I was at work, wondering what to do after a rather healthy lunch that made me feel like saying “Moo!” when a pigeon landed heavily on the light fixture just outside the window beside which I hack away at my keyboard all day. It peered at me with its beady little eye, first one then the other, and seemed to dismiss me as being not just irrelevant, but unworthy, since it shrugged, settled its feathers and then took off to more interesting and important assignations. For a moment there I was startled, then thought deeply and darkly to myself that since for so many years I have regarded the wretched birds with so much contempt, it was only fitting that I should be seen in a similar light. And pigeons have such expressive eyes that you can read what they are thinking by just looking at one.
Once upon a different lifetime we lived in an apartment that was high up on a hill. Which meant we not only got a fabulous view all around, but also got all manner of fowl wandering into our flat when all the windows and French doors were open. It was, of course, fairly unpredictable, this kind of invasion, since we never knew when it would happen that a bird flew into the house and forgot how to get out again. It often was the case that we had to chase the silly thing all around the apartment, swearing madly and wondering if we would ever get the poo off the brocade cushion covers and the pin feathers out of the Chinese lampshades. All the fans would hastily be switched off and the glass-slatted vents closed, just so that the idiotic creature would not fly into something that would injure it. Every time it headed that way, I would close not just my eyes, but my ears as well – just as I do in the spooky moments in movies and television shows, to avoid seeing anything that would be unwontedly bloody and stick in my rather fragile psyche for the rest of my life.
The incursions were not infrequent. It came to such a pass that we had to put up chicken wire – or bird wire, as would be more appropriate – over all the openings that the pigeons could fly into, from the large windows to the even larger balconies. In a way that sort of solved the problem, for the most part. But the stupid birds (lovers of the pigeon community would instantly censure me for that, saying that the IQ of a pigeon was higher than I believed it to be) managed occasionally to find a way in and flew bashingly into the mesh and got tangled it is, sometimes breaking through into the flat and causing the aforementioned merry - and loud – havoc in the process. We did avert most of these mishaps, but had to replace the netting at regular intervals.
In the apartment we now live in, pigeons are not visitors, though they do peer hopefully in once in a while. As soon as they land on the awnings over the windows, Small Cat takes grave objection and chatters her teeth with a yarring sound, looking glaringly in the general direction of the birds. That is all very well, except that she does that even if the pigeons perch on a rooflet in the next building. She will keep doing this for as long as it takes for me or Father to shoo the fowl away. But she will never make any attempt to attack or jump at the birds, preferring to lie regally like a furry little princess on the carpet or a chair, sounding off. Only rarely, when she is feeling exceptionally hoppity and believes that the pigeons are daring to make inroads on to her turf, will she gallop across the living room, leap onto Father’s large armchair and chatter at the enemy from a more vantage point.
I am still wondering what Small Cat will do if a pigeon actually comes into the house and does its version of testing the chaos theory. But I am not particularly keen to find out.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Speaking in tongues
We were talking today at work about how nobody in this city speaks Hindi as it should ideally be spoken. Except perhaps Amitabh Bachchan, someone said with a bit of a sly grin showing. His sonorous voice and his nicely rounded vowels make listening to him a pleasure, though I did hear some time ago that some of his voice-overs were actually done by someone else and you could tell the difference only if you knew whether the Big B had done the assignment or not. Be that – as I giggle saying – as it may, there is admittedly hardly anyone I know who is a good average Mumbaikar and who can do the Hindi thing like it should be done. Our Bollywood movie stars least of all.
Most of them speak in tongues that are not discernibly anything. In the ‘old days’, as my irascible boss loves to put it, the actors came from parts beyond, usually north-ish, and spoke Hindi like the natives of the heartland that they were. Dharmendra had his good looks and his drawl to endear him to the masses who clamoured to watch his films. And he spoke decent Hindi, though he stumbled through English with pitiable results – every speech he made at every awards function was fraught with stress and effort for both the actor and his viewers. Then there was Dilip Kumar, who had moments of chaste Urdu in his public appearances. And there was Sanjiv Kumar, Rajesh Khanna and so many more. The women, too, were articulate, from Madhubala to Geeta Bali to Sadhana, even Hema Malini, who spoke good Hindi in a wonderfully Tamilian accent and never managed to do much with her English, even years after being the well-travelled public persona that she is.
Today the younger stars, be it Shah Rukh Khan or Salman Khan, Aamir Khan or any of the others of that generation, are far more comfortable in English, albeit oddly accented at times and definitely ‘Indian’. When SRK speaks to the public through a media interview or some kind of special show, he tends to say whatever he wants to say in ‘Hinglish’, mixing his own special brand of cocktail that works wonders for his articulate and expressive image as well as for his appeal to even those who are not Khan fans. Salman Khan speaks his strangely American-accented English without very much hesitation, though where he acquired his twang is still a mystery. Aamir Khan talks a lot when he does say anything, and he goes far deeper and is a lot more diplomatic than his peers. Akshay Kumar’s English is not as good as his Hindi and the action-emotion star very wisely sticks to the language he is more comfortable in, which makes a lot more sense than to babble on in a strange tongue that no one really understands but is too polite to question.
The women, too, are off-and-on types when it comes to speaking. Kajol talks a lot, in loud and very ‘Bombay’ English, though her Hindi is not bad either. Rani tends to trip over her pronunciation, and her accent is never very far from her Bengali roots. Tabu is unabashedly a non-English speaker, never mind her experience, and Manisha Koirala’s speech varies with her escort of the moment. Priyanka Chopra, Lara Dutta, Sushmita Sen and Dia Mirza are very articulate and can hold their own in an international forum, but Aishwarya Rai’s accent tends to slip into Tulu when she is self-conscious, which is most of the time. But all these women have the unfair advantage of being well-finished products of their time, polished from toenails to phonetics. And they have been communicating internationally for so long now that it all comes naturally.
Which makes me wonder – if the men were shoved into international beauty pageants, would they speak better?
Most of them speak in tongues that are not discernibly anything. In the ‘old days’, as my irascible boss loves to put it, the actors came from parts beyond, usually north-ish, and spoke Hindi like the natives of the heartland that they were. Dharmendra had his good looks and his drawl to endear him to the masses who clamoured to watch his films. And he spoke decent Hindi, though he stumbled through English with pitiable results – every speech he made at every awards function was fraught with stress and effort for both the actor and his viewers. Then there was Dilip Kumar, who had moments of chaste Urdu in his public appearances. And there was Sanjiv Kumar, Rajesh Khanna and so many more. The women, too, were articulate, from Madhubala to Geeta Bali to Sadhana, even Hema Malini, who spoke good Hindi in a wonderfully Tamilian accent and never managed to do much with her English, even years after being the well-travelled public persona that she is.
Today the younger stars, be it Shah Rukh Khan or Salman Khan, Aamir Khan or any of the others of that generation, are far more comfortable in English, albeit oddly accented at times and definitely ‘Indian’. When SRK speaks to the public through a media interview or some kind of special show, he tends to say whatever he wants to say in ‘Hinglish’, mixing his own special brand of cocktail that works wonders for his articulate and expressive image as well as for his appeal to even those who are not Khan fans. Salman Khan speaks his strangely American-accented English without very much hesitation, though where he acquired his twang is still a mystery. Aamir Khan talks a lot when he does say anything, and he goes far deeper and is a lot more diplomatic than his peers. Akshay Kumar’s English is not as good as his Hindi and the action-emotion star very wisely sticks to the language he is more comfortable in, which makes a lot more sense than to babble on in a strange tongue that no one really understands but is too polite to question.
The women, too, are off-and-on types when it comes to speaking. Kajol talks a lot, in loud and very ‘Bombay’ English, though her Hindi is not bad either. Rani tends to trip over her pronunciation, and her accent is never very far from her Bengali roots. Tabu is unabashedly a non-English speaker, never mind her experience, and Manisha Koirala’s speech varies with her escort of the moment. Priyanka Chopra, Lara Dutta, Sushmita Sen and Dia Mirza are very articulate and can hold their own in an international forum, but Aishwarya Rai’s accent tends to slip into Tulu when she is self-conscious, which is most of the time. But all these women have the unfair advantage of being well-finished products of their time, polished from toenails to phonetics. And they have been communicating internationally for so long now that it all comes naturally.
Which makes me wonder – if the men were shoved into international beauty pageants, would they speak better?
Monday, February 11, 2008
Friends for ever
It’s funny how the whole concept of friendship changes over the years, as you grow up. Once upon a time I stayed far away from the idea of ‘friends’, because we moved in and out of the country and any that I did make had to be left too soon; for a child, that can be devastating. But as I grew up, I got more cynical and a little more realistic – I made friends, albeit not very close ones, whom I could spend time with, laugh with, play with and then leave, perhaps keeping in touch for a few months, or even a couple of years, before relegating them to the back of the memory-closet where they could be looked at and savoured when the time and need arose, with no rancour or regret. Rediscovering friends like these is in itself a unique experience, refreshing from the point of view of a psyche battered by time and always looking for a new way to recuperate and reenergise.
Many years ago, I had a ‘best friend’. We spent more time together than anyone who lived in the same house would, and we shared everything from childhood dreams to teenage crushes to eyeshadow travails to driving lessons. Since she was a little older than me, it all happened to her earlier than it did to me and I often found myself running harder to catch up than I really needed to. It was only many years later that I understood that it was not necessary at all for me to catch up with her, or indeed with anyone else. I was myself, I was what I was and why should I feel the need to be or do anything that was not in my own destiny?
My ‘best friend’ and I had our own lives, quite separate from the one we shared in so many ways. She became another child in our household and was treated as one, an open affection often opposed by me, overly possessive of my parents’ affection, attention and time. I made occasional visits to her home, while she had free season in ours, neither of which really mattered to any of us. And we spent most waking moments in communication with each other, as only two little girls can manage to do – we would wake up and call each other, we would bathe and call each other, we would call each other just before we left our own homes, walk down to school together and then spend most of the day together in our various classes, finally walking home together after the sports session was done, the immaculate hair dishevelled, the uniforms wrinkled and grubby, the socks sagging somewhat over bruised ankles and the pong of sweaty little girl hovering like an almost-tangible aura over us both.
We grew up soon enough. It was often not too happy a process and we dealt with angsts and anxieties, parents and, in her case, siblings. There was rivalry and small envies, none ever spiralling into an argument or anything that could remotely be described as a ‘fight’. But slowly, as we grew in different directions, so did the friendship. I had new experiences she could never be part of, she had a life that never impinged on mine. For a while, we did not communicate at all – I was out of the country, she had a separate orbit. And then we met again, almost like we had never been apart. Adult now, both of us were careful about how we talked and what we talked about. But there was the old affection, the old teasing and knowing and awareness. It just was not that important to me when it all ended. It didn’t seem as important to keep it going, or to find out why it stopped.
But, like the cycle of perhaps life itself, it seems to have come around again. There is some sort of contact between the families…or what is left of them. What happens next, I wait to find out. It should be fun, any which way it goes.
Many years ago, I had a ‘best friend’. We spent more time together than anyone who lived in the same house would, and we shared everything from childhood dreams to teenage crushes to eyeshadow travails to driving lessons. Since she was a little older than me, it all happened to her earlier than it did to me and I often found myself running harder to catch up than I really needed to. It was only many years later that I understood that it was not necessary at all for me to catch up with her, or indeed with anyone else. I was myself, I was what I was and why should I feel the need to be or do anything that was not in my own destiny?
My ‘best friend’ and I had our own lives, quite separate from the one we shared in so many ways. She became another child in our household and was treated as one, an open affection often opposed by me, overly possessive of my parents’ affection, attention and time. I made occasional visits to her home, while she had free season in ours, neither of which really mattered to any of us. And we spent most waking moments in communication with each other, as only two little girls can manage to do – we would wake up and call each other, we would bathe and call each other, we would call each other just before we left our own homes, walk down to school together and then spend most of the day together in our various classes, finally walking home together after the sports session was done, the immaculate hair dishevelled, the uniforms wrinkled and grubby, the socks sagging somewhat over bruised ankles and the pong of sweaty little girl hovering like an almost-tangible aura over us both.
We grew up soon enough. It was often not too happy a process and we dealt with angsts and anxieties, parents and, in her case, siblings. There was rivalry and small envies, none ever spiralling into an argument or anything that could remotely be described as a ‘fight’. But slowly, as we grew in different directions, so did the friendship. I had new experiences she could never be part of, she had a life that never impinged on mine. For a while, we did not communicate at all – I was out of the country, she had a separate orbit. And then we met again, almost like we had never been apart. Adult now, both of us were careful about how we talked and what we talked about. But there was the old affection, the old teasing and knowing and awareness. It just was not that important to me when it all ended. It didn’t seem as important to keep it going, or to find out why it stopped.
But, like the cycle of perhaps life itself, it seems to have come around again. There is some sort of contact between the families…or what is left of them. What happens next, I wait to find out. It should be fun, any which way it goes.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Keeping the faith
Today is Pancake Tuesday. The day when all old food is cleaned out of the house to make way for a period of austerity and piety called Lent, which begins tomorrow, with Ash Wednesday. I used to know all this, since close family friends that became my home for a period of time when I was in college observed all the customs and traditions associated with the religion that I was peripherally familiar with and had watched with interest ever since I was very young. It was perhaps at that time that I seriously started thinking about faith and its observance, the way different people in different countries and decided that I liked a little of each and would ‘talk’ to whoever or whatever I believed to be divine rather than do it the conventional way via prayer, rite and ritual.
And, for me, it has worked. It makes sense to be somewhat like Akbar’s own brand of religion, the Din-e-Ilahi was said to be in my history textbooks, but more so. Where the Mughal emperor tried to blend the best of what he considered to be faith in Hinduism and Islam, for me God – of the godhead – was wherever I wanted it to be, from a temple to a mosque to a church to a synagogue and a gurudwara, wherever the spirit, in a matter of speaking, beckoned to me and I followed. It was not a God, never one figure to whom I addressed whatever I ‘said’. It was a wild combination of various entities that all embodied one aspect of belief: the faith in something that was clean, true, honest and, most of all, supportive.
For a while now my ‘God’ has been paying little attention to me, or so it seems. I love and it is taken away when I want and need it most. I trust and that trust is shattered. I believe and my beliefs are destroyed by everything from humans to circumstances that are beyond any conceivable human control. And whenever I think about loving, trusting or believing again, that nasty little voice inside my head asks me whether I really want to replay my own history and live through that same trauma once more.
But then I think about it and my own native, natural, internal sense of logic kicks in. Faith is about believing in oneself first, about trusting in oneself before in anyone else, in loving oneself and then spreading that love. I have all that. I have it coming into me and going out of me. I have a home, a life, comfort, support, security. So what am I complaining about? Everything in human existence has a shelf life, all faiths say that. I need to just accept that all that I am is also here for now. As for tomorrow…God knows!
And, for me, it has worked. It makes sense to be somewhat like Akbar’s own brand of religion, the Din-e-Ilahi was said to be in my history textbooks, but more so. Where the Mughal emperor tried to blend the best of what he considered to be faith in Hinduism and Islam, for me God – of the godhead – was wherever I wanted it to be, from a temple to a mosque to a church to a synagogue and a gurudwara, wherever the spirit, in a matter of speaking, beckoned to me and I followed. It was not a God, never one figure to whom I addressed whatever I ‘said’. It was a wild combination of various entities that all embodied one aspect of belief: the faith in something that was clean, true, honest and, most of all, supportive.
For a while now my ‘God’ has been paying little attention to me, or so it seems. I love and it is taken away when I want and need it most. I trust and that trust is shattered. I believe and my beliefs are destroyed by everything from humans to circumstances that are beyond any conceivable human control. And whenever I think about loving, trusting or believing again, that nasty little voice inside my head asks me whether I really want to replay my own history and live through that same trauma once more.
But then I think about it and my own native, natural, internal sense of logic kicks in. Faith is about believing in oneself first, about trusting in oneself before in anyone else, in loving oneself and then spreading that love. I have all that. I have it coming into me and going out of me. I have a home, a life, comfort, support, security. So what am I complaining about? Everything in human existence has a shelf life, all faiths say that. I need to just accept that all that I am is also here for now. As for tomorrow…God knows!
Monday, February 04, 2008
When the wind blows
The past week or so has been unseasonably cold for Mumbai and everyone has been shivering gently around the edges, even the die-hard, self-professed, semi-Eskimo-related folks who are transplants to the city from more icy climes. Today I went out in the blazing sunshine and found that my fingertips were frosty and my nose started running, my toes curled in their search for a warmer part of my sandals and my cheeks were slowly going pink. Meanwhile, the wind blew my hair around my head in a streaky black cloud and my eyes watered black runnels of un-waterproof mascara along the rim of my lashes and the corners of my eyes. As I walked along the shopping street to my destination, I found people in sweaters, shawls and – I almost stopped to stare there – one young thing proudly showed off a pair of pink Ugg boots worn over skintight jeans and a tiny camisole (presumably only her bottom half was cold, the top seemed quite happy bare). And I was quite glad to dive into the store I was headed to, with its tinny piped music and all, because it sheltered me from the wind, so dried out my sniffles and let me replace my dishevel with a general state of more dignified kempt-ness.
