Yes, this is sort of part two of last time’s blog. But I am not going to get all militant and mean about people despoiling national monuments, though I can go on at some length about that. This time around, I am going to talk about collecting souvenirs, which can rank among them some of the strangest and ugliest things on the face of human existence. Did you ever read Myth Directions, a hilarious one from the creative compulsions of Robert Aspirin? It is about the search for the perfect birthday present for a Pervect and has Skeeve and Tananda travelling cross-dimension scouring unknown worlds for Just the Right Thing. Then, on a stopover in the vaguely humanoid realm called Jahk, they find IT. An extraordinarily ugly, misshapen, wart-pocked, toad-like statuette that is the Trophy, a prize given to the team that wins the Big Game. It is well-guarded, carefully protected by a network of magik wards, highly valued by the local populace. Of course, our heroes want it, not just as a souvenir of an adventure, but as the most unique gift any friend can ever get. (This is not an ad for the book, but read it, it is fun!)
Most earthly souvenirs may not be that ugly, even in imagination. But they are certainly weird. I know I have quite a collection. Let’s start with keys. As a family, we accumulated many, from the basement locker room and lounge at a US university to car keys that belonged to a Toyota that was once owned by a friend and that I loved driving. Perhaps my most memorable key story hinges on the one I took from a small pensione in rural Italy. I was responsible for returning it to the concierge, but being a fairly scatterbrained child, I sort of didn’t…and remembered when we were many miles down the autostrada!
As I grew up and my budget increased, there was a definite hunt for the souvenir that did not spell ticky-tacky-tourist-trash. In my own small way, I managed it. There was the Kokopelli keyring from Santa Fe, the agate pebble from Rocky Mountain National Park, the pearls from Niagara Falls, the blown glass lamp from New York, even the scar on my leg from the mining cemetery in Central City, Colorado. They are all records of a journey once travelled, an adventure lived through.
India has a vast and wonderful treasurehouse of potential souvenirs. There were the pot-shards I collected at Lothal, in Gujarat, relics of the Indus Valley civilisation. I took them all the way to the US when I took off to college, and they were unpacked and packed back into their cottonwool and tissue beds many times until I gave them to the campus museum when I finally left to come home. There is the huge collection of plastic boxes that I collected during a stay in Delhi, objets that I covet but my family scoffs at; each has a story to it, a time remembered with a special sigh. From Bangalore I have sandalwood in various forms, which wander through different parts of my closet until I forget why I have them and throw them, completely odourless by then, into the garbage. And there are coins, shells, fabrics, books and lamps from different journeys made at different times in our family history.
But the best and most lasting souvenir is perhaps the memories that I have collected. Some painful, some happy, some just strange, I - like everyone else - keep them until time hazes them over and the reality becomes clouded by wishes. And when I pull them out to see if they still exist, sometimes I find only dream-dust and cobwebs. For those times, we all could use the presence of a Trophy, don’t you think?
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Relic Hunters
I used to watch a show on AXN called Relic Hunter, starring a beautifully buff Tia Carrere. She kicked, whipped and shot her way around various terribly exotic parts of the world, vying with her rivals and always – or almost always – taking home the prize of an ancient relic at the end of the story. She was the relic hunter, moonlighting as a college professor (or was it the other way around?), with loyal students, a street smart secretary, skin-of-the-teeth escapes from tight spots and a nicely schizophrenic wardrobe of neat academic suits ranged against khakis sidestriped by an all-purpose tote bag. But the best part of the show was the relic she hunted. It was unique, prized, its retrieval inevitably involving some sort of risk to life, limb and luggage. To make it more fun, there was a strong streak of humour thrown in to balance the fright factor of being chased by machete-wielding natives, encountering snakes and shotguns at the dead of very dark nights and being caught in perilous traps with the walls caving in, the ceiling crashing downwards or water pouring swiftly into a sealed space.
Indiana Jones was also a relic hunter. Brought to life so wonderfully by Harrison Ford, he clamped down his bush hat, strapped on his whip and guns and took off into the wild blue to have untold, unnamed, un-matchable adventures. He went after the golden ark, he found the temple of Doom, he tumbled gung-go into the last crusade – in which he had the marvellously irascible companion of his on-screen father, played in masterpiece style by the fabulous, sexy, gravel-voiced Sean Connery. Indy slithered into caves, fell into sinkholes, ran hell-for-leather down steep slopes and had the time of his life getting whatever he was looking for, in spite of beautiful women with hearts of evil, villains who would stop at nothing to stop him and…shudder…snakes.
Collecting a relic in the movies or on television is great fun for viewers and even, sometimes, for the stars who play out their assigned roles. But, in real life, finding and collecting a relic is not that easy. It is easier, in fact, especially in India, to add your bit to history to a relic, carving it in (or on) stone, on the pieces of history that litter the landscape. As an individual, as an Indian, I am ashamed of my own people when I find them doing this, and have, on various occasions, launched into an attack with all the fervour of an avenging Kali!
Perhaps the most fiery incident of this kind was some years ago at the Qutub Minar in Delhi. My buddy Karen was visiting from Denver and we had been wandering about parts of the country, showing her and reminding ourselves how diverse and exciting it really was. In a small pavilion close by the main monument, we found a local yahoo yobbo etching his name deep into the pink-tinted walls, as his friends stood by and cheered. Being one who jumps in and then worries about possible consequences, I did just that. Grabbing the chappie by the shirt sleeve, I yanked him around to face me and let fly with a stream of Hindi, which under the most favourable circumstances tended to border on shaky and, under stress, on incoherent. It got mixed up somewhere along the line with English and a few words from every other language I ever knew. Dimly, at the back of my mind, I could hear Karen pleading with me, asking me to let go and “Let’s go!”
The yobbo’s friends crowded around, trying to speak their fractured English, miraculously not getting aggressive with either of us. The perpetrator himself, first startled into not reacting, then shocked at the frontal assault, dropped the penknife he was doing his sculpting with. The guard, attracted out of his nap by the noise, came running. A short spell of chaos later, the carver was marched off, perhaps to be beaten up or at least yelled at, or to be let off after a discreet exchange of pourboire. By the time we got into our car, I was shaking, almost in tears with anger and a shame I could not really explain to myself.
Many years later, I understood. It was not just a pride in my country and its history that had me throwing tantrums at this kind of vandalism, but a deep sense of self. As a modern Indian, I was part of the generation that would save our illustrious past for those who would otherwise not be able to know it. And that knowledge, I still believe, is the greatest relic that the future can hunt.
Indiana Jones was also a relic hunter. Brought to life so wonderfully by Harrison Ford, he clamped down his bush hat, strapped on his whip and guns and took off into the wild blue to have untold, unnamed, un-matchable adventures. He went after the golden ark, he found the temple of Doom, he tumbled gung-go into the last crusade – in which he had the marvellously irascible companion of his on-screen father, played in masterpiece style by the fabulous, sexy, gravel-voiced Sean Connery. Indy slithered into caves, fell into sinkholes, ran hell-for-leather down steep slopes and had the time of his life getting whatever he was looking for, in spite of beautiful women with hearts of evil, villains who would stop at nothing to stop him and…shudder…snakes.
Collecting a relic in the movies or on television is great fun for viewers and even, sometimes, for the stars who play out their assigned roles. But, in real life, finding and collecting a relic is not that easy. It is easier, in fact, especially in India, to add your bit to history to a relic, carving it in (or on) stone, on the pieces of history that litter the landscape. As an individual, as an Indian, I am ashamed of my own people when I find them doing this, and have, on various occasions, launched into an attack with all the fervour of an avenging Kali!
Perhaps the most fiery incident of this kind was some years ago at the Qutub Minar in Delhi. My buddy Karen was visiting from Denver and we had been wandering about parts of the country, showing her and reminding ourselves how diverse and exciting it really was. In a small pavilion close by the main monument, we found a local yahoo yobbo etching his name deep into the pink-tinted walls, as his friends stood by and cheered. Being one who jumps in and then worries about possible consequences, I did just that. Grabbing the chappie by the shirt sleeve, I yanked him around to face me and let fly with a stream of Hindi, which under the most favourable circumstances tended to border on shaky and, under stress, on incoherent. It got mixed up somewhere along the line with English and a few words from every other language I ever knew. Dimly, at the back of my mind, I could hear Karen pleading with me, asking me to let go and “Let’s go!”
The yobbo’s friends crowded around, trying to speak their fractured English, miraculously not getting aggressive with either of us. The perpetrator himself, first startled into not reacting, then shocked at the frontal assault, dropped the penknife he was doing his sculpting with. The guard, attracted out of his nap by the noise, came running. A short spell of chaos later, the carver was marched off, perhaps to be beaten up or at least yelled at, or to be let off after a discreet exchange of pourboire. By the time we got into our car, I was shaking, almost in tears with anger and a shame I could not really explain to myself.
Many years later, I understood. It was not just a pride in my country and its history that had me throwing tantrums at this kind of vandalism, but a deep sense of self. As a modern Indian, I was part of the generation that would save our illustrious past for those who would otherwise not be able to know it. And that knowledge, I still believe, is the greatest relic that the future can hunt.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Of silk and spring rolls
This is actually an article I wrote for the newspaper I work for. They published it cut in half and, to compound the felony, spelled my name wrong!
We walked across Place Bellecour, the main square in Lyon - named Lugdunum by the Romans who established it - shivering slightly in the mid-morning chill April breeze. The drive to the small city southwest of Geneva and south of Paris had been a nailbitingly stressful one, with fog whiting out the valley that dipped from the lofty mountains of Switzerland to the plain sandwiched between the Saone and Rhone rivers and the Fourviere and the Croix-Rousse hills that gird the historic old town. We checked into the Hotel Britannia, where we had stayed 20 years earlier, when I was a child in braids. Just across the street was the Vietnamese restaurant where I had learned to use chopsticks and eat tangy spring rolls in what seemed like a lifetime ago. And that’s just what I did this time, too – sitting primly in two inches of lukewarm water in the ubiquitously French hip bath, reading, nibbling on rice-sheet-wrapped veggies dunked in spicy sauce. If there is a heaven, this must be it ….
The next day was a bright and sunny one, albeit chilly. While Papa went to his meetings, Mum and I explored the city that wove a history of our favourite fabric into its culture. Lyon in the 16th century was a rich and burgeoning centre of the silk trade and even today is home to some of the best boutiques de luxe, starting with Printemps and filtering into tiny holes in the wall with prices fit for a roi…or at least a new-age rock star. As a follow up to spending some of Papa’s hard-earned euros, we dropped into the Musee des Tissus, where we listened, sometimes uncomprehending, to details of silk manufacturing, carpet weaving and, to my delight, clothes design. From there, it was a logical step to Musee de Beaux-Arts, where a gorgeous Byzantine head in yellowing ivory caught my fancy – could we get a postcard, s’il vous plait? The next hop was into a make-believe world at the Institut Lumiere, capturing the origins of cinema in the very city that the Lumiere brothers lived and worked. We came out with our eyes dazzled by the klieg lights and our heads full of Gallic verbosity.
It was almost time for lunch – at least, that is what our tummies were saying, mine louder than Mum’s. On cue, just a few steps away from us, was a cart, its containers steaming gently, wafting over a wonderful whiff of fresh bread, sharp mustard and melting cheese. The man in charge beckoned to us. “Bonjour!” he was obviously charmed by Mum, as people inevitably were by her haute chignon, high cheekbones, patrician nose and striking eyebrows. While Mum and man gabbled French at each other, complete with gesticulations and many ‘oui’s, a large vat belched white puffs of steam from under its lid. A big oven emanated an aroma of hot yeasty bread that was a siren call to a clamouring stomach. As we finally walked away from the cart, the man’s ‘au’voir’s echoing across the square, Mum held a daunting length of hot, crusty baguette, slit open to lovingly encase a slab of brie and a slather of butter. In my frozen fingers was ‘le ’ot dog’, in essence a hollowed out tube of the French loaf nesting a hot sausage and a sinus-sparking scoop of ‘extra-fort’ Dijon mustard. We munched contentedly and, in my case, eye-wateringly, wandering towards thanksgiving.
The Primatiale St-Jean in the old part of Lyon is a Gothic chapel that is a soothing place to be grateful to the powers that be for life and all its pleasures. We were just in time for the 16th century clock to ring the hour, and stood watching and listening to the rooster crowing, angels trumpeting and bells pealing. Inside, Mum and I lit candles, saying a silent prayer and heartfelt thanks for everything, from our existence to spring rolls that always made the senses dance.
We walked across Place Bellecour, the main square in Lyon - named Lugdunum by the Romans who established it - shivering slightly in the mid-morning chill April breeze. The drive to the small city southwest of Geneva and south of Paris had been a nailbitingly stressful one, with fog whiting out the valley that dipped from the lofty mountains of Switzerland to the plain sandwiched between the Saone and Rhone rivers and the Fourviere and the Croix-Rousse hills that gird the historic old town. We checked into the Hotel Britannia, where we had stayed 20 years earlier, when I was a child in braids. Just across the street was the Vietnamese restaurant where I had learned to use chopsticks and eat tangy spring rolls in what seemed like a lifetime ago. And that’s just what I did this time, too – sitting primly in two inches of lukewarm water in the ubiquitously French hip bath, reading, nibbling on rice-sheet-wrapped veggies dunked in spicy sauce. If there is a heaven, this must be it ….
