(Published in the Times of India, Sunday, August 29)
A cat has very discerning tastebuds. Some would call cats fussy, picky, pernickety, whimsical, temperamental and much more that cannot be described in words polite enough to be used in a family publication, but the truth is rather different. Cats know what they want and, more so, know exactly how to go about getting it. Where their food is concerned, they are exacting, demanding, even commanding – especially at 2 am when all humans should be awake and alert enough to deal with feline needs – to the point of being tyrannical and, well, a trifle selective.
Any cat owner will understand this. And search high and low across town to satisfy catly requirements, just because the feline personality is strong enough to make a human existence sheer hell if life shows a non-cat bias. To make things a little easier for cat owners in Mumbai, cat food is now available at supermarkets like Hypercity and Big Bazaar, as well as in pet shops such as Ebrahim in Kemps Corner, KPS and Barks-n-Meows in Chembur, Loony Dudes in Juhu, Pet Planet in Bandra, Pure Pets in Prabhadevi, RK Pets World in Vashi, Paws N Furs in Thane and many more.
There are, of course, variations. Dry food comes in small pellets shaped fancifully, from tiny doughnuts to fish-shapes to wee pockets that are touted to contain milk, cheese, salmon or chicken. Some food is medicated, advised for cats with hairball problems, kidney ailments, long hair, short hair, young, old, general health, excess weight…Royal Canin, Fit 32, Hill’s Science Diet, Purina Pro Plan, Natural Balance, New Iams Veterinary Formula and others are recommended by veterinarians for special needs felines. Some cats take well to canned food, also available in pouches, most commonly seen in the city with characteristic Whiskas branding.
Cat food is not cheap. Once found, which is not always easy, as any fond owner of a finicky cat would know, a week’s supply could cost as much as the same amount of people food. For instance, a 300-gram packet of Iams chicken formula sells for about Rs140, the locally made Showcat from Venky’s costs about Rs525 for a 2-kg bag and the same weight of special renal formula biscuits from Royal Canin rates Rs930. A 1.5-kg bag of Whiskas costs approximately Rs350, while the wet food in a pouch sells at Rs35. And there is wastage to be accounted for, always a factor with cats. Some ‘discerning’ felines will eat nothing but one flavour of one brand of dry food and then, suddenly, without warning, just when you have acquired a large bag of the stuff at great cost and with greater effort, will refuse to even sniff at it and demand something else instead or – always distressing for an owner – refuse to eat at all until that demand is met.
Apart from regular food, there are the treats. Chewy sticks, small segments of what can only be described as highly aromatic cat-food jerky, can occasionally be found in stores like Ebrahim’s, priced at about Rs100 for a packet that will last a while if judiciously doled out to a finicky feline. Small pinches of catnip, the catly equivalent of edible marijuana, will keep a cat happy for a while, adding a tiny ratio of valuable nutrients to the daily diet and a large ratio of joy to the cat’s day, but is unbelievably difficult to find, almost impossible in India. A house cat will eat fresh raw fish, or scoff enormous amounts of highly salty canned tuna, but that depends entirely on mood and inclination to oblige the one doing the offering. Raw meat is not advised by vets, though it may be relished by cats. And milk is a matter of taste – some cats will drink it, others will refuse, but none of them really needs it after being weaned.
Owning a cat is indeed a pleasure, bringing hours of fun and – in many ways – education into any life. But where food is concerned, feline favour is an expensive aspect that is not all joy.
Monday, August 30, 2010
A bowl of hot comfort
(Published in The Bengal Post, Sunday)
There comes a time in everyone’s life when comfort is all that the heart – and soul and stomach – desires. This may happen during a time of stress, when work, life or anything in-between swamps the psyche and results in irritability, edginess and a general very large grouch. As is often the case, food works well as a relaxant and mood-soother, calming the nerves and smoothing the spikes and ravines of the mind. While chocolate is indeed most useful in crises like these, it does contain caffeine and will activate as much as it will relax. Chemically speaking, the ideal food for this kind of high-stress situation is rich in carbohydrate, even better with some tryptophan in the form of yoghurt thrown in. From the culinary and gustatory points of view, what hits the spot perfectly is anything starchy, be it bread or pasta, rice or potatoes. Emotionally and maternally speaking, mashed potatoes, risotto, beaked beans, dahi-chawal (yoghurt and rice), french fries…the list goes on. But perhaps the easiest and most frequently cooked up in the average Indian kitchen is khichdi, a cure-all for body and soul, easy to make, easy to eat, easy to digest and easiest of all to make interesting.
The rice and lentil dish, in its simplest form, is fairly ubiquitous, found in variations all over the world. It is traditionally considered ayurvedic comfort food, advised by the most modern doctors for an upset stomach, used often as an infant’s first solid intake, and relished by most when eaten piping hot from a large bowl while watching the rain come down outside, drenching the unwary and denying the sun a chance to cheer things up. It is eaten in its myriad permutations as a light meal in Pakistan and Bangladesh as well as by the native Americans and is believed to have been the basis for the Raj breakfast staple, kedgeree. But it all began a long time ago, when a dish of rice and pulses cooked together to an unctuous softness was described in Sanskrit as khicca, from which the modern-day khichdi or khichri is derived. It became very popular with the Mughal courtiers, especially with Emperor Jehangir, it is said – in fact, the famous Ain-i-Akbari, written by Akbar’s vizier in the 16th century, has seven different versions of the dish that was first written about by Afanasiy Nikitin, a Russian who travelled through India in the 15th century.
Khichdi – though perhaps not called that – is a favourite in different parts of the world. For breakfast, khansamas in the days of the Raj served up rice cooked soft with fish and eggs, while in China congee with pickled vegetables and dried shrimp served the same purpose. The American Indians stewed red (pinto) beans and rice with a little animal protein, while in Cuba rice is blended with black beans and slowly simmered for a long time. In India, the Bengalis like kichuri on rainy days or for special feasts, while in Tamil Nadu there is an entire celebration focussed on the dish, called Pongal, where the sweet and savoury versions share a banana leaf. It is a must-have in a Gujarati thali and the Maharashtrian fishing communities spice it up with a few prawns.
From the very bland and stomach-soothing dal-khichdi of the north to the rich gourmet fare it becomes in the South, to the heavy meal it serves in Bengal to the light yet spicy fare in the West, khichdi is indeed universal. But it is essentially a culinary base palette to which colour and flavour can be added. Emperor Jehangir liked it with lots of ghee, dried fruits and nuts; more modern folk like it less rich and fatty, to be eaten with Gujarati kadi or Tamilian morkozhambu (yoghurt based gravy), fritters or pakoras - from beguni (eggplant) to alur (potato) – papads, chips and pickles, in the company of vegetable preparations like undhiyo (Gujarat) or alu ka bharta (Bihar), or meat/fish like prawn patia (Parsi) or beef fry (Kerala), with a spoon, fork or, delightfully mushily, with fingers scooping each soft, fragrant bite up to the mouth…
Khichdi has no fixed recipe or proportions, though the finicky cook may cavil at that statement. It is a very personal food. It can be cooked in a pressure cooker, though the long slow stewing method produces the best results, on a kitchen hob or outdoors over a campfire. Usually made with rice and lentils, it can also include cracked wheat, barley, amaranth and other grains – though a wild rice experiment did not yield results that were too favourable, be warned! Most often, pulses such as moong, tur (arhar), masoor and sometimes chana dal is added to rice that cooks into fat, full, melting morsels, the whole being almost amorphous and delightfully gooey. Nuts and the occasional raisin add interest, while vegetables make it all more nutritious and wholesome – any sabji leftover in the fridge can work, and fresh-cut beans, carrots, onions, pumpkin, spinach, cauliflower and more can provide a tasty note. A touch of spice is also desirable, from garlic and ginger, to cardamom, cloves, cracked pepper, star anise and even a few strands of saffron for a luxe touch. Of course, a finishing spoonful of ghee stirred in is a must, calories be damned!
There is no better companion to have while watching the raindrops falling on other people’s heads on a wet day.
Recipes:
PONGAL
Rice 1 Cup
Moong Dal ½ to 1/4 Cup
Spices – whole cardamom, cloves, cinnamon – 6-8 pieces each
Cashew for garnish
Ghee 2 Tbsp
Water 6 Cups or more
Salt to taste
Method
Wash rice and dal together and drain.
Heat 1 tbsp ghee.
Gently fry the spices.
Add the rice/dal and fry till the ghee coats the mixture.
Add water and salt. Cover and cook, adding more water if required.
When rice and dal are cooked to the required softness, garnish with cashews fried in 1 tbsp ghee.
Cracked pepper and soft-cooked vegetables are a good addition. Pongal is most delicious eaten with morkozhambu (kadi made with ground coconut and buttermilk/yoghurt with chunks of white pumpkin), South Indian papad (unspiced), mango pickle and/or a spicy vegetable curry.
Kedgeree (an Anglo Indian recipe)
1 1/2 cups Basmati rice
3 cups water
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1 tsp black mustard seed
1 tsp cumin seed
3 cloves garlic minced
1″ knob of ginger grated
1 medium onion minced
1 chili minced
1 tbsp garam masala
2 tsp turmeric
1/2 cup chicken or vegetable stock
2 tbsp cream
50 gms smoked fish
Salt to taste
3 soft boiled eggs peeled and chopped
Coriander leaves and pomegranate seeds for garnish
Wash rice with cold water and put into a heavy bottomed pot with the water to simmer until all the water is absorbed. Turn the heat off.
Heat the oil and crackle the mustard and cumin seeds.
Add the garlic and ginger and fry until soft.
Add onions, chili, garam masala and turmeric and fry gently.
Add the stock and simmer for five minutes.
Turn down the heat and add cream, stirring all the while.
Add fish and salt to taste and stir for a couple of minutes.
Add the cooked rice and two chopped eggs and stir well.
Serve piping hot decorated with chopped coriander leaves, pomegranate seeds and boiled egg pieces. Eat with poppadoms and mango pickle.
Bon appetite!
There comes a time in everyone’s life when comfort is all that the heart – and soul and stomach – desires. This may happen during a time of stress, when work, life or anything in-between swamps the psyche and results in irritability, edginess and a general very large grouch. As is often the case, food works well as a relaxant and mood-soother, calming the nerves and smoothing the spikes and ravines of the mind. While chocolate is indeed most useful in crises like these, it does contain caffeine and will activate as much as it will relax. Chemically speaking, the ideal food for this kind of high-stress situation is rich in carbohydrate, even better with some tryptophan in the form of yoghurt thrown in. From the culinary and gustatory points of view, what hits the spot perfectly is anything starchy, be it bread or pasta, rice or potatoes. Emotionally and maternally speaking, mashed potatoes, risotto, beaked beans, dahi-chawal (yoghurt and rice), french fries…the list goes on. But perhaps the easiest and most frequently cooked up in the average Indian kitchen is khichdi, a cure-all for body and soul, easy to make, easy to eat, easy to digest and easiest of all to make interesting.