They say it is all because of cold spells in the north of the country that we are more chilly than we are used to being down here in the mid-lands. The breeze blowing in from the sea is cool, getting colder as the sun sinks slowly over the horizon. And the tall buildings act as funnels for the gale to shoot down the roads that snake between them. Even as we shiver, as we drive with the air-conditioner off and we snuggle into sweaters that would normally be relegated to a mothballed suitcase in the attic, we revel in the novelty of being able to jog around the block without sweating, even welcoming the crush of the crowds in the commuter trains and the hordes of people who clamour for the bus. At work I yell for the air-conditioning to be switched off until there are more people in the vast space to warm it up and I drink mugs of hot water (or herbal tea) to make my insides a little warmer than my outside can be in this environment.
But even as we huddle against the cold, we Mumbaikars are a warm lot. We care, we get involved, we have the strange disregard for personal privacy that is so characteristically Indian. We are not the anonymous big city that I have always preferred being a resident of. We know our neighbours and their troubles, we help our servants through domestic tribulation and we want to know what life in the other building is all about. But there is one snob value that is truly ours that we are very proud of: the fact that we are Mumbaikars because we live here. This is our city. It belongs to us and we belong to it.
That, at the moment, is causing some upheaval in this city. A cold wind of dissent and disturbance is blowing in through the city. There is a section of the political fraternity that insists that Mumbai is for Maharashtrians. They, spurred on by their leader, have been saying – nay, yelling – so for a while now, but the yelling is getting more strident and more aggressive. Over the past couple of days, there has even been violence when the matter has been debated. Why should someone who lives here and calls Mumbai his home be willing to work for the betterment of another part of the country, is one question being asked. It is indeed a valid one, since it is the immediate environment that should be nurtured first. But, as one sassy, seasoned, savvy politician has said, we should be saying not that Mumbai is ours, but that India is.
We may be Mumbaikars, and very proud of it, but we are, over all the argument, Indians. Which is a matter for even greater pride.
They say it is all because of cold spells in the north of the country that we are more chilly than we are used to being down here in the mid-lands. The breeze blowing in from the sea is cool, getting colder as the sun sinks slowly over the horizon. And the tall buildings act as funnels for the gale to shoot down the roads that snake between them. Even as we shiver, as we drive with the air-conditioner off and we snuggle into sweaters that would normally be relegated to a mothballed suitcase in the attic, we revel in the novelty of being able to jog around the block without sweating, even welcoming the crush of the crowds in the commuter trains and the hordes of people who clamour for the bus. At work I yell for the air-conditioning to be switched off until there are more people in the vast space to warm it up and I drink mugs of hot water (or herbal tea) to make my insides a little warmer than my outside can be in this environment.
But even as we huddle against the cold, we Mumbaikars are a warm lot. We care, we get involved, we have the strange disregard for personal privacy that is so characteristically Indian. We are not the anonymous big city that I have always preferred being a resident of. We know our neighbours and their troubles, we help our servants through domestic tribulation and we want to know what life in the other building is all about. But there is one snob value that is truly ours that we are very proud of: the fact that we are Mumbaikars because we live here. This is our city. It belongs to us and we belong to it.
That, at the moment, is causing some upheaval in this city. A cold wind of dissent and disturbance is blowing in through the city. There is a section of the political fraternity that insists that Mumbai is for Maharashtrians. They, spurred on by their leader, have been saying – nay, yelling – so for a while now, but the yelling is getting more strident and more aggressive. Over the past couple of days, there has even been violence when the matter has been debated. Why should someone who lives here and calls Mumbai his home be willing to work for the betterment of another part of the country, is one question being asked. It is indeed a valid one, since it is the immediate environment that should be nurtured first. But, as one sassy, seasoned, savvy politician has said, we should be saying not that Mumbai is ours, but that India is.
We may be Mumbaikars, and very proud of it, but we are, over all the argument, Indians. Which is a matter for even greater pride.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Hang the minions!
Some years ago, most newspaper offices in this city declared themselves to be peon-less. While that in itself was a brilliant idea, since people should really learn to do things for themselves, aspects of functioning like deliver of books for review, pick-ups of photographs for printing, etc etc etc were left rather hanging in the air with all those concerned spending more time worrying about the logistics than actually getting any work done. This was, you must remember, before the days of courier services and inter-office deliver systems, high-capacity email and such like. And while a lot of people – especially the old school types – were fairly unhappy with this situation, setting up their own private arrangements with the ‘assistants’ (as they were called, since they were available only to the top layer of management in any branch of any media company by then) to fetch and carry, all at a small fee and undiluted bonhomie.
But India is known for its system of minions. However ‘western’ an establishment may be, under the circumstances of climate and just sheer existence, it is the norm in this country to hire people to do a lot of the ordinary, run-of-the-mill routine work that ranges from cleaning the house and its accoutrements to driving the car to doing the cooking to fetching, carrying, polishing, filing, painting, ad infinitum. In the West, too, this is becoming popular, apart from just among the local Indian population – many of the Indian friends I have in the United States, for instance, tend to hire ‘help’ at least once a week to do everything from washing the patio furniture to doing the laundry. Very white American friends and relatives have now started doing the same thing, finding the ‘help’ so useful, almost vital, that they do almost anything to keep the person – very often of Hispanic origin and sometimes of rather uncertain immigration status – happy and working on.
Over the past few months, I have had problems more than joys with my own domestic help. Of course, much of it is probably my own fault, since I do not know how to treat the ‘minions’ and tend to overdo my niceness and accommodation to suit their needs rather than my own. There is no patronage involved, just basic ineptness, my friends who do it better tell me. When I give too much, they take more and then I get into the bind of not wanting to give more, but being pushed into giving more than I am willing to by inertia rather than a spirit of generous compromise. Everyone shouts at me about it, but I never learn to fix this particular mistake that I keep making. And I get into more trouble than the service I get is worth. This time was no exception.
It started with driver problems, as it always does. The young man who chauffeurs me around – I am very comfortable with the service, even though I hate the idea, I have to say – demanded more money. He was due for a raise soon anyway and he would have got it, no questions really asked…or not too many. But he went a tad too far in his demands and compounded his felony by taking a day off when he was really needed, without permission from the people who paid him: Father and me. When he was confronted, he cited a prior appointment. It did not wash. He was in deeper trouble than he needed. Now his job with us is debateable. We are still debating it.
The same sort of thing happened with the maid. Young, aspiring and very ambitious, she worked with us more because she got my clothes and make-up rather than because she was making good money – she has another full time job for that. But after a couple of months of slacking, when I finally lost my almost-infinite patience and got rather more firm than I had previously been, she left us. Well, not as gracefully as that sounds, actually. She just never turned up. So, after a few days of fuming and tiptoeing around the house to avoid disturbing too much of the dust that was fast accumulating, we managed to find another maid, an older lady, one who had previously been with us for many years. The girl turned up for her money on the scheduled date, and found a very cold reception indeed. She had pushed her luck a little too far and hit a wall. And she knows now not to try it again if she is ever allowed into our house.
The same thing happens with more close and meaningful human relationships. Sometimes you allow it to go further than you are happy with just because the other person is in some way important to you. Until they hit the aforementioned wall. Then it is all up to everyone’s power of negotiation and compromise.
But India is known for its system of minions. However ‘western’ an establishment may be, under the circumstances of climate and just sheer existence, it is the norm in this country to hire people to do a lot of the ordinary, run-of-the-mill routine work that ranges from cleaning the house and its accoutrements to driving the car to doing the cooking to fetching, carrying, polishing, filing, painting, ad infinitum. In the West, too, this is becoming popular, apart from just among the local Indian population – many of the Indian friends I have in the United States, for instance, tend to hire ‘help’ at least once a week to do everything from washing the patio furniture to doing the laundry. Very white American friends and relatives have now started doing the same thing, finding the ‘help’ so useful, almost vital, that they do almost anything to keep the person – very often of Hispanic origin and sometimes of rather uncertain immigration status – happy and working on.
Over the past few months, I have had problems more than joys with my own domestic help. Of course, much of it is probably my own fault, since I do not know how to treat the ‘minions’ and tend to overdo my niceness and accommodation to suit their needs rather than my own. There is no patronage involved, just basic ineptness, my friends who do it better tell me. When I give too much, they take more and then I get into the bind of not wanting to give more, but being pushed into giving more than I am willing to by inertia rather than a spirit of generous compromise. Everyone shouts at me about it, but I never learn to fix this particular mistake that I keep making. And I get into more trouble than the service I get is worth. This time was no exception.
It started with driver problems, as it always does. The young man who chauffeurs me around – I am very comfortable with the service, even though I hate the idea, I have to say – demanded more money. He was due for a raise soon anyway and he would have got it, no questions really asked…or not too many. But he went a tad too far in his demands and compounded his felony by taking a day off when he was really needed, without permission from the people who paid him: Father and me. When he was confronted, he cited a prior appointment. It did not wash. He was in deeper trouble than he needed. Now his job with us is debateable. We are still debating it.
The same sort of thing happened with the maid. Young, aspiring and very ambitious, she worked with us more because she got my clothes and make-up rather than because she was making good money – she has another full time job for that. But after a couple of months of slacking, when I finally lost my almost-infinite patience and got rather more firm than I had previously been, she left us. Well, not as gracefully as that sounds, actually. She just never turned up. So, after a few days of fuming and tiptoeing around the house to avoid disturbing too much of the dust that was fast accumulating, we managed to find another maid, an older lady, one who had previously been with us for many years. The girl turned up for her money on the scheduled date, and found a very cold reception indeed. She had pushed her luck a little too far and hit a wall. And she knows now not to try it again if she is ever allowed into our house.
The same thing happens with more close and meaningful human relationships. Sometimes you allow it to go further than you are happy with just because the other person is in some way important to you. Until they hit the aforementioned wall. Then it is all up to everyone’s power of negotiation and compromise.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Who needs a hero?
We all do. But perhaps not one who has feet made of the stuff that has been used for centuries to make pots to carry water – and other sundries – in: clay. All of us need someone to look up to, to aspire to, to dream about, even to hide behind on occasion. This is the man or woman who will is now what we will be tomorrow…or the day after, if we take too long about it, but we all know we will get there.
For many children – and indeed, an astonishing number of adults – in this country, Sachin Tendulkar is that hero. Or Sania Mirza. So is Shah Rukh Khan. And, of course, Sunita Williams, even though she is not Indian and has not been familiar to most people in India until she went into space and then came to this country in a blaze of media glory. There are so many others like this who are the stuff of dreams, the stuff of a Walter Mitty-esque life and world that stays in the realm of dreams and never really becomes actual fact.
Heroes change with time. If they didn’t, they would not be human, and most people that we look up to are very human. When I was a small girl and watching the shooting of a Hindi film in the enormous complex in which we lived, I thought the heroine was “very pretty”, perhaps even the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my whole short life. She was a popular actress then, and is a nicely rounded home-maker with a history of grief and tears today. Now when I look at her on television, where she makes the occasional appearance, I find her hardly inspiring. For me, now, from where I am after all these years, someone like Cate Blanchett or Rukmini Arundale or Anita Desai would do it, people who have worked hard and made it big in their own way, sometimes quietly, sometimes steamrolling the opposition with relentless talent and charm.
But where there is a hero of any greater than personal perception, there will be public recognition. And following that wave, public adulation. As is the case with Sachin Tendulkar these days in India and, it seems, in various parts of the world. While I do not profess to know anything about cricket (frankly, I think it is a fairly big waste of time, energy and money, but each to their own if it makes their cookies crumble), I do know that people who are enduring stars in cricket do not get there by sheer fluke, luck, fate, or the spin of a single ball. Tendulkar worked hard, long and often injured to get where he is in the whimsical world of sports, and well deserves to be seen as a hero, by his adoring fans and cricket buffs alike. He has earned his place in the echelon and is still young enough to be excited by the continued appreciation.
But a knighthood? Visiting British prime minister Gordon Brown suggested in a speech in Delhi that Tendulkar be knighted. And the media went mad. Which is typical of the whole machinery, but hardly something to be taken too seriously. First and perhaps most importantly, as a republic, India does not allow knighthoods. So Tendulkar cannot be called Sir Sachin, except in future headlines where sensationalism is the raison d’etre. Second, a suggestion by a visiting alien (which is really what Brown is, though perhaps not from the point of view of ET, Jadoo and others of their ilk) in this country for only a short time is not one that should be taken without a couple of tablespoons of salt. After all, he was honouring one of our own in his way, which sounded silly because of the context, not the intent to praise. Even though Sir Sachin sounds good, it is not likely to become reality.
Even in the unlikely event that is does happen, I wonder – will he, like others before him, return the honour with polite thanks? After all, that would be real hero behaviour.
For many children – and indeed, an astonishing number of adults – in this country, Sachin Tendulkar is that hero. Or Sania Mirza. So is Shah Rukh Khan. And, of course, Sunita Williams, even though she is not Indian and has not been familiar to most people in India until she went into space and then came to this country in a blaze of media glory. There are so many others like this who are the stuff of dreams, the stuff of a Walter Mitty-esque life and world that stays in the realm of dreams and never really becomes actual fact.
Heroes change with time. If they didn’t, they would not be human, and most people that we look up to are very human. When I was a small girl and watching the shooting of a Hindi film in the enormous complex in which we lived, I thought the heroine was “very pretty”, perhaps even the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my whole short life. She was a popular actress then, and is a nicely rounded home-maker with a history of grief and tears today. Now when I look at her on television, where she makes the occasional appearance, I find her hardly inspiring. For me, now, from where I am after all these years, someone like Cate Blanchett or Rukmini Arundale or Anita Desai would do it, people who have worked hard and made it big in their own way, sometimes quietly, sometimes steamrolling the opposition with relentless talent and charm.
But where there is a hero of any greater than personal perception, there will be public recognition. And following that wave, public adulation. As is the case with Sachin Tendulkar these days in India and, it seems, in various parts of the world. While I do not profess to know anything about cricket (frankly, I think it is a fairly big waste of time, energy and money, but each to their own if it makes their cookies crumble), I do know that people who are enduring stars in cricket do not get there by sheer fluke, luck, fate, or the spin of a single ball. Tendulkar worked hard, long and often injured to get where he is in the whimsical world of sports, and well deserves to be seen as a hero, by his adoring fans and cricket buffs alike. He has earned his place in the echelon and is still young enough to be excited by the continued appreciation.
But a knighthood? Visiting British prime minister Gordon Brown suggested in a speech in Delhi that Tendulkar be knighted. And the media went mad. Which is typical of the whole machinery, but hardly something to be taken too seriously. First and perhaps most importantly, as a republic, India does not allow knighthoods. So Tendulkar cannot be called Sir Sachin, except in future headlines where sensationalism is the raison d’etre. Second, a suggestion by a visiting alien (which is really what Brown is, though perhaps not from the point of view of ET, Jadoo and others of their ilk) in this country for only a short time is not one that should be taken without a couple of tablespoons of salt. After all, he was honouring one of our own in his way, which sounded silly because of the context, not the intent to praise. Even though Sir Sachin sounds good, it is not likely to become reality.
Even in the unlikely event that is does happen, I wonder – will he, like others before him, return the honour with polite thanks? After all, that would be real hero behaviour.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Cold wave
It has suddenly turned chilly in Mumbai and people have brought out their warm woollies, much to my amusement. What is even more amusing is that I sit in this wonderfully plush newspaper office, gently minding my own business – rather like Pakistan occupied Kashmir, a colleague insists – wrapped snugly in a large rough woollen shawl, since the air-conditioning is so fierce that my fingertips slowly go blue and my goosebumps have goosebumps that have goosebumps. As a result, I drink only very hot water, never eat ice cream during the day and make sure that I am dressed to insulate, even with the fat reserves that should but don’t do anything to keep me any warmer than if I did not have them.
But it is a cold day today, as it was yesterday and we are told by the weather people, it will be tomorrow. All the papers have been talking about it, citing the cold front from the North, ice fall in Kashmir, sudden drop in temperature in the mountains, ad infinitum. The reporters at the paper – as in every other daily publication and media house, I bet you - have been rushing around in various directions trying to get semi-articulate and intelligent quotes from the Met Department, the climate experts, the environmentalists, the clean-air campaigners, the futurists, even astrologers. Everyone wants a substantiation of what the rest have been saying, so that they can get their own ‘exclusive’ version of why the city is suddenly, precipitately so much colder today than it was yesterday…or yesterday than it was the day before.
