengeance. No less than three of these giants stand shoulder-to-shoulder in Saket (more trees destroyed), on a stretch of road that was otherwise desolate at night and only slightly busy in the day. A by-product is that the older PVR Saket bears a has-been look, even on weekends. I am told that M.G. Road in Gurgaon is known as the Mall Road now, because it is infested with shopping malls of every colour and flavour.
If Mumbai has Navi Mumbai, Delhi has Gurgaon--a suburb with vast, uninhabited spaces that could take the huge overflow of aspirants who want to make it big in the city. For those who knew Gurgaon for the DLF 'ship building' and 32nd Milestone, it's bizarre and even scary to see the colonies of swank offices with their glass and concrete exteriors, the high-rises that house all those for whom Delhi has become unaffordable, and the frantic pace at which construction activity is still on. While Gurgaon promises a certain lifestyle, I was also told that housing in that suburb is also becoming unaffordable with skyrocketing property prices. Plus, problems of finding parking, increasing traffic jams, and power and water shortages are rearing their heads. In short, Gurgaon's becoming as overcrowded as Delhi.
Now for some things that haven't changed. Connaught Place retains its essence, though several stores have shut down and new ones have taken their place. I spotted three Coffee Day outlets this time, which is two more than last time. The emporia on Baba Kharak Singh Marg are the same, right down to the attitude of the employees who work there; and the guys at Khadi still firmly believe that they're doing you a favour by billing your products and packing them. Janpath is much the same, as is Depaul's cold coffee (Thank God for that!). Dilli Haat is the same; shoppers in Delhi's markets are still a pushing, shoving lot; and auto-rickshaw drivers still love to pass a comment or two to relieve the boredom of their existence. The golgappas are the same, though I couldn't indulge as much as I'd have liked to; Hot Choc Fudge at Nirula's is sinful as ever; and filter coffee at Saravana Bhavan and Sagar Ratna is still a taste of heaven. There, I'm looking forward to the next trip already!
Nothing about the biggest addition to Delhi--the Metro--you'd notice. A Metro journey is on my wish-list for next time, so I'll reserve comment till then.

Just read...

2008-05-22T01:20:00.004+05:30

The Sunday Philosophy Club by Alexander McCall Smith.

A well-to-do moral philosopher in Edinburgh and the editor of a journal called Review of Applied Ethics, witnesses the death of a young man who falls from the higher rows in a concert hall. She, effectively, is the last person to see him alive as he falls, and feels that she has a moral responsibility to investigate his death. Enlisting the help of her niece's ex-boyfriend, who she herself is half in love with, Isabel tries to probe whether the death was accident, suicide, or murder. At the same time, she tries to get her niece's love life in order, though not with any degree of success.

The mystery isn't much to write about; what comes alive in Isabel's journey is the deep moral choices we face, and more often than not, choose to avoid--telling the truth vs. lying, forgiving vs. punishing, and so on. The slices of philosophy fit interestingly into satirical comments about Edinburgh culture and society and quiet insights into the human condition.

Though several parts of the book were quite interesting, one that stayed with me is set on a bus journey that Isabel makes late at night. The other people on the bus are a man in an overcoat who seems oblivious to his surroundings, a couple absorbed in each other, and a teenager trying to make a statement with his attire:

"Isabel smiled to herself: a microcosm of our condition, she thought. Loneliness and its despair; love and its self-absorption; and sixteen, which was a state all its own."

Another interesting part was Isabel's conversation with a man who has piercings all over his face. She wonders how any girl would like to kiss this guy, and so forth, and then asks him why he has these piercings. That's quite a philosophical conversation too.

Our moral dilemmas and Isabel's perspectives on them make for just the right kind of reading--thought-provoking but not self-consciously so, warm but incisive, leaves you with a smile, but also with several questions.

The sunset of life

2008-05-19T12:34:00.003+05:30

'I'm going home', the thought used to both excite and comfort me. Now, it brings with it the realization of the vulnerability of age; the helplessness of seeing the world whiz past, uncaring of the slowing footsteps of old age; the frustration of being energetic and productive and not having enough to do; the loneliness of having time for your children when your children have no time for you.

Why is life assumed to be over after 60? Why is 'retirement' such a crucial stage in an individual's life? Why is youth so dismissive of old age, when that's the future of everything? Why do people over a certain age think that they should not dream, should not desire, should not aspire; and why does society at large endorse that attitude? Is there a way of leading a productive, contented, happy life at that stage? Any answers, anyone?

A soap I like...

2008-04-27T15:41:00.002+05:30

Airs on NDTV Imagine, at 10 pm, Monday-Thursday. It's called "Jasuben Jayantilal Joshi ki Joint Family". I never thought a day would come when I'd be hooked to a daily soap; but here's why I try not to miss this one.
1. A really beautiful, bright, cheerful, optimistic, educated, forward-thinking female protagonist, aka Jasuben
2. Well-etched characters, who actually dress and talk like my Gujarati and Marathi neighbours
3. No three camera angles in each shot, no background music comprising blood-thirsty exhortations
4. Everyday situations and everyday humour
5. Reasonable pace for story movement, credible twists in the tale
6. Fine performances--very believable and likeable
7. No poisonous relative plotting to make life miserable for everyone else
8. No business or political rivalry
9. No grand conspiracy theories
10. No Melodrama

A New-Found Love

2008-03-30T09:56:00.003+05:30

"It's therapeutic for me," a friend had once remarked, referring to the daily chore of cooking. In Mumbai, more than in Delhi, cooking is largely an outsourced task. Breakfast is on the run, if it is more than a cup of tea or coffee, that is. Lunch is usually provided by the famed dabbawalas, the school or office catering service, or ordered from the zillion Udupi-like joints dotting the city's landscape. For dinner, most working couples rely on a cook, who will make a full meal of sabzi, dal, roti and rice.

