As the year ends

It always seems silly to me to make such a big thing of the last night of the year...or the first morning of the next one. Yes, I did my rounds of New Year parties when I was younger and less blase, but never saw the point of drinking oneself silly, accepting physical affection from complete strangers and generally making a total ass of oneself, just to show that a year has ended, another begun and one was there to see it all happen. But each to their own, I agree, and so I smile sweetly when required to, laugh, talk, dance and hug when needed and keep the fervent desire to be at home in my own bed and fast asleep at the unearthly hour locked firmly in my own head.

This year, the papers - and presumably the other media - are full of how people feel terrible about celebrating after what happened in Mumbai last month. As far as us Mumbaikars are concerned, I can see full well why, since we are the ones who felt a deep sense of violation when those ten men came into our city and created mayhem. We will almost all of us have lost someone in the attacks, directly, so many times removed or as familiar strangers. And we are all still, collectively as citizens of this wild, weird and wonderful city, angry and outraged and incredibly hurt that this should have been done to us so deliberately, cruelly, evilly. Even as we go on with our lives, we are conscious of that small voice of conscience inside us that wonders whether so many people who lost loved ones are in any condition to enjoy themselves celebrating the sliding of an old year into a new one.

But there is the other school of thought, the one that says any form of joy, of laughter, of anything but tears, will help in the recovery process. For those who mourn, a touch of merrymaking will not come amiss, as a harbinger of better times, perhaps. That does not mean a wild party into the wee hours of another morning, but a quiet get-together of those who matter, meeting to wish, to hope, to maybe even pray that the new year will be a good, happy, healthy and safe one.

That is my wish for everyone I know and don't know: health, happiness and the knowledge that someone, somewhere is watching over you, keeping you safe.

Anniversary to forget

Today is exactly a month since the Mumbai terror attacks, as they are being called. On the 26th of November this year, ten men armed with grenades, guns and, reportedly, explosives, landed on the shores of our city and went about randomly killing people at the Victoria Terminus (yes, we like the old name) train hub, at Cama Hospital, full of newborns and recently delivered mummies, at the Taj Mahal hotel, about which more than enough has been said and written, and the Trident-Oberoi, which people spoke of with as much respect and far less emotion. There were killings on the street, on the high seas and goodness knows where else. And for now, India and our neighbour, Pakistan, are busy slugging it out in a silly game of tit for tat that no one will win but citizens of both nations stand to lose out in.

Who did it, why and how is all old hat now. So much has been written and said and agonized and analysed about the horrific three days of killing. Whether anyone will ever take responsibility and how long the games between the two countries will continue remains to be seen. But in the mess, the people directly affected, be they families of the dead or those who experienced the mayhem in person, on television or as bystanders cannot do anything but recover and recoup. They will survive, yes, as individuals and as inhabitants of this wonderful city, with a little help from everyone who wants to give – not just money and materials, but an arm to lean on, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to talk into, maybe just a friend to depend on when you need one. All the guff about the spirit of Mumbai and getting on with life is just drivel, often written by journalists and celebrities who should know better. The people who should teach lessons on how to go on with life are those who are doing just that, never mind that they have been traumatized by some kind of loss.

And the most common wish for the new year, just around the corner, is a simple one: joy and peace to us and everyone else. Mine has a kink – a wish that no one has to celebrate anniversaries like this one, ever again.

Christmas cheering

It’s been a long time since I shopped for Christmas decorations – somehow, ‘snow’ and everything associated with it that is so strongly linked with the season of Yule logs, mistletoe and Santa Claus seems a trifle incongruous in a city where the ethos tends to run on the lines of Ganpati Bappa Moriya, Bollywood and bhaji-pau. But the stores are all gung-ho to make sure that Christmas ranks up there with the much-reviled Valentine’s Day, Friendship Day and New Year’s Eve and more, all fairly alien concepts to the traditional Indian. Ever since I was a wee bairn I have been fascinated by the woolly white cotton drifts in display windows and was even taken to see Santa in a local department store – the only one the city had then – where I reportedly added to general family honour by taking one look at him and bursting into high-pitched wails of infant distress. Life abroad soon got me accustomed to Saint Nicholas, real snow (the cold fluffy deceptively light stuff), fireplaces with genuine wood fires, stockings hung up, decorated trees with piles of presents under it, sleigh rides and carol singing followed by lots of hot chocolate and strangely giggly grown-ups.

And then I found a different Christmas, one celebrated with equal fervour in my own home country. Stores started ‘Christmas Sale!’ events long before December began, Christmas cakes and puddings studded shelves in Monginis, Venus, Sassanian and other bakeries across town, while those that knew where to find the best lined up at the Taj Patisserie to order a treat – an order famously once forgotten, in my case, but made up for with familiar and endearing Taj-style grace and speed. We make ours at home, loaded with candied peel, spices and the depth and seduction of good brandy.

A couple of days ago, while grocery shopping, I found a huge selection of Christmas goodies at the supermarket near our house. There were the cakes, cookies, puddings and preserved fruit so familiar in shops in the UK or the USA, but also an array of decorations that enchanted as their variety and quantity stunned. There were rows and rows of vari-coloured tinsel, glittering and shimmering under the fluorescent lighting. There were trees – in vibrant (and rather unlikely) green, silver, gold and, hidden behind the towering giants, a small, shy red sapling. I saw strings of lights, from the tiny bulbs to the huge orbs so perfect for a large tree in a large house of a large family. And there were stockings and sleighs, reindeer and snowmen. Piles of rolls of brilliant gift wrap stacked one enormous shelf – most of it was the shiny plasticky stuff, but there were the less slick, more ethnic gift bags in handmade paper with gold printed paisleys, florals and abstracts that could look like a Christmas icon, if you squinted a little.

And then there were the Santas. Available at every traffic light and hawked by urchins who probably never knew the pleasures of that ageless moment when the fat man in a red suit slid down the chimney, they smiled fatly through fuzzy white beards, some seated in plastic sleighs pulled by plastic reindeer, some standing around holding loaded sacks and some grinning cheerily past red cheeks through a horde of clamouring children…no, that was at the store I went to yesterday, where Santa yelled Ho-ho-ho at me and everyone else who walked past and pulled out gaily wrapped presents from his overloaded bag. And everyone grinned back at the fat man who was the spirit of Christmas. For, you see, ’tis the season to be jolly!

Deck the halls…

With boughs of folly! Fa la la la la la la la la.

And folly it is indeed. Consider how Christmas is celebrated, on a very general level, not factoring in the special and idiosyncratic customs each family, each community and each country will have. There is snow – of the white cottonwool kind or the real thing; there is Santa – Saint Nicholas, Baba or whoever he may be wherever in the world; there is good food and drink – from turkey and ham to kulkuls and bebinca; there is singing and dancing, loving and giving (and taking), and a full stop to violence, especially in that holiest place of all for the meaning of Christmas: the Middle East, Jerusalem in particular.

And now consider what is going on in our little niche in the whole wide world. There is the usual infighting in politics, with a poor man lynched, battered, dead, just because he did not believe in a certain form of graft. Never mind that Mayawati promised to give the man’s family money. She should have seen to it that he was alive and well, able to work hard and make the money for his future, without any danger to him just because he had principles. There is the eternal battle between reason and madness, with our neighbours just across the border coming up with all sorts of stalls to prove that what happened in Mumbai a month ago was nothing to do with them or their country. They go one step forward, two steps back on whatever statements they make and believe that no one is keeping track, or that it will not matter – working on the seeming ethos that the last said is the only truth. Now they are waving that deadly flag of possible nuclear weapons aimed with lethal purpose at us in India, which we have hastily stated that we thought of some time ago. And the most recent play in the game is that an Indian reportedly was responsible for a bomb blast in a city on the other side of the border. A game of one-upmanship, just because they will not accept facts for what they are and we will not give up blaming them for almost anything that happens to us.

There is more going on here than you would expect. People do not “feel like” celebrating because of the terror attacks. For some reason, the collective conscience says no to any merry making, at least in full public view. What happens behind closed doors is not for the gossip columns to report on. There are still parties and happy events and joyous celebration but this time, after going through gratuitous or actual hell, even the die-hard social set is subdued. A good thing? Who knows. It would, of course, make better sense if they used some of the accumulated outrage, anger and grief to actively do something for those who suffered and lost – maybe help in hospitals, maybe give to the needy more than just money, maybe cooperate with the authorities when safety checks are imposed. I still hear of and see people protesting, objecting to their bags and their cars being checked in public places, be it a shopping mall or a hotel or a cinema or a museum.

So what is the spirit of Christmas? For us, now, from now on perhaps, something that makes life a little better, a little safer, a little happier for those who have little reason to find joy in the season to be jolly. Maybe just a thought would do the trick – from thoughts a whole perennial could grow, who knows, a tree of ideas and initiatives that, next Christmas, could be large and effective and beautiful enough to decorate and show off to the world. Merry Christmas and have a peaceful, happy, healthy and wonder-filled year!

’Tis the season of Christmas

We were at the mall this morning shopping for sundry groceries, wandering about with no real aim but much intention. And I couldn’t help notice that every store was gaily decorated for Christmas. Which is a good thing as far as I am concerned, since I am one of those who likes Christmas and fully approves of all that is celebratory of the season. But there was a certain aspect of the decorations that struck me as frankly hilarious: snow. There were tufts and drifts of white-cottonwool snow all over the place, with a couple of nicely rounded Santa Clauses, elves, reindeer – including Rudolph with his nose so red – snowmen, gingerbread houses, plum puddings and so much more that signifies and symbolizes the season of loving and giving, hugs, hot chocolate and handmade goodies.

