The first time I heard the name 'Saroj Khan' was perhaps when I started working on the website of a movie magazine. I knew nothing about Hindi films beyond what I had read in the newspapers, which at that time snootily avoided all things filmi, and I did occasionally listen to the radio late at night when I couldn't sleep and lights out had been enforced. Then, suddenly, Madhuri Dixit became a real person - not just a tinsel-dotted star on the big screen - to me, when a designer friend showed me an outfit he had created for her, saying that she and I were the same height and general shape, though there was rather more of her in parts than I had then. Curious about this person that my friend spoke of with such almost-awe, I did my research and found that she was the hot and happening star in the world of Hindi movies, that ephemeral existence called 'Bollywood'. And perhaps her strongest identification was that hip-swinging performance in a song called Ek do teen. Learn how to count, another friend teased me, you may even go into that field of journalism and interview her some day!
I did manage to watch the dance on television, on one of the many countdown shows telecast every week. And was amazed that someone could swivel a hip with such abandon and not fall over. More research followed, and I read that a choreographer called Saroj Khan was responsible for that creation. And that Ms Khan and Ms Dixit were bonded synergistically, each posing a challenge to the other to do better, to outdo, every time, every song, every movie. With typically elitist snobbery, I decided that both the star and the choreographer were loud and vulgar and I didn't want to know more about either. Until the night I watched Madhuri Dixit dance at a popular film awards event, doing what was almost pure Kathak, her grace and her emoting elevating the entire evening to a realm that transcended the noise and flashing lights of a world that never had too much appeal for me. The piece was choreographed by Saroj Khan, it was announced. Since then, I have wanted to meet the lady, the person who changed my mind about the jhatka-matka nautanki that I believed Bollywood to be.
Recently, I was watching a dance reality show on television. Saroj Khan, the choreographer who reigned in the kingdom of bosom-heaves and pelvic-thrusts, came on to the stage and did a tiny vignette of salsa. Her hips swayed, her hands waved and her lips pouted. And the audience, like me, was spellbound. She was not slim or beautiful, but she moved with infinite grace, each tiny shake holding so much magic that it pushed any other more vigorous performance by any other younger, slimmer, more goodlooking celebrity into oblivion. And in that few seconds of movement, she made a fan out of a skeptic - All Hail, Saroj-ji!
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Dance off
There are times when one becomes clearly conflicted. As a self-confessed American Idol fan, I watch every new episode of that show, sometimes even watching a re-run in parts because the music did the trick for me. But these days, I find that I am getting good at the surf shuffle, as I like calling it, zipping between channels to optimise my viewing of two shows, especially on one day. That day comes here on Friday every week, when the elimination on American Idol clashes woefully with the contest episode of an Indian version of Dancing With the Stars, locally called Jhalak Dikhla Jaa. So which do I watch? How can I not know what goes on in one as opposed to the other? Very simple. Look at cnn.com on Thursday and you know who is gone from Idol and how. Sometimes the spoiler alert is sounded even on Wednesday. Since I don't really like watching fond farewells and tearful scenes, I prefer not watching how it happens as the episode unfolds on television, even though I cannot resist taking a peek for some usually pretty good music. So now the routine is set, more or less: Idol on Thursday night, Jhalak on Fridays with sneak peeks of Idol eliminations, and then Jhalak eliminations on Saturday night. Sounds like an exciting life? Actually, it is sweet and smells wonderfully of home, which is a good thing in my book.
How did I get into watching television so fanatically? Trust me, it is fairly fanatical, since I do not like anyone calling me during that hour that I am glued to one channel or the other (or, sometimes, both), but I will answer text messages during the commercial breaks. It started with a friend who was stuck on Jhalak. Watch it, she insisted, you will like the dance and music and general liveliness. Then she said I needed to watch one episode so I could tell her what happened, since she was out that evening. I did. And it was fun. What made it better was that a friend of mine was participating. He lost, but it was interesting to see him do something that was so out of his ken. The next thing I knew, I watched not just that show, but also others like it, from Nach Baliye to Saas vs Bahu to Zara Nachke Dikha to...