The rice and lentil dish, in its simplest form, is fairly ubiquitous, found in variations all over the world. It is traditionally considered ayurvedic comfort food, advised by the most modern doctors for an upset stomach, used often as an infant’s first solid intake, and relished by most when eaten piping hot from a large bowl while watching the rain come down outside, drenching the unwary and denying the sun a chance to cheer things up. It is eaten in its myriad permutations as a light meal in Pakistan and Bangladesh as well as by the native Americans and is believed to have been the basis for the Raj breakfast staple, kedgeree. But it all began a long time ago, when a dish of rice and pulses cooked together to an unctuous softness was described in Sanskrit as khicca, from which the modern-day khichdi or khichri is derived. It became very popular with the Mughal courtiers, especially with Emperor Jehangir, it is said – in fact, the famous Ain-i-Akbari, written by Akbar’s vizier in the 16th century, has seven different versions of the dish that was first written about by Afanasiy Nikitin, a Russian who travelled through India in the 15th century.
Khichdi – though perhaps not called that – is a favourite in different parts of the world. For breakfast, khansamas in the days of the Raj served up rice cooked soft with fish and eggs, while in China congee with pickled vegetables and dried shrimp served the same purpose. The American Indians stewed red (pinto) beans and rice with a little animal protein, while in Cuba rice is blended with black beans and slowly simmered for a long time. In India, the Bengalis like kichuri on rainy days or for special feasts, while in Tamil Nadu there is an entire celebration focussed on the dish, called Pongal, where the sweet and savoury versions share a banana leaf. It is a must-have in a Gujarati thali and the Maharashtrian fishing communities spice it up with a few prawns.
From the very bland and stomach-soothing dal-khichdi of the north to the rich gourmet fare it becomes in the South, to the heavy meal it serves in Bengal to the light yet spicy fare in the West, khichdi is indeed universal. But it is essentially a culinary base palette to which colour and flavour can be added. Emperor Jehangir liked it with lots of ghee, dried fruits and nuts; more modern folk like it less rich and fatty, to be eaten with Gujarati kadi or Tamilian morkozhambu (yoghurt based gravy), fritters or pakoras - from beguni (eggplant) to alur (potato) – papads, chips and pickles, in the company of vegetable preparations like undhiyo (Gujarat) or alu ka bharta (Bihar), or meat/fish like prawn patia (Parsi) or beef fry (Kerala), with a spoon, fork or, delightfully mushily, with fingers scooping each soft, fragrant bite up to the mouth…
Khichdi has no fixed recipe or proportions, though the finicky cook may cavil at that statement. It is a very personal food. It can be cooked in a pressure cooker, though the long slow stewing method produces the best results, on a kitchen hob or outdoors over a campfire. Usually made with rice and lentils, it can also include cracked wheat, barley, amaranth and other grains – though a wild rice experiment did not yield results that were too favourable, be warned! Most often, pulses such as moong, tur (arhar), masoor and sometimes chana dal is added to rice that cooks into fat, full, melting morsels, the whole being almost amorphous and delightfully gooey. Nuts and the occasional raisin add interest, while vegetables make it all more nutritious and wholesome – any sabji leftover in the fridge can work, and fresh-cut beans, carrots, onions, pumpkin, spinach, cauliflower and more can provide a tasty note. A touch of spice is also desirable, from garlic and ginger, to cardamom, cloves, cracked pepper, star anise and even a few strands of saffron for a luxe touch. Of course, a finishing spoonful of ghee stirred in is a must, calories be damned!
There is no better companion to have while watching the raindrops falling on other people’s heads on a wet day.
Recipes:
PONGAL
Rice 1 Cup
Moong Dal ½ to 1/4 Cup
Spices – whole cardamom, cloves, cinnamon – 6-8 pieces each
Cashew for garnish
Ghee 2 Tbsp
Water 6 Cups or more
Salt to taste
Method
Wash rice and dal together and drain.
Heat 1 tbsp ghee.
Gently fry the spices.
Add the rice/dal and fry till the ghee coats the mixture.
Add water and salt. Cover and cook, adding more water if required.
When rice and dal are cooked to the required softness, garnish with cashews fried in 1 tbsp ghee.
Cracked pepper and soft-cooked vegetables are a good addition. Pongal is most delicious eaten with morkozhambu (kadi made with ground coconut and buttermilk/yoghurt with chunks of white pumpkin), South Indian papad (unspiced), mango pickle and/or a spicy vegetable curry.
Kedgeree (an Anglo Indian recipe)
1 1/2 cups Basmati rice
3 cups water
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1 tsp black mustard seed
1 tsp cumin seed
3 cloves garlic minced
1″ knob of ginger grated
1 medium onion minced
1 chili minced
1 tbsp garam masala
2 tsp turmeric
1/2 cup chicken or vegetable stock
2 tbsp cream
50 gms smoked fish
Salt to taste
3 soft boiled eggs peeled and chopped
Coriander leaves and pomegranate seeds for garnish
Wash rice with cold water and put into a heavy bottomed pot with the water to simmer until all the water is absorbed. Turn the heat off.
Heat the oil and crackle the mustard and cumin seeds.
Add the garlic and ginger and fry until soft.
Add onions, chili, garam masala and turmeric and fry gently.
Add the stock and simmer for five minutes.
Turn down the heat and add cream, stirring all the while.
Add fish and salt to taste and stir for a couple of minutes.
Add the cooked rice and two chopped eggs and stir well.
Serve piping hot decorated with chopped coriander leaves, pomegranate seeds and boiled egg pieces. Eat with poppadoms and mango pickle.
Bon appetite!
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Dayanita Singh interview
(Published in the Hindu Sunday Magazine, August 22, 2010)
Life is a series of stories that could be broken down into a sequence of images that run fast enough to seem like a continuous spiral of activity without the punctuations of blank spaces. Each of these images can be captured, memorized, by the mind and often is, only the finest details blurred over by time, age and eyes that may not be quick enough to fix them for eternity. And what the eye can see, the camera can freeze, too, each photograph keeping a log of what happened, where, when and how. A really ‘good’ photographer can also steal a little bit of the feeling, the emotion, the soul of that particular moment in time – in fact, in many cultures, a photograph is dreaded, sometimes even forbidden, since it is believed to take away a tiny slice of the soul, perhaps even the life, of the subject being photographed. But for the viewer, a photographic image tells a story, or a bit of one, leaving the rest for the imagination to conjure up and embellish.
In telling that story, photography, once considered to be merely a way of capturing a moment, be it as a family portrait of a facet of breaking news, gradually became an art form – a creative story-telling, fiction perhaps – or a means of documentation – a biography or a record of a life and its living. “You can call it art, documentation, literature, whatever you like,” says Dayanita Singh, well known photographer whose work illuminates and illustrates a new (eponymous) book from Penguin Studio. “It’s my work. It’s what I do.” Supporting her form of story-telling is writing that comes from the minds of Aveek Sen and Sunil Khilnani and, as a set of emails, Mona Anand.
She was once someone who thought that “Photography was one of the most irritating things to have around childhood.” Singh has said that “I had no interest in becoming a photographer.” It meant, more than anything else, that she had to sit still while her mother, Nony Singh, took pictures…and more pictures, “every departure was delayed by her picture making”. Some of the images her mother captured are included in the volume, in the section called Sent a Letter. “If I could write, I would not be a photographer,” Singh says, as she tells wordlessly of an “inner universe”, as the introduction poetically describes it, through her work.
And even as she tells stories looking through the eye of her camera, Khilnani and Sen have their own tales about what she is trying to convey. In the photographic essay called In I Am As I Am, a vision of Benares through the lives of young girls in the Anandamayi ashram, there is a tangible awareness of the tacit acceptance of the children’s way of life, the austerity, the simplicity, the peace, the gentleness that they learn to know and understand and the way they “…gaze - in wonder, confusion and horror – at all there is on view”, as Khilnani relevantly puts it – he is speaking of tourists reactions to the city, but he could be speaking of the girls themselves, their eyes wide and absorbing as they look out from their sheltered haven. The writing focuses on the city and its photographic potential, the way it has been portrayed by various people in writing and images.
Sen’s treatise on Ladies of Calcutta speaks of the “mad party” that was held at the gallery in Stephen Court when the show opened in January 2008. There were “friends and friends of friends who had opened their homes and lives to this woman with a Hasselblad from another city”. And Singh had a unique thank you gift for her visitors and subjects – each was allowed to take home the photograph she had made of them, leaving behind just four unclaimed. The images tell more stories than their subjects would perhaps have imagined. The unsaid says more than that which is spoken of, conveying mood, relationships and affections in that one snap in time. And there is history in each frame – culture, tradition and age, as reflected in the way the woman pose, the clothes they wear and how they are worn, the furniture, even the pictures on the walls. Each has a special story; its meaning and interpretation left to the viewer.
Singh herself is blunt about herself – “I would say that picture making is about a quarter of my work,” she says, “it is much more about the sifting, editing, weeding out, sequencing, thinking about the form, and what you want to create out of these images.” For her, “Photography has finally become what it is has set out to be – a universal language. It’s not in the photographs, not in itself, but about the text you put into a book, what kind of writing you connect your work with.” The same passion that emanates from her photographs comes through her voice and her words, as she explains how photography is so much more than just seeing the world through a lens and then showing that world what it looks like. “I am very interested in how far one can push photography and the overlap it has with literature. The kind of photography I am interested in needs to look to the other forms now – to cinema, to literature, to music, to create something more.”
This inspiration comes from interacting with her friends - writers, photographers – and from reading: “I read a lot of (Italo) Calvino, who is most important for any photographer to read,” an unconventional choice for a tribe that usually focuses on (Susan) Sontag et al. “It opens up a Pandora’s box. My advice to young photographers is always to read, read and read more.” Singh believes that “It is not about the picture making, but about the form that makes it. It cannot be all that you do in your life, I think. It is about bringing something else into your work, from travel, reading and conversations, reading being absolute number 1 – no way around it!” It is sustenance for her, since “Literature certainly informs and shapes the thought that I put into my work.” Photographs thus become facets of a larger story. When you look through Singh’s Dream Villa set, for instance, “could they evoke a certain story, a certain symphony? Think of these as clues to a story in Michael Ondaatje’s style of editing, with no fixed beginning and no definite end.”
And this is how she wants to work, what she wants her work seen as. “If we can have texts that somewhere go into how one creates – that would be quite a big step. This book has made a big shift in the world of books, in the kind of text it has. The writers are not talking just about the photographer, they are not concerned with just photography; they are interested in the arts, in literature, in music.” With the book, Singh aimed to try and start to “push the limits on what has been written on photography – it would be worth it. These are some of the most important texts to read if you are interested in the medium. In this book I think I have laid the foundations for some kind of a change. It is not just about photographs, it is about the text.” That text was selected by Singh herself, as “an extension of my work. While it is a way of thanking people in my life that have shaped me, all the different experiences that form who we are become the sources that become whatever we are trying to create. If we could have a book that deals with the sources of what we create, that is what makes sense.”
Life is a series of stories that could be broken down into a sequence of images that run fast enough to seem like a continuous spiral of activity without the punctuations of blank spaces. Each of these images can be captured, memorized, by the mind and often is, only the finest details blurred over by time, age and eyes that may not be quick enough to fix them for eternity. And what the eye can see, the camera can freeze, too, each photograph keeping a log of what happened, where, when and how. A really ‘good’ photographer can also steal a little bit of the feeling, the emotion, the soul of that particular moment in time – in fact, in many cultures, a photograph is dreaded, sometimes even forbidden, since it is believed to take away a tiny slice of the soul, perhaps even the life, of the subject being photographed. But for the viewer, a photographic image tells a story, or a bit of one, leaving the rest for the imagination to conjure up and embellish.