I sometimes wonder at the big fuss we humans make of our meals. We need each ingredient prepared in a certain way--fried, boiled, steamed, microwaved; flavored with specific spices, whole or ground. Each component then has to be ideally paired with another--garlic bread with baked veggies; pita bread with hummus; pasta with wine; roti with sabzi; sambar or avial with rice; puri with chhole.... And then we come to dessert, which is the main course for many people. While we spend ages stocking up on ingredients and planning and preparing our meals; in the animal kingdom, and in much of the human world, the fight is for getting a meal at all. Sometimes, the food aspect of our lives seems an obscene waste of time to me.

At other times, the art of cooking is completely fascinating. How the same vegetable is cooked in different ways in different regions; how certain ingredients are combined to provide unforgettable flavours; how all the senses are tantalized through the act of cooking are all extremely interesting. The learning process of trying out and perfecting a new recipe is endlessly exciting.

Feeding a hungry person was supposed to be one of the biggest acts of punya in our ancient literature. I think it was not because of just filling the stomach; it was about providing a sense of peace and satiation that can only come from a good meal. There's always a little bit of the cook in a well-prepared dish; that's what lifts a meal above the level of food.

I want to write

2008-03-11T17:20:00.002+05:30

That's a common refrain of many aspirants who want to become journalists. A subset of these also believe that they're award-winning material. Which is all good, except for the sad fact that a very large subset of these don't know the first thing about writing.

Apart from being extremely personal and subjective, the art and technique of writing cannot be easily defined. At the very least, good writing needs to convey information without confusing the reader. At its best, a well-written piece touches a chord with the readers.

Good writing is not merely stringing together grammatically correct sentences or using big words. Journalists, particularly, are also afflicted with the desire to sound knowledgeable about their subject. Most cannot resist the temptation of either sounding pedantic or cynical, to show that they're above the subjects of their writing. Slowly, this attitude seeps into life as well; which is why many senior journalists are pretty unbearable human beings.

Copy editing or reviewing a piece of information almost always holds the same dilemma for the editor--how much to rewrite and how much to let be, especially if the writer in question is obviously awful, but has too big an ego to see that. Of course, the writer could say the same thing about the editor's ego. And so, after a tough mental debate, I try to carve out a fine piece from the rough copy handed to me, and make it appear as if it was the writer's intention to do so. If I succeed, the finished product becomes my object of joy; if I don't, well, it's still better than what it was. And as you can see from this blog, I want to write too.

The library round the corner

2008-02-26T21:47:00.003+05:30

I haven't seen this one in Delhi for at least two decades, but it might exist in the nooks and crannies of that city that are unknown to me.

In Mumbai, however, at least in the large residential area where I stay, there are three or four such libraries, and only one of these deals in books and movies. The other two are solely books--English, Hindi and Marathi.

One of them is the size of a kirana shop in the less affluent parts of Delhi. It's managed by three women--who take turns to come and sit there, aided by a young boy who can climb up to the top shelves to retrieve books. The monthly rates are nominal, less than what one brand new bestseller would cost. There are no fines and no limit on how many books or magazines you can read in a month.

In the surrounding glitz--there's a row of boutiques three shops down, three eateries, toy shops and grocery stores, and even a jewellery showroom in the vicinity--this place comes as a surprise. It's housed among a shop selling lights, a doctor's clinic, and a vegetable vendor, which is strategic positioning--people can visit it on their daily grocery shopping trips, or while returning from office. The bigger surprise is that the library seems to be doing well on the usual fare of English bestsellers, Hindi classics, Marathi novels, children's books and loads of magazines in all three languages. I guess just like roti and rice, some reading is also a staple in every diet.

Have nothing better to do?

2008-02-26T21:36:00.002+05:30

If you literally have time to kill, go watch Jodhaa Akbar, the most pointless extravaganza to come out in a long time. At my most charitable, I can commend the movie for the following reasons--Hrithik Roshan's thoroughly convincing performance, the music and the background score, and to a small extent, the authenticity with which the settings have been recreated. Otherwise, it's a masala potboiler, which the makers have tried to lift to the scale of an epic.

You might, of course, do better by renting the DVD of a film called 'Sideways'. It's hard to describe the genre of this one--it's a dark comedy; it has elements of satire; it's a road movie; it's a love story...it hits you at many different levels.

For Nears and Dears

2008-02-26T21:10:00.002+05:30

I don't know if anyone uses this term for their loved ones (is this one still around?) any more. But in the past month or so, I've got acquainted with, met or spoken to more people than I come in touch with in an average month in Mumbai. The number, by the way, isn't much in either case.

Living away from family and friends whom you've grown up with gives a detached perspective to relationships in general. The emotional need of connecting and sharing is overridden by the needs of here and now. In short, you learn to fend for yourself; you learn not to feel lonely; you learn not to have expectations of people. So far, so good, but then, all that has to be unlearnt every time the near and dear ones come visiting or you go to your 'native place'. That's the unending dilemma.