Why was I in giggles? Very simply, because of all that ‘snow’. Anyone who has lived in this part of the world knows that however much they may wish for it, snow in the city is an impossibility. Especially these days, when the weather seems to be getting warmer when it should actually be getting cooler. The only way you will see snow in Mumbai is if someone sets up a special facility to produce it, or in the freezer compartment of the old refrigerators – the new ones all profess to be ‘frost free’. So to the average child, the one who has not been to Shimla or Manali or elsewhere in the country or the world where it does get cold enough to snow, the associations are automatic but unrealistic. Perhaps the learning experience started in school or even at home watching television or lisping through baby books, when images of Santa in his sleigh, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and going into the woods to find the perfect Christmas tree were fed into young heads. I learned that way, I know, and then I re-ran the whole experience in reality when we lived in Europe, from the snow to sleighs, Santa and spiced cake.

But celebration is just what this city needs. After the ten terrorists who barged into Mumbai and wreaked bloody havoc, killing so many, destroying so much and making all of us feel strangely vulnerable, we need to find peace on earth and goodwill to all men, snow, Santa and sleighrides notwithstanding. If ’tis the season to be jolly, let’s get with it and be jolly! Fa la la la la la la la la….

Weight and watch

For some time now I have been considering various forms of exercise. Since I was working full time and there-for (that is deliberate) not able or inclined to do any more than my full day already entailed, it remained a thought, occasionally brought out of its little box at the back of my head and examined for feasibility and involvement and then tucked neatly back to hibernate or moulder, rather like a well-ripened cheese. In between, when the thought clamoured for a touch of reality, it would be quelled by my falling up the stairs and damaging various appendages or by deadlines at work getting extended beyond tolerance or even blood sugar levels fluctuating more than it was normal for them to do.

And then, I took the step that everyone wondered about, but most envied: I quit my job. Which gave me plenty of time to get some kind of exercise routine in gear, get myself back into shape and give my psyche and self-image a rather belated but appreciated overhaul. But like everything else that comes to me, the revelation took time, it had to be carefully examined and analysed, the finances and the timings paid great attention to and then, one day, when my favourite floppy cotton trousers bust a zip (it was a long-suffering plastic zipper that had inherent malfunctions) when I was tugging them on, I made up my mind. The next time I broke a fastening it could be because of my horizons being too much wider than I would be comfortable with, rather than structural faults. It was time to find a gym.

The research had already been done a couple of years ago. Any of the salon services that promised healthy and happy weight loss and general toning up were of no use to me. Experience had proved in years gone by that bootcamp was the only way to travel for this babe and I would choose that route. Not to be mean and nasty to myself, but to make sure that the end that I had in mind would be achieved, I would get back into a regimen that was good for me in the long term and I could not possibly be distracted by invitations of a beauty care system or counselling to change my life and its style of being lived. What I needed was exercise – to tone up those flabby bits that seemed more proliferated than I remembered, to improve my woefully sagging stamina and to fit back into the jeans I got a few years ago and were the only ones that fit that well. So I headed for the gym with the brand name and reputation and even as I hesitated about going in, saw enough large people there for me to feel brave enough to expose my own adipose.

In I went, up I signed and on I laboured. After a brief trial session yesterday, I started in earnest this morning. A ten minute walk and I was there, on time, ready to be put through the wringer. The trainer beamed happily at me, more so after he found that I was willing and able to follow instructions. I even agreed, albeit with a small grumble, to be made to do crunches, the only form of exercise I actively hate. I felt really proud of myself as I hefted weights that seemed almost as heavy though not as furry or wiggly as Small Cat, one in each hand, until I saw a very large gentleman picking up rings of weights that looked almost as big as I am – one in each hand! If anything could cut me down to size, it was that, but I smiled, promised myself that I would foray upwards and onwards and continued, never mind that my trainer seemed to be determined to yank my shoulders out of their sockets and my boredom threshold off the count. In the routines I rediscovered why I never persevered with gym schedules: they entailed repetitions that could put anyone’s mind to sleep and the motivation to repeat into the realm of sheer dullness.

Any which way, I will go on with it, for my reasons and more. I have the time, I am assured I have the money and I know I have the will. If it makes me healthier and, in the long term, happier, why not!

Recovery period

Mumbai seems to be gradually limping back to normal. After a traumatic time during and just after the terror attacks, as they are now known, the city and its collective psyche pulled itself together, albeit with some pain, and restarted the business of living. The newspapers reported how people had become more cautious and, as proven by one shocking test conducted by the railyway police, less careful about their own security and that of their environment. But in Mumbai, life has to go on - after all, it is the commercial capital of this country and business will always continue, no matter what is done to try and stop it. We all need to live; to live, we need to make money; to make money, we have to work, never mind tragedy, disaster or grief.

And so it has been. The places that were attacked - CST, the Taj, Trident-Oberoi, Cama Hospital - have beefed up security. It takes quite a lot of determination to get into the hotels, though the station is still easy enough to access. It has to be, the traffic flow is so much greater there. The hotels opened yesterday, with multi-faith prayers and huge crowds proving their devotion to the high-life of the city. The Trident is a businesslike and very modern hotel. Even as Mumbaikars were shocked at the attack, they do not get as emotional as they have been with the Taj, which is in its very walls a symbol of the City of Gold. And so the who's who flocked to the old intitution, to be greeted by Ratan Tata, the man who watched his heritage burning and vowed to bring it back to its former glory in record time. There are all sorts of stories of amazing courage and dedication that came out of the carnage and it makes me, for one, very proud to be part of the ethos that makes up this wonderful city.

That apart, what I wonder about is whether we have learned anything from what happened starting November 26. We are angry this time, more than ever before, because to each one of us, the terrorists were attacking us, personally, individually, their cruelty deliberate and direct. We are also more determined this time, perhaps because we saw these people shooting at us, and want to put an end to this deadly potential. But at some level we have been wearing blinkers. We do know now that the terrorists were of Pakistani origin; but we assumed that from the moment the first shot was fired. And we, almost all of us, even with good sense prevailing, want them and their country to be annihilated. How does that make us any different from them?

The ceremonies at the two hotels and their equally ceremonial openings felt good, even if you were only watching it on television. It showed that we as Mumbaikars are determined not to be cowed, even if we face death. And it shows that in the process of rebuilding, in the manner of being brave, in the way we all face a crisis, we are not seen as rich or poor or privileged or not. We are all just people, fighting to survive and battling forces that want to destroy us and our city and our identity. And for that, we should all stand up and say, with almost religious fervour, Jai Hind.

Art in the time of downturn

(It's not only everyday life that is affected by the global recession. The luxury market, too, is gasping somewhat. This was published yesterday...)

The recession creeping inexorably across the globe has finally arrived in India, according to the money pundits. So even as things seem to be going well for the average consumer, with drops in the prices of various essentials, one group of people is wondering which way the arrow will point, even as they track its ups and downs. The contemporary art market, a distinctly luxury sector, has been turbulent over the past few years and now shows a downward trend that reflects the world economy in general. And Indian art has not been immune. There have been published reports about works by Indian artists not selling at international auctions, or going for prices far below their lower estimates.

According to Zara Porter-Hill, Director and Head of Indian and Southeast Asian Art at Sotheby's in London, “The markets which have experienced the biggest appreciation have been those which are experiencing price adjustments. It has been clear that works of great quality in good condition and soberly estimated, tend to perform well. The Indian market is evolving, growing and adjusting – a process which is very normal.”

The art market is not just about demand and supply, but far more complex, explains Neville Tuli, Founder Chairman of Osian's, talking about assets in general and art in particular: “The asset of high quality Indian art is more and more being seen as a credible one, with many advantages over others.” On the matter of sale prices, he says, “Auctions are planned six months earlier and expectations were different then; thus estimates were higher and so some negativity can result, but the fall in top quality art is much less than any other significant asset (a fall of 15 to 20 per cent for high quality art compared to 60 to 75 per cent for equities and real estate).” Just over a year ago, there was a drop in prices of Indian art, explained as a ‘correction’. “When the correction occurred over one year ago, prices had dipped by over 35 per cent, but volumes had significantly jumped up. A correction is not the same as a global financial meltdown. Currently the Indian economy is in a better state than Europe and US and so is our art market.”

Art buyer-collector Ashwini Kakkar also finds that “Assets are down about 50 to 60 per cent in art. But the prices for art have not dropped that low for sellers, only about 20 per cent. In this, galleries act as a kind of buffer and maximize their own gains; as a result, the customer is not getting the kind of value for money that they should, given the downturn. Even in distress sales, the prices have not fallen too much. But there is big drama happening in the art world; volumes have collapsed and everyone is adopting a wait and watch policy.”

Some artists who have done phenomenally well locally and overseas believe that the downturn could be healthy. Jitish Kallat, for one, says that “I frankly do not think that it is a bad thing to have a drop in activity – until recently work with very little conceptual rigour was being valued the same as works of an artist who would have been at the forefront of the field for many years. Insignificant work was seen on the same level as good work, because speculative money was propping it up – a hugely dangerous trend. All that would stop, and to me that would be a celebration in the long term, since the meaningless numbers game would stop and core fundamentals would take the forefront.” But there is a downside, too. Kallat feels that while galleries that do serious, sustained work will be “bang on top of the art world, with less money coming in, some would be much less adventurous. By this process, some volume would be lost, but flab will leave the art world and it will become fat free!"

Maithili Parekh, Deputy Director, Sothebys, also sees the correction as being “healthy”. According to her, “values had been galloping unrealistically. Mediocre art is now falling by the wayside, but strong works by top artists continue to fetch interest and price.” Critic-curator-writer Ranjit Hoskote knows that “Corrections, when they set in, are not pleasant things. Given the current financial scenario, it seems probable that the prices of art will de-escalate in the next 15 to 18 months. If the upward zoom was dramatic, then the downward ebb is likely to be equally drastic. But the concerted actions of many interlocking interests in the artist-dealer-gallery system will probably slow down or cushion the full, brutal impact of the correction.”

So, in this cost-cutting, fat-trimming stage in the market for Indian art, is it a good time to buy? For any art lover, always, believe many, including Porter-Hill, who says that “There are certainly wonderful opportunities to be had at the moment.” To gauge the future of the Indian art market, Porter-Hill’s eye is firmly fixed on the sales in New York in March. According to Hoskote, “This is a good time to buy art if you happen to be that rare creature, a genuine lover of art - this may be the time to identify artists whose prices have never galloped and whose work continues to be compelling; or genres that were below the radar and now look promising, such as drawing or graphics.”

