End of days

It's the last day of the year, the end of 2009. I am hoping that 2010 is better rather than worse, with lots of new friends, new work, exciting times and buckets full of joys great and small. My last day of the year promised good things and if they all happen, I will be a very pleased human indeed!
So, God (or whoever the power-that-is may be) bless us all and make us live a healthy, happy and humour-laden life, whoever and wherever we are and will be.
On that confused note, I bid adieu to 2009 and resolve to be a better little blogger in 2010.
Cheers and all the best, folks!

Long time...

...no write. Yes, I know. When I started this blog, I was working full time, newly managing a home and trying to deal with a lot of emotional fallout from life at the time. Today, not working except from home, not doing much because everything I do has been ruthlessly organised and happy with it all and having the time to do more, I am not able to find the time or the leisure (call it 'mindset' if you will) to write a blog. Or maybe I believe I have nothing much to say, which is indeed the case, oddly enough. Life settles into a kind of peace sometimes and you don't want to say anything that would conceivably disturb it, I think. And I think I have found that place in my mind and soul to be at peace...at last.

I went to see a kind-of-friend of mine recently. He is an artist that is on my sms-list and is pretty well known and respected. I first interviewed him for DNA, the newspaper I once worked with, some years ago and just liked him and his earnestness, as well as his passion for his work and his inspiration. The fact that he was young, articulate, wrote well and was a fabulous artist helped, of course. So when Times Crest asked me to speak to him about his latest show due soon in London, I agreed, without any hesitation. Talking to Jitish Kallat - yes, it was him...he? - is always a delight. He challenges even as he is challenged, to think, to analyse, to put in words, whatever it is that we are speaking of at that moment. Best of all, I rarely need to explain what I am asking about - a few words, even incoherent, and he leaps in with his interpretation. From there, the conversation inevitably travels to points not even thought of in my brief to myself when I planned the interview. And more comes out of the time spent in his company than I would ever have expected. Which is the best aspect of the meeting, and my acquaintance with him.

Another friend - and this one is firmly classified as one, since the bond is not just mutual, but long-standing - was in the city recently for his show, this time of photographs, a kind of documentary of a disaster some years after it happened. Samar Jodha, well known in both commercial and artistic realms as a photographer of much note, has been a friend since we met again serendipitously many years ago in Delhi. We first came across each other when I talked to him for a feature about a book on Jaipur that he had collaborated on and then again when I was asked whether I wanted to be involved in a book on India. In Delhi, we talked some, spent lots of laughter-time together and made friends. This time, the chemistry had changed. It was far more serious, perhaps the fallout of growing up, sometimes taking the hard route to there. We spoke of his work, his need to do more, his possible future and, as will always happen, the past, the history that had brought us both to the point where we sat across a table from each other and saw ourselves as responsible adults with definite directions and goals. It was new and exciting in its own way, even though I mourned the passing of a time that was sunnier, happier, lighter and in a way more fun.

And since then, I have met new people, rediscovered some I had almost forgotten and felt the new excitement of anticipation, to see what they are all about and how they could fit into my life as it is now. They could be friends, some were once friends, colleagues, classmates, those who were part of my childhood. Now, as a grown-up, how do they matter, where do they link in, who have they become? A new adventure, a new sense of knowing, a new joy, perhaps? Who knows! As the cliche goes, only time...and space, of course...will tell.

Sari state

I was at a wedding with my father the other night and had more trouble with my clothes than I have ever had in my whole life, that famous time where my buttons kept popping open notwithstanding. (That story later in this blog, I promise.) It was a Sunday evening and the outing had been planned for some days. It was a must-do, social obligation and all that good stuff. So, in spite of stinkingly bad colds and coughs, something decent to watch on television (which has to be the lamest excuse ever!) and little inclination to dress up, put on makeup and heels and go out for dinner long after dinner is usually done and dusted in our house, we did just that. Father was natty in his silk kurta, while I did my best to look grown up and dignified in a flame-orange and gold silk sari.

The sari was one we had bought many, many years earlier, for a stage performance of some classical dance creation in which I was playing a reluctant role, mercifully fairly minor. It had been folded and stitched up and then unstitched and ironed out, with the requisite amount of sweat and swearing. So it had been through the wars, in a manner of speaking, and certainly deserved to be retired. We had bought it at a popular sari store in South Bombay (should I say ‘Mumbai’ and be politically correct, or ‘Bombay’ and be happy?) that was known for its annual sales that were so crowded with wall-to-wall women that neither my mother nor I ever had the courage to venture within. When we went, we had the shop practically all to ourselves and the salesman had outdone himself in the oiliness department. We bought this one as being most stage worthy and innocuous as far as glitter was concerned, a sari that could be worn later on a more normal occasion like a wedding or a concert. It had the shine the stage demanded, but not the vulgarity and showiness that we disliked. And after that one use, it had stayed in my mother’s closet for an unaccountably long time.

But this particular wedding needed a touch more obvious glitz than my usual lack of it. So I planned long ahead of time, checked the saris for the right one, found it, tried on the blouse and had it altered to fit my ever changing shape and believed I was all set and ready to get dressed for the day…evening. Somewhere along the way, both my father (who is very savvy about these things, having had two women in his family to watch and deal with) and I forgot one important aspect of the whole thing – to check the sari. In blissful ignorance, the interval between discovery and use soon passed. It was time to get ready. My jewellery was set out, my makeup was put on, my heels were tested and the cat was soothed. Now to get dressed.

The blouse fit nicely, the petticoat was perfect. I unfolded the nicely ironed sari and started winding it around me. Tucking in the bits and pieces, I pulled gently to level it at the floor. There was an ominous ripping sound and I felt a tiny tear develop in the wideness of the border that was wrapped around my waist. Oops, I thought to myself, now that will need darning. And paid no more attention to it. But gradually, as the evening wound on, more of the heavy gold border started shredding. Ever so gently, ever so silently (or else there was too much noise at the venue for me to hear anything. Which was a good thing, since no one else could hear it either!), I was developing an avant garde drape that could have been outré a couple of years ago, straight off the Paris runways. Mercifully, there was enough fabric for me to manage to hide every tear that I could see. What I could not find, I did not worry about, I had enough to make my sartorial senses go into a paranoid tizzy.

That sari is now history. Tragically, the silk of the body is fine…or is it? So fate and fashion will take the length of fabric in hand and help me create something wearable from the flame-orange yardage, which is really all that can remain after that particular disaster. But that, too, will need to be carefully checked before it is planned for. Another fashion flop will undo me, literally!

(PS: Some years ago I was at a Miss India show wearing a lovely cream tussar kurta haute from the studio of a reputed designer. Every few minutes, the buttons would pop free of their tiny silk loops and leave various bits of me intriguingly almost on display. Luckily a friend was on ‘button watch’ for me and managed to preserve what was left of my modesty. The outfit has not been worn since, but has had its button-blooper repaired.)

Remember the time...

I have been thinking about this one for a while now. I had all my phrases planned, my pauses calculated. And then it struck me that that would be as hypocritical as all the hype that I profess to hate. So instead of writing about whatever happened a year ago and how it is being dealt with now, I decided instead to give thanks. And this is what I must say a big thank you for...

For being alive and well. I am, I hope to stay that way. Those who are really important to me are still with me, and I hope they stay that way too. I pray for nothing these days, but I hope I can keep those I have with me, those I need, in physical reality, alive, well, whole and happy, for a long time to come. Since my wishes tend to be in five-year cycles, at least five years is a good start. Aim for that, hope for a lot more. Hey, you up there, the power that is, are you listening?

For being fed and clothed and housed. There are so many who are struggling with the everyday smallnesses of living. So far, I have managed never to be in that situation, thanks to those who stand by me and thanks to my own destiny and my own strengths. I hope that it stays that way for ever.

For being happy. I am a happy person in essence. I like seeing the good in people, in things, in times, in situations. Sometimes that becomes impossible and I go from being happy to being not at all happy. Which in itself makes me not at all happy. So I hope to stay happy. I hope that there will always be laughter and joy and that spirit in me that shows me good over bad, that shows me the way to find that goodness no matter what I am living through.

For being me. I like who I am, after a long time of not knowing who that "I" is. I thank everyone who has made me ME, from my parents to my life, to the power that is to my circumstances, to all the decisions I have ever made, good or bad. And, at the risk of sounding like an endless speech I could make at the Oscars, I hope there is more of the good stuff and very little of the bad stuff to come in the rest of my life.

It is Thanksgiving in some parts of the world. I give thanks for it all...

Body language

I was at a dance performance at the National Centre for Performing Arts last night. It was a social event as much as it was an artistic one, with lots of hugging and kissing and high-pitchedly happy greetings breaking the silence of the vast and usually serene lobby of the auditorium. It had been a long time since we had been there to watch a show and it felt wonderfully familiar even as my feet protested the conjunction of deeply plush carpet and four inch stiletto heels with every step. We were, as almost always, very early, and sat on a studded leather seat watching the world cruise gently past…until the frenzy began.

The show was Sharira, the last created by Chandralekha, she of the flowing silver hair and huge bindi, darkly kolhed eyes and black sari. I had seen only a couple of works by her – the iconic Leelavati being my absolute favourite – and was looking forward to this one. I knew it would probably be mysterious in theme and fabulous in physicality and was interested to know more about a production that had come so long after the ones that I had watched, not wholly understood, but was fascinated by. Also, perhaps the best part, I did not have to watch it to write about it or its creator or, in fact, anything at all. And it was indeed worth the drive into town and the change out of comfortable home-wear pajamas into a more visually-appealing sari, complete with makeup, jewellery and, of course, the heels.

