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.

Meeting him in camera

(Sometimes you meet the most interesting people in the most unexpected places. This story was published today...)

The story began in 1932…. In a small room on Dr DN Road (as it is now), a man sat at a desk, carefully checking a camera, his fingers delicately manipulating his tools to correct a small defect in a tiny part. He was K Prabhakar and the small shop that he started all those years ago is now a larger establishment, home to another gentleman known as ‘Prabhakar’ to the many customers who inevitably find their way up to the second floor of an old building, along the corridor and into a tiny storefront that hides a well-equipped workshop behind it. The proprietor comes out to find out what the problem is, holding the camera that needs help in hands that know exactly what they are doing, the surety of time and experience plain as he unlocks a lens, peers through the eye-piece, holds the grip in sure fingers.

The gentleman is the original K Prabhakar’s son. His name is Ashok with his father’s name, Kumar, he says with his characteristic somewhat shy smile, but few who come to him for help and advice know that. He prefers to talk with his wife Rekha present, he insists, and she joins in, taking over much of the discussion as he listens, her voice and words definite and detailed. He speaks, but seems to prefer the world of exposures and F-stops, lost perhaps in the world of cameras that he knows so well.

“This business was started by my father,” Ashok says. “He was an expert camera repairer during the war. At that time there were few camera repairers in the Indian market, though there were plenty of cameras – Exacta, Contaflex, Ikoflex.” The real Prabhakar started working with Central Camera, who provided him with a space – the tiny room across the way from the present premises. “He was also doing his own work and continued for many years until he became unwell.” Just 12 years old at the time, Ashok started helping out, leaving school to work with his father full time. “I took the initiative and learned, with my father’s help. Now my son (“His name is Prabhakar,” his mother adds.) is working with me.”

One of three brothers, the other two brought into the same field but not the same firm by Ashok, he became proprietor of the company in 1982, keeping his father’s name. “He loves the name,” Rekha explains, “and he loved his father very much.” And he took his father’s business interests far beyond a small shop. Having acquired service contracts for various globally well-known firms specializing in cameras and photographic equipment – Canon being a long-term contact – he gradually became well known internationally. Along the way, the family set up a factory to manufacture their own brand of cameras too, now a memory, but a very good one. His wife avers, “If you have any queries about photography and cameras, nobody else can answer them like he can. He is so interested in cameras and has read everything there is published on them. In fact, I have had to throw away cupboards full of books on the field since I have no space to store them!”

But with all the time he has spent on cameras, and with all that he knows about photography, don’t his fingers itch to press that button and hear that sweet whirring that signifies a picture well taken? “I have never wanted to be a photographer,” Ashok is clear. “I have done marriage photography, but some time ago, at various Catholic weddings and only for fun and for close friends. I have never wanted to be a photographer.” He speaks of the change in the world of photography – today, cameras, like computers, he feels, are easily available, affordable and become defunct very quickly. When pressed, he thinks long and hard and then hesitantly lists Rolliflex as perhaps the best camera ever made, but leaves that open to debate.

Ashok’s and K Prabhakar’s reputation is jointly huge, not just in Mumbai but in various parts of the world, too, especially in the Far East, where his work with international companies has been most extensive. A number of Indian journalistic photographers come to him – people from the Times of India, Mumbai Samachar, Loksatta, Free Press, Saamna and many others. He explains, “We have a lot of tools to repair cameras. You do not use a screwdriver and a hammer,” he laughs. He has special equipment for film and digital cameras that he brought back from his travels.

Rekha is obviously extremely proud of her husband. “The way he is involved in his work and the way he works, it is a divine gift,” she says. Ashok sits back in his chair and smiles, his mind already wandering back towards the lens he has been working on…

The shame of it!

I am a Mumbaikar. A very proud one, always identifying myself as belonging to the city and its ethos - a multicultural, multi-dimensional ethos, one that is liberal, accepting, absorbing and educative, all on one wonderful experience. While my parents are not native to Mumbai - or Bombay, as it was known when they moved here and how it is known to most of us who live here even today - I am, since I was born in the city and spent a lot of my growing up time here too. I worked here, I lived here - and sort of still do - and will probably die here, unless I am suddenly transported with bags, baggage and life to somewhere else as interesting as my home-town. All my form-filling existence has been dotted with blanks that demand to know my 'native place'. When I come to that line, I stop, wonder, ponder and have no idea what I should say, since I cannot avail of a mandatory leave travel allowance to go 'back home', since 'back home' is where I am in any case.