And, truly, it is. I had been complaining to Father that it was a dull winter this year in Mumbai, since I had not used my fuzzy blanket even once – which I do for about a week every December-January in the city, especially very early in the mornings, before the sun is out and the voltage fluctuates enough for the fans to whiz faster than they do at other times of the day. But yesterday, after all the household chores had been done and home and hearth were in proper order, enough to keep me even vaguely happy about my housekeeping skills, I decided I would indulge in my Sunday afternoon nap. Instead of being sprawled all over my bed when Father came in to wake me for tea-time, I was curled snugly around a pillow under a swathe of warm fuzzy blanket, only the tip of my nose and a shock of wild black hair showing outside. It was a chilly afternoon, yes.
And outside is where I want to be, basking in the sunny glow on the lawn outside, except that the wind is blowing rather strongly and I hate having damp toes from the wet grass. We drive to work with the car air-conditioner off, the windows open just a crack to keep the air inside as fresh as it can be. And I am tempted to sit on my hands so that my fingers stay as toasty warm as the arm I have in the sun that beams down into the back seat of the car.
But in all this, it is not really that cold in Mumbai. It just feels that way. For this city, anything below a balmy 25 degrees Celsius is freezing and people bring out their winter clothes even as the visiting knitwear sellers from the North make a killing on their wares at street corners. Watchmen sit at the gates of their buildings around small fires in the night, their torsos wrapped in thick shawls and sweaters, their heads nicely muffled in monkey caps and scarves. And the maid comes in every morning blowing on her hands and sniffing, her nose redder than usual and her grin even wider.
It is winter. I wish it would stay like this through the year.
But it is a cold day today, as it was yesterday and we are told by the weather people, it will be tomorrow. All the papers have been talking about it, citing the cold front from the North, ice fall in Kashmir, sudden drop in temperature in the mountains, ad infinitum. The reporters at the paper – as in every other daily publication and media house, I bet you - have been rushing around in various directions trying to get semi-articulate and intelligent quotes from the Met Department, the climate experts, the environmentalists, the clean-air campaigners, the futurists, even astrologers. Everyone wants a substantiation of what the rest have been saying, so that they can get their own ‘exclusive’ version of why the city is suddenly, precipitately so much colder today than it was yesterday…or yesterday than it was the day before.
And, truly, it is. I had been complaining to Father that it was a dull winter this year in Mumbai, since I had not used my fuzzy blanket even once – which I do for about a week every December-January in the city, especially very early in the mornings, before the sun is out and the voltage fluctuates enough for the fans to whiz faster than they do at other times of the day. But yesterday, after all the household chores had been done and home and hearth were in proper order, enough to keep me even vaguely happy about my housekeeping skills, I decided I would indulge in my Sunday afternoon nap. Instead of being sprawled all over my bed when Father came in to wake me for tea-time, I was curled snugly around a pillow under a swathe of warm fuzzy blanket, only the tip of my nose and a shock of wild black hair showing outside. It was a chilly afternoon, yes.
And outside is where I want to be, basking in the sunny glow on the lawn outside, except that the wind is blowing rather strongly and I hate having damp toes from the wet grass. We drive to work with the car air-conditioner off, the windows open just a crack to keep the air inside as fresh as it can be. And I am tempted to sit on my hands so that my fingers stay as toasty warm as the arm I have in the sun that beams down into the back seat of the car.
But in all this, it is not really that cold in Mumbai. It just feels that way. For this city, anything below a balmy 25 degrees Celsius is freezing and people bring out their winter clothes even as the visiting knitwear sellers from the North make a killing on their wares at street corners. Watchmen sit at the gates of their buildings around small fires in the night, their torsos wrapped in thick shawls and sweaters, their heads nicely muffled in monkey caps and scarves. And the maid comes in every morning blowing on her hands and sniffing, her nose redder than usual and her grin even wider.
It is winter. I wish it would stay like this through the year.
Friday, January 18, 2008
An art in violence
(I 'meet' a lot of interesting minds in the course of working for a newspaper. Artists are a great proportion of those and some of the minds there can be very interesting indeed. here's one...)
Artist Praneet Soi uses the central reference point of the ‘angel of history’, the mythic vision described by Walter Benjamin, German-Jewish Marxist literary critic, essayist, translator and philosopher: "His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet…The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress." Soi has crafted work that uses a form of political documentary to bring together the forces of war and globalisation, history and the future and presents his vision in Juggernaut, his new show
You present the trauma of war/disaster. Why?
I’ve been living in Europe in the past five years and before that in California. Especially after 9/11 there has been a huge amount of media coverage of a specific kind of violence, of terrorism, telling stories that are all about fundamentalists and extremism. What is coming out of it is very particular kinds of images - unrest in Baghdad, in Afghanistan, the blasts in London and Madrid and, of course, 9/11 itself. When I was in California, I began comparing these images and how they were shown. A very distinctly different lens has been put on these subjects. We have a different take on fundamentalists in India, because we have dealt with it for centuries.
I began to have a very personal interest in the subject. For me, the paintings were a kind of investigation into what makes these images symbolic. So the series – The Disasters of War – became a way to investigate how to look at these images, how certain images might reach symbol-hood and some may not. I am referencing Goya’s black and white (Disaster) series that showed the kind of violence unleashed by Napolean in Spain; there was a lot of destruction. Violence can be caused by the enforcement of some kind of democracy. This makes the images interesting and evokes questions: What does democracy mean? Why is the West pushing for democracy?
Why not happy images?
I am extremely positive; I do not feel pessimistic. But I am ambivalent. There is something very beautiful about progress, something sublime. There are so many forces, how can you choose to talk about them? I did the series in miniature format. It’s about war, but there could be a beauty behind it too. I have done other works that directly address the notion of progress, not war, as in a big painting called Juggernaut – which is, of course, the unstoppable force or ‘juggernaut’ of progress.
Why does political documentary, as it is called, influence you so strongly?
I am from Bengal, a Marxist state, surrounded by a certain kind of ideology. I am not Marxist, but you come out of Kolkata aligned somewhat left of centre. Then I went to Baroda, which is very political; then there was my California experience. It is not just politics, but how to make a contemporary image that connects with the social context that could be considered political.
Your work is said to present questions but provides no answers…
I am not providing a point of view. I am not saying through my images that something is good or bad. Government can also be very cold and not very nice. My imagery does not ask you to take a side, but to examine the phenomenon. Again, there is a sense of ambivalence. The work is meant to draw the viewer into the argument. I am not presenting a one-sided argument, but hoping it would throw up opinions.
Living in the Netherlands and in Kolkata, has Dutch painting influenced you?
Yes it has – especially 17th century Dutch painting, which is not narrative, but very descriptive, presenting interesting arguments. But the light and the landscape somehow finds its way into your work, wherever you are at that point in time.
Living in various places as I have and continue to do, certain aspects of these spaces are collaged together and so enter the language of my work. This notion of the collage not only underlines my existence as an artist who lives in Europe and India, but also enters the work in how the imagery is collaged together. It is through the collaging and juxtaposition of various imagery that the story of the show reveals itself to the viewer.
Artist Praneet Soi uses the central reference point of the ‘angel of history’, the mythic vision described by Walter Benjamin, German-Jewish Marxist literary critic, essayist, translator and philosopher: "His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet…The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress." Soi has crafted work that uses a form of political documentary to bring together the forces of war and globalisation, history and the future and presents his vision in Juggernaut, his new show
You present the trauma of war/disaster. Why?
I’ve been living in Europe in the past five years and before that in California. Especially after 9/11 there has been a huge amount of media coverage of a specific kind of violence, of terrorism, telling stories that are all about fundamentalists and extremism. What is coming out of it is very particular kinds of images - unrest in Baghdad, in Afghanistan, the blasts in London and Madrid and, of course, 9/11 itself. When I was in California, I began comparing these images and how they were shown. A very distinctly different lens has been put on these subjects. We have a different take on fundamentalists in India, because we have dealt with it for centuries.
I began to have a very personal interest in the subject. For me, the paintings were a kind of investigation into what makes these images symbolic. So the series – The Disasters of War – became a way to investigate how to look at these images, how certain images might reach symbol-hood and some may not. I am referencing Goya’s black and white (Disaster) series that showed the kind of violence unleashed by Napolean in Spain; there was a lot of destruction. Violence can be caused by the enforcement of some kind of democracy. This makes the images interesting and evokes questions: What does democracy mean? Why is the West pushing for democracy?
Why not happy images?
I am extremely positive; I do not feel pessimistic. But I am ambivalent. There is something very beautiful about progress, something sublime. There are so many forces, how can you choose to talk about them? I did the series in miniature format. It’s about war, but there could be a beauty behind it too. I have done other works that directly address the notion of progress, not war, as in a big painting called Juggernaut – which is, of course, the unstoppable force or ‘juggernaut’ of progress.
Why does political documentary, as it is called, influence you so strongly?
I am from Bengal, a Marxist state, surrounded by a certain kind of ideology. I am not Marxist, but you come out of Kolkata aligned somewhat left of centre. Then I went to Baroda, which is very political; then there was my California experience. It is not just politics, but how to make a contemporary image that connects with the social context that could be considered political.
Your work is said to present questions but provides no answers…
I am not providing a point of view. I am not saying through my images that something is good or bad. Government can also be very cold and not very nice. My imagery does not ask you to take a side, but to examine the phenomenon. Again, there is a sense of ambivalence. The work is meant to draw the viewer into the argument. I am not presenting a one-sided argument, but hoping it would throw up opinions.
Living in the Netherlands and in Kolkata, has Dutch painting influenced you?
Yes it has – especially 17th century Dutch painting, which is not narrative, but very descriptive, presenting interesting arguments. But the light and the landscape somehow finds its way into your work, wherever you are at that point in time.
Living in various places as I have and continue to do, certain aspects of these spaces are collaged together and so enter the language of my work. This notion of the collage not only underlines my existence as an artist who lives in Europe and India, but also enters the work in how the imagery is collaged together. It is through the collaging and juxtaposition of various imagery that the story of the show reveals itself to the viewer.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Sex appeal
I was sitting in the office waiting for the edits I needed to come in, when the always-on televisions flashed clips of actor Salman Khan at Madame Tussauds doing something or the other, his beefcake image on full show. One of the young women trainees gazing open-mouthedly at the screen sighed deeply and then almost shrieked, “He is sooooo sexy!” I looked up, saw Salman Khan looking at the wax model of his own starry self, and then went back to my work. But the concept of ‘sexy’ has been pinging in my mind for a while, more so after that squeaky sigh that the girl emitted, sounding vaguely like a cross between a fire-engine in a hurry and a very large bat.
What is ‘sexy’? To me, for years, it has been just one man, an actor I first saw on American television when I was in school. He played a detective-by-accident, a man with no clue what he was doing, but with a way of doing it that made women (and lots of other men) sigh longingly. He wore his designer suits with élan, smiled his way into more hearts and minds than he had any right to and wiggled his nicely shapes behind most enticingly when he ran, which I bet the scriptwriters wrote into each episode because they knew it would bring in the viewers. It certain kept me there, had Mother giggling girlishly and Karen looking more goofy-eyed than she would ever have done otherwise. The actor was Pierce Brosnan and the show was Remington Steele. We watched re-runs of re-runs of re-re-runs and never tired of wistfully viewing that wiggle. And because he was, to me, the definition of ‘sexy’, I even sat through screenings of dreary and dark movies where he played Irish terrorist, sidekick fiancé and much more.
And then came James Bond. Brosnan wiggled his way through all sorts of completely improbably adventures and stunts, enjoying himself (or so it seemed) while he battled the baddies and seduced the women, flew planes, drove stunning automobiles, blew things up and generally has a whale of a time. And we all sighed as he ran through the mayhem, his gorgeous face grimy but still gorgeous, his bottom still wiggling happily through it all. And we sat through The Thomas Crown Affair, where he rolled about with Rene Russo and we all looked on, green eyed and fuming, but still buggy about him. And we probably will stay that way even as he ages his way through the sequel to that film and more.
That is one version of ‘sexy’. Once upon a time, I was accused of liking some young man (I still don’t remember who) because he had long eyelashes that curled upwards. There was a dress I once fell for that I thought was ‘seriously sexy’, with a large and glorious frill that slid off my shoulders when I wore it. There is a design for a bracelet that I saw in the window of Gubelin in Geneva when I was a teenager and still believe to be the ultimate in ‘sexy’. The first Ferrari I saw on the autostrada just outside Naples elicited a fairly unanimous “Wow! Sexy!” from all of us in the family car in the next lane. And there was a certain chocolate mousse that I ate in a rooftop restaurant that echoes a softly luscious ‘sexy’ in my tastebuds even today….
But seriously, what is ‘sexy’ all about? Speaking as a woman, it almost mandates a male identity. Is it the way his eyes melt into warmth when he looks at you? Or is it the way he smiles as he reads your writing? Or even perhaps the way he argues passionately about why he needs a photograph of you in his wallet? Who knows. It’s all about what makes you go warm and fuzzy and smile idiotically when there is really nothing at all to smile about. And that’s what ‘sexy’ is...or should be.
What is ‘sexy’? To me, for years, it has been just one man, an actor I first saw on American television when I was in school. He played a detective-by-accident, a man with no clue what he was doing, but with a way of doing it that made women (and lots of other men) sigh longingly. He wore his designer suits with élan, smiled his way into more hearts and minds than he had any right to and wiggled his nicely shapes behind most enticingly when he ran, which I bet the scriptwriters wrote into each episode because they knew it would bring in the viewers. It certain kept me there, had Mother giggling girlishly and Karen looking more goofy-eyed than she would ever have done otherwise. The actor was Pierce Brosnan and the show was Remington Steele. We watched re-runs of re-runs of re-re-runs and never tired of wistfully viewing that wiggle. And because he was, to me, the definition of ‘sexy’, I even sat through screenings of dreary and dark movies where he played Irish terrorist, sidekick fiancé and much more.
And then came James Bond. Brosnan wiggled his way through all sorts of completely improbably adventures and stunts, enjoying himself (or so it seemed) while he battled the baddies and seduced the women, flew planes, drove stunning automobiles, blew things up and generally has a whale of a time. And we all sighed as he ran through the mayhem, his gorgeous face grimy but still gorgeous, his bottom still wiggling happily through it all. And we sat through The Thomas Crown Affair, where he rolled about with Rene Russo and we all looked on, green eyed and fuming, but still buggy about him. And we probably will stay that way even as he ages his way through the sequel to that film and more.
That is one version of ‘sexy’. Once upon a time, I was accused of liking some young man (I still don’t remember who) because he had long eyelashes that curled upwards. There was a dress I once fell for that I thought was ‘seriously sexy’, with a large and glorious frill that slid off my shoulders when I wore it. There is a design for a bracelet that I saw in the window of Gubelin in Geneva when I was a teenager and still believe to be the ultimate in ‘sexy’. The first Ferrari I saw on the autostrada just outside Naples elicited a fairly unanimous “Wow! Sexy!” from all of us in the family car in the next lane. And there was a certain chocolate mousse that I ate in a rooftop restaurant that echoes a softly luscious ‘sexy’ in my tastebuds even today….
But seriously, what is ‘sexy’ all about? Speaking as a woman, it almost mandates a male identity. Is it the way his eyes melt into warmth when he looks at you? Or is it the way he smiles as he reads your writing? Or even perhaps the way he argues passionately about why he needs a photograph of you in his wallet? Who knows. It’s all about what makes you go warm and fuzzy and smile idiotically when there is really nothing at all to smile about. And that’s what ‘sexy’ is...or should be.
Monday, January 14, 2008
And a car to match…
(The Indian media is all excitement about the new 'people's car' that represents a dream that industrialist Ratan Tata had. The Nano has finally been unveiled and will be available in a few months. Until then, there is one aspect of it that is not being talked about....)
After all the hype and with lots of hoopla, the new Tata small car is finally here. Well, not quite here, but by the end of the year it should be. And it will be a very good thing when it does get here, since it is perhaps the one accessory that my rather extensive fashion statement was so sorely missing. After all, it is small, neat, rounded, portable, with nice proportions of glass to paintwork, an ideal shape and size to tote around town on the occasional jaunt to look for new carpets or an artist to interview. Best of all, from my point of view, it comes in a nice range of hues, which means I can colour-coordinate my automobile to my shoes to my dress to my earrings.