The show began almost on time, with some talking – by the deceptively slim lady who seemed to be part of the NCPA, Pinakin Patel, the small and seemingly mercurial “sponsor”, a well known architect formerly based in Mumbai and Dashrath Patel, the artist (for lack of any other single word to describe his craft which includes photography, painting, sculpture…) in whose honour the event was being staged. A very old man held up by a cane and a couple of devoted arms, he spoke of memories and experiences, people and times that most of us watching and listening would want to hear more of but identify with perhaps very little. There was a blithe spirit in the gentleman, a briskness that belied his years and his weaknesses. He was funny and touching, sharp and wandering, all at the same time. Why don’t they let him be, I wondered, even as I applauded his demands for attention with his very being and his small bites of wit.

The performance had its own vocabulary, only some of which made sense to me. There were just two ‘dancers’, Tishani Doshi and Sabu John, woman and man, each playing a part as an individual even as they coordinated perfectly in their dialogue on stage. As with all of Chandralekha’s creations, the bodies were perfectly trained, honed, controlled, each movement precise and slow, speaking along the arc from start to finish. This was a virtuoso ‘dance’ that seemed to bring in the process of creation, of cosmic power, of the principle that unites man and woman even as it differentiates between the two. There was a power struggle on even as each person displayed a strength and allowed a domination.

What it was all about, what was being said, I could not explain, since I did not understand, but the overall communication between the performers and me was that it was the various forms of power and interaction, creativity and awareness, with sensuality and sexuality, each playing off the other and thereby giving both a new level of existence. Was there a story being told? Not obviously, no. Was there a theme? Not that I could figure. Was there a meaning? It escaped me. But there was a beauty, a grace, a fabulous control and an almost-otherworldly power – the only way I can describe it – that came off that couple doing slow and strong movements of body and, presumably, mind, on the stage.

Sharira was, for me, a fresh awareness. A knowledge that there was a life outside my small world, a life that I was once part of and consciously retreated from. And it became a tiny seed of wanting, to regain at least a little of that previous self that I knew made me more complete. This time, with my rules.

The Dogs of Wall

(This was published today in TOI's new Crest edition. Written in almost 20 minutes, perhaps less...!)

Many years ago, in a time that feels now like it was another life, we lived in Germany. It was West Germany then, a clearly distinguished part of the world very separate in almost every way from the other Germany, the place known as ‘East’. Between the two was a vast realm where nightmare ruled and red-eyed dogs patrolled on leashes held tight by hard-eyed soldiers, where life was a matter of belonging to the place from where escape was vital or to where escape had to be made. In our small village, high in the hills and nestled into the Black Forest, a small suburb of Heidelberg, life was sunny, the bread was fresh and crusty, the bank manager was amiable and the walk to school wound through the woods where the biggest danger may have been the rare wild boar or wolf, of which more was heard than seen.

I was very young then, my memories of that time and place more impressions than actual data. I had heard vaguely of the great divide between east and west, but believed it to be something that happened to someone else, me and mine undisturbed by its reality. And then we traveled across that rift for the first time. Father had to attend a conference, Mother and I would go with him, as we always did. Packed into our car, German-made, German-registered, with German number plates…West German. The autobahns were as clear, clean and efficient as only the Germans could create. The traffic marvelously disciplined, the super-fast lane a speedway for cars I only now can appreciate – Audis, Porsches, Ferraris. The turn-off for Berlin and the East was significant only because Mother suddenly said an audible prayer and asked me to sit up straight. The city was lively, lights on and traffic buzzing. And then there was a more careful control. Checkpoint Charlie. As Indians, we had no restrictions; as Herr Professor with a reputed institute, Father was entitled to an obvious respect. But rules were rules.

The evening was cold. The car was examined carefully. There was nothing underneath and no one hidden behind the seats or in the boot. But there was something: We had the wrong kind of number plates. They had to be changed. Father was outside, doing things with a screwdriver. We sat, Mother and I, in a small and very cold room, where the man behind the desk was not unfriendly, but hardly encouraging. Mother’s hand was cold, I was curious. At barely ten years old, it made little sense. Peering through the window into the deepening dark, I dimly saw high walls. Along the top wound rolls of barbed wire, punctuated by what looked like small houses – you could see the silhouettes of a couple of men in each; they were holding guns, I was told later. Outside, guards walked purposefully past, dogs pacing by their sides. Once it was all over, we drove across what was called No-Man’s Land, where many had died, I learned much later at a museum exhibit in the United States, trying to run away from the repressive world that was the East to a more gemutlich one in the West.

We lived in Germany when the Wall was still a symbol of division - in lifestyle, opportunity, economy and, of course, philosophy, apart from politics. At that time, there were two distinct Germanies, two vastly different lives. We travelled through Checkpoint Charlie a number of times and my very young memory still sees moments of watching the dogs and the soldiers march grimly along that narrow divide between the two nations. Having mirrors rolled under the car and the seats pulled out and poked to see if anyone was inside when crossing into Czechoslovakia, as it was then, or having our luggage turned inside out while going into Hungary, for instance, was not as dark an experience. My kiddie vision of the wall was not a graffiti-laden stretch, but grey brick, cold and truly nightmarish.

Voice over

So, back to the Kala Ghoda (mini) Festival…

It was a long evening and my feet hurt. But somehow the adrenaline had taken over and I could not feel anything (no, not even my aching feet, unless I thought about them) beyond the humid warmth of the evening and the beat of the music pounding somewhere deep inside me. I had run up and down the high stairs of the amphitheatre so many times that I could do it with my eyes closed (and me with fairly severe vertigo, too!), and knew my script for the compeering stint I was doing almost by heart, allowing for an occasional pause for a comma or to swallow a cough. Once in my car for the drive back home, I could feel the entire sequence of events go through me, from the moment I started getting dressed at home to the time I walked to the car after a nice dinner and a hug from a close friend I had dined with. And somehow it all ended up at my feet, which throbbed in parts and reveled in the highness and sharpness of my heels in others.

The fashion show was to be at 7 pm that evening. At 3, when I was leaving my home to drive into town, I was vaguely sleepy and not sure I wanted to get into whatever I had got into. But having got into it, I had to honour my commitment and stay with the programme. The ride was punctuated by regular calls from the store I was helping with the show, asking where I was with rising levels of hysteria with each conversation. Finally, I was there and bounced happily up the stairs that I have a tendency to fall up and in through the glass door, to be greeted in various pitches by various people in various degrees of panic. There was a rehearsal in progress, with many of the models not sure where they should be, which side they should face and what their next move should be. Some were in advances stages of makeup, with strangely ghostly faces glowing pink and beige, unlike anything real and human. Under the arc-lights they would look very pretty, but in the afternoon sun filtering through the windows of the space, they seemed like visitors from another planet.

I played Mother Hen quite happily. One girl was almost in tears because of something the manager had said the previous night. Another had no idea what to do after she had finished the second turn and was forgetting how she got to where she was standing every time the choreographer yelled at her for being there two beats too long. Two of them looked so grim that they could have fit right in at a retrenchment meeting , while a couple of others stood morosely around wondering when they would get something to eat. I wandered about wondering what I was doing there, but oddly enough enjoying the chaos; it was like the days when I danced on stage, and spent many moments feeling like the only oasis of calm and sanity in a world that was rapidly descending into hell flavoured by hysterics.

Finally, the show began. In the sound box at the very top of the amphitheatre I was positioned just behind and to the right of the sound engineer, my fingers ready to tap him on the shoulder every time I wanted the music turned down. The other hand multitasked – holding on to my script, waiting to tap the light-man on HIS shoulder when I needed the spotlight on or off and the stage in darkness, hanging on to my purse that dangled from arm and holding on to the rail to keep my head from spinning itself off my neck at such a steep height away from street level. My slippers were off and placed neatly on the step behind me, my bare soles feeling every tiny pebble under them as I stood there. The dance performance in progress on the stage ended, applause crashed out echoes against the stone blocks of the amphitheatre and I got my cue…

The commentary went smoothly. I managed not to stumble over my carefully crafted words, no cough burst into my sentences and everything worked as it should have, even with an unexpected demand from backstage to keep talking since the girls were not ready for the next sequence. One set of garments gave way to the next, each segueing neatly into the other. There were, of course, glitches – one girl went in the wrong direction after a central turn, leaving her partner standing on one leg for a small moment, not sure where to walk to. Two of the girls collided gently somewhere in the middle, but recovered fast and continued their sashay along their designated paths. And a model-designer finished her sequence with incredible sangfroid and professionalism even as her husband collapsed in the audience with a serious health problem.

As soon as it was over, I thanked my new-found friends in the sound box and bounced down the stairs, bag in one hand and slippers in the other. Once on the road, I put on my heels and ran – the pain was not being felt yet – across to the greenroom to check on the girls. They were ecstatic, laughing and exclaiming at their success. I was hugged by the store owner, the manager, the choreographer, the models…perhaps even by an unknown gentleman who seemed very happy to be part of the group, no matter who he was and what he was doing there. It had been a long day, and I would probably regret parts of it when I had time to think about it all, but for that moment, I was pleased with life. It was time to meet my friend, get my hug and giggle over a quick dinner….

Fashion statements

The mini version of the Kala Ghoda Festival is on in Mumbai at the moment. I have always wanted to wander through venue – regular or pint-sized – since it is now such an integral part of the city I call home and I have always wanted to see what pulls people into it. Is it all sales and interesting artifacts (apart from the ticky tacky tourist traps), or does it really showcase the history of one of Mumbai’s most significant and well-tended precincts? But aside from driving through occasionally and muttering rudely about traffic control and the lack of parking space in an already crowded area, I have done little to find out more about the event. This time, however, things were slightly different. I was dragged into becoming a tiny part of it, courtesy friends and am still not sure whether I approved of the whole shebang or whether I should stay as far away from it in the future as I have done in the past.