But all that is a little besides the intended point. For now, I am vaguely ashamed to be myself, to belong to the city I call mine. Not because of anything I have done, but because of local politics and politicians. One man seems to be holding the government of my home state to ransom, free to vandalise and perpetrate violence, excusing himself and his cohorts with the simple statement of "Mee Marathi manoos". Raj Thackeray, very much in the news for just having been arrested and now out on bail once again, has stirred up a long-subdued sentiment which, in effect, translates to 'Mumbai for Mumbaikars', where 'Mumbaikars' further loosely translates to 'Maharashtrians' or those who are native to the state, speak the local language (Marathi) and find a home here. Those from elsewhere in India, from the North especially, are not welcome. Somewhere along the way, that does not compute. There are so many like me who are born here, live here but are not natives of the local culture, lifestyle or language, but they have contributed extensively to what this city is all about, pay local taxes, keep the economy of the metropolis buzzing happily and add beauty, life and spirit to the already dynamic Bombay beat.

So when Raj T demands that the city be reserved for its native population, the question automatically arises: Who is that native population? People like me? People like the myriad and famous-name industrialist families who have given the city its reputation as a city of gold? People like the many young aspirants who have come here to establish themselves as gods of the big screen? People who make the city function, from the taxi drivers to the garbage collectors to the railway workers to the faceless men who install billboards at strategic locations? How are they 'Marathi manoos' except for the fact that they spend their lives trying to make Mumbai a better place to be?

Wis Raj T doing that makes me cringe? He claims that Mumbai is for those of his ilk - fine, that makes sense, we are all in that broad category. But he goes further, goes radical, and says that only those who truly belong here should stay here. The others, like those from the North (many years ago, his uncle, Bal Thackeray, similarly groused against those from the South, sending the South Indian community into a collective tizzy), should leave, post-haste, and if they do not, they will be ejected with a certainty of force. Instead of using his silver-tongued rhetoric (no, that is not my way of putting it, but a media favourite) and politesse, he has been inciting his followers to choose violence as a method of action. As a result, the small man on the street - the taxi driver, the chana-walla, the pushcart vendor - and the outsider looking for a door that opportunity could knock on, from an exam for a job in the railways to a post as intern with a hospital has been threatened, beaten up, even killed in at least one unfortunate recent incident. These are the people who will take Mumbai to where it can go tomorrow or some day in the future. These are the people who keep the city working, ticking along, so that people like Raj T and his party fanatics can live in the style and comfort to which they are accustomed. And these are the people who are being persecuted, their lives and livelihoods endangered. The people that Raj T thinks do not belong here. Raj T is a Mumbaikar, a trule-blue one, he claims. This is how he supports his claim.

And that makes me ashamed to be a Mumbaikar.

Kya cheese hai!

For the last couple of weeks, we have been looking at cheese. No, not as an investment option or to add more to our diet, but for a story I have been asked to do for a newspaper. While I can do it without going through the wanderings and the research, having searched for decent cheese almost all my life that I have been eating it, the sheer pleasure of exploring a favourite subject kept me going quite happily. And it took me for a little stroll down that lane they call Nostalgia, peeking into a past that was, deliciously, nicely punctuated with cheese of various kinds.

But way back in time, I was not too discriminating. I know I am likely to get hung, drawn and quartered for this, but there have been days that I have eaten cheese powder mixed with milk and spread on sliced white bread and toasted crisp. It was absolutely fabulous...then. Now, the very thought makes me shudder, though why it should I am not sure, since the concept is essentially sort of cheese deconstructed without a fancy label attached. Soon after, I found that gustatory bliss could be translated into cubes of processed cheese stuck on a fork (they fell off a skewer - I know, I tried) and held in the flame for a few seconds. the outside would be blistered and crisp, while the inside would be a little warm; for some reason, it never melted like I thought it would. Then I graduated to cheese pakoras - also made with processed cheese, I thing, a deep-fried dream that would be any nutritionist's nightmare. Of course, hot on the heels of this one came the mozarella sticks and arancini in Italian restaurants in the US, which often had me skipping the main course and concentrating on the appetiser and, without fail, the pudding. In college, I would make a vegetable pulao-rice concoction and, just before serving it, stir in vast amounts of cottage cheese and eat it hot, melting into gentle though strangely tasteless strings that were almost as soothing as a dish of tairshaadam or instant mashed potatoes (with grated cheese, of course). I soon developed a serious addiction to crunchy toasted bagels with cream cheese, especially the cream cheese, and found myself using it in almost everything, from tuna turnovers to tortilla wraps. And, then, nothing ever sank to my hips or made my T-shirts tighter than they should have been.