In telling that story, photography, once considered to be merely a way of capturing a moment, be it as a family portrait of a facet of breaking news, gradually became an art form – a creative story-telling, fiction perhaps – or a means of documentation – a biography or a record of a life and its living. “You can call it art, documentation, literature, whatever you like,” says Dayanita Singh, well known photographer whose work illuminates and illustrates a new (eponymous) book from Penguin Studio. “It’s my work. It’s what I do.” Supporting her form of story-telling is writing that comes from the minds of Aveek Sen and Sunil Khilnani and, as a set of emails, Mona Anand.
She was once someone who thought that “Photography was one of the most irritating things to have around childhood.” Singh has said that “I had no interest in becoming a photographer.” It meant, more than anything else, that she had to sit still while her mother, Nony Singh, took pictures…and more pictures, “every departure was delayed by her picture making”. Some of the images her mother captured are included in the volume, in the section called Sent a Letter. “If I could write, I would not be a photographer,” Singh says, as she tells wordlessly of an “inner universe”, as the introduction poetically describes it, through her work.
And even as she tells stories looking through the eye of her camera, Khilnani and Sen have their own tales about what she is trying to convey. In the photographic essay called In I Am As I Am, a vision of Benares through the lives of young girls in the Anandamayi ashram, there is a tangible awareness of the tacit acceptance of the children’s way of life, the austerity, the simplicity, the peace, the gentleness that they learn to know and understand and the way they “…gaze - in wonder, confusion and horror – at all there is on view”, as Khilnani relevantly puts it – he is speaking of tourists reactions to the city, but he could be speaking of the girls themselves, their eyes wide and absorbing as they look out from their sheltered haven. The writing focuses on the city and its photographic potential, the way it has been portrayed by various people in writing and images.
Sen’s treatise on Ladies of Calcutta speaks of the “mad party” that was held at the gallery in Stephen Court when the show opened in January 2008. There were “friends and friends of friends who had opened their homes and lives to this woman with a Hasselblad from another city”. And Singh had a unique thank you gift for her visitors and subjects – each was allowed to take home the photograph she had made of them, leaving behind just four unclaimed. The images tell more stories than their subjects would perhaps have imagined. The unsaid says more than that which is spoken of, conveying mood, relationships and affections in that one snap in time. And there is history in each frame – culture, tradition and age, as reflected in the way the woman pose, the clothes they wear and how they are worn, the furniture, even the pictures on the walls. Each has a special story; its meaning and interpretation left to the viewer.
Singh herself is blunt about herself – “I would say that picture making is about a quarter of my work,” she says, “it is much more about the sifting, editing, weeding out, sequencing, thinking about the form, and what you want to create out of these images.” For her, “Photography has finally become what it is has set out to be – a universal language. It’s not in the photographs, not in itself, but about the text you put into a book, what kind of writing you connect your work with.” The same passion that emanates from her photographs comes through her voice and her words, as she explains how photography is so much more than just seeing the world through a lens and then showing that world what it looks like. “I am very interested in how far one can push photography and the overlap it has with literature. The kind of photography I am interested in needs to look to the other forms now – to cinema, to literature, to music, to create something more.”
This inspiration comes from interacting with her friends - writers, photographers – and from reading: “I read a lot of (Italo) Calvino, who is most important for any photographer to read,” an unconventional choice for a tribe that usually focuses on (Susan) Sontag et al. “It opens up a Pandora’s box. My advice to young photographers is always to read, read and read more.” Singh believes that “It is not about the picture making, but about the form that makes it. It cannot be all that you do in your life, I think. It is about bringing something else into your work, from travel, reading and conversations, reading being absolute number 1 – no way around it!” It is sustenance for her, since “Literature certainly informs and shapes the thought that I put into my work.” Photographs thus become facets of a larger story. When you look through Singh’s Dream Villa set, for instance, “could they evoke a certain story, a certain symphony? Think of these as clues to a story in Michael Ondaatje’s style of editing, with no fixed beginning and no definite end.”
And this is how she wants to work, what she wants her work seen as. “If we can have texts that somewhere go into how one creates – that would be quite a big step. This book has made a big shift in the world of books, in the kind of text it has. The writers are not talking just about the photographer, they are not concerned with just photography; they are interested in the arts, in literature, in music.” With the book, Singh aimed to try and start to “push the limits on what has been written on photography – it would be worth it. These are some of the most important texts to read if you are interested in the medium. In this book I think I have laid the foundations for some kind of a change. It is not just about photographs, it is about the text.” That text was selected by Singh herself, as “an extension of my work. While it is a way of thanking people in my life that have shaped me, all the different experiences that form who we are become the sources that become whatever we are trying to create. If we could have a book that deals with the sources of what we create, that is what makes sense.”
An elephant in the bedroom
(Published in TOI-Crest, August 21, 2010)
They are often big (ref: Jitish Kallat), sometimes transient (ref: Anish Kapoor) and occasionally need a context (ref: Nalini Malani). But today installations in art are part of the modes of creative expression that artists use. They can be fascinating, as with Vivan Sundaram’s disintegrating shoe-sole cots, amusing yet pointed, as with Shilpa Chavan’s lady of the dustpans, or deeply moving and strangely comforting, as in Reena Saini Kallat’s warm ‘red room’. Whatever their form and however they may say what they are trying to say, who takes these works home when their day is done?
Answers come from various sources. The much-vaunted sculpture The Skin Speaks a Language Not Its Own by Bharti Kher, the figure of a life-sized dying female elephant covered with bindis that delineate contour and, somehow, magically, emotion, has just sold at the Sotheby’s auction for a triumphant £993,250 / $1,493,947, the highest price for the artist and a record for work by a female Indian contemporary artist at auction. “It wasn’t meant to be a gold bar in a vault,” Kher has said, though the price may have bought a few of those!
The difficulty with buying installation art is that, by definition, it is site-specific, three-dimensional and designed to transform the perception of a space and the emotions of the viewer. As Sundaram has said in the context of his installation Twelve Bed Ward, part of his show Trash, which used garbage to make various salient points, “Private galleries today agree to build whole rooms and walls to create the desired environment.” Putting together his works to tell the story he wanted was “about a content relationship, the space available in each location”. It could be permanent, as with large sculptural pieces, or temporary, as with heaps of coloured powder or an audio-video loop. Installations may be good investments, but they need to be bought with a certain caution: Is there space enough to install it to best effect? When installed, does it still say what the artist wanted to say when it was created?
As art expert Ashish Balram Nagpal says, “Earlier it was only museums that bought installations, but now collectors too are buying them across the globe. If the work has to be put up in a gallery, then it may need explanation.” Siddharth Grover of Mumbai’s Sans Tache gallery believes that “It all depends on the quality of the work and how open one is to buying such work.” For super-creative fashion-maven and artist Chavan’s work, “it’s mostly been galleries and collectives” doing the buying. “I like my work to speak through its title, but it’s not always easy to have your installation self-explanatory, as there are so many elements juxtaposed,” as with her piece for the Bose Krishnamachari-curated show, A Woman’s Work is Never Done, which had a mannequin adorned with dust pans, mosquito netting, kitchen implements and attitude.
Do these works have an expiry date? Like Chavan, Grover does not think so. He says, “Fine art does not and technically should not expire; art, culture and heritage are to be passed down generations. One could have spent a good chunk of money to purchase a work, and it is the duty of an artisan to ensure longevity in his/her work.” Nagpal has a more practical view: “It depends on the installation. If it is made of durable material then, yes, it can last, but normally it is not! Once it is sold, it normally is the collector who has to look after it; however, if the artist is dedicated to his passion and is not merely making money then, yes, he will be available to rectify damages if needed.”
It is likely then, that to suit the market – a consciousness any artist will perforce have today – works are created with the logical end in mind: sale. Nagpal, with the cynicism of someone who has weathered a storm or two in the business, says, “There is rarely a work of art that is created without sale or sponsorship in mind.” Chavan’s ethos is rather less pragmatic. According to her, “I find that if I get practical, I stop being creative. It’s stagnating. Whether it’s the fashion or the art pieces I do, practicality has always been way too far out! I create with what comes to mind, irrespective of practicality and dimensions and raw materials.”
Grover, as gallerist, is more cautious. “An artist who explores his creativity without any preconceived notions on the artworks practicality/sale ability is definitely letting his creativity out to the fullest without stubbing any feelings or emotions that may arise at that time towards the work, and is a truly genuine artist who ends up ‘creating’. Those are the ones who do rare work!” Apart from the viewer’s own interpretation of what the work is about, “The thoughts of an artist paragraphed alongside a work does give the viewer/buyer an added insight.”
Creativity is the hallmark of Jitish Kallat’s work, though praticality plays no role. His pieces are enormous, to put it mildly, his latest at Pilane being a record 100 feet, stretching over the undulating landscape and asking, ‘When Will You Be Happy?’ - “It had to be subtly audible in the landscape which demanded the scale in response to the context.” When he made Public Notice II, a resin-bone transcript of Mahatma Gandhi’s speech, “The only practical thing I thought about was arrangements for storage. If I was practical about it, it would be just 7 foot long!” That work was acquired by the Charles Saatchi Gallery (private collection). For those without that space to keep and show art, size does indeed matter. Nagpal explains that “A smaller work always finds buyers more easily, given the size of homes we live in these days.”
Much installation art today uses audio-video segments. These, says Nagpal, are “sold to collectors just like any other work of art. It does, however, involve a lot of paperwork regarding the exclusive ownership of the work, to avoid duplication.” Grover agrees and adds that “The AV would be on a signed DVD mentioning the editions. And if the work has any special hardware that the artist has improvised or tweaked which the buyer would not have, then it would sell along with the apparatus.”
Perhaps superseding all these aspects is the artist’s own temperament. Chavan tries to make sure her pieces are sold “as intact or having their own balances. If there is an option of setting it up or displaying it in various ways, it is discussed as an option with the curator when the piece is submitted.” Since fashion is almost always an undercurrent, if not a direct inspiration, “often my works get mounted on mannequins and then transferred on to a wall or off the ceiling post the show.” Grover is insistent that “The work must be shown in its correct format at a gallery and at a buyer’s premises once it is sold. The level of difficulty will vary with the nature of the installation and where it is being placed. This really would matter most to the artist and the gallery and I’m certain they would go out of their way to ensure the setting is right!”
It is not just the setting in a gallery that matters, but also the environment in the space that a buyer selects for a work. Ashwini Kakkar, a passionate art collector, has concentrated on modern and contemporary Indian art dating from 1880 to the present, but is leery of buying installations, “a pity”, he feels, since without including it, “a whole significant and major style of art today is passed over”. This avoidance does not stem from preference, but from experience. Some years ago he bought a piece by a young artist from Goa that combined various materials, including fibreglass and stone, but found that “the problem was that it – and others of this kind – was very difficult to maintain. It not only accumulated dust, but “when you try and clean it, a small piece can easily come off! I had a really difficult time with it. It was very appealing, fascinating, very nicely and elegantly done, sort of everyman’s story that looked outstanding. I had never bought one before, so I thought I would try this.” Kakkar explains that “Unless it is really rugged and built in a manner that will prevent erosion or damage, I would be a bit shy of buying any more installations.” Technology, too, is not for him, as “if the video stops working, or there is something wrong with the technology used, or the physical features, how do you get it fixed? The artist part you may really like and can deal with, but the rest is scary! Sunil Padwal had a fantastic work in a major show about 20 months ago, but it had hundreds of little pieces, so it would have needed greater maintenance. So there are practical issues with installations. Clearly sculptures have an edge, especially if they are made of rugged material.”