This particular season of Jhalak has a special interest for me. Not only are the stars unusual - Bhaichung Bhutia, the football player, Mohinder Amarnath, the cricketer, Gauhar Khan, the model, and others not usually seen shaking a hip, Bollywood-ishtyle - but the judges are too - Saroj Khan the 'mother' of filmi choreography, Vaibhavi Merchant, who now rules pretty sharp in tinseltown, and Juhi Chawla, perhaps one of my favourite Bollywood stars where comedy and repartee are concerned. For now, some of the players have been eliminated - Bhagyashree, Anand Raj Anand, Ugesh Sarcar, Mohinder Amarnath, Ram Kapoor and, in the last episode, Gauhar Khan. There have been many tears, some laughter, a generous amount of bitching and a huge amount of learning, but who wins eventually is still up for grabs. The wild card round could bring back one of the celebrities who have left the show, up to dance against the likes of Parul Chauhan, Monica Bedi, Karan Singh Grover, Shilpa Shukla, Hard Kaur and Bhaichung Bhutia.
Winner could take a lot home, including a new fan club, but for now, I wait and watch. And clutch the remote control for the TV in one sweaty hot hand as I shuffle between the stars and the search for an Idol.
How did I get into watching television so fanatically? Trust me, it is fairly fanatical, since I do not like anyone calling me during that hour that I am glued to one channel or the other (or, sometimes, both), but I will answer text messages during the commercial breaks. It started with a friend who was stuck on Jhalak. Watch it, she insisted, you will like the dance and music and general liveliness. Then she said I needed to watch one episode so I could tell her what happened, since she was out that evening. I did. And it was fun. What made it better was that a friend of mine was participating. He lost, but it was interesting to see him do something that was so out of his ken. The next thing I knew, I watched not just that show, but also others like it, from Nach Baliye to Saas vs Bahu to Zara Nachke Dikha to...
This particular season of Jhalak has a special interest for me. Not only are the stars unusual - Bhaichung Bhutia, the football player, Mohinder Amarnath, the cricketer, Gauhar Khan, the model, and others not usually seen shaking a hip, Bollywood-ishtyle - but the judges are too - Saroj Khan the 'mother' of filmi choreography, Vaibhavi Merchant, who now rules pretty sharp in tinseltown, and Juhi Chawla, perhaps one of my favourite Bollywood stars where comedy and repartee are concerned. For now, some of the players have been eliminated - Bhagyashree, Anand Raj Anand, Ugesh Sarcar, Mohinder Amarnath, Ram Kapoor and, in the last episode, Gauhar Khan. There have been many tears, some laughter, a generous amount of bitching and a huge amount of learning, but who wins eventually is still up for grabs. The wild card round could bring back one of the celebrities who have left the show, up to dance against the likes of Parul Chauhan, Monica Bedi, Karan Singh Grover, Shilpa Shukla, Hard Kaur and Bhaichung Bhutia.
Winner could take a lot home, including a new fan club, but for now, I wait and watch. And clutch the remote control for the TV in one sweaty hot hand as I shuffle between the stars and the search for an Idol.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Knives and forks on Halloween
Beezil and I have been friends since we were in college. We lived in the same college dorm, though in different corridors. We met through a bathroom door. It was past 11pm and I was inside one of the stalls doing my thing before retiring for the night when I heard voices. Actually, it was one voice, someone having along conversation with someone else. I was wary, since I had heard so much about girl gangs and the nastiness that can go on within the confines of a large, shared bathroom. I peeked cautiously under the door and saw only one pair of feet. They were sheathed in fluffy slippers and planted firmly in front of a mirror, with whatever I could see of the rest of the person talking to herself swathed in a pink towelling dressing gown. I debated whether I should just go out there and see who this strange but interesting person was, even though my native shyness and painfully activated 'be careful' gene were prodding me in the nose and telling me firmly to be quiet and wait. But then my own madness and somewhat eccentric sense of humour bubbled up and I had to ask, "Do you always talk to yourself?"
There was a startled silence for a second and then a barrage of repartee crossed and re-crossed the stall door. I was done in there and opened the door to peek out. My rather astonished gaze saw a face bare of makeup, eyes large behind big glasses, hair pulled back, the whole topped with a brightly coloured shower cap. It was the start of a long and valuable friendship, that holds strong even today, touch wood, never mind the knives and tantrums and tears. Now that is another story, for perhaps another time...
So that was the girl in the loo, as I called her for a long time in letters home. She did have a name, once that was easy to remember and easier to spell, even though the college administration managed to get it wrong on her mailing address. It wasn't long before I found the ideal nickname for her: Beezil. It was a word I found in an Regency romance novel, used by the hero for the heroine, and it fit my new friend perfectly; neither of us has any clue what it means, but it has a wonderfully warm and creative feel to it, with that touch of madness that is typical of both of us, her perhaps more than me. She and I got up to many hi-jinks, rescuing each other from situations both funny and potentially hazardous to our mental health, individually and collectively, and have managed to stay fond of each other no matter what problems litter the path to laughter.