Today, life has changed. Everything I eat goes straight to where I don't want it, from my hipline to my waist to my...never mind where else. But a little cheese every day is fine, my doctor assures me, women my age and stage in life need the calcium. So, I figured, I may as well get the best available. So I troll supermarket counters and speciality delicatessens for favourites, bringing home sharp cheddar, briney feta, hole-y Swiss, even a rather squishy Brie one time. I buy my cheeses wherever I can find them, be they in Pune, in Delhi or at the new store just down the road from the house. It may not be the ten pound wheel of mature Farmhouse Cheddar that we once had in our fridge, but it keeps us going until the next time I go shopping, a vaguely fanatical gleam in my eyes as I look for some interesting cheese, please!

Kya cheese hai!

For the past couple of weeks we have been looking at cheese. And every time I look at an array of the milk foods nicely set in a large glass-windowed case at some tony store or the other, I marvel at the range available today. A few years ago, if I wanted cheese that was not so heavily processed as to almost be plastic, I had to travel outside this country or, in the rare case, find it in some dairy farm or speciality store tucked away somewhere that I could not access easily.

All sewn up

This morning we walked over to spend a little time with the cobbler, who is a near-miracle worker when it comes to fixing leather stuff that everyone else has given up on. He did that with a pair of sandals that I dearly prized and even duplicated them for me in the colour and with the embellishments that I wanted - the same kind of thing was not available anywhere in the city and was a perfect fit for a bum ankle and a personal ethos that at that time included more walking than I had pavements to pound. Today we collected a camera case that almost classifies as an antique, it is that old and treasured, as is the camera that it cradles. And, as we stood there waiting for him to do the final polish after repair approval, we listened to the story he had to tell.

Not too long ago, he had a flourishing business making watch straps for an export company, he said. But the company went bust and so did his little enterprise. And there was no obvious leftover rancour or negativity. He smiled cheerily as ever and told us how he now worked the night shift as a security supervisor at a local hospital, the same healthcare facility where his wife was ward assistant. He spent all night there, sleeping after 2 in the morning in an air-conditioned cabin (which seemed to be a point of great pride for him), and then came to his small stall near the market where he cleaned, repaired and polished leather of various kinds for a whole family of clients. He lived not too far away and either walked to his work, or rode his motorbike. At times, he volunteered at the church nearby, helping with counselling and treatment for alcoholics. One of his sons was in college, doing well, while his son-in-law had his own business and his various relatives had shops and factories in different parts of the city, working on everything from shoe-making to selling vegetables. The man beamed at us while suggesting we go to his brother to have footwear made, and said that if he mentioned his name, the price would be far less than otherwise.

We stood there listening, chatting, smiling, strangely moved by the cobbler's positive attitude to life and his upbeat attitude. Things could not have been blissfully happy for him all the time, but he had his priorities in order and said with pride that he was law-abiding, all his stalls and spaces properly licensed and legal. I would not have been surprised if he had told us that his family included a policeman or two and maybe even a politician. It would have added to the complete experience that he and his existence were all about.

Changing times

It's funny how things that change invariably stay the same. Yes, I know, someone said it before me and better than I did, but you know what I mean. I have another cliche for you: everything must come to an end. Relationships, books, television shows, even life. They all, some day, finish at some logical point, explained or not, and either fade away softly, get cut off before you know what is happening or stop with a lot of fanfare and hoo-ha attached. Which is the best route to take, I cannot say, but it will all, inevitably, take that road to where you cannot, will not or do not want to follow. I like knowing when things end and sometimes that happens to my satisfaction; other times, things end without all the bows tied neatly and that never fails to irritate me, because then they have a nasty habit of rearing their ugly heads again just when I least expect them to, making my nasty memories and guilts surface when they really do not need to.

Eh? What am I talking about? Well, nothing personal, really, no references to the past or even any sort of deep philosophising. Actually, this is all about my television watching. The only Hindi soap opera that I watched with any degree of intelligence has just come to an end and the heroine faded gently into the night with her enormous family smiling gamely and bonding determinedly. I am sure a lot of the actors will be seen again soon in other soaps, new or old, and some of them are already playing significant roles on various other dramas. It is a strange feeling, that, to see the same people again and again as you surf through what your cable operator beams into your home, and you wonder what this person from that other soap opera is doing in this one. Confusion, almost as bad as the characters and the soaps themselves!

The soap I watched was called Kahaani Ghar Ghar Ki. It starred a very pious and good woman called Parvati, who had to live through all sorts of problems and survived them all, along with some time jumps (or generation leaps, as they are called), and wore the same fabulously fake jewels, the same gorgeous saris and the same beatific smile right through. She cried a lot, she got angry a lot and she gave a lot of speeches, while the rest of her clan lived, died, was reborn (or maybe never died at all, just ended a contract and came back with another face courtesy 'plastic surgery'), liked her, hated her, tried to destroy her...ad infinitum, ad nauseum. Fun and games was had by all and at the end, when it had all degenerated (or should that read 'disintegrated'?) into a farce, with Parvati being silly and OTT and the actress completely enjoying the whole act, the family finally came together and said their farewells. It was, of course, very funny to see that only a few members of the clan were present, with some favourite characters conspicuous by their absence.