This is not a new need for me. In fact, my family knows it well. Many years ago, when I was a mere child, the story goes (albeit perhaps apocryphally), I refused to ride in the car belonging to a family friend since it did not match with my sandals, which would have been a vivid red. Many years later, as a grown up who was gainfully employed in another city, I drove a car that was a nicely elegant pale gold, a colour that went so well with the gold-brown of the Indian skin, I explained to someone who wanted to know why I had not chosen my favourite red. And for our new family car, hopefully to be acquired this year, I fondly hope that it will be available in the delicate champagne (a lovely gilded peach-rose) that is the perfect offset for both wardrobe and complexion.
But this need to be matched has nothing to do with style; more with genetics. My mother, bless her chic soul, always wore accessories that toned with her clothes – from sandals to bangles to bindis, she made sure it presented a total harmonic picture. And she taught me to be that way too, making sure I had footwear in every possible colour to coordinate with the vast wardrobe that she accumulated for me. It is now an automatic response, almost a duty, for me to make sure that I – and Father with his socks and even Small Cat with her collars – am as properly turned out without her help.
So the Nano is just another feather in my cap…or accessory in my closet. I can ask for the car of whatever colour that matches with my slippers of whatever colour that match with my watchstrap of whatever colour for that particular day. And I can have the whole spectrum of those colours in my garage, since it will all be so affordable, easy to run, eco-friendly and, fabulously, easy to access.
After all the hype and with lots of hoopla, the new Tata small car is finally here. Well, not quite here, but by the end of the year it should be. And it will be a very good thing when it does get here, since it is perhaps the one accessory that my rather extensive fashion statement was so sorely missing. After all, it is small, neat, rounded, portable, with nice proportions of glass to paintwork, an ideal shape and size to tote around town on the occasional jaunt to look for new carpets or an artist to interview. Best of all, from my point of view, it comes in a nice range of hues, which means I can colour-coordinate my automobile to my shoes to my dress to my earrings.
This is not a new need for me. In fact, my family knows it well. Many years ago, when I was a mere child, the story goes (albeit perhaps apocryphally), I refused to ride in the car belonging to a family friend since it did not match with my sandals, which would have been a vivid red. Many years later, as a grown up who was gainfully employed in another city, I drove a car that was a nicely elegant pale gold, a colour that went so well with the gold-brown of the Indian skin, I explained to someone who wanted to know why I had not chosen my favourite red. And for our new family car, hopefully to be acquired this year, I fondly hope that it will be available in the delicate champagne (a lovely gilded peach-rose) that is the perfect offset for both wardrobe and complexion.
But this need to be matched has nothing to do with style; more with genetics. My mother, bless her chic soul, always wore accessories that toned with her clothes – from sandals to bangles to bindis, she made sure it presented a total harmonic picture. And she taught me to be that way too, making sure I had footwear in every possible colour to coordinate with the vast wardrobe that she accumulated for me. It is now an automatic response, almost a duty, for me to make sure that I – and Father with his socks and even Small Cat with her collars – am as properly turned out without her help.
So the Nano is just another feather in my cap…or accessory in my closet. I can ask for the car of whatever colour that matches with my slippers of whatever colour that match with my watchstrap of whatever colour for that particular day. And I can have the whole spectrum of those colours in my garage, since it will all be so affordable, easy to run, eco-friendly and, fabulously, easy to access.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Festive cheer
I went to the temple this morning. No, it was not a visit to do any praying, since that doesn’t do the trick for me, but it was to make sure that the traditional rituals of this time of year in the South Indian home – ours, actually, which is modified in every which way – are not neglected or ignored or forgotten. I did this last year as well, but far more successfully. This morning, it was a bit of a scramble, linguistically and time-wise, since I had little control over schedule, procedure and, unfortunately, it seemed my own tongue.
Next week it will be Pongal, the harvest festival. We have no fields to harvest, and do no harvesting, except perhaps from the pots of wheat grass grown outside the kitchen window for the edification (literally) of Small Cat. But we make sure that we follow the festival calendar, at least gastronomically, since that has always been the norm in our home. For Pongal, food means two kinds of the eponymous pongal – the ven-pongal, or savoury, ghee-laced blend of dal and rice punctuated with cracked pepper, mustard seeds and cashewnuts, and the sakkarai-pongal, the same dal and rice mixture cooked with milk and jaggery, aromatics like cardamom and saffron and lots of cashewnuts and raisins. I can make the former with little effort; the latter tends to daunt me somewhat, which means that I have never tried to do it myself at home because the labour-intensiveness makes me rather nervous.
So Father suggested last year that we get the sweet stuff that we both relish from the temple in central Mumbai known for its prasadam of sakkarai-pongal. I called around, got the number, managed to battle my own linguistic deficiencies and ordered enough to keep us happy and nicely rounded. It all worked out fine, everyone was happy and my spiritual conscience was assuaged, since I did a small prayer for Mother in the process of getting it all done.
But this time I was defeated. I called the temple yesterday, well in time I thought, since the festival is only mid-next week. A rather gruff gentleman who refused to speak anything but Tamil answered and demanded to know what I wanted and who I was. All this during a very long day at the paper, page-making interrupted by constant phone calls and queries and a tummy that wanted me to commandeer the dreadful offerings of junk food that drift past in the corridors after 5 o’clock in the evening. My Tamil completely and ignominiously failed. I was left stuttering incoherently, wondering how to get past the subject of who I was to what I wanted. I felt, in fact, a little like Oliver Twist, asking for more of something that I knew was a commodity that could be easily bought.
That is where Father came to the rescue. While his Tamil is perhaps only fractionally better than mine, he had the leisure and the mindspace to think about what he was saying and how to phrase it. He was also rather more compos mentis, less hassled and frazzled by the world at large and the sounds, sights and stresses of production time at a newspaper. So he made the appropriate arrangements, told me what to do and left me to it. This morning, I drove up to the temple in air-conditioned comfort, said my set-piece in Tamil that was decent and comprehensible, if not completely accurate and classical, and collected my prasadam after paying in my money and stating what my birth-star was. There seemed to be some kind of ceremony in progress, which had me running a little scared, so I did a quick round of the shrines, sent a thought up to Mother and fled.
My duty is done for the year. It is not likely that I will be at another temple again until that time comes around for me to start having menageries about tradition and ritual. And, in that hiatus, I could learn to relax and practice my language skills.
Next week it will be Pongal, the harvest festival. We have no fields to harvest, and do no harvesting, except perhaps from the pots of wheat grass grown outside the kitchen window for the edification (literally) of Small Cat. But we make sure that we follow the festival calendar, at least gastronomically, since that has always been the norm in our home. For Pongal, food means two kinds of the eponymous pongal – the ven-pongal, or savoury, ghee-laced blend of dal and rice punctuated with cracked pepper, mustard seeds and cashewnuts, and the sakkarai-pongal, the same dal and rice mixture cooked with milk and jaggery, aromatics like cardamom and saffron and lots of cashewnuts and raisins. I can make the former with little effort; the latter tends to daunt me somewhat, which means that I have never tried to do it myself at home because the labour-intensiveness makes me rather nervous.
So Father suggested last year that we get the sweet stuff that we both relish from the temple in central Mumbai known for its prasadam of sakkarai-pongal. I called around, got the number, managed to battle my own linguistic deficiencies and ordered enough to keep us happy and nicely rounded. It all worked out fine, everyone was happy and my spiritual conscience was assuaged, since I did a small prayer for Mother in the process of getting it all done.
But this time I was defeated. I called the temple yesterday, well in time I thought, since the festival is only mid-next week. A rather gruff gentleman who refused to speak anything but Tamil answered and demanded to know what I wanted and who I was. All this during a very long day at the paper, page-making interrupted by constant phone calls and queries and a tummy that wanted me to commandeer the dreadful offerings of junk food that drift past in the corridors after 5 o’clock in the evening. My Tamil completely and ignominiously failed. I was left stuttering incoherently, wondering how to get past the subject of who I was to what I wanted. I felt, in fact, a little like Oliver Twist, asking for more of something that I knew was a commodity that could be easily bought.
That is where Father came to the rescue. While his Tamil is perhaps only fractionally better than mine, he had the leisure and the mindspace to think about what he was saying and how to phrase it. He was also rather more compos mentis, less hassled and frazzled by the world at large and the sounds, sights and stresses of production time at a newspaper. So he made the appropriate arrangements, told me what to do and left me to it. This morning, I drove up to the temple in air-conditioned comfort, said my set-piece in Tamil that was decent and comprehensible, if not completely accurate and classical, and collected my prasadam after paying in my money and stating what my birth-star was. There seemed to be some kind of ceremony in progress, which had me running a little scared, so I did a quick round of the shrines, sent a thought up to Mother and fled.
My duty is done for the year. It is not likely that I will be at another temple again until that time comes around for me to start having menageries about tradition and ritual. And, in that hiatus, I could learn to relax and practice my language skills.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Battle with the bank
It is that time of year again, and I don’t mean anything to do with celebration. People are running around with furrowed brows and glowers that would rival a hungry alligator’s. and the papers and television commercial breaks are all about scams – aka investments – that can help you make some money instead of paying most of it to the government in…hold your breath…taxes. Even after having complained for years that I paid more in tax than I actually made, I am still fairly honest about declaring to the authorities the amount of money that I earn and allowing them to take what they need to out of my paychecks before I get to even see them. Which means a nice dent in any budget that I may dream of, be it vacations in Manhattan or new carpets that Small Cat can shed on, a Rolex for Father or a diamond the size of – if not the Ritz – a nicely sized pea for me. And by the time I have enough saved up for any of those, it is time to hand a good proportion of it over to the Tax Man. But I remain honest…more or less.
As a result of all this, when the office sends around a notice about investments, I jump to it. And jumping means forwarding the email to Father, who painfully works it all out and tells me where to sign what. Which I do, like a good and dutiful citizen who pays taxes even though she grumbles a bit about them. And to be a good daughter who does not want to tax (ha ha) her male parent too much, I volunteered to go to the bank to do at least a part of the aforementioned investing. It would not take that long, I said with greatly misplaced confidence. I could do it easy. All that had to be done was to hand in a form or two, sign in various places, smile sweetly at surly clerks and swish nonchalantly out of there without a care in the world since my conscience would be clear and my taxes paid…almost.
As I said before, HA HA!
If life were that simple, I would be in Manhattan wearing my diamonds and asking Father for the time as seen on his Rolex while Small Cat burrowed under new silk carpets looking for her toys.
I went nice and early to the bank. Or tried to. It took a while, since everyone and their cousins were going in the same direction that I was and all of them wanted to get there first. So in good Mumbaiyya driving style, they all crowded and pushed into the same lane and honked madly as they inched forward in the rather futile hope of realising their unilateral ambition. By the time we got to the bank, I was more than a little frazzled and the driver was falling asleep at the wheel. I told him I would be about 15 minutes and walked in.
It has changed. The bank that I had been a customer of since I was about 11 years old had become all modern and futuristic. I was stopped at the door that had never been there before and asked to take a token by a security guard who needed to either learn some manners or understand that I was not the child he addressed me as. I punched the button he demanded and took the token he asked me to. And then I looked for someone, anyone, who looked as though they could help me. No one would, maybe no one could. Finally, a sweet short stout gentleman who had been most kind on a recent visit rescued me and told me what form to fill in how, which check to make out to what account and where to sign. I did all that and then was shown to a line I needed to stand in.
I stood. And stood. And stood. Then I sat, since I was wearing heels and my feet started hurting. And I sat and sat. Finally, after I glared at the Chief Manager, he came out of his cabin and asked me what I was waiting for, in a very polite and vaguely oily tone. I told him. He offered me a chair. And another. Then bustled off to see what the hold-up was. On his way there, he waved me to yet another chair. Then some minion came bustling up with a chair I had never met or seen before and asked me to sit down. The Chief Manager came past again. Another chair was shoved in my general direction. And, just when I was stepping forward to finish my work at the counter with the very bad-tempered clerk behind the glass, a security person (a woman this time) rushed up wheeling another chair that she made valiant attempts to shove beneath my bottom.
My work was finally done. By which time Father had got into the act, and called the Chief Manager, who was back in his cabin and bowing and scraping desperately, sweating slightly at the edges as he listened to Father’s most acerbic best over the fibre optic cable from the other end of the city. I popped my head into that same cabin, handed over my business card and said that ever since I had become a customer at the bank, it had gone gradually from decent to awful. I then smiled sweetly at the most uncomfortable Chief Manager and left.
It was only when I was in the car that the thought struck me: I could have collected all the chairs and sold them. The money would have paid my taxes, even though it would probably not finance a vacation in Manhattan.
As a result of all this, when the office sends around a notice about investments, I jump to it. And jumping means forwarding the email to Father, who painfully works it all out and tells me where to sign what. Which I do, like a good and dutiful citizen who pays taxes even though she grumbles a bit about them. And to be a good daughter who does not want to tax (ha ha) her male parent too much, I volunteered to go to the bank to do at least a part of the aforementioned investing. It would not take that long, I said with greatly misplaced confidence. I could do it easy. All that had to be done was to hand in a form or two, sign in various places, smile sweetly at surly clerks and swish nonchalantly out of there without a care in the world since my conscience would be clear and my taxes paid…almost.
As I said before, HA HA!
If life were that simple, I would be in Manhattan wearing my diamonds and asking Father for the time as seen on his Rolex while Small Cat burrowed under new silk carpets looking for her toys.
I went nice and early to the bank. Or tried to. It took a while, since everyone and their cousins were going in the same direction that I was and all of them wanted to get there first. So in good Mumbaiyya driving style, they all crowded and pushed into the same lane and honked madly as they inched forward in the rather futile hope of realising their unilateral ambition. By the time we got to the bank, I was more than a little frazzled and the driver was falling asleep at the wheel. I told him I would be about 15 minutes and walked in.
It has changed. The bank that I had been a customer of since I was about 11 years old had become all modern and futuristic. I was stopped at the door that had never been there before and asked to take a token by a security guard who needed to either learn some manners or understand that I was not the child he addressed me as. I punched the button he demanded and took the token he asked me to. And then I looked for someone, anyone, who looked as though they could help me. No one would, maybe no one could. Finally, a sweet short stout gentleman who had been most kind on a recent visit rescued me and told me what form to fill in how, which check to make out to what account and where to sign. I did all that and then was shown to a line I needed to stand in.
I stood. And stood. And stood. Then I sat, since I was wearing heels and my feet started hurting. And I sat and sat. Finally, after I glared at the Chief Manager, he came out of his cabin and asked me what I was waiting for, in a very polite and vaguely oily tone. I told him. He offered me a chair. And another. Then bustled off to see what the hold-up was. On his way there, he waved me to yet another chair. Then some minion came bustling up with a chair I had never met or seen before and asked me to sit down. The Chief Manager came past again. Another chair was shoved in my general direction. And, just when I was stepping forward to finish my work at the counter with the very bad-tempered clerk behind the glass, a security person (a woman this time) rushed up wheeling another chair that she made valiant attempts to shove beneath my bottom.
My work was finally done. By which time Father had got into the act, and called the Chief Manager, who was back in his cabin and bowing and scraping desperately, sweating slightly at the edges as he listened to Father’s most acerbic best over the fibre optic cable from the other end of the city. I popped my head into that same cabin, handed over my business card and said that ever since I had become a customer at the bank, it had gone gradually from decent to awful. I then smiled sweetly at the most uncomfortable Chief Manager and left.
It was only when I was in the car that the thought struck me: I could have collected all the chairs and sold them. The money would have paid my taxes, even though it would probably not finance a vacation in Manhattan.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Gem of a day
It happened during the week that my friend Karen came to visit us from Denver. It had been a few years since we had met, but had we kept in touch off and on – more on than off – ever since we first met through a bathroom door in the college dorm so many years ago. My visits to her home had been nicely balanced by her visits to mine, and our holidays together, albeit brief, had been memorable. Since this was the second time she was coming to my city and she had little time to spend in it, leave alone to wander around the country, we decided to concentrate our energies and attention to what we could do during the day, coming back home to roost every evening. A lot of the travel time we had in the car, waiting in traffic jams for the lights to change or bouncing about while the driver negotiated potholes, was spent in excited chatter about everything new and familiar, each of us learning something from each encounter and relearning a lot that had slipped into the recesses of time and memory.
One day Father took us to see a gem dealer, one that I had heard about for years and had even spoken to, but never met. He had a small office deep in the old part of the city, very close to where the presiding deity, Mumba Devi, had her abode. Karen and I walked there to meet Father after doing some desultory shopping in the main market, and dodged cows, people and sleazebags alike, doing agile twists, turns and side-tracks to avoid being bumped, felt up or just plain commented at. Every now and then – to her disconcernment, she insisted – I would grab my friend’s arm or hand and yank her in the direction that I wanted her to go; only later, after I explained, did she understand that it would have taken a while for me to explain and it was far easier and quicker to just hold and pull. We did want to go into the temple and say hi to the Goddess that Karen had met on her earlier visit, but were daunted by the crowds of loitering young men who insisted on trying to attract our attention and make comments that were descriptive, to put it mildly.