It began with a visit to one of the stores I frequent. It is a small boutique that specializes in traditional Indian crafts with a spin into contemporary styling where the clothes are concerned. The way I see it is simple: if I can find something to wear that is modern and global, yes uniquely reflective of the country I belong to, I prefer it to the anonymous brands that I can find in any store of the chain anywhere in the world. Makes sense, no? Anyway, I occasionally find the work of designers who serendipitously create the kind of style I like and so troll the shelves of the small space every now and then. Apart from which, as does tend to happen, I have made friends with the folks who run the store, and am always given a fond and friendly welcome, never mind whether I buy or no. So when they asked whether I would participate in their share of the festival, I agreed, with a little digging-in-of-heels just because that is the way I am.

You will model for us, the lady said with great confidence. Oh no, I disagreed, I am not in the right shape and am too shy. But it will be great, she argued, you have lost so much weight and look really good these days. And this is not a professional show, it is for real women. Which means women with curves, sometimes rather more generous than is forgivable. I still refused. But I did agree to compere the show, to make sure that I did a suitable patter for the event. The threat of being cajoled into wearing the store’s fashions and walking around on stage loomed. Then, as always, Fate stepped in, this time to save me. I got the flu, fairly severely, with the accompanying cold and cough that lingers even now. There was no way I could do a walk in front of so many people, no way I could practice for the show along with a group of girls who would also be models. The lingering question was answered – I would do the commentary, but not be a clotheshorse. God bless Fate!

I got my brief and prepared my ‘speech’. The day before the actual event I was at the store for a rehearsal. The racks were cleared away, the small space was stretched to its limits and the girls gathered, each facing her own demons and having her own special crises. I watched, feeling rather superfluous, until I found myself – to my own horror, I have to admit, because I prefer to stay away from emotion until it bashes its way into my head – playing mother hen, aunty, counselor, advisor and general dogsbody. There were tears and mini-tantrums, angsts and anger, all spilling out in a glorious vent of exhaustion, ego, inferiority and intense longing to be better than the rest. Just be yourself and enjoy what you are doing, I suggested, forget that it is a serious task you are undertaking and just have fun. Don’t worry about what who said when, I patted someone’s shoulder, these things happen in moments of stress. Smile, I threw at them all, don’t look like you are doing something grim and ghastly. It was Halloween that night, I forgot, or else I would have used that to make them less uptight. Soon I was the person holding the safety pins and Kleenex, finding solutions to little problems and providing consolation and an occasional cold shower when words rang loud and harsh.

The rehearsal itself began. There was one sequence where a group of overly generously proportioned women walked at a funereal pace in dazzlingly ugly clothes. My giggles threatened to burst out of the confines of good manners and spill into a room silenced by the sheer outrage of it all. Another routine had me looking pointedly down at my feet as models – the would-be Naomi Campbells and Kate Mosses of the Kala Ghoda mini fest – scuttled around getting in each other’s way and forgetting their poses. The choreographer clutched her aching head in despair, the manager yelled, swore and vowed never to use amateurs again and the owner held my hand and muttered anguish into my ear. I coughed sadly, still pushing semi-hysterical laughter back into myself, and soon ran out, telling everyone I would see them the next day.

Light it up!

It is almost Diwali – in fact, the five-day long festival starts today. I like it, especially with the small lights dancing in windows all over the city. When they are electric lights, they are steady, constant, sometimes ‘running’ along the strings in a kind of disco effect. When they are oil-fired, there is a different and almost ageless beauty about them, as if they exist in some parallel world where life is slower and softer, with elephants instead of taxicabs and women in gorgeous silks and long, jasmine-scented hair. And even as the disco lights go on, sparking the nights with their ceaseless and syncopated rhythm of on-off-on-off, the darkened sky, the fireworks begin. From the shattering sounds of bombs blasting echoes against skyrises to the flash of rockets firing towards the treetops to the spray of colour that illuminates the horizon…it’s all about celebration, sound, light and prayer to invite in the gods and drive out evil.

And the lamp sellers are out in force all over the place. This morning, wandering through the market a few blocks from home, I saw small pottery diyas in so many different shapes and sizes. From the tiniest of cups to cradle a little oil and a wick to an elaborate configuration of seven lamps held together by a decorative peacock, it was all available on the sidewalk, the road, on small carts and on the steps of a large department store. From the plainest base terracotta to vividly painted patterns in red, green, yellow, pink, even fluorescent lime and purple…name it and you could match your lamps to anything – your eyes, your carpets, your paintwork, your deepest fantasies. Just ask and you shall find.

My favourite lamps have always been the purely traditional. The brass stem that branches into curves that support small lamps, the decorative bird or busty woman who stands at the very top, the floral carvings along the base, the burst of light as all the wicks are lit – all this comes from my roots as an Indian, a South Indian at that, cultured for generations in a bath of dance, music, prayer, ritual and the oil lamps that illuminate it all. But along the way I have also collected some lights that are in no way traditional. Blown glass cups to hold oil with a narrow stem to support the wick, curved silver ending in a bowl touched by gold where the flame burns steady, a tiny set of steps with an even tinier Ganesha peeking into the light, a small Jewish clay lamp, ball lamps that are a nightmare to clean, wee copper indentations that hold oil and wick…there are a few I like, a few I treasure and one or two that mean more than I can express in mere words. They are all now part of my heritage, my history, my legacy. And what make up the world of light that I always wish to be mine.

Come together!

When I first heard that Beatles classic, I was not aware that it had ramifications that were not as straightforward as I could make myself believe. Not then. Now I know, having had it pointed out to me by various people that life is not as clear and clean as I thought it was, that smut and innuendo is just part of the everyday game. Any which way, I choose to ignore almost all the seaminess and focus on what I want to see, rather than what there is to see. And at some stage, whenever, however soon or late in the game, it all comes together in one coherent image, making a statement of fact rather than imagination.

I was thinking these rather philosophical thoughts in the kitchen this morning, as I washed up the mugs used for morning coffee – or green tea, in my case. Call it kitchen philosophy or idle musing, I was getting deeper into the morass of my own creation when suddenly there was this enormous BURP from the pan of milk I had on the stove to boil. Startled out of my reverie, I looked stovewards and found to my horror that the milk, instead of being at a peaceful simmer, was seething, roiling, bursting into violent upheavals of white froth and iridescent bubbles, splashing over on to the counter and across it to the edge of my outstretched palm. Why I reached towards it I do not know, since I could hardly have imagined myself to be a modern-day feminine version of Canute trying to stop the tide…in vain, of course. But it was perhaps the first time ever that I had watched the process of milk curdling as it boiled, the solids causing the noise and fury of the whole event. Turned off, the pan and its contents were silent, peaceful, nothing to show that there was a Loch Ness-ian monster unleashed by science in my small kitchen.

In the way that the milk solids came together to form cottage cheese in its most basic form, life tends to go through violent upheavals and boils to finally settle into a semblance of delicious serenity. It is, for that moment, a feeling of completion that floods the being, as if the insomniac’s system had been invaded by chemicals that, finally, produced a gentle, undisturbed and restful sleep. My life has certainly been that way at regular intervals. From the most recent disturbance of being diagnosed with certain health problems to these being carefully treated to produce a new balance, from the violent upset of emotions and sensibilities brought up by death to the peace that follows its acceptance, from feeling bereft and alone to re-finding people you believed were important and necessary in your life even if they did not want to be part of it. It all is a process of churning, recreating, almost distilling, that leaves behind only what you want and need, not all the detritus that human relationships tends to throw up over time.

Kitchen philosophy, indeed!

Class act

Earlier this week I went to guest-teach a class in a journalism course. I had done it before, many years ago, and have done my share of teaching everything from dance to English to how to deal with recalcitrant veggies in an Indian curry (that was pure fantasy, believe me!) over the years and enjoyed it all thoroughly. So much so that when people told me that I should consider teaching as a side-line to journalism, I did spend a little while thinking about it…and then decided I liked wandering in to classes, spending time with students and then wandering out again, unfettered by the arduous responsibilities of setting exams, correcting papers, formulating assignments and – perhaps worst of all – maintaining a modicum of discipline in young people that I always hated to have imposed on me. In other words, eating my cake and having it too, playing and not putting my toys away, having fun without the fuss of being grown up about it.

So when my friend asked me whether I would be guest lecturer for her class, I agreed. This, in spite of the fact that I was not first choice for it, something that would normally have ticked me off enough to growl peevedly at both friend and idea when we met again…if ever, considering my usual mood about not being asked before anyone else. But this was a close enough friend, this was a fun enough request, and this was indeed something I could enjoy doing with a clear conscience and lots of potential for laughter. So after checking on the dress code – colleges in this city are getting strangely tough on what is considered ‘decent’ clothing – and making sure I was on the same track as my friend and her class, I was up and out bright and early Tuesday morning, with due apologies to my trainer for missing my gym regimen that day and the day before for different reasons. The ride was oddly easy; not much traffic to get my frazzle level up and not too hot to make stepping out of the air-conditioning of the car an unpleasantly sticky chore. We got there in time, cool, calm, collected and casually anticipatory.

Trotting breathlessly up three flights of stairs – blame it on a raging bronchial infection, not my lax gym routine of the week – behind my friend, we came across various young people, most of whom greeted my friend formally but with wide smiles. And as we walked into the large room that served as a classroom, there were more smiles, some with an added helping of curiosity directed at me, obviously a stranger to the place and rather incongruous in that setting, but seemingly part of the décor, for the day at least. I sat quietly as my friend went through her routine of checking attendance for the session, making her comments on those who were not present and putting in a little more warmth for a few that she seemed to have a soft spot for. And then she introduced me…very briefly, as I had asked for.

The class went well, or so I thought. The young people were bright, some more involved in the semester than others, almost all taking the class because it was an ‘easy’ grade perhaps, rather than out of pure interest. A few tried to hide behind their peers, one or two fading into a sort of coma that they hoped would make them invisible, all of them with ears perked as they realized that it was not that simple. After all, I had been a student too, and knew most of the tricks they were trying to use – those never change, I understand, since my parents also told me about them. They seemed to be absorbed, participating, keen to know more. But whether they enjoyed themselves as much as I did…you will have to ask them for that one!

