(TOI-Crest, today)
In 1996 a phenomenon hit the shelves at bookstores all over the world. Called Bridget Jones’s Diary, it told the story of an overweight, under-confident, (fairly) young woman who wanted what - the author and publishers presumed - every average young women wanted: a nice man to marry and a happily-ever-after kind of life. It may not have been high literature or, indeed, very clever or intellectual writing, but it worked. Backed by the acting talent of Renee Zellweger, the book translated well onto the big screen, as well as into so many different languages that everyone involved raked in the moolah and the age of chicklit was ushered in.
But it was not new. Those who have done academic studies of the subject insist that it all began a long time ago. Once upon a time there was Jane Austen with Emma, Persuasion and Pride and Prejudice (which is said to have found a new avatar as Bridget Jones’s Diary), and the Bronte sisters - with books like Shirley and Villette from Emma, Jane Eyre by Charlotte and Anne’s Agnes Grey - who wrote about young women and their dreams. It was all, of course, not classified as such then.
The term itself, ‘chicklit’, started being used in 1988 as a bit of a joke – a word used slangily and perhaps semi-pejoratively as the title of an anthology of ‘female literary tradition’ called Chick Lit: Postfeminist Fiction. It stretched the concept to be more about the contemporary everywoman in her 20s and 30s, dealing with life not from the point of view of existential truth and angst, but also the more mundane worries of men, relationships, love, body image, career, shopping, fashion and, of course, sex.
Which led to a gentle segue into the more blatant tales of sexual encounters as experienced by Carrie Bradshaw and her soul (or should that be sole?) sisters in Sex and the City, Candace Bushnell’s book, which was followed up by Lipstick Jungle, both of which made it big on television and then wandered, heels a-click, on to the big screen. Melissa Bank wrote The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing, HB Gilmour came up with Clueless and Sophie Kinsella prolifically produced the Shopaholic series. There were plenty of wannabes and a few who made it. And then there was Kavya Vishwanathan, the young woman who nabbed an enviable contract and many kudos with her How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life…and then got canned after it was discovered that she had ‘borrowed’ substantial parts of her creative expression from elsewhere.
By then, the Indian chicklit factory had started production. But perhaps further encouraged by the seeming though ephemeral success of young Vishwanathan, there was a sudden geyser of writers on the local literary scene. Of course, keeping in context, the topics of womanly angst and interest were more ‘Indian’, in a way even more straitlaced and prudish, less sexy and far less explicit where sex and rampaging hormones was concerned. Parents arranging marriages – or at least meetings with potential grooms – was a unifying theme, and even as the young woman in question made it all happen for herself in the big city working world, she always yearned for the ‘right’ man, with whom a mangalsutra and babies was a given, with astrologers, fervent prayers and the trials of learning how to cook being part of the process. Piece of Cake from Swati Kaushal, Almost Single by Advaita Kala (who is now writing a Bollywood script, an indicator of her popularity), Rupa Gulab’s Girl Alone and Rajashree's Trust Me, the biggest-selling Indian chick lit novel yet, have heroines who are not all ‘good girls’, but deviate from the traditional image to live alone in a city not their own, drink, smoke, have boyfriends over at home, cannot drape a sari and spend all night working on corporate presentations that, eventually, win them the coveted promotion, if not the man of their admittedly steamy dreams.
Today, chicklit is devoured by young women all over the world, by their mothers who are trying to understand them, by their male friends and family members who sometimes hide the usually pink or red covers displaying graphics of lipsticks, high heeled shoes and shopping bags behind newsprint camouflage and by reviewers who like trashing the writing and the plot but have to admit that the books are a quick, easy and often fun read. And the bug is slowly spreading – for instance, the Chick Lit Media Group produces and promotes trends for young women, there are chicklit blogs, clubs, online groups and forums, increasing numbers of publishers and imprints of the genre, all of which are linked to merchandising in myriad forms, and thus to increased sales and thus, profits. As long as there are young women with dreams, there will be people who want to know them!
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The art of a half-eaten roti
(Published yesterday in Times of India, Crest)
“Frankly, I don’t think I have achieved much. That is an honest assessment.” Coming from someone who has won almost everything that spells success in the vast and varied world of contemporary art as it is today, the modesty seems suspicious. But from Jitish Kallat, hailed as the Boy Wonder as far back as in 1997, when he was just 23 and presenting his debut show at the Chemould Gallery in Mumbai, it is as true as truth gets, since he is astonishingly self-deprecating and disarmingly modest. Or perhaps it is just that he has set his personal bar so high that each honour and achievement is just a tiny step to where he wants to be, whenever he knows where that is.
Over the years, he has continued to wow critics in India and abroad with his creativity – the quirky magic of auto-rickshaws made of bones (resin), panoramic photographs and, now, food. His new show, to open in February at the Haunch of Venison gallery in London, includes scans of familiarity as seen on dining plates, from rotis to samosas. Kallat is one of the selected fraternity major artists to show at the enormous Christie’s-owned commercial art gallery founded in 2002, which represents well-known contemporary artists like Turner Prize nominee Zarina Bhimji, 2002 winner Zhang Huan, Bill Viola, Wim Wenders and others, and also has branches in Berlin and New York. And even as eyebrows begin to crinkle with doubt as Kallat speaks with enthusiasm about the innards of edibles, you cannot help being charmed by eyes glinting passionately behind the pebble-glasses, the not-quite-in-condition figure under the clinging white turtle-neck, the long-toed shoes that seem to stretch towards you as he explains…
He has said, “The scale of my work is humungous.” And it is. From the 200-foot 365 Lives, which has the sculpture of a life-sized car parked in the middle of the installation and surrounded by 365 photographs, to the “merely 50-foot” ‘short’ Anger at the Speed of Fright, some of his works “rely on scale to generate meaning”. And “It’s only when you walk past that it all slowly changes tenor,” he explained about these pieces. Just as with 365 Lives, where the viewer sees the various aspects of the work with only gradual realisation, from the blood and rusting car body parts to rushing traffic, vehicular and pedestrian. Some works need time and space to be even partially appreciated, like the 200-plus-foot long Public Notice II, which has 4,500 bones made of resin shaped into alphabets spelling our Mahatma Gandhi’s speech just before the non-cooperation movement was launched. Kallat’s Dawn Chorus paintings make the mind work overtime to catch up with the eye, showing street urchins at traffic junctions selling books – their hair is made of traffic and pedestrians tangled into the mess that is integrally Mumbai. These works are mounted on bronze reproductions of wall carvings from Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus, or VT station.