Being pulled in different directions undermines the belief that you are in control. Seeing others make demands of your thoughts, opinions and emotions makes you wonder, and in my case, it also makes me feel out of my depth. Visits to the 'native place' are uncomfortable in one aspect--you're back where you started from, but though you've grown beyond it, the starting point hasn't changed that much. Thinking about going home makes me full of nostalgia and happy memories and the joy of seeing everyone again, but once I get there, I'm in the middle of a tug of war. A part of me has grown up and away from it all, and another part is deeply entrenched in that house, those people, the very air of the city, so that even without realizing, I start living through an old mask. I find myself shaking out of it with a supreme effort, trying to reconcile these two parts of me. By the time I achieve that, I'm back in Mumbai, and the tug of war starts again.

Finally saw...

2008-01-14T04:30:00.000+05:30

Manorama Six Feet Under and Johnny Gaddar.

Every Bollywood year-end round-up rated both as cult movies that weren't appreciated in their box office runs. For once, the journalists weren't exaggerating.

Apart from story, visual treatment, and really strong scripts, I'd recommend the first for well-etched characters and stupendous performances; the second was a treat for its breakneck pace and clever layering. And the man who can make Rimi Sen act deserves a standing ovation!

Very near Perfect 10

2008-01-04T20:01:00.000+05:30

Ignoring my lifelong crush on Aamir Khan, Taare Zameen Par gets a 9.5 rating on my scale.

Here's to many more movies from one of the few 'rebel' actors of this generation.

Farewell to Chanakya Cinema

2008-01-04T19:03:00.000+05:30

Nobody who's grown up in Delhi in the too-few-foreign-films era could have missed this theatre. Fans of Nirula's icecreams (me included) had one more reason to hang out here. The madhumalti-covered arch and the fountains outside the food joint made it a great place for economy dates too.

Since my school was in the vicinity, we saw several movies on school trips at Chanakya. I can remember Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Jungle Book, and The Ten Commandments. The first time I watched a movie in the front stall, during college, was at Chanakya. The movie, still a personal favourite, was Forrest Gump. Tom Hanks sat on a bench, and a white feather (or was it a snowflake?) floated down as he talked. I felt like I could reach out and touch it. Before the days of Dolby and Surround Sound, this was immersive cinema.

The theatre had individuality, it had class. It was one of the few theatres where women did not feel that men had come to watch them, instead of the movie. It was also one of the few theatres where you could spend time and 'hang out', instead of rushing through the movie and heading home. Apart from Nirula's, momos at various stalls were a hot attraction. A couple of shacks with glamourous names and dhaba-like interiors enabled financially challenged college students to spend time with friends over food.

All that will change now to the assembly-line multiplex model, with swank food joints, mind-boggling arrays of snacks and beverages, a million places to shop, and skyrocketing prices. It's not only a theatre that will be left behind. We would have turned our backs to a way of living where what you spend was not an indicator of how much fun you had.

'We're living in a material world,' sang Madonna a long time ago, but it's truer today than it was then. If all concerned will make lots of money from the deal, no amount of feeling can save the theatre. It was several days ago when I heard the news of Chanakya's demolition, and I'm still trying to reconcile to the sense of personal loss. More than a part of me, a part of the city I love is irrevocably lost. There is one less reason to feel proud of Delhi, one more reason to feel that there where the march of money is concerned, there isn't much difference between one part of the country and the other. I wish the ASI had taken over Chanakya as a heritage site, but history in the making is often ignored in favour of 'progress' and 'development'.

The best review of Titanic I've read

2007-12-10T18:59:00.000+05:30

This one was recorded on January 28, 1998, by P.D James in her published journal, Time to Be in Earnest. It pithily hits the nail on the head in a way that most film critics couldn't manage.

"It is over-long but the special effects are certainly memorable and will no doubt achieve an Oscar. I didn't believe in the young lovers and was irritated by the usual Hollywood anti-British bias. The Englishmen all wore evening dress to demonstrate their upper-class unfeeling arrogance, even on the last night of the voyage, when they would not have changed for dinner, while the Irish were happy innocents dancing their jigs below deck. One of the crew, who in real-life had behaved impeccably, was shown as a murdering coward, which I thought unforgivable. The young hero, Leonardo di Caprio, clung to the wreckage on which Kate Winslett was elegantly lying to deliver a poignant valedictory speech before sinking slowly out of sight. I felt the energy required for this could have been better spent in swimming to a similar piece of wreckage and keeping himself alive. But I have no doubt the film will be an immense success with adolescent girls all over the world."

Why I love P.G Wodehouse

2007-12-10T18:50:00.000+05:30

Who else can come up with a gem like this one?

(The reference is to a pretentious poetess, who's also an imposter. The story is Leave It To Psmith)

"She was alone. It is a sad but indisputable fact that in this imperfect world Genius is too often condemned to walk alone - if the earthier members of the community see it coming and have time to duck."

Aaja Nachle

2007-12-10T18:45:00.000+05:30

Objectively, I give 6 stars on my scale to this one.

Subjectively, I'd watch the movie again for Madhuri alone. The soul she puts into her performances, and particularly her nritya, is a rare treat for a dance lover. Like many other crazy fans in this country, as long as she's dancing, I'm sure to watch.

A Movie Rating Scale...

2007-12-05T14:15:00.000+05:30

that's maybe less arbitrary than the rest.

Despite online booking, ticket home-delivery, phone booking and the other paraphernalia of the multiplex experience, the pulsating thrill and racing heartbeat of getting a movie ticket remains unchanged for me. The magic of watching a movie on the not-so-big-any-longer screen is that for those few hours, you're in the film's world, you're consciously choosing to share the experiences and tribulations of the characters that inhabit this world. It's only fair to expect that this world live up to its hype, unlike the real world, which has very little hype and even fewer expectations riding on it.