They are often big (ref: Jitish Kallat), sometimes transient (ref: Anish Kapoor) and occasionally need a context (ref: Nalini Malani). But today installations in art are part of the modes of creative expression that artists use. They can be fascinating, as with Vivan Sundaram’s disintegrating shoe-sole cots, amusing yet pointed, as with Shilpa Chavan’s lady of the dustpans, or deeply moving and strangely comforting, as in Reena Saini Kallat’s warm ‘red room’. Whatever their form and however they may say what they are trying to say, who takes these works home when their day is done?
Answers come from various sources. The much-vaunted sculpture The Skin Speaks a Language Not Its Own by Bharti Kher, the figure of a life-sized dying female elephant covered with bindis that delineate contour and, somehow, magically, emotion, has just sold at the Sotheby’s auction for a triumphant £993,250 / $1,493,947, the highest price for the artist and a record for work by a female Indian contemporary artist at auction. “It wasn’t meant to be a gold bar in a vault,” Kher has said, though the price may have bought a few of those!
The difficulty with buying installation art is that, by definition, it is site-specific, three-dimensional and designed to transform the perception of a space and the emotions of the viewer. As Sundaram has said in the context of his installation Twelve Bed Ward, part of his show Trash, which used garbage to make various salient points, “Private galleries today agree to build whole rooms and walls to create the desired environment.” Putting together his works to tell the story he wanted was “about a content relationship, the space available in each location”. It could be permanent, as with large sculptural pieces, or temporary, as with heaps of coloured powder or an audio-video loop. Installations may be good investments, but they need to be bought with a certain caution: Is there space enough to install it to best effect? When installed, does it still say what the artist wanted to say when it was created?
As art expert Ashish Balram Nagpal says, “Earlier it was only museums that bought installations, but now collectors too are buying them across the globe. If the work has to be put up in a gallery, then it may need explanation.” Siddharth Grover of Mumbai’s Sans Tache gallery believes that “It all depends on the quality of the work and how open one is to buying such work.” For super-creative fashion-maven and artist Chavan’s work, “it’s mostly been galleries and collectives” doing the buying. “I like my work to speak through its title, but it’s not always easy to have your installation self-explanatory, as there are so many elements juxtaposed,” as with her piece for the Bose Krishnamachari-curated show, A Woman’s Work is Never Done, which had a mannequin adorned with dust pans, mosquito netting, kitchen implements and attitude.
Do these works have an expiry date? Like Chavan, Grover does not think so. He says, “Fine art does not and technically should not expire; art, culture and heritage are to be passed down generations. One could have spent a good chunk of money to purchase a work, and it is the duty of an artisan to ensure longevity in his/her work.” Nagpal has a more practical view: “It depends on the installation. If it is made of durable material then, yes, it can last, but normally it is not! Once it is sold, it normally is the collector who has to look after it; however, if the artist is dedicated to his passion and is not merely making money then, yes, he will be available to rectify damages if needed.”
It is likely then, that to suit the market – a consciousness any artist will perforce have today – works are created with the logical end in mind: sale. Nagpal, with the cynicism of someone who has weathered a storm or two in the business, says, “There is rarely a work of art that is created without sale or sponsorship in mind.” Chavan’s ethos is rather less pragmatic. According to her, “I find that if I get practical, I stop being creative. It’s stagnating. Whether it’s the fashion or the art pieces I do, practicality has always been way too far out! I create with what comes to mind, irrespective of practicality and dimensions and raw materials.”
Grover, as gallerist, is more cautious. “An artist who explores his creativity without any preconceived notions on the artworks practicality/sale ability is definitely letting his creativity out to the fullest without stubbing any feelings or emotions that may arise at that time towards the work, and is a truly genuine artist who ends up ‘creating’. Those are the ones who do rare work!” Apart from the viewer’s own interpretation of what the work is about, “The thoughts of an artist paragraphed alongside a work does give the viewer/buyer an added insight.”
Creativity is the hallmark of Jitish Kallat’s work, though praticality plays no role. His pieces are enormous, to put it mildly, his latest at Pilane being a record 100 feet, stretching over the undulating landscape and asking, ‘When Will You Be Happy?’ - “It had to be subtly audible in the landscape which demanded the scale in response to the context.” When he made Public Notice II, a resin-bone transcript of Mahatma Gandhi’s speech, “The only practical thing I thought about was arrangements for storage. If I was practical about it, it would be just 7 foot long!” That work was acquired by the Charles Saatchi Gallery (private collection). For those without that space to keep and show art, size does indeed matter. Nagpal explains that “A smaller work always finds buyers more easily, given the size of homes we live in these days.”
Much installation art today uses audio-video segments. These, says Nagpal, are “sold to collectors just like any other work of art. It does, however, involve a lot of paperwork regarding the exclusive ownership of the work, to avoid duplication.” Grover agrees and adds that “The AV would be on a signed DVD mentioning the editions. And if the work has any special hardware that the artist has improvised or tweaked which the buyer would not have, then it would sell along with the apparatus.”
Perhaps superseding all these aspects is the artist’s own temperament. Chavan tries to make sure her pieces are sold “as intact or having their own balances. If there is an option of setting it up or displaying it in various ways, it is discussed as an option with the curator when the piece is submitted.” Since fashion is almost always an undercurrent, if not a direct inspiration, “often my works get mounted on mannequins and then transferred on to a wall or off the ceiling post the show.” Grover is insistent that “The work must be shown in its correct format at a gallery and at a buyer’s premises once it is sold. The level of difficulty will vary with the nature of the installation and where it is being placed. This really would matter most to the artist and the gallery and I’m certain they would go out of their way to ensure the setting is right!”
It is not just the setting in a gallery that matters, but also the environment in the space that a buyer selects for a work. Ashwini Kakkar, a passionate art collector, has concentrated on modern and contemporary Indian art dating from 1880 to the present, but is leery of buying installations, “a pity”, he feels, since without including it, “a whole significant and major style of art today is passed over”. This avoidance does not stem from preference, but from experience. Some years ago he bought a piece by a young artist from Goa that combined various materials, including fibreglass and stone, but found that “the problem was that it – and others of this kind – was very difficult to maintain. It not only accumulated dust, but “when you try and clean it, a small piece can easily come off! I had a really difficult time with it. It was very appealing, fascinating, very nicely and elegantly done, sort of everyman’s story that looked outstanding. I had never bought one before, so I thought I would try this.” Kakkar explains that “Unless it is really rugged and built in a manner that will prevent erosion or damage, I would be a bit shy of buying any more installations.” Technology, too, is not for him, as “if the video stops working, or there is something wrong with the technology used, or the physical features, how do you get it fixed? The artist part you may really like and can deal with, but the rest is scary! Sunil Padwal had a fantastic work in a major show about 20 months ago, but it had hundreds of little pieces, so it would have needed greater maintenance. So there are practical issues with installations. Clearly sculptures have an edge, especially if they are made of rugged material.”
Monday, August 16, 2010
A very funny man
(Published in Hindu Sunday Magazine, August 15)
He doesn’t look like a funny man, but he has an infectious chortle and that mad gleam in the eye that reveals a mind looking for a joke. And as he tells one, Don Ward’s face lights up with childlike glee, willing you, as listener, to laugh. Like the incident at the toilet in the Victoria Terminus, Mumbai’s landmark railway station; “I have a fascination for toilets all around the world,” he says, “and a great passion for architecture.” Or the startlingly short taxi ride from his hotel and the ‘attractions’ – of the female kind – that the taxi driver offered him. His favourite, considering the number of times it has been reported, is punctuated by appropriate jerks and bounces as he tells how a cabman said that the British had left India 25 years too early, before they had finished the roads.
Ward has been bumping his way along Mumbai’s crowded streets for a while now, as he goes about setting up the newest branch of his Comedy Store, India’s first ever venue for stand-up comedy. He is the producer and CEO of the company and is often called The Don, or The Godfather of Comedy. But the only bullets fired here are verbal ones that hit target with a crack of laughter and leave the audience gasping with giggles. He beams proudly as he describes the spanking new place: “It covers three floors (at a new high-end mall) and seats 300, with little sockets for your drink at each seat. There’s a bar outside and a tapas bar – Indian people like a little tapas with a drink…” and he darts into another funny story.
But it isn’t easy to tell a joke. After all, humour is so subjective. But, as Ward explains, “You have to have a funny bone. Whoever your god is sent you down to this earth saying, ‘Ok, you can have the ability to make people laugh’. It’s as simple as that – a great gift and just wonderful if you are born with it.” And using it in the right way is what matters. “You either cultivate it or you don’t. You either keep it as something to amuse people with at the office, or go on to bigger and better things, and expose your talent to the stage, television and film, which some of my team have done.” And at the base of it all, “The spoken word is all you need to make someone feel good.”
Something funny often has a story behind it that needs explanation. But, Ward makes clear, there is a difference between that and truly funny. “Insider jokes will only happen within a small group of like-minded people. Observational jokes, on the other hand, need to be on the level that you would see at the Comedy Store. The guys (in his team) absorb things quickly; their brain starts clicking and they will review and report it. And when it is reported in a way that is looking at the funny side of whatever life presents itself as, that makes us laugh at ourselves.” That, Ward believes, “is true funny humour, as opposed to a joke about your mother-in-law or the colour of someone’s skin.”
Over the years, the concept of funny has changed. “When I started the Comedy Store 30 years ago, mother-in-law jokes were all the rage,” Ward remembers. But Mumbai is a new market, so far unexplored. “This is the exciting thing for me. With no disrespect to India or Mumbai, it’s like stepping back 30 years, even though business-wise India has overtaken most of the world! It’s like déjà vu for me,” says Ward. “I think comedy will take a similar route to what happened in the UK - the stars who emerged in those early days made mistakes and corrected them and gradually crawled up the window pane as they gained the experience to become very good stand-up comedians.”
But in the rah-rahs lauding India and Mumbai, there is a scathing indictment of things locally humorous…or not. According to Ward, “The comedy here is juvenile, for a 9 or 10 year-old. It needs to come in at a much higher level, not just the custard pie-in-the-face kind of thing. That was how it was in London 30 years ago, when the big names in comedy did structured jokes, mother-in-law jokes, sexist jokes, racist jokes and so on.” Those are no-nos today. “That is what I set the platform up for with the Comedy Store – non sexist, non-racist humour. I told my team to lay off the religion, leave the Buddha alone, leave the sacred cows alone - even though there are no ‘sacred cows’ in the UK”, he chuckles. “The Comedy Store in the UK was the only place you could go to and hear bad things about the government (especially Margaret Thatcher) and laugh about it. It would be nice to take the government here apart, but we have to know more about it first!”
His choice of Mumbai was serendipity. “Everybody was looking to the north of England, so I thought I would look East, which was India. I looked at Delhi but didn’t feel it there - I didn’t appreciate the way they treated people and I found the class distinction hard to deal with. So I decided to look at Mumbai – you just FEEL it here! It’s like Manchester, with all sorts of people, fun, family, the excitement of the movie industry, business sense, entrepreneurial spirit – I couldn’t find anything wrong with the city, and the people are fantastic: if you have a bicycle, you have a business; if you don’t have a bicycle, you have a head!”