This time, in London, his works include Conditions Apply, a series of large photographic images that looks like seven large lunar formations. “Each is a progressively eaten roti, back lit, and it kind of glows.” A joke or art? Kallat says, “If there isn’t a spark of humour in all that disturbance, then that work is not complete for me. But then there is the experience that is about sustenance, the notion of nourishment, life, survival.” “The first roti was one of the simplest works I have ever made, scanned at 1200 dpi. The new rotis are a collaboration between Nisha (the house help) and me --- she took one of the pictures into the kitchen and tried to make all her rotis look just like that one, with the same amount of burning…!” Does it make sense to a non-roti-eater? “It gives the experience of a lunar cycle. But when you come closer to it, you see that it is not a normal moon. Even somebody who doesn’t know what a roti is can figure it is some kind of food, just from the particles and bite patterns.” And when does a gastronomic experience become art? Kallat explains that “Most of these images are sourced out of thoughts, notions, ideas, playing with metaphors and symbolic structures that then find a necessary vehicle in terms of an image. When that does happen, it becomes an artwork.”
Much of his thought process found practical expression in a pathology laboratory, Kallat says, and in collaborative efforts with a friend who is also an animator, a motion graphics expert. He used the lab to do “several 100 scans of various foods – the equipment you would use for, say, a chest X-ray, would have samosas or vadas being scanned on it! The entire staff of the X-ray department was with me, checking if what they were doing was right. The image making process begins in the lab or a kitchen, and then goes through the artistic process”.
Kallat has earned success that is rare for someone just 35 years old? And perhaps some of that rapid rise came from the fact that his life was not prescribed by his background or his family. As he puts it, “My parents didn’t tell me to become something or the other. If I was my dad I would probably have said that to me. Perhaps there was some grasp that what I was doing was what I should have been doing. There was nothing that I or any of us could fall back on; we were a typical south Indian middle-class family living in the far western suburbs of Mumbai. It was nice that my parents were extremely supportive and enthusiastic of the journey I was taking.” Though his father passed away soon after Kallat’s debut showing, “I feel that he did see a journey that he may have believed had some value.” But success is not what really matters, he believes. “None of anything today can be taken too seriously. You take pleasure in the processes and sit back and wait to see what the outcome is and decide whether it works for you.” And for him, it certainly did. “Looking back, I was fairly detached. But I was absolutely happy that Dad saw it happen, and when anyone told Dad that he was being silly in letting me do silly things…they could not say that any more.”
However complex his work may seem to the viewer or critic, for Kallat, “Art is not a complicated affair. “The roti piece, for instance, is all about the instant scan. The moment it is scanned, it is a ready artwork. Its intrinsic complexity will neither be related to the process that it went through, nor to the fact that either one will have a greater density of meaning.” As for art itself, “As simple as it can be would be better. And in its simplicity should be the concentrate of that meaning that you could dilute in parts when you want to, at will, at different historical times, hopefully. Maybe years later, a pinch of that work should be able to regenerate itself in a different form.” Which only means that “If the work has to be simple, somewhere you have to be simple. The rest of the time you are dealing with a world that is complex and you are busy decoding it.”
That fits neatly into the general perception that Kallat is a deeply intellectual artist who cannot be easily understood by his audience. Even as the complexity of his work can stun, each layer can seem almost childlike in its simplicity. He has said, “The work has several layers of meaning and you can enter from various places.” And he reiterates with “When I get down to making the work, or when I speak, I hope it is not complex. In a specific context, like an international conference, for instance, the theme looks complex, but I do hold my own. I don’t mind tolerating that language in pursuit of simple meaning. I am not looking to hang out with theoreticians because its complex, but hopefully in that complexity will be a simple meaning. At the same time, I try to make art that is simple, but which will have in it deep resonances of meaning to reinvent itself beyond me, after me, around me, without me.”
Without him? “As long as the work is self-rejuvenating, across time and people and retinas and cerebrums, it will be able to regenerate itself. All one can do when you do that effort when you set out to make art, is to have a strong belief that what you are working on can potentially become that. Anything that does reach this stage has journeyed along with you for a very, very long time. And unless your own assessment can live up to what you are, you are not there yet.”
( ‘Universal Recipient’ by Jitish Kallat opens at the Haunch of Venison in February)
“Frankly, I don’t think I have achieved much. That is an honest assessment.” Coming from someone who has won almost everything that spells success in the vast and varied world of contemporary art as it is today, the modesty seems suspicious. But from Jitish Kallat, hailed as the Boy Wonder as far back as in 1997, when he was just 23 and presenting his debut show at the Chemould Gallery in Mumbai, it is as true as truth gets, since he is astonishingly self-deprecating and disarmingly modest. Or perhaps it is just that he has set his personal bar so high that each honour and achievement is just a tiny step to where he wants to be, whenever he knows where that is.