And Parekh agrees, “The art market has gone from favouring the seller to favouring the buyer. Given this, I believe it is an excellent opportunity to buy, especially art of stellar quality, with good provenance and condition.” However, she is clear that “The foremost premise for buying art should be passion, because a collector must love and live with what he's bought.” Even as the world tries to get back on even economic keel, the art market is trying to understand which direction will take it towards sustained and improved growth. As Parekh says, “The next year will be crucial to the Indian art world – how we choose to weed out the debris (that is, mediocre art), nurture good artists and art and sustain a passion in collecting will determine health and sustainability.”

Kakkar also feels that “while quality works are doing better than names, with a better chance of selling, the sustainability of artists’ works at the overly high levels they were is now being questioned, even as the older artists are holding their own – people like FN Souza, MF Husain, SH Raza and Gaitonde.”

The bubble has been pricked, Hoskote notes. “The obsessive race for auction records and instant validation of art will surely yield to the gradual and sensible accumulation of value. With the feeding frenzy and the maniacal pursuit of prices over, artists will have less demand to distract them from their art, and gallerists can redraft course and focus on their core concerns. Likewise, collectors have the space to assess what they really want from their collections. Speculators will perhaps be encouraged to look elsewhere, which would be a relief.”

Tuli sees the “role of the arts in India's socio-eco-political framework gaining further momentum. The role of art funds will come to dominate the investment platforms, and they will evolve into mutual fund structures.” Most importantly, “Art will always have many advantages over the traditional asset once its nature is better understood.”

Shoe shine!

Once upon a time many years ago I met a physiotherapist whose idea of comfort was to say, with a certain special rhythm and intonation in his soothing voice, “No pain, no gain!” It is only now, so wonderfully distant from his incredibly annoying stockphrase, that I can completely identify with it. I am a woman and know the power of towering femininity: I wear high heels.

Finding the perfect pair of shoes can be a lifetime’s work and most women revel in that quest. Which in a way explains why so many of them acquire so many pairs of shoes – after all, attaining moksha for the feet takes some hard work and a great deal of trial and error. And it almost always happens that what looks great in the magazines, wonderful on the shelf and absolutely delicious in reality, is not all joy when you actually slide your feet into it and stand up. Even the most elite of all designer sandals can result in a Choo-bite, as it were, while footwear that felt divine at first step could turn into coals of fire and dragon’s teeth by the third.

Something of the kind happened to me recently – I wore the most beautiful diamante-studded three-inch-high stiletto-heeled pale gold sandals to a diamond merchant’s wedding reception and while they were divine in look, feel and sensibility, by the time I had walked to the dias where I had to murmur sweet nothings to the bridal couple, treading over rough ground and uneven carpet, I felt like I had stuck my feet into that exquisitely damaging torture implement called the Foot Press, the version with the sharp metal spikes inside it.

Salvatore Ferragamo, Jimmy Choo, Tod’s, Nine West, Aldo…they are all fairly easily available in India, for a price that will sometimes cause a major case of heartburn in the wallet, but ecstasy for the feminine soul. For a more desi experience, there is always Joy Shoes at the now-rather disturbed Taj Mahal Hotel, as well as various avatars from stores like Metro, Regal, Catwalk, Scandal and others too numerous to remember the names of. You can also get footwear made to order if you smile nicely at the chappie who runs the store – I have a very nice gentleman called Javed, who runs a store called Legs in Matunga, who makes all sorts of designs for me, from doing a ‘same-to-same’ copy of a battered old American pair to painstakingly following my garbled instructions of “I want this heel with that upper, but in a different colour and with a new kind of fastening”. He is happy at the challenge, I am happy with my exclusively-clad feet and the aforementioned feet are happy with the fit and wrap of their new garb. I am sure a number of other stores will do the same. And there is a Chinese shoemaker in King’s Circle that I have been just dying to explore….

There are always rules to follow in this existence and to buy shoes you need to be a little more careful than if you are just buying some basmati rice or tomatoes. Always make sure that you fit footwear on fit feet, if you know what I mean – avoid buying shoes or sandals if you have unnatural swellings as from sprains, breaks, PMS, a long night of dancing or excess salt consumption. Make sure you try on shoes in the evening, because your feet will swell a little over the day and to be a trifle loose in the morning is healthier and less painful than being woefully tight by the time you get home from work. Unless you have ethical considerations, use leather or synthetic simulates, since plastic can cause allergic reactions or rashes due to dampness or bites due to the ungiving material – Jellies are fabulously fashionable, but they can hurt more than you need. Trust me, I know.

Whatever you buy, however you use them, wherever you wear them, shoes and sandals are not just about covering, protecting or just decorating your feet. They are about acquiring what satisfies your soul, deep down and dependably. So enjoy the shoe-shopping experience and remember – it’s sole food!

The city now gently weeps

That frenzy with which we expressed our grief, horror and fear has now settled under a very thin veneer of calm. The attack on Mumbai seemed to be an attack on each one of us, a personal, violent, intensely destructive act that we all took to heart. After all, it was our city, the places we all knew and loved, and, under it all, that much-vaunted spirit that was uniquely ours. It was a pain that only we, as Mumbaikars, could understand, because it was at us that the whole thing was directed. And we talked about it, in incoherent, disjointed sentences, in cliché-ridden editorials, in weeping anguish facing a television camera, in living rooms and over the phone, to people at home, at work, on trains, on the street. Finally, we all gathered outside the site that made the most impact: the Taj Mahal Hotel. And we all sang, spoke, chanted and cried. A kind of catharsis, an outpouring of anguish, a solemn declaration that we are all seeking a common goal.

And a sense of solidarity makes us calmer. No less angry, no less grieved, no less hurt. But sure somehow that together we can make it happen. As one, as a people, as Indians, we will see that tomorrow, maybe the day after, perhaps next year, we will feel sure that we can walk outside our homes and not be shot or hit or blasted out of existence by a terrorist, an extremist, someone with a weapon and a determination to destroy.

Now we wait and watch, hoping that things will have changed in our lives as Indians, that we can look forward to the situation getting better for all us of, whether we exist as Mumbaikars or as citizens of this wonderful country. Even as we hope, we all realize full well that not much will change – it never does. But the words and preliminary actions are, to us, who are hurting today and will be so for years to come, indicative of some level of resolve.

There is a wonderful cynicism to those who live here. Hard-boiled and determined as we are to keep on going no matter what, we collectively realise that any action – or even just a call for it – from our government will almost certainly be limited to speeches made, papers signed and the call for implementation of new ways to make us and our nation a safer, better place to be in. Even then, we keep hoping, praying, sometimes even believing that the change will happen. It has to happen, we all say, especially this time, because it was different. The attacks were personal, with real faces behind the guns and grenades and potential bombs. There were living people who stared down the sights at the victims they shot so coldly, and we could all see it happen. It was no longer some faceless villain who set a bomb to go off and kill scores of people. We saw the men who killed, we saw them killing, and those images, we hope, are what will make the difference this time.

Of course, there is another aspect to it. Most of the time, in previous attacks on our stability, it has been “them” who died. On trains, on buses, in taxis, at the passport office or the Stock Exchange building, on the tracks or on the road, it never happened to “us”. This time, it was in places that we knew and spent time in – the main train station, two multi-star hotels, targeting not just the ordinary person, but the elite, those who we always believed to be safe, protected. And that is perhaps most frightening of all. Some invisible bastion has been stormed and there is nothing that can be said that will reassure us that we, people who live in the city and live ordinary lives as Everyman, will not be targeted the next time a group of sick fanatics choose to carry death in their backpacks.

And even as we stop ranting for the television news, as we get back to living our normal, routine lives, as we cover the pain of loss with everyday laughter, we know we need to fight our own battles, that no government, no leader, no politician will do for us. In that realization, we have started to play the game that we so desperately need to win. A game that we will win.

Oh, fudge!

This morning I got down to doing a project that has been waiting for too long. Some months ago, in a fit of enthusiasm, I bought some condensed milk and some truly wonderful cocoa powder, aiming to make fudge. If so-and-so (you could use various names of people I know and love there) can make it, so can I, I presumed. But, with lots of ice cream to cool us off through a very long and very hot summer (which is still in progress, strangely), and lots more mithai flooding into the house through the festive season, the supplies lay unused but not unacknowledged in the store cupboard. And then work took over, with a couple of assignments breathing so heavily down my conscience that I was leery of being distracted by culinary projects that needed time, concentration and a degree of angst to be dealt with.

And then, suddenly, almost anti-climactically, things leveled off and I found a small lull in life. So I dug out the can of condensed milk, stood the bag of cocoa tenderly next to it and meditated upon both for a short while. As the battle between insecurity and surety began waging inside my head, I rushed into the study to check my array of recipe books…to no avail. Nobody had the proportions I needed to know about. So I text messaged two friends, one who makes wonderful chocolate for us and one, a professional chef who almost never fails me, even if I ask him the strangest questions at odd times of the day. Neither answered. So I muttered a little to myself, glowered at Small Cat asleep under the sofa and went in search of Father, only to find him in the bath and so not available for that moment. I wandered in and out of the kitchen for a while, staring at the condensed milk and cocoa, hoping somehow that they would provide me with the answers I wanted. Nope. Food does not speak, except to the senses, and those were not telling me anything about how much of what I needed to use and how.

Finally, after more exercise walking than I am used to, I decided to take a shot at it, no matter how it turned out. So I brought out my trusty cast iron non stick pan, my favourite wooden ladle and all the other paraphernalia that I thought I would need, buttered the plate I would pour the fudge mixture on to, licked my fingers free of the butter, dusted the plate and much of the kitchen with cocoa powder, decanted the condensed milk into the pan, cut my finger while licking the empty can clean of that last delicious gooey dribble and hopped about my kitchen with the ladle in one hand, blood dripping down the other, trying to get myself a Band Aid without leaving the room looking like a war scene from a bad soap opera. Finally, all was managed, with a little help from a now clean and fragrant father, and I was ready to begin.