The language will not be a problem, Ward insists. “We will have a mix of English and Hinglish, eventually all Hindi. I intend to bring in six or eight boys and girls, to be hosts who speak the local language and can invite guests and steer along the evening. One night a week will be for locals, with an international compere. The rest of the week we will have poetry, music, comedy, etc.” There will be six shows of international comedy, and then some local talent. And who knows, “there could be a diamond in the crowd – the next big star who will eventually make it to the big time!”
The British are back, to glean the harvest of the legacy they left India so many years ago: “a great international trading language and a sense of humour”.
He doesn’t look like a funny man, but he has an infectious chortle and that mad gleam in the eye that reveals a mind looking for a joke. And as he tells one, Don Ward’s face lights up with childlike glee, willing you, as listener, to laugh. Like the incident at the toilet in the Victoria Terminus, Mumbai’s landmark railway station; “I have a fascination for toilets all around the world,” he says, “and a great passion for architecture.” Or the startlingly short taxi ride from his hotel and the ‘attractions’ – of the female kind – that the taxi driver offered him. His favourite, considering the number of times it has been reported, is punctuated by appropriate jerks and bounces as he tells how a cabman said that the British had left India 25 years too early, before they had finished the roads.
Ward has been bumping his way along Mumbai’s crowded streets for a while now, as he goes about setting up the newest branch of his Comedy Store, India’s first ever venue for stand-up comedy. He is the producer and CEO of the company and is often called The Don, or The Godfather of Comedy. But the only bullets fired here are verbal ones that hit target with a crack of laughter and leave the audience gasping with giggles. He beams proudly as he describes the spanking new place: “It covers three floors (at a new high-end mall) and seats 300, with little sockets for your drink at each seat. There’s a bar outside and a tapas bar – Indian people like a little tapas with a drink…” and he darts into another funny story.
But it isn’t easy to tell a joke. After all, humour is so subjective. But, as Ward explains, “You have to have a funny bone. Whoever your god is sent you down to this earth saying, ‘Ok, you can have the ability to make people laugh’. It’s as simple as that – a great gift and just wonderful if you are born with it.” And using it in the right way is what matters. “You either cultivate it or you don’t. You either keep it as something to amuse people with at the office, or go on to bigger and better things, and expose your talent to the stage, television and film, which some of my team have done.” And at the base of it all, “The spoken word is all you need to make someone feel good.”
Something funny often has a story behind it that needs explanation. But, Ward makes clear, there is a difference between that and truly funny. “Insider jokes will only happen within a small group of like-minded people. Observational jokes, on the other hand, need to be on the level that you would see at the Comedy Store. The guys (in his team) absorb things quickly; their brain starts clicking and they will review and report it. And when it is reported in a way that is looking at the funny side of whatever life presents itself as, that makes us laugh at ourselves.” That, Ward believes, “is true funny humour, as opposed to a joke about your mother-in-law or the colour of someone’s skin.”
Over the years, the concept of funny has changed. “When I started the Comedy Store 30 years ago, mother-in-law jokes were all the rage,” Ward remembers. But Mumbai is a new market, so far unexplored. “This is the exciting thing for me. With no disrespect to India or Mumbai, it’s like stepping back 30 years, even though business-wise India has overtaken most of the world! It’s like déjà vu for me,” says Ward. “I think comedy will take a similar route to what happened in the UK - the stars who emerged in those early days made mistakes and corrected them and gradually crawled up the window pane as they gained the experience to become very good stand-up comedians.”
But in the rah-rahs lauding India and Mumbai, there is a scathing indictment of things locally humorous…or not. According to Ward, “The comedy here is juvenile, for a 9 or 10 year-old. It needs to come in at a much higher level, not just the custard pie-in-the-face kind of thing. That was how it was in London 30 years ago, when the big names in comedy did structured jokes, mother-in-law jokes, sexist jokes, racist jokes and so on.” Those are no-nos today. “That is what I set the platform up for with the Comedy Store – non sexist, non-racist humour. I told my team to lay off the religion, leave the Buddha alone, leave the sacred cows alone - even though there are no ‘sacred cows’ in the UK”, he chuckles. “The Comedy Store in the UK was the only place you could go to and hear bad things about the government (especially Margaret Thatcher) and laugh about it. It would be nice to take the government here apart, but we have to know more about it first!”
His choice of Mumbai was serendipity. “Everybody was looking to the north of England, so I thought I would look East, which was India. I looked at Delhi but didn’t feel it there - I didn’t appreciate the way they treated people and I found the class distinction hard to deal with. So I decided to look at Mumbai – you just FEEL it here! It’s like Manchester, with all sorts of people, fun, family, the excitement of the movie industry, business sense, entrepreneurial spirit – I couldn’t find anything wrong with the city, and the people are fantastic: if you have a bicycle, you have a business; if you don’t have a bicycle, you have a head!”
The language will not be a problem, Ward insists. “We will have a mix of English and Hinglish, eventually all Hindi. I intend to bring in six or eight boys and girls, to be hosts who speak the local language and can invite guests and steer along the evening. One night a week will be for locals, with an international compere. The rest of the week we will have poetry, music, comedy, etc.” There will be six shows of international comedy, and then some local talent. And who knows, “there could be a diamond in the crowd – the next big star who will eventually make it to the big time!”
The British are back, to glean the harvest of the legacy they left India so many years ago: “a great international trading language and a sense of humour”.
Talk time
(Published in TOI, Sunday, August 15)
There is a lot to be said for the mobile phone. Even though it can be annoying to be woken up by the shrill trill of the cellphone or disturbed in a meeting by the intrusive ‘bing’ of an incoming text, it is admittedly a necessary evil, a device that has become not just ubiquitous for many, but a vital appendage for some. And today, when the status of the oh-so-popular Blackberry is at crisis point, it may become essential for a little urgent shopping at the local mobile phone store.
While those who know but would rather not spend covet the really high-end phones from a respectable distance and merely gasp at the price tags attached to the Vertu (when introduced to this country in 2004, Vertu Signature from Rs3.71 lakh, Vertu Ascent Rs2.42 lakh, price now on request) or the somewhat more affordable Bang and Olufsen, a company known for space-age sleek design concepts (Serenata Rs65,000 plus in 2007), or even the Motorola Aura (Rs1.1 lakh), some – movie stars, designers, businesspeople, the occasional politican - do indeed indulge, quietly, discretely. Most people aim for praticality, choosing a phone that is useful, easily toted about and not irreplaceable, except for sentimental reasons. And today, since there are so many models available, with so many varied options and applications, the phone can be changed at whim, though buy-back by the dealer is not guaranteed, since technology runs forward faster than fashion.
Once touted as the best cellphone brand available in India, Nokia has had a turbulent time, with other names speeding ahead on the sales track. Many years ago, when the concept of a mobile phone was just making its first forays into India, a mid-range Nokia 1600, shaped somewhat like a concrete brick and weighing about that much, would sell at about Rs35,000, the first year of judicious use included. At the time, both incoming and outgoing calls were expensive. Soon, by the time the smaller, lighter and higher-tech phones made their presence felt and prices came down to more affordable levels of below Rs10,000. People could choose what they wanted to do with their sets, depending on whether they wanted to listen to music, take photographs, play games, download email or, even just make a call. Today, it is rare to find someone without a mobile – in fact, it is a rare individual who avoids owning one!
Now there is a new model and a new brand available almost every day, at new prices and new capabilities. From the much-advertised Apple I-Phone (3G 32gb, approx Rs45,000) and the LG BL40 (Rs35,000) to the designer-label Samsung by Georgio Armani (Rs38,000) and Motorola’s gold Motorazr2 V8 (Rs27,440), the more expensive handsets have tech mod-cons and cosmetic bells and whistles attached. And then there are the totally preiswert models, from the Samsung E1081 (Rs1400) to the Micromax X215 (Rs2000) and the Sony Ericsson J132 (Rs1700). Once you know what you want the phone to do for you, and how much you want to spend on it, all you need to do is walk down to the nearest store and take your pick. And start talking…
There is a lot to be said for the mobile phone. Even though it can be annoying to be woken up by the shrill trill of the cellphone or disturbed in a meeting by the intrusive ‘bing’ of an incoming text, it is admittedly a necessary evil, a device that has become not just ubiquitous for many, but a vital appendage for some. And today, when the status of the oh-so-popular Blackberry is at crisis point, it may become essential for a little urgent shopping at the local mobile phone store.
While those who know but would rather not spend covet the really high-end phones from a respectable distance and merely gasp at the price tags attached to the Vertu (when introduced to this country in 2004, Vertu Signature from Rs3.71 lakh, Vertu Ascent Rs2.42 lakh, price now on request) or the somewhat more affordable Bang and Olufsen, a company known for space-age sleek design concepts (Serenata Rs65,000 plus in 2007), or even the Motorola Aura (Rs1.1 lakh), some – movie stars, designers, businesspeople, the occasional politican - do indeed indulge, quietly, discretely. Most people aim for praticality, choosing a phone that is useful, easily toted about and not irreplaceable, except for sentimental reasons. And today, since there are so many models available, with so many varied options and applications, the phone can be changed at whim, though buy-back by the dealer is not guaranteed, since technology runs forward faster than fashion.
Once touted as the best cellphone brand available in India, Nokia has had a turbulent time, with other names speeding ahead on the sales track. Many years ago, when the concept of a mobile phone was just making its first forays into India, a mid-range Nokia 1600, shaped somewhat like a concrete brick and weighing about that much, would sell at about Rs35,000, the first year of judicious use included. At the time, both incoming and outgoing calls were expensive. Soon, by the time the smaller, lighter and higher-tech phones made their presence felt and prices came down to more affordable levels of below Rs10,000. People could choose what they wanted to do with their sets, depending on whether they wanted to listen to music, take photographs, play games, download email or, even just make a call. Today, it is rare to find someone without a mobile – in fact, it is a rare individual who avoids owning one!
Now there is a new model and a new brand available almost every day, at new prices and new capabilities. From the much-advertised Apple I-Phone (3G 32gb, approx Rs45,000) and the LG BL40 (Rs35,000) to the designer-label Samsung by Georgio Armani (Rs38,000) and Motorola’s gold Motorazr2 V8 (Rs27,440), the more expensive handsets have tech mod-cons and cosmetic bells and whistles attached. And then there are the totally preiswert models, from the Samsung E1081 (Rs1400) to the Micromax X215 (Rs2000) and the Sony Ericsson J132 (Rs1700). Once you know what you want the phone to do for you, and how much you want to spend on it, all you need to do is walk down to the nearest store and take your pick. And start talking…
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Fishy tales
(Published in the Bengal Post Sunday section, August 8)
Think of fish in India and your mind zeroes in on the cuisine of Bengal, where all foods piscine have been elevated to a veritable art form. Even as the Bengalis delicately pick their practiced way through the maze of tiny bones to unearth intensely aromatic flesh in the experience that is the prized hilsa, or ilish maach now in season, they screw up their discerning noses at an offering from the sea, insisting that the marine life is not ‘sweet enough’. Only river fish for them, they declare, as they throng the markets early in the morning to take home the freshest catch of the day, carefully chosen and neatly cleaned and filleted, after exchanging banter, the occasional insult and a recipe or two with the fishmonger, the neighbour and the local rickshaw-wallah. At this time of year, when eateries big and small announce the arrival of the hilsa with food festivals to celebrate it, there is a collective smacking of lips, a meticulous and astonishingly skilful sorting of bone from meat in the mouth and a sonorous and satisfied burp signalling the end of a feast well-deserved and better relished.