Over the years, he has continued to wow critics in India and abroad with his creativity – the quirky magic of auto-rickshaws made of bones (resin), panoramic photographs and, now, food. His new show, to open in February at the Haunch of Venison gallery in London, includes scans of familiarity as seen on dining plates, from rotis to samosas. Kallat is one of the selected fraternity major artists to show at the enormous Christie’s-owned commercial art gallery founded in 2002, which represents well-known contemporary artists like Turner Prize nominee Zarina Bhimji, 2002 winner Zhang Huan, Bill Viola, Wim Wenders and others, and also has branches in Berlin and New York. And even as eyebrows begin to crinkle with doubt as Kallat speaks with enthusiasm about the innards of edibles, you cannot help being charmed by eyes glinting passionately behind the pebble-glasses, the not-quite-in-condition figure under the clinging white turtle-neck, the long-toed shoes that seem to stretch towards you as he explains…
He has said, “The scale of my work is humungous.” And it is. From the 200-foot 365 Lives, which has the sculpture of a life-sized car parked in the middle of the installation and surrounded by 365 photographs, to the “merely 50-foot” ‘short’ Anger at the Speed of Fright, some of his works “rely on scale to generate meaning”. And “It’s only when you walk past that it all slowly changes tenor,” he explained about these pieces. Just as with 365 Lives, where the viewer sees the various aspects of the work with only gradual realisation, from the blood and rusting car body parts to rushing traffic, vehicular and pedestrian. Some works need time and space to be even partially appreciated, like the 200-plus-foot long Public Notice II, which has 4,500 bones made of resin shaped into alphabets spelling our Mahatma Gandhi’s speech just before the non-cooperation movement was launched. Kallat’s Dawn Chorus paintings make the mind work overtime to catch up with the eye, showing street urchins at traffic junctions selling books – their hair is made of traffic and pedestrians tangled into the mess that is integrally Mumbai. These works are mounted on bronze reproductions of wall carvings from Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus, or VT station.
This time, in London, his works include Conditions Apply, a series of large photographic images that looks like seven large lunar formations. “Each is a progressively eaten roti, back lit, and it kind of glows.” A joke or art? Kallat says, “If there isn’t a spark of humour in all that disturbance, then that work is not complete for me. But then there is the experience that is about sustenance, the notion of nourishment, life, survival.” “The first roti was one of the simplest works I have ever made, scanned at 1200 dpi. The new rotis are a collaboration between Nisha (the house help) and me --- she took one of the pictures into the kitchen and tried to make all her rotis look just like that one, with the same amount of burning…!” Does it make sense to a non-roti-eater? “It gives the experience of a lunar cycle. But when you come closer to it, you see that it is not a normal moon. Even somebody who doesn’t know what a roti is can figure it is some kind of food, just from the particles and bite patterns.” And when does a gastronomic experience become art? Kallat explains that “Most of these images are sourced out of thoughts, notions, ideas, playing with metaphors and symbolic structures that then find a necessary vehicle in terms of an image. When that does happen, it becomes an artwork.”
Much of his thought process found practical expression in a pathology laboratory, Kallat says, and in collaborative efforts with a friend who is also an animator, a motion graphics expert. He used the lab to do “several 100 scans of various foods – the equipment you would use for, say, a chest X-ray, would have samosas or vadas being scanned on it! The entire staff of the X-ray department was with me, checking if what they were doing was right. The image making process begins in the lab or a kitchen, and then goes through the artistic process”.
Kallat has earned success that is rare for someone just 35 years old? And perhaps some of that rapid rise came from the fact that his life was not prescribed by his background or his family. As he puts it, “My parents didn’t tell me to become something or the other. If I was my dad I would probably have said that to me. Perhaps there was some grasp that what I was doing was what I should have been doing. There was nothing that I or any of us could fall back on; we were a typical south Indian middle-class family living in the far western suburbs of Mumbai. It was nice that my parents were extremely supportive and enthusiastic of the journey I was taking.” Though his father passed away soon after Kallat’s debut showing, “I feel that he did see a journey that he may have believed had some value.” But success is not what really matters, he believes. “None of anything today can be taken too seriously. You take pleasure in the processes and sit back and wait to see what the outcome is and decide whether it works for you.” And for him, it certainly did. “Looking back, I was fairly detached. But I was absolutely happy that Dad saw it happen, and when anyone told Dad that he was being silly in letting me do silly things…they could not say that any more.”
However complex his work may seem to the viewer or critic, for Kallat, “Art is not a complicated affair. “The roti piece, for instance, is all about the instant scan. The moment it is scanned, it is a ready artwork. Its intrinsic complexity will neither be related to the process that it went through, nor to the fact that either one will have a greater density of meaning.” As for art itself, “As simple as it can be would be better. And in its simplicity should be the concentrate of that meaning that you could dilute in parts when you want to, at will, at different historical times, hopefully. Maybe years later, a pinch of that work should be able to regenerate itself in a different form.” Which only means that “If the work has to be simple, somewhere you have to be simple. The rest of the time you are dealing with a world that is complex and you are busy decoding it.”
That fits neatly into the general perception that Kallat is a deeply intellectual artist who cannot be easily understood by his audience. Even as the complexity of his work can stun, each layer can seem almost childlike in its simplicity. He has said, “The work has several layers of meaning and you can enter from various places.” And he reiterates with “When I get down to making the work, or when I speak, I hope it is not complex. In a specific context, like an international conference, for instance, the theme looks complex, but I do hold my own. I don’t mind tolerating that language in pursuit of simple meaning. I am not looking to hang out with theoreticians because its complex, but hopefully in that complexity will be a simple meaning. At the same time, I try to make art that is simple, but which will have in it deep resonances of meaning to reinvent itself beyond me, after me, around me, without me.”
Without him? “As long as the work is self-rejuvenating, across time and people and retinas and cerebrums, it will be able to regenerate itself. All one can do when you do that effort when you set out to make art, is to have a strong belief that what you are working on can potentially become that. Anything that does reach this stage has journeyed along with you for a very, very long time. And unless your own assessment can live up to what you are, you are not there yet.”
( ‘Universal Recipient’ by Jitish Kallat opens at the Haunch of Venison in February)
Monday, January 18, 2010
Panning out
(Published yesterday...)
I was in love. I stood there, staring fixedly, even as people brushed past me in the aisle and muttered. It was just what I had always been looking for, even without my knowing that I was looking for it. My first true-blue piece of cooking equipment: a cast-iron pan, almost a skillet, wide and just deep enough, with a neatly fitted lid. It was a pristine enameled white striped nattily in gold, with a black handle and a little round button to lift the cover off. I bought it ($19.99) and admired it at home for a long time before I started using it. Then I left it on the hob too long and burned a hole right through the base. A rush trip back to the store earned me another, but in a less endearing blue. I still use that pan; it is heavy, non-stick, ideal for whatever I make in it, from pancakes to bhindi-ki-sabji to broiled fish to hash browns to semiya upma.