The next day was a bright and sunny one, albeit chilly. While Papa went to his meetings, Mum and I explored the city that wove a history of our favourite fabric into its culture. Lyon in the 16th century was a rich and burgeoning centre of the silk trade and even today is home to some of the best boutiques de luxe, starting with Printemps and filtering into tiny holes in the wall with prices fit for a roi…or at least a new-age rock star. As a follow up to spending some of Papa’s hard-earned euros, we dropped into the Musee des Tissus, where we listened, sometimes uncomprehending, to details of silk manufacturing, carpet weaving and, to my delight, clothes design. From there, it was a logical step to Musee de Beaux-Arts, where a gorgeous Byzantine head in yellowing ivory caught my fancy – could we get a postcard, s’il vous plait? The next hop was into a make-believe world at the Institut Lumiere, capturing the origins of cinema in the very city that the Lumiere brothers lived and worked. We came out with our eyes dazzled by the klieg lights and our heads full of Gallic verbosity.
It was almost time for lunch – at least, that is what our tummies were saying, mine louder than Mum’s. On cue, just a few steps away from us, was a cart, its containers steaming gently, wafting over a wonderful whiff of fresh bread, sharp mustard and melting cheese. The man in charge beckoned to us. “Bonjour!” he was obviously charmed by Mum, as people inevitably were by her haute chignon, high cheekbones, patrician nose and striking eyebrows. While Mum and man gabbled French at each other, complete with gesticulations and many ‘oui’s, a large vat belched white puffs of steam from under its lid. A big oven emanated an aroma of hot yeasty bread that was a siren call to a clamouring stomach. As we finally walked away from the cart, the man’s ‘au’voir’s echoing across the square, Mum held a daunting length of hot, crusty baguette, slit open to lovingly encase a slab of brie and a slather of butter. In my frozen fingers was ‘le ’ot dog’, in essence a hollowed out tube of the French loaf nesting a hot sausage and a sinus-sparking scoop of ‘extra-fort’ Dijon mustard. We munched contentedly and, in my case, eye-wateringly, wandering towards thanksgiving.
The Primatiale St-Jean in the old part of Lyon is a Gothic chapel that is a soothing place to be grateful to the powers that be for life and all its pleasures. We were just in time for the 16th century clock to ring the hour, and stood watching and listening to the rooster crowing, angels trumpeting and bells pealing. Inside, Mum and I lit candles, saying a silent prayer and heartfelt thanks for everything, from our existence to spring rolls that always made the senses dance.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Writing it right
For all of my working life, I have been associated with writing, in some way or the other. First it was books in a circulating library I helped a friend run for a brief time that I was actually supposed to be in college; then it was term papers of various flavours. I even helped a close friend write a sales pitch for frozen yogurt! But I actually became what is called a ‘journalist’, for lack of any other word that is easily understood, when I was done with academics and decided that making money was more fun.
So I started writing, since that was what came easily to me and happened to be what I enjoyed doing. It also gave me the chance to wander about the city I came to know in a very different way, meeting unusual people and making new friends on the way. I did interviews and reviews, fluffy stories and more serious articles, covering science, arts, style and design and so much more than I cannot even start remembering.
Perhaps my favourite piece was the one on moustaches. Why do men have them, was the question, and I trolled my directory to find the answers. Friends laughed, then yelled at me, then muttered direly and finally gave me responses that ranged from the flippant to the deadly earnest. From there I moved on to ties, talking about the provenance and personality of that strip of fabric, wondering why it was so easy to talk about but so difficult to write 500 words on!
As I grew up, journalistically speaking, I also did some exotic travelling. Trips to Europe, China and parts of the USA I didn’t know were fodder for the glossy pages of various publications, complete with pretty pictures and evocative descriptions. From there, it was but a short hop to food – no restaurant reviews, just stories about food and cooking that kept me and mine (friends and family alike) entertained.
And, of course, there were the interviews. I met people who were lawyers, dancers, artists, fashion designers, marketing professionals, everyone who was anyone at any particular point in time. I wandered into fiery-hot kitchens to talk to a chef who is still a friend; I waited for hours for a couture creator who was busy engaged in unmentionable activities with his delicious male models; and I spoke to a world-famous dancer who adopted me into her world of intense whirlwind activity.
One meeting I will always giggle about was totally unexpected. I had wandered into the office bright and early, the only person there at that time of the morning. Ratty jeans and stretched-out Tshirt was my fashion statement, hardly appropriate for anything more public. I had no journalistic tools with me – no recorder, no pencil, no list of questions. But suddenly, before I was completely awake to the work-day, I found myself speeding off to a luxury hotel to talk to a renowned advertising guru, someone whose name still counts for more than just a respectful salaam in the world of creative sales and marketing. When I got there, it was obvious that I needed some help. The hotel gave me a tape recorder, pencil and writing pad, and I went through the interview easily enough. Then, having taken the tape with me, I sped back to the office to decode it. Therein lay the snag – the cassette would not play on any other machine. And when I called the hotel to beg to borrow theirs, they had bad news for me – the guru had just left the hotel and the country. Unfortunately, he had taken the recorder with him.
I still have not been able to talk to the gentleman again.
So I started writing, since that was what came easily to me and happened to be what I enjoyed doing. It also gave me the chance to wander about the city I came to know in a very different way, meeting unusual people and making new friends on the way. I did interviews and reviews, fluffy stories and more serious articles, covering science, arts, style and design and so much more than I cannot even start remembering.
Perhaps my favourite piece was the one on moustaches. Why do men have them, was the question, and I trolled my directory to find the answers. Friends laughed, then yelled at me, then muttered direly and finally gave me responses that ranged from the flippant to the deadly earnest. From there I moved on to ties, talking about the provenance and personality of that strip of fabric, wondering why it was so easy to talk about but so difficult to write 500 words on!
As I grew up, journalistically speaking, I also did some exotic travelling. Trips to Europe, China and parts of the USA I didn’t know were fodder for the glossy pages of various publications, complete with pretty pictures and evocative descriptions. From there, it was but a short hop to food – no restaurant reviews, just stories about food and cooking that kept me and mine (friends and family alike) entertained.
And, of course, there were the interviews. I met people who were lawyers, dancers, artists, fashion designers, marketing professionals, everyone who was anyone at any particular point in time. I wandered into fiery-hot kitchens to talk to a chef who is still a friend; I waited for hours for a couture creator who was busy engaged in unmentionable activities with his delicious male models; and I spoke to a world-famous dancer who adopted me into her world of intense whirlwind activity.
One meeting I will always giggle about was totally unexpected. I had wandered into the office bright and early, the only person there at that time of the morning. Ratty jeans and stretched-out Tshirt was my fashion statement, hardly appropriate for anything more public. I had no journalistic tools with me – no recorder, no pencil, no list of questions. But suddenly, before I was completely awake to the work-day, I found myself speeding off to a luxury hotel to talk to a renowned advertising guru, someone whose name still counts for more than just a respectful salaam in the world of creative sales and marketing. When I got there, it was obvious that I needed some help. The hotel gave me a tape recorder, pencil and writing pad, and I went through the interview easily enough. Then, having taken the tape with me, I sped back to the office to decode it. Therein lay the snag – the cassette would not play on any other machine. And when I called the hotel to beg to borrow theirs, they had bad news for me – the guru had just left the hotel and the country. Unfortunately, he had taken the recorder with him.
I still have not been able to talk to the gentleman again.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Dam it!
The Three Gorges Dam in China is finally ready, with final resettlement efforts underway. News features tell a heart-rending story of an old farmer who didn’t want to leave his land even though it would soon be under hundreds of feet of water. Why? Because his history was that land, where his ancestors had lived and were buried. The same land that had fed his forefathers and his grandchildren. Soon it would feed only the fish.
The Yangtse River is what nourishes most of the vast and wonderful country that is China. It is, as are all great rivers – and people – temperamental, flooding, killing and destroying even as it nurtures and cradles civilisations and mankind. The valleys and rifts are home to ancient histories, when wars were won and tribes born, where science, art and magic found roots and settled to shape humanity. There is tempest in the furious waters, tranquillity in the gentle branches and mystery in the deep gorges carved by time, ice and rapids that few can fathom and fewer know. And, above all, there is a timeless, ageless beauty about the Yangtse, of which poems have been written and human dramas played out.
Some years ago, I was taken to China by my parents as a birthday present. Part of the long and constantly astonishing visit was a cruise along the great river, a five-day journey that showed off not just the tourist-friendly side of the country, but its untamed and unheralded charms as well. The cruise began easily, with the largish group being booked into fairly comfortable cabins, with tiny attached bathrooms with showers that couldn’t decide whether to freeze or scald its users. It was a chilly time of year, so I warmed my tropical blood by sitting in the sun on an exhaust vent that managed to keep my bottom hot while my shoulders shuddered in the chill breeze. As I sat there, idly scribbling in the notebook that was a log of my travels, I watched debris floating past, bobbing and bubbling in the dirty depths of the vast watercourse. A couple of soggy sheets of newspaper sank gently in our wake, while bits of offal thrown from the ship’s galley spotted redly for a minute before vanishing.
Far to our left and right were the fertile fields of the Yangtse basin. Black dots of oxen pulled ploughs through the rich soil, while the ants that were people moved in miniscule blurs. Around the bend was a huge, messy, black, smoke-spewing township, its dirty factory chimneys incongruous against the backdrop of majestic slate-veined mountains. The waters that furled against the small bay were grey and sudsy, the air a tangible fug. We soon were past that environmental disaster and sailed along into darkness, the sunlight closed off by the steep cliffs and narrowing river.
On a side-trip in a small motorised sampan into the Little Gorges, the waters were quicker, impatient to drive us out of sacred territory. This is where the ghosts of an ancient past lingered, high in the cliffs and far away in the perennial mists. The Hanging Coffins, found perhaps only in this tiny niche carved into the world, held the dust of ancestors 3,000 years gone. One of these venerable old men, back on earth for a brief time, was trying to sell me yellow melons when we got off the boat at the rock bridge, beyond which travel was perilous and disallowed. He had a wicked twinkle in his rheumy eyes, backed by a sales patter that was Esperantoesquely comprehensible in its toothless mumble. It was where the mystical met the real, the border between the two blurring into a lovely cloud of illusion and imagination.
It was also where, for a while, you could forget the place you came from and become someone you always wanted to be. And, maybe, at that wild, lonely and truly beautiful place, now far below the surface of the floodwaters, you could have discovered who you really are.
The Yangtse River is what nourishes most of the vast and wonderful country that is China. It is, as are all great rivers – and people – temperamental, flooding, killing and destroying even as it nurtures and cradles civilisations and mankind. The valleys and rifts are home to ancient histories, when wars were won and tribes born, where science, art and magic found roots and settled to shape humanity. There is tempest in the furious waters, tranquillity in the gentle branches and mystery in the deep gorges carved by time, ice and rapids that few can fathom and fewer know. And, above all, there is a timeless, ageless beauty about the Yangtse, of which poems have been written and human dramas played out.
Some years ago, I was taken to China by my parents as a birthday present. Part of the long and constantly astonishing visit was a cruise along the great river, a five-day journey that showed off not just the tourist-friendly side of the country, but its untamed and unheralded charms as well. The cruise began easily, with the largish group being booked into fairly comfortable cabins, with tiny attached bathrooms with showers that couldn’t decide whether to freeze or scald its users. It was a chilly time of year, so I warmed my tropical blood by sitting in the sun on an exhaust vent that managed to keep my bottom hot while my shoulders shuddered in the chill breeze. As I sat there, idly scribbling in the notebook that was a log of my travels, I watched debris floating past, bobbing and bubbling in the dirty depths of the vast watercourse. A couple of soggy sheets of newspaper sank gently in our wake, while bits of offal thrown from the ship’s galley spotted redly for a minute before vanishing.
Far to our left and right were the fertile fields of the Yangtse basin. Black dots of oxen pulled ploughs through the rich soil, while the ants that were people moved in miniscule blurs. Around the bend was a huge, messy, black, smoke-spewing township, its dirty factory chimneys incongruous against the backdrop of majestic slate-veined mountains. The waters that furled against the small bay were grey and sudsy, the air a tangible fug. We soon were past that environmental disaster and sailed along into darkness, the sunlight closed off by the steep cliffs and narrowing river.
On a side-trip in a small motorised sampan into the Little Gorges, the waters were quicker, impatient to drive us out of sacred territory. This is where the ghosts of an ancient past lingered, high in the cliffs and far away in the perennial mists. The Hanging Coffins, found perhaps only in this tiny niche carved into the world, held the dust of ancestors 3,000 years gone. One of these venerable old men, back on earth for a brief time, was trying to sell me yellow melons when we got off the boat at the rock bridge, beyond which travel was perilous and disallowed. He had a wicked twinkle in his rheumy eyes, backed by a sales patter that was Esperantoesquely comprehensible in its toothless mumble. It was where the mystical met the real, the border between the two blurring into a lovely cloud of illusion and imagination.
It was also where, for a while, you could forget the place you came from and become someone you always wanted to be. And, maybe, at that wild, lonely and truly beautiful place, now far below the surface of the floodwaters, you could have discovered who you really are.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Brown beauty
If I had to have a nickname on an instant messenger, it would be something to do with my almost-top-favourite food: chocolate. Why ‘almost’? Simply because there is always hope for me to find something I like eating more than I like eating chocolate. French fries come close. Dahi-chawal, our very own soothe food that is perhaps our strongest national characteristic, with its cooling blend of yoghurt and rice, is even closer. And there are many other favourites jostling for ascendance, from the delicious methi-and-peas combination my mother made and the from-scratch lasagne that my father excels in, to the cheese smothered enchiladas that Karen whips up for me. And there have been many other gustatory delights that have littered the landscape of my gourmandisation, from my first bite of spanakopita in Athens to that scoop of Rainforest Crunch ice-cream in Denver to the roast beef and watercress sandwiches in Tunbridge Wells to the Brie-stuffed roll in Lyon, to….sigh!