But our first adventure was Halloween. She was off to a Halloween party and was going, she told me, as a silverware drawer. After that first bit of mouth-opening amazement, I got the idea and it was a truly inspired one. It didn't take much, just the contents of her mother's cutlery shelf, stapled or sewn on to her standard uniform of jeans and a sweatshirt. It worked. There were butter knives and regular dining knives spaced through a motley array of spoons, forks, even a fish slice perhaps, though my memory could be telling me stories on that one. Somewhere along the way I may even have helped her make sure that a wire whisk stayed in position. It was a roaring success, she reported later, and the most original costume that evening. I was at my own Halloween celebration - my first since a foray into the streets of Heidelberg dressed as Pippi Longstocking when I was a pre-teen - pretending to be a bat, in all black with glitter spray painted over my hair and a headband with small black bats mounted on wildly waving springs attached to it. It worked, too, perhaps too well, because I had quite a time trying to escape the attentions of a gentleman who believed that he was Batman and therefore needed to get overly friendly with at least one of the species that he said he was kin to. I thought fond thoughts of the knives stapled on my friend's sweatshirt.
Beezil would have offered to use one to help me, if she had been there, I knew.
There was a startled silence for a second and then a barrage of repartee crossed and re-crossed the stall door. I was done in there and opened the door to peek out. My rather astonished gaze saw a face bare of makeup, eyes large behind big glasses, hair pulled back, the whole topped with a brightly coloured shower cap. It was the start of a long and valuable friendship, that holds strong even today, touch wood, never mind the knives and tantrums and tears. Now that is another story, for perhaps another time...
So that was the girl in the loo, as I called her for a long time in letters home. She did have a name, once that was easy to remember and easier to spell, even though the college administration managed to get it wrong on her mailing address. It wasn't long before I found the ideal nickname for her: Beezil. It was a word I found in an Regency romance novel, used by the hero for the heroine, and it fit my new friend perfectly; neither of us has any clue what it means, but it has a wonderfully warm and creative feel to it, with that touch of madness that is typical of both of us, her perhaps more than me. She and I got up to many hi-jinks, rescuing each other from situations both funny and potentially hazardous to our mental health, individually and collectively, and have managed to stay fond of each other no matter what problems litter the path to laughter.
But our first adventure was Halloween. She was off to a Halloween party and was going, she told me, as a silverware drawer. After that first bit of mouth-opening amazement, I got the idea and it was a truly inspired one. It didn't take much, just the contents of her mother's cutlery shelf, stapled or sewn on to her standard uniform of jeans and a sweatshirt. It worked. There were butter knives and regular dining knives spaced through a motley array of spoons, forks, even a fish slice perhaps, though my memory could be telling me stories on that one. Somewhere along the way I may even have helped her make sure that a wire whisk stayed in position. It was a roaring success, she reported later, and the most original costume that evening. I was at my own Halloween celebration - my first since a foray into the streets of Heidelberg dressed as Pippi Longstocking when I was a pre-teen - pretending to be a bat, in all black with glitter spray painted over my hair and a headband with small black bats mounted on wildly waving springs attached to it. It worked, too, perhaps too well, because I had quite a time trying to escape the attentions of a gentleman who believed that he was Batman and therefore needed to get overly friendly with at least one of the species that he said he was kin to. I thought fond thoughts of the knives stapled on my friend's sweatshirt.
Beezil would have offered to use one to help me, if she had been there, I knew.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Paint the horror
I just read a report on the replica of that famous anti-war painting, Guernica, done by Pablo Picasso in 1937. He was expressing his protest against the bombing of the little town of Guernica, in Basque country, by Republican forces during the Spanish Civil War. The work was shown in select galleries around the world – at the Whitechapel Art Gallery in London in 1939 - until Picasso realized that the painting was suffering rather from the wear and tear of constant travel and toing and froing from Spain to wherever. So he gave permission for three exact copies to be woven - yes, as a tapestry – by two weavers from Paris in 1950. Today, one copy is in Japan, another finds a home in France and the third is part of the property of the Rockefeller family and on loan to the United Nations, hanging just outside the Security Council chamber in the landmark New York building for 24 years. It is this replica that is now on display in London, again at the Whitechapel Art Gallery. The tapestry is part of a just-opened show by a Polish sculptor, Goshka Macuga, who ‘speaks’ of the controversy generated by the original work, now at the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía in Madrid.