But age catches up with us all and I need to replace my treasure. So every time I see a home store anywhere, be it in a mall or in Lohar Chawl in town, I dive in, my bloodhound instincts working overtime. So far, alas, nothing has had the same impact. To be fair, I did trawl through my own kitchen, scanning all the stuff my mother had acquired over years, to no avail. There was gorgeous flame-orange Dansk casseroles, a heavy scarlet paella pan, an oversized orange iron skillet, even a vividly red wok, along with shiny steel Revereware and brightly enameled Silit along with some Amber Visions and Cranberry Corning, but nothing that was the right weight, the right size, the right non-stick surface and (this was an optional need) the right colour.
I found some options in the Indigo deli’s selection of Le Creuset. The colour was right. The heft made it. But the surface did not. And neither did the price – I wanted to buy cookware, not a first-class air ticket to buy it! A store at Atria mall selling heavy gauge pots and pans pulled me in; the stuff was gorgeous, the prices hideous and the suitability limited – I did not, after all, feed 50 people at every meal! And plus it was not any kind of colour that fit with my kitchen, I told myself and the salesman snootily. I have since looked everywhere, from Big Bazaar to Hypercity to Home Stop to a small shop in Matunga that I cannot remember the name of. I find good Indian brands, from Prestige to Jaipan to Hawkins, all priced very affordably below Rs1000, many in a nice colour range between orange and red, with reputable and lasting surfaces, good handle attachments and enamel finish, but none with the weight I so long for. Even if I am willing to be a little less Scrooge-ish and spend more, I cannot find the heft I want.
Until that happens, or else I come across another pan of the ilk of my cast-iron non-stick buddy, I keep looking.
I was in love. I stood there, staring fixedly, even as people brushed past me in the aisle and muttered. It was just what I had always been looking for, even without my knowing that I was looking for it. My first true-blue piece of cooking equipment: a cast-iron pan, almost a skillet, wide and just deep enough, with a neatly fitted lid. It was a pristine enameled white striped nattily in gold, with a black handle and a little round button to lift the cover off. I bought it ($19.99) and admired it at home for a long time before I started using it. Then I left it on the hob too long and burned a hole right through the base. A rush trip back to the store earned me another, but in a less endearing blue. I still use that pan; it is heavy, non-stick, ideal for whatever I make in it, from pancakes to bhindi-ki-sabji to broiled fish to hash browns to semiya upma.
But age catches up with us all and I need to replace my treasure. So every time I see a home store anywhere, be it in a mall or in Lohar Chawl in town, I dive in, my bloodhound instincts working overtime. So far, alas, nothing has had the same impact. To be fair, I did trawl through my own kitchen, scanning all the stuff my mother had acquired over years, to no avail. There was gorgeous flame-orange Dansk casseroles, a heavy scarlet paella pan, an oversized orange iron skillet, even a vividly red wok, along with shiny steel Revereware and brightly enameled Silit along with some Amber Visions and Cranberry Corning, but nothing that was the right weight, the right size, the right non-stick surface and (this was an optional need) the right colour.
I found some options in the Indigo deli’s selection of Le Creuset. The colour was right. The heft made it. But the surface did not. And neither did the price – I wanted to buy cookware, not a first-class air ticket to buy it! A store at Atria mall selling heavy gauge pots and pans pulled me in; the stuff was gorgeous, the prices hideous and the suitability limited – I did not, after all, feed 50 people at every meal! And plus it was not any kind of colour that fit with my kitchen, I told myself and the salesman snootily. I have since looked everywhere, from Big Bazaar to Hypercity to Home Stop to a small shop in Matunga that I cannot remember the name of. I find good Indian brands, from Prestige to Jaipan to Hawkins, all priced very affordably below Rs1000, many in a nice colour range between orange and red, with reputable and lasting surfaces, good handle attachments and enamel finish, but none with the weight I so long for. Even if I am willing to be a little less Scrooge-ish and spend more, I cannot find the heft I want.
Until that happens, or else I come across another pan of the ilk of my cast-iron non-stick buddy, I keep looking.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
An independent woman
I always tell myself and many others who are interested in knowing, that I am an independent woman. Or, rather, I used to be, when I worked full time and earned a decent salary. I went to work at what seemed to be the crack of dawn, came home at the dead of night, was wonderfully tired and ate all the wrong things and finally quit when I had more problems than I wanted to deal with at the time. Having got myself sorted out both physically and mentally, I now need to start seriously considering going back to work somewhere, but without the - greatly self-induced, I have to admit - trauma of the last experience. And, along with it, go back to the vestige of independence I so fondly believed I had at the time that my bank account got regular inputs and I bought lipstick without thinking about whether it suited me and I needed another shade of red that was not ideal for my skin tone. I battled with work in the office, work in the house and work to keep myself sane and afloat, without ever realising that I was doing none of the above with 1) any degree of efficiency and/or organisation and 2) no help at all.
Ok, having dealt out that double negative with masterly nonchalance and confused anyone who may be reading this and myself, let me explain...
AT HOME: My biggest source of support and strongest ally is Father. He not only manages all the money and all of us (himself, Small Cat and me), but also manages the home without letting me feel in the slightest way that I am not the one in charge. I do look after the culinary functions in the kitchen, but more because I like cooking than because I need to do the cooking, if you know what I mean. The maid looks after the dishes and the floors, though on occasion we need to do that ourselves - meaning that she plays hookey for longer than planned and while I am out at the gym or gallivanting in town, Father cleans up. The driver manages parking our car when he is available to drive us/me around, which at the moment is a bit of a sore point with us, since he too has decided to play hookey and gone awol. Of course, both Father and I drive pretty well, but have made a conscious decision not to need to, or to have to find space in our overcrowded city to park with the assurance that all the bits and pieces on our car will be there when we come back to it.