I had, with a certain touch of fatalism, measured in the cocoa and was stirring the whole sticky mess with the gas flame on low when my friend the chef called. I tucked the mobile under my ear, stirring madly as he gave me instructions that came crackling down a not too clear line. Finally, with a wrist that was starting to feel it, I stopped that rotating motion, poured the dark brown goo into the plate and scraped the last bits clean with another ladle. By then, the mixture was alarmingly sticky, more like toffee than fudge, but it smelled divine and seemed to taste pretty good, judging by the smile on Father’s face as he did the first official sampling. As of now, it has not set yet, even though it is in the fridge, but setting may not be a priority considering the rate at which it is sliding off the plate.

Haute to be hot

(Some more of the same....)

First you saw a leg – from a stiletto-sheathed foot up a glitter-circled ankle along a shapely calf to a slim thigh, all swathed in gossamer-fine fishnet or lightly-tinted silk. Then you saw her slim waist, the voluptuous bosom and cascading curls. Then, her face: the lips glistening with brilliant colour, the flushed cheekbones sloping up to cat eyes heavily lined with smoky glitter. Meet the vamp. The woman who ruled audiences who flocked to see her sexy shimmy in masala productions from Bollywood. The companion who was rarely a lady and, if she once had been, she was now fallen a long way down from her pedestal. Today she is a rare bird, one who has lost her plumage and the attractions of her exposed cleavage. The archetypal Hindi movie vamp has lost her place in the Bollywood pantheon.

But all is not lost. The bad girls of Indian cinema have not vanished forever. They have just coalesced their identities with the rather better behaved ones, who show shades of grey in very normal, everyday, well-accepted characterizations. The only real difference: once upon a glorious time they had few redeeming features and almost always died before the end of the film; today, they repent and are thus redeemed.

Many years ago, when villains were ugly, mean and always met a final and nasty end, they were accompanied by a scantily-clad woman who didn’t have to shoot or stab or otherwise damage the good guys physically, but had access to far more powerful weapons – their sex appeal, showcased with costumes that exposed and emphasized even as it branded her a ‘bad girl’. She drank, she smoked, she danced in bars, she slept with the villain and, if needed, with anyone else as well. She rarely wore saris, preferring low cut, high-slit, glittery-sequinned gowns. And she was called Rosy, or Lily or, in one memorable performance, Shabnam.

The vamp perhaps made her debut in Hindi cinema as the female villain, the woman who made the heroine’s life miserable and did her best to win over the hero by foul means rather than fair. She soon became a dancing girl, with ‘item number’ to her credit. In fact, often, the dance number was thrown willy-nilly into a film to showcase the shape and sex appeal of the actress who was willing to shed her clothes and her ambitions rather than for any actual need that the plot may have had. The first memorable actress of this genre was probably Cuckoo, who followed in the slinky footsteps of Kuldeep Kaur and Azoori, who were not as well known. In 1945 and Hindi cinema was inhibited and a lot more chauvinistic than it is now. Women did not star in films and certainly did now show off their shoulders and legs (shocking then). Cuckoo was first seen in movies like Pehli Nazar and Mujrim, then in almost every ‘talkie’ made.

And then came Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi in 1958. It starred Kishore Kumar and Madhubala and was perhaps best known for the song Ek ladki bheegi bhaagi si. And then there was a mujra, Hum tumhare hai zara, with two dancers. One was Cuckoo, who had been in the business for 13 years. The other was somewhat younger, beautiful, graceful and fated to become the biggest name in vamp history: Helen. She burst into solo fame with Mera naam hai chin chin choo a few months later, in Howrah Bridge, beckoning viewers with her almond eyes from behind a Chinese fan. And even as she seduced her way into the hero’s life and the audience’s hearts, she became more than just an item girl. She had her own story line and was often a misunderstood woman with a heart of gold under all the glitz and vampish glamour. She sang and danced and under all that tinsel gaiety was a heart of gold that was slowly breaking – her little brother needed surgery or her evil stepmother has driven her out of the house to find her own way in the world. And the hero always knew…at least at the end, when she was dying.

Around the same time that Helen was making her memorable mark came Bindu claiming in Kati Patang that Mera naam hai Shabnam, closely followed by luminaries like Aroona Irani (now seen mostly in the television world) and Padma Khanna (Johny Mera Naam), with women like Silk Smitha and Nylon Nalini ruling the south and making occasional forays into Bollywood. In the early 1950s Nadira sang Mud mud ke na dekh and, some years later, Ajit did his villainous thing with Mona Darling (Bindu in Zanjeer), the pucca gangster’s moll who simpered and swung her hips and vanished before the denouement.

And then there were the truly bad ones, more wicked aunts and stepmothers and heads of families rather than dancing girls. These nasties were played by the likes of Lalita Pawar, Leela Mishra, Manorama and Shashikala, and sharpened their canines on unsuspecting and bholi-bhali heroines who never seemed to have the courage to stand up to them and fight, not until the last few scenes when their husbands, their children or their gods were injured and needy. Even as some of these women characters survive today, in rather more sophisticated avatars, wearing red lipstick and Manish Malhotra-style chiffons, their graceful and hip-swinging kin do not.

Perhaps one of the last potential vamps to be seen in an original film, not a remake, was Navneet Nishan in Hum Hain Rahi Pyaar Ke, where she played the wannabe lady-love of the hero, Aamir Khan. She didn’t success, but ended up retreating from the scene with egg on her face, literally.
Doom came for the filmi vamps with a new generation of heroine willing to take off as many clothes and shake as shapely a bosom, all while playing a central role as the main lead – or the one that the hero walks into the sunset with, at least. She came in the sensuous form of actors like Zeenat Aman and Parveen Babi, doing their thing to the peppy music of Bappi Lahiri and company. They wore short skirts and low necked blouses, smoked and drank, and even kissed – or almost, since the trees and flowers hid the actual deed – their leading men. They sang in nightclubs (Jawani jaaneman is still heard in its remix version in discotheques today), drove their own cars and made no excuses for being ‘liberated’ and ‘hip’, westernized and not willing to be a squeaky sidekick to a macho and often manically slapstick hero, be it Amitabh Bachchan or Vinod Khanna. Real trouble followed. The vamp gradually faded into a minor appearance as a secretary or a scheming acquaintance or even a policewoman or detective in disguise. Police officer Madhuri Dixit in Khalnayak wiggled her way through Choli ke peeche, while Juhi Chawla managed to hide her real self behind the minimal cover of a miniskirt in Bol Radha Bol as Tony’s ‘girl’. They danced, they sang, they managed to fool the protagonist and get their work done, all just before they were exposed for whatever they really were.

But soon even that slim pretence of vampishness disappeared. The heroine took over the role of sexy siren with panache, seducing the hero, the villain, the audience and the box office. Sridevi danced in the rain with an on-off Anil Kapoor in a very wet sari in Mr India, while Karisma Kapoor cavorted on a string cot with Govinda in Raja Babu. And stars started making special appearances in films they otherwise had no role in, just to make an impact, titillate the viewers and, presumably, raise their own ratings. These became known as ‘item songs’, like Sushmita Sen in Nayak shook her booty singing Shakalaka baby, Shilpa Shetty decided to loot UP and Bihar in Shool and Aishwarya Rai did her skin thing in Ishq kameena in Shakti, stealing a lot of heroine Karisma Kapoor’s thunder in the process. Nobody thought any less of the caliber of the actor when she did these; in fact, the item number generally pulled in audiences that would otherwise have avoided going to see the films.

And more than just the songs and the sexy stints, the stars often took over the vampish characters as well. Once upon a time, Sushmita Sen would have been the bad lady for having taken Salman Khan away from his virtuous wife in Biwi No 1, but in the film she was the misunderstood girlfriend who found a nice man for herself once the hero decided to prefer his wife. Priyanka Chopra in Aitraaz did come to a nasty end, but had great fun on the way, seducing her lover, aborting his child, marrying a millionaire, ruling over the former lover at work, trying to seduce him once more and finding opposition in the shape of male virtue backed by wifely strength this time. Kareena Kapoor wore a gold frock and sang Yeh mera dil to a deceptive Shah Rukh Khan, but that was a remake of an old film called Don and doesn’t really count as an instance of vampishness and anyway she was a police connection. Complicated? That’s a vamp’s life!

Today even the word has lost its chutzpah. The ‘vamp’ is now the modern woman and comes in the most delightful shape as a main lead in Bollywood productions. Consider Mallika Sherawat, who reinvented herself after a non-successful chapter as Reema Lamba. She found her niche – and a happy one for her, too – as a seductive siren in films like Khwahish and Murder, and now continues to slink her way through movies like Pyaar Ke Side Effects and Ugly Aur Pagli, wearing tiny skirts, flaunting her curves and confident in her sexy image, enough for people to consider her a decent actor. Heroines from the aforementioned Priyanka Chopra to the much-vaunted Aishwarya Rai Bachchan, Bipasha Basu, Rani Mukherjee, Kareena Kapoor, Katrina Kaif and others have all the trappings of vamp-dom, from the revealing clothes to the pout, the out-there cleavage and the hip swing, the songs, the in-your-face characterizations and the attentions of every non-familial male in the cast. But they are not vamps.

Today, no one really is.





The hero drives his new BMW to a rendezvous with his beloved. As he stops outside the hotel, tossing his car keys to the valet, he does not see two men staring at him from a Jeep parked beyond the lush planters near the entrance. “Let Mona deal with him now,” says one to the other, watching the hero run up the steps and through the big glass doors. Inside the nightclub, ‘Mona’ shimmies around the dance floor in a sliver of gold sequins, her darkly shadowed eyes alert for the hero to come in. As he enters, Mona starts singing, her body moving sexily to the beat.