What is even funnier is the way that the producers inserted a teaser into the last scene of the soap opera. A lamp that Parvati floats downstream is picked up by a new face...and that should lead into a new set of people with new angsts and dramas. What fun!

A wonderful custom

(So I wrote this for a newspaper. I seem to do that quite a bit these days!)

Once upon a time, you went abroad with a meager foreign exchange allowance and did some high-stress budgetary calisthenics to bring back what you really really wanted – and what your friends would really really envy you for having. This could be anything from a pencil box complete with cartoon character erasers to lingerie that most people saw only in the very fancy fashion magazines in five-star hotel bookstores to gadgets that would pluck out your leg hair, provide you with an evening’s entertainment or help you make a sumptuous dinner. Along the way, if you could afford it, and if you had ways to take it back to India without getting caught by customs or needing to pay the duty, you also acquired some real treasures, with fancy tags attached: Dior perfumes, Louis Vuitton luggage, Salvatore Ferragamo shoes, Mikasa glassware, Cross pens and perhaps a diamond or two courtesy Tiffany.

And then, as time went by, life got a little easier for all those who believed that labels were the only route to take and brands mandated not just quality but exclusivity and that much coveted snob value as well. The shops in Heera Panna, Manish Market and other such ‘grey market’ arcades could supply everything from washing machines, refrigerators and watches to chocolates, diapers and hairbrushes, all with the requisite label attached, but no guarantee except goodwill, no service contracts and, usually, no instruction manual. However, there was no real choice available or comparison possible; you had to know exactly what you wanted, or trust the dealer to give you what you asked for, in a time frame that was often unpredictable.

And then the licenses started being issued. Special store spaces were created where you could acquire all the snob value you desired, in a currency you could provide without too much trouble. Fragrances from reputed fashion houses like Cartier, Yves Saint Laurent and Calvin Klein flooded the counters in popular department stores and did not need a special relationship to be established with the store manager for him to reach deep into the cash drawer to furtively fish out the scent you had asked for so long ago, but “No bill, madam”. Clothes hit the racks, from Benetton to Tommy Hilfiger (who seemed to swallow his qualms about making clothing for the non-WASP population in the face of potential profits on a massive scale) to the fabulously publicized Reid and Taylor, much of it riding in on the coattails of Bollywood and its very visible stars.

Slowly, popular international brands starting setting up individual stores in India, selling cameras (Nikon, Canon, Sony), luggage (Samsonite, American Tourister, Delsey), sportswear (Reebok, Nike), white goods (Siemens, Bosch, Samsung, LG) and personal-use products (cosmetics – Maybelline, Revlon, Bourjois; lingerie – Triumph, Enamor, Lovable; clothing – Lee, Levis, Cherokee). Soon, stores theselves made their presence felt, from MacDonald’s to Marks and Spencer. And the shoppers flooded in: young people with a decently high disposable income, like Shyam Somanadh, who works with a media group in Delhi and says that he prefers “international brands in alcohol, appliances (laptop, phones etc), clothing, etc. I like a mix of practicality in both price and looks.” The luxury market followed closely behind, primarily targeting the high-fashion buyers. From Jimmy Choo to Chanel, Vuitton to Tod’s, Elizabeth Arden to Clinique, Rado to Omega, they all came…and, in a limited section of society, conquered. There is a growing population of millionaires in India and they are all willing to spend.

But there is one genre of shopper who wants even more exclusivity than just a label that is known, never mind to a very small population of discerning buyers. And those people find their dreams in products made exclusively for them. Like that hand woven sari, that specially crafted necklace, that perfectly finished dining table, that exquisitely polished floor…all fairly easily possible in India, at a price. As Anuradha Mahindra, publisher of Verve (apart from other magazines) says, “India has a long-standing tradition of producing high quality hand-crafted products suited to the individual tastes and style of the consumer. I would choose custom-crafted products when they perpetuate this tradition in terms of the specific craft that they employ, or when they symbolise a creative vision of the designer or craftsman who draws inspiration from our vast heritage.”

According to Oorvazi Irani, artist, entrepreneur and educationist, “Custom crafted clothes or jewellery would be for a special occasion like a birthday or a wedding and would speak of my individuality and style. It makes you feel good and stand out from the crowd, and you don’t mind spending that little extra to pamper yourself.” Though she is not especially finicky about it, she would use a high-end branded product “if it ensures me quality - like a writing instrument, for instance”.