Fish is indeed a treasure in a nation that is primarily vegetarian. It is not only a rich fund of nourishment in its fat, protein and omega-3 amino acid content, but also a storehouse of tradition, culture, customs and, interestingly, art. Fish motifs are used in painting, weaving, carving and metal casting, seen in mythology mainly as an avatar of Vishnu and used as an analogy for the beauty of the female eye. Medically speaking, small live fish are used in an annual camp in Andhra Pradesh to push a cure for asthma down a believer’s throat – there is no proof that this method works, but faith goes a long way along the path to good health. In some ancient cultures, catching a fish could win a young man a bride, rather like the story of Arjuna shooting a fish in the eye at Draupadi’s swayamwar. And in a number of coastal communities, fish is not just a dietary staple, but also a steady source of income, in both the local and international market.
The way fish is eaten and the kind of fish eaten varies with region, just as the methods of cooking it do. In Bengal and Assam, as well as in other regions where the sea is a distant fact, river fish is preferred, while in Maharashtra and Goa, the sea is the piscatorial larder. Dried fish – such as mackerel, prawns or Bombay Duck – is a favourite on the western coast, and dried shellfish is often ground into a base for gravies in South India. Along the Ratnagiri shoreline and in cities like Mumbai, the flat, meaty and gently-flavoured pomfret is prized, the white variety more than the black, and can sometimes command prices that could finance a small business! Goa is home to some of the best seafood in the country, with recipes that bring out the best in any fish – from the spicy green Xacuti to the fiery Rechado to the preserves – prawn and chicken pickle being hot (literally!) favourites. The Parsis have created the Prawn Patia, a spicy preserve ideally eaten with dal and rice, and the fried dried Bombay Duck, crunchy, salty and incredibly fishy.
But at this time of year, when the seas are whipped up into a frenzy by the southwest monsoon, no fisherman on the west coast will take his boat out. He will stay on land to mend his nets, refit his boat and organise his home, waiting for the rains to finish their job, for the fish to end spawning season and the waters to be calm enough that he can go out to sea again. And that is when the celebrations begin. With Narali Purnima, or the Coconut Festival, the Goddess of the Sea is propitiated with sweet fresh coconut water, milky coconut flesh, ghee lamps and flowers, and her permission taken for fishing to begin once again.
It may be believed that fish needs a mild, neutral environment for its true taste to be savoured. But in India, be it in Bengal or in Kerala, Maharashtra or Goa, spice is indeed a way of life. Chillies and often coconut are part of almost any recipe, especially in Kerala. The delicate Pearlspot or Karimeen is perfect in a moilee, or cooked in a broth rich with coconut milk, curry leaves, chillies, ginger and salt. Moplah (Kerala Muslim) cuisine has a recipe for prawn biryani that cooks the shellfish with chillies, ginger, poppy seeds, coconut milk and lime juice. In Goa too, coconut rules, often replacing cow or buffalo milk in any recipe, adding a distinctively Indian note to many seafood preparations that have strong Portuguese roots and are baked, stuffed and grilled or pies. Through all this, the intrinsic flavour of the fish is the hero, always clean and distinct, no matter how much camouflage may be put in, from chillies and pepper to tamarind and ginger. But the contrast between the fish-based cuisine of Bengal and that of Goa and the west coast in general is distinct: river-based species give way to ocean life like mullet, mackerel, sardine, skate, shark and prawn.
One of the most ubiquitous of fish dishes is the curry, made in almost the same way across the country. A thick or thin gravy, redolent with spices, forms the base. This may be made with ground coconut or with tomatoes, but will contain the chillies that give it its characteristic red-orange hue, so easily identified as one of the colours of India itself, hot, spicy and oh-so-addictive. In this long-simmered and rich sauce is dropped prawns, lobster, crab, or any of a long list of fish, and allowed to steep rather than stew. The result: a fragrant, delicious meal when eaten with hot, fresh rice and a puffy poppadom. Bon appetit!
Think of fish in India and your mind zeroes in on the cuisine of Bengal, where all foods piscine have been elevated to a veritable art form. Even as the Bengalis delicately pick their practiced way through the maze of tiny bones to unearth intensely aromatic flesh in the experience that is the prized hilsa, or ilish maach now in season, they screw up their discerning noses at an offering from the sea, insisting that the marine life is not ‘sweet enough’. Only river fish for them, they declare, as they throng the markets early in the morning to take home the freshest catch of the day, carefully chosen and neatly cleaned and filleted, after exchanging banter, the occasional insult and a recipe or two with the fishmonger, the neighbour and the local rickshaw-wallah. At this time of year, when eateries big and small announce the arrival of the hilsa with food festivals to celebrate it, there is a collective smacking of lips, a meticulous and astonishingly skilful sorting of bone from meat in the mouth and a sonorous and satisfied burp signalling the end of a feast well-deserved and better relished.
Fish is indeed a treasure in a nation that is primarily vegetarian. It is not only a rich fund of nourishment in its fat, protein and omega-3 amino acid content, but also a storehouse of tradition, culture, customs and, interestingly, art. Fish motifs are used in painting, weaving, carving and metal casting, seen in mythology mainly as an avatar of Vishnu and used as an analogy for the beauty of the female eye. Medically speaking, small live fish are used in an annual camp in Andhra Pradesh to push a cure for asthma down a believer’s throat – there is no proof that this method works, but faith goes a long way along the path to good health. In some ancient cultures, catching a fish could win a young man a bride, rather like the story of Arjuna shooting a fish in the eye at Draupadi’s swayamwar. And in a number of coastal communities, fish is not just a dietary staple, but also a steady source of income, in both the local and international market.
The way fish is eaten and the kind of fish eaten varies with region, just as the methods of cooking it do. In Bengal and Assam, as well as in other regions where the sea is a distant fact, river fish is preferred, while in Maharashtra and Goa, the sea is the piscatorial larder. Dried fish – such as mackerel, prawns or Bombay Duck – is a favourite on the western coast, and dried shellfish is often ground into a base for gravies in South India. Along the Ratnagiri shoreline and in cities like Mumbai, the flat, meaty and gently-flavoured pomfret is prized, the white variety more than the black, and can sometimes command prices that could finance a small business! Goa is home to some of the best seafood in the country, with recipes that bring out the best in any fish – from the spicy green Xacuti to the fiery Rechado to the preserves – prawn and chicken pickle being hot (literally!) favourites. The Parsis have created the Prawn Patia, a spicy preserve ideally eaten with dal and rice, and the fried dried Bombay Duck, crunchy, salty and incredibly fishy.
But at this time of year, when the seas are whipped up into a frenzy by the southwest monsoon, no fisherman on the west coast will take his boat out. He will stay on land to mend his nets, refit his boat and organise his home, waiting for the rains to finish their job, for the fish to end spawning season and the waters to be calm enough that he can go out to sea again. And that is when the celebrations begin. With Narali Purnima, or the Coconut Festival, the Goddess of the Sea is propitiated with sweet fresh coconut water, milky coconut flesh, ghee lamps and flowers, and her permission taken for fishing to begin once again.
It may be believed that fish needs a mild, neutral environment for its true taste to be savoured. But in India, be it in Bengal or in Kerala, Maharashtra or Goa, spice is indeed a way of life. Chillies and often coconut are part of almost any recipe, especially in Kerala. The delicate Pearlspot or Karimeen is perfect in a moilee, or cooked in a broth rich with coconut milk, curry leaves, chillies, ginger and salt. Moplah (Kerala Muslim) cuisine has a recipe for prawn biryani that cooks the shellfish with chillies, ginger, poppy seeds, coconut milk and lime juice. In Goa too, coconut rules, often replacing cow or buffalo milk in any recipe, adding a distinctively Indian note to many seafood preparations that have strong Portuguese roots and are baked, stuffed and grilled or pies. Through all this, the intrinsic flavour of the fish is the hero, always clean and distinct, no matter how much camouflage may be put in, from chillies and pepper to tamarind and ginger. But the contrast between the fish-based cuisine of Bengal and that of Goa and the west coast in general is distinct: river-based species give way to ocean life like mullet, mackerel, sardine, skate, shark and prawn.
One of the most ubiquitous of fish dishes is the curry, made in almost the same way across the country. A thick or thin gravy, redolent with spices, forms the base. This may be made with ground coconut or with tomatoes, but will contain the chillies that give it its characteristic red-orange hue, so easily identified as one of the colours of India itself, hot, spicy and oh-so-addictive. In this long-simmered and rich sauce is dropped prawns, lobster, crab, or any of a long list of fish, and allowed to steep rather than stew. The result: a fragrant, delicious meal when eaten with hot, fresh rice and a puffy poppadom. Bon appetit!
Sunday, August 08, 2010
A walk through the park
(Published in Hindu Sunday Magazine today)
She sits across the table at the Press Club in Mumbai, in an obviously familiar environment, eyes sparkling, her being concentrated into the surprisingly small space she occupies – she has a big voice, big eyes, big presence, but is a tiny woman. Anjali Joseph had a busy trip to Mumbai, her time filled with interviews, a launch, a reading and those eternal questions, answered over and over again and quoted verbatim in endless write-ups. She commutes between London, where she lives, studies for a PhD and writes, and Pune, where her parents are based, wondering whether the ratio of time she spends in each country should not be skewed somewhat differently. The recent flurry of attention comes from her first novel, Saraswati Park, the story of a letter writer who sits outside the General Post Office in Mumbai (or ‘Bombay’, as she calls it) and dreams of a life he believes cannot be his. And what is her life all about? Who is Anjali Joseph? “God, this is like my crisis every morning before the second cup of coffee!” she laughs.
Born in Bombay, as it was then, to a Malayalee father and a Bengali-Gujarati mother, and with an older brother, Joseph moved with her family to the UK when she was just seven years old. She studied English at Trinity College, Cambridge, taught French in London and English at the Sorbonne in Paris and has worked as a journalist in Mumbai. Along the way, she did a stint as an accountant, thinking that if she trained to be a chartered accountant, she could “get a proper job and write part time or something, but I have always been very bad with numbers, so it was basically a torment. I was going through a really desperate patch at the time! When I left Cambridge, I needed to have the confidence that yes, I could be a writer; I always wanted to write but I felt I needed some life experience.” Adding to that experience she sought was a job as a secretary, another at a small Asian newspaper in London for a while.
Joseph’s parents moved back to India when she was about 19. “I would come and visit for holidays, but I never really spent much time in India for my education or anything else, so I don’t really have that sense of what it means to be an Indian here,” she says. Somewhere along the line, life turned on to the path of authorhood. It began with journalism. “I came to India for a holiday and travelled around South India and met a lot of people who were like me – Israelis, people from the US, all kind of mirroring myself to me, feeling ‘I don’t know what I want to do, what to do with my life’.” Reality bit and “after a week or two of that I found myself wanting a job, so I wrote these letters to lots of people. I did not know where I wanted to be – maybe Mumbai, but then I thought this city was too expensive.” But a job she liked decided things and she became a feature writer with a national publication. “Fate had intervened and said “Bombay!” Within two weeks after initiating the whole process, I remember sitting sleepily on the bus in the late morning thinking I would see London if I looked out, and I would actually see Bombay.” Three years later, Joseph “decided it was time to finally get to work – my 30th birthday was approaching and it was time for me to actually write that novel. I did a course in creative writing in England and started writing. I came back to Bombay and worked at a magazine for a year, as commissioning editor. I had a great time. It was quite literary.”