The first item number was perhaps germane to the masala Hindi movie which included a gratuitous song and dance sequence in its formulaic script. It added something that pushed the story forward in some way. But, as it became a big selling point with the audiences, it became a few minutes of pure entertainment, with little, if any, connection to the actual script. Khallas, from Company, had a scantily-clad Isha Koppikkar gyrating in a mob of sweaty men for no particular reason. Rakhi Sawant earned her movie stripes not from a decent role in Main Hoon Na, but for an ‘item number’, as it soon became known, in Joru Ka Ghulam, and for Mohabbat hai mirchi in Chura Liya Hai Tumne. Others like Sambhavna Seth, Nandini Jumani and Negar Khan followed the same road.

Gradually, the ‘item girl’ acquired a veneer of respectability, many stars performing and winning accolades and fans. From Madhuri Dixit’s Ek do teen act in Tezaab to Urmila Matondkar in Chamma chamma (China Gate) and Shilpa Shetty (Maine Aai UP Bihar Lootne from Shool), to more recent versions with Kareena Kapoor’s It’s rockin’ (Yeh Kya Love Story Hai) and now the oh-so-classy Katrina Kaif in Blue, the item number is haute stuff.

Mumbai meri jaan

It's finally over. For three days, we have been more or less planted in front of the television set, watching with shock, horror and anger as a group of terrorists created bloody mayhem in our city. Perhaps the most traumatic of all was the fact that they made a living hell of what is perhaps Mumbai's most loved and respected building: the Taj Mahal Hotel. Seeing flames coming out of its windows, watching the beautiful domes on fire, looking at the scorched walls and flaming drapes was in itself a nightmare. As for those who went through the hell of being inside, at the Taj, at the VT station (we Mumbaikars like the old name) and at the Oberoi-Trident...one can only imagine how things were for them. And one can do nothing except weep. For a people, for a building, for a city that has been violated, outraged, assaulted, in the worst way possible.

We will overcome. We will be the Mumbai we all know, love and are. Soon. Until then, we are angry, we are determined and we will make sure that we stay safe.

Star sense

(Sometimes the unexpected is more fun than doing what everyone knows you do. I wrote this for a newly launched film magazine. And quite enjoyed the process!)

She could have been voted Least Likely to Succeed, especially with the odds stacked against her. She was first noticed in India as a model, the face of a popular Indian cosmetic brand, but had the looks not often seen in Bollywood – pale skin, ‘foreign’ features, a well-rounded figure and a height that tended to dwarf the often shorter heroes reigning at the time. She also spoke severely accented Hindi, when she spoke it at all, was diplomatic to the point of being boring, she was all angles and jerky movements when it came to dancing filmi-ishtyle, and she had no godfather to cushion her against box-office disaster. And that came with her first film. Katrina Kaif’s Bollywood debut was made in Kaizad Gustad’s Boom, a film that not only crashed commercially and critically, but also had the potential to see that she never worked in Mumbai’s filmbiz again. She explains her debut with: “I was very young when I did the film and when you are young it is fairly easy to get swayed. I don't think there was a major disaster and I most definitely didn't have to fight my way back.”

Katrina showed that she was made of sterner stuff. She managed to pull herself out of the debacle of Boom – while Padma Lakshmi and Madhu Sapre more or less gave up – and found herself work as the highest paid debutant in the world of Telugu movies, with two films giving her a measure of success and basic training on how to be a star. She was determined to make it, since she believed that she could give herself and her family the stability and economic status she wanted. Today, with two homes in Mumbai and one in London, with a financial cushion that is the envy of many of her peers, Katrina is one of the highest paid heroines in Bollywood and can hold her own not only as a solo female lead, but also in the market as the USP of a film. And even as journalists work hard to colour her with scandal and controversy, she has been able to maintain the image of being hardworking, single-minded and politically correct almost to a fault. In fact, she produces boring sound bytes, no spice, no gossip value, no snipes at her colleagues, a possible complete washout for any magazine interview, except for her stupendous rise in the film world and her winsome charm as a young woman with looks, brains and a smile to match.

Katrina is a product of the union of Mohammad Kaif, a Kashmiri Muslim, and Suzanne, an Englishwoman. One of six sisters and with one brother, she has not had any contact with her father since she was very young and has no memory of him and no desire to talk about him either. Her mother, a former lawyer who speaks five languages, according to reports, now works with a charity in Madurai, and has taken her children with her wherever she travelled to – the Far East, Europe, America and South Africa. With this ever-changing base, Katrina became a hoarder, of memories, of toys, of everything she acquired. And she also acquired a strength of character that allowed her to be unflappable, unfazed by anything that she has experienced, be it the whimsical world of movies she now finds herself reigning in, or the intrusive questions of reporters who want to know more than there actually is to the public personality that is Katrina Kaif.

Along the way, she also learned how to choose the right projects to be associated with. Always remembered by the media as a girl from Boom, she was soon linked with Bollywood bad boy Salman Khan, still a very powerful albeit not-too-frequent presence in the filmi world. Discretion has always been Katrina’s strong point and with her personal life, a staunch silence is maintained. In fact, she has never admitted to the relationship, though Salman recently told his audience – in a television game show he hosted and in press interviews - that he plans to marry soon and Katrina will be the woman he weds. She herself is diplomatic about it, as always, saying that “These decisions are not in our hands. God has plans for each of us and I am sure he has a good one for me. All I know is that I am happy with where I am right now.” Trouble and gossip are something she steers carefully away from, not even commenting on the fracas between Salman and Shah Rukh Khan at her birthday party a few months ago.

Their first film together was Maine Pyaar Kyun Kiya?, with Sushmita Sen adding weight to a production that didn’t do especially well. More happened, including Subhash Ghai’s Yuvraaj. Salman is said to give her advice and provide her with valuable contacts and, before her success graph turned upwards, a big boost with various filmmakers who owed him. But Katrina denies that without referring to the actor in any way. “No. A lot of people gave advice, some of which I did follow judiciously. I cannot discount the people who have been around me giving me overall guidance.” She also insists that there has been no strategy , “except to do what your heart tells you to do”, in getting to the stage at which she is now in her career.

But there was a definite point at which that elusive spotlight suddenly focused on her. Katrina agrees that it came with “most definitely and undoubtedly, Namastey London”, her first film with Akshay Kumar. As the box office rang up profits, producers lined up to sign the couple on, to the point that there were rumours about a real-life romance between them, with Akshay’s wife Twinkle objecting strongly to his signing on more projects with the two of them together. Katrina dismisses the possibility of any such relationship and has said frankly that she agrees to do any movie starring Akshay without too much thought, since the actor seems to know almost instinctively which project to choose and, to make it even better, every choice is practically guaranteed to work much better than well.

To get where she is now, and as a strong contender for the top spot in the firmament of heroines, Katrina does not believe that she has faced any problems worth speaking of. She says, “To be honest, there weren't pitfalls or tribulations for me in my journey to this place I am now in. It was slow but steady and I think I have managed fairly well and have stood my ground all the way through.” Hard work is a huge part of the rise; the once-derided accent has gradually given way to fluency in Hindi and she has started dubbing for herself instead of needing a voice-double. Her initial awkwardness at the typically Bollywood jhatkas and matkas has been honed into sensuous grace with Kathak lessons and now Katrina is a standard star-act in any awards ceremony, with a number of ‘hit songs’ to her solo credit.

Somewhere along the way, whether bolstered by Salman or riding on the Akshay wave, Katrina has mastered the art of picking the right film. She did a cameo in Sarkar and was noticed. Her guest appearance on the popular television show Baa Bahoo aur Baby, though part of the promotional campaign for Singh is Kinng, shot the TRPs of the serial up, higher than ever. In spite of all that, in spite of the seemingly well-calculated career moves and strategies that any wannabe star would envy, Katrina avers that she has really planned nothing. Any ‘strategy’ that she has in choosing work is plain common sense. “When a particular film is offered to me, the biggest question I ask myself is if I would watch it myself. If the answer is a vehement yes, I do the film.”

That has certainly paid off and Katrina has learned to be a little more savvy about professional commitments. With a certain measure of economic stability giving her a new freedom, she has started working on what she is not sure of as far as sure-shot success goes, having some fun on the way. As she says, “Of course, I am today being a little less cautious and taking on films which interest me for other factors as well. For instance, Prakash Jha's Rajneeti is a genre I haven't really attempted in my short Bollywood career. But he is a director whose sensibilities I admire and that in itself was reason enough to give it a go-ahead.” Does anyone or anything influence the direction she takes? Katrina is, as always, non-committal and tactful. “I think the film industry itself is a strong enough influence. Whether you take it as a collective force, coming together to entertain the audience or as each individual who adds his/ her sweat and blood to make the collective force stronger... I don't think there is any bigger influence than that.”

With success often comes a crash of sorts. A number of sudden leaps up the Bollywood ladder have side-effects and fallouts, like weight gain, arrogance, a casual attitude and worse. But for Katrina, that need to be the ‘man’ of her family with total control over her own life has given her a drive that persists, even in the ephemeral world she inhabits today. There is more pressure than ever to maintain the position she has attained, but she manages to keep her sense of balance, her grace, her objectivity of choice of project, in spite of the hype and ever-present spotlight. Her perspective is simple: “There is pressure for sure and it is difficult to make the right choices all the time. You just make your choice, give it your 200 per cent and leave the rest in God's hands.”

After all, Katrina Kaif knows full well what has given her the power to be in the position she is in as part of the great Indian movie machine. Apart from talent and drive, “God's blessings, hard work and the ability to look at the larger picture.”

Diamond buys

(Well, it is not that I do not want to blog, but just that I am in dire danger of being run over by deadlines if I spend that long outside what I am writing that hour. It will, like all things, pass. Or so I hope. Meanwhile, this is the latest from the journalistic files....)

It’s soon going to be wedding season, Christmas, the new year, whatever, and perfect timing to look for that solitaire you want to give someone (maybe yourself?). The story goes that the first diamond engagement ring was given to Mary of Burgundy by her exalted suitor, Archduke Maximillian of Austria, in the late 15th century; this was a rough diamond elaborately set in gold. But the Indians knew all about diamonds long before that. Vedic texts call the stones heera, the gemstones of the planet Venus, representative of love and the good things in life. The ancient Romans believed that diamonds were pieces of stars that had fallen from heaven and have magical, mystical powers. And indeed the sparkly stones have a special power that those who have beheld it, held it, can well understand. Diamonds may have been called ‘a girl’s best friend’, but they cast their spell over anyone who appreciates beauty.