Perhaps best of all, custom-made objects have the snob value of being one-of-a-kind, completely exclusive, and created to specifications that the buyer has. And it is the way things are done in the country, the way that they have been done for generations. Even today, few will look for a high-end diamond bracelet, for instance, in a store selling readymade jewellery; they will prefer to get it made to order from a family jeweler, or at least someone with the apt reputation and lineage. If carefully supervised, the piece will rival that made by a big-name international firm like Tiffany, Gubelin or Georg Jensen. The same applies to almost anything, from carpets to clothing, art and even kitchen pottery. Mahindra feels that “The advantage of custom-crafted products is that they express your own personal style statement, which often needs courage and a strong sense of self.” On the other hand, “The advantage of 'off-the shelf' luxury brands is an assured standard of quality and the security of being part of a global fashion trend.”

Perhaps the biggest market for custom-made goods is the fashion industry, especially the trousseau business. While street corner darzis and ‘designers’ are a dime the proverbial dozen in this country, quality is not easy to find. As Somanadh says, he will take the trouble to have something made for himself, but “only if they can guarantee the same quality which they expect on products meant for the western market. I like paying for quality, not just for the label.”
Graphic designer Krsna Mehta believes that “customized is better is you are working with the right person. With brands, you get a logo, years of tradition, a product that has been master-created for years.” Something specially made for you, on the other hand, has the cachet of being “exactly what you want, your fit and size, something that is only yours – a complete limited edition, one of a kind”. Of course, he knows, “Some things are better branded,” like a car, but even in that luxury market there is the Mercedes and then there is the Rolls Royce.” For some things, “especially in India and the East, a custom made product is easier than in the West. And even custom-made can be branded, like a Pinakin Patel piece for specially designed interiors, for instance.”

Tummy tuck

We were out to lunch this afternoon to a well known restaurant in town. It was a food festival that we had been invited to and, not being especially social but needing to go to the boutique attached to the eatery in any case, we decided to be civil and accept the invitation. So after doing an errand here and another there, we arrived all ready and more or less willing to eat.

The reason we were a little unwilling to lunch at this particular place was that it serves thalis. Nothing wrong with that, except that you have to perforce eat far more than you actually want to and great amounts that you do not need to. A thali means lots of many things, most of which start to taste the same after the first few bites. Another and fairly major reason was that most thalis that we have come across in our limited experience of them have been overly spicy and very difficult to get through and get over. But we were assured by our hostess and the manager of the place that things would be the way we wanted and the food would suit us to the proverbial T.

And it did, really. There were not too many people at the restaurant, so service was quick, friendly and unstressed. We sat at a good table and discussed the food with our hostess and the waiters who served us. And we were allowed to choose across menus, mixing regions and dishes with happy results. What we ate was well cooked, gentle on the tongue and the tummy and most delightfully tasty. And we came away with a feeling of perhaps finding the courage to go it again…not too long from now.

We started with chaas, a yoghurt drink. It was gently spiced with salt, cumin and a faint touch of green chilli, cool and refreshing. Then we segued into appetizers – onion pakoras, khandvi, kachori and a chopped salad. From there, we moved seamlessly into rotis of various kinds – a spicy thepla, a rough-grained jowar flatbread and a chunky, ghee-soaked, heavy baati. Those were served up with dal, and various sabjis made with methi, with bhindi, with alu and karela, with gatte, with peas, with chana, with cabbage, with carrots….phew, I get tired and full just thinking of it all! The meal ended with a firm but melting mohanthal, a coconut-laden square of mithai that failed to be identified and a puran poli (which we didn’t have), a wonderful filled sweet pancake that has to be eaten with loads of fresh-made ghee. Which we could not stomach, not after all that delicious food was filling us so pleasantly!

With God in sight

Have you ever wished for something so much that you are even willing to pray for it, which is a radical departure for you since you do not normally wish, pray or compromise? I have been for a while now and just ramped up my efforts, just to keep the proverbial wolf at bay. What is the wolf and which bay and what is this all about? I cannot tell at this time, sorry, but ask that you join me in the wishing, praying and willing whatever it is to be the way I want it to be. They say that the best prayers are for strength; that is what I want most of all, to deal with whatever happens...or I pray does not. The rest is a bonus.

All that apart, I was watching from my living room window as a young couple who live in the building stoof in front of their car parked downstairs, lit a few agarbattis and said prayers, eyes closed, with some to-me-unknown ritual in progress. They had the hood of the vehicle open, had placed a vivid marigold on the edge of the engine and went through the puja with obvious reverence. Today is Dassehra, also Ayudha puja, when all things mechanical are worshipped, in order to make sure that they work well for you and as whatever they have been created to be. When my mother was alive, she would put a tiny dot of kumkum on all the household gadgets, from the computer to the fridge, and then say various prayers for all that we used, from the car to the food processor. I am not especially clued in to all this formal ritual, but I do make that silent wish and a quiet thank you to the powers that be for keeping us going with all the help that we have acquired in the form of machines that do whatever they do to make life easier.