Here, therefore, is a completely personal movie-rating scale devised after watching many of the much-hyped movies. In each case, a * is the existence of the attribute; no stars allotted for non-existence.

1. The film moves you or makes you think or makes you laugh (with it, not at it) (an extra * if you're still thinking about it favorably the next day)
2. The characters resemble human beings you may know or like to know (and I don't mean six-pack abs or perfect10 figures alone)
3. The performances make the characters believable
4. There is an interesting story, which is well-scripted and well-told (an extra * if the story is exceptionally different)
5. The film carries you along; there isn't a moment where you wish you hadn't spent all that money and effort to watch this one
6. The song-and-dance routines, if included, are foot-tapping or heart-warming
7. The dialogs and lyrics are non-cliched and add to the characterization/songs
8. The film explores some new ground, whether in story, direction, music or any other aspect

On this 10-star scale, my ratings on the last five movies I've seen:
Saawariya: 6 stars
OSO: 5
Dor: 8
Bheja Fry: 7
Dhamaal: 3

What are your ratings of your recently watched movies?

Shake a Leg...

2007-10-19T14:14:00.000+05:30

Jhalak Dikhla Jaa judge Jeetendra recently said that dancing was about letting go of your inhibitions. Like most art forms, dance is also a very self-centered expression of emotion--joy, excitement, love et al.

Or so I thought till I joined the dandiya crowd. Some dance for joy, no doubt. It's evident in their smiles, in their movements, in their obvious enjoyment of swaying to the music. Some dance with pressed lips and blank faces. Some try really hard and the 1-2-3-4 in their heads obliterates everything else. Some are alive for the moment and let themselves go. Some dance with determination. And some dance as a pure demonstration of technique, as if to show how much better they are at it.

Expressions vary too. Some look you in the eye and smile. Some look at your dandiya stick, ascertaining the exact moment to hit it. Some have a very focused look, like in an exam. Some look through you. Some, especially children/adolescents dancing with adults, look either utterly self-conscious or supremely disdainful. The pros look indifferent, dancing in a vaccuum, indifferent to who, if anyone, is partnering them. And some actually look sulky.

Having known the utter joy of letting yourself be one with the music, I wonder what other motivations they could be for dancing, especially in a setting that is community-based, non-competitive and purely voluntary. Does anyone have any ideas?

Ear-plugs anyone?

2007-10-12T20:37:00.000+05:30

The first day of Navratri is here. Mumbai is dotted with bright lights and dandia pandals. The orchestras and live DJs are earning a sizable part of their annual incomes. So are chaniya-choli and jewellery sellers. A good time is to be had by the local economy.

Our society has also organized nine nights of garba and dandiya, with a live DJ on the last day. The surprise is that my thrive-in-noise daughter is unwilling to go; unsurprisingly, she's more interested in what the TV's dishing out. Like every year, I'm torn between going to look at the dandiya (I love watching it, though I haven't yet had the courage to try doing it) and staying as far away from the cacophony as possible. I think I'll follow my daughter's example--probably check out Jhalak Dikhla Jaa for some good-quality dancing (I used to be a die-hard Nach Baliye fan, but this season is more about masala melodrama than dance. Plus, Saroj Khan isn't there) and give the headache factory a miss for today.

Lead me from temptation

2007-10-11T13:29:00.000+05:30

This anniversary brought not one, but two, boxes of Belgian dark chocolate. Shatrujeet, to whom chocolate means nothing, put them in the fridge without a second thought. Kaavya, who lives for chocolate, doesn't like the dark variety with its bitter overtones and strangely flavoured fillings. As for me, with my serious weight problem and equally serious efforts to do something about it, I was afraid to open the fridge.

It didn't help to think about painful old age, blood pressure, diabetes or any of the other fearsome consequences of obesity. The fact that I'd recently lost some weight after iron self-control was hardly a motivator. 'If you did it once, you can do it again,' said a voice, as the rich brown squares beckoned after each meal. I tried to divert myself with a million things, but it was like a tune that plays in the back of your mind. Every thought I had was laced with dark chocolate.

I travelled the tried-and-tested route of each temptation: ignore (Try not to think about it), deny (I don't want it), appeal to goodness (It's full of calories and very unhealthy), warn about consequences (I'll gain weight again and I know how hard it is to lose), and then the brainwash and the false promise (Ok, one small piece isn't going to hurt. I promise to stop after one piece). I felt a force stronger than me leading me to the box, struggling desperately with the covers, till I bit into one piece of the heavenly stuff.

Well, half of one of the boxes is over, generously aided by me. I've tasted all the flavours in that box (cinnamon and coffee were absolutely wonderful) and the weighing-scale shows a rise of one kg. Sigh! There's still one whole box to go, and my generosity seems to have withered in the face of such temptation. I cannot give it away, I cannot throw it, and I definitely cannot eat any more. That's not completely right, I can eat more, but I don't want to. Well, I want to, but I shouldn't. And what one should or should not do is never a very good reason for anything.

Impressed by 'Possession'

2007-10-09T23:16:00.000+05:30

It took me more than a month, and a few digressions to less taxing worlds, but I've finally finished reading Possession by A. S. Byatt.

It's not a book to go to for a light read or an adrenalin rush. It isn't 'interesting' or simple, it isn't heart-warming or mind-numbing. But I found that it lingers, like a faint perfume or a half-formed question.