But finally we found the place we had to rendezvous at. It was in a not-too-high and very dilapidated building, one that I would never have imagined to be holding so much of such high value. After some hesitation and my carefully asking the person who seemed to be most respectable and least lecherous, we walked in. The entrance was narrow, almost like a dingy alleyway between two walls. The elevator was the old fashioned kind, one with sliding doors that had to be pulled open and shut. We walked up uneven, dirty, slippery stairs to a small door in one wall. The place was dimly lit and dank, smelling of stale food and perhaps a rat or two. I rang the doorbell and vaguely felt someone staring at me. From the seemingly fragile wooden door an electronic eye looked sternly at us, deemed us fit for entry and buzzed us in. In a very small and narrow foyer that was a-drip with laminate, we had to take off our sandals and wait a second or two before we pushed open a heavy door into a room where Father sat across a long desk from three other men.
The Big Man had a seat near the window. He and his obvious junior, a large and smiling-faced moustached gentleman, beamed fondly at me and stared curiously at the orange-haired visitor I had brought in. we were offered water, something cold, something hot, something to eat perhaps? But we had other business there; it was getting close to lunchtime and I was set on finishing what I had come for and then heading food-wards. So it was down to the wire. The Big Man emptied packet after packet of the most exquisite gemstones – emeralds, rubies, tanzanite, alexandrite, pearls…He practically flung ropes of preciousness at me and I looked and felt and wondered. It was a bewildering embarrassment of riches that made my head spin and my acquisitive instincts long to run helter-skelter out of there. So much was frightening. And all I wanted was something small, something – on the scale of what we were being shown – so minor that it would be like one grain of rice in the plenty cooked for a feast. I saw, managed to ask intelligent questions, and made my decision as fast as I could. And then, we left, sweating slightly at the stress of the whole deal and excited at the results.
One day Father took us to see a gem dealer, one that I had heard about for years and had even spoken to, but never met. He had a small office deep in the old part of the city, very close to where the presiding deity, Mumba Devi, had her abode. Karen and I walked there to meet Father after doing some desultory shopping in the main market, and dodged cows, people and sleazebags alike, doing agile twists, turns and side-tracks to avoid being bumped, felt up or just plain commented at. Every now and then – to her disconcernment, she insisted – I would grab my friend’s arm or hand and yank her in the direction that I wanted her to go; only later, after I explained, did she understand that it would have taken a while for me to explain and it was far easier and quicker to just hold and pull. We did want to go into the temple and say hi to the Goddess that Karen had met on her earlier visit, but were daunted by the crowds of loitering young men who insisted on trying to attract our attention and make comments that were descriptive, to put it mildly.
But finally we found the place we had to rendezvous at. It was in a not-too-high and very dilapidated building, one that I would never have imagined to be holding so much of such high value. After some hesitation and my carefully asking the person who seemed to be most respectable and least lecherous, we walked in. The entrance was narrow, almost like a dingy alleyway between two walls. The elevator was the old fashioned kind, one with sliding doors that had to be pulled open and shut. We walked up uneven, dirty, slippery stairs to a small door in one wall. The place was dimly lit and dank, smelling of stale food and perhaps a rat or two. I rang the doorbell and vaguely felt someone staring at me. From the seemingly fragile wooden door an electronic eye looked sternly at us, deemed us fit for entry and buzzed us in. In a very small and narrow foyer that was a-drip with laminate, we had to take off our sandals and wait a second or two before we pushed open a heavy door into a room where Father sat across a long desk from three other men.
The Big Man had a seat near the window. He and his obvious junior, a large and smiling-faced moustached gentleman, beamed fondly at me and stared curiously at the orange-haired visitor I had brought in. we were offered water, something cold, something hot, something to eat perhaps? But we had other business there; it was getting close to lunchtime and I was set on finishing what I had come for and then heading food-wards. So it was down to the wire. The Big Man emptied packet after packet of the most exquisite gemstones – emeralds, rubies, tanzanite, alexandrite, pearls…He practically flung ropes of preciousness at me and I looked and felt and wondered. It was a bewildering embarrassment of riches that made my head spin and my acquisitive instincts long to run helter-skelter out of there. So much was frightening. And all I wanted was something small, something – on the scale of what we were being shown – so minor that it would be like one grain of rice in the plenty cooked for a feast. I saw, managed to ask intelligent questions, and made my decision as fast as I could. And then, we left, sweating slightly at the stress of the whole deal and excited at the results.
Friday, January 04, 2008
A violation
The world is a shocking place to live in and I am reminded of it every so often, when something happens that creates a buzz of major proportions. Like has happened in Mumbai over the past couple of days. Photographers from a newspaper (not ours) took some horrendous pictures of four people being pushed around by a large group of unruly men just outside a multi-star hotel in the western suburbs of the city. There was a married couple and another woman and man, all fairly young, all non-residents from the United States. The men were shoved aside while the women were heckled, then felt up, then their clothes disarrayed. One of the photos - perhaps the most awful of the lot - showed one of the girls on the ground with her skirt pulled up, her underwear on display for all the paper’s readers to see. These images were picked up by various media all over the country and the matter dissected and discussed to the point of boredom.
Today’s headlines announced that the perpetrators had been caught, or at least identified. But the likelihood of them being released and not indicted in any way is high, since the people who were molested have flown back to their own homes. They refused to file an official complaint with the police, since all they wanted to do was forget about it and get on with their own lives. It has been the righteous – sometimes even self-righteous – citizenry of the Mumbai who has followed the whole sorry incident up, mustering up evidence, pushing the police to work on the case, making sure the media relentlessly covered it and doing their best - and worst – to bring the ‘criminals’, as they in a way, to book.
But overall, with all the clamour of the story, the question remains: Whose fault was it? The story goes that these four came out of the hotel and were wandering down the road to where they were staying. They were obviously drunk, say the journalists. A crowd of men, also reportedly rather happily high, started heckling the women, making comments that were of a sexual nature. One of the women retaliated. And there it all began, progressing to utter humiliation and very public pain for the two girls, one newly married, while the men – one of them the husband - could do nothing to help. The public at large took over, with little help from the lone policeman in the vicinity and none from the staff of the hotel, though there should have been some security guards at the entrance, one presumes.
The reaction of readers and watchers – since the story has been on television all through – has been fairly clear. The women feel that they should have the freedom to be what they are and if they are in any way provocative, they should be responsible for their own actions and willing to face the consequences. The men are almost unanimous in their opinion that men are creeps, badly behaved, to say the least, and should learn how to treat women. Both are right, I presume. Or perhaps neither is.
I have my own views on this whole matter, as will anyone who wants to bother to think about it. For me, it does not make sense to behave in a manner that invites trouble, though I have done my share of it. Whether it is dressing provocatively and unsuitably in context or whether it is saying what should not be said in certain circumstances, violating that mandate will only result in unpleasantness. A woman must always remember that she is under a constraint in this country, however modern and liberal a city like Mumbai may be. To wander about on the streets while not completely aware of the situation and yourself is just asking for nastiness. And to attract the attention of a group of people who are ready and willing for a fight is sheer stupidity. I wonder if the young women who went through a traumatic end to a new year’s celebration and a very new set of relationships have understood that yet.
Today’s headlines announced that the perpetrators had been caught, or at least identified. But the likelihood of them being released and not indicted in any way is high, since the people who were molested have flown back to their own homes. They refused to file an official complaint with the police, since all they wanted to do was forget about it and get on with their own lives. It has been the righteous – sometimes even self-righteous – citizenry of the Mumbai who has followed the whole sorry incident up, mustering up evidence, pushing the police to work on the case, making sure the media relentlessly covered it and doing their best - and worst – to bring the ‘criminals’, as they in a way, to book.
But overall, with all the clamour of the story, the question remains: Whose fault was it? The story goes that these four came out of the hotel and were wandering down the road to where they were staying. They were obviously drunk, say the journalists. A crowd of men, also reportedly rather happily high, started heckling the women, making comments that were of a sexual nature. One of the women retaliated. And there it all began, progressing to utter humiliation and very public pain for the two girls, one newly married, while the men – one of them the husband - could do nothing to help. The public at large took over, with little help from the lone policeman in the vicinity and none from the staff of the hotel, though there should have been some security guards at the entrance, one presumes.
The reaction of readers and watchers – since the story has been on television all through – has been fairly clear. The women feel that they should have the freedom to be what they are and if they are in any way provocative, they should be responsible for their own actions and willing to face the consequences. The men are almost unanimous in their opinion that men are creeps, badly behaved, to say the least, and should learn how to treat women. Both are right, I presume. Or perhaps neither is.
I have my own views on this whole matter, as will anyone who wants to bother to think about it. For me, it does not make sense to behave in a manner that invites trouble, though I have done my share of it. Whether it is dressing provocatively and unsuitably in context or whether it is saying what should not be said in certain circumstances, violating that mandate will only result in unpleasantness. A woman must always remember that she is under a constraint in this country, however modern and liberal a city like Mumbai may be. To wander about on the streets while not completely aware of the situation and yourself is just asking for nastiness. And to attract the attention of a group of people who are ready and willing for a fight is sheer stupidity. I wonder if the young women who went through a traumatic end to a new year’s celebration and a very new set of relationships have understood that yet.
A violation
The world is a shocking place to live in and I am reminded of it every so often, when something happens that creates a buzz of major proportions. Like has happened in Mumbai over the past couple of days. Photographers from a newspaper (not ours) took some horrendous pictures of four people being pushed around by a large group of unruly men just outside a multi-star hotel in the western suburbs of the city. There was a married couple and another woman and man, all fairly young, all non-residents from the United States. The men were shoved aside while the women were heckled, then felt up, then their clothes disarrayed. One of the photos - perhaps the most awful of the lot - showed one of the girls on the ground with her skirt pulled up, her underwear on display for all the paper’s readers to see. These images were picked up by various media all over the country and the matter dissected and discussed to the point of boredom.
Today’s headlines announced that the perpetrators had been caught, or at least identified. But the likelihood of them being released and not indicted in any way is high, since the people who were molested have flown back to their own homes. They refused to file an official complaint with the police, since all they wanted to do was forget about it and get on with their own lives. It has been the righteous – sometimes even self-righteous – citizenry of the Mumbai who has followed the whole sorry incident up, mustering up evidence, pushing the police to work on the case, making sure the media relentlessly covered it and doing their best - and worst – to bring the ‘criminals’, as they in a way, to book.
But overall, with all the clamour of the story, the question remains: Whose fault was it? The story goes that these four came out of the hotel and were wandering down the road to where they were staying. They were obviously drunk, say the journalists. A crowd of men, also reportedly rather happily high, started heckling the women, making comments that were of a sexual nature. One of the women retaliated. And there it all began, progressing to utter humiliation and very public pain for the two girls, one newly married, while the men – one of them the husband - could do nothing to help. The public at large took over, with little help from the lone policeman in the vicinity and none from the staff of the hotel, though there should have been some security guards at the entrance, one presumes.
The reaction of readers and watchers – since the story has been on television all through – has been fairly clear. The women feel that they should have the freedom to be what they are and if they are in any way provocative, they should be responsible for their own actions and willing to face the consequences. The men are almost unanimous in their opinion that men are creeps, badly behaved, to say the least, and should learn how to treat women. Both are right, I presume. Or perhaps neither is.
I have my own views on this whole matter, as will anyone who wants to bother to think about it. For me, it does not make sense to behave in a manner that invites trouble, though I have done my share of it. Whether it is dressing provocatively and unsuitably in context or whether it is saying what should not be said in certain circumstances, violating that mandate will only result in unpleasantness. A woman must always remember that she is under a constraint in this country, however modern and liberal a city like Mumbai may be. To wander about on the streets while not completely aware of the situation and yourself is just asking for nastiness. And to attract the attention of a group of people who are ready and willing for a fight is sheer stupidity. I wonder if the young women who went through a traumatic end to a new year’s celebration and a very new set of relationships have understood that yet.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Going forward
Over the past few days I have been getting a lot of text messages on my mobile phone wishing me and my family well for the New Year. These have ranged from simple greetings for 2008 to screen-loads of text to make sure all bases are covered, from my health to my wealth, my love, my life and, in one funny one, even my eating habits. And all along there has been a general air of bonhomie and a surety that each one of those smses are forwards, none original and custom-composed for me. In fact, I got quite a few repeats, with the same message from different people just seconds apart, showing how what goes around inevitably comes around again within a very short span of time.
Forwards are like that. I get plenty of them on email, too, and have set up a nice filtering system that weeds out many of the ones that send me a little non-compos with their text and even their pictures. Today, in fact, a colleague sent me a mail that showed a rather strained gentleman contorting his face to bite his own nose. I never thought it was possible. More important, I never thought that anyone would even want to try it. And why would they do it with people watching long enough to photograph each stage of the seemingly very painful process? It has me wondering why people do things like this. And wondering even more why people would expect me to be even remotely interested in seeing it happen.
Perhaps the more common forwards in this country are the religiously referenced ones. At almost any time of the year a picture-heavy mail – usually a Powerpoint presentation - will clog up my official inbox and prevent other more important communication coming through. It is most irritating, but since it invariably involves one or the other of our 33 million or so gods, one cannot protest too loudly or too vehemently without upsetting someone along the way. But I really am not religious, I say mildly, and then delete the mail after a cursory scan. Sometimes, when it is my favourite God, Ganesha, I might just open the mail to check what the pictures are; they can be really cute and I occasionally will lower my strictly retained walls and forward them to close friends.
But there ere other mails that will never wing their way through cyberspace to my friends, family and assorted acquaintances. These are the ‘send-this-to-at-least-seven-people-to-see-a-favourable-change-in-your-life-in-just-five-days mails that have come through a convoluted series of forwards into my mailbox, usually sent to me by someone who not only should know better than to believe this kind of guff, but also should know that I hate getting it. What I truly deplore, however, is the kind of mail that tells me about the courage of some little girl who died, or some little boy who saved his world from sure destruction of some kind. For some odd reason I could probably explain if I wanted to dig into my own psyche, I can never resist reading these stories and, even as they make me feel a kind of ‘awwwwwwwwwwwww’ feeling, I am disgusted at myself to check out what is blatant emotional blackmail of sorts.
And then there are the sms forwards that I abhor with every synapse. These are the incredibly male chauvinistic, sexually loaded, often smutty messages that purport to be funny. They are far from it. Just horrible reflections of minds I prefer not to know exist in my life.
Forwards are like that. I get plenty of them on email, too, and have set up a nice filtering system that weeds out many of the ones that send me a little non-compos with their text and even their pictures. Today, in fact, a colleague sent me a mail that showed a rather strained gentleman contorting his face to bite his own nose. I never thought it was possible. More important, I never thought that anyone would even want to try it. And why would they do it with people watching long enough to photograph each stage of the seemingly very painful process? It has me wondering why people do things like this. And wondering even more why people would expect me to be even remotely interested in seeing it happen.
Perhaps the more common forwards in this country are the religiously referenced ones. At almost any time of the year a picture-heavy mail – usually a Powerpoint presentation - will clog up my official inbox and prevent other more important communication coming through. It is most irritating, but since it invariably involves one or the other of our 33 million or so gods, one cannot protest too loudly or too vehemently without upsetting someone along the way. But I really am not religious, I say mildly, and then delete the mail after a cursory scan. Sometimes, when it is my favourite God, Ganesha, I might just open the mail to check what the pictures are; they can be really cute and I occasionally will lower my strictly retained walls and forward them to close friends.
But there ere other mails that will never wing their way through cyberspace to my friends, family and assorted acquaintances. These are the ‘send-this-to-at-least-seven-people-to-see-a-favourable-change-in-your-life-in-just-five-days mails that have come through a convoluted series of forwards into my mailbox, usually sent to me by someone who not only should know better than to believe this kind of guff, but also should know that I hate getting it. What I truly deplore, however, is the kind of mail that tells me about the courage of some little girl who died, or some little boy who saved his world from sure destruction of some kind. For some odd reason I could probably explain if I wanted to dig into my own psyche, I can never resist reading these stories and, even as they make me feel a kind of ‘awwwwwwwwwwwww’ feeling, I am disgusted at myself to check out what is blatant emotional blackmail of sorts.
And then there are the sms forwards that I abhor with every synapse. These are the incredibly male chauvinistic, sexually loaded, often smutty messages that purport to be funny. They are far from it. Just horrible reflections of minds I prefer not to know exist in my life.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
HAPPY 2008!