There has always been debate over this particular work. After some argument, Picasso undertook to paint the piece for the World Fair in Paris, but few paid any attention to it at the time. It was only when it went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York in the 1940s, and was kept there during World War II – Picasso wanted it to stay there until democracy was restored in Spain – that it gained the adulation that it is mentioned with today. Perhaps the most recent furore came when blue curtains were drawn across the tapestry version at the UN in 2003; the synchronicity was a bit off, since the Security Council was meeting to listen to the US’s argument for starting the war on Iraq and an anti-war artwork would hardly induce the right mood. It could, of course, as cynics have said, be for reasons more mundane – blue has a great television presence!
In my own mind, Guernica is replete with controversy. I know it is a hugely significant work, a piece that should be seen and experienced at least once in a lifetime. It has depth, meaning, symbolism, greatness…everything that makes any work of art a must-do for event hose who do not hunger for cultural exposure. But it is also – or at least it was for me – an excruciatingly painful experience. Standing in front of the work, placed in a niche in a shadowed room, the first thing that hit me was how small it is. When you see photographs of it, you expect scale, vastness, almost a landscape across which the eye can travel. What you see is bodies – humans and horses - with limbs and necks at strange angles, agony in every twist and anguish in each oddly placed eye. There is death, of course, but there is an immeasurable pain in the dying. And a lot of that pain is transmitted to the viewer, cutting through all the insulation of so many critiques read and so much hype seen beyond. It has to be seen, but the seeing needs to be done at a distance, where it cannot hurt the heart, the mind and the sensibilities. The controversy is obvious - you have to see it once, but do you really need to see it?
I stood in front of the painting once, some years ago. I am not sure I ever want to see it again.
There has always been debate over this particular work. After some argument, Picasso undertook to paint the piece for the World Fair in Paris, but few paid any attention to it at the time. It was only when it went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York in the 1940s, and was kept there during World War II – Picasso wanted it to stay there until democracy was restored in Spain – that it gained the adulation that it is mentioned with today. Perhaps the most recent furore came when blue curtains were drawn across the tapestry version at the UN in 2003; the synchronicity was a bit off, since the Security Council was meeting to listen to the US’s argument for starting the war on Iraq and an anti-war artwork would hardly induce the right mood. It could, of course, as cynics have said, be for reasons more mundane – blue has a great television presence!
In my own mind, Guernica is replete with controversy. I know it is a hugely significant work, a piece that should be seen and experienced at least once in a lifetime. It has depth, meaning, symbolism, greatness…everything that makes any work of art a must-do for event hose who do not hunger for cultural exposure. But it is also – or at least it was for me – an excruciatingly painful experience. Standing in front of the work, placed in a niche in a shadowed room, the first thing that hit me was how small it is. When you see photographs of it, you expect scale, vastness, almost a landscape across which the eye can travel. What you see is bodies – humans and horses - with limbs and necks at strange angles, agony in every twist and anguish in each oddly placed eye. There is death, of course, but there is an immeasurable pain in the dying. And a lot of that pain is transmitted to the viewer, cutting through all the insulation of so many critiques read and so much hype seen beyond. It has to be seen, but the seeing needs to be done at a distance, where it cannot hurt the heart, the mind and the sensibilities. The controversy is obvious - you have to see it once, but do you really need to see it?
I stood in front of the painting once, some years ago. I am not sure I ever want to see it again.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Idol chatter
For some reason, for the past couple of years, I have been rather avidly watching American Idol, the US reality show where one singer is chosen above a horde of others as the best voice, the best presence, the best showmanship. Last year, the first time I watched it from start to finish and said rude words when a late work-evening took away that pleasure from me, but I did get to see that final winning moment, when one man (David Cook) was declared better than all the rest. I even watched the musical debacle that was Sanjaya Malakar, feted in this country because he has an Indian gene somewhere deep within him, his stage presence due mainly to the indulgence of the judges and his bizarre hairstyles. This time too there is an Indian connection, a young man called Anoop Desai, but he has a voice, he can sing, he has charm and he can make it through to the finals if he doesn't think so much about it and just goes out there and sings what he can sing better than anyone else. But I bet you he won't, since he wants so hard to win that he works on whatever he thinks that the judges will like, which is usually what gives rise to that set of acerbic comments that includes words like 'boring', 'karaoke', 'wrong song' and the like.