Gimme red!

(Published yesterday...)

I got my first red lipstick when I was about 14 years old – perhaps a little too young for such a blatantly adult and seductive shade, but vital for a dance performance on stage, where red was about the only colour that looked decent in those brilliant arc lights and served well to show up every nuance of expression on the face and, more specifically, with every quiver of adolescent lips trying to speak of emotions they could not possibly have experienced at the time. The brand that I got was Lakme and the lovely true red did its trick not just for the dance, but for me. I felt grown up and strangely womanly, with a knowledge of dark secrets that every woman should have. Ever since, red has been a bon mot in my lipstick drawer.

Today, as I graze hopefully along the myriad cosmetic counters that stores all over the city have sprouted, I see brands that I once saw only on trips abroad or in fashion glossies. From Dior to Chanel, Clarins to Clinique, colour cosmetics with international labels are de rigueur in almost every make-up kit. And even as foundation and base have overtaken the lipsticks that women favour buying in a time of economic tightness, red lipstick has remained a symbol of almost-defiance, waiting in the fashion wings to re-emerge cyclically at regular intervals but never really vanishing completely. Now every cosmetic company offers up various shades of red in various forms, from liners to glosses, tints to long-stays, with names as seductive as Deborah’s Atomic Red Matte (Rs560), Lakme’s Nine to Five Red Hot (Rs375), Oriflame’s lip gloss crayon in Slightly Scarlet (Rs179) and Vision’s V Vibes Lip Gloss in Hottie (Rs129). There are the vaguely ‘toughie’ versions, most hard to find but well worth the hunt, with Dominatrix Red from Max Factor, Paloma Picasso’s true red ($35) embodied in that wonderful advertisement where she is all wicked red mouth, Rimmel London’s Lasting Finish Lipstick in Alarm, Red Reinvented from Revlon, Lady Danger from MAC, Red Lizard from Nars, Clinique’s long last soft matte Red Hot and Dior’s Red Premiere 752 (numbers always make me wonder what they stand for). All these are poised on shelves cheek by jowl with equivalents from Bourgeois (which you can find in stores here, at fairly high prices, but what lovely products!), Arcancil, Maybelline, Estee Lauder, Elizabeth Arden, Diana of London and others, including the more local Tips and Toes, the once easily available Biotique, and some that have entirely dubious origins and strange labels. There is, of course, stuff from Laura Mercier, Bobbi Brown, Rimmel, Yves St Laurent, and more names than can be articulated by my nicely reddened lips.

It is, I find, not really necessary to pay a lot of money to be beautiful. As dermatologist/cosmetologist Dr Rekha Sheth says, “There are cheaper branded products, since some brands do include less expensive product lines” in their formulation. “The active ingredient could cost less, so the price could come down.” However, she maintains that “Brands are much more reliable. Since the FDA approves the colours used – as in the primary pigment in red lipstick, for one – brands have to follow the set rules,” which does ensure a certain degree of quality control. She does warn that red, especially, can discolour the lips if used constantly. “And there are also too many cheap versions available,” some of which may not be advisable for use.

But, in addition to these cautions, like all things oddly naughty, red lipstick is not easy to wear. It needs to be meticulously applied, with neat liner limiting its outline, since the brilliance of the colour tends to bleed – which could make the user look as if she has had a vampiric feast. It cannot be married to darkly lined eyes unless the user has the chutzpah to carry it off. And it is traditionally a night-time, non-work-wear colour, though it does add a wonderful note of drama and assertiveness to any woman who struts her stuff at the office in it. Every woman should, at least once in a while. And that is not one of her secrets...

Sneaking around

After about six-plus months in the gym, it is time for that big move for me. New shoes. I did find the right red track pants and I have discovered a cache of T-shirts I never remembered I had, but I never really bothered about shoes, except that they needed to be on the right feet. But then my trusty old sneakers decided that they needed a break, almost literally, and have slowly been disintegrating. It is indeed unfortunate, as I would say in a very formal statement, that just when they are getting to that stage when they are supremely comfortable and are perfect to bash around in, they need to be put aside for walks in the slush or treks to the vegetable market or the like, while new, pristine and probably painful…at least until they have been properly broken in, by which time I would need to start the process all over again…shoes will need to be acquired and carefully looked after.

Having yielded to the inevitable, I decided that I had to take a deep breath and go for it, and hence the research began. I got advice from my trainer and from my soul sister, who is more a gym bunny than I will ever be. Get nicely padded soles, they both mandated, since those would help cushion my knee while I huffed and puffed along on the treadmill or did the dreaded step-ups or marched along solemnly as my gym coach counted – and cheated, and not to my advantage. Get shoes that are supportive of your ankle, Father said, while another friend suggested I aim for footwear that will not only last, but be affordable. Look for red, my inner self demanded, since that is a favourite colour. You better get something that looks good, someone else suggested, or else you will never like your feet while you work out and that is so not happening!

Completely confused, as I am wont to get, I dropped the whole idea for a few months. Until my shoes started protesting and even I could not stand to look down at my feet for too long. Strangely, it was around this time that it seemed as if everyone else in the gym had been shoe shopping and had spanking new sneakers, with lots of bells and whistles and colourful tabs attached. I was vaguely self-conscious and got out the brush and a damp cloth and cleaned up my shoes when I got home. But that was not enough. With every wipe, a little more leather – or was it? – peeled off and instead of getting shinier, the footwear seemed to show up all its shabbier spots. I steeled my inner self to ignore my fashion solecism and went on…running on the treadmill was easier with comfortable shoes, I told myself and huffed another minute longer than my track record (and, yes, breathing heavily does bring out the worst humour in all of us). And then it was inevitable. I could feel things through my soles and along the sides of my shoes. The inside cushioning was wearing out and that was just not a good state to be in. I could feel the impact of each step push a greater amount of pressure through to my hip and with a bad knee, it was not a good thing at all.

So once again the research was begun. For the last few days I have been in and out of more sports shops than I ever did in my whole life, even when I was in college and chilling out at the mall with my soul sister who wears and knows about more sports shoes than I know about red lipstick, which is plenty. While she would step in and out of shoes that you could run in, walk in, aerobicize in, calisthenicize in (yeah, well, I can make up words too, you know!), cycle in (she tends to prefer two wheels to two legs, for some strange reason) and do goodness knows what else in, I would wander off to wiggle my toes in gorgeous footwear that, who knows why, almost always tended to be red, strappy and raised four inches above the ground at the back, lifted on what could have sewn a hem on the finest muslin petticoat. Flat and I were not sole-mates.

But for now, I forge on with my investigations. I have seen more ugly shoes than ever before, with red stripes on grey, pink and blue chevrons, black and purple bubbles (for air, madam, the sales-boy told me a I gazed on in horror) and who knows what else in the way of colour, embellishment and ‘aerodynamic technology’. When I demand a plain white pair with no more than perhaps the manufacturing company logo, I am given all sorts of excuses, from the shoes not being suitable for gym workouts to them not being available in my size – okay, so that one is vaguely credible. And I find that ugliness and price are directly proportional, since the worse the shoes look, the more they seem to cost. But I have not given up or lost my faith in humanity, at least that section of it that designs sports shoes. Somewhere there is a pair of simple, neat, functional and entirely suitable sneakers waiting for me, without any stripes, bands, patches, chevrons or any other decoration, nice padded and cushioned on the inside, perfectly fitting my feet. All I would need to do is try them on and buy them, hopefully to last a while.

My search continues…

Sneaking around

After about six-plus months in the gym, it is time for that big move for me. New shoes. I did find the right red track pants and I have discovered a cache of T-shirts I never remembered I had, but I never really bothered about shoes, except that they needed to be on the right feet. But then my trusty old sneakers decided that they needed a break, almost literally, and have slowly been disintegrating. It is indeed unfortunate, as I would say in a very formal statement, that just when they are getting to that stage when they are supremely comfortable and are perfect to bash around in, they need to be put aside for walks in the slush or treks to the vegetable market or the like, while new, pristine and probably painful…at least until they have been properly broken in, by which time I would need to start the process all over again…shoes will need to be acquired and carefully looked after.

Having yielded to the inevitable, I decided that I had to take a deep breath and go for it, and hence the research began. I got advice from my trainer and from my soul sister, who is more a gym bunny than I will ever be. Get nicely padded soles, they both mandated, since those would help cushion my knee while I huffed and puffed along on the treadmill or did the dreaded step-ups or marched along solemnly as my gym coach counted – and cheated, and not to my advantage. Get shoes that are supportive of your ankle, Father said, while another friend suggested I aim for footwear that will not only last, but be affordable. Look for red, my inner self demanded, since that is a favourite colour. You better get something that looks good, someone else suggested, or else you will never like your feet while you work out and that is so not happening!

Completely confused, as I am wont to get, I dropped the whole idea for a few months. Until my shoes started protesting and even I could not stand to look down at my feet for too long. Strangely, it was around this time that it seemed as if everyone else in the gym had been shoe shopping and had spanking new sneakers, with lots of bells and whistles and colourful tabs attached. I was vaguely self-conscious and got out the brush and a damp cloth and cleaned up my shoes when I got home. But that was not enough. With every wipe, a little more leather – or was it? – peeled off and instead of getting shinier, the footwear seemed to show up all its shabbier spots. I steeled my inner self to ignore my fashion solecism and went on…running on the treadmill was easier with comfortable shoes, I told myself and huffed another minute longer than my track record (and, yes, breathing heavily does bring out the worst humour in all of us). And then it was inevitable. I could feel things through my soles and along the sides of my shoes. The inside cushioning was wearing out and that was just not a good state to be in. I could feel the impact of each step push a greater amount of pressure through to my hip and with a bad knee, it was not a good thing at all.