Saraswati Park is “my revisiting of the Mumbai that I grew up in,” Joseph explains, “the world of my parents and grandparents, bookish and intellectual, the people you see around you on the street, the awareness of the various different kinds of people…There is a very middle class bookish Bombay and that’s not something that I see reflected in what is usually written – what I found was more Bollywood and such, which was not what I knew. So I supposed in a way this is my attempt to find a fictional base for my Bombay, which I think still exists.”
Her main character, Mohan Karekar, is a would-be writer, a man who fills the margins of the books he buys so regularly with thoughts, ideas, inspirations. A man who cannot – or perhaps does not - find the courage to create with those ideas and write more, maybe enough to make a book. According to Joseph, “The block in his head is something that a lot of people actually feel – that your own life is not the stuff of literature, since literature is somehow special, with a linear plot line and a meaning and everything that is interconnected in a way that can be perceived in a work of art. In daily life things are not so clear. Maybe it is the thought that ‘I am a small man in a big city and what do I matter anyway?’ People find it difficult, I think.”
And how much of her is there in the book, since the setting is familiar territory, the people are real and she has actually spent a little time with the letter writers of Mumbai. Joseph smiles, saying, “There are many places that I have been. There are a lot of emotions I have felt at some time or the other in very different circumstances that I have used in the book. In terms of actual life experience, I have not been through most of the things these characters have been through. I think they are all real people, even though I know they are not.” And these are the folk, like any one of us, who live in Saraswati Park.
She sits across the table at the Press Club in Mumbai, in an obviously familiar environment, eyes sparkling, her being concentrated into the surprisingly small space she occupies – she has a big voice, big eyes, big presence, but is a tiny woman. Anjali Joseph had a busy trip to Mumbai, her time filled with interviews, a launch, a reading and those eternal questions, answered over and over again and quoted verbatim in endless write-ups. She commutes between London, where she lives, studies for a PhD and writes, and Pune, where her parents are based, wondering whether the ratio of time she spends in each country should not be skewed somewhat differently. The recent flurry of attention comes from her first novel, Saraswati Park, the story of a letter writer who sits outside the General Post Office in Mumbai (or ‘Bombay’, as she calls it) and dreams of a life he believes cannot be his. And what is her life all about? Who is Anjali Joseph? “God, this is like my crisis every morning before the second cup of coffee!” she laughs.
Born in Bombay, as it was then, to a Malayalee father and a Bengali-Gujarati mother, and with an older brother, Joseph moved with her family to the UK when she was just seven years old. She studied English at Trinity College, Cambridge, taught French in London and English at the Sorbonne in Paris and has worked as a journalist in Mumbai. Along the way, she did a stint as an accountant, thinking that if she trained to be a chartered accountant, she could “get a proper job and write part time or something, but I have always been very bad with numbers, so it was basically a torment. I was going through a really desperate patch at the time! When I left Cambridge, I needed to have the confidence that yes, I could be a writer; I always wanted to write but I felt I needed some life experience.” Adding to that experience she sought was a job as a secretary, another at a small Asian newspaper in London for a while.
Joseph’s parents moved back to India when she was about 19. “I would come and visit for holidays, but I never really spent much time in India for my education or anything else, so I don’t really have that sense of what it means to be an Indian here,” she says. Somewhere along the line, life turned on to the path of authorhood. It began with journalism. “I came to India for a holiday and travelled around South India and met a lot of people who were like me – Israelis, people from the US, all kind of mirroring myself to me, feeling ‘I don’t know what I want to do, what to do with my life’.” Reality bit and “after a week or two of that I found myself wanting a job, so I wrote these letters to lots of people. I did not know where I wanted to be – maybe Mumbai, but then I thought this city was too expensive.” But a job she liked decided things and she became a feature writer with a national publication. “Fate had intervened and said “Bombay!” Within two weeks after initiating the whole process, I remember sitting sleepily on the bus in the late morning thinking I would see London if I looked out, and I would actually see Bombay.” Three years later, Joseph “decided it was time to finally get to work – my 30th birthday was approaching and it was time for me to actually write that novel. I did a course in creative writing in England and started writing. I came back to Bombay and worked at a magazine for a year, as commissioning editor. I had a great time. It was quite literary.”
Saraswati Park is “my revisiting of the Mumbai that I grew up in,” Joseph explains, “the world of my parents and grandparents, bookish and intellectual, the people you see around you on the street, the awareness of the various different kinds of people…There is a very middle class bookish Bombay and that’s not something that I see reflected in what is usually written – what I found was more Bollywood and such, which was not what I knew. So I supposed in a way this is my attempt to find a fictional base for my Bombay, which I think still exists.”
Her main character, Mohan Karekar, is a would-be writer, a man who fills the margins of the books he buys so regularly with thoughts, ideas, inspirations. A man who cannot – or perhaps does not - find the courage to create with those ideas and write more, maybe enough to make a book. According to Joseph, “The block in his head is something that a lot of people actually feel – that your own life is not the stuff of literature, since literature is somehow special, with a linear plot line and a meaning and everything that is interconnected in a way that can be perceived in a work of art. In daily life things are not so clear. Maybe it is the thought that ‘I am a small man in a big city and what do I matter anyway?’ People find it difficult, I think.”
And how much of her is there in the book, since the setting is familiar territory, the people are real and she has actually spent a little time with the letter writers of Mumbai. Joseph smiles, saying, “There are many places that I have been. There are a lot of emotions I have felt at some time or the other in very different circumstances that I have used in the book. In terms of actual life experience, I have not been through most of the things these characters have been through. I think they are all real people, even though I know they are not.” And these are the folk, like any one of us, who live in Saraswati Park.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
A sari state
(Published in Bengal Post, today)
A strip of cloth (sati in Sanskrit) is now considered a classic. Seen as a drape perhaps for the first time on the well-known figure of a priest from the Indus Valley Civilisation (2800-1800 BC), the sari – though it was not called that at the time - has been described in song, dance and literature for centuries. Even the way it should be used is documented - the garment should ideally be worn in a way that exposes the navel, since that is considered to be the source of life and creative power. In the 1st-6th century AD, the fishtail dhoti wrap was popular, as is seen in sculpture from the Gandhara school of art, worn without a blouse or bodice. Gradually, more familiar standards of modesty prevailed and the traditional Keralan mundu, a sarong with a shawl thrown over the shoulders, was modernised to become the sari-blouse combination popular today. Each community in this country - and those in Nepal, Sri Lanka, Burma and elsewhere - has its own idiosyncratic way of draping the sari. And the choli, or bodice-blouse, has a story of its own, evolving from an enveloping symbol of caste and virtue to a minimalistic garment of today that shows off every toned curve of a woman’s upper body.
While the placement of the pleats and the flow of the pallu may vary with style and tradition, the sari, in whatever form, wraps around the hips and is flung over one shoulder or tucked around the bosom. A number of creative minds have come up with variations on the classic theme, with everything from zip-up saris to those worn over churidars or skinny jeans making waves on the runway, though very little noise off it. As style icon, writer and sari designer/connoisseur Shobhaa De avers, “The sari is a classic - you cannot 'improve ' it on any level. It is the world's only truly perfect garment - faultless!” But everything can be made ‘new’ and ‘improved’, though “The ‘newness’ comes from how creatively you wear an old sari - your attitude and accessories.”
Designer Tarana Masand believes that “The versatility of a sari is what makes it a classic garment.” It is the “drape, style and fabric used that are constantly evolving, but there is no doubt that this wardrobe staple is here to stay.” Bela Shangvi, who has been working with reviving classics like the Paithani and Ashavali says that “The sari is so neutral that it takes on the personality of the wearer. If the person is large, it covers up, and can add bulk to a small person. It is such a graceful garment, as long as it is worn the way it is supposed to be worn and with the body language to match.”
For designer Payal Singhal, “It is actually the only true and uniquely Indian ensemble – even a churidar kurta could be a derivative of a western silhouette. I don’t think it would ever go out of style – it’s as much a staple in a South Asian wardrobe as a pair of jeans in a western one!” Nikasha Tawadey agrees, “Nothing identifies a women as being Indian so strongly as the sari, which has evolved from a complex physical, historical and cultural environment that differs from region to region, community to community.”
Style today demands a great deal of mobility and convenience. As a result, women often prefer western fashion or simpler Indian chic, leaving their saris for more formal occasions. Many of these will be inherited from grandmothers, exquisite creations rarely found today. Most designers concur that more contemporary silhouettes can be devised not by tearing up the sari and re-purposing it, but “by making new blouses to suit current trends, or perhaps adding unexpected accessories like belts or brooches” Masand suggests. Singhal works with the client on such assignments, and “we either use innovative and beautiful blouses, contrast embroideries, etc., or we can actually redo the fabrics, use the border on another piece of fabric.” Tawadey prefers to “keep in mind the inherent soul of a traditional sari at all times”, even as she agrees that “styling could be the key and the blouse could have interesting variations; or the sari could also be worn at ankle length a la Sabyasachi Mukherjee”. This last is a staple for a Bharata Natyam dancer, who has the garment hitched up enough to allow rapid footwork to be clearly seen by an audience.
In spite of its seemingly rigid form, the sari has its own ebb and flow in the fashion firmament. As De explains, “Sari trends go through phases - silk, jute, chiffon, net, cotton and so on, but the real trend has to do with the blouses\cholis, and their innovative cuts and styles, or with embellishments and embroideries.” Singhal works on her designs – “different fabrics within five and a half yards, stitched saris, bunch pallus, tassels, half saris, different drapes - from the cut to the drape to the embellishment to the treatment of fabric, you can do a zillion things with the classic,” she enthuses. “The trend now is pastels, airy fabrics like chiffons georgettes and nets, with crystal embellishments and heavier blouses.” Tawadey sees that “traditional weaves, handloom weaves, as well as khadi seem to be making a huge comeback.” For Masand, whatever the current preferences may be, “one must keep in mind that a sari personifies the attitude of the wearer and should not rely solely on trends.”
In Shangvi’s life, the sari is a governing passion. As she explains, “One needs to understand the balance of a sari and the personality of the wearer. The feel, the fall, the balance – when you wear a sari, if it is not woven the way it should be, it does not fall into place well. Choosing a sari is not just about what you like, but also the occasion, your personality, the colour, lighting…so many parameters that contribute to you and it looking good. And, of course, the wearer should know how to drape it well – see how good Rekha (the actress) looks in her heavy saris!” Tawadey believes that “once worn, it can never be substituted for anything else”.
Often seen by the modern young woman as ‘traditional’ and ‘stuffy’, the sari is still making its impact in the career world. It has an elegance that can never be duplicated by a skirt or a pair of trousers, imparting an air or quiet, understated authority to the wearer. Shangvi feels that it communicates a “sense of organisation, authority, professionalism – but it does depend on what sector you work in”, since the sari is essentially a very feminine garment. Singhal is in accord with the caveat, agreeing that “it is slightly cumbersome, needs some maintenance, though in the right fabric with the right drape, it works”. Masand believes that “Traditional woven saris make for good corporate fashion if draped properly and worn with confidence.” Tawadey is firm: “Personally, I think there is perhaps nothing that makes as strong a style statement as a sari worn with pride!” A statement echoed by De, who insists that “The sari is the ultimate power garment - I can't think of a better statement!”