When I went out to look for a sparkler that I could take home with me, I found that things were rather more complicated. Buying a diamond in itself is easy enough today, with so many brands available both in stores and over the Internet. But buying a good diamond for the right price can be a bit of a problem – and the bigger the stone, the bigger the problem. Say you are looking for a one-carat solitaire. Since you will be spending a lot of money – and believe me, your budget could be rather shaken up, as mine was – you have to go about this with some intelligence. Of course, as anyone anywhere will advise you when you do your research, you must first of all consider the four Cs – colour, clarity, caratage and cut. And then, before you actually hand over the money and collect your jewel, there is that nebulous concept of intuition: Does the gem feel right? No one can point you in the right direction on that one. But it is important. Lots of stones called loud, clear and clarion to me. Unfortunately, they all got stuck in my checkbook before they reached my finger.

Diamonds are generally classified primarily by their colour. The most valuable, and most rare, are completely colourless, even to the trained and expert eye. As per the guidelines of the Gemmological Institute of America, which sets the standards, D is the clearest, while Z has a distinct colour. From E to I, no colour can be discerned by the layperson; J, K and L could be sold as ‘good’, but have a tint when looked right in the eye…er…‘face’, as it is known. Of course, there are the fancy stones that are brilliant yellow, bright green, vivid pink or even, in very rare instances, chameleon, which change colour (from yellow to green, for example) when exposed to light.

And the price can zig-zag madly up and down the scale. According to latest figures from Rapaport (which defines the numbers in the business), a one carat D clarity flawless stone will cost about Rs 6.75 lakhs. Mercifully, before I could do more than lech, I was told hastily that these D pieces were so rare that I could not get one without a fairly long waiting period. The same size of stone that is graded G, which seems colourless and perfect when set, will be priced at about Rs3.5 lakhs – more bling for your buck, in a manner of speaking. Of course, the better the air-conditioning in the store you buy from and the fancier the designer label on the staff uniforms, the higher the price of the gem, but that is a minor detail. While a family jeweler is perhaps the best person to buy from, especially since you can deal with the seller if something is off-kilter, it is always best to get a certificate of authenticity and quality when you are buying a stone of this size and expense.

I retreated, bloody but unbowed. I would get my diamond one day. Find it, buy it, use it and enjoy the feeling. I know that nothing else even comes close to the bliss of wearing a diamond that is perhaps not as big as the Ritz, but close enough for jazz as far as you are concerned!

The Diamond Registry in the USA has some valuable tips for diamond buying: Never buy a stone that you think is ‘cheap’ or that is on sale – there will be a reason for the discount that usually has to do with size or quality. Make sure that the certificate that you are issued is from a genuine ratings institution and can be verified by an independent assessor. Never buy a diamond just because you like it – unless of course you have the money to throw away and you buy diamonds like most people buy potatoes. And, since you will of course be politically conscientious and humanitarian, avoid ‘blood’ diamonds and those from regions that have major human rights violation problems. Why have that on your conscience? Most of all, never buy a diamond as a short-term investment. The stones do not depreciate in value and cannot be sold easily like shares or a house.


A diamond may be the ‘hardest thing on earth’ (it is not really!), but it still needs looking after, especially if you want it to be forever. The stones can chip, crack or even split if hit in the right direction, even if it is protected in a good setting. Don’t wear the solitaire when you are doing anything that could cause it to be scratched, if you are working with anything oily, so that dirt does not collect in the setting and blur the beauty of the stone. Avoid exposure of the diamond to chemicals, from chlorine and hairspray to acids and strong alkalis. Jewellers recommend that you could boil your solitaire in its setting in a weak solution of soap water to clean it, but taking it to the experts is a better option.

The small luxury of life

(I like luxury as much as the next person, but my definition of it is not fancy cars and houses and silks. I prefer the luxury of being able to enjoy being who I am. And am glad to see so many people I like and respect feeling the same way. This was published yesterday...)

On the 2008 Forbes List of Billionaires, 53 people featured are Indians. The prediction is that there will be more individuals in this country with that kind of spending power within the next ten years. To cater to the myriad tastes of this population, actual or potential, a host of luxury brands of everything from kitchen sinks to handmade shoes have been making their presence felt in the great Indian bazaar. And all this is being lapped up by more than the super-rich; the huge segment that is the salaried middle-class is wallowing (almost literally) in the freedom and luxury of being able to shop for what has been, for a very long time, just an advertisement in a glossy magazine, be it a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes, a Louis Vuitton handbag, a Zegna suit or a Versace frock. They have the money to buy, they want to buy and that hunger to buy is reportedly growing fast, at a rate of about 30 per cent every year. Retail consultancy group Technopak finds that approximately 1.8 million households in India now have an annual income of $100,000 or more and are willing to or actually do spend about $10,000 every year on purely luxury purchases.

Spending money on non-essentials is not new to the Indian ethos – from the Cartier baubles that the erstwhile maharajas acquired to the bushels-full of firecrackers burst by the average family to celebrate Diwali, we as a people like extravagance, spectacle, creating an impression. ‘Old money’ no longer frowns on ostentatious displays of wealth, perhaps because it is no longer unusual to show off with a latest-model Mercedes or a meal at a seven-star restaurant. The days of Gandhian simplicity are fading fast and self-denial or abstinence seems to be a thing of the past. The message in the bottle of bubbly has changed: If you can’t get no satisfaction, just go buy yourself some! Luxury is very easily available today and a lot more people can afford to find it, guilt-free and with the greatest pleasure.

But what is luxury today? If it all about owning a brand that everyone envies? If it about finding products that make life a little happier and far more comfortable? Or is it something intangible, on which a price tag cannot be attached? Sangita Kathiwada of Melange put it, "Luxury is a grandmother hand-crafting a phulkari shawl for her granddaughter from the day she is born." For her, personally, “The greatest luxury is wearing a 400-count khadi (Rs1,200 per metre) kurta pajama and lying on pure cotton sheets that are changed every day. It is about an experience that is unique, personal, joyous to all six senses. To me, luxury is about feeling, about so much comfort – Manolo Blahnik shoes are vanity, not luxury, not comfortable!”

According to Siddharth Grover of Sans Tache Art Gallery in Worli, “A real luxury to me is like having a new toy, something that I don't get too often. It also has a lot to do with what I can't afford easily and applies to both the tangible and the intangible. I would not treat something I can get off the shelf as a luxury; anything I get in ration is a luxury.” As someone who buys and sells art, which cannot really be classed as ‘essential’, he sees the “availability of luxuries growing and only getting better. I know from experience that definitely increases temptation and makes me want to indulge more…and I do. After all, I get what's available here from here and what's not, from where it is.” And is there ever a guilt factor involved in self-indulgence? Grover feels that “The guilt factor does set in at times, but the contentment I derive from indulging eventually takes over. I see no reason to do something and feel guilty later - it beats the whole purpose of the exercise!”

And there are many who understand luxury to be that special something that makes life richer, more interesting. Like young musician Taamara, whose definition of real luxury “would be a quiet and uniquely built house near a small lake, surrounded by hills. It's a perfect setting for a musician to create and enhance talent. I would like to be away from the filth and clutter of the cities, but with all the modern technology and facilities that a city provides in an isolated land that I choose.”

For Dr Vidya Vencatesan, Head of the Department of French at Elphinstone College, “Luxury is getting away from Mumbai to a quiet place where life is comfortable but not excessively so, to sing, read write, sleep, eat healthy and simply catch up with family. It is about things that you would say and do at leisure, not like items on the agenda at a board meeting.” Her kind of indulgence “has nothing to do with India opening up or closing down, it is about my life and lifestyle choices.”

And there is luxury that comes with a price so high that it cannot be put on a tag. Like for Shobhaa De, writer, designer, creative adventurer. “For me, the ultimate luxury in today's frenzied times is TIME itself! There is never enough of it..... I wish my day was like chewing gum and I could stretch it for 72 hours. Luxury is not an object - it is a way of life. To live with grace and beauty is luxury.” She is not, she says, “someone driven by the desire to possess something desperately. I rarely lust after unattainable goods; I used to lust after Hermes scarves, those large squares, till Raisa Husain gifted me one recently!”

A random survey would show that true luxury is not what comes easy, but what needs work, striving, effort. It tends to be almost unattainable, rare, and so more greatly prized. If you can buy it, it is practically a necessity and, as De says, “Necessities are hard to define; they are so relative. I love the good things in life, but only up to a point. I am happy to admire them on other people!”

End of days

Even as Barack Obama and his victory took over television last evening, I surfed for anything slightly different. And found the usual complement of soap operas, a couple of crime dramas and one very irritating society-party-report show with a very irritating anchor who puts on a strange and very irritating accent as she wanders from society party to society party wearing fashion just off the ramp and clutching a microphone that must smell from all that has been breathed into it.

That apart, I wandered into a show that I have watched maybe twice in my days as TV-watcher and avoided ever since because it not only made no sense, but was also a little to stodgy and sanctimonious for my taste. Which was obviously not everyone else's taste, since the soap has been going eight long years and the stodge and sanctimony garnering high viewership, too. Or so I believed. But apparently not. According to the host channel, it has lost its oomph and its get up and go has got up and gone, so it has been asked to stop. But the makers of the show are protesting and demanding - and hoping to get - a last minute reprieve. I am puzzled by this, since the show has to end today if it does, though the court hearing is tomorrow. So if the makers do not geta reprieve, they need to continue, and if they do not, they have to stop. So how do they manage to gear this episode? If it is ending, they need to come to some logical conclusion, so that all the 'I's are crossed and the 'T's are dotted, in a manner of speaking. If it is not ending, that process is not necessary. So what happens today? Except that whatever happens will make little sense to me, it would certainly be worth finding out how it all goes to bed tonight.