So once again the research was begun. For the last few days I have been in and out of more sports shops than I ever did in my whole life, even when I was in college and chilling out at the mall with my soul sister who wears and knows about more sports shoes than I know about red lipstick, which is plenty. While she would step in and out of shoes that you could run in, walk in, aerobicize in, calisthenicize in (yeah, well, I can make up words too, you know!), cycle in (she tends to prefer two wheels to two legs, for some strange reason) and do goodness knows what else in, I would wander off to wiggle my toes in gorgeous footwear that, who knows why, almost always tended to be red, strappy and raised four inches above the ground at the back, lifted on what could have sewn a hem on the finest muslin petticoat. Flat and I were not sole-mates.

But for now, I forge on with my investigations. I have seen more ugly shoes than ever before, with red stripes on grey, pink and blue chevrons, black and purple bubbles (for air, madam, the sales-boy told me a I gazed on in horror) and who knows what else in the way of colour, embellishment and ‘aerodynamic technology’. When I demand a plain white pair with no more than perhaps the manufacturing company logo, I am given all sorts of excuses, from the shoes not being suitable for gym workouts to them not being available in my size – okay, so that one is vaguely credible. And I find that ugliness and price are directly proportional, since the worse the shoes look, the more they seem to cost. But I have not given up or lost my faith in humanity, at least that section of it that designs sports shoes. Somewhere there is a pair of simple, neat, functional and entirely suitable sneakers waiting for me, without any stripes, bands, patches, chevrons or any other decoration, nice padded and cushioned on the inside, perfectly fitting my feet. All I would need to do is try them on and buy them, hopefully to last a while.

My search continues…

If life was a beach…

(Published yesterday...)

…I would have dry towels. Blame it on the monsoon, but my towels never dry fully. Neither does anything else, not unless it is almost pure polyester or some other drip dry fabric that practically repels water and seems like manna from the gods of mercy against mildew. So doing laundry during the three-odd months that it rains in Mumbai can be a nightmarish experience. Things tend to get dirty easily, what with all the mud around, and need to be washed regularly, but never seem to dry completely so that they can be stored. Towels, especially, since they need to be used more, are constantly made damp after baths, hand washes, drying dishes, whatever. And since they are part of the hygiene process, they need to be clean, both visibly and otherwise.

So just before the monsoon every year I have a good scrabble through the linen closet. With Small Cat burrowing into piles of sheets, ambushing me from under heaps of sandalwood-scented blankets and leaping over stacks of pillowcases, I work hard to sort the towels-that-dry from towels-that-never-dry-enough. The first to make the latter type are the new acquisitions; like new handkerchiefs, new towels seem to be waterproofed in some way, perhaps with starch or some kind of fabric softener that makes them appealingly fluffy and soft, just what you always want in a towel that you will wrap yourself in. Be it various Turkish towel offerings from Bombay Dyeing, Welspun, store brands and more esoteric ware from high-street boutique home-stores, all priced between about Rs 99 to Rs 2,500, it is only after a couple of washes, and vigorous ones at that, that the fabric becomes truly absorbent, mopping up whatever moisture it is required to mop up, be it just-washed dishes or bodies. And gradually, the older they get, the rougher they tend to become, providing a delicious scouring of skin as they wipe away all those beads of water. Just when you have them at that perfect consistency, when they wipe, rub and then line-dry without too much aggravation, it is time to turn them into dusters or use them to line the linen closet where they once occupied pride of place. Some towels have a synthetic component. They dry fast. But they do not feel like they mop up quite as well as the real thing.

But tradition – as is often the case – has the answer to this problem, at least for me. The thorthamundus, thin cotton bath sheets that are used in south India (often seen in Malayalam movies wrapped around the women’s freshly washed hair), are perfect for this time of year, or any time that there actually is rain. They vary in quality from loosely woven roughness that has raw edges and uneven texture, to more fine pieces that have a neat ‘temple’ style motif at each corner, usually in red or green, are nicely finished at the hems and thicker, finer and more regular in the weave. These useful swathes are generally found in stores in the south Indian strongholds of the city, like Venkateshwara Stores and Mahalakshmi Stores in Matunga, branches of Cooptex, and various other outlets. They are now also available at Fabindia outlets. They may seem inadequate or not very chic, but serve their purpose well, as they have done for generations, mop up moisture, dry off quickly in a gentle breeze and can double up as a mini-mundu, mini-lungi or lower body covering, at a pinch. Maybe Ranbir Kapoor should have used one of these when he had his big towel moment.

Blood letting

I had to go for a blood test this morning. Which meant that for the last few days, ever since my doctor demanded that a undergo a series of analyses to figure out just why whatever happened to me keeps happening to me, I have been so stressed that my allergies have been acting up big time, which has been making it all such a delightful experience. All that apart, I headed out, Father in tow for moral support, at the crack of dawn this morning to be perforated and donate much of my hard-earned corpuscles to the cause of science and, hopefully, a solution to my various problems, none of which are of any major importance, but all of which are niggling irritants.

So there I was at the hospital, waiting for the process to begin. I started with the pathology department, which to me seemed logical. There I was directed, with a friendly smile, to the accounts department, which is where it all happens – pay and you get what you need, as the mantra goes anywhere in the world. I beamed happily at the lady behind the counter (choose the most intelligent looking person, Father instructed) and she whizzed about clacking keys on her computer and looking bright eyed on whatever she managed to pull up on the screen. Things were moving along briskly and seemingly efficiently. And then we hit a snag. A fairly major one, considering the look on the lady’s face. She looked up at me, smiled sweetly, leaned over and asked her neighbour something, then looked at me again, a tint of apology in her smile, and clacked at more keys, this time a little faster. And then shrugged to herself, looked at me, smiled once more and launched into her explanation.

It turned out that her computer did not list the tests my doctor had indicated I needed to have done. Well, not all of them, at least. So she had to ask around until she figured out what she had to do, during which I had to please sit down on the alarmingly squashy sofa placed against the wall over there, she waved her arm. Obediently, I did, Father close behind me. We waited, smiled occasionally at the still confused lady and waited some more. Finally, inspiration seemed to waft over the telephone connection and some oracle gave her the information she needed. The smile was relieved this time and we trotted over to pay and then continue on our quest. All the requisite papers signed, we walked back to the pathology section, handed in the forms and waited. Finally, when it was my turn, I sat down on the little desk-chair, closed the flap, stretched out my arm and waited, feeling like a prisoner asking for her last meal of, I devoutly hoped, the best chocolate money could buy.

But it was not to be that simple. The lady at the computer found that the cashier’s receipt and the list of tests I needed to have done did not match. We went through a series of smiles, ranging from the friendly to the curious to the apologetic to the resigned. Finally, she gave me another slip of paper that detailed the omissions, told me I had to go back to the accounts department once the blood collection was done, and then I could send the receipt for that further payment back to her while I trotted off to wherever I was headed thereafter. I smiled once more, this time with a certain generous dose of trepidation attached, since it was at last the moment of truth for me: would the needle, the technician and my usually uncooperative vein behave themselves or cause me undue discomfort…once again?

It was a cinch, literally and otherwise. The smiling – why do people who are associated with anything bloody have such sweet smiles? – technician pushed up the short sleeve of my T-shirt, tied his band around my upper arm, cinched it tight and patted the vein that pulsed blue in the bend of my elbow. He inserted a needle so deftly that I barely felt more than a little and very gently cold point against my skin. Then he proceeded to fill many tubes with richly deeply dark red liquid that was my lifeblood, smiling all the while, but with no vestige of that dire Dracula-like show of teeth that the breed of blood-workers often delight in. I had been most apprehensive for no reason. Pulling the needle out of my arm was a process that I felt quite sharply, but not overly painfully, and it was done. Perhaps the most adverse reaction I had was that the skin of my inner elbow did not like the sticky tape that was placed on the spot the needle had gone in, but that is nothing new. I am allergic to almost everything. Which is why I went through this morning at all!

Democratic rights

I had a strange morning today. Coming out the gym, my clothes and hair steaming gently in the unexpectedly sharp burst of sunshine after too many days made gloomy by rain and heavy clouds looming threateningly overhead, I finished my ritual call home and started the trek to get through my errands. They were not many, but they were must-dos. I started at the local grocery store, the Apna Bazaar. Doing a quick whizz though the aisles, I picked up some of the things I felt at that moment to be vital to my existence, and then proceeded to the checkout. All the clerks were people I had seen before, that we occasionally had a brief chat with, that we exchanged civilities with if we saw them outside the store. They have all been unfailingly polite and friendly, accommodating to their limits and helpful as far as they were able. But today came as a bit of a shock.

I got my bill and handed over a Rs500 note. Not something I generally carry when I go to the gym, since I rarely need more money than a few rupees, perhaps just enough to buy a loaf of bread or take an autorickshaw home if I need to. Today I had some shopping in mind, needed to get change and decided to combine the two to make life easier for me later on. I did have enough change to pay for my purchases, but was saving that for vegetables further on my walk home. This has never been a problem, at least not an unsurmountable one. Today, it was. The lady at the checkout counter I chose was obviously not having a good day, what little of it had passed. She stared at me and refused the note. Get change, she demanded. It was not an unreasonable request, but it was not made in that tone of voice. It was rude and harsh and, at that moment, shocking. If I had thought about it, I would have walked out. If I had thought about it, I would have retorted. If I had thought about it, I would have created enough of a stink to have the woman severely castigated by her manager in full public view. But I was too shocked to respond and all I could do was wait for my mind to start working again. Eventually, I found the change I needed, paid, collected my groceries and left.