AT WORK: The only pleasure in being a wage slave, apart from the regular paycheck, is that someone else can call the shots. When decision-making is in your own power, it is a lot more fun, but considering the way that media works today and the fact that no-one that I know that works in media is in the best-fit position, it is generally the norm that you are directed by someone else with greater powers (though perhaps not intelligence or qualifications) than you have. In other words, most people follow orders, which makes it easier in a way, albeit a right royal pain in the somewhere impolite. So any ideas that you may have about being independent are best left where they belong, in a wonderful dreamscape that never really happens in reality.
So how does that, or did that, since the AT WORK part is now history - all of the above, I mean - make me an independent woman? Blast, another bubble burst there!
Ok, having dealt out that double negative with masterly nonchalance and confused anyone who may be reading this and myself, let me explain...
AT HOME: My biggest source of support and strongest ally is Father. He not only manages all the money and all of us (himself, Small Cat and me), but also manages the home without letting me feel in the slightest way that I am not the one in charge. I do look after the culinary functions in the kitchen, but more because I like cooking than because I need to do the cooking, if you know what I mean. The maid looks after the dishes and the floors, though on occasion we need to do that ourselves - meaning that she plays hookey for longer than planned and while I am out at the gym or gallivanting in town, Father cleans up. The driver manages parking our car when he is available to drive us/me around, which at the moment is a bit of a sore point with us, since he too has decided to play hookey and gone awol. Of course, both Father and I drive pretty well, but have made a conscious decision not to need to, or to have to find space in our overcrowded city to park with the assurance that all the bits and pieces on our car will be there when we come back to it.
AT WORK: The only pleasure in being a wage slave, apart from the regular paycheck, is that someone else can call the shots. When decision-making is in your own power, it is a lot more fun, but considering the way that media works today and the fact that no-one that I know that works in media is in the best-fit position, it is generally the norm that you are directed by someone else with greater powers (though perhaps not intelligence or qualifications) than you have. In other words, most people follow orders, which makes it easier in a way, albeit a right royal pain in the somewhere impolite. So any ideas that you may have about being independent are best left where they belong, in a wonderful dreamscape that never really happens in reality.
So how does that, or did that, since the AT WORK part is now history - all of the above, I mean - make me an independent woman? Blast, another bubble burst there!
Friday, January 01, 2010
A new beginning
So it has finally happened. The new decade has begun. Newspapers, magazines and television channels have been going crazy doing special editions to celebrate first the end of the last year and decade and now the start of a new one. And most of them say that life can only get better now. But can it? And was it really that bad? And does a single moment, when past becomes present, make that much of a difference? As with any decade, the last one had its ups and downs - doesn't everything? There were terror attacks and deaths, a recession and many peaks in the sensex. There were successes and their counterparts: failures. It is all part of the game, isn't it? What goes up must come down and all that good stuff?
For me, as an individual, life had its share of good and bad times. I found friends and lost some, slid out of relationships, sometimes with great trouble and pain and sometimes more easily than I would have thought possible. And I made new bonds, meeting people I felt I had known all my life, going through the testing process of trying to know whether they could be mine or not, and finally adding them to the inner circle that we all treasure and protect. There were moments of intense joy and times I wish had never been part of my living memory - I lost my most precious ties in my mother and my cat, both with agony that no one ever should know. But in that I gained a central core that is strong, unbreakable, one that I will not allow anyone to enter without special permission. I worked on many projects, enjoyed a few of them and resolved, at the end of it all, when I finally took the decision to stop working full time for a while, to do only what would and could give me a satisfaction that would make me want to go back to it every day. It has not been easy, that last twist in my tale, but it had to be done.
Over the past year, a lot of growing up has happened for me. I understood what I was all about and became happy with what I was rather than craving what I could be if I really wanted to and if Fate allowed. I had always known that power did not come from a title or a paycheck, but lived that ethos in a way that made it my personal and governing principle. And even as I cursed that same Fate and mourned loss of various kinds, from people to ego, I liked the choices I made.
And the only resolution I will keep for the next year, the next decade, the rest of my life, is to be myself and happy with it.
Which makes a whole lot of sense, don't you think?
For me, as an individual, life had its share of good and bad times. I found friends and lost some, slid out of relationships, sometimes with great trouble and pain and sometimes more easily than I would have thought possible. And I made new bonds, meeting people I felt I had known all my life, going through the testing process of trying to know whether they could be mine or not, and finally adding them to the inner circle that we all treasure and protect. There were moments of intense joy and times I wish had never been part of my living memory - I lost my most precious ties in my mother and my cat, both with agony that no one ever should know. But in that I gained a central core that is strong, unbreakable, one that I will not allow anyone to enter without special permission. I worked on many projects, enjoyed a few of them and resolved, at the end of it all, when I finally took the decision to stop working full time for a while, to do only what would and could give me a satisfaction that would make me want to go back to it every day. It has not been easy, that last twist in my tale, but it had to be done.
Over the past year, a lot of growing up has happened for me. I understood what I was all about and became happy with what I was rather than craving what I could be if I really wanted to and if Fate allowed. I had always known that power did not come from a title or a paycheck, but lived that ethos in a way that made it my personal and governing principle. And even as I cursed that same Fate and mourned loss of various kinds, from people to ego, I liked the choices I made.
And the only resolution I will keep for the next year, the next decade, the rest of my life, is to be myself and happy with it.
Which makes a whole lot of sense, don't you think?
Thursday, December 31, 2009
End of days
It's the last day of the year, the end of 2009. I am hoping that 2010 is better rather than worse, with lots of new friends, new work, exciting times and buckets full of joys great and small. My last day of the year promised good things and if they all happen, I will be a very pleased human indeed!
So, God (or whoever the power-that-is may be) bless us all and make us live a healthy, happy and humour-laden life, whoever and wherever we are and will be.
On that confused note, I bid adieu to 2009 and resolve to be a better little blogger in 2010.
Cheers and all the best, folks!
So, God (or whoever the power-that-is may be) bless us all and make us live a healthy, happy and humour-laden life, whoever and wherever we are and will be.