But, as I was saying, the topmost in this very long list is chocolate, for now, at least. It is soothing to nerves jangled by anything from commuting to work to over-passed deadlines to PMS to a blistering shoe-bite. It is perfect during a long morning struggle with a blog that just refuses to behave and write itself as it normally does. And for an after-dessert-after-dinner morsel, it can’t be beat! And it is amazingly versatile stuff – you can eat it as is, you can cook delicious puddings with it, you can pillow it in pastry, you can smother it over chicken, grate it into coffee, shard it over fruit, melt it into fondue, freeze it into ice-cream. Whatever you do to it, it tends to be soul satisfyingly scrumptious.
One of my best memories of chocolate and its intricate construction is something I have never found after I turned 20. We lived in Geneva, Switzerland, and every school morning I would hike over to the main road to catch the bus to the tram stop en route to the Ecole Internationale. At the corner, near the bus stop, was a small stand that sold everything from Gauloises to Playboy. Just after getting my weekly pocket money, I would stop by the stall, chat with the cheery vendor and go my happy way with a few less francs but a few more calories in the form of a delicious Lindt Frione chocolate bar. This was a slab of manna from the famed chocolatier, with airy, bubbly chocolate spangled through with crunchy bits of nougat. The best part was that you could feel each bite melt into a soft-crunchy melange in your mouth, but you couldn’t see any of the nougat, which made it all the more exciting.
Some years later, a trip to the Ghirardelli factory in San Francisco (described in a previous episode) was a high point. But before that, my buddy Karen and I went on a drive into the Rocky Mountains, Colorado, with a stop in the bustling ghost town of Central City. While the old town is ruined, abandoned by miners many years earlier, the tourist trap some distance away is a tangle of up-and-down streets, punctuated by a scramble of ticky-tacky souvenir shops. Those, in turn, are alternated with small stalls and hole-in-the-wall stores selling fresh fudge that is, truly, to die for. While the smell in these shops can be sickeningly overwhelming, the fudge is not. It seduces your mouth, leaving it craving for more…and more. Karen and I furtively munched on the sweet brown stuff in the car all the way home, feeling guilty about not worrying about calories, but pleased beyond description about those same calories that we were not worrying about.
Since then, there have been a few encounters with chocolate that I cannot remember without a slurp and a longing sigh. There is the delightful fudge at the Chocolate Wheel in Delhi, the chocolate-centred gulab jamuns that my friend Rocky created for me, the home-made morsels that Thereza cooks up by the kilo, the truffles from Pure Sin in Mumbai, the chocolate pancake mix Karen sent over from Denver…forgive me, I have to go raid my stash of chocolate!
But, as I was saying, the topmost in this very long list is chocolate, for now, at least. It is soothing to nerves jangled by anything from commuting to work to over-passed deadlines to PMS to a blistering shoe-bite. It is perfect during a long morning struggle with a blog that just refuses to behave and write itself as it normally does. And for an after-dessert-after-dinner morsel, it can’t be beat! And it is amazingly versatile stuff – you can eat it as is, you can cook delicious puddings with it, you can pillow it in pastry, you can smother it over chicken, grate it into coffee, shard it over fruit, melt it into fondue, freeze it into ice-cream. Whatever you do to it, it tends to be soul satisfyingly scrumptious.
One of my best memories of chocolate and its intricate construction is something I have never found after I turned 20. We lived in Geneva, Switzerland, and every school morning I would hike over to the main road to catch the bus to the tram stop en route to the Ecole Internationale. At the corner, near the bus stop, was a small stand that sold everything from Gauloises to Playboy. Just after getting my weekly pocket money, I would stop by the stall, chat with the cheery vendor and go my happy way with a few less francs but a few more calories in the form of a delicious Lindt Frione chocolate bar. This was a slab of manna from the famed chocolatier, with airy, bubbly chocolate spangled through with crunchy bits of nougat. The best part was that you could feel each bite melt into a soft-crunchy melange in your mouth, but you couldn’t see any of the nougat, which made it all the more exciting.
Some years later, a trip to the Ghirardelli factory in San Francisco (described in a previous episode) was a high point. But before that, my buddy Karen and I went on a drive into the Rocky Mountains, Colorado, with a stop in the bustling ghost town of Central City. While the old town is ruined, abandoned by miners many years earlier, the tourist trap some distance away is a tangle of up-and-down streets, punctuated by a scramble of ticky-tacky souvenir shops. Those, in turn, are alternated with small stalls and hole-in-the-wall stores selling fresh fudge that is, truly, to die for. While the smell in these shops can be sickeningly overwhelming, the fudge is not. It seduces your mouth, leaving it craving for more…and more. Karen and I furtively munched on the sweet brown stuff in the car all the way home, feeling guilty about not worrying about calories, but pleased beyond description about those same calories that we were not worrying about.
Since then, there have been a few encounters with chocolate that I cannot remember without a slurp and a longing sigh. There is the delightful fudge at the Chocolate Wheel in Delhi, the chocolate-centred gulab jamuns that my friend Rocky created for me, the home-made morsels that Thereza cooks up by the kilo, the truffles from Pure Sin in Mumbai, the chocolate pancake mix Karen sent over from Denver…forgive me, I have to go raid my stash of chocolate!
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Stress busting
The last few months have been emotionally battering and physically draining. To deal with it all, many people have many suggestions. Retail therapy being the most common, perhaps. Yoga is a hot contender. Romance novels, my best buddy advised. Get yourself a nice man - another was all for that one. But I was all shopped out, the last time I tried yoga I had to be forcibly untangled from the lotus position, local bookstores did not have the right kind of romance novels and, as for nice men - apart from my father - they seem to be extinct or completely ineligible. So for some time now I have been finding my own sources of relaxation, some of which I have been familiar with since I was a very small child.
Perhaps top of the list is a visit to the supermarket. This, when I do not need to stock up the larder or look for a cobweb-removing broom that has not been created to my satisfaction, is purely to destress, to push those nasty clouds from gathering in my normally sunny mind. I go into the nearest large grocery store and head straight for the personal care products. I then proceed to exhale hugely before I start examining the soaps and shampoos, reading every label very carefully, down to the last molecule of di-ethyl-paraben and walnut oil. Equally satisfying in a voluptuously chocolate-truffle-ish way are the soap and bath gel labels, the more ‘organic’ and ‘natural’, the better. Apart from the one that alarmed me by stating “Work into a rich leather”, the way in which nicely rounded descriptions of what the gel or soap will do for your skin are somehow extremely soothing – soft, silky, satiny, sensuous….
Then there is cooking. Fabulous stuff to destress with. I always liked going into the kitchen and stirring up many forms of trouble, some even edible, but I learned the value of it all when I lived on my own in Delhi for a brief while. It had been a long week at work and the boss was being particularly irritating. At the start of the weekend, having got through the previous five days doing assigned work and a lot more, taking on the load of someone else’s inefficiency, my team and I were collectively heaving a relieved sigh, when the boss called. It was one of those rare times when I had actually switched my cellphone to my landline at home, so I was – unfortunately – available to be spoken to. He had a litany of complaints, all deposited messily at my door, finally ending the tirade with “Like Jesus, I will take the flak for you!” Clearing up the chaos took a while, but it was finally not even mine, or my team’s, to deal with. Leaving responsibility where it rightfully belonged after offering all help to manage it quickly and cleanly, I stormed into my tiny kitchen. Much to the wide-eyed alarm of my cat, I hauled every vegetable in my store out of it, chopped it all into an enormous pile and made a stir-fry large enough to feed all of China and some Delhi denizens as well. I ate stir-fried veggies well into the next two weeks, but cutting all those onions, carrots, cabbage and assorted other greenery hacked the aggression out of my system with great efficiency – all the efficiency that had not been shown by whoever made the mess in the first place!
Cleaning is another great way to get that nasty stress stuff out of the system. In college, my housemate was always rather nervous when I barged into the house and yanked the brush-broom out of the cleaning closet. She knew our small flat would be sparkling fresh when I was done, but the mutterings and black clouds that accompanied it would be dire. Even today, I rearrange clothes, books, shoes and bags when I get too wound up for comfort, and the to-be-discarded pile climbs as my ire recedes. And there is nothing like beating all hell out of the carpets – but that is so obvious, no?
People talk about the destress value of chocolate, sex and driving a Porsche down the extreme lane on the autobahn (the only place it is worth owning a Porsche, really!). For me, for now, soap labels do it best!
Perhaps top of the list is a visit to the supermarket. This, when I do not need to stock up the larder or look for a cobweb-removing broom that has not been created to my satisfaction, is purely to destress, to push those nasty clouds from gathering in my normally sunny mind. I go into the nearest large grocery store and head straight for the personal care products. I then proceed to exhale hugely before I start examining the soaps and shampoos, reading every label very carefully, down to the last molecule of di-ethyl-paraben and walnut oil. Equally satisfying in a voluptuously chocolate-truffle-ish way are the soap and bath gel labels, the more ‘organic’ and ‘natural’, the better. Apart from the one that alarmed me by stating “Work into a rich leather”, the way in which nicely rounded descriptions of what the gel or soap will do for your skin are somehow extremely soothing – soft, silky, satiny, sensuous….
Then there is cooking. Fabulous stuff to destress with. I always liked going into the kitchen and stirring up many forms of trouble, some even edible, but I learned the value of it all when I lived on my own in Delhi for a brief while. It had been a long week at work and the boss was being particularly irritating. At the start of the weekend, having got through the previous five days doing assigned work and a lot more, taking on the load of someone else’s inefficiency, my team and I were collectively heaving a relieved sigh, when the boss called. It was one of those rare times when I had actually switched my cellphone to my landline at home, so I was – unfortunately – available to be spoken to. He had a litany of complaints, all deposited messily at my door, finally ending the tirade with “Like Jesus, I will take the flak for you!” Clearing up the chaos took a while, but it was finally not even mine, or my team’s, to deal with. Leaving responsibility where it rightfully belonged after offering all help to manage it quickly and cleanly, I stormed into my tiny kitchen. Much to the wide-eyed alarm of my cat, I hauled every vegetable in my store out of it, chopped it all into an enormous pile and made a stir-fry large enough to feed all of China and some Delhi denizens as well. I ate stir-fried veggies well into the next two weeks, but cutting all those onions, carrots, cabbage and assorted other greenery hacked the aggression out of my system with great efficiency – all the efficiency that had not been shown by whoever made the mess in the first place!
Cleaning is another great way to get that nasty stress stuff out of the system. In college, my housemate was always rather nervous when I barged into the house and yanked the brush-broom out of the cleaning closet. She knew our small flat would be sparkling fresh when I was done, but the mutterings and black clouds that accompanied it would be dire. Even today, I rearrange clothes, books, shoes and bags when I get too wound up for comfort, and the to-be-discarded pile climbs as my ire recedes. And there is nothing like beating all hell out of the carpets – but that is so obvious, no?
People talk about the destress value of chocolate, sex and driving a Porsche down the extreme lane on the autobahn (the only place it is worth owning a Porsche, really!). For me, for now, soap labels do it best!
Monday, May 22, 2006
It’s a cell-out!
It’s amazing. It's dreadful.
When I look around me and see the fabulous developments in electronic technology, I am astonished at our dependence on it. Especially that neat little gadget called the cellphone. Laptops, music players, blood pressure monitors and the like are useful, personal and, more importantly, silent. Cellphones, on the other hand, are a public menace, both to the user and the people around that person.
Consider the scenario on any local train in Mumbai, the means by which most city denizens go about their business day after working day. In the ladies first class compartment - my haunt for about 30 minutes, morning and evening – you will find almost everyone with one hand to an ear, sometimes holding a mobile phone visible, sometimes seemingly scratching their scalps. The conversation they are engaged in will almost always be loud, long and lively, spanning the journey and beyond. And by the end of it, everyone in the vicinity will know all about the mother-in-law from hell, the maid who refused to wash the windows and the boss who made improper advances.
The chats are interminable, so protracted that I once asked someone what their phone bills were, on average. Turns out that there is a neat little trick involved. Call a number, whatever number. Then hang up. That number will call you back before you have the time to stash your phone in your bag or pocket or wherever you stash it normally. I learned how to do this only recently – the caller uses a cellphone to call the callee’s cellphone, on which the calling number registers. The callee then calls the caller back (thus becoming the caller, in turn) from a landline telephone, thus calling at a far lower rate, often not even needing to pay for the call, especially if the caller phone is one at work, which the caller calling the callee does not need to pay for. Phew. The alternative, of course, to this scam is to send a text message and wait for the call to come in…
And when it does, this is the way to behave – root about in your bag for your mobile phone. When you find it, let it ring its obnoxious tune for long enough to wake up your neighbour and irritate everyone else. Then press the right button, provide a second or two of merciful silence and, soon after, provide amusement and drama for the entire trainload of commuters with your conversation. That usually starts with “Haan, bol!” and then proceeds through an entire soap opera of heard monologue responding to unheard monologue, deafening unwilling listeners and dragging them willy-nilly into the life of someone unknown and irrelevant. You, of course, on the phone, are oblivious to trivialities such as people around you who do not want to listen to your assorted angsts and evil-boss stories. You also have no clue that the woman opposite you, who is trying to do a newspaper crossword, is glowering coldly at you. And that the lady across the aisle, trying to rest after a long morning cleaning house, before a long day cleaning up the latest pirated computer programme that needs to be installed, is darting looks that could kill in your direction.