Soap operas defy all logic. In one that I watch occasionally, more to understand what a friend and long-time fan is talking about when she tells me excitedly about it, some lady is pretending to be someone else when she is actually the wife of the male lead and has had plastic surgery so that she looks like someone else. Somewhere along the way, life has got very confused and no one is quite sure who is doing what to whom and why. The how seems to be clear. In another, which I stopped at to see the truly strange fashions that the women wear, one lady's husband seems to be deathly ill and they are headed to an ashram to seek some sort of solution. Why not a new doctor for a second opinion, or even more experts, since there does not seem to be any shortage of money or will to live, I cannot help wondering. And in yet another, a badly dressed and worse bejewelled woman has just stuck a knife into her husband, while the villain looks on aghast, perhaps amazed at how his own villainy has been outdone.

But today's episode has me completely befogged. More since I cannot decide whether to watch it or not. But not knowing is worse than knowing too much or even too little, isn't it? Or is it?

Winning is all!

So Barack Obama won the US presidential election. It was sort-of-expected. Ever since his speech at the Denver Convention Center, I have been on his side, like so many other people all over the world. And it is not only about him being 'different', not pure white, multicultural, so many qualities that make him such a contrast to George W Bush. It is because he is young, dynamic, ambitious and with a genuine (or seemingly so) desire to make thing happen, to change, as his campaign kept stressing. At some level, I wonder, how does it matter to us, to me, as the average urban Indian who is more interested in getting on with my life and making ends meet happily enough to have some indulgences in the middle. But, since I pride myself on being globally aware and involved, I guess it does indeed matter.

What would be my wish list for the new President of the United States? Start with international relations, on a very broad scale. Get out of other people's wars. Stop fighting in Iraq. Make sure that in finding Osama bin Laden and stopping the way on terror all over the world, more young people do not have to die. Get all those traumatised soldiers out of the Middle East, out of Congo, out of Afghanistan, out of death's way. And, even though your own interests may be at stake, let various countries whose pie you have your fingers in, fight their own battles. Maybe that is a naive point of view, but it makes sense if you consider the number of young people who are dying in wars they do not understand and have no real involvement in, except that they have signed up to defend their country and its interests, no matter where they have to go and how, if ever, they come back.

Yes, there is also the money thing. The global economy is in a bit of a mess, mainly because of the way that American and the Americans have been trying to handle their lives. Take loans, be unable to repay them and go on with that vicious cycle until the world economy as a whole is dangerously close to folding up on itself. Make people all over the world who have no idea what is happening except that they cannot afford the lives they have led all this while and that they will need to do something, anything, everything, to save themselves and their loved ones from having to beg on the streets for pennies that can barely be spent by those they are begging from.

There is much that Obama will have to deal with urgently, never mind the new decor of his new home or the menu that could include dal and okra. If he manages to at least come up with some kind of plan to handle his current plateful of problems, it will be far more than those who went before him (and still do, as Bush reaches the end of his tenure) have been able to do. Never mind solving problems, Obama will need to fully understand them first. And I, like so many others like me here in India, wish him all the very best, with a little extra Indian magic added for more luck, in doing just that. Welcome to the real and very stressful world of heading the world's most powerful democracy, Barack Obama. I certainly do not envy your new job!

The great cheese bazaar

When I was very young and abysmally ignorant, I would eat a strange concoction made with cheese powder mixed with milk or water, spread thickly on a piece of packaged white bread, dotted with butter and grilled speckled brown. It may sound disgusting to my rather better educated sensibilities today, but it was, in essence, a perfect cheese toast, more or less deconstructed from its sophisticated cousin, if you are willing to be polite. Soon after, I learned what cheese is actually about, and developed a passion for it that shows in my refrigerator, my shopping lists and my jeans size. Stints in Europe and the United States made names like Brie, Camembert, Ricotta, Stilton, Colby and Maytag Blue familiar additions to my vocabulary. And the hunt for the Indian equivalents began when we came back home. With a cheese-making tradition that went back so many hundreds of years, we must have progressed, was the logic. Unfortunately, for the most part, we have stayed mired in a holding pond of the curdy white stuff called paneer. Do an Internet search for ‘Indian cheese’ or ‘cheese made in India’ and the first zillion entries are paneer, with its myriad spellings.

But there has always been a slice of hope in this seemingly bleak scenario where mera Bharat is far from mahaan. About the best cooking cheese that was locally made and available was the red-rind 250-gram segments sold by Aarey dairy at their stalls around the city. Sadly, these packets soon faded out of existence, and from just walking down the road to get them to driving across from Malabar Hill where we lived then to the stall on Nariman Point, to finally never seeing the stuff again, it was a journey into a vast and cheeseless wasteland. A few years down that road, with memories of ‘Kalimpong cheese’ dancing in our deprived heads, I demanded that a friend posted with the army in Bhutan source and acquire the stuff for us. She did, with many complaints that it was smelly – which it was – too strong – ditto – and extremely sharp – halleluyah! Along the way, we also discovered a wonderfully hard and sharp Himalayan yak cheese, perfect for a sauce to smother your cauliflower with or to bake as a kind of raclette; but a reunion with the milk-food some years later from Dorabjee’s in Pune made it clear that the mind can glorify aspects of childhood.

So when I found I could explore the world of Indian-made cheeses to write this, I was pleased. In the intervening years between local produce and a rather better fed budget that could stretch to imports that did not deprive me of shoes or diamonds, I had almost forgotten to look at my own country. One day, at a small but well-stocked store in a tony part of Delhi, that awareness was awakened again. I stood at the counter at the Steak House in Jor Bagh and tasted my way through a panoply of cheese, a lot of it produced within our own borders. Kuldip Shenker, who runs the store, introduced me to Cheddar and a wonderful Gouda from Sikkim, as well as a small but significant range of products from Himachal and Delhi. I became a regular customer there for cheese, buying and bringing back to Mumbai kilos of the stuff, but all happily made in India. That is when I decided that if I could find it, I would buy local rather than foreign.

The problem is to find it in Mumbai. A quick sampler of well known cheese counters in the city showed me that imported is still an haute favourite. At the Indigo Delicatessen, for instance, a wonderfully sharp Double Gloucester rubs wax with a delicate Emmental from Germany, but Indian-made cheese “does not sell”, I was told. They did once have a cheese roll, but not too many takers. I got the same story at Hypercity, Vashi, which does have a decent cheese counter, where the salesperson told me that the cumin-spotted Gouda was from Sikkim and they also had a cheese roll from that state, though it was not in stock at that moment. At Food Bazaar in Phoenix Mills, I sometimes see small packets of cheeses from Kodai, rather pricey and perhaps not attracting too many buyers. Amul had a halfway decent Emmental, but it is close on impossible to find it these days and the website order I placed four years ago has not yet arrived – maybe I should send a reminder? ABC Farms in Pune makes a fabulous selection that is stashed in the boot of my car within minutes of my arrival there, from a tangy sharp Cheddar to a mellow smoked Scamorza to a fragrant Gouda to small tubs of delicious fresh feta. A phone call to Dairy Craft’s office in Mumbai proved hopeless, though it did show me just what most of India uses cheese for “You want it for pizza, no, madam?” was the response when I asked what cheese is available.

But the great cheese bazaar is not a distant dream any more. Various dairy companies, from the unresponsive Amul to the interestingly responsive Dairy Craft to the Delhi-based Flanders Dairy Products to Modern Dairies to the familiar ABC Farms, La Ferme Cheese in Auroville (which delivers by courier for special orders only) and so many others have started making delicious cheeses, from the red-ball Edam to the sweeter Emmental to the multi-purpose Mozarella and so many more. I am waiting for the day when I can wander down to the corner store and indulge my passion for cheese, with joy in my heart and Jana Gana Mana floating in my mind.

Wah, Taj!

Drive on!

We visited a friend on Sunday to eat delicious Bengali food and got a small bonus - a ride in her brand new car. Sliding into the back seat with her, while her husband and Father sat in front, was an experience, because she was beaming proudly all over her pretty face, even as she sniffed deeply and remarked on the 'new car' smell. She would keep her old small car to drive to work every day, she thought, since the traffic was so bad and even if there was a small ding or dent, she would not be heartbroken...well, not too much anyway. We went on a short spin around the complex where she lived and admired every aspect of her new vehicle. What was more fun was watching the way she was enjoying it. It was the same colour as ours, which was about six months older and had lost its 'new car' fragrance some time ago, and gleamed with the same smug just-out-of-the-shop shine as ours had done. I am still awed when I see ours approaching or even just parked in its spot in the compound of the apartment block where we live, wondering whether this was really something we owned and used. So I know exactly how my friend feels and rejoice with her in that feeling.

For all that and many more reasons, I half expected her to have driven in to work today in her new car. After all, it was a bank holiday for the city and the generally hideous traffic was greatly reduced. In fact, the ride from home to where I was going took me under an hour, where it would normally need two, much of that time spent standing in a jam at a traffic light or at a bottleneck created by construction activity in the middle of a busy main road. We zipped in to where I needed to go, zipped out again, stopping to do some errands, and were home before a decently-timed lunch could be served up. On the way, instead of fretting at the delay or chafing at the time it was taking to get past a red light, I listened to music, chatted with a friend over the phone and hummed my favourite song as it played on the radio. And we even managed to stop by the office - which is no longer my office, but where my friend still works - and say hi and a belated Happy Diwali to her and her team.

Did you bring your new car, I demanded of my friend and her driver. Both said no, even though the day would be very easy driving, since the vehicle had been driven out of town over the festival holidays and was very dirty. The driver beamed as wide and happily as my friend did, both enjoying the wonder of the new car and its bells, whistles, beeps and clicks. We did that once not so long ago. And will do that for not just ourselves, but for my friend, sharing her joy and adding to it with our own.

Sound and fury

It is Diwali week and yesterday was D-day for most people in the area where we live. Which would normally mean that the sound of crackers popping and blasting would drown everything that dared to make any noise anywhere. The best fun some seem to have is to tie strings of very loud 'bombs' in a long line all the way down the street or around the apartment blocks. When they go off, the sounds echo along the concrete buildings, deafening all those who live within and many who are outside. Usually, for days before and after the actual festival, the animals are in dreadful shape, barking, mewing, chirping and lowing their agony and fear. And every year the media advises readers how to make life easier for their pets and strays.