On that confused note, I bid adieu to 2009 and resolve to be a better little blogger in 2010.
Cheers and all the best, folks!
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Long time...
...no write. Yes, I know. When I started this blog, I was working full time, newly managing a home and trying to deal with a lot of emotional fallout from life at the time. Today, not working except from home, not doing much because everything I do has been ruthlessly organised and happy with it all and having the time to do more, I am not able to find the time or the leisure (call it 'mindset' if you will) to write a blog. Or maybe I believe I have nothing much to say, which is indeed the case, oddly enough. Life settles into a kind of peace sometimes and you don't want to say anything that would conceivably disturb it, I think. And I think I have found that place in my mind and soul to be at peace...at last.
I went to see a kind-of-friend of mine recently. He is an artist that is on my sms-list and is pretty well known and respected. I first interviewed him for DNA, the newspaper I once worked with, some years ago and just liked him and his earnestness, as well as his passion for his work and his inspiration. The fact that he was young, articulate, wrote well and was a fabulous artist helped, of course. So when Times Crest asked me to speak to him about his latest show due soon in London, I agreed, without any hesitation. Talking to Jitish Kallat - yes, it was him...he? - is always a delight. He challenges even as he is challenged, to think, to analyse, to put in words, whatever it is that we are speaking of at that moment. Best of all, I rarely need to explain what I am asking about - a few words, even incoherent, and he leaps in with his interpretation. From there, the conversation inevitably travels to points not even thought of in my brief to myself when I planned the interview. And more comes out of the time spent in his company than I would ever have expected. Which is the best aspect of the meeting, and my acquaintance with him.
Another friend - and this one is firmly classified as one, since the bond is not just mutual, but long-standing - was in the city recently for his show, this time of photographs, a kind of documentary of a disaster some years after it happened. Samar Jodha, well known in both commercial and artistic realms as a photographer of much note, has been a friend since we met again serendipitously many years ago in Delhi. We first came across each other when I talked to him for a feature about a book on Jaipur that he had collaborated on and then again when I was asked whether I wanted to be involved in a book on India. In Delhi, we talked some, spent lots of laughter-time together and made friends. This time, the chemistry had changed. It was far more serious, perhaps the fallout of growing up, sometimes taking the hard route to there. We spoke of his work, his need to do more, his possible future and, as will always happen, the past, the history that had brought us both to the point where we sat across a table from each other and saw ourselves as responsible adults with definite directions and goals. It was new and exciting in its own way, even though I mourned the passing of a time that was sunnier, happier, lighter and in a way more fun.
And since then, I have met new people, rediscovered some I had almost forgotten and felt the new excitement of anticipation, to see what they are all about and how they could fit into my life as it is now. They could be friends, some were once friends, colleagues, classmates, those who were part of my childhood. Now, as a grown-up, how do they matter, where do they link in, who have they become? A new adventure, a new sense of knowing, a new joy, perhaps? Who knows! As the cliche goes, only time...and space, of course...will tell.
I went to see a kind-of-friend of mine recently. He is an artist that is on my sms-list and is pretty well known and respected. I first interviewed him for DNA, the newspaper I once worked with, some years ago and just liked him and his earnestness, as well as his passion for his work and his inspiration. The fact that he was young, articulate, wrote well and was a fabulous artist helped, of course. So when Times Crest asked me to speak to him about his latest show due soon in London, I agreed, without any hesitation. Talking to Jitish Kallat - yes, it was him...he? - is always a delight. He challenges even as he is challenged, to think, to analyse, to put in words, whatever it is that we are speaking of at that moment. Best of all, I rarely need to explain what I am asking about - a few words, even incoherent, and he leaps in with his interpretation. From there, the conversation inevitably travels to points not even thought of in my brief to myself when I planned the interview. And more comes out of the time spent in his company than I would ever have expected. Which is the best aspect of the meeting, and my acquaintance with him.
Another friend - and this one is firmly classified as one, since the bond is not just mutual, but long-standing - was in the city recently for his show, this time of photographs, a kind of documentary of a disaster some years after it happened. Samar Jodha, well known in both commercial and artistic realms as a photographer of much note, has been a friend since we met again serendipitously many years ago in Delhi. We first came across each other when I talked to him for a feature about a book on Jaipur that he had collaborated on and then again when I was asked whether I wanted to be involved in a book on India. In Delhi, we talked some, spent lots of laughter-time together and made friends. This time, the chemistry had changed. It was far more serious, perhaps the fallout of growing up, sometimes taking the hard route to there. We spoke of his work, his need to do more, his possible future and, as will always happen, the past, the history that had brought us both to the point where we sat across a table from each other and saw ourselves as responsible adults with definite directions and goals. It was new and exciting in its own way, even though I mourned the passing of a time that was sunnier, happier, lighter and in a way more fun.
And since then, I have met new people, rediscovered some I had almost forgotten and felt the new excitement of anticipation, to see what they are all about and how they could fit into my life as it is now. They could be friends, some were once friends, colleagues, classmates, those who were part of my childhood. Now, as a grown-up, how do they matter, where do they link in, who have they become? A new adventure, a new sense of knowing, a new joy, perhaps? Who knows! As the cliche goes, only time...and space, of course...will tell.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Sari state
I was at a wedding with my father the other night and had more trouble with my clothes than I have ever had in my whole life, that famous time where my buttons kept popping open notwithstanding. (That story later in this blog, I promise.) It was a Sunday evening and the outing had been planned for some days. It was a must-do, social obligation and all that good stuff. So, in spite of stinkingly bad colds and coughs, something decent to watch on television (which has to be the lamest excuse ever!) and little inclination to dress up, put on makeup and heels and go out for dinner long after dinner is usually done and dusted in our house, we did just that. Father was natty in his silk kurta, while I did my best to look grown up and dignified in a flame-orange and gold silk sari.