Time was when I was one of the few people in the train who had a cellphone. Time is, now, when I am one of the few people who never uses hers. And now you know why.
When I look around me and see the fabulous developments in electronic technology, I am astonished at our dependence on it. Especially that neat little gadget called the cellphone. Laptops, music players, blood pressure monitors and the like are useful, personal and, more importantly, silent. Cellphones, on the other hand, are a public menace, both to the user and the people around that person.
Consider the scenario on any local train in Mumbai, the means by which most city denizens go about their business day after working day. In the ladies first class compartment - my haunt for about 30 minutes, morning and evening – you will find almost everyone with one hand to an ear, sometimes holding a mobile phone visible, sometimes seemingly scratching their scalps. The conversation they are engaged in will almost always be loud, long and lively, spanning the journey and beyond. And by the end of it, everyone in the vicinity will know all about the mother-in-law from hell, the maid who refused to wash the windows and the boss who made improper advances.
The chats are interminable, so protracted that I once asked someone what their phone bills were, on average. Turns out that there is a neat little trick involved. Call a number, whatever number. Then hang up. That number will call you back before you have the time to stash your phone in your bag or pocket or wherever you stash it normally. I learned how to do this only recently – the caller uses a cellphone to call the callee’s cellphone, on which the calling number registers. The callee then calls the caller back (thus becoming the caller, in turn) from a landline telephone, thus calling at a far lower rate, often not even needing to pay for the call, especially if the caller phone is one at work, which the caller calling the callee does not need to pay for. Phew. The alternative, of course, to this scam is to send a text message and wait for the call to come in…
And when it does, this is the way to behave – root about in your bag for your mobile phone. When you find it, let it ring its obnoxious tune for long enough to wake up your neighbour and irritate everyone else. Then press the right button, provide a second or two of merciful silence and, soon after, provide amusement and drama for the entire trainload of commuters with your conversation. That usually starts with “Haan, bol!” and then proceeds through an entire soap opera of heard monologue responding to unheard monologue, deafening unwilling listeners and dragging them willy-nilly into the life of someone unknown and irrelevant. You, of course, on the phone, are oblivious to trivialities such as people around you who do not want to listen to your assorted angsts and evil-boss stories. You also have no clue that the woman opposite you, who is trying to do a newspaper crossword, is glowering coldly at you. And that the lady across the aisle, trying to rest after a long morning cleaning house, before a long day cleaning up the latest pirated computer programme that needs to be installed, is darting looks that could kill in your direction.
Time was when I was one of the few people in the train who had a cellphone. Time is, now, when I am one of the few people who never uses hers. And now you know why.
Friday, May 19, 2006
A taste of heaven…part deux
Our trip to San Francisco was fabulous. More than chocolate, more than Pier 39, more even than clam chowder in sourdough bread was the pleasure of watching a stage performance of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Phantom of the Opera. Karen and I devoured a very early dinner of fresh shrimp on the waterfront and then raced back to our hotel to put on our version of the ritz, complete with high heels and make-up. We did a fast and barely sedate gallop down the street – literally, considering that most streets in SF slope perilously in various directions – and slid into our seats in the dress circle just in time for the last bell.
From then on it was, especially for me, bliss. I knew all the music, all the words, all the dialogue. It was almost as if we were sitting in a dive of a cinema hall in the heart of Mumbai, watching a Hindi masala movie, complete with songs, hamming and the odd tree around which the stars ran, with the audience (ie: me) chorusing every word that came over the tinny loudspeakers. I squeaked when the chandelier crashed down, laughed hilariously when the diva’s voice frog-croaked, sighed when Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny sang a duet with his love, Christine, while the Phantom languished alone in the cellars, and then wept a tiny, surreptitious tear when he came to an unfortunate end. I sang along with Music of the night, spoke as Firmin did and enjoyed every second of the lavish production. Karen, finally dragging me out into the cool late evening after the final encore, grinned happily – it was rare for me to show such uninhibited enthusiasm in public.
The euphoria didn’t end there. We proceeded on a hopping tour of the art galleries that punctuated the main road leading to our hotel, and chatted up all sorts of interesting people, meeting their significant others, business partners and assorted pets en route. I got my first sniff from a ferret, a lovely lithe brown little creature that explored everything about me, from the bow on my sandals to the silver bells in my chignon, all with an endearing and childlike curiosity. I was offered a sip of mate, searingly hot and oddly refreshing, from a steaming silver cup-and-straw contraption. And I fell totally and utterly in love with the work of an artist called Missy Dizick, whose cartoon-ish cats chortled and chuckled with feline delight as they gazed upwards, gambolled in the grass and lay stretched in postures only a cat can achieve. Please, please, please, sell me that one, I begged the gallery owner, I really want it! It was taken, and the poor lady, wanting to please and not able to do so, did her best to make me happy with a poster of Dizick’s charming cats gazing at the moon.
We did get down to the real business of being tourists, but only the next day. Booking ourselves on to a tour bus, we saw what we were supposed to, bought the prescribed ration of ticky-tacky tourist junk and had fun making candles, tasting olives and gaping at the exotica of food shops in Chinatown. And, yes, we did finally see The Bridge. It was from a ferry that chugged around the bay, with Karen and I clutching cameras, skirts and hair as our teeth chattered in perfect rhythm and our fingernails went blue with cold. The huge structure arched and swayed above our heads as we sailed under it, feeling like we were leaving California through the gate – the Golden Gate.
From then on it was, especially for me, bliss. I knew all the music, all the words, all the dialogue. It was almost as if we were sitting in a dive of a cinema hall in the heart of Mumbai, watching a Hindi masala movie, complete with songs, hamming and the odd tree around which the stars ran, with the audience (ie: me) chorusing every word that came over the tinny loudspeakers. I squeaked when the chandelier crashed down, laughed hilariously when the diva’s voice frog-croaked, sighed when Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny sang a duet with his love, Christine, while the Phantom languished alone in the cellars, and then wept a tiny, surreptitious tear when he came to an unfortunate end. I sang along with Music of the night, spoke as Firmin did and enjoyed every second of the lavish production. Karen, finally dragging me out into the cool late evening after the final encore, grinned happily – it was rare for me to show such uninhibited enthusiasm in public.
The euphoria didn’t end there. We proceeded on a hopping tour of the art galleries that punctuated the main road leading to our hotel, and chatted up all sorts of interesting people, meeting their significant others, business partners and assorted pets en route. I got my first sniff from a ferret, a lovely lithe brown little creature that explored everything about me, from the bow on my sandals to the silver bells in my chignon, all with an endearing and childlike curiosity. I was offered a sip of mate, searingly hot and oddly refreshing, from a steaming silver cup-and-straw contraption. And I fell totally and utterly in love with the work of an artist called Missy Dizick, whose cartoon-ish cats chortled and chuckled with feline delight as they gazed upwards, gambolled in the grass and lay stretched in postures only a cat can achieve. Please, please, please, sell me that one, I begged the gallery owner, I really want it! It was taken, and the poor lady, wanting to please and not able to do so, did her best to make me happy with a poster of Dizick’s charming cats gazing at the moon.
We did get down to the real business of being tourists, but only the next day. Booking ourselves on to a tour bus, we saw what we were supposed to, bought the prescribed ration of ticky-tacky tourist junk and had fun making candles, tasting olives and gaping at the exotica of food shops in Chinatown. And, yes, we did finally see The Bridge. It was from a ferry that chugged around the bay, with Karen and I clutching cameras, skirts and hair as our teeth chattered in perfect rhythm and our fingernails went blue with cold. The huge structure arched and swayed above our heads as we sailed under it, feeling like we were leaving California through the gate – the Golden Gate.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
A taste of heaven
Karen and I were headed for the waterfront. But before we actually got to even see anything that was wet, we had one very important stop to make: the Ghirardelli chocolate factory in Ghirardelli Square. After all, it was a major reason for our visit to San Francisco, the others being to see the Golden Gate bridge, visit the Matisse installation at the SFMOMA and go wine tasting in the Napa Valley. So bright and early one summer morning we were driven to the eerily circus-tent-like construction that was the new international airport in Denver, and flew out to California, fighting amicably over who would see The Bridge first.
I don’t think either of us did. It was, as was the norm, foggy over the bay as we circled to land and, while everyone peered over each other to see the rusty orange pylons that were cloaked in white puffs of cloud, we started finding other visual landmarks. There was Alcatraz, that dreaded prison, and across the water were the lush green slopes of Marin County. As the plane banked, we sighted the Coit Tower, round and vaguely suggestively anatomical, and could almost see the dizzy hairpins of Lombard Street. At the airport, an enormous warren of walkways and counters, we grabbed our luggage and found a taxi. “Hotel Californian,” we chorused, orchestrated by a peal of giggles that would have drowned the Beach Boys original into background static.
Once settled in, parents informed and clean-up done, we were ready to take in the charms of the city we already liked. My mother had always told me that San Fran was so much like Mumbai that I would instantly love it and, at least for that reason, among many others, I did. It began with a beeline to Ghirardelli, where we wandered happily through the mini chocolate factory, learning about how the delicious brown stuff was made, tempted to dive headfirst into the huge drum in which it mixed, white swirling deep into dark the overwhelming fragrance of sugar, cocoa and butter practically tinting the air…well…chocolate! From there it was just a few steps into the store, where we stocked up, promising ourselves that we would indeed give away the ‘presents’ we had bought, and not eat them when we were not watching our consciences and our waistlines. A dark and deadly chocolate sundae later, we stepped back out into the California afternoon, ready for almost anything.
It was time for a trip to Pier 30, via the local street market and a stop to watch the seals. The glossy, graceful creatures honked and barked, arguing, pushing and shoving, while we and a crowd of other onlookers tried not the breathe too hard to ward off the miasmic stink. Pier 39 was a melee of shops, food stalls and tourists like us, all smiling and posing happily for vacation photographs. Karen and I sat in the warmth of a sunbeam, chewing on thick clam soup served up in a sourdough bowl, watching the clamour. Burping gently, we explored the shops, buying an exquisite crystal bowl for my mother, a set of chimes for hers, a Tshirt for my father, some odds and ends for assorted friends. Clutching our chocolate and assorted other acquisitions, we headed back to the hotel.
Tomorrow was a day full of plans and promises. For now, we could rest.
(We continue our trip to San Francisco tomorrow…)
I don’t think either of us did. It was, as was the norm, foggy over the bay as we circled to land and, while everyone peered over each other to see the rusty orange pylons that were cloaked in white puffs of cloud, we started finding other visual landmarks. There was Alcatraz, that dreaded prison, and across the water were the lush green slopes of Marin County. As the plane banked, we sighted the Coit Tower, round and vaguely suggestively anatomical, and could almost see the dizzy hairpins of Lombard Street. At the airport, an enormous warren of walkways and counters, we grabbed our luggage and found a taxi. “Hotel Californian,” we chorused, orchestrated by a peal of giggles that would have drowned the Beach Boys original into background static.
Once settled in, parents informed and clean-up done, we were ready to take in the charms of the city we already liked. My mother had always told me that San Fran was so much like Mumbai that I would instantly love it and, at least for that reason, among many others, I did. It began with a beeline to Ghirardelli, where we wandered happily through the mini chocolate factory, learning about how the delicious brown stuff was made, tempted to dive headfirst into the huge drum in which it mixed, white swirling deep into dark the overwhelming fragrance of sugar, cocoa and butter practically tinting the air…well…chocolate! From there it was just a few steps into the store, where we stocked up, promising ourselves that we would indeed give away the ‘presents’ we had bought, and not eat them when we were not watching our consciences and our waistlines. A dark and deadly chocolate sundae later, we stepped back out into the California afternoon, ready for almost anything.
It was time for a trip to Pier 30, via the local street market and a stop to watch the seals. The glossy, graceful creatures honked and barked, arguing, pushing and shoving, while we and a crowd of other onlookers tried not the breathe too hard to ward off the miasmic stink. Pier 39 was a melee of shops, food stalls and tourists like us, all smiling and posing happily for vacation photographs. Karen and I sat in the warmth of a sunbeam, chewing on thick clam soup served up in a sourdough bowl, watching the clamour. Burping gently, we explored the shops, buying an exquisite crystal bowl for my mother, a set of chimes for hers, a Tshirt for my father, some odds and ends for assorted friends. Clutching our chocolate and assorted other acquisitions, we headed back to the hotel.
Tomorrow was a day full of plans and promises. For now, we could rest.
(We continue our trip to San Francisco tomorrow…)
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Chapter and not worse
All the world’s a-rage for The Da Vinci Code. When I read it a couple of years ago, I was held absorbed until the last sentence, which was a pleasure after all the dreary, badly-written, over-serious, boring fiction I had been battling my way through. It is not high literature, in no way enduring or even too original, but it is a good, racy, fun read. And, best of all, it wanders through the Louvre and parts of Paris, a museum I enjoy being in and a city I am fairly familiar with. From there, I slid into Angels and Demons, the book that precedes its bestselling sibling, but made its noise only after The Da Vinci Code had set the bells ringing for Dan Brown. Again, it is set in familiar territory, with a mystery set in the guarded precincts of the laboratory complex that is CERN, Geneva, and then the tiny principality of the Vatican City, nestled in the heart of Rome. The hero, Robert Langdon, investigates the mystery and leaves just enough of it unknown for readers to argue about and the author to write his next book!