For me, a special occasion is about family. As long as mine is safe with me, I really don't care about the rites that I should observe as a Tamilian Brahmin, but make sure that at least some of the prescribed food is served up and the house and its inhabitants are clean, neat and feeling a little virtuous, if not embodying the qualities of a pious being. Small Cat usually participates in all that goes on, from watching me cook from her perch on the microwave oven to warily peeking at the new washing machine spinning with the shrill whirr characteristic of a plane taking of, to licking a little fresh-made kheer off my finger when I hold it under her nose. If there is a small puja to be done - as we try and manage on Ganesh Chaturthi and Deepavali day - she is held and made part of the general blessing process. And even as she squirms and squeaks and demands her freedom, she seems to know that there is something important going on and she needs to be part of it.

As for Father and me, we have developed our own version of whatever the occasion demands. So far, it seems to be working. Whoever there is up there is still watching over us. Part of my wish and prayer is for that power to keep doing so....

Dressing for success

(I wrote this a while ago. But since then, I have met a lot of people for a lot of assignments and find myself deliberately dressing to fit a possible, potential image. And I recently had to go through the same process and found myself wishing I was in the flip-flops and baggy clothes that are such a no-no. So it seemed moot to use this here and now...)

How to look good and impress people has always been a bestseller, be it as a book, an advice column or a television show — the latest in that series being two loud-mouthed and aggressive British women who invade people’s lives and wardrobes to give them a makeover that doesn’t always make everyone made-over happy. But the fact that shows like this work is indicative of more than just a voyeuristic tendency in audiences. It displays a consciousness of the truism that how you look matters. And the workplace is where it all comes home to roost.

A job today is not just a way of taking home the bacon, or the paneer tikka. It is about being ahead of the pack, of succeeding via increments and promotions and doing better than the person you sit next to. It speaks of efficiency, initiative and all those wonderful attributes that are so highly rated by corporate HR departments’ sales pitch to prospective employees. And what they don’t tell you is, it is also about looking good, well-shaped, well-dressed, and well presented.

While an hourglass figure for a woman may be favoured by a male boss with a chauvinistic bias and a lecherously appreciative eye, a generally ‘fit’ shape is the preferred norm, since the first impression makes more impact than an in-depth analysis that unearths talent and experience. But whether this is based on the underlying reality that obesity-related health and stress management issues can hamper performance or an instinctive discrimination against those who are not ‘beautiful people’ is not clear. Health professionals in India see weight gain as a problem that is increasing, especially in urban areas, ironically as a result of doing well at work, and sedentary lifestyles.

But fatness is not all in this context. The way a professional is dressed makes all the difference. A list compiled from a monster.com poll listed tank tops, visible innerwear and flip-flops as the fashion faux pas to end all from a professional point of view. Employers want to know how seriously a prospective employee takes herself, and where she rates herself apropos maturity, self-image, responsibility and reliability.

In a creative field there is no yardstick that one can measure up to. I, for instance went to my first job interview dressed in a — hold your breath — housecoat and spike heels. It was not a deliberate style choice, but the fact that I was on my way from a photo-shoot to my home when I was dragged willy-nilly into an interview and had to sit there answering questions, trying to look intelligent and egg-headed with pancake on my face and eyelashes that threatened to unpeel themselves from my heavily shadowed eyelids. I got the job, but for years my then-boss would look warily at me whenever we spoke. I would not do the same today, insisting on the time I needed to transform into a more work-worthy avatar.

So how does one dress for work in a non-creative environment? Obviously, a miniskirt and camisole are non grata. So are wild prints, four-inch stilettos, sequinned saris, sparkly hairbands and op-deco earrings. Men, too, have their framework to fit into — nude women on ties, knuckle-duster rings and sleeveless T-shirts being no-nos. Experts advise restraint, dignity, chic rather than outré. Let the quirks of personality, attitude and wardrobe dawn on a would-be boss gradually, it is suggested, once performance has been proved. Usually that works. Never mind the calorie count.

All washed out

Father and I went on an expedition this morning. We walked down to the local electronics store and bought us a washing machine. Yes, it has become as simple as that in this country now, and has been for some time now, as long as you knew where to get whatever it is you wanted. Today, you can trot yourself over to the local corner shop and buy everything from the newest candy in the market to a microwave oven that practically buys the veggies for you before cooking them to the perfect turn that you demand. Be all that as it may be, this is about something else altogether, so don’t distract me.