The sari was one we had bought many, many years earlier, for a stage performance of some classical dance creation in which I was playing a reluctant role, mercifully fairly minor. It had been folded and stitched up and then unstitched and ironed out, with the requisite amount of sweat and swearing. So it had been through the wars, in a manner of speaking, and certainly deserved to be retired. We had bought it at a popular sari store in South Bombay (should I say ‘Mumbai’ and be politically correct, or ‘Bombay’ and be happy?) that was known for its annual sales that were so crowded with wall-to-wall women that neither my mother nor I ever had the courage to venture within. When we went, we had the shop practically all to ourselves and the salesman had outdone himself in the oiliness department. We bought this one as being most stage worthy and innocuous as far as glitter was concerned, a sari that could be worn later on a more normal occasion like a wedding or a concert. It had the shine the stage demanded, but not the vulgarity and showiness that we disliked. And after that one use, it had stayed in my mother’s closet for an unaccountably long time.
But this particular wedding needed a touch more obvious glitz than my usual lack of it. So I planned long ahead of time, checked the saris for the right one, found it, tried on the blouse and had it altered to fit my ever changing shape and believed I was all set and ready to get dressed for the day…evening. Somewhere along the way, both my father (who is very savvy about these things, having had two women in his family to watch and deal with) and I forgot one important aspect of the whole thing – to check the sari. In blissful ignorance, the interval between discovery and use soon passed. It was time to get ready. My jewellery was set out, my makeup was put on, my heels were tested and the cat was soothed. Now to get dressed.
The blouse fit nicely, the petticoat was perfect. I unfolded the nicely ironed sari and started winding it around me. Tucking in the bits and pieces, I pulled gently to level it at the floor. There was an ominous ripping sound and I felt a tiny tear develop in the wideness of the border that was wrapped around my waist. Oops, I thought to myself, now that will need darning. And paid no more attention to it. But gradually, as the evening wound on, more of the heavy gold border started shredding. Ever so gently, ever so silently (or else there was too much noise at the venue for me to hear anything. Which was a good thing, since no one else could hear it either!), I was developing an avant garde drape that could have been outré a couple of years ago, straight off the Paris runways. Mercifully, there was enough fabric for me to manage to hide every tear that I could see. What I could not find, I did not worry about, I had enough to make my sartorial senses go into a paranoid tizzy.
That sari is now history. Tragically, the silk of the body is fine…or is it? So fate and fashion will take the length of fabric in hand and help me create something wearable from the flame-orange yardage, which is really all that can remain after that particular disaster. But that, too, will need to be carefully checked before it is planned for. Another fashion flop will undo me, literally!
(PS: Some years ago I was at a Miss India show wearing a lovely cream tussar kurta haute from the studio of a reputed designer. Every few minutes, the buttons would pop free of their tiny silk loops and leave various bits of me intriguingly almost on display. Luckily a friend was on ‘button watch’ for me and managed to preserve what was left of my modesty. The outfit has not been worn since, but has had its button-blooper repaired.)
The sari was one we had bought many, many years earlier, for a stage performance of some classical dance creation in which I was playing a reluctant role, mercifully fairly minor. It had been folded and stitched up and then unstitched and ironed out, with the requisite amount of sweat and swearing. So it had been through the wars, in a manner of speaking, and certainly deserved to be retired. We had bought it at a popular sari store in South Bombay (should I say ‘Mumbai’ and be politically correct, or ‘Bombay’ and be happy?) that was known for its annual sales that were so crowded with wall-to-wall women that neither my mother nor I ever had the courage to venture within. When we went, we had the shop practically all to ourselves and the salesman had outdone himself in the oiliness department. We bought this one as being most stage worthy and innocuous as far as glitter was concerned, a sari that could be worn later on a more normal occasion like a wedding or a concert. It had the shine the stage demanded, but not the vulgarity and showiness that we disliked. And after that one use, it had stayed in my mother’s closet for an unaccountably long time.
But this particular wedding needed a touch more obvious glitz than my usual lack of it. So I planned long ahead of time, checked the saris for the right one, found it, tried on the blouse and had it altered to fit my ever changing shape and believed I was all set and ready to get dressed for the day…evening. Somewhere along the way, both my father (who is very savvy about these things, having had two women in his family to watch and deal with) and I forgot one important aspect of the whole thing – to check the sari. In blissful ignorance, the interval between discovery and use soon passed. It was time to get ready. My jewellery was set out, my makeup was put on, my heels were tested and the cat was soothed. Now to get dressed.
The blouse fit nicely, the petticoat was perfect. I unfolded the nicely ironed sari and started winding it around me. Tucking in the bits and pieces, I pulled gently to level it at the floor. There was an ominous ripping sound and I felt a tiny tear develop in the wideness of the border that was wrapped around my waist. Oops, I thought to myself, now that will need darning. And paid no more attention to it. But gradually, as the evening wound on, more of the heavy gold border started shredding. Ever so gently, ever so silently (or else there was too much noise at the venue for me to hear anything. Which was a good thing, since no one else could hear it either!), I was developing an avant garde drape that could have been outré a couple of years ago, straight off the Paris runways. Mercifully, there was enough fabric for me to manage to hide every tear that I could see. What I could not find, I did not worry about, I had enough to make my sartorial senses go into a paranoid tizzy.
That sari is now history. Tragically, the silk of the body is fine…or is it? So fate and fashion will take the length of fabric in hand and help me create something wearable from the flame-orange yardage, which is really all that can remain after that particular disaster. But that, too, will need to be carefully checked before it is planned for. Another fashion flop will undo me, literally!
(PS: Some years ago I was at a Miss India show wearing a lovely cream tussar kurta haute from the studio of a reputed designer. Every few minutes, the buttons would pop free of their tiny silk loops and leave various bits of me intriguingly almost on display. Luckily a friend was on ‘button watch’ for me and managed to preserve what was left of my modesty. The outfit has not been worn since, but has had its button-blooper repaired.)
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Remember the time...
I have been thinking about this one for a while now. I had all my phrases planned, my pauses calculated. And then it struck me that that would be as hypocritical as all the hype that I profess to hate. So instead of writing about whatever happened a year ago and how it is being dealt with now, I decided instead to give thanks. And this is what I must say a big thank you for...