But Dan Brown is not the populist mystery master, not for me, at least. Better than The Da Vinci Code is a more obscure work called The Eight, by Katherine Neville. This one is a fabulous adventure that swings across time, from before the French Revolution to Russia during the end of the reign of Catherine the Great and the start of to-be-tsar Alexander’s greatness, to New York in the 80s. The feisty young heroine travels from the Great Apple to Algeria to the depths of the Sahara, retracing the footsteps of a long-ago protector of a fabulous secret. There is history, romance, religion, belief and a great deal of political drama, with magic thrown in to spice up a very special potion. Neville has also written A Calculated Risk, a complex tale of grand theft involving New York’s financial markets. While this is simpler than The Eight, it has villains as villainous, a star who is young, female and brilliant and a love story that wakens a longing in all of us for one such of our own! The author’s most recent book is The Magic Circle, which is a convoluted adventure focussing in a shadowy way on the life and times of Adolf Hitler. This happens via the story of a young woman who, in the process of trying to come to terms with her beloved cousin’s death, discovers the bewildering maze of her family relationships, even as she finds out that her cousin is not, after all, dead.
Confused? So was I, at first reading. It has taken me many re-reads to explore Neville’s books, sifting through a new and unusual layer each time. Now her work is a sort of benchmark for me, a level that others need to live up to, mixed metaphors and all. Will I find more? Until her next, reportedly set in the art world, is ready, I keep reading….
But Dan Brown is not the populist mystery master, not for me, at least. Better than The Da Vinci Code is a more obscure work called The Eight, by Katherine Neville. This one is a fabulous adventure that swings across time, from before the French Revolution to Russia during the end of the reign of Catherine the Great and the start of to-be-tsar Alexander’s greatness, to New York in the 80s. The feisty young heroine travels from the Great Apple to Algeria to the depths of the Sahara, retracing the footsteps of a long-ago protector of a fabulous secret. There is history, romance, religion, belief and a great deal of political drama, with magic thrown in to spice up a very special potion. Neville has also written A Calculated Risk, a complex tale of grand theft involving New York’s financial markets. While this is simpler than The Eight, it has villains as villainous, a star who is young, female and brilliant and a love story that wakens a longing in all of us for one such of our own! The author’s most recent book is The Magic Circle, which is a convoluted adventure focussing in a shadowy way on the life and times of Adolf Hitler. This happens via the story of a young woman who, in the process of trying to come to terms with her beloved cousin’s death, discovers the bewildering maze of her family relationships, even as she finds out that her cousin is not, after all, dead.
Confused? So was I, at first reading. It has taken me many re-reads to explore Neville’s books, sifting through a new and unusual layer each time. Now her work is a sort of benchmark for me, a level that others need to live up to, mixed metaphors and all. Will I find more? Until her next, reportedly set in the art world, is ready, I keep reading….
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Say “Boo!”
What are you afraid of?
I used to be scared of the lions under my bed. I knew they were there, just waiting for me to lower a toe or show them a nose. All they needed was a claw-hold and I was dinner. There was this little voice in my head that insisted that there was a whole pride of very large, sharp-toothed felines with a ravenous taste for nubile female flesh lurking on the cool marble floor. My logic and wide-awake intelligence told me there was nothing under the pale wood base I laid my weary self on every night. At some pragmatic level, I knew there was no hide nor hair of anything under my bed – after all, our maid was pretty efficient and swept even the smallest dustball or feather out. But I was too scared to look…
Something else that gives me the heebie-jeebies is a spider. Even the smallest and most innocuous of the eight-legged creatures takes on the proportions of an Aragog, the monstrous arachnid guarding the Chamber of Secrets that Harry Potter and his friends fought so dramatically. While I cringe at the little creatures scuttling over the glass of my window, I squeak and recoil in horror when I see them actually inside, their beady little eyes seeming to glare malevolently at me as their pinhead brains coldly calculate just how long it would take to ingest and digest my vast self…
And then there are butterflies. Those pretty, fragile, vivid insects that flutter so insouciantly through our bougainvillea and settle ever so briefly on a leaf to show off their bright wings and distinct Pucci-like patterns. They have always terrified me. Irrational? Totally, but with some logic to the fear. Swat at a butterfly and it is very likely to swing away and avoid you. But if you make contact, you will most probably injure it. Which means it will need to be killed, or else you will have to go through the trauma of watching it slowly die, its beautiful wings that you had admired just a few moments ago gradually stilling and dulling into death…
My mother was horrendously afraid of cockroaches. She would shriek dreadfully, leap out of her chair and flee to safety, which could be many rooms away or even out of the house or restaurant we happened to be in. And this seems to be genetic, since I, too, am not exactly enamoured by the disgusting creatures, though my revulsion is not all fear. One unforgettable afternoon, Mama and I stood at the far end of the living-dining area of our apartment, flinging every shoe and slipper we could find, including some of Papa’s, across at a rather large cockroach that strolled around near the curtains draping the French doors to the balcony. About half an hour and our entire stock of footwear lay heaped at that end of the flat. The cockroach lay on its back some distance away. When Papa came home, he wondered, “Did this die of boredom or old age? Because nothing has hit it!”
But there are lots of creepies and crawlies that I am not afraid of. Take ladybugs, those pretty little round insects that have a nursery rhyme that is all theirs. Or beetles, some of which can be very colourful and interestingly patterned. And snakes, their scales gleaming like textured silk. Or wildcats, with their gorgeous, fiercely angry eyes. Ah, if only mankind could be so casually talked of!
I used to be scared of the lions under my bed. I knew they were there, just waiting for me to lower a toe or show them a nose. All they needed was a claw-hold and I was dinner. There was this little voice in my head that insisted that there was a whole pride of very large, sharp-toothed felines with a ravenous taste for nubile female flesh lurking on the cool marble floor. My logic and wide-awake intelligence told me there was nothing under the pale wood base I laid my weary self on every night. At some pragmatic level, I knew there was no hide nor hair of anything under my bed – after all, our maid was pretty efficient and swept even the smallest dustball or feather out. But I was too scared to look…
Something else that gives me the heebie-jeebies is a spider. Even the smallest and most innocuous of the eight-legged creatures takes on the proportions of an Aragog, the monstrous arachnid guarding the Chamber of Secrets that Harry Potter and his friends fought so dramatically. While I cringe at the little creatures scuttling over the glass of my window, I squeak and recoil in horror when I see them actually inside, their beady little eyes seeming to glare malevolently at me as their pinhead brains coldly calculate just how long it would take to ingest and digest my vast self…
And then there are butterflies. Those pretty, fragile, vivid insects that flutter so insouciantly through our bougainvillea and settle ever so briefly on a leaf to show off their bright wings and distinct Pucci-like patterns. They have always terrified me. Irrational? Totally, but with some logic to the fear. Swat at a butterfly and it is very likely to swing away and avoid you. But if you make contact, you will most probably injure it. Which means it will need to be killed, or else you will have to go through the trauma of watching it slowly die, its beautiful wings that you had admired just a few moments ago gradually stilling and dulling into death…
My mother was horrendously afraid of cockroaches. She would shriek dreadfully, leap out of her chair and flee to safety, which could be many rooms away or even out of the house or restaurant we happened to be in. And this seems to be genetic, since I, too, am not exactly enamoured by the disgusting creatures, though my revulsion is not all fear. One unforgettable afternoon, Mama and I stood at the far end of the living-dining area of our apartment, flinging every shoe and slipper we could find, including some of Papa’s, across at a rather large cockroach that strolled around near the curtains draping the French doors to the balcony. About half an hour and our entire stock of footwear lay heaped at that end of the flat. The cockroach lay on its back some distance away. When Papa came home, he wondered, “Did this die of boredom or old age? Because nothing has hit it!”
But there are lots of creepies and crawlies that I am not afraid of. Take ladybugs, those pretty little round insects that have a nursery rhyme that is all theirs. Or beetles, some of which can be very colourful and interestingly patterned. And snakes, their scales gleaming like textured silk. Or wildcats, with their gorgeous, fiercely angry eyes. Ah, if only mankind could be so casually talked of!
Monday, May 15, 2006
Summer whine
It is hot. Which is in itself quite an understatement. Even though our sweltering metropolis that is Mumbai is not as hot – temperature-wise, I mean – as other parts of the country, where the egg-fried-on-the-sidewalk analogy could be made reality if people were not still nervous of eating fowl products or were not religiously vegetarian, it feels like I live, work and commute in an off-canvas version of one of the more luridly fiery depictions of hell as painted by surrealist master Hieronymous Bosch or visualised in oils by Salvador Dali in a period of greater madness. And then the anaemic weathergirl from a local and very popular television news channel chirpily tells me (and the rest of her steaming audience) that it is not really that hot, it is the ‘sweat factor’ at work. Which makes me (and I bet all those other sweaty viewers) want to reach into the TV set, grab her by her scrawny little neck and throw her into that cauldron that is Mumbai in mid-May.
It’s actually very special, this Mumbai heat. It is only about 32 degrees Celsius (You lie, oh damned thermometer!), but when you walk out of your air-conditioned office, where you will be wearing a shawl to combat the sub-zero temperature at which the people-who-know-these-things believe you can best function, into the building courtyard, the heat rises up in waves and burns the lacquer off your nicely polished toenails. By the time you walk to your car, which is just about 20 feet away, your mascara has melted and your elegantly caught up hair is a soggy coil that drips into your eyebrows. And your well starched linen shirt could have just come out of a disastrous encounter with a particularly sadistic dhobi whose iron spouted hot water instead of steam…
You see, this wonderful city is getting set for the monsoon. Which is only about a month away from now. So, as the chirpy twit of a weathergirl would explain, the air is heavy with humidity, with clouds all ready to spout like an overenthusiastic whale. All it needs is that critical last drop loaded into the cumulus mass that will push its storage limit over critical volume and cause it to RAIN! Then, we assure ourselves with a crocodile smile and sincerely hypocritical fervour, it will be cooler and we will be better tempered and happier. Until then, we wait. And, while we wait, we sweat.
A Mumbaikar commuter sweating is a sensation. He or she will gallop up and down stairs and ramps to reach the train into work, charge in before it stops to grab a seat and then sit with legs wide apart, breathing heavily, leaning sweatily into the neighbouring hot body. Through the journey, everyone in the compartment will be vying for the window seat, playing an intricate game of bottom-chess to get there, making swap deals with others who may have been luckier first off. The stress of the journey rises as the temperature and sweat factor (Is that weathergirl still prattling on?) do, gradually releasing the slowly intensifying odour of eau-de-polyester and a spice-laden lunch packed hot into stainless steel dabbas nestling in capacious handbags. Once at work, after the frantic rush to punch in is done with, this individual settles into a cushioned seat, mopping furiously at the briny beads rolling down front and back, complaining in a peevish whine about how it seems to get hotter every year. When will the rains come? is the question everyone wants an answer to.
Hey, you, weathergirl, do you know?
It’s actually very special, this Mumbai heat. It is only about 32 degrees Celsius (You lie, oh damned thermometer!), but when you walk out of your air-conditioned office, where you will be wearing a shawl to combat the sub-zero temperature at which the people-who-know-these-things believe you can best function, into the building courtyard, the heat rises up in waves and burns the lacquer off your nicely polished toenails. By the time you walk to your car, which is just about 20 feet away, your mascara has melted and your elegantly caught up hair is a soggy coil that drips into your eyebrows. And your well starched linen shirt could have just come out of a disastrous encounter with a particularly sadistic dhobi whose iron spouted hot water instead of steam…
You see, this wonderful city is getting set for the monsoon. Which is only about a month away from now. So, as the chirpy twit of a weathergirl would explain, the air is heavy with humidity, with clouds all ready to spout like an overenthusiastic whale. All it needs is that critical last drop loaded into the cumulus mass that will push its storage limit over critical volume and cause it to RAIN! Then, we assure ourselves with a crocodile smile and sincerely hypocritical fervour, it will be cooler and we will be better tempered and happier. Until then, we wait. And, while we wait, we sweat.
A Mumbaikar commuter sweating is a sensation. He or she will gallop up and down stairs and ramps to reach the train into work, charge in before it stops to grab a seat and then sit with legs wide apart, breathing heavily, leaning sweatily into the neighbouring hot body. Through the journey, everyone in the compartment will be vying for the window seat, playing an intricate game of bottom-chess to get there, making swap deals with others who may have been luckier first off. The stress of the journey rises as the temperature and sweat factor (Is that weathergirl still prattling on?) do, gradually releasing the slowly intensifying odour of eau-de-polyester and a spice-laden lunch packed hot into stainless steel dabbas nestling in capacious handbags. Once at work, after the frantic rush to punch in is done with, this individual settles into a cushioned seat, mopping furiously at the briny beads rolling down front and back, complaining in a peevish whine about how it seems to get hotter every year. When will the rains come? is the question everyone wants an answer to.
Hey, you, weathergirl, do you know?
Friday, May 12, 2006
Money, money money
My persistent naiveté was jolted once again this morning. I had just got off the train and was walking down the platform, when I was stopped by a ticket checker, who took a cursory look at my commuter pass and let me go. Next to her was a lady who seemed very upset. As I fumbled to put the card back in my purse, she took a banknote out of hers, folded it up in her palm and offered it to the ticket checker, saying, “I really have not remembered to buy my ticket. I told you, my aunt was ill and I have just got back from seeing her…” I had started walking on, but something made me turn and look back – the ticket checker was holding the banknote and waving the other lady onwards. One of them was saved the embarrassment of legal process, while the other made a neat profit out of an unfortunate situation.