It's a labyrinth from the present (in the book) to the past, it has so many layers and characters and metaphors that one read is simply not enough. It professes to be a romance, which it is, doubly so. It is also a mystery, a satire, a commentary, a history, a cultural study and poetry, with a bit of science, religion and philosophy thrown in.

I read it fairly slowly, which is unusual for me, and I did peek at the last chapter when the suspense got too much, which is pretty usual for me. Though it answered most of the questions it set out to answer, it left several questions in the mind, especially to someone like me, whose idea of Victorian times is confined to Agatha Christie's observation that the Victorian mind is like a 'sink'. There were many references and allusions that I desperately wished to understand better; there was so much poetry that I wanted to interpret better.

My biggest grouse with the book, however, is that the core of the book, the poem about Melusine, is incomplete. When Byatt took so much effort to compose poetry, I wish she had taken a little more effort and finished the tantalisingly beautiful poem.

All in all, a really rich book, if you're prepared to enter its world, for it makes no effort to make the task easier for you. Like all good books, I won't forget this one in a hurry.

Tug of War

2007-10-08T18:23:00.000+05:30

A small, sturdy boat, bright blue and red, eager to feel the wind and touch the water, impatiently pulled at the strings holding it back.

The boatman sat on the bank, he and his wife had spent many days making this new boat. He wanted to look at its gleaming colours and perfect body one more time. His hands hesitated on the strong rope; he didn't want to take the boat out; he knew she would never be the same again. He could feel her tugging but he didn't want to let go yet.

This was his own boat, the very first he had built for himself. His eyes shone with pride as he looked at her. He looked around the river, his boat seemed to be the most beautiful of them all. His heart felt heavy at the thought of his boat becoming like the others. He thought of the harsh sun and the lashing rain; he saw his proud boat admitting defeat; tears came to his eyes as he saw the wreck she would be reduced to.

He looked down at the boat again. She was bobbing excitedly, tugging at the rope furiously. The gleaming paint caught the sun, making the boat glow with joy. A wind from the water ruffled the boatman's hair. He held the rope tighter; the boat felt like it would break away any moment. He got into the boat and set it free. His heart lifted as he felt the boat moving, one with the water and the wind.

Seven

2007-10-07T02:42:00.000+05:30

Though the number has many cosmic (and even cosmetic) connotations, this month, it marks the number of years I've been married. Someone asked me what it felt like, whether the seven-year itch was a reality.

I don't know if it's that precise a delineation. I guess you can get the itch anytime, depending on the current relationship and the opportunity or temptation available. I don't even see a sea change in my relationship from this month on. What I do see is the gradual development of an understanding where words become unnecessary; I also see an acceptance, resigned, half-hearted or cheerful, of quirks and habits. I sense a rhythm in life, and I strongly sense my reluctance towards any change that breaks this rhythm.

Discovery seems to have given way to surety; conversations now start midway through thought. Arguments have become fewer and are usually along well-traversed routes: his smoking, my obsession with perfectionism in housekeeping, his busy schedules and utter ignorance of anything to do with the house, my impatience with Kaavya. Learning about each other continues, though the pace has slackened with time and the need for individual growth.

I've begun wondering if marriage is overrated in our society. How important is a stable relationship that you can take for granted? Is it worth the effort that goes into building a relationship, with all its paraphernalia of home and family? Many people of my mother's generation are of the opinion that the basis of marriage is procreation and child-rearing. Some friends remarked that 'spending time with each other' was not what marriage was about; after a certain number of years, they said, spending time alone becomes preferable. And remarks like 'this is not the man I married' or 'we've grown apart' or 'she's changed' are common enough to be almost cliched. So, are we back to the fundamental truth of human beings--to want ties and freedom at the same time?

THE FINAL on the streets

2007-09-25T09:50:00.000+05:30

India broke its 24-year record of not winning a World Cup Final yesterday. The Twenty20 World Cup is ours, we defeated Pakistan, and we did it without a coach and the 'experienced' players of the team.

The day of frenzy began with radio stations dishing out couple passes to watch the match on the big screen of a Fame theatre. I witnessed history on Linking Road, Bandra, the haven for street-shopping in Mumbai. The place was deserted, what with Ganpati Utsav and the match. Apart from loud honking and the rain, the one constant sound was radio commentary. In one shop, the cashier was glued to the telephone, as the caller told him about the fall of the sixth wicket. The salespersons looked preoccupied as they tried to figure out what the score was.

In another lane, the radio was on full blast in some shop, and most people just stood where they were to listen. Some radio station was also doling out Rs 10,000 to lucky listeners for every wicket that fell. A heavily frequented sale saw the customers trying really hard to gain the attention of the sales staff. Conversations about shoe sizes tried to fit into updates about runs, overs and wickets.

In the row of pavement stalls, amidst dirty streets wet with rain, the final wicket fell. The news came from a guy, who was listening to the commentary at a shop and relaying the news to the unfortunate who had to attend to business as usual. The joy was palpable, audible and overflowing. People congratulated each other, there were calls to stop working and go out for some mithai. Loud fireworks followed soon after.

The last word came from my maid this morning. "Those players are going to earn pots of money. What are we going to get? Are they going to give us even a rupee? The public goes mad for no reason at all!"

Corporate Culture (hardly!)