Our first washing machine, Father says – but I have some difficulty believing him – was a stick and a bar of soap. From there, we graduated rather rapidly to a maid, who hung out the clothes in the designated space behind the house where we lived at the time. I was also in her charge and would be stood on the wall while she did her work. And, I am told – and I really do not believe this at all – she also hung out the baby to dry when she was damp around the edges which, considering the age I was then, was fairly often. And then we went off to live in Germany, bringing back a very efficient washing machine when we returned to this country, so eliminating all need for that bar of soap, stick, maid and pruney hands. And when the television did not work, or there was nothing to watch, we could always gaze fascinatedly at the clothes going round and round in the machine – and our household help often did that, finding the spin of the drum far more riveting than the chores that she was hired to do.

Meanwhile, the washing machine, like us, got older and more rickety. It had occasionally to be taken apart and fiddled with and seemed to like the attention, because after a stint of tinkering, it worked well for a while. Until one day, finally, about nine years ago, it just gave up. We gave it a decent send-off and acquired a new machine, which never had the same cachet. It seemed to gradually develop deep psychological issues that, in the end, could no be resolved. And today, with due ceremony, it will get its final farewell. The new machine is to move into its place in a few hours and, hopefully, will be as dedicated to duty as the others have been.

This could be a good time to consider the phrase ‘rest in peace’.

Cat style

(I am still looking, but now at least readers of a popular Indian newspaper also know!)

Many years ago I met three cats – two of those came as a package – that were friendly, sociable, almost-human and extraordinarily responsive. They were rather in contrast to the family feline who has in her young character a pinch of paranoia, much madness and all the hi-bred pickiness native to a princess of some extremely exalted line. These cats were elegant, poised, wise and as close to perfect as it would be possible for a cat to be. After all, they were Siamese. Koko and Yum Yum, the pair, were the property of James Qwilleran, millionaire and bon vivant journalist who solved crimes as a matter of diversion, always with the help of his two furry companions, the creations of Lillian Jackson Braun, author of the Cat Who…series. To add a lighter touch without blood and gore, there was Solange, the long-legged, wide-eyed, languorous lovely from the comic strip called 9 Chickweed Lane. Put it all together, and I wanted a Siamese to call my own.
So when I lost my own black-and-white gutter-bred moggie to illness, I decided I would be deliberate about my next choice and find the perfect purebreed who would embody all the snob value that I could identify with. It has been almost five years since I started looking and no Siamese has reared its curious head in my market. Are they difficult to find in this country, or am I not looking in the right places? Various people manning ‘pet shops’ in the crowded Crawford Market animal section either ignored my questions, or tried to sell me everything from an ultra-lethargic rabbit to a tortoise that scuttled back under its shell when I peered at it. I was asked to ‘come this way’ to take a look at cats, but decided that discretion was indeed the better part of valour when I looked at the man’s paan-stained lips and unbuttoned shiny red shirt. So I chose to troll the Net looking for dealers and found very few in the Mumbai area who had cats, leave alone the snooty species I was interested in.

Saroj Chandran at the Animal Hospital in Parel said that Siamese were the easiest cats to have – “They are friendly and curious and no trouble at all. But they are not often seen here.” She told of a family in the western suburbs that once bred the cats for sale, but they had been raided and not been heard of since. She started looking for one for me five years ago.

Veterinarian Dr DK Patil says that “There are very few cat breeders in India and since the Siamese are not that well known or popular, they have to be imported.” And that makes them expensive. But taking care of them is a cinch; after all, “Food for Siamese cats is now easily available and they do not give too much trouble,” being short-haired and sociable felines.

Saying I was a potential buyer – which in a way I am - I did speak to a dealer in Navi Mumbai, who told me that Siamese were very difficult to find. “They are usually imports,” he said, “but I can try and find one for you”. And the price would be “around Rs 15,000”. He tried to talk me into a Persian, which is “more decorative”, but the cats are long-haired, which does cause some problems in a city apartment. “We have some dogs you may like to see…” But a Siamese cat was what I wanted.

And I wait to find the perfect kitten that embodies all the wonderfully catly snob values that so delight me.

A stitch in time

I don't know why, but good tailors, like maids, are very difficult to find. For some months now, even a couple of years, I have been looking for someone to make my fashion statements a reality, be they straight and simple salwar kameez - the best thing you can wear in the heat of Mumbai's October - or more complex tunic tops that have to be a perfect fit whatever you wear them with. And every time I go through the aggravation of a getting a new person to make clothes for me to conform to schedules, I swear that I will wear readymades from that day forth. And then I find some wonderful fabric that I just have to own in that ideal style...