It is not something new, or something that has never happened to me before. In fact, I was caught in just the same sort of net when I was living in Delhi for a short time. I was on my way to a meeting in one of the tony parts of the vast and sprawling city, when I – honest, it was without knowing I was doing it – jumped a red light. As I turned into a quiet, tree-overhung lane, a policeman suddenly materialised in front of my little car. In a doom-laden but somehow satisfied tone, he described to me the seriousness of my crime. A brief consultation with the friend who was in the car with me was followed by a sense of resignation. I had to pay the man, or make many frustratingly futile trips to the police station to get my license back, she told me. So, being of the ilk who asks if she wants to know, I looked the cop-man in the eye and demanded, “How much?” in my best Dilli-Hindi. The man looked even more furtive, leaned close into my window and held out his hand, nicely hidden from view from any onlookers. Shuddering with a certain disgust and cringing rather at this large and sweaty unknown male hand practically under my nose, I handed over some money and shot off on the wrong gear as soon as the policeman was clear of my car. In the rear-view mirror I could see him walking back to his post under the tree, hands in his nicely-filled pockets, a smug swagger to his stroll.
I see this happening all the time, all around me. Sometimes it is at the train station, other times at the just-jumped red light. It even happens at the police station itself. And you hear about this on a much larger scale, when high-up government officials make fortunes selling themselves and their ethics for a life with a little less hassle and a little more jam. Does that make all of us bad people? Criminals? Or just human beings trying to get on with the everyday process of living?
It is not something new, or something that has never happened to me before. In fact, I was caught in just the same sort of net when I was living in Delhi for a short time. I was on my way to a meeting in one of the tony parts of the vast and sprawling city, when I – honest, it was without knowing I was doing it – jumped a red light. As I turned into a quiet, tree-overhung lane, a policeman suddenly materialised in front of my little car. In a doom-laden but somehow satisfied tone, he described to me the seriousness of my crime. A brief consultation with the friend who was in the car with me was followed by a sense of resignation. I had to pay the man, or make many frustratingly futile trips to the police station to get my license back, she told me. So, being of the ilk who asks if she wants to know, I looked the cop-man in the eye and demanded, “How much?” in my best Dilli-Hindi. The man looked even more furtive, leaned close into my window and held out his hand, nicely hidden from view from any onlookers. Shuddering with a certain disgust and cringing rather at this large and sweaty unknown male hand practically under my nose, I handed over some money and shot off on the wrong gear as soon as the policeman was clear of my car. In the rear-view mirror I could see him walking back to his post under the tree, hands in his nicely-filled pockets, a smug swagger to his stroll.
I see this happening all the time, all around me. Sometimes it is at the train station, other times at the just-jumped red light. It even happens at the police station itself. And you hear about this on a much larger scale, when high-up government officials make fortunes selling themselves and their ethics for a life with a little less hassle and a little more jam. Does that make all of us bad people? Criminals? Or just human beings trying to get on with the everyday process of living?
Thursday, May 11, 2006
In a flash…
A friend and I were talking about flashers this morning. Odd conversation for two women to have? True. But flashers are odd people, aren’t they? They stand at street corners, station platforms and outside schools and public parks, seemingly nicely buttoned up, all set to flip open their clothes and show off their masculinity.
I remember one such chappie outside my school when I was very young – a friend who appointed herself local dragon dragged me away even as I, curious as ever, wanted to know what the man was doing…But kids today are not so innocent, or ignorant. They know what is being shown them and why, without really being told – it is almost osmotic, the way in which they imbibe knowledge from those around them, television, books, magazines and more. They are shocked, however, at the reality of it all, when someone waggles a weenie or shows off their (and I especially hate this euphemism) family jewels in public.
Maybe it is the unexpectedness of the situation. When someone has peered into the window of the car or train compartment I am in and said something salacious, I have usually been shocked into stillness. This morning I was more reactive. On the crowded platform at the station, waiting for my morning train to work, I felt a man brush past my behind. Thinking that he was in a rush and so squeezed past a little too close by accident, I did nothing beyond glower in his direction. A minute later, it happened again, same man, same bottom. I moved faster this time, and more aggressively, swinging my fairly heavy bag in his direction. It did make contact, but perhaps not at the point I would have liked – he was not left writhing in agony, soprano, sadly enough.
What is the cheap thrill (an Indianism I have always wanted to use, forgive my plagiaristic instinct there!) that men get from this sort of behaviour? Don’t they get any at home or with girlfriends or significant others? Or is this an extra? Cop a feel and get energised for the day ahead? Waggle your bits and pieces at young girls in school uniforms and then go home feeling fulfilled? Is this the functioning of a sick mind or a sicker society that allows it to happen?
My friend was telling me about the time her daughter came home and told her about a flasher in the park. He was from a respectable family, she said, and of the North Indian community that has a tradition of honouring women. But he was a sheep of the blackest hue, standing on his corner of pavement and lifting his lungi to expose himself when a girl walked past. That story ended with a certain triumph, I heard – the man was caught, beaten up by irate locals and then handed over to the police. Mental disturbance was the excuse, when he was sent home. Is this the kind of behaviour that, if left unchecked, spawns rapists and child sex abusers? That would be an interesting and valuable study to make, wouldn’t it?
Which leaves me with another question: Why don’t women behave this way? Do you know?
I remember one such chappie outside my school when I was very young – a friend who appointed herself local dragon dragged me away even as I, curious as ever, wanted to know what the man was doing…But kids today are not so innocent, or ignorant. They know what is being shown them and why, without really being told – it is almost osmotic, the way in which they imbibe knowledge from those around them, television, books, magazines and more. They are shocked, however, at the reality of it all, when someone waggles a weenie or shows off their (and I especially hate this euphemism) family jewels in public.
Maybe it is the unexpectedness of the situation. When someone has peered into the window of the car or train compartment I am in and said something salacious, I have usually been shocked into stillness. This morning I was more reactive. On the crowded platform at the station, waiting for my morning train to work, I felt a man brush past my behind. Thinking that he was in a rush and so squeezed past a little too close by accident, I did nothing beyond glower in his direction. A minute later, it happened again, same man, same bottom. I moved faster this time, and more aggressively, swinging my fairly heavy bag in his direction. It did make contact, but perhaps not at the point I would have liked – he was not left writhing in agony, soprano, sadly enough.
What is the cheap thrill (an Indianism I have always wanted to use, forgive my plagiaristic instinct there!) that men get from this sort of behaviour? Don’t they get any at home or with girlfriends or significant others? Or is this an extra? Cop a feel and get energised for the day ahead? Waggle your bits and pieces at young girls in school uniforms and then go home feeling fulfilled? Is this the functioning of a sick mind or a sicker society that allows it to happen?
My friend was telling me about the time her daughter came home and told her about a flasher in the park. He was from a respectable family, she said, and of the North Indian community that has a tradition of honouring women. But he was a sheep of the blackest hue, standing on his corner of pavement and lifting his lungi to expose himself when a girl walked past. That story ended with a certain triumph, I heard – the man was caught, beaten up by irate locals and then handed over to the police. Mental disturbance was the excuse, when he was sent home. Is this the kind of behaviour that, if left unchecked, spawns rapists and child sex abusers? That would be an interesting and valuable study to make, wouldn’t it?
Which leaves me with another question: Why don’t women behave this way? Do you know?
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Doing borrowed time
This blog may be still very new, but a lot of people have asked me why I have not yet written about Kaavya Vishwanathan and her rather unfortunate saga. I did mention her the first time I wrote in this space, but merely in passing, perhaps because she was already centre-focus in too many other places. But now there are so many directions to explore out of that core that is Kaavya’s controversy that it could just use a little more talking about. A recent story in a news magazine points out that everyone ‘borrows’, some more liberally and literally than others, from someone else. And the sources may be known, familiar to anyone who reads, listens to music or watches movies, or unknown, as in so deeply buried in esotericism that it is cited and accepted more often than not as ‘original’ work.
Filmmaker and scriptwriter Anurag Kashyap has said in an interview that he has, on occasion, been asked to copy a Hollywood release, frame by frame, shot by shot. Thus Kaante was a good copy of Reservoir Dogs, for instance. However, most of Bollywood, as the Hindi film industry is better known, believes not in copying, but in ‘inspiration’. Munnabhai MBBS, for example, is very like Patch Adams, while Ek Ajnabi reminds the viewer of Man on Fire. Anu Malik is known for picking up his tunes from almost anywhere – Raja ko Rani se pyar ho gaya from Akele Hum Akele Tum is a barely rejiggered version of the Love Theme from Godfather. And all this is not even starting to scrape the mould off that sort of creativity in that world!
In literary works, be they academic or not, fictional or not, the more serious and mean-sounding tag of ‘plagiarism’ is often used. This actually refers to what goes beyond ‘inspiration’ and ‘borrowing’, into the realm of ‘stealing’. When given its detailed provenance, a piece of writing that is taken from something previously published or waiting to be done so is allowed – which is the way much science and scientific papers do the trick. Put it into context, give it its due credit and all will be well with the world. But there are ways out of that, too. If two writers have manuscripts published that seem uncannily alike, it could be simultaneous coincidence or accidental duplication, perhaps because of a pre-publication exchange of ideas or divine providence that put words and sentences together in the same or similar way in two different instances.
Too weird? Too complex? Too true! So why jump on poor young Kaavya, when she is just following the examples set by luminaries such as Martin Luther King, Helen Keller, George Harrison, James Cameron, Alex Haley et al? Or even me, who has taken much of this information off the Internet! At least Kaavya put her name to a book that, while it was hardly classifiable as ‘literature’ was very readable and even fun in parts? It was, to me, a lot like a bride’s wardrobe – something borrowed, something new, etc, etc. And since when did dressing up in someone else’s clothes become an unpardonable sin?
Filmmaker and scriptwriter Anurag Kashyap has said in an interview that he has, on occasion, been asked to copy a Hollywood release, frame by frame, shot by shot. Thus Kaante was a good copy of Reservoir Dogs, for instance. However, most of Bollywood, as the Hindi film industry is better known, believes not in copying, but in ‘inspiration’. Munnabhai MBBS, for example, is very like Patch Adams, while Ek Ajnabi reminds the viewer of Man on Fire. Anu Malik is known for picking up his tunes from almost anywhere – Raja ko Rani se pyar ho gaya from Akele Hum Akele Tum is a barely rejiggered version of the Love Theme from Godfather. And all this is not even starting to scrape the mould off that sort of creativity in that world!
In literary works, be they academic or not, fictional or not, the more serious and mean-sounding tag of ‘plagiarism’ is often used. This actually refers to what goes beyond ‘inspiration’ and ‘borrowing’, into the realm of ‘stealing’. When given its detailed provenance, a piece of writing that is taken from something previously published or waiting to be done so is allowed – which is the way much science and scientific papers do the trick. Put it into context, give it its due credit and all will be well with the world. But there are ways out of that, too. If two writers have manuscripts published that seem uncannily alike, it could be simultaneous coincidence or accidental duplication, perhaps because of a pre-publication exchange of ideas or divine providence that put words and sentences together in the same or similar way in two different instances.
Too weird? Too complex? Too true! So why jump on poor young Kaavya, when she is just following the examples set by luminaries such as Martin Luther King, Helen Keller, George Harrison, James Cameron, Alex Haley et al? Or even me, who has taken much of this information off the Internet! At least Kaavya put her name to a book that, while it was hardly classifiable as ‘literature’ was very readable and even fun in parts? It was, to me, a lot like a bride’s wardrobe – something borrowed, something new, etc, etc. And since when did dressing up in someone else’s clothes become an unpardonable sin?
Monday, May 08, 2006
Fashion statements
I have to confess, and may I not get lynched for this: I do not understand fashion. I probably will never understand fashion. I do not know and have never heard of anyone who can understand fashion. Maybe Andre Leon Talley or Hillary Alexander have a clue. Maybe Coco Chanel and Madame Gres understood it. Maybe even John Galliano and Tom Ford know what it’s all about – or at least what they are doing with it. But the general horde of people who call themselves ‘designers’, ‘fashion critics’ or ‘fashion pundits’ haven’t the slightest clue what the whimsical beast called ‘fashion’ is all about.
How can I say what I just did? After all, I also write on fashion and I also purport to know good from…well…not so good! But, ah, there lies the root of this issue – I believe in style, not in fashion. My tastes are eclectic, developed over years of reading style bibles like Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar and looking at cuts, fabrics and the way they are used, traditionally in India and by international name designers on the catwalks of Milan, Paris, New York and London. And what I learned was that you cannot, beyond a point, predict, prophecy and otherwise foretell what tomorrow will bring. Yes, up to that aforementioned point you can tell how long a skirt will be or what kind of sleeve is a la mode and what the next (sigh, that horrid cliche again) 'black' will be. But the guiding force of fashion is style, which is a very personal, very esoteric, very adaptable facet of individual life. It is, in other words, driven by personality rather than what can sell in the couture market.