From there I went on to the local polling office. There has been a drive recently to update all election data, from identity information to voter ID cards. Having tried to get one before, and having failed, I almost decided that it was too much of a bother to try again, but then thought that it would be a useful piece of identification to have, instead of having to carry about my PAN card or passport or even driving license as proof of my existence. So I hustled poor Father into filling in forms and getting all the supporting paperwork in order and carried the completed package over to the office today. No surprise, the place was packed out, with men sitting on chairs even as women stood and waited. I stood and waited too, for a little while. Gradually, as the sting of the Apna Bazaar incident started making its annoying little niggle felt, I decided to let go my need to be democratic and wait my turn, and barged into the small office. Some large man tried to push in front of me and I turned, glared up at him and told him in my most impeccable American accent that he would need to wait his turn.

It seemed to work. The large man did try and make his presence felt at my back, but I made a nasty remark to the official in charge, who then asked the gent to step back. The official checked all my papers, asked for one more copy of supporting documents; then, perhaps seeing the fed-up glower on my already annoyed and still gently sweaty face, he sent one of his minions to get the copy and tried to refuse to accept the trivial payment for it. If there is anything else, I told him sweetly, firmly, in English, I could send my driver with the papers, since I had to get to work, I was a journalist, you see. The minor lie worked better than I had ever seen it do before. There was a flurry of yes madams and my work was done, without my needing to stand in line for the proper counter or do any more running about. All I needed was the right snootiness and a little cold staring to do the job, better and easier than I could have expected.

Which makes me think that it is not surprising that my country, the one that I am so proud of and will always prefer to any other, is not in the league of most progressive, best developed or top of the heap of nations in the world. But then, if we list the number of influential people we have or, best of all, who our fathers are, maybe we could even manage to get there…soon.

Democratic rights

I had a strange morning today. Coming out the gym, my clothes and hair steaming gently in the unexpectedly sharp burst of sunshine after too many days made gloomy by rain and heavy clouds looming threateningly overhead, I finished my ritual call home and started the trek to get through my errands. They were not many, but they were must-dos. I started at the local grocery store, the Apna Bazaar. Doing a quick whizz though the aisles, I picked up some of the things I felt at that moment to be vital to my existence, and then proceeded to the checkout. All the clerks were people I had seen before, that we occasionally had a brief chat with, that we exchanged civilities with if we saw them outside the store. They have all been unfailingly polite and friendly, accommodating to their limits and helpful as far as they were able. But today came as a bit of a shock.

I got my bill and handed over a Rs500 note. Not something I generally carry when I go to the gym, since I rarely need more money than a few rupees, perhaps just enough to buy a loaf of bread or take an autorickshaw home if I need to. Today I had some shopping in mind, needed to get change and decided to combine the two to make life easier for me later on. I did have enough change to pay for my purchases, but was saving that for vegetables further on my walk home. This has never been a problem, at least not an unsurmountable one. Today, it was. The lady at the checkout counter I chose was obviously not having a good day, what little of it had passed. She stared at me and refused the note. Get change, she demanded. It was not an unreasonable request, but it was not made in that tone of voice. It was rude and harsh and, at that moment, shocking. If I had thought about it, I would have walked out. If I had thought about it, I would have retorted. If I had thought about it, I would have created enough of a stink to have the woman severely castigated by her manager in full public view. But I was too shocked to respond and all I could do was wait for my mind to start working again. Eventually, I found the change I needed, paid, collected my groceries and left.

From there I went on to the local polling office. There has been a drive recently to update all election data, from identity information to voter ID cards. Having tried to get one before, and having failed, I almost decided that it was too much of a bother to try again, but then thought that it would be a useful piece of identification to have, instead of having to carry about my PAN card or passport or even driving license as proof of my existence. So I hustled poor Father into filling in forms and getting all the supporting paperwork in order and carried the completed package over to the office today. No surprise, the place was packed out, with men sitting on chairs even as women stood and waited. I stood and waited too, for a little while. Gradually, as the sting of the Apna Bazaar incident started making its annoying little niggle felt, I decided to let go my need to be democratic and wait my turn, and barged into the small office. Some large man tried to push in front of me and I turned, glared up at him and told him in my most impeccable American accent that he would need to wait his turn.

It seemed to work. The large man did try and make his presence felt at my back, but I made a nasty remark to the official in charge, who then asked the gent to step back. The official checked all my papers, asked for one more copy of supporting documents; then, perhaps seeing the fed-up glower on my already annoyed and still gently sweaty face, he sent one of his minions to get the copy and tried to refuse to accept the trivial payment for it. If there is anything else, I told him sweetly, firmly, in English, I could send my driver with the papers, since I had to get to work, I was a journalist, you see. The minor lie worked better than I had ever seen it do before. There was a flurry of yes madams and my work was done, without my needing to stand in line for the proper counter or do any more running about. All I needed was the right snootiness and a little cold staring to do the job, better and easier than I could have expected.

Which makes me think that it is not surprising that my country, the one that I am so proud of and will always prefer to any other, is not in the league of most progressive, best developed or top of the heap of nations in the world. But then, if we list the number of influential people we have or, best of all, who our fathers are, maybe we could even manage to get there…soon.

Reality bytes

The television show Sach Ka Saamna, based on the international Moment Of Truth, has run into some hot water. The contestants on Iss Jungle Se Mujhe Bachao, the Indian version of I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here, have run into more creepy-crawlies and yucky gunk than they are used to dealing with and want more hot water (among other things), or else they will get out of there. And all other reality shows have a strangely déjà vu flavour, like you have seen them before on other reality shows. Which is not a huge problem, except that the “other reality shows” are actually any other reality show, since there are so many of them being beamed – some not too happily – into homes all over this great and glorious country. Some have been stopped because of woefully low viewership, others have legal blocks, some never found participants and a few faded gently out into the sunset by themselves, gracefully knowing when to stop, usually before TRPs sank so low that they needed to be revived to exit.

I rarely watch reality shows unless they involve some degree of song and, more relevant for me, dance. My favourites are American Idol and Jhalak Dikhla Jaa – the latter I had to learn to like, since I was working on a project based on the show and needed to be semi-intelligent about what was going on each week. I also sat through episodes of Saas vs Bahu (dreadful dance! Though the judges were occasionally fun), Zara Nachke Dikha (where everyone behaved badly, Malaika wore little and most of the significant cast from a funny hospital drama currently on seemed to be there in some form), Dance India Dance and more that I cannot possibly remember the names of. I did watch some of Saroj Khan’s Nachle Ve, mainly because I had just met her and found her fabulous. And I tried to peep into Entertainment Ke Liye Kuch Bhi Karega, more because I had spoken to Farah Khan only a few days earlier and liked her blunt matter-of-factness and professionalism. I was fascinated by the people who contorted their bodies into strange configurations, but was so put off by the burping contest that two wannabe entertainers had that I never had the nerve to switch to that particular channel again. Horrors!

But somehow I never could watch anything with bugs. As in, real live insects, creeping and crawling all over some poor misguided individuals who would do almost anything to be in the limelight and win some shekels. So Khatron Ke Khiladi never made it to my must-see list, neither has Iss Jungle… I could never watch people being made to squirm or cry or otherwise feel like they should never have agreed to do that show. And so things like Moment Of Truth and its Indian equivalent – which the audiences are said to like, but the courts object to – are no-nos. I did sit through a bit of the celebrity shows, from the Amitabh Bachchan-helmed Kaun Banega Crorepati, the Shah Rukh Khan avatar of the same game and his Kya Aap Paanchvi Paas Se Tez Hain?, Govinda’s Chappar Phaad Ke, something really awful with Manisha Koirala - and was it Anupam Kher? - and, of course, Salman Khan’s Dus Ka Dum which, frankly, is the best of the lot, his strange grin and his even stranger accent notwithstanding. But they are classic time-pass, that wonderful typically Mumbaiyya descriptor that covers anything without much sense and some entertainment value.

So what is a good reality show? Who knows! One that people watch right through, would be a good answer to that one. Like American Idol, like even Indian Idol, like who knows what else makes viewers want to eat super-fast or delay dinner to sit on the sofa and become glued to the small screen, bug-eyed, open-mouthed and rivetted. For me, I know what works. And I will stick with that, thank you very much!

Reality bytes

The television show Sach Ka Saamna, based on the international Moment Of Truth, has run into some hot water. The contestants on Iss Jungle Se Mujhe Bachao, the Indian version of I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here, have run into more creepy-crawlies and yucky gunk than they are used to dealing with and want more hot water (among other things), or else they will get out of there. And all other reality shows have a strangely déjà vu flavour, like you have seen them before on other reality shows. Which is not a huge problem, except that the “other reality shows” are actually any other reality show, since there are so many of them being beamed – some not too happily – into homes all over this great and glorious country. Some have been stopped because of woefully low viewership, others have legal blocks, some never found participants and a few faded gently out into the sunset by themselves, gracefully knowing when to stop, usually before TRPs sank so low that they needed to be revived to exit.

I rarely watch reality shows unless they involve some degree of song and, more relevant for me, dance. My favourites are American Idol and Jhalak Dikhla Jaa – the latter I had to learn to like, since I was working on a project based on the show and needed to be semi-intelligent about what was going on each week. I also sat through episodes of Saas vs Bahu (dreadful dance! Though the judges were occasionally fun), Zara Nachke Dikha (where everyone behaved badly, Malaika wore little and most of the significant cast from a funny hospital drama currently on seemed to be there in some form), Dance India Dance and more that I cannot possibly remember the names of. I did watch some of Saroj Khan’s Nachle Ve, mainly because I had just met her and found her fabulous. And I tried to peep into Entertainment Ke Liye Kuch Bhi Karega, more because I had spoken to Farah Khan only a few days earlier and liked her blunt matter-of-factness and professionalism. I was fascinated by the people who contorted their bodies into strange configurations, but was so put off by the burping contest that two wannabe entertainers had that I never had the nerve to switch to that particular channel again. Horrors!