It’s that time of year again. I say that every time something date-worthy happens, which is almost once a month, if I calculate right but, being rather number-dyslexic, I could be way off the mark I am really aiming at. It is January 1, 2008, which will take some getting used to, as it always does. For almost 12 months now, I have been dating things 2007; I say ‘almost’ because it took a little while to get used to the fact that it was 2007 and no longer 2006. At work, it doesn’t really matter, since other people do most of that date stuff and anyway the computers do it automatically. And at home, why would I need to know what year it is, except when I am filling in checks, which I rarely need to do since everything became direct debit.
But 2008 is, as Father pointed out, a leap year. Which means that various friends who are born on February 29 will have a birthday – disconcertingly, they seem to be somehow younger than me, even though they actually came to this planet (this is assuming the extra-terrestrial origin of life theory) many years before I did. It also means that women have that traditionally (albeit a western concept) conferred freedom of being able to ask men for what they want in the whole man-woman thing, be it marriage or a date. I have seen many leap years come and go and no one that I know, even myself, has ever done anything like that. In reality, we do not need a special year that comes just once in four to ask for what we want; we are of a different ilk – we just take it, most often than not doing the polite thing if we feel like and saying a cursory ‘please’ just before we reach out and grab hold.
But in this new year, I am told, I am supposed to decide to do something. In other words, make a resolution. I never bother, because I never keep to it more than for a day or two, be it to never again play Solitaire when I am at work (of anywhere else, since it is a perniciously addictive game that should never have been invented or loaded on to computers) or to stay far away from that favourite shoe shop where I know my friend will create exactly the heel that I have always wanted when I want it. I rarely remember what the resolution is, never mind keep it, since I cannot be bothered to search my memory for a clue or four to figure it out. And since that aforementioned resolution is often made as a huge and giggle-some joke when I am chatting online or on the phone or across the lunch table with a close friend, I never take it all as seriously as perhaps I am supposed to do. Which means that any resolution I could make under those circumstances would inevitably be broken before the last fullstop is added to the sentence in which I make it.
But this year – surprise, surprise! – I actually do have a resolution. It has nothing to do with fibre, let me assure all those who believe that that is the sole obsession of my existence. It has nothing to do with getting back into shape and fitting into those extremely to-die-for floral-printed jeans, though that is part of my great plan for the next few months. And it has absolutely nothing to do with being more polite to people I do not like and gnashing my crocodile pearly whites at all those who believe that they should know me or, better yet, that I should know them. Those are incidentals. My resolve is more my own, nothing to do with anyone else, not really. I am going to grow up, at last, painful though the process has been and will continue to be. I will become less accepting, less trusting and less forgiving, more responsible, more proactive and far more analytical before I do anything, be it buying diamonds or frying fries or letting people into my life.
I think it’s called looking before I leap. And in this particular year, it seems moot.
But 2008 is, as Father pointed out, a leap year. Which means that various friends who are born on February 29 will have a birthday – disconcertingly, they seem to be somehow younger than me, even though they actually came to this planet (this is assuming the extra-terrestrial origin of life theory) many years before I did. It also means that women have that traditionally (albeit a western concept) conferred freedom of being able to ask men for what they want in the whole man-woman thing, be it marriage or a date. I have seen many leap years come and go and no one that I know, even myself, has ever done anything like that. In reality, we do not need a special year that comes just once in four to ask for what we want; we are of a different ilk – we just take it, most often than not doing the polite thing if we feel like and saying a cursory ‘please’ just before we reach out and grab hold.
But in this new year, I am told, I am supposed to decide to do something. In other words, make a resolution. I never bother, because I never keep to it more than for a day or two, be it to never again play Solitaire when I am at work (of anywhere else, since it is a perniciously addictive game that should never have been invented or loaded on to computers) or to stay far away from that favourite shoe shop where I know my friend will create exactly the heel that I have always wanted when I want it. I rarely remember what the resolution is, never mind keep it, since I cannot be bothered to search my memory for a clue or four to figure it out. And since that aforementioned resolution is often made as a huge and giggle-some joke when I am chatting online or on the phone or across the lunch table with a close friend, I never take it all as seriously as perhaps I am supposed to do. Which means that any resolution I could make under those circumstances would inevitably be broken before the last fullstop is added to the sentence in which I make it.
But this year – surprise, surprise! – I actually do have a resolution. It has nothing to do with fibre, let me assure all those who believe that that is the sole obsession of my existence. It has nothing to do with getting back into shape and fitting into those extremely to-die-for floral-printed jeans, though that is part of my great plan for the next few months. And it has absolutely nothing to do with being more polite to people I do not like and gnashing my crocodile pearly whites at all those who believe that they should know me or, better yet, that I should know them. Those are incidentals. My resolve is more my own, nothing to do with anyone else, not really. I am going to grow up, at last, painful though the process has been and will continue to be. I will become less accepting, less trusting and less forgiving, more responsible, more proactive and far more analytical before I do anything, be it buying diamonds or frying fries or letting people into my life.
I think it’s called looking before I leap. And in this particular year, it seems moot.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Happy 2007!
No, that is not a typo. It was a fairly happy 2007, until it started winding down. Then it hit a bit of a blip and, after a deep breath, started up again to end in a rush that sent me headlong into a hectic battle with deadlines, personal and professional, with what felt like revolving doors installed in my home, my work and my psyche. But all in all, it was fun, a whirlwind of life, love, longing and laughter. Some people dropped off my must-email list, others got erased from my mobile phone, a few did their own vanishing acts, leaving me rather bewildered and eventually vaguely amused, mostly because I am of the ilk to find vague amusement in almost anything, given the time and the space to do so. And a lot of people made their way into my must-call, must-email, must-meet and must-know-better lists, just because they seemed to know who they were, what they wanted and where they were going, which made them far more interesting than those with no clue and no interest in asking me to be part of the great adventure to find out.
At my age and stage in life, I am no longer interested in egos. If they exist, fine. I have mine, other people can have theirs, it’s all matter no mind for me. If they bring me some kind of stimulation, great; if not, great, too. There is a certain degree of intrigue, a special curiosity I have in getting to know people, especially those who add value to my life and who do not cause any untoward disturbance in my world – if they do, they soon make a less-than-graceful exit. For me, it is academic, for the most part; after all, the ‘best friend’ I had in college wandered off into her own horizon some years ago and I have never really been too wrapped up in knowing why she went or where she went to. It is the story of ships that pass, sometimes at night, most often during a special time in your life, that you remember with a slight nostalgia, once in a while a fondness, rarely rancour, at least not after the hurt has been washed away.
Time is just like that. It passes, no matter how much you want to stop it and keep it tucked away into your memory basket. Slowly, inevitably, you start to forget; details blur and faces tend to become softer, less real; words are forgotten and contexts reinterpreted. Meals you ate become better…or worse. Clothes you bought are always worth the effort and the money. That pair of shoes you did not buy is always the one that fit best in all your life. And the person you never kept in touch with is always the one you should have known better.
There are so many whom I ‘met’ this year that would be fun to know better – some in person, some over the phone, others on email. There is a girl who works with an international auction house, for one; we keep making plans to meet and never do, even if we work in the same city. There is a chef who lives and works in New York, who is said to be the Next Best Thing to stuffed parathas, but our contact is on email and sporadic, if that. There is a lady who works with an international content syndication service – we met briefly in the office and she had a wonderful smile; best of all, she remembered, even after just about four minutes, just what I wanted and has been indefatigably sending it to me since. And there is a fashion designer whose work I revel in, whose work I buy fanatically, who sounds like a woman with ideas that so match my own; we have occasional email contact, but I am one of her staunchest fans.
Maybe 2008 will be a year of more faces to match names, more conversations to match reputations. For me and for mine, I certainly hope that this will be a time of change for the better in every way – more love, more life, more laughter.
At my age and stage in life, I am no longer interested in egos. If they exist, fine. I have mine, other people can have theirs, it’s all matter no mind for me. If they bring me some kind of stimulation, great; if not, great, too. There is a certain degree of intrigue, a special curiosity I have in getting to know people, especially those who add value to my life and who do not cause any untoward disturbance in my world – if they do, they soon make a less-than-graceful exit. For me, it is academic, for the most part; after all, the ‘best friend’ I had in college wandered off into her own horizon some years ago and I have never really been too wrapped up in knowing why she went or where she went to. It is the story of ships that pass, sometimes at night, most often during a special time in your life, that you remember with a slight nostalgia, once in a while a fondness, rarely rancour, at least not after the hurt has been washed away.
Time is just like that. It passes, no matter how much you want to stop it and keep it tucked away into your memory basket. Slowly, inevitably, you start to forget; details blur and faces tend to become softer, less real; words are forgotten and contexts reinterpreted. Meals you ate become better…or worse. Clothes you bought are always worth the effort and the money. That pair of shoes you did not buy is always the one that fit best in all your life. And the person you never kept in touch with is always the one you should have known better.
There are so many whom I ‘met’ this year that would be fun to know better – some in person, some over the phone, others on email. There is a girl who works with an international auction house, for one; we keep making plans to meet and never do, even if we work in the same city. There is a chef who lives and works in New York, who is said to be the Next Best Thing to stuffed parathas, but our contact is on email and sporadic, if that. There is a lady who works with an international content syndication service – we met briefly in the office and she had a wonderful smile; best of all, she remembered, even after just about four minutes, just what I wanted and has been indefatigably sending it to me since. And there is a fashion designer whose work I revel in, whose work I buy fanatically, who sounds like a woman with ideas that so match my own; we have occasional email contact, but I am one of her staunchest fans.
Maybe 2008 will be a year of more faces to match names, more conversations to match reputations. For me and for mine, I certainly hope that this will be a time of change for the better in every way – more love, more life, more laughter.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Listing madly
I am not sick on ships, but I am getting sick of what we are doing these days, even though we have not been doing it for that long. It’s always the story of what ever went around, coming around again. In other words, if you ever read the newspapers, you will know that it is THAT time of year, when everyone in town is bogged down with doing end-of-the-year special issues, with lists of what happened, where, how and when, with nice pictures attached, along with who died, who got married, who had babies and who won the elections. Which means that everyone is running hither and yon, sitting in on endless meetings replete with what really amounts to nothingness, and compiling reams of lists that will eventually, considering the space actually available in a newspaper, be whittled down to a sad minimum.
In the compilation, there is always a list of people who died during the year, with fingers crossed that no one of note dies in the span of a few hours between finishing production of the page and the paper seen on the stands and on doorsteps everywhere. It’s a mind-deadening process, with no lists saying the same thing. Dates may vary, or spellings of names, or even the facts about what the individual did to make him or her famous. And there will always be comparisons – someone is more important than someone else, or someone needs to be included, while someone else can be left out. And then comes the painful process of finding photographs to match names – many will not be available, or if they can be found, of a quality that cannot, under any circumstances, even if you smile sweetly at the processing team, be used.
Then comes the design of the paper. For the issue of the first day of the new year, there will always be a unique design, one that no one will agree on, just as they do not agree on anything else that goes into the pages. The head designer will want one look, the editors will demand something else and the actual page-makers will grumble about both, finding it difficult to fit the content into the layout…or the layout to the content. A mismatch inevitably results in flaring tempers, frayed nerves, raised voices and more resignations that would normally happen when the newspaper coasts along in its usual groove. There will be last minute changes, last minute orders and last minute additions and withdrawals, all causing even more stress and strife.
And when the paper is printed, something will go wrong, almost like the flaw that is added to a perfect carpet to avert the evil eye. There will be a caption that kills off someone who is very much alive, a headline that actually belongs to another story and a spelling that is innovative, to put it mildly. When the paper is reviewed, all its flaws will be noticed and noted, even as those who are responsible cower under desks and behind doors or at home to avoid the wrath. And the positives are given a passing note of praise, one that settles as lightly as a flitting moth on the tip of a warm lightbulb as it goes hunting for dinner.
Just as all the frenzy reaches its peak, it’s over. The newsroom calms down and the entire team learns to live with any of the changes that may be permanent, dealing with each in a generally phlegmatic manner. It is the nature of the whimsical beast, after all!
In the compilation, there is always a list of people who died during the year, with fingers crossed that no one of note dies in the span of a few hours between finishing production of the page and the paper seen on the stands and on doorsteps everywhere. It’s a mind-deadening process, with no lists saying the same thing. Dates may vary, or spellings of names, or even the facts about what the individual did to make him or her famous. And there will always be comparisons – someone is more important than someone else, or someone needs to be included, while someone else can be left out. And then comes the painful process of finding photographs to match names – many will not be available, or if they can be found, of a quality that cannot, under any circumstances, even if you smile sweetly at the processing team, be used.
Then comes the design of the paper. For the issue of the first day of the new year, there will always be a unique design, one that no one will agree on, just as they do not agree on anything else that goes into the pages. The head designer will want one look, the editors will demand something else and the actual page-makers will grumble about both, finding it difficult to fit the content into the layout…or the layout to the content. A mismatch inevitably results in flaring tempers, frayed nerves, raised voices and more resignations that would normally happen when the newspaper coasts along in its usual groove. There will be last minute changes, last minute orders and last minute additions and withdrawals, all causing even more stress and strife.
And when the paper is printed, something will go wrong, almost like the flaw that is added to a perfect carpet to avert the evil eye. There will be a caption that kills off someone who is very much alive, a headline that actually belongs to another story and a spelling that is innovative, to put it mildly. When the paper is reviewed, all its flaws will be noticed and noted, even as those who are responsible cower under desks and behind doors or at home to avoid the wrath. And the positives are given a passing note of praise, one that settles as lightly as a flitting moth on the tip of a warm lightbulb as it goes hunting for dinner.
Just as all the frenzy reaches its peak, it’s over. The newsroom calms down and the entire team learns to live with any of the changes that may be permanent, dealing with each in a generally phlegmatic manner. It is the nature of the whimsical beast, after all!
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Christmas time
Today is Christmas. It used to be my favourite time of year, when I was surrounded by people who were happy, there was lots of good food, lots of nice presents – though some eluded any description of ‘useful’, a few being far from identifiable – and lots of nice and progressively more silly jokes as the day wore on and the party got happier. Now that I am all grown up, Christmas does not seem to have its former charm, being reduced to just another day when I have to be at work doing the usual dreary bits and pieces that I have to. But there is still a lot of fun and laughter involved, starting with the vendors selling ridiculously bejewelled Santa hats at the traffic lights and ending, in a manner of speaking, with the clouds of brandy that waft through our house as the Christmas pudding steams merrily in its bain marie.
But through all the cheer and not-so-cheerful times is a sort of kind of maybe belief in that jolly old fat-man called Santa Claus. For me, as a child, he lived inside my chest and you could hear him go thump-thump-thump if you listened carefully. That, Father always told me, was Santa working in his toy factory; it had nothing to do with cardiac muscles pumping blood through the body or anything as mundane as that concept. It was all deeply spiritual in a childish kind of way, speaking to my very young mind from the perspective of having someone you could believe in who always knew whether you were naughty or…well…not so bad.
Even today, at my advanced age and stage of life, Santa Claus holds a special charm for me. He still beats his syncopated rhythm in my chest and has been known to skip a beat when I see something that calls long and loud for my instant devotion – like a fabulous pair of diamond chandelier earrings or Pierce Brosnan running down the street after a suspected criminal in a particularly butt-worshipping episode of Remington Steele. And he gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling when he comes in the astonishingly excellent guise of Father, glasses, Small Cat appendage and all, to give me a Christmas present I never expected, be it a new brand of soap or a gold necklace.
Now, for me, Christmas is not only about Santa Claus, but more about the memories that made me happy. In my small way of celebrating, I try to create new memories that I hope make the people I care about even happier, be it the smell of spice and brandy permeating the apartment or the hug that wakes everyone up in the morning. There will be cake, there will be laughter and there will be some sadness that people who should be there to celebrate with us are not, but most of all there will be a huge bag full of love and goodies that will last a long long time.
But through all the cheer and not-so-cheerful times is a sort of kind of maybe belief in that jolly old fat-man called Santa Claus. For me, as a child, he lived inside my chest and you could hear him go thump-thump-thump if you listened carefully. That, Father always told me, was Santa working in his toy factory; it had nothing to do with cardiac muscles pumping blood through the body or anything as mundane as that concept. It was all deeply spiritual in a childish kind of way, speaking to my very young mind from the perspective of having someone you could believe in who always knew whether you were naughty or…well…not so bad.
Even today, at my advanced age and stage of life, Santa Claus holds a special charm for me. He still beats his syncopated rhythm in my chest and has been known to skip a beat when I see something that calls long and loud for my instant devotion – like a fabulous pair of diamond chandelier earrings or Pierce Brosnan running down the street after a suspected criminal in a particularly butt-worshipping episode of Remington Steele. And he gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling when he comes in the astonishingly excellent guise of Father, glasses, Small Cat appendage and all, to give me a Christmas present I never expected, be it a new brand of soap or a gold necklace.