In India, much of fashion is imitation rather than application. As a very wise critic of the fashion weeks that happened last month said, if you want to know what designers will create for the next season, just look at the international magazines for last year! True? To an extent, yes. Take the bubble frocks that reputed designers with almost God-like images sent out on models. Or the bias-cut or umbrella skirts, sort of like a banjara ghagra cut to varying lengths - from mid-thigh to ankle – that sashayed down the catwalk showing off the wearers’ legs so beautifully. Or the oversized belts, the flat-flat sandals, the sleek ponytails, the smoky eyes….seems familiar?
Using these myriad inspirations, a clothes-fan should create a special look that is personal, all his or her own, not duplicate-able. Which is not easy. First, before trying to understand fashion or even style, understand the self. Which could be more difficult than you ever imagined!
How can I say what I just did? After all, I also write on fashion and I also purport to know good from…well…not so good! But, ah, there lies the root of this issue – I believe in style, not in fashion. My tastes are eclectic, developed over years of reading style bibles like Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar and looking at cuts, fabrics and the way they are used, traditionally in India and by international name designers on the catwalks of Milan, Paris, New York and London. And what I learned was that you cannot, beyond a point, predict, prophecy and otherwise foretell what tomorrow will bring. Yes, up to that aforementioned point you can tell how long a skirt will be or what kind of sleeve is a la mode and what the next (sigh, that horrid cliche again) 'black' will be. But the guiding force of fashion is style, which is a very personal, very esoteric, very adaptable facet of individual life. It is, in other words, driven by personality rather than what can sell in the couture market.
In India, much of fashion is imitation rather than application. As a very wise critic of the fashion weeks that happened last month said, if you want to know what designers will create for the next season, just look at the international magazines for last year! True? To an extent, yes. Take the bubble frocks that reputed designers with almost God-like images sent out on models. Or the bias-cut or umbrella skirts, sort of like a banjara ghagra cut to varying lengths - from mid-thigh to ankle – that sashayed down the catwalk showing off the wearers’ legs so beautifully. Or the oversized belts, the flat-flat sandals, the sleek ponytails, the smoky eyes….seems familiar?
Using these myriad inspirations, a clothes-fan should create a special look that is personal, all his or her own, not duplicate-able. Which is not easy. First, before trying to understand fashion or even style, understand the self. Which could be more difficult than you ever imagined!
Sunday, May 07, 2006
When we were young…
I grew up on a healthy diet of Winnie the Pooh, Noddy and Dennis the Menace, along with comics like Little Lotta, Casper the Friendly Ghost and Charlie Brown. At that time and age, no one was bothered about issues like child abuse, racism and sexual innuendo; we just read the funnies and thoroughly enjoyed them. We usually had company – a parent or two, siblings, best friends, maybe even a whole host of all these people – and it was like having one big party, with a literary flavour. Then, after I was grown up and read Winnie the Pooh only when I was in bed with the flu and Noddy to a little girl I knew, someone decided to take a dark look at these classics and came up with stuff that turned my stomach – Noddy was rascist, Lotta was politically incorrect, Peanuts was negativistic, et al.
So where has all the innocence and joie de vivre of childhood vanished to? Why can’t we just be and let things be? As I pause between paragraphs writing this, I see three little girls playing in the garden outside. They are being hosed down by a gardener watering the lawn, all four of them laughing delightedly. None of the children is old enough or physically developed enough for anyone to imbue the scene with anything more than what it seems to be…unless of course, seeing the very seamy side of that scenario, the gardener has a perverse streak.
A couple of weeks ago, I was at the local mall with a friend, when he tried to talk to a little girl who was bouncing around with the typical obstreperousness of a two-year-old. For him, it was like talking to his own daughter, almost that age. For me, it was fun to see my overly-rounded buddy bending creakily at his substantial middle to chat up a curly haired, chubby-cheeked, ecstatic small person who couldn’t stand still. For others, it would be nothing out of the ordinary – all Indians have an innate love for small children and will go out of their way to make affectionate physical contact with them. And no one bothers too much.
But it is a different story elsewhere in the world. Stay away from strangers, is the rule. Try and pat an American child on the head or kiss a little British baby – neither of which you have met before – and you are likely to get slapped into jail with a lawsuit for sexual harassment and perversion hanging heavy over your head. Children are taught very young to beware of strangers, with some justification. Few are allowed to play in public spaces (parks or playgrounds) without adult supervision. We in this country are headed in that direction, too.
So is this a good thing? Is this a loss of human innocence, rather than just a loss of youthful idealism? Or is it the best way possible to keep a child safe?
So where has all the innocence and joie de vivre of childhood vanished to? Why can’t we just be and let things be? As I pause between paragraphs writing this, I see three little girls playing in the garden outside. They are being hosed down by a gardener watering the lawn, all four of them laughing delightedly. None of the children is old enough or physically developed enough for anyone to imbue the scene with anything more than what it seems to be…unless of course, seeing the very seamy side of that scenario, the gardener has a perverse streak.
A couple of weeks ago, I was at the local mall with a friend, when he tried to talk to a little girl who was bouncing around with the typical obstreperousness of a two-year-old. For him, it was like talking to his own daughter, almost that age. For me, it was fun to see my overly-rounded buddy bending creakily at his substantial middle to chat up a curly haired, chubby-cheeked, ecstatic small person who couldn’t stand still. For others, it would be nothing out of the ordinary – all Indians have an innate love for small children and will go out of their way to make affectionate physical contact with them. And no one bothers too much.
But it is a different story elsewhere in the world. Stay away from strangers, is the rule. Try and pat an American child on the head or kiss a little British baby – neither of which you have met before – and you are likely to get slapped into jail with a lawsuit for sexual harassment and perversion hanging heavy over your head. Children are taught very young to beware of strangers, with some justification. Few are allowed to play in public spaces (parks or playgrounds) without adult supervision. We in this country are headed in that direction, too.
So is this a good thing? Is this a loss of human innocence, rather than just a loss of youthful idealism? Or is it the best way possible to keep a child safe?
Friday, May 05, 2006
Friends…forever?
It’s funny how you can have close friends you’ve never seen. Buddies, the kind that you can ask about everything from removing bloodstains (oh, yes, that was the last time you leaked from a paper cut on to your favourite white linen shirt, not the last time you killed anyone) to getting rid of annoying wannabe-boyfriends. The kind who will allow you to be totally crabbily, nastily PMS-ridden without getting too riled up when you call them rude names and then burst into tears if they seem hurt and walk away. The kind you can confess your chocoholic cravings to, but will never ever send you some of the sweet brown stuff because you need to be able to slide into those slim-fit denims you wore in college without having to lie flat on the floor, sweat, swear and breathe in deeply to zip them up.
I have quite a few of those, some I have seen once or maybe twice, some I have never laid my nicely made-up eyes on. And – oh, boy! – do they make the difference! Consider my friend Sahar. I met her one night, fairly briefly, at a dinner evening at a mutual acquaintance’s home. She was an instant soulmate, better than green tea, better than Richard Marx, better even than my favourite pair of red leather ankle boots. We bonded over whines about the lack of ‘nice’ men in the world, the dearth of to-die-for sushi and Shah Rukh Khan’s choice of film roles. For years after that, we ‘met’ only via email and online messenger services, exchanging more grouses, affection and an occasional length of fabric, hers sent me from Pakistan, mine from Delhi, Mumbai and parts beyond. Then, after many years, we met over a two-day hiatus between flights she was booked on in and out of Mumbai, and it was as if we had spent time together almost every day. Today, we speak again over the Internet, planning for that day, whenever it comes, that we can share confidences and condolences over decadent chocolate cake.
And there is Shyam, my buddy of the last few years, with whom I share an intense and very passionate relationship focussed on shoes and sometimes food. Translated: We argue about the design, height, heel and colour of various genres of footwear, passionately and at great length, sending each other links, photos and comments, ad nauseum, ad infinitum. We also demand details of what was eaten at lunch. All this happens over email, messenger, mobile texting and phone calls, usually attenuated and hilariously rushed. It is not that we have not met – we have, very briefly, with an even briefer exchange of hugs, gossip and (he to me) chocolate cupcakes. Today, he counts as one of the inner circle of my friends, perhaps the only man (albeit very young) apart from my father that I would allow access to my shoe cupboard.
Meet Gaurav, the man with an abiding attachment to fashion, sushi and intensely floral phraseology. He is also as abidingly attached to his wife, and works with her to create some truly exotic detail-work on couture garments. We speak about some very interesting aspects of his life, and mine, from his Calvins that separate him from his jeans to the best chocolate brownies, with or without nuts, available in the city. He gives me instant answers to fashion questions, while I am his (ahem) ‘media advisor’ who calls him names and writes about his work. We have never met – I know he is on a diet, he knows I have a wicked streak. He sent me thank-you flowers, I gave him a stern lecture, all on the phone. Today we speak online, occasionally via text messages and over email, with a familiarity and fondness that may, one day, translate into a real-life, real-time meeting, who knows when, where and why!
And then, there is someone who prefers being incognito. I know him, he knows me; he has held my hand through crises and listened to my giggles manifold over the telephone. We once talked often. Today, communication is only a mobile link, limited to texting and no more. In our long history, we have met, spoken and even hugged, on one memorable occasion, when I told him he had a lot to learn about hugging. Has he taken extra lessons in that aspect of relationships? Who knows, as he always says!
I have quite a few of those, some I have seen once or maybe twice, some I have never laid my nicely made-up eyes on. And – oh, boy! – do they make the difference! Consider my friend Sahar. I met her one night, fairly briefly, at a dinner evening at a mutual acquaintance’s home. She was an instant soulmate, better than green tea, better than Richard Marx, better even than my favourite pair of red leather ankle boots. We bonded over whines about the lack of ‘nice’ men in the world, the dearth of to-die-for sushi and Shah Rukh Khan’s choice of film roles. For years after that, we ‘met’ only via email and online messenger services, exchanging more grouses, affection and an occasional length of fabric, hers sent me from Pakistan, mine from Delhi, Mumbai and parts beyond. Then, after many years, we met over a two-day hiatus between flights she was booked on in and out of Mumbai, and it was as if we had spent time together almost every day. Today, we speak again over the Internet, planning for that day, whenever it comes, that we can share confidences and condolences over decadent chocolate cake.
And there is Shyam, my buddy of the last few years, with whom I share an intense and very passionate relationship focussed on shoes and sometimes food. Translated: We argue about the design, height, heel and colour of various genres of footwear, passionately and at great length, sending each other links, photos and comments, ad nauseum, ad infinitum. We also demand details of what was eaten at lunch. All this happens over email, messenger, mobile texting and phone calls, usually attenuated and hilariously rushed. It is not that we have not met – we have, very briefly, with an even briefer exchange of hugs, gossip and (he to me) chocolate cupcakes. Today, he counts as one of the inner circle of my friends, perhaps the only man (albeit very young) apart from my father that I would allow access to my shoe cupboard.
Meet Gaurav, the man with an abiding attachment to fashion, sushi and intensely floral phraseology. He is also as abidingly attached to his wife, and works with her to create some truly exotic detail-work on couture garments. We speak about some very interesting aspects of his life, and mine, from his Calvins that separate him from his jeans to the best chocolate brownies, with or without nuts, available in the city. He gives me instant answers to fashion questions, while I am his (ahem) ‘media advisor’ who calls him names and writes about his work. We have never met – I know he is on a diet, he knows I have a wicked streak. He sent me thank-you flowers, I gave him a stern lecture, all on the phone. Today we speak online, occasionally via text messages and over email, with a familiarity and fondness that may, one day, translate into a real-life, real-time meeting, who knows when, where and why!
And then, there is someone who prefers being incognito. I know him, he knows me; he has held my hand through crises and listened to my giggles manifold over the telephone. We once talked often. Today, communication is only a mobile link, limited to texting and no more. In our long history, we have met, spoken and even hugged, on one memorable occasion, when I told him he had a lot to learn about hugging. Has he taken extra lessons in that aspect of relationships? Who knows, as he always says!
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Death, so be not proud
I lost my mother a few months ago to illness still undefined. To me, it was as if she was still alive, lying there as the pundit chanted incomprehensible prayers that echoed in the cool morning air at the crematorium. I hated every moment of what was being done, to her, to my father, to me, to us as a family that we were no longer. But Papa, bless the wise gentleman that he is, had a take on the situation that, even today, blankets me in a certain eerie calm when I get brave enough to pull the horrors of those rituals out of the little box that locks them into my mind. He said, very truly, “She isn’t there any more”, so how can she feel or know what is going on?
Death is something that cannot be reversed, cannot be stopped after that critical turning point is reached. It happened just yesterday to Pramod Mahajan, and it will happen again to everyone who lives. And once it does, is what is done to that which remains of the individual really important? There is no longer the person within the body - the one who laughed, talked, cried and shared life and living with a special group of friends, of family, of professional contacts. It is only a mass of cells, of tissues, left behind for doctors to examine, loved ones to wash and dress and the fire to burn or nature to consume.
Watch CSI on television or read the novels of Patricia Cornwell or Kathy Reichs. These tell you in unforgiving detail, all graphically described, how a body denatures after death, how the process of decomposition gradually fulfils the universal destiny of “dust to dust”. You read and watch the way in which a bullet tears through skin, muscle, blood vessels and destroys what was once a living being. And you ‘see’, in various astonishingly gory TV shows, how disease invades and then kills what is a breathing, laughing, healthy human body.