2007-08-21T13:05:00.000+05:30

I was recently in a telecon with the CTO of a Mumbai-based company. The subject was a case study for one of their vendors. The vendor's marketing offices are in Delhi and Bangalore, apart from Mumbai. So, I dialed a number in Delhi, the Bangalore and Delhi marketing persons joined, then the CTO was called, after which the Mumbai marketing person also joined in. Here we were, talking seamlessly from three corners of the country, discussing how the vendor's solution had helped the company. It made me wonder if technology contributes to the illusory sense of self-importance that the corporate world is reeling under.

On a similar project, I had once gone to interview a senior manager in another company. He looked at me in wonder and said, "So you have come alone...", probably expecting an entourage of reporters and cameramen keen to find out how his security solution had helped his company.

Anyone who's worked in a corporate would have encountered situations of being in the same elevator or the same cafetaria queue with senior management. In most cases, the manager will look through you even though he knows you; if you aren't on his project, he sees no reason to even acknowledge your presence. (Of course, you can say this of many co-workers too.)

It's easy to imagine the sense of power at that level. Making decisions worth millions, being invited to give your opinion on sundry matters, giving media interviews, taking calls on appraisals and recruitments.... Swollen heads and bloated egos are natural consequences, as managers begin to feel they have a God-like status in their respective domains. Interestingly, the more incompetent the manager, the more drunk he is on his power... or should that be vice versa? Even more interestingly, this attitude tends to seep down as the company grows. As rounds of promotions happen, the promotees pretend to move to a different universe and divorce themselves from the unchanged realities of their yesterdays.

Having been part of this world for a considerable period of time, I have shifted from disbelief to resignation to sheer amusement. The last time I shared that elevator with two managers who were still in the company because they were too complacently incompetent to go anywhere else, I could hardly keep a straight face. I mean, here were these two guys, trying very hard to talk about strategic decisions and bringing in business, in a space that they were sharing for less than a minute. What were they doing the whole day, if this discussion had to happen at 8 PM in the elevator? And even if they were extraordinarily busy (hard to believe as we had very few projects or pitches at that time), surely there was tomorrow?

And I haven't even started on other corporate paraphernalia like meetings and processes. The intentions behind both are always good, I admit, and they're designed to make life simpler for those involved. Experience, however, shows that only about 10 percent of the meetings I've attended in my working life, and an even less percentage of processes, have met that purpose. I've created training sessions on how to conduct meetings and make them productive...need I say more?

My point is this. When the company is small and is exploring new ground, there is very little hierarchy and very few processes. At that stage, everyone has fun working. Dedication, creativity, imagination and quality of work are all-important; new thoughts and ideas are welcomed and employees are encouraged to think out of the box. As the company grows, all this takes a backseat to hierarchy and processes; decision making becomes slower and more cautious, fewer risks are taken, and 'corporate culture' sets in, acting as the last nail on the creativity and innovation coffin. All of this is reality, even though there will be exceptions. Isn't there something wrong with this picture? Shouldn't things be different?

Lost in translation...

2007-08-07T03:49:00.000+05:30

Croissants, a popular-ish brand in Mumbai if not anywhere else, has opened a branch nearby. For those not in the know, they make croissants, of course, and the most delicious, scrumptious, melt-in-the-mouth pastries (heaven must feel like a bite of that Dutch Truffle). They also sell something called bread. For four days last week, they were out of bread, whatever time of the day I asked for it. The standard response each time was, "madam, abhi-abhi koi le gaya". This conversation happened on Day 5 and left me all confused.

"aap roz kitni bread laate hain? ek?"
"nahin madam, do."
"bahut zyada laate hain!"
"nahin madam, zyaada nahin laate. yahaan koi bread nahin khareedta."

The rains are back!

2007-08-07T03:32:00.000+05:30

I've been waiting for this for almost a month now, in which time I've tried to psych the rain gods into visiting us again. My ringtone and my chat status message have been giving out really big hints. And finally, all those prayers are answered! After a dry July, the famed Mumbai monsoon is back and all's well with the world. (Which makes me wonder: was I farmer in a previous birth?)

Edit It

2007-07-31T02:29:00.000+05:30

Copy editing is something I love doing. Carving meaning out of language, testing the limits of words, creating something that the reader would like to spend time over are some of the perks that come with the job. Another perk, of course, is to see the horrors that language can create (no offence meant to anyone whose work I have ever edited). When these masterpieces don't come to me en masse an hour before the deadline, then, well, there's something to be said about their unintentional humour. Here's one of those, about the writer's visit to a hospital to interview someone for a story, which was too bizarre for words. It's in mint condition, except that names of people and places have been removed, for my safety.

"DR have give us proper direction, where to come but (the) campus is so huge, it really very difficult to find out where is sits in campus. On top of that, the security guard standing on the gate gave us a wrong direction and we end up reaching into (the) mortuary. What we saw there left us horrified and totally grossed out. Dead bodies stacked up in half open gunny bags! What were those doing there, we have no idea. Anyway, after an hour long hunt we finally managed to find our destination."

Ik chhota sa lamha hai...

2007-07-31T01:36:00.000+05:30

Gulzarsaab has the knack of putting a lifetime of thought into a single line. This is one I often think about, the one moment that haunts you forever, that you can't let go of and that doesn't let you go. Aren't all our lives full of such moments?

Time doles out generous doses of amnesia. Life picks up pace everyday, till you are running so fast that you don't know whether you're coming or going. The dust of life's journey settles on things gone by, on innumerable moments that were precious back then, but seem to have no meaning now. 'Moving on' is important; is looking back important too?

In the hazy world of memories, it's difficult to tell between castles in the air and the ground beneath your feet. Yet, in this ever-shifting, ever-changing world, there are always islands that stand out crystal clear.