Now, for me, Christmas is not only about Santa Claus, but more about the memories that made me happy. In my small way of celebrating, I try to create new memories that I hope make the people I care about even happier, be it the smell of spice and brandy permeating the apartment or the hug that wakes everyone up in the morning. There will be cake, there will be laughter and there will be some sadness that people who should be there to celebrate with us are not, but most of all there will be a huge bag full of love and goodies that will last a long long time.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Changes again
Change is good, or so I am told. They also say soup is good food, which I have to agree with. but right now, right here, there is no connection between the two, not that I can immediately think up, that is. Of course, I am not sure I am able to think any more today, it having been a long day in a series of long days in a very long week, even though it is only halfway through the week that is halfway through a very long month that is at the end of what seems to be an astonishingly short year. That apart, when I was writing a blog on nothing in particular, it seemed like I needed to get some focus into it, so I decided to write on food, which is a favourite subject of mine, but now that it has focus, I find so much else that I want to talk about. And since a blog is essentially self-indulgent and for the soul of the person writing it, I think I can do what I want to do. If occasionally I do focus on food, or people or books or travel, or whatever, so be it. Right?
In short, this space is changed as of today. I go back to rambling. And happily so.
This morning I was at an art show, one that was – the captions said – a tribute to one of my favourite artists, especially in his avatar as a sculptor. Romanian Constantin Brancusi, whose work captured my very young and raw imagination when I first saw his Sleeping Muse at the Metropolitan Museum in New York when I was a child, was on par, in my childish mind, with people like Alexander Calder and Henry Moore, more since I saw them all during that time in my life rather than any artistic connection they may have had. It helped, of course, that my mother once said that I had a vague resemblance to Mlle Pogany, whose big-eyed pony-tailed head was captured in so many ways by Brancusi. So when I read about this exhibit, I had to be there.
I was not impressed. There were very few pieces on show, which was fine, since they could all be studied and savoured at leisure. It was mainly paintings, the rough lines and occasional dash of vivid colour that the artist did. There was one small marble carving that was suggestive of the beauteous Mlle Pogany. And there were others that had a certain mystery, an intriguing quality that made me want to look at them from various angles, walking around each to find a new facet with every blink. There was even one small yet delicately suggestive sculpture that had me wishing for a bigger bag or a more voluminous outfit into which I could sneak it and flee the gallery, to set it on the glass dining table at home and have a happy gloat. But, being rather law abiding and not equipped for larceny on any scale, I just sighed and left.
The show, as you may have guessed, was not of original Brancusi work. But it was the efforts of a group of young Romanian artists who were paying their tribute to the great artist, especially to his ‘Indian’ experience. This put the works into the right perspective, with one fairly large hanging piece in what seemed to be deeply scored wood that was planned to be placed in a shrine, reflected in and spatially cradled by a pool of water. Did it work? For me, only after I read the accompanying note, I must confess.
There was no one else at the show, perhaps since it was too early in the morning for the average art-seeker to be out and about, or because there was no social event involved, or because it was a rather esoteric artist being honoured in a rather esoteric exhibition. Whatever the case, it is a pleasure to see the memories of an extremely interesting childhood come home…to my home.
In short, this space is changed as of today. I go back to rambling. And happily so.
This morning I was at an art show, one that was – the captions said – a tribute to one of my favourite artists, especially in his avatar as a sculptor. Romanian Constantin Brancusi, whose work captured my very young and raw imagination when I first saw his Sleeping Muse at the Metropolitan Museum in New York when I was a child, was on par, in my childish mind, with people like Alexander Calder and Henry Moore, more since I saw them all during that time in my life rather than any artistic connection they may have had. It helped, of course, that my mother once said that I had a vague resemblance to Mlle Pogany, whose big-eyed pony-tailed head was captured in so many ways by Brancusi. So when I read about this exhibit, I had to be there.
I was not impressed. There were very few pieces on show, which was fine, since they could all be studied and savoured at leisure. It was mainly paintings, the rough lines and occasional dash of vivid colour that the artist did. There was one small marble carving that was suggestive of the beauteous Mlle Pogany. And there were others that had a certain mystery, an intriguing quality that made me want to look at them from various angles, walking around each to find a new facet with every blink. There was even one small yet delicately suggestive sculpture that had me wishing for a bigger bag or a more voluminous outfit into which I could sneak it and flee the gallery, to set it on the glass dining table at home and have a happy gloat. But, being rather law abiding and not equipped for larceny on any scale, I just sighed and left.
The show, as you may have guessed, was not of original Brancusi work. But it was the efforts of a group of young Romanian artists who were paying their tribute to the great artist, especially to his ‘Indian’ experience. This put the works into the right perspective, with one fairly large hanging piece in what seemed to be deeply scored wood that was planned to be placed in a shrine, reflected in and spatially cradled by a pool of water. Did it work? For me, only after I read the accompanying note, I must confess.
There was no one else at the show, perhaps since it was too early in the morning for the average art-seeker to be out and about, or because there was no social event involved, or because it was a rather esoteric artist being honoured in a rather esoteric exhibition. Whatever the case, it is a pleasure to see the memories of an extremely interesting childhood come home…to my home.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Rites of passage
For some odd reason, one of the most vivid memories I have of that numbing time after my mother died two years ago is the lunch we had to host for friends, neighbours and assorted others after the last ritual that we had to perform as surviving family was done. I, as newly-anointed and very reluctant ‘lady of the house’, was carefully instructed by the priest to include various foods in the meal. Wisely, Father and I chose to have it catered by specialists in the business, who took over. All we had to do was provide an occasional serving dish and then, as hosts, play our appropriate roles. But the team who came in with the food was superbly organised, dealing with all our kitchen idiosyncracies and the non-traditional nature of our lifestyle with élan, dismissing my worries about not having enough ladles and too few stainless steel tumblers with a sympathetic – and rather pitying, I felt, even through that stress of having too many people I did not know in our house – smile and a reassuring word in a Tamil patois that went right over my bewildered head.
But the feast – since it was that – was a vast and varied one. I saw it repeated a few months later at my uncle’s home, when the ceremonies for my aunt who had just died were done with. in our house, it was served up on banana leaves, on the floor, as traditional as Mother would have liked it to be. It started with a sweet, which I still find strange. To me, death was about sorrow, about that lack of feeling that mercifully snuffs out a lot of the horror involved, about a certain robotic regimen that takes over when your mind goes on to auto-pilot. So a sweet dish, a pudding, something that is all about enjoyment and pleasure, seems incongruous, to say the least. But then perhaps it is the logic that we Indians do so well – it’s over, start living life again on a new note, a clean note, a sweet note. I still cannot accept it, but I can start understanding that way of thought.
At our house, we had paal payasam, rice pudding Indian style. It is essentially thickened milk, often overly sweetened, with rice cooked in it so that the rice swells and becomes rich with milk and sweetness and the whole mess is thick and almost biteable. I make it quite often, usually fairly successfully, adding a dash of exotic interest with ground nutmeg, cardamom and cashewnuts and raisins gently fried in homemade ghee. Mother would add saffron, giving the payasam a golden glow, so I do too. And there was always that very jumpy nut that would leap right out of the long-handled cast-iron ladle that we use even now to fry the small morsels in just before adding them, redolent and crunchy, to the payasam - anything that spills, house rules mandate, is up for grabs, first by the youngest in the family, which generally means me. We like it, as does Small Cat, who licks the tiny drops I offer her off my finger and sometimes sits there on the dining table waiting for more.
But the feast – since it was that – was a vast and varied one. I saw it repeated a few months later at my uncle’s home, when the ceremonies for my aunt who had just died were done with. in our house, it was served up on banana leaves, on the floor, as traditional as Mother would have liked it to be. It started with a sweet, which I still find strange. To me, death was about sorrow, about that lack of feeling that mercifully snuffs out a lot of the horror involved, about a certain robotic regimen that takes over when your mind goes on to auto-pilot. So a sweet dish, a pudding, something that is all about enjoyment and pleasure, seems incongruous, to say the least. But then perhaps it is the logic that we Indians do so well – it’s over, start living life again on a new note, a clean note, a sweet note. I still cannot accept it, but I can start understanding that way of thought.
At our house, we had paal payasam, rice pudding Indian style. It is essentially thickened milk, often overly sweetened, with rice cooked in it so that the rice swells and becomes rich with milk and sweetness and the whole mess is thick and almost biteable. I make it quite often, usually fairly successfully, adding a dash of exotic interest with ground nutmeg, cardamom and cashewnuts and raisins gently fried in homemade ghee. Mother would add saffron, giving the payasam a golden glow, so I do too. And there was always that very jumpy nut that would leap right out of the long-handled cast-iron ladle that we use even now to fry the small morsels in just before adding them, redolent and crunchy, to the payasam - anything that spills, house rules mandate, is up for grabs, first by the youngest in the family, which generally means me. We like it, as does Small Cat, who licks the tiny drops I offer her off my finger and sometimes sits there on the dining table waiting for more.
Monday, December 17, 2007
The green scene
It doesn’t taste of much, but has a lovely fresh flavour that speaks of new grass, spring foliage and bright sunny days spent half asleep in a hammock under a shady tree. It is about energy and rejuvenation, even as it tells the story of peace, serenity and ease. Green tea is a story of contradictions…and of good health. It is a tried and trusted route that the Orientals – particularly the Chinese and Japanese – have taken for generations to maintain healthy skin, hair and digestive systems.
Today the scientific basis for green tea’s virtues are better understood. Studies are being carried out to establish the link between the beverage and decreased incidence of cancer, heart disease and degeneration of tissues – particularly in the skin. It is used as a beauty aid, to prevent body odour and slow the appearance of signs of ageing; in fact, it has been found to be 20 times more effective than Vitamin E in this aspect! And the leaves are being experimented with by master chefs the world over to produce gourmet creations that tickle the palate and the brain alike.
Green tea is, in essence, the same as black tea, but has leaves that are steamed instead of being fermented, thus preserving the polyphenols or antioxidant compounds that do most of the magic. These chemical molecules are responsible for ‘mopping up’ free radicals in the body – which are what cause skin damage due to sunlight, age, pollution and various other factors. But green tea is an acquired taste, especially for a nation that thrives on ‘cutting chai’, black tea boiled vigorously with milk and sugar to a thick, rich consistency and a tannin-heavy tang. To make green tea, a few leaves are steeped in just-boiled water to a pale green colour and drunk hot; the residual leaves can be chewed as a mouth freshener! When iced, the tea is an ideal facial spritzer and eye soother, when used hot, a fabulous antiseptic, and warm, as a foot wash.
All the rage in restaurants today is green tea ice cream, a delicately coloured and flavoured sorbet-like dessert that refreshes the mouth and soothes a calorie-assaulted digestion. It is simple to make – in its most basic form, maccha (powdered green tea leaves used in the Japanese tea ceremony) is mixed in with vanilla ice cream. Well steeped green is a delicious addition to a cheese dip, added drop by drop until the prefect consistency is obtained. A subtle flavour results, that leaves guests guessing!
Today the scientific basis for green tea’s virtues are better understood. Studies are being carried out to establish the link between the beverage and decreased incidence of cancer, heart disease and degeneration of tissues – particularly in the skin. It is used as a beauty aid, to prevent body odour and slow the appearance of signs of ageing; in fact, it has been found to be 20 times more effective than Vitamin E in this aspect! And the leaves are being experimented with by master chefs the world over to produce gourmet creations that tickle the palate and the brain alike.
Green tea is, in essence, the same as black tea, but has leaves that are steamed instead of being fermented, thus preserving the polyphenols or antioxidant compounds that do most of the magic. These chemical molecules are responsible for ‘mopping up’ free radicals in the body – which are what cause skin damage due to sunlight, age, pollution and various other factors. But green tea is an acquired taste, especially for a nation that thrives on ‘cutting chai’, black tea boiled vigorously with milk and sugar to a thick, rich consistency and a tannin-heavy tang. To make green tea, a few leaves are steeped in just-boiled water to a pale green colour and drunk hot; the residual leaves can be chewed as a mouth freshener! When iced, the tea is an ideal facial spritzer and eye soother, when used hot, a fabulous antiseptic, and warm, as a foot wash.
All the rage in restaurants today is green tea ice cream, a delicately coloured and flavoured sorbet-like dessert that refreshes the mouth and soothes a calorie-assaulted digestion. It is simple to make – in its most basic form, maccha (powdered green tea leaves used in the Japanese tea ceremony) is mixed in with vanilla ice cream. Well steeped green is a delicious addition to a cheese dip, added drop by drop until the prefect consistency is obtained. A subtle flavour results, that leaves guests guessing!
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Street side
Wandering around Mumbai with my friend was an exhausting process and we had to be fed and watered (in a manner of speaking) at fairly regular intervals, otherwise Father had to deal with and mediate between two very crabby and teary women. To save his nerves – and mine, long term – we made an unspoken pact to see that food and drink were carefully fitted into our often-hectic and not particularly aimless days, as we tramped through markets, negotiated escalators and found our way to whatever we wanted to see and buy without too many accidents or emotional crises.
But in all the wanderings and tantrums, we also found some interesting things to eat. And I, as hostess and partner in many unnameable crimes, was determined to give my friend the entire gamut of culinary experiences, from the street to the many-starred hotel restaurant. So one afternoon, with not much to do since it had been declared a rest day and I had work to do for the newspaper I was supposed to be on vacation from, we went streetwards. It was not, to be honest, a truly down and dirty time. We had certain constraints of iffy tummies and foreigner-hygiene-myths that had to be fostered, so I chose the sanitised version of what we had already seen plenty of while walking through Kalbadevi and parts beyond. I chose to take my friend and Father to the Kailash Parbat counter at the Food Court in the mall. It was, all in all, rather like the curate’s egg: good in parts.
We started with paani-puri, the stuff of which manna is made, friends of mine who love the snack swear. I reserve judgement, though I really like the contrast of textures and flavours – the crisp puri with the softer sprout-veg filling, the brown sweet-sour, thick tamarind-based sauce and the more watery olive green spicy-mirchi paani which is where the dish gets its name from. It all came neatly arranged on a tray – a small plate of perforated and stuffed puris, a small bowl of tamarind sauce and a plastic glass of the paani. Father and friend followed my instructions and we slurped, with varying degrees of messiness and varying opinions registering on our faces and, through the liquids sloshing in our mouths, bubbles of speech.
The second round was mixed. I chose the safe option that my tummy would be soothed by. My friend opted for a bit of adventure. And Father ventured into completely unexplored territory. I had a sev dahi batata puri. Friend took on ragda pattice, with extra spice. And Father was terribly brave and picked on dal-batti-churma, as it was spelled. Mine was little ‘bowls’ of once-crisp puri, filled with sprouts and fragments of boiled potato, layered with whipped dahi and topped with spicy green chutney, sweet-sour tamarind chutney and a handful of crunchy sev. Like I said, it was safe, non-spicy and not too heavy. Friend chowed down on what Father calls my ‘college favourite’, since I had eaten a small bite of the stuff when I was in college and trying to make friends (once I stopped bothering with that part, my stomach was far happier). It was a couple of heart-shaped potato-rich patties, hiding slivers of green chilli, carrots and peas, doused in a sloppy gravy with chickpeas, or chana. On top of this was ladled very spicy green chutney and some brown tamarind chutney.
Father’s was rather more exotic. He got a couple of baked roasted-flour balls that had been soaked in ghee, a heap of white rice, two leaf-bowls of tremendously spicy dal and a spoonful of sweet crumbs – sugared and crumbled baked balls of flour redolent with ghee. You need the ghee to survive the spice, Father remarked with a certain moroseness that comes from seared insides. We headed straight to the ice cream when we were done eating. We all needed to be cooled off.
But in all the wanderings and tantrums, we also found some interesting things to eat. And I, as hostess and partner in many unnameable crimes, was determined to give my friend the entire gamut of culinary experiences, from the street to the many-starred hotel restaurant. So one afternoon, with not much to do since it had been declared a rest day and I had work to do for the newspaper I was supposed to be on vacation from, we went streetwards. It was not, to be honest, a truly down and dirty time. We had certain constraints of iffy tummies and foreigner-hygiene-myths that had to be fostered, so I chose the sanitised version of what we had already seen plenty of while walking through Kalbadevi and parts beyond. I chose to take my friend and Father to the Kailash Parbat counter at the Food Court in the mall. It was, all in all, rather like the curate’s egg: good in parts.
We started with paani-puri, the stuff of which manna is made, friends of mine who love the snack swear. I reserve judgement, though I really like the contrast of textures and flavours – the crisp puri with the softer sprout-veg filling, the brown sweet-sour, thick tamarind-based sauce and the more watery olive green spicy-mirchi paani which is where the dish gets its name from. It all came neatly arranged on a tray – a small plate of perforated and stuffed puris, a small bowl of tamarind sauce and a plastic glass of the paani. Father and friend followed my instructions and we slurped, with varying degrees of messiness and varying opinions registering on our faces and, through the liquids sloshing in our mouths, bubbles of speech.