But somehow I never could watch anything with bugs. As in, real live insects, creeping and crawling all over some poor misguided individuals who would do almost anything to be in the limelight and win some shekels. So Khatron Ke Khiladi never made it to my must-see list, neither has Iss Jungle… I could never watch people being made to squirm or cry or otherwise feel like they should never have agreed to do that show. And so things like Moment Of Truth and its Indian equivalent – which the audiences are said to like, but the courts object to – are no-nos. I did sit through a bit of the celebrity shows, from the Amitabh Bachchan-helmed Kaun Banega Crorepati, the Shah Rukh Khan avatar of the same game and his Kya Aap Paanchvi Paas Se Tez Hain?, Govinda’s Chappar Phaad Ke, something really awful with Manisha Koirala - and was it Anupam Kher? - and, of course, Salman Khan’s Dus Ka Dum which, frankly, is the best of the lot, his strange grin and his even stranger accent notwithstanding. But they are classic time-pass, that wonderful typically Mumbaiyya descriptor that covers anything without much sense and some entertainment value.

So what is a good reality show? Who knows! One that people watch right through, would be a good answer to that one. Like American Idol, like even Indian Idol, like who knows what else makes viewers want to eat super-fast or delay dinner to sit on the sofa and become glued to the small screen, bug-eyed, open-mouthed and rivetted. For me, I know what works. And I will stick with that, thank you very much!

In continuation....

Someone asked me a couple of days ago whether I still do a blog. It took me a few moments to think about that one. Do I? Considering that a blog is supposed to be a regular input online and that I have often scoffed at those who purport to blog and update theirs only about once a year, I have been most remiss indeed. But that is how life overtakes you when you least expect it to – you are there, minding your own business, and suddenly a crisis of sorts rolls over you and you are left wondering what happened, when, how, why and all the other questions you would have asked when you had the time and energy to ask.

Which is what has been sorely lacking with me for a while now. When there is time, the energy levels are too low for comfort and when there is great energy and gung-ho, I have things that have to be done NOW, leaving no time for that thing called a blog which I started some years ago with such enthusiasm. Problem is – or was – a bug that wormed itself into my system and refused to go away for way too long. It still pops in every other day to remind me what it was like to be visited full time by its exalted self. In simple language, I got a fever that developed into bronchitis and staggered about for a while before taking to my bed and feeling like I had been run over by a steamroller and had lost my legs and any volition to move more than one muscle at a time in the process. And I coughed my way sadly through the week…fortnight?...and more, feeling like there was something nasty in my chest (which there was) and wondering why it couldn’t just go away.

When I finally mustered up enough energy to get up and go - to wherever, from the gym to lunch with a friend to shopping for groceries to a business meeting – my time management had got up and gone. Deadlines were breathing heavily and hotly down my unsuspecting neck and those had to be dealt with before any frivolities like blogs and eyebrow grooming could be thought of. As I plucked out that elusive stray hair from just above my left brow and said a mean word as it hurt like the dickens (I did think of a ruder phrase, but this blogsphere is a family space), I decided that in all that needed to be left out for the time being, a blog would top that list. And it has. As always, I promise to be more regular, time, weather and adrenaline permitting, but who knows what Fate will throw at me next.

Gasp wheeze cough!

Ok, so there is always an excuse. For not updating a blog, that is. But this time it is a genuine one, with due apologies and many sad noises attached.
About two weeks ago, I was wondering why life was not as it should be. Not philosophically speaking, but existentially so. Everything seemed to be falling apart. Work projects were coming to an end – or so I thought, more fool me – my mobile phone, the beloved instrument that I cherished for almost five years, was starting to hiccup miserably and my legs hurt more than my gym trainer’s toughness warranted. I was tired, dragging and feeling unwontedly tearful, with nothing to justify it, not PMS, not any fight with Father, no weepy movie on the telly…nothing. And then it all hit the fan.

My mobile phone died. I had bought it almost five years ago after falling instantly in love with it at the shop. It was a design statement, it was small, it was fabulously comfortable to hold and functionally more efficient than my own sense of organization. And it had been with me, doing its job magnificently, through one of the worst periods in my personal history. But it was old, not made any more and un-fixable. It is not in the great mobile phone department in the sky, far away from me, never to be used again. Of course, at that stage, the eternal debate was reopened: Should I get a new one, should I use an old one that did its job but satisfied none of my aesthetic requirements, or should I just do without, in a sort of anti-established-norm-of-society kind of way? The jury is still out on that one, though I have appropriated my father’s handset for the time being. Of course, my family being the sort it is, a new phone has been scoped out and is being argued over. Whether I do buy it or not depends entirely on what life brings me over the next few days.

But worse than that, I decided that I would have a minor breakdown in my system on the same day as my mobile phone went to the shop. It started out with aching legs, which could not be explained by a gym routine or a disturbed night of sleeplessness. The ache spread to the head and the back and generally diffused all over. Classic symptoms of influenza. The fever came, stayed for a while and then settled nicely in my chest to give me a bad case of bronchitis. I coughed, I gasped, I wheezed, I hacked and raled and generally was more miserable than anyone deserves to be. I stayed at home for a whole week, not even going out into the lobby outside my front door. And my trainer called at regular intervals to find out what was going on, my mobile phone never rang to bother me – of course, it was as sick as I was! – and I slept a great deal, tottered about having small arguments with Father and Small Cat and felt like I had been run through the super-spin cycle of a washing machine and hung out, limp and exhausted, to drip dry.

Unfortunate as it may sound, things have been improving. I am finally getting back to routine, with gentle gym regimens and the will to do more gaining ground every day. So I still am not especially interested in food, and neither do I want to do very much, but at least I do not feel limp and washed out, however I may look to my own eyes as I peep furtively into the mirror. When I get back my usual level of need to devour dark chocolate fudge or feel like whirling about doing sixty-four things at the same time, I will be completely over this bug. But, in all this misery, not once did I say “Oink!”, I tell my concerned friends cheerfully!

The waiting game

I have always hated waiting. Which is why I have a rather interesting bruise on my leg now. Being the impatient type, I pulled a weight off a bar at the gym a couple of days ago but forgot the cardinal rule of such actions: always watch what you are doing. But, as always, I was in a hurry, yanked at the heavy ring, got distracted by a lovely BMW edging into its parking space downstairs and did not see that there was a minor weight blocking the way of the heavier weight I was after. Et voila! It shaved past my leg, narrowly missed my littlest toe and bumped to the floor with a loudish thud that attracted more attention to my silliness than I would have liked. I got yelled at by my trainer, who had stopped for a moment to correct someone’s position and wanted to know why I was in such a rush; I got yelled at by another trainer who normally takes my measurements once a month who pulled me away from the rapidly descending weight; and I got yelled at by the muscle in my mid-calf which is now turning a delightful shade of deep blue.

But that is not why I am gently complaining. Bumps, bruises and aches have been a part of my life ever since I learned how to walk and probably during that process as well. What I am really grouching about is the fact that I seem to spend a great deal of my time waiting. Which I hate doing. As a result, I run madly from hither to yon and further afield trying to catch up with myself and rarely taking time off to smell the…well…roses, except that in this weather and in Mumbai, roses are found more in florist shops than in gardens. And even if I do pause to take a deep sniff, I am usually en route to doing something else, which means that there is a deadline and a definite time frame for it all.

I think that is where the problem is. I seem to be on that perennial watch-the clock runabout, causing me to fall up stairs, bash various parts of my anatomy on whatever hurdle happens to be in my path and generally be more self-destructive than I need to be. And even that is not the problem. The real problem here is that I rarely find anyone else on the same kind of deadline-run mode as I am. Which means that while I have it all planned, those plans hardly ever fit in with anyone else’s, which leads me back to where I started – waiting. Right now, it is for someone to send me an important email. Most of the time, it is for people to call back when they say they will, which they never do. And some of the time it is for the milk to boil, the maid to arrive, the courier to ring the bell, the vet to call, the dentist to switch on the gizmo that makes your whole jaw rattle in that horrible way, the tailor to finish that blouse, the lead story for the edit page to be approved, the article for the cover to be sent…it is that endless cycle that makes my teeth clench and my nerves start their inevitable frazzle.

And for some reason, I never can fit in with deadlines that I do not set. If someone says ten minutes, I look for that ten minute interval to be over. If someone says next week, I expect next week to happen – which it will, though whatever is to happen that next week rarely does. If someone says ‘soon’, I get terribly wound up into a tight knot, never knowing when the soon will come, but knowing that I will, invariably, inevtibly, have to wait for it.

The waiting game

I have always hated waiting. Which is why I have a rather interesting bruise on my leg now. Being the impatient type, I pulled a weight off a bar at the gym a couple of days ago but forgot the cardinal rule of such actions: always watch what you are doing. But, as always, I was in a hurry, yanked at the heavy ring, got distracted by a lovely BMW edging into its parking space downstairs and did not see that there was a minor weight blocking the way of the heavier weight I was after. Et voila! It shaved past my leg, narrowly missed my littlest toe and bumped to the floor with a loudish thud that attracted more attention to my silliness than I would have liked. I got yelled at by my trainer, who had stopped for a moment to correct someone’s position and wanted to know why I was in such a rush; I got yelled at by another trainer who normally takes my measurements once a month who pulled me away from the rapidly descending weight; and I got yelled at by the muscle in my mid-calf which is now turning a delightful shade of deep blue.

But that is not why I am gently complaining. Bumps, bruises and aches have been a part of my life ever since I learned how to walk and probably during that process as well. What I am really grouching about is the fact that I seem to spend a great deal of my time waiting. Which I hate doing. As a result, I run madly from hither to yon and further afield trying to catch up with myself and rarely taking time off to smell the…well…roses, except that in this weather and in Mumbai, roses are found more in florist shops than in gardens. And even if I do pause to take a deep sniff, I am usually en route to doing something else, which means that there is a deadline and a definite time frame for it all.