Many of the original group have been left behind with the final eight now battling for the top spot - or there will be by tonight, since one more, Megan Joy, will be eliminated, news that is already on the Net, but which hasn't happened for us yet, local time. I have favourites in these left in the game, from the vivid-haired Alison, who sings like a rock dream but has the fashion sense of a much-younger (how can she be, since she is only 16!) teen who went on a wild shopping spree at Target, to the geeky Danny Gokey, who has a tragic story of his life but a voice that holds all the love, pain and sheer thrill of being able to sing that any one person can earn from the power that be.
My own top favourite is Adam Lambert, who can sing, has what would be described by someone slightly old-fashioned in a way that could not be equalled by more contemporary language as 'the voice of an angel' but sings with a devilish streak in his music and a wicked smile in his eyes. He does everything from straight R&B to punk with the same effortless style, his showmanship soaring beyond the funky hairdo and the black nailpolish to some place that everyone else seems to struggle to reach. He looks like he is thoroughly enjoying his performance, with a relaxed air and laid-back swagger that no one else has managed yet. Of course he has talent, bucketfuls of it, but to present it in a way that leaves seasoned judges speechless and wins kudos almost every week is something out of the ordinary. I am not sure I hope he wins. I do hope he can use his huge talent to bring pleasure to many more lives, just the way his minute-and-a-half or whatever the time limit is on the show makes me smile with a deep satisfaction of having heard something really worth hearing.
Of course, maybe the best part of the show is Simon Cowell and his supremely confident sass. Whether he is drawing a crayon moustache on Paula Abdul or whether he is agreeing with Kara Diguardi or debating with Randy Jackson, all well-known in the music business and respected for their opinions, or whether he is being utterly serious when he praises a contestant's performance, he hogs the limelight and attracts all the attention, good and bad. No judge on any Indian reality show, be it the greatly applauded Farah Khan or the often-nasty Anu Malek, can match Mr Cowell.
How the show pans out will be seen over the weeks to come. But it certainly seems to be getting more interesting with every episode. I am glad I have the time and leisure to watch it, to listen to these talented young people competing in what is often a silly contest, but an obviously worthwhile platform for a musical future. And you know already who gets my vote!
Many of the original group have been left behind with the final eight now battling for the top spot - or there will be by tonight, since one more, Megan Joy, will be eliminated, news that is already on the Net, but which hasn't happened for us yet, local time. I have favourites in these left in the game, from the vivid-haired Alison, who sings like a rock dream but has the fashion sense of a much-younger (how can she be, since she is only 16!) teen who went on a wild shopping spree at Target, to the geeky Danny Gokey, who has a tragic story of his life but a voice that holds all the love, pain and sheer thrill of being able to sing that any one person can earn from the power that be.
My own top favourite is Adam Lambert, who can sing, has what would be described by someone slightly old-fashioned in a way that could not be equalled by more contemporary language as 'the voice of an angel' but sings with a devilish streak in his music and a wicked smile in his eyes. He does everything from straight R&B to punk with the same effortless style, his showmanship soaring beyond the funky hairdo and the black nailpolish to some place that everyone else seems to struggle to reach. He looks like he is thoroughly enjoying his performance, with a relaxed air and laid-back swagger that no one else has managed yet. Of course he has talent, bucketfuls of it, but to present it in a way that leaves seasoned judges speechless and wins kudos almost every week is something out of the ordinary. I am not sure I hope he wins. I do hope he can use his huge talent to bring pleasure to many more lives, just the way his minute-and-a-half or whatever the time limit is on the show makes me smile with a deep satisfaction of having heard something really worth hearing.
Of course, maybe the best part of the show is Simon Cowell and his supremely confident sass. Whether he is drawing a crayon moustache on Paula Abdul or whether he is agreeing with Kara Diguardi or debating with Randy Jackson, all well-known in the music business and respected for their opinions, or whether he is being utterly serious when he praises a contestant's performance, he hogs the limelight and attracts all the attention, good and bad. No judge on any Indian reality show, be it the greatly applauded Farah Khan or the often-nasty Anu Malek, can match Mr Cowell.
How the show pans out will be seen over the weeks to come. But it certainly seems to be getting more interesting with every episode. I am glad I have the time and leisure to watch it, to listen to these talented young people competing in what is often a silly contest, but an obviously worthwhile platform for a musical future. And you know already who gets my vote!