Sometimes, I don't need to do anything to realize that I'm on one of those islands. Talking to a friend reminds me of our long Ayn Rand discussions. A chance e-mail takes me back to many, many conversations that changed the way I looked at things. Working furiously to meet a deadline sometimes brings back the fragrance of winter nights in Delhi. Kaavya's voracious, delightful ice-cream eating always, always reminds me of my first taste of Nirula's Hot Choc Fudge, of one afternoon spent with friends when we talked of nothing in particular. A casual conversation suddenly stirs up dregs of the past, things that I thought I had left behind, things that don't seem to have left me.

I recently watched Jo Jeeta Wahi Sikandar again. I didn't expect a nostalgia trip, but I got one hell of a roller-coaster ride. I don't watch Dil To Pagal Hai any more; not because I don't like the movie, but because it brings me face-to-face with bitter-sweet moments that haven't ended for me.

Memories don't need roadmaps, they only need cues to come out on stage and play their part. And as long as life goes on, there will always be moments that refuse to take their final bow.

The spirit of Mumbai

2007-07-12T23:32:00.000+05:30

There are two kinds of people who talk about this phenomenon:
1) Those who run this country/state/city, or are supposed to. This sect believes that showering praises on the undying spirit of Mumbai gives them cause to test that spirit some more, and absolves them of all responsibility;
2) Defensive Mumbaikars or Mumbai-ites, especially when in heated conversation (read the 'I'm superior' argument) with Dilli-valas or Delhiites.

The spirit of Mumbai is the flavour of the season when drains overflow, uncleared garbage and dead rats compete for space on the roads, the Western Express Highway becomes negotiable by boat, and people spend their days throwing rain water out of their houses. The average Mumbai resident is as capable of a drunken brawl as his North Indian or any Indian counterpart, but somehow, the state of the city doesn't raise any tempers. Year after year, people die of dengue and malaria; year after year, officegoers take pleasure in relating 'stranded in the rain' stories. Flooding, water logging, houses being submerged... these aren't inconveniences any more, they're part of the Mumbai folklore, of what people have to go through to survive in this city.

Is this much-famed spirit just another name for sheer indifference? Or is it that the people of this city pleasure their struggles with the monsoon? Does it add to their self-esteem to have braved another rain, to have vanquished, perhaps, the only opponent they can vanquish? Is this some warped superiority complex that says, "Hey, look what I have to go through to just reach to work and back, look what I have to fight to live?" Or, is it a stoic resignation, a fatalist shrug of the shoulders, as eking out an existence and chasing dreams leaves space for nothing else?

saawan ko aane do...

2007-07-12T22:38:00.001+05:30

In the middle of the much-awaited monsoon, parts of the country are wishing the rain clouds away, while in other parts, hopeful eyes gaze at the blue skies. There's something about the weather that always makes it a hot topic for conversation, whether you meet someone for the first time, renew contact with a long-lost friend, greet your spouse in the morning, or chat up a prospective partner. The weather is in nobody's control, yet everyone has an opinion on it. And the wisdom of the ages sprouts anew in the human mind, when the year's first rain showers the earth.

From the met department to the predictor family of astro, numero, and tarot, everyone is into second-guessing what the clouds have in mind. And once the monsoon's gameplan is clear, news channels move in for the kill. You can sense the announcer's exultation when the reporter hits paydirt--flooding in Milan Subway. The excitement is palpable, when citizens of this wet, wet city badmouth the BMC on camera. Channels feel they've earned their ad revenue the day the tracks get flooded, trains stop, commuters are stranded, and the country can see this live 24x7. As long as the monsoon arrives, and as long as this country has politicians, the news channels are assured of breaking news for at least three months of the year.

Despite the saas-bahu melodrama that the monsoon has been reduced to, there's still some untouched beauty left there. The fury, the unpredictability, and the sheer joy that rain falling on earth evokes is almost indescribable.

In Delhi, like everything else, the rain arrives with a lot of shosha. Dusty winds churn dead leaves and roadside garbage, the sky is thunderously angry and lightning flashes threateningly, until the rain begins, cooling tempers and bringing relief from the never-ending heat. In Mumbai, the rain arrives with the matter-of-factness of a crowded local train. Dark, heavy clouds move in from the horizon, gather mass, and empty their load. If you aren't smart enough to jump for cover in time, you're drenched, and before you know it, the sun is out. I had a ringside view of this at Marine Drive. Two women, deep in conversation, didn't bother to move, because they knew the futility of it. College kids took the opportunity of getting a good drench. Lovey-dovey twosomes... well, they continued with what they usually do at Marine Drive. Everyone grinned at each other, deriving pleasure from predicament. The tea-coffee and bhutta vendors peddled their wares with more confidence.

Of course, if you watch the news carefully, these images will flash too, along with the ones that satiate the morbid appetites of the nation. Like everything else in life, the monsoon too has two sides.

The Sound of Silence

2007-07-09T02:18:00.000+05:30

"Why is it so quiet? I like noise," says my four-year-old daughter.

I can't recall at what age one begins to prefer silence. When do you realize that you like to sit quietly, with yourself, for a few minutes that stretch to infinity? When does the complete lack of any sound stop being threatening? When does the endless sea of cacophony--blaring horns, impatient vehicles, incessantly ringing phones, conversations, arguments, television, radio, Himesh baba blaring in Coffee Day, loud music at every favored hangout--become an ordeal that one must live through to reach the shores of all-engulfing silence?