I think that is where the problem is. I seem to be on that perennial watch-the clock runabout, causing me to fall up stairs, bash various parts of my anatomy on whatever hurdle happens to be in my path and generally be more self-destructive than I need to be. And even that is not the problem. The real problem here is that I rarely find anyone else on the same kind of deadline-run mode as I am. Which means that while I have it all planned, those plans hardly ever fit in with anyone else’s, which leads me back to where I started – waiting. Right now, it is for someone to send me an important email. Most of the time, it is for people to call back when they say they will, which they never do. And some of the time it is for the milk to boil, the maid to arrive, the courier to ring the bell, the vet to call, the dentist to switch on the gizmo that makes your whole jaw rattle in that horrible way, the tailor to finish that blouse, the lead story for the edit page to be approved, the article for the cover to be sent…it is that endless cycle that makes my teeth clench and my nerves start their inevitable frazzle.

And for some reason, I never can fit in with deadlines that I do not set. If someone says ten minutes, I look for that ten minute interval to be over. If someone says next week, I expect next week to happen – which it will, though whatever is to happen that next week rarely does. If someone says ‘soon’, I get terribly wound up into a tight knot, never knowing when the soon will come, but knowing that I will, invariably, inevtibly, have to wait for it.

The waiting game

I have always hated waiting. Which is why I have a rather interesting bruise on my leg now. Being the impatient type, I pulled a weight off a bar at the gym a couple of days ago but forgot the cardinal rule of such actions: always watch what you are doing. But, as always, I was in a hurry, yanked at the heavy ring, got distracted by a lovely BMW edging into its parking space downstairs and did not see that there was a minor weight blocking the way of the heavier weight I was after. Et voila! It shaved past my leg, narrowly missed my littlest toe and bumped to the floor with a loudish thud that attracted more attention to my silliness than I would have liked. I got yelled at by my trainer, who had stopped for a moment to correct someone’s position and wanted to know why I was in such a rush; I got yelled at by another trainer who normally takes my measurements once a month who pulled me away from the rapidly descending weight; and I got yelled at by the muscle in my mid-calf which is now turning a delightful shade of deep blue.

But that is not why I am gently complaining. Bumps, bruises and aches have been a part of my life ever since I learned how to walk and probably during that process as well. What I am really grouching about is the fact that I seem to spend a great deal of my time waiting. Which I hate doing. As a result, I run madly from hither to yon and further afield trying to catch up with myself and rarely taking time off to smell the…well…roses, except that in this weather and in Mumbai, roses are found more in florist shops than in gardens. And even if I do pause to take a deep sniff, I am usually en route to doing something else, which means that there is a deadline and a definite time frame for it all.

I think that is where the problem is. I seem to be on that perennial watch-the clock runabout, causing me to fall up stairs, bash various parts of my anatomy on whatever hurdle happens to be in my path and generally be more self-destructive than I need to be. And even that is not the problem. The real problem here is that I rarely find anyone else on the same kind of deadline-run mode as I am. Which means that while I have it all planned, those plans hardly ever fit in with anyone else’s, which leads me back to where I started – waiting. Right now, it is for someone to send me an important email. Most of the time, it is for people to call back when they say they will, which they never do. And some of the time it is for the milk to boil, the maid to arrive, the courier to ring the bell, the vet to call, the dentist to switch on the gizmo that makes your whole jaw rattle in that horrible way, the tailor to finish that blouse, the lead story for the edit page to be approved, the article for the cover to be sent…it is that endless cycle that makes my teeth clench and my nerves start their inevitable frazzle.

And for some reason, I never can fit in with deadlines that I do not set. If someone says ten minutes, I look for that ten minute interval to be over. If someone says next week, I expect next week to happen – which it will, though whatever is to happen that next week rarely does. If someone says ‘soon’, I get terribly wound up into a tight knot, never knowing when the soon will come, but knowing that I will, invariably, inevtibly, have to wait for it.

Here comes the rain again… NOT!

(Published yesterday...)

They said it would rain; then they said it would not. And it has not. Maybe the plains in Spain are as soggy as we should be right now, who knows. But as we wait – in vain, so far – we can take time off to contemplate the higher things in life. Like the dry skies above, karma and that sheltering canopy over our not-yet-drizzled-on heads: the umbrella.

I feel occasionally a bit like Renuka, wife of the sage Jamadagni, who got into a bit of a contretemps with the sun – she took too long to retrieve his arrows one hot and sunny afternoon and blamed the God Surya and his scorching rays for the delay, the Mahabharata says. Being a rather testy kind of chap, the sage shot an arrow at the sun who, a trifle nervous at an attack of this sort, offered the lady an umbrella. And thus was born that now ubiquitous shelter against sun and rain alike. It is seen through the world as a symbol of honorific or royalty, from the ancient Siam to Egypt, from South America to China, Africa and beyond. Locally, Maharashtrian culture salutes the umbrella, used to endow deserving folks with the honour of royal lineage or god-like qualities, and has the title of Chhatrapati, or Lord of the Umbrella, for the Maratha prices – Shivaji among them.

Many years ago, when I was a mere child, I decided I would play with my mother’s parasol. It had that typical Japanese curve and shaded from the palest cream into a peachy pink. For a small girl, it was fascinatingly pretty, and for a child who took things like clocks and pens apart to see what made them work, it was a surefire magnet. Waiting for Mother to look the other way, I managed to grab the parasol, open it and, to the orchestration of youthful caterwauling, got my hand stuck in its mechanism. There was blood and tears and lots of ice cream, but thenceforth there was also a lifelong aversion to anything that even faintly resembled an umbrella.

So when the monsoon threatened to arrive this year, it came time to check the general state of protection in our household. Since I travelled more by car than any-how else and since an umbrella would be more convenient than a raincoat for my morning trek to and from the gym, I had to find one. I found many that were…well…boring. You could take a walk down any street in the rain and see many of these bobbing above your head. The names were familiar – Stag from Ebrahim Currim, Sun, MH International, Shree Datta and more. There were newsprint umbrellas, and candy-striped ones, Disney cartoon characters, clear plastic, polka dots, block colours and an occasional rainbow swirl, all priced between Rs99 and Rs450. I gulped as I gazed at a Burberry classic umbrella for ‘price on request’, which generally means that you would not want to take it out in the pouring rain. I found a neat confection that had a little light inside it that you could switch on to read with – why would you want to read in a rainstorm, I was asked. I dug through the lofts at home to locate a laquered bamboo piece from Japan via Geneva that would probably melt in the rain, but would make a great fashion statement. I even checked out a story about a young woman who custom made umbrellas with unique designs and prints at a feasible price of about Rs500, but she had not set up a sales strategy yet, I learned.

At the neighbourhood department store I saw an elegant shades-of-grey umbrella (Rs495) that would match perfectly with my car; but why would my car need an umbrella, I wondered. I found a long magenta umbrella (Rs295) that made my face look decidedly bilious when I held it over my head. There was even a bright yellow and white one with the silliest smiley faces all over it (Rs560) that made me grin, but didn’t endow me with any vestige of adulthood. So my choice was mass market ‘safe’ blah. I finally picked a folding umbrella that I just knew would collapse pathetically over my head in the first blast of monsoon wind. But at a wonderfully low Rs99, and though made of nastily cheap fabric that showed no signs of being durable or even waterproof, it didn’t matter. It was a bright and almost fluorescent red, made my face glow and my mood lift and the wet that would envelop me didn’t seem at all important.

That movie moment…

Have you ever lived through that short span of time when you feel like you are in a movie that you have seen somewhere, sometime? You know, those few moments when you know you have gone through whatever you are going through at some time in your past, a strong sense of déjà vu that you cannot place but you know exists deep within your psyche? Or even that you have watched at some time, happening to someone, somewhere distant from your own existence? Strangely, most of these tend to be rather scary, like a bad remake of a decent film, with just one aspect blown way out of proportion, making the entire sequence just off kilter enough to be surreal…or happening to someone else while you watch from somewhere above it all.

It happened to me this morning. I was on my usual morning trot over to the gym, swearing gently to myself at the heat and humidity weighing down the air, my head and the neat green gym bag I carry. I walked down the road, said my cheery hi to the little dog who scavenges in the park, doled out the biscuits I carry for it and turned the corner past the auto-rickshaws all parked willy-nilly around the edge of the pavement. I took the straight stretch of wide street at a good clip, crossing at the divide near the idli-dosa stand and walking along the side of the road to the circle. Looking carefully to the right and the left, since so many people here see little difference between the ‘going’ lane and the ‘coming’ one, I navigated the roundabout and dodged a cyclist as I went past the fast food eatery with its accumulated litter of cartons and paper bags. Rounding the next corner, I headed down the ‘one-way’ – or so it is posted, only I ever get caught going the wrong way – to my destination.

And there I came across my movie moment. Just outside the familiar and oft-visited grocery store was a very large and clamorous community of crows. A murder, I corrected myself, enjoying the fact that I not only remembered, but also got a change to use that wonderfully evocative term. They hopped and fluttered and cawed frantically as they pecked up the grain and crumbs tossed there by the storekeepers, since it is considered a virtue – gaining points with God, in a manner of speaking – to feed the birds…or stray dogs or an occasionally beggar. I walked towards the horde, aiming to skirt it and go my way. But somewhere along the route I was taking the perspective shifted ever so slightly. I am not sure if I diverted or the birds did, but it transpired that I walked through the group rather than around it. Which meant that for a small, very scary moment, I had crows flying all around me, too close for my comfort.

It was like Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Birds’, but in sweaty technicolour and a very bad remake of that classic film. There was no house, no windows, no drapes, just me, my widly flying ponytail, my starting-to-flail arms and my few seconds of panic. Before I could register the fright, I had passed through and beyond it, but that little time I spent in the midst of the birds was more than enough. I trotted a little faster, gaining the quiet of the small courtyard that led to the stairs up to the gym with a sense of relief and vague triumph that I had managed to navigate that speedbump without any drama.

But I did think to myself, with a little giggle, “Cor, stone the crows!”