The second round was mixed. I chose the safe option that my tummy would be soothed by. My friend opted for a bit of adventure. And Father ventured into completely unexplored territory. I had a sev dahi batata puri. Friend took on ragda pattice, with extra spice. And Father was terribly brave and picked on dal-batti-churma, as it was spelled. Mine was little ‘bowls’ of once-crisp puri, filled with sprouts and fragments of boiled potato, layered with whipped dahi and topped with spicy green chutney, sweet-sour tamarind chutney and a handful of crunchy sev. Like I said, it was safe, non-spicy and not too heavy. Friend chowed down on what Father calls my ‘college favourite’, since I had eaten a small bite of the stuff when I was in college and trying to make friends (once I stopped bothering with that part, my stomach was far happier). It was a couple of heart-shaped potato-rich patties, hiding slivers of green chilli, carrots and peas, doused in a sloppy gravy with chickpeas, or chana. On top of this was ladled very spicy green chutney and some brown tamarind chutney.
Father’s was rather more exotic. He got a couple of baked roasted-flour balls that had been soaked in ghee, a heap of white rice, two leaf-bowls of tremendously spicy dal and a spoonful of sweet crumbs – sugared and crumbled baked balls of flour redolent with ghee. You need the ghee to survive the spice, Father remarked with a certain moroseness that comes from seared insides. We headed straight to the ice cream when we were done eating. We all needed to be cooled off.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Eating the burn
It’s been a while since I actually wrote something for this space. And that has a very good reason – a very close and dear friend was visiting from the United States and we had a lot to do in very little time. Apart from doing a good gossip every now and then and catching up with various crimes that we had perpetrated against people we knew and often didn’t, we needed to wander about a city I knew better than when she came here last and she had a craving to re-see. It was a fun albeit exhausting time and I was not happy to see her off at the Departures terminal at the international airport, even as I was glad to get my sense of routine and rest back from where it had vanished to for the time I was off from work and on a completely arbitrary though happy non-schedule. In all the chatter and giggle and the occasional tear, we did a great deal of eating. In fact, I am now on a fairly strict regimen of culinary austerity, just so that I can get back into my various jeans without busting through another zipper.
Perhaps one of the more memorable meals we had was a Gujarati thali in the heart of the traditional stronghold that is called Kalbadevi. We had been walking a while, going from market to car and car to market (different markets, though the same car each time) and we were hot, a little sweaty, tired and vaguely crabby from sheer lack of sugar and water, the two aspects that keep the self fuelled and ticking over. We had been in the presence of great quantities of food, from fruit and nuts to less easily eaten raw vegetables and a certain amount of canned, processed and otherwise difficult-to-access stuff. We had walked at a fast clip past small eateries and smaller street stalls, rapidly navigated around people chewing all sorts of snacks and briefly watched a vendor making sandwiches that I had on good authority to be absolutely delicious. And, in perfect syncopation with the beat of the small bells around a rather undernourished dancing monkey’s neck, our tummies had rumbled a demand to be filled with whatever was fresh, clean and preferably flavourful.
I had somewhere that could supply that in mind. It is a nicely swabbed and friendly-staffed restaurant in the heart of Kalbadevi called Surti and, like the name says, specialises in the cuisine of Gujarat. In fact, whenever I am there, which is about once in five years or so, I suddenly acquire a store of the Gujarati language that I never knew I possessed – it comes back to me from some long-buried primeval storehouse where all sounds are acceptable and can be produced by the vocal apparatus with much felicity. The best part of this was that the waiters could even understand what I said and didn’t merely stand by and smile avuncularly as I battled with the various phonemes I fondly imagined I could master.
We were ushered ceremoniously upstairs to the ‘Family Room/AC only’ and seated at a newly cleaned table. The two young men next to us goggled fascinatedly at my friend, whose marmalade hair glowed in the fluorescent light. The maitre d’ ambled to us and demanded to know what we wanted and raised a lethargic eyebrow as we asked for three thalis. They soon arrived. They were enormous. But we soldiered on and finished with a respectable emptiness of our steel plates but a deplorable fullness of our tummies. There were hugely puffy puris to start with and steaming khichdi to end with. In between came a series of katoris filled with vegetables – gently sprouted beans, spicy potatoes, cabbage with well-hidden chillies to assault the mouth, dal with a kind of dumpling and peanuts, dal with nothing except tadka, sprouted black-eyed beans, kadi, dahi, shrikhand and goodness knows what else I may have shoved into my groaning stomach and forgotten about. The meal was rich with ghee and masala, and we relished it even with the spice levels, our ears sweating gently as we ate a bite of this and a nibble of that, ending with a cool glass of water and that last lick of sweet-sour shrikhand.
My friend loved it. Father and I burned inside and out, but admitted that it was a pretty good lunch, with lots of vegetables and flavour, all sliding down smoothly in spite of the unwonted degree of heat that went with each bite. All in all an experience to savour for us all, and a nice afternoon to write home about.
Perhaps one of the more memorable meals we had was a Gujarati thali in the heart of the traditional stronghold that is called Kalbadevi. We had been walking a while, going from market to car and car to market (different markets, though the same car each time) and we were hot, a little sweaty, tired and vaguely crabby from sheer lack of sugar and water, the two aspects that keep the self fuelled and ticking over. We had been in the presence of great quantities of food, from fruit and nuts to less easily eaten raw vegetables and a certain amount of canned, processed and otherwise difficult-to-access stuff. We had walked at a fast clip past small eateries and smaller street stalls, rapidly navigated around people chewing all sorts of snacks and briefly watched a vendor making sandwiches that I had on good authority to be absolutely delicious. And, in perfect syncopation with the beat of the small bells around a rather undernourished dancing monkey’s neck, our tummies had rumbled a demand to be filled with whatever was fresh, clean and preferably flavourful.
I had somewhere that could supply that in mind. It is a nicely swabbed and friendly-staffed restaurant in the heart of Kalbadevi called Surti and, like the name says, specialises in the cuisine of Gujarat. In fact, whenever I am there, which is about once in five years or so, I suddenly acquire a store of the Gujarati language that I never knew I possessed – it comes back to me from some long-buried primeval storehouse where all sounds are acceptable and can be produced by the vocal apparatus with much felicity. The best part of this was that the waiters could even understand what I said and didn’t merely stand by and smile avuncularly as I battled with the various phonemes I fondly imagined I could master.
We were ushered ceremoniously upstairs to the ‘Family Room/AC only’ and seated at a newly cleaned table. The two young men next to us goggled fascinatedly at my friend, whose marmalade hair glowed in the fluorescent light. The maitre d’ ambled to us and demanded to know what we wanted and raised a lethargic eyebrow as we asked for three thalis. They soon arrived. They were enormous. But we soldiered on and finished with a respectable emptiness of our steel plates but a deplorable fullness of our tummies. There were hugely puffy puris to start with and steaming khichdi to end with. In between came a series of katoris filled with vegetables – gently sprouted beans, spicy potatoes, cabbage with well-hidden chillies to assault the mouth, dal with a kind of dumpling and peanuts, dal with nothing except tadka, sprouted black-eyed beans, kadi, dahi, shrikhand and goodness knows what else I may have shoved into my groaning stomach and forgotten about. The meal was rich with ghee and masala, and we relished it even with the spice levels, our ears sweating gently as we ate a bite of this and a nibble of that, ending with a cool glass of water and that last lick of sweet-sour shrikhand.
My friend loved it. Father and I burned inside and out, but admitted that it was a pretty good lunch, with lots of vegetables and flavour, all sliding down smoothly in spite of the unwonted degree of heat that went with each bite. All in all an experience to savour for us all, and a nice afternoon to write home about.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Blood, sweat and cheers
(As always, I tend to impress myself with my own writing. This was a totally food-unrelated encounter, but the artist I had to interview was great fun. Here's how it went...)
You hear about Jitesh Kallat more than you actually see his work in Mumbai. Reports come in from Milan, Shanghai and London about the success of his showings and the prices his works command. Reviews are fabulously laudatory and everyone, but everyone, speaks raves about his latest…or his last piece. But showings in his home city of Mumbai are rare and works hardly ever debut here. As Kallat says pragmatically, “It’s tough to make this the debut place. Galleries in Mumbai have a quick turnaround – 21 day exhibitions.” The explanation is simple: “The scale of my work is humungous. I need a 200-feet space to house the 200-feet 365 Lives, for instance. I couldn’t do this on short notice.” In fact, the galleries had eight days of installing time for the current show.
The piece 365 Lives is on display in Sweatopia, Kallat’s new show. “It’s a humungous project – the sculpture of a huge car, life-size, will sit bang in the middle of the 365 photographs. It weighs almost a ton.” And there is a large Eruda, the sculpture of a boy holding books, about 14-15 feet high and “super heavy. The logistics are really beyond normal exhibition requirements. Which is why through the last two years, I have not been able to show the key pieces in my work.” He always knew it would happen, though.
Almost all of Kallat’s works are enormous. “The scale has always been integral to my work,” he maintains, even though he has created ‘smaller’ pieces that were “just about 22-24 feet”. Anger at the Speed of Fright was a mere 50 feet long. “There are some works that rely on scale to generate meaning” - 365 Lives, as you walk into it, seems like colour swatches, some seemingly repetitive, in some way seductive; the colours and images come rushing at the viewer. As Kallat explains, “It’s only when you walk past that it all slowly changes tenor. You start feeling that there is something of a law, something tragic. Then you realise that these are dented vehicles, nothing too tragic. Then you keep going through the piece and realise that somewhere along the way these actually evoke bodily wounds, dents, scars, rust marks…and then it changes meaning. Something cold and inanimate becomes a chronicle of the city’s heartbeat.”
Some years ago, artists in Mumbai complained that a lack of space was what stifled creativity and expression through sculpture. Kallat’s works would cover the area of a decently-sized apartment, and “Coping with lack of space in the city is tough,” he agrees. But “When you make these works, you don’t know what you’re going to do with them. A piece I am currently showing in Milan (Public Notice II) goes to over 200 feet”, where 4,500 bones shaped like alphabets spell out the speech that Gandhi delivered before he embarked on the non-cooperation movement. “The sheer realisation of it is not easy, but if you really want to do it, you do it,” Kallat says matter of factly. As for making smaller pieces, “One can create summaries, but then you never have a novel. You never have epics, you will have episodes. Certain works need the scale, if the meaning, the concept, the work, has to envelop you. One can compromise – the simplest way if to back out. But if you really want to realise it at the point at which it defines itself” – Autosaurus Tripos, for instance, an autorickshaw made of ‘bones’, had to be life-sized – “from the obvious, it becomes a curious object for which a meaning cannot be defined. That happens only at the scale at which it is done. Smaller, it becomes a model, a toy.”
The self was once the crux of Kallat’s practice, especially between 1992 and1999. “It started changing form gradually,” he says. In Artist Making a Local Call (2005), a panoramic view with multiple exposures, “envelops my core concerns, the whole idea of the human struggle, interspersed with small soft calamities which are in our lives everyday. The picture has several layers of meaning and you can enter from various places.” It will be set against a curved wall, with Autosaurus placed in front of it.
Kallat is often said to be an ‘intellectual’, his work deep with meaning and sometimes incomprehensible to the average critic and viewer. He feels, “‘Intellectual’ is a burdened word, loaded with things that you do not want associated with your work immediately. But that does not make it a non-cerebral effort.” He works hard, thinks hard and puts his understanding of himself and the situation into his work. “I have to unearth the sources of my practice, constantly build an analytical understanding of my own work, which is separate from the process of making the work itself.” And, along the way, it becomes a great adventure, where “the object gets empowered from your understanding of the world at multiple levels.”
The names of his show is, in itself, unusual. Kallat coined the word “by collapsing sweat with utopia, sweat being the constant toil, the idea of survival, aspirations of hope.” Each work speaks at various levels, for which an onlooker needs time and space and an open mind, a freedom that Kallat relishes. “You are allowed to miss things; there is no reason to believe that we can all always soak in everything a work holds. Many years ago Gieve Patel said something like, ‘If you understand the work, great; but if you misunderstand it, even better!’ Somewhere within it there is the fact that the moment you miss something, you have seen something else and added a layer of meaning that I could not have offered.”
You hear about Jitesh Kallat more than you actually see his work in Mumbai. Reports come in from Milan, Shanghai and London about the success of his showings and the prices his works command. Reviews are fabulously laudatory and everyone, but everyone, speaks raves about his latest…or his last piece. But showings in his home city of Mumbai are rare and works hardly ever debut here. As Kallat says pragmatically, “It’s tough to make this the debut place. Galleries in Mumbai have a quick turnaround – 21 day exhibitions.” The explanation is simple: “The scale of my work is humungous. I need a 200-feet space to house the 200-feet 365 Lives, for instance. I couldn’t do this on short notice.” In fact, the galleries had eight days of installing time for the current show.
The piece 365 Lives is on display in Sweatopia, Kallat’s new show. “It’s a humungous project – the sculpture of a huge car, life-size, will sit bang in the middle of the 365 photographs. It weighs almost a ton.” And there is a large Eruda, the sculpture of a boy holding books, about 14-15 feet high and “super heavy. The logistics are really beyond normal exhibition requirements. Which is why through the last two years, I have not been able to show the key pieces in my work.” He always knew it would happen, though.
Almost all of Kallat’s works are enormous. “The scale has always been integral to my work,” he maintains, even though he has created ‘smaller’ pieces that were “just about 22-24 feet”. Anger at the Speed of Fright was a mere 50 feet long. “There are some works that rely on scale to generate meaning” - 365 Lives, as you walk into it, seems like colour swatches, some seemingly repetitive, in some way seductive; the colours and images come rushing at the viewer. As Kallat explains, “It’s only when you walk past that it all slowly changes tenor. You start feeling that there is something of a law, something tragic. Then you realise that these are dented vehicles, nothing too tragic. Then you keep going through the piece and realise that somewhere along the way these actually evoke bodily wounds, dents, scars, rust marks…and then it changes meaning. Something cold and inanimate becomes a chronicle of the city’s heartbeat.”
Some years ago, artists in Mumbai complained that a lack of space was what stifled creativity and expression through sculpture. Kallat’s works would cover the area of a decently-sized apartment, and “Coping with lack of space in the city is tough,” he agrees. But “When you make these works, you don’t know what you’re going to do with them. A piece I am currently showing in Milan (Public Notice II) goes to over 200 feet”, where 4,500 bones shaped like alphabets spell out the speech that Gandhi delivered before he embarked on the non-cooperation movement. “The sheer realisation of it is not easy, but if you really want to do it, you do it,” Kallat says matter of factly. As for making smaller pieces, “One can create summaries, but then you never have a novel. You never have epics, you will have episodes. Certain works need the scale, if the meaning, the concept, the work, has to envelop you. One can compromise – the simplest way if to back out. But if you really want to realise it at the point at which it defines itself” – Autosaurus Tripos, for instance, an autorickshaw made of ‘bones’, had to be life-sized – “from the obvious, it becomes a curious object for which a meaning cannot be defined. That happens only at the scale at which it is done. Smaller, it becomes a model, a toy.”
The self was once the crux of Kallat’s practice, especially between 1992 and1999. “It started changing form gradually,” he says. In Artist Making a Local Call (2005), a panoramic view with multiple exposures, “envelops my core concerns, the whole idea of the human struggle, interspersed with small soft calamities which are in our lives everyday. The picture has several layers of meaning and you can enter from various places.” It will be set against a curved wall, with Autosaurus placed in front of it.
Kallat is often said to be an ‘intellectual’, his work deep with meaning and sometimes incomprehensible to the average critic and viewer. He feels, “‘Intellectual’ is a burdened word, loaded with things that you do not want associated with your work immediately. But that does not make it a non-cerebral effort.” He works hard, thinks hard and puts his understanding of himself and the situation into his work. “I have to unearth the sources of my practice, constantly build an analytical understanding of my own work, which is separate from the process of making the work itself.” And, along the way, it becomes a great adventure, where “the object gets empowered from your understanding of the world at multiple levels.”
The names of his show is, in itself, unusual. Kallat coined the word “by collapsing sweat with utopia, sweat being the constant toil, the idea of survival, aspirations of hope.” Each work speaks at various levels, for which an onlooker needs time and space and an open mind, a freedom that Kallat relishes. “You are allowed to miss things; there is no reason to believe that we can all always soak in everything a work holds. Many years ago Gieve Patel said something like, ‘If you understand the work, great; but if you misunderstand it, even better!’ Somewhere within it there is the fact that the moment you miss something, you have seen something else and added a layer of meaning that I could not have offered.”
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