A strip of cloth (sati in Sanskrit) is now considered a classic. Seen as a drape perhaps for the first time on the well-known figure of a priest from the Indus Valley Civilisation (2800-1800 BC), the sari – though it was not called that at the time - has been described in song, dance and literature for centuries. Even the way it should be used is documented - the garment should ideally be worn in a way that exposes the navel, since that is considered to be the source of life and creative power. In the 1st-6th century AD, the fishtail dhoti wrap was popular, as is seen in sculpture from the Gandhara school of art, worn without a blouse or bodice. Gradually, more familiar standards of modesty prevailed and the traditional Keralan mundu, a sarong with a shawl thrown over the shoulders, was modernised to become the sari-blouse combination popular today. Each community in this country - and those in Nepal, Sri Lanka, Burma and elsewhere - has its own idiosyncratic way of draping the sari. And the choli, or bodice-blouse, has a story of its own, evolving from an enveloping symbol of caste and virtue to a minimalistic garment of today that shows off every toned curve of a woman’s upper body.
While the placement of the pleats and the flow of the pallu may vary with style and tradition, the sari, in whatever form, wraps around the hips and is flung over one shoulder or tucked around the bosom. A number of creative minds have come up with variations on the classic theme, with everything from zip-up saris to those worn over churidars or skinny jeans making waves on the runway, though very little noise off it. As style icon, writer and sari designer/connoisseur Shobhaa De avers, “The sari is a classic - you cannot 'improve ' it on any level. It is the world's only truly perfect garment - faultless!” But everything can be made ‘new’ and ‘improved’, though “The ‘newness’ comes from how creatively you wear an old sari - your attitude and accessories.”
Designer Tarana Masand believes that “The versatility of a sari is what makes it a classic garment.” It is the “drape, style and fabric used that are constantly evolving, but there is no doubt that this wardrobe staple is here to stay.” Bela Shangvi, who has been working with reviving classics like the Paithani and Ashavali says that “The sari is so neutral that it takes on the personality of the wearer. If the person is large, it covers up, and can add bulk to a small person. It is such a graceful garment, as long as it is worn the way it is supposed to be worn and with the body language to match.”
For designer Payal Singhal, “It is actually the only true and uniquely Indian ensemble – even a churidar kurta could be a derivative of a western silhouette. I don’t think it would ever go out of style – it’s as much a staple in a South Asian wardrobe as a pair of jeans in a western one!” Nikasha Tawadey agrees, “Nothing identifies a women as being Indian so strongly as the sari, which has evolved from a complex physical, historical and cultural environment that differs from region to region, community to community.”
Style today demands a great deal of mobility and convenience. As a result, women often prefer western fashion or simpler Indian chic, leaving their saris for more formal occasions. Many of these will be inherited from grandmothers, exquisite creations rarely found today. Most designers concur that more contemporary silhouettes can be devised not by tearing up the sari and re-purposing it, but “by making new blouses to suit current trends, or perhaps adding unexpected accessories like belts or brooches” Masand suggests. Singhal works with the client on such assignments, and “we either use innovative and beautiful blouses, contrast embroideries, etc., or we can actually redo the fabrics, use the border on another piece of fabric.” Tawadey prefers to “keep in mind the inherent soul of a traditional sari at all times”, even as she agrees that “styling could be the key and the blouse could have interesting variations; or the sari could also be worn at ankle length a la Sabyasachi Mukherjee”. This last is a staple for a Bharata Natyam dancer, who has the garment hitched up enough to allow rapid footwork to be clearly seen by an audience.
In spite of its seemingly rigid form, the sari has its own ebb and flow in the fashion firmament. As De explains, “Sari trends go through phases - silk, jute, chiffon, net, cotton and so on, but the real trend has to do with the blouses\cholis, and their innovative cuts and styles, or with embellishments and embroideries.” Singhal works on her designs – “different fabrics within five and a half yards, stitched saris, bunch pallus, tassels, half saris, different drapes - from the cut to the drape to the embellishment to the treatment of fabric, you can do a zillion things with the classic,” she enthuses. “The trend now is pastels, airy fabrics like chiffons georgettes and nets, with crystal embellishments and heavier blouses.” Tawadey sees that “traditional weaves, handloom weaves, as well as khadi seem to be making a huge comeback.” For Masand, whatever the current preferences may be, “one must keep in mind that a sari personifies the attitude of the wearer and should not rely solely on trends.”
In Shangvi’s life, the sari is a governing passion. As she explains, “One needs to understand the balance of a sari and the personality of the wearer. The feel, the fall, the balance – when you wear a sari, if it is not woven the way it should be, it does not fall into place well. Choosing a sari is not just about what you like, but also the occasion, your personality, the colour, lighting…so many parameters that contribute to you and it looking good. And, of course, the wearer should know how to drape it well – see how good Rekha (the actress) looks in her heavy saris!” Tawadey believes that “once worn, it can never be substituted for anything else”.
Often seen by the modern young woman as ‘traditional’ and ‘stuffy’, the sari is still making its impact in the career world. It has an elegance that can never be duplicated by a skirt or a pair of trousers, imparting an air or quiet, understated authority to the wearer. Shangvi feels that it communicates a “sense of organisation, authority, professionalism – but it does depend on what sector you work in”, since the sari is essentially a very feminine garment. Singhal is in accord with the caveat, agreeing that “it is slightly cumbersome, needs some maintenance, though in the right fabric with the right drape, it works”. Masand believes that “Traditional woven saris make for good corporate fashion if draped properly and worn with confidence.” Tawadey is firm: “Personally, I think there is perhaps nothing that makes as strong a style statement as a sari worn with pride!” A statement echoed by De, who insists that “The sari is the ultimate power garment - I can't think of a better statement!”
Murder mystery
(In Crest, yesterday)
HIGH LOW IN-BETWEEN, by Imraan Coovadia
“Nafisa knew that Arif had murdered himself, and murdered her along with him…Nafisa was struck, at that moment, by the thought that her life had just begun.” According to Coovadia, this book came out of a previously written short story, one about the last day of a dying Pakistani aristocrat in Boston. He is said to have used the woman as a model for Nafisa, and taken incidents from here, there and everywhere, perhaps high, low and in-between, borrowing, inventing, reflecting and characterising. The challenge, according to him, was to make “the inner life of his characters real”.
That, perhaps, has been successful, as the people that wander in and out of the various happenings in Coovadia’s latest novel are almost frighteningly true-to-life, with all the vagueness, abstraction and self-absorption that anyone may have. It reads slowly, heavily, almost soporifically, but in that leisure there is so much going on, inside and outside each character, especially the main protagonist, Nafisa, that a reader has to stop, take a deep breath and then decide whether to continue reading or take a break and watch a comedy show on television just to ease the sensory assault of evocative words forming pictures on each page.
The story is set in Durban and focuses on the life of middle-class Indian Botswana-born Nafisa, a doctor, wife of Arif, a professor, mother of Shakeer, a photographer who wanders around the world on assignments. As the house is being cleaned for Arif’s retirement party not too long after the professor’s kidney transplant, his wife finds him dead, an apparent suicide. But it proves to be murder, and as the local authorities try and find the killer, Nafisa’s life begins slowly to unravel…or perhaps sort itself out. This is where the reality of the South Africa of the time becomes almost another strong character – there is HIV/AIDS that is making a loud noise not just from the point of view of an epidemic disease, but also as a political tool by Mbeki and others who rule. There is the matter of illegal organ transplants – and the reader knows that Arif’s death is somehow connected to that, long before it is written – even more illegal money transfer, race issues, class distinctions and problems of local security.
And there is Nafisa herself, seemingly bewildered as she goes about her duties at the hospital, trying to deal with sudden death, family matters and a troubled mind, all made increasingly complicated by Estella, the sexually very active maid who will not be tested for HIV, Nawaz, a brother who deals in secondhand clothing and is deeply religious, Jadwat, well-meaning and supportive but a would-be suitor and Govin Mackey, who operated on Arif. So when real disaster strikes, she does not pay it much heed – a needle that contained bodily fluids from a dying AIDS victim pierces Nafisa’s hand during a difficult procedure.
In all this personal tribulation, the nation too is troubled. South Africa transforming from a divided society to one that is less white-dominated forms the backdrop of the novel. And raises that one all-important question: Are Nafisa and her ilk relevant any longer in that environment? The novel contains history, social commentary, relationships, angst, humour – albeit of the rather dark kind – good guys and bad guys and much more than can be absorbed in one reading. And, of course, there is the murder to be solved…
HIGH LOW IN-BETWEEN, by Imraan Coovadia
“Nafisa knew that Arif had murdered himself, and murdered her along with him…Nafisa was struck, at that moment, by the thought that her life had just begun.” According to Coovadia, this book came out of a previously written short story, one about the last day of a dying Pakistani aristocrat in Boston. He is said to have used the woman as a model for Nafisa, and taken incidents from here, there and everywhere, perhaps high, low and in-between, borrowing, inventing, reflecting and characterising. The challenge, according to him, was to make “the inner life of his characters real”.
That, perhaps, has been successful, as the people that wander in and out of the various happenings in Coovadia’s latest novel are almost frighteningly true-to-life, with all the vagueness, abstraction and self-absorption that anyone may have. It reads slowly, heavily, almost soporifically, but in that leisure there is so much going on, inside and outside each character, especially the main protagonist, Nafisa, that a reader has to stop, take a deep breath and then decide whether to continue reading or take a break and watch a comedy show on television just to ease the sensory assault of evocative words forming pictures on each page.
The story is set in Durban and focuses on the life of middle-class Indian Botswana-born Nafisa, a doctor, wife of Arif, a professor, mother of Shakeer, a photographer who wanders around the world on assignments. As the house is being cleaned for Arif’s retirement party not too long after the professor’s kidney transplant, his wife finds him dead, an apparent suicide. But it proves to be murder, and as the local authorities try and find the killer, Nafisa’s life begins slowly to unravel…or perhaps sort itself out. This is where the reality of the South Africa of the time becomes almost another strong character – there is HIV/AIDS that is making a loud noise not just from the point of view of an epidemic disease, but also as a political tool by Mbeki and others who rule. There is the matter of illegal organ transplants – and the reader knows that Arif’s death is somehow connected to that, long before it is written – even more illegal money transfer, race issues, class distinctions and problems of local security.
And there is Nafisa herself, seemingly bewildered as she goes about her duties at the hospital, trying to deal with sudden death, family matters and a troubled mind, all made increasingly complicated by Estella, the sexually very active maid who will not be tested for HIV, Nawaz, a brother who deals in secondhand clothing and is deeply religious, Jadwat, well-meaning and supportive but a would-be suitor and Govin Mackey, who operated on Arif. So when real disaster strikes, she does not pay it much heed – a needle that contained bodily fluids from a dying AIDS victim pierces Nafisa’s hand during a difficult procedure.
In all this personal tribulation, the nation too is troubled. South Africa transforming from a divided society to one that is less white-dominated forms the backdrop of the novel. And raises that one all-important question: Are Nafisa and her ilk relevant any longer in that environment? The novel contains history, social commentary, relationships, angst, humour – albeit of the rather dark kind – good guys and bad guys and much more than can be absorbed in one reading. And, of course, there is the murder to be solved…
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