When I was little, I had someone to make my clothes for me - these people were meticulous, fast, creative, up-to-date and very very good. They were easily accessible, threw only the very occasional tantrum and sourced all the fabric and the accoutrements that were required without being specifically asked to. Overnight deliveries were also the norm. I still call them my favourite in-house designers - my parents made pretty, unusual and exclusive little frocks for me using an antiquated sewing machine, novel ideas and lots of love.

Then we outsourced. A tailor in a tiny shop in the garage of a building down the road made me clothes to my mother's design. That worked out pretty well, except for one instance that I can remember when we arrived at the hole in the wall place and found it firmly shut and my parents were understandably annoyed. Another of the same ilk was found closer to home at a later time in my life and he did a decent job too...until I found one in a shop that rubbed shoulders with the circulating library I temped with - that made getting clothes made the easiest thing in the world. And I could throw a fit when something was not ready as planned and still take it home with me, finished to my needs, when I was ready to leave work for the day. I used the same tailor for many years, from my school uniform days to when I started wearing saris to work, and he was allowed to make personal comments about my changing dimensions and sartorial tastes without my being too offended.

Then we moved house and I had to find someone closer to home. This, my mother did for me when I was away, and she more or less 'adopted' a newbie 'designer' to source fabric and make her designs reality. So I acquired a larger wardrobe than I had ever had in my life, with clothes for all occasions, from ratting about at home to attending the toniest dos in town. But soon, with familiarity and time, the lady started acting up, as they all do. Mistakes had to be forgiven as if they had never been made. Promised delivery dates were taken as a joke rather than a commitment and changes were made arbitrarily, as if I had no say in what I wanted to wear. When I started losing fabric that I had found after exhaustive searching and was given more excuses than clothes promised, I gave up. And have never gone back.

Now I use a tailor in town who works with a small boutique that I frequent (yes, the one I fall up the stairs of). He is unreliable with his timings, vanishes for days together and has no idea that it takes a lot of effort and time to drop by the store to collect stuff he had vowed he would have ready. Of course, he is rarely there for me to tell him. But it seems as if I will soon need to find someone new to make my wardrobe bloom the way it always has.

In poor taste

This is a buzz that has been slowly building, starting with a tiny mushroom cloud of objection in India and growing to a louder noise overseas. Vogue India, which launched a year ago with a great deal of fanfare and many large expectations, has given itself a good helping of egg on its own face. How? Simply by publishing fashion photographs that, while gorgeous as images, are in crashing bad taste as far as the concept and sensibility is concerned. Some people consider it no really big deal - to show the rural poor ornamented (that is really the only word that seems right here) with accessories that only the urban very rich can consider acquiring seems most inappropriate and the kind of statement that would make almost anyone with any sensitivity screw up their noses (well-bred, urban, rich and otherwise) with a certain touch of delicate disgust. It certainly made my schnoz lift a little higher and crinkle a bit. If I had been at home when I first saw the fashion spread that was published, I may have been have been rather more vocal in my feelings about it.

It is not that the pictures were not fabulous; like almost every image I have ever seen in Vogue from anywhere in the world, they were. Stunning. But, when you think about the huge gulf between the haves and the have-nots, the spread was singularly insensitive, never mind that the editor (a lovely woman I slightly know) justified it by saying that everyone everywhere enjoys beauty, never mind which economic stratum they belong to. The people in the photos may have been well recompensed for their smiles and pride in wearing (a Fendi bib on a child) or using (a Burberry umbrella carried by a gnarled old man) products that they would probably never have access to under normal circumstances. But they would obviously have to return them at the end of the shoot, and any damage caused inadvertantly to the objects would have been paid for in some degree of angry outburst or nasty sniping. The whole thing smacked painfully of a patronising attitude and a lack of any consideration for the people and their reality. The international media has been severe in its criticism of the spread. The Indian media has jumped on the castigation bandwagon with a certain relish that is often the lot of those who have what is envied. I waited to find out what the whole story was before I decided to write this. In the meanwhile, this noise has faded somewhat and the next has probably been fuelled by something else that someone else did.

But there is another aspect to the whole thing, the one that has made me write this, in fact. As a wonderful and wise gentleman pointed out to me. India is one of the world's largest hubs for the recycling business. Everything from old computers to clothes to ships to food finds a market here. It is mended, refurbished and resold, more than enough of a business for many to find their livelihood in it. It may well be that the Fendi bib and the Burberry umbrella find a home here, with these same people who could never think of buying it, at some stage in the life of the object. And they would probably carry it or wear it or use it with the same pride that their beaming faces showed in the pictures that have generated so much controversy.