The wait for quiet is never as excruciating as during the Navratri in Mumbai. While bright lights and loud music find adequate complements in earthily colorful chaniya-cholis and feet that can't stay still, the monotonous and nerve-racking noise soon becomes an assault. There are those who live for these nine nights, there are those who are overwhelmed by the city's changed colors, and there are those who can't wait for them to get over.

Some people prefer the solid familiarity of noise over the unknown infinity of silence. The boundaries of their world are comfortingly etched by noise and sound; they hate to feel the gulf of loneliness that lies in the silences beyond. But silence is solitude too; quiet is comfort too.

Silence also has a voice, but it speaks only to close friends. Shyly, it welcomes the tired souls who have heard enough, seen enough, been through enough. It's a soft hand on the forehead, a firm grip of your hand, when you need it the most. For all its elusiveness and fragility, it is still a friend worth having. I have known no silence more intense, no quiet as deep, as that which flows from a clear night sky. The dark sky quietly ponders over its deep secrets, as the stars twinkle down at me, reminding me of the proper place of a single planet in the unfathomable cosmos.

A series of irritating sounds proclaim that someone's car is in reverse gear, and the whole universe must stop its ruminations and take note of the fact.

2007-07-07T11:50:00.000+05:30

Overheard at a coffee shop

“You never understand what I’m saying.”
“But I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because you never do understand. I know.”
“How do you know?”
“You never remember what I’ve told you.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand you.”
“So, you do understand my feelings?”
“Of course. I think I know you better than you think I know you. Do you know me at all?”
“Of course I know you. I know you better than you know me. I’m good at knowing people.”
“Okay. Let’s order ice-cream.”
“No, too many calories. I’ll have coffee.”
“Okay.”

Ah! The Joys of Parenting

2007-07-06T19:57:00.000+05:30

Here are some things that only parenting allows you to do. It follows that, if you don't want to do any or all of these, don't even think about that bundle of joy! (Statutory warning: I've been a parent for only four years; so this list is liable to change as my work experience increases.)

Chant about brushing, bathing and eating as you would a prayer
Try to fight a range of fears: monsters, strange sounds, whether the body can crack and break up, darkness, strangers, cockroaches and other bugs...
Answer endless questions about bodily functions, including throwing up and the like
Have a ready, rapid, thought-on-your-feet, and reasonably believable answer to any unforeseen 'why'
Devise endless games and conversation to motivate eating
Think up all the stories and rhymes you can, and make up your own when all else fails
Play with dolls (or at ball) all over again
Learn to read out loud better than they teach at all those voice-modulation classes
Think back to how your parents 'disciplined' you
Be prepared, awake and alert at any hour of the day or night
Grope and grope for ways to keep the over-energetic, extremely inquisitive, and ever-ready-to-play-but-not-ready-to-sleep thing busy
Pray for schooldays and groan at holidays
Get in touch with your rusting imagination
Witness the creation of an individual

I guess the list will never end. But more additions that you can think of are welcome.

Happiness in a coffee-cup

2007-06-28T14:49:00.000+05:30

My first recollection of coffee is from more than 20 years ago, when we visited my parents' friends in Bangalore and Chennai. I was fascinated by the all-pervading aroma in each household. I envy each South Indian, especially Tamilian, their filter coffee even today, for I still can't get it right, no matter how much I try. I recently met a Tamilian who said she preferred tea and hated coffee. Blasphemy!

Tea and coffee are religions, and conversions are near-impossible. I need a cup of strong, steaming, fragrant coffee to come to terms with each morning. Give me tea, and I don't think my day will ever start. The followers of bed tea look at me strangely.

I used to be a chai-pakoda person in the monsoon, but that was before. When it rains outside, I sit at the open, long windows of my 4th-floor apartment. The warm mug of coffee feels heavenly when raindrops gush in and fall like fine spray all over me. After the mad morning rush of doing everything that comes with running a household, including packing off husband to office and daughter to school, a cup of coffee is my sigh of relief, the brakes I apply before moving on to the rest of the day. And not so long ago, when I used to work or study through the night, I found that nothing beats the aroma of coffee mixed with fragrant night breeze. In the crisp, cold nights of December, or the raat-ki-rani perfumed nights that brought on warmer weather, this strong brew was my constant companion, keeping me awake and alert.

Connoisseurs are finicky about their brew, but me, I'm a fan. Any good coffee is good for me, as long as it's not too milky or too sweet. The worst coffee I've had is at airports, both Delhi and Mumbai. It's cloyingly sweet, very watery, and usually flavored with 'ilaichi'. And through bitter experience, I learned never to order coffee at any restaurant in Maharashtra. Whether you order coffee or 'Nescoffee', the latter priced double the former, you get a milky, creamy, sugary thing, pale brown in color, with no hint of coffee ever having been added to it.

So, what's your religion?

The fever of communication

2007-06-26T03:06:00.000+05:30

Communication, information, in the loop, on the page, revert, get back...it's spreading like a disease, this need to know, to be aware, to not be left behind. Work is 'appreciated', commitment is 'rewarded' and performances are 'appraised'. Are we talking the same language here? Or maybe I'm mistaken in believing that work is passion, commitment is inevitable, and performance is the result. According to one of the world's many prevalent philosophies, one needn't worry about the result; one only needs to worry about working whole-heartedly.

There is a mis-communication, I know. Forget about page, I'm not even in the same book. And worse, I don't know who my reporting manager is. So, who will tell me what I'm supposed to do, where I'm headed? Did they even create an ID for me in this century?