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Heat of the night
It's hotter than it has been in a very long time. And, typically, I was out all yesterday, when it was about 40 degrees and humid as the air inside a steaming kettle, meeting a friend for lunch, doing myriad errands, looking covetuously at shoes and unexpectedly acquiring a pair that I would normally only lech at, and finally drooping into the house just in time for some tea and well-earned sympathy. And I did indeed droop, after a day that had started at 6:15 in the morning, exhausted me with a gym workout, polite conversation and social interaction, and progressed hotly through to a late evening cooled only by the air-conditioner and the thought of a cool shower scented by sandalwood and more sweet thoughts of soft pillows and no dreams.
It's been unusually hot, according to the Met Office. The powers that be generally off-base when it comes to weather prediction have promised that it will stay this way for another few days, which means that the media will run more stories on what to do to cool off, how to be extra-careful to ward off all the nasty bugs that love hot and steamy weather and what sunscreen and SPF and hats are good for. There will be lists of ailments that follow hot (sic) on the heels of the sultry weather and exhortations to drink plenty of cool liquid, take in plenty of watermelon, pumpkin, grapes, kiwi fruit and cucumber, and wear loose cotton clothing, stay out of the sun and avoid spicy or 'heating' foods.
But it's an interesting time of year. Vegetables, shrubbery and people droop glumly around the place and it takes a special kind of mind to be happy and show it while walking down the street, waiting for a bus or standing in line to buy stamps. I sweat more walking to the gym than after 17 minutes on the treadmill and my hair streams soggily down my back as I trudge wearily back, my T-shirt clinging damply to my shoulders and my feet almost literally squelching inside my sandals. Yesterday, as I walked in and out of stores that stocked all that I needed to get, my spike-heeled sandals stuck to my soles and my freshly washed hair blew stringily around my glowing (since I am a woman and not allowed to sweat) face. Stray dogs lay in the shade under trees, cars and awnings, their tongues hanging thirstily out and their stomachs heaving. A very large cow stood under a tree sheltering a roadside temple, her sides blowing gustily in and out and the pile of grass by her side ignored for a small bucket full of water close by. And four well-filled female passengers peered into my car from the open windows of a taxi and waved magazines in front of them to muster up some kind of ventilation and cool their heavily made-up faces.
It is Indian summer, the kind only Bombay (I hate Mumbai, always have) can manage. Though it is early this year and unwontedly severe, we can only scuttle towards all the coolth there may be and be rude about the Great Power way up there who has fated this upon us. And about the Met Office's super-efficient weather people, of course!
It's been unusually hot, according to the Met Office. The powers that be generally off-base when it comes to weather prediction have promised that it will stay this way for another few days, which means that the media will run more stories on what to do to cool off, how to be extra-careful to ward off all the nasty bugs that love hot and steamy weather and what sunscreen and SPF and hats are good for. There will be lists of ailments that follow hot (sic) on the heels of the sultry weather and exhortations to drink plenty of cool liquid, take in plenty of watermelon, pumpkin, grapes, kiwi fruit and cucumber, and wear loose cotton clothing, stay out of the sun and avoid spicy or 'heating' foods.
But it's an interesting time of year. Vegetables, shrubbery and people droop glumly around the place and it takes a special kind of mind to be happy and show it while walking down the street, waiting for a bus or standing in line to buy stamps. I sweat more walking to the gym than after 17 minutes on the treadmill and my hair streams soggily down my back as I trudge wearily back, my T-shirt clinging damply to my shoulders and my feet almost literally squelching inside my sandals. Yesterday, as I walked in and out of stores that stocked all that I needed to get, my spike-heeled sandals stuck to my soles and my freshly washed hair blew stringily around my glowing (since I am a woman and not allowed to sweat) face. Stray dogs lay in the shade under trees, cars and awnings, their tongues hanging thirstily out and their stomachs heaving. A very large cow stood under a tree sheltering a roadside temple, her sides blowing gustily in and out and the pile of grass by her side ignored for a small bucket full of water close by. And four well-filled female passengers peered into my car from the open windows of a taxi and waved magazines in front of them to muster up some kind of ventilation and cool their heavily made-up faces.
It is Indian summer, the kind only Bombay (I hate Mumbai, always have) can manage. Though it is early this year and unwontedly severe, we can only scuttle towards all the coolth there may be and be rude about the Great Power way up there who has fated this upon us. And about the Met Office's super-efficient weather people, of course!
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