There is no pride after death. You have people who have never known you washing your naked body, cutting into it, sewing it up again. You have to lie there as hordes walk past, displaying a grief and reverence they don’t really feel or understand. And you have fire eating through the soft feet, the slim waist and the beautiful face that once gave you and all those who saw you so much pleasure. But then, as my wise and wonderful father said, you are no longer there to be proud…
Death is something that cannot be reversed, cannot be stopped after that critical turning point is reached. It happened just yesterday to Pramod Mahajan, and it will happen again to everyone who lives. And once it does, is what is done to that which remains of the individual really important? There is no longer the person within the body - the one who laughed, talked, cried and shared life and living with a special group of friends, of family, of professional contacts. It is only a mass of cells, of tissues, left behind for doctors to examine, loved ones to wash and dress and the fire to burn or nature to consume.
Watch CSI on television or read the novels of Patricia Cornwell or Kathy Reichs. These tell you in unforgiving detail, all graphically described, how a body denatures after death, how the process of decomposition gradually fulfils the universal destiny of “dust to dust”. You read and watch the way in which a bullet tears through skin, muscle, blood vessels and destroys what was once a living being. And you ‘see’, in various astonishingly gory TV shows, how disease invades and then kills what is a breathing, laughing, healthy human body.
There is no pride after death. You have people who have never known you washing your naked body, cutting into it, sewing it up again. You have to lie there as hordes walk past, displaying a grief and reverence they don’t really feel or understand. And you have fire eating through the soft feet, the slim waist and the beautiful face that once gave you and all those who saw you so much pleasure. But then, as my wise and wonderful father said, you are no longer there to be proud…
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Food for some thought
I was talking to someone on the train this morning about food. She has been giving me invaluable advice - which, as with all invaluable advice, is never followed for God knows what reasons - about shopping for assorted foods, cooking/seasoning/marinating meat, using the pressure cooker, and more. Today the conversation segued into street food, that stuff variously described as 'manna from heaven' or 'deadly germ-laden crap', depending on who was doing the describing. I missed a lot, she insisted, by not working my gustatory way through the delights of edibles available on the streets on this glorious city. And, to make it even worse, I didn't know what I was missing.
Did I not? In the uncountable years that I have lived and eaten my way through various parts of the country and the world, I have followed the family's golden rule fairly diligently. No rasta food, please, my mother mandated many years ago. And, being a thinking, well-behaved, obedient child even as long ago as when I was a child, I followed the order without too much argument. So I would watch my friends clamour around the chanawala outside our school precinct, licking salty-spicy fingers as they munched on warm, crispy chana jor garam laced with extra lemon juice and onions. In Maryland, USA, my junior high school classmates would run to the ice cream truck and exchange teenage gossip and lipstick-tips over a mint-chocolate-chip bar. In college back home in Bombay (as it was then), ragda pattice and bhelpuri jostled for pole position with masala dosa and sev-batata-puri sold just outside the gate. But all that was forbidden and, frankly, not wanted. I screwed up my fastidious little nose at the cloudy water used to wash the plates, the lack of napkins and the overall state of hygiene of the master chef who produced these delicacies.
Perhaps the only two times I did indulge my yearning for food not eaten in a restaurant was once, in Geneva, when I succumbed to the piping hot lure of fresh-baked chestnuts at a street stall near the school tram-stop and another time, in New York, when the siren call of a fresh hot pretzel slathered with yellow mustard was too loud to resist. And, yes, there was the once when my mother and I ate crusty hot baguettes filled with cheese and sausage from a cart in the middle of the main square in a little town in France...
Earlier this week I was watching chef Anthony Bourdain wander through China, eating all sorts of very strange food. He did it all in restaurants, some not more than the proverbial hole in a wall, and enjoyed almost every bite - the ducks' feet, the pigs' stomach, the live bugs, the eye of newt and tongue of frog...well, maybe I stretch the point rather there, but you know what I mean. Madhur Jaffrey cooked her way across the world, eating fresh caught tiger prawns on the seafront in Kerala; Keith Floyd took bites out of lethally spicy mutton in Goa and Kunal Vijaykar ate noodles with goodness knows what extra bits in Chinatown in Kolkata. Perhaps not the literal interpretation of street food, but close enough for...err...jazz.
Why am I picky, now that I don't need to follow parental diktats? Simple: I once watched a vendor at a tiny stall in Nariman Point, the business hub of Mumbai, make a sandwich. In between scratches of unmentionable parts of his anatomy, a couple of hearty blows of his clogged nose and a great deal of unsavoury spitting dangerously close to his store of chutney and butter, he put together a multi-layered creation of bread, vegetables, spreads, cheese and spices that, after grilling, smelled divine, looked delectable and evoked visions of every bacterium in the universe just waiting to dive into my waiting-to-be-filled stomach. Would I dare??
Did I not? In the uncountable years that I have lived and eaten my way through various parts of the country and the world, I have followed the family's golden rule fairly diligently. No rasta food, please, my mother mandated many years ago. And, being a thinking, well-behaved, obedient child even as long ago as when I was a child, I followed the order without too much argument. So I would watch my friends clamour around the chanawala outside our school precinct, licking salty-spicy fingers as they munched on warm, crispy chana jor garam laced with extra lemon juice and onions. In Maryland, USA, my junior high school classmates would run to the ice cream truck and exchange teenage gossip and lipstick-tips over a mint-chocolate-chip bar. In college back home in Bombay (as it was then), ragda pattice and bhelpuri jostled for pole position with masala dosa and sev-batata-puri sold just outside the gate. But all that was forbidden and, frankly, not wanted. I screwed up my fastidious little nose at the cloudy water used to wash the plates, the lack of napkins and the overall state of hygiene of the master chef who produced these delicacies.
Perhaps the only two times I did indulge my yearning for food not eaten in a restaurant was once, in Geneva, when I succumbed to the piping hot lure of fresh-baked chestnuts at a street stall near the school tram-stop and another time, in New York, when the siren call of a fresh hot pretzel slathered with yellow mustard was too loud to resist. And, yes, there was the once when my mother and I ate crusty hot baguettes filled with cheese and sausage from a cart in the middle of the main square in a little town in France...
Earlier this week I was watching chef Anthony Bourdain wander through China, eating all sorts of very strange food. He did it all in restaurants, some not more than the proverbial hole in a wall, and enjoyed almost every bite - the ducks' feet, the pigs' stomach, the live bugs, the eye of newt and tongue of frog...well, maybe I stretch the point rather there, but you know what I mean. Madhur Jaffrey cooked her way across the world, eating fresh caught tiger prawns on the seafront in Kerala; Keith Floyd took bites out of lethally spicy mutton in Goa and Kunal Vijaykar ate noodles with goodness knows what extra bits in Chinatown in Kolkata. Perhaps not the literal interpretation of street food, but close enough for...err...jazz.
Why am I picky, now that I don't need to follow parental diktats? Simple: I once watched a vendor at a tiny stall in Nariman Point, the business hub of Mumbai, make a sandwich. In between scratches of unmentionable parts of his anatomy, a couple of hearty blows of his clogged nose and a great deal of unsavoury spitting dangerously close to his store of chutney and butter, he put together a multi-layered creation of bread, vegetables, spreads, cheese and spices that, after grilling, smelled divine, looked delectable and evoked visions of every bacterium in the universe just waiting to dive into my waiting-to-be-filled stomach. Would I dare??
The Ash effect
Poor Aishwarya Rai. Not only does she have rather unfortunate taste in men, she also has to be camera-worthy at all times. This morning’s Times of India has caught her behind very tastefully, clad all in black and covered with a tied-on jacket. Baseball cap on, sunglasses covering a lot of her much-vaunted face, she looks startlingly out of place in small town Karnataka, leaving the shoot of Guru, co-starring her reportedly-recent-but-now-over love, Abhishek Bachchan. After a stint with a physical trainer, her figure is better than ever and her face…ah, can you improve on perfection?
She hasn’t always been so lucky with the public image, however. Remember her appearance at a film awards celebration, when she sported a bruised eye, carefully but not completely camouflaged by make-up and enormous grasshopper shades? And her rather battered mien some months later at a children’s home with a new beau, Vivek (that was before the man went numerological) Oberoi? After that, the battering has not been physical, and Ash has not been within reach for the relentless Indian media to examine every pore of her face and life’s effects on it. So while reports of her shooting (literally) star-ish progress through Indo-West films, fuelled in part by her charm and beauty, continue to waft in via the newswires, most of the coverage has been fairly neutral, innocuous for the most part.
Today the press is indulging in Ash-bashing once again. Mistress of Spices, her film with Paul Mayeda Berges, co-starring the dishier-than-Martin-Henderson Dylan McDermott, has fallen flat on its more-than-bland face, in the UK and India. Reviews are nasty, bad enough for the former Miss World to hide her face again, this time in shame and embarrassment at the universal responses to her acting…or lack of it. Is she that bad an actor? Perhaps not. If a director like Sanjay Leela Bhansali could make her almost thespian in films like Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam and Devdas, why couldn’t Mr Berges manage to do the same in his debut production? Or did the hype overtake the performances?
Maybe Ash is just not ready for the big time. She did it with her looks, nabbing crowns and modelling campaigns with fabulous eclat. She seemed to be following her own example with cinema, too. Her face may have been her fortune. But can she act?
She hasn’t always been so lucky with the public image, however. Remember her appearance at a film awards celebration, when she sported a bruised eye, carefully but not completely camouflaged by make-up and enormous grasshopper shades? And her rather battered mien some months later at a children’s home with a new beau, Vivek (that was before the man went numerological) Oberoi? After that, the battering has not been physical, and Ash has not been within reach for the relentless Indian media to examine every pore of her face and life’s effects on it. So while reports of her shooting (literally) star-ish progress through Indo-West films, fuelled in part by her charm and beauty, continue to waft in via the newswires, most of the coverage has been fairly neutral, innocuous for the most part.
Today the press is indulging in Ash-bashing once again. Mistress of Spices, her film with Paul Mayeda Berges, co-starring the dishier-than-Martin-Henderson Dylan McDermott, has fallen flat on its more-than-bland face, in the UK and India. Reviews are nasty, bad enough for the former Miss World to hide her face again, this time in shame and embarrassment at the universal responses to her acting…or lack of it. Is she that bad an actor? Perhaps not. If a director like Sanjay Leela Bhansali could make her almost thespian in films like Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam and Devdas, why couldn’t Mr Berges manage to do the same in his debut production? Or did the hype overtake the performances?
Maybe Ash is just not ready for the big time. She did it with her looks, nabbing crowns and modelling campaigns with fabulous eclat. She seemed to be following her own example with cinema, too. Her face may have been her fortune. But can she act?
The darling bugs of May
The last time May 1 was more than an ordinary day for me was many years ago. We were leaving – or trying to leave – the gorgeous, ancient, politically complex city of Istanbul, en route to Geneva, where we planned to live for a while. The normally 25 minute drive to the airport took about two-and-a-half hours, with me starting to giggle with sheer incomprehension, Mama saying frantic volumes of prayers to assorted gods and Papa getting more and more edgy by the stop – and there were many stops. At almost every intersection, a steely-eyed, stern-faced phalanx of armed and uniformed guards circled our car as the most stern-faced and steely-eyed of them all, gloriously glinting with medals, checked our passports. Yes, we were leaving the city, my father assured them. And, yes, we had indeed enjoyed our visit to Istanbul, we all nodded enthusiastically. As we made slow progress towards the outskirts of town, we started to relax, in spite of the tanks, the barbed wire, the machine guns and the – believe it or no – anti-aircraft batteries in the square outside the beautifully lacy Dolmabahce Palace. There was trouble expected, our driver told us, and Mama’s prayers took on a new fervency. I had the typically ghoulish desire to stay and see what happened.
But Geneva expected us…in a kind of futuristic way, maybe tomorrow or the day after, but not May 1. We found the apartment that had been rented for us, but no grocery stores were open. Somewhere, somehow, we managed to scrounge up a meal of tinned peas, bread and butter, ham and milk, Mama muttering all the while about bad planning, inefficient governments and inconsiderate families who expected to eat. Labour Day, as it was called in Europe, was a total holiday, the clerk at the only store open told us in fractured English, so nothing, but nothing, would be open or working. You must stay home and watch TV or go on a picnic, she said, wagging her head at the idea of anyone trying to start life on May 1. No working, no shopping, no nothing, she insisted, go home.
It always amazes me how a day called ‘Labour Day’ is one where little labour is done. Saraswati puja day, later in the year, is another strange one – Saraswati is the goddess of learning; on ‘her’ day, you collect all your instruments and books and worship them. It would make more sense, methinks, to actually use them instead, thus worshipping the goddess in the way she would most appreciate. No? Someone explain that one to me!
For us, more locally in the wonderful city of Mumbai, May 1 is Maharashtra Day. It means that offices – except for newspapers, one presumes, who need to report n the various ‘celebrations’ – are closed, people stay home, there are parades, demonstrations, flag hoistings…whatever crumbles the government’s cookies. Closer to my own home, there will be a parade and a march past at the main circle – what that will do to the already chaotic traffic there, I shudder to even start imagining. Everyone will mill happily around, the netas will arrive late, work their way through populist but perfunctory speeches and then everyone will go home to watch the cricket or be otherwise gainfully occupied. Happy M-Day, folks!
There are those who will not have such a happy day. Suryanarayana’s family, for one, caught like hunted deer in the glare of the media’s unforgivingly relentless flashlights. And then there is Sabrina Lall, Jessica’s sister, who has to cope with death and its anniversaries all at once. Kavya Vishwanathan, who in spite of all the brickbats being flung at her, still deserves bouquets for her astonishingly good writing of a less-than-average book. Who knows what more May 1 will bring – ‘ordinary’ doesn’t start to describe it.
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