Surprisingly, this year, perhaps because of the downslide in the global and thus Indian economy, things have been rather subdued. I did remark about a week ago that the frenzy had not yet begun and it was only yesterday that there was any real fireworks set off. Most of them seemed to be light effects, not so much the noise that we have come to expect. Which was a huge blessing - I could actually hear the late news, while smiling with some degree of pleasure at the fountains of sparks and multi-colour that sprang into the air. The dog who lived downstairs was rather distressed, barking and whining for hours, but mercifully not as long as we are all used to hearing. Today, the air is not as heavy and gritty as it has been in years past, while the roads are far less littered with the debris of the cracker-filled night.

Small Cat had a bad evening, poor baby. The first year she came to us, she was a couple of months old when Diwali arrived. She watched the fireworks with big eyes, cuddled against me or Father and flinching only slightly when something loud hurt her little ears. Last year, she was rather more scared, running under the bed when it got too noisy. This year, she managed fairly well, her eyes going rounder and her ears set back and up when the decibel count reached discomfort levels. Last evening, she had small panic attacks every now and then but, by the time I closed up the house for bed time, she was sprawled in her usual elegance on the living room floor, taking cat naps and demanding that we get lively and play with her. Today, she is wary, but as bouncy and alert as always, wanting to chase and be chased, eating her favourite biscuits and occasionally sleeping deeply in her rather battered but beloved plastic bag.

Even as I complain about the noise and the pollution, I wonder how people with more pets manage. We pamper Small Cat, aware of every twitch of every whisker, concerned about how she is reacting, whether she is afraid, soothing her and coaxing her to be her usual mad and funny self. Leave her alone, behave as if nothing is different from her normal routine and she will be fine, we know, and that is what we did, our antennae at full alert for potential problems. And, hopefully, by next Diwali, Small Cat will have become the brave little warrior princess we know she is.

Light up your life!

With Diwali just getting its nose out the door (ours was yesterday, by the way) and firecrackers sending the air around us dingy with smoke and particles and smell, we start to consider life before. Before crackers, before noise, before smoke, before mounds of litter clogging the streets. That was the time that Diwali, Deepavali or however you choose to spell it was about bringing the light into your home - the light being symbolic of Lakshmi, the Goddess of Prosperity, of the triumph of good over evil, of enlightenment and new beginnings. For some like me, the festival is still more about all that than about showing off with new clothes, lots of money blown up in smoke (literally) and more calories than is good for even the soul. I like the gentle twinkle of tiny flames lit in diyas, of the flicker of an oil lamp set in a window, of the sway and shadow of kandeels, even the disco-style bulbs of string-lights decorating an entire building. There is light and colour and a sense of joy and brightness that makes it work for me.

Long ago, when I was a child, my parents and I would light diyas all over the house. There would be some in every room, from the lobby to the loo, and they would all sparkle and glimmer until I had fallen asleep. There was the ritual of having an early oil bath, wearing new clothes, gathering around to do a small puja and then sitting down to eat a sumptuous meal, after which we lay down and pretended to be anacondas digesting an especially large lunch (which we were doing, of course). Friends would drop by and calls would come in, or else we would go out to visit people we had known for ages, and there would be lots of admiring of clothes, eating of sweets and exchanging of news and views and good old gossip. And once we went home, there were more diyas, rangoli, mithai and then, finally, a glass of lemonade or buttermilk and a long sleep through the night.

Most of all, there were the lights. This year, while the ritual and the eating were pared down even further than is usual for our small family, we did the early oil bath, new clothes and sweets bit without fail. But this year we put out small clay diyas, lit with a wick floating in sweet oil. Two were placed outside the apartment, and one in each room, though not in the bathrooms, and a pretty array of Ikea lights sat on the main windowsill in the living room - no breeze could blow them out and the arrangement was delicate enough to be elegant rather than showy or vulgar. I use these every year and never fail to thank, in my head, the friend who gave them to me. While they cannot take the place of oil lamps or even candles, the fan of soft lights adds a wonderful sense of exuberance to the house and to the occasion.

Festive and light

Today is Deepavali, the festival of lights. No one I know seems to know which day it is to be celebrated, and it was only after much debate that we decided that it was last night and this morning. We Tambrams have our own schedules and are rather fanatic about keeping to them. When Mum was alive, there was more religion and ritual involved. Now that she is gone and I have been annointed keeper of the traditional flame, more or less, I adapt and evolve ritual to suit my requirements and abilities - isn't that how life changes in any family? But there are concepts that have been part of my growing up that I cannot change. Like new clothes and sweets. Like waking up before dawn cracks to do the Ganga snaanam, the holy bath. Like putting out lamps all over the house to show good luck and auspiciousness the way in.

Ganga snaanam is the ritual bathing that has to be done before the sun rises, because that is when the waters of the holy river flow through every pipe in the land, whichever land it may be. now if you think about it, that defies all logic, but so does most of this kind of tradition. It works for me because it is something I was always told and then teased about, since most of the time none of us were even remotely awake before the sun shone into our windows. But for the last many years, I have always managed to be awake if not completely aware or remotely intelligent at that time before dawn had any chance of cracking. So I have wandered into my parents' room, gently patting their heads with wet fingers before sneaking back to bed. The rite is done, my traditional sensibilities appeased, my beauty sleep complete.

This year, I had my alarm clock raring to go at 3 am in the morning. It squeaked plaintively at me from the carpet near my bed and demanded more than its fair share of attention. And since Small Cat always gets her way, I got up, cuddled the warm, purring bundle and put her on the kitchen window where she wanted to be. I stuck my hand under the kitchen tap, patted the little furball on the head with damp fingers, tiptoed into Father's room and touched his head with a drop of water and quietly tiptoed out again to go back to sleep. But alarm clocks do not always do what is expected of them. At 5:30 am the alarm went again, from the same place, and the process had to be repeated. Down to the wet fingers and everyone getting rather damp in the noggin. Of course, we are awake now and will continue to be until later tonight, but the alarm is fast asleep in a warm little ball in a large plastic bag in the middle of the living room carpet. Her Deepavali started early and will not be too far different from any other day that she has - sleep-eat-play is how she spends her time.

I am not sure Deepavali has much meaning for Small Cat, except that she gets to explore lots of new things - lamps in every room, vivid rangoli in front of the neighbour's door, pretty Ikea lights along the window sill and the smell of new clothes that have, so far, escaped her little pink nose and the fur that she sheds to mark them as hers. Ours, really, but since we belong to her, so do our clothes. And with a sharp bite and a jingle of the bell on her collar, she wishes us all a very happy Deepavali!

A family celebration

A few months ago, Father's second book was released into the market. This one, which he wrote with a friend and physicist colleague, is on the history of nuclear power in India. It comes at a time when the who issue of power is front-of-mind, since this country has serious energy shortages to deal with and the Indo-US nuclear deal has just been signed. And it has been received well, with lots of feedback from those who matter. And the royalties are coming in, too! All that apart, it was the reason for a small celebration yesterday. The two authors got together for a lunch party, with the guests being Father's daughter (Me!) and his friend's wife. We ate at Kamling, a well-known Chinese restaurant in South Mumbai, the meal spiced with lots of laughter, many idiosyncracies and good food.

We started with a drink - beer for the men, Chinese tea for us women, the gender divide being completely coincidental. The wife had to go back to work after lunch, I do not drink alcohol and like my green tea, so there we were, our choices clear. We waited a while for the wife to appear - she was up to something, we found, standing outside the eatery even as we could see her head bobbing about on the other side of the glass door. Finally, she came in, and we found that she had been busy ordering flowers for the two guests of honour. A sweet thing to do, and funny, since both bouquets had to travel all the way across town to get home and one of them would be sitting on her own side table in her apartment! But the flowers arrived, along with cards to congratulate the authors and the wife was happiest of all, beaming fondly at us as she relished her lunch.

The meal began with an unreasonably spicy kimchee to accompany the beverages. While I normally like the pickled cabbage, I watched it from a distance and with great caution after the first taste, having burned the tip of my tongue and dowsed the flame with too-hot tea and then sitting there with eyes watering, lips on fire and all nerve endings on high alert. But then it all settled into something bordering on joy. Father dipped into asparagus and crab soup, our friends happily slurped wonton soup and I nibbled tofu, lettuce and prawns in clear broth. Yummy. From there, we progressed into a whole fish deep fried with garlic; the wife licked her lips over the fish, which she seemed to whole heartedly enjoy, while I sneaked spoonfuls of the garlic 0 deliciously fragrant and salty-sweet, crisp and sinfully oily. It was a superb relish for the vegetable noodles and fried rice, adding that perfect touch of zing to the bland chicken, mushroom and bamboo shoot dish that we shared. But just when I had worked out how to grab that last bit of garlic, the waiter took the platter away - it seemed rather crass to demand it back!

From that point, we all took a restroom break. Much needed, especially considering all the tea we had drunk, but not exactly the most pleasant experience. The toilets were smelly and grubby at the edges, the doors did not fit and you had to do some very elaborate calisthenics to get into the right position in the stall. But, as I always believe, when you gotta go, you gotta go, so you may as well make the best of it!

Dessert was a must, I insisted, since it was a celebration that we had met for. Knowing that the litchis would be canned and that anything typical of a Chinese restaurant in India would be more heavy than we were willing to deal with, the three of us dug into malai kulfi, a disc of frozen cream and sugar, while the wife had the more mundane chocolate ice cream. Finally done licking the last smear off the spoons, we were done and ready to take a nap. But there was another very important ritual to go through. We stood outside taking pictures, the proud authors with the book and the even more proud families with the authors with the book. I was in giggles, since the whole thing seemed vaguely filmi to me, but it was a fun afternoon and different from our usual more private celebrations. We drove home in a wonderfully soporific state, feeling like anacondas after a particularly satisfying meal.