For being alive and well. I am, I hope to stay that way. Those who are really important to me are still with me, and I hope they stay that way too. I pray for nothing these days, but I hope I can keep those I have with me, those I need, in physical reality, alive, well, whole and happy, for a long time to come. Since my wishes tend to be in five-year cycles, at least five years is a good start. Aim for that, hope for a lot more. Hey, you up there, the power that is, are you listening?
For being fed and clothed and housed. There are so many who are struggling with the everyday smallnesses of living. So far, I have managed never to be in that situation, thanks to those who stand by me and thanks to my own destiny and my own strengths. I hope that it stays that way for ever.
For being happy. I am a happy person in essence. I like seeing the good in people, in things, in times, in situations. Sometimes that becomes impossible and I go from being happy to being not at all happy. Which in itself makes me not at all happy. So I hope to stay happy. I hope that there will always be laughter and joy and that spirit in me that shows me good over bad, that shows me the way to find that goodness no matter what I am living through.
For being me. I like who I am, after a long time of not knowing who that "I" is. I thank everyone who has made me ME, from my parents to my life, to the power that is to my circumstances, to all the decisions I have ever made, good or bad. And, at the risk of sounding like an endless speech I could make at the Oscars, I hope there is more of the good stuff and very little of the bad stuff to come in the rest of my life.
It is Thanksgiving in some parts of the world. I give thanks for it all...
For being alive and well. I am, I hope to stay that way. Those who are really important to me are still with me, and I hope they stay that way too. I pray for nothing these days, but I hope I can keep those I have with me, those I need, in physical reality, alive, well, whole and happy, for a long time to come. Since my wishes tend to be in five-year cycles, at least five years is a good start. Aim for that, hope for a lot more. Hey, you up there, the power that is, are you listening?
For being fed and clothed and housed. There are so many who are struggling with the everyday smallnesses of living. So far, I have managed never to be in that situation, thanks to those who stand by me and thanks to my own destiny and my own strengths. I hope that it stays that way for ever.
For being happy. I am a happy person in essence. I like seeing the good in people, in things, in times, in situations. Sometimes that becomes impossible and I go from being happy to being not at all happy. Which in itself makes me not at all happy. So I hope to stay happy. I hope that there will always be laughter and joy and that spirit in me that shows me good over bad, that shows me the way to find that goodness no matter what I am living through.
For being me. I like who I am, after a long time of not knowing who that "I" is. I thank everyone who has made me ME, from my parents to my life, to the power that is to my circumstances, to all the decisions I have ever made, good or bad. And, at the risk of sounding like an endless speech I could make at the Oscars, I hope there is more of the good stuff and very little of the bad stuff to come in the rest of my life.
It is Thanksgiving in some parts of the world. I give thanks for it all...
Friday, November 20, 2009
Body language
I was at a dance performance at the National Centre for Performing Arts last night. It was a social event as much as it was an artistic one, with lots of hugging and kissing and high-pitchedly happy greetings breaking the silence of the vast and usually serene lobby of the auditorium. It had been a long time since we had been there to watch a show and it felt wonderfully familiar even as my feet protested the conjunction of deeply plush carpet and four inch stiletto heels with every step. We were, as almost always, very early, and sat on a studded leather seat watching the world cruise gently past…until the frenzy began.
The show was Sharira, the last created by Chandralekha, she of the flowing silver hair and huge bindi, darkly kolhed eyes and black sari. I had seen only a couple of works by her – the iconic Leelavati being my absolute favourite – and was looking forward to this one. I knew it would probably be mysterious in theme and fabulous in physicality and was interested to know more about a production that had come so long after the ones that I had watched, not wholly understood, but was fascinated by. Also, perhaps the best part, I did not have to watch it to write about it or its creator or, in fact, anything at all. And it was indeed worth the drive into town and the change out of comfortable home-wear pajamas into a more visually-appealing sari, complete with makeup, jewellery and, of course, the heels.
The show began almost on time, with some talking – by the deceptively slim lady who seemed to be part of the NCPA, Pinakin Patel, the small and seemingly mercurial “sponsor”, a well known architect formerly based in Mumbai and Dashrath Patel, the artist (for lack of any other single word to describe his craft which includes photography, painting, sculpture…) in whose honour the event was being staged. A very old man held up by a cane and a couple of devoted arms, he spoke of memories and experiences, people and times that most of us watching and listening would want to hear more of but identify with perhaps very little. There was a blithe spirit in the gentleman, a briskness that belied his years and his weaknesses. He was funny and touching, sharp and wandering, all at the same time. Why don’t they let him be, I wondered, even as I applauded his demands for attention with his very being and his small bites of wit.
The performance had its own vocabulary, only some of which made sense to me. There were just two ‘dancers’, Tishani Doshi and Sabu John, woman and man, each playing a part as an individual even as they coordinated perfectly in their dialogue on stage. As with all of Chandralekha’s creations, the bodies were perfectly trained, honed, controlled, each movement precise and slow, speaking along the arc from start to finish. This was a virtuoso ‘dance’ that seemed to bring in the process of creation, of cosmic power, of the principle that unites man and woman even as it differentiates between the two. There was a power struggle on even as each person displayed a strength and allowed a domination.
What it was all about, what was being said, I could not explain, since I did not understand, but the overall communication between the performers and me was that it was the various forms of power and interaction, creativity and awareness, with sensuality and sexuality, each playing off the other and thereby giving both a new level of existence. Was there a story being told? Not obviously, no. Was there a theme? Not that I could figure. Was there a meaning? It escaped me. But there was a beauty, a grace, a fabulous control and an almost-otherworldly power – the only way I can describe it – that came off that couple doing slow and strong movements of body and, presumably, mind, on the stage.
Sharira was, for me, a fresh awareness. A knowledge that there was a life outside my small world, a life that I was once part of and consciously retreated from. And it became a tiny seed of wanting, to regain at least a little of that previous self that I knew made me more complete. This time, with my rules.
The show was Sharira, the last created by Chandralekha, she of the flowing silver hair and huge bindi, darkly kolhed eyes and black sari. I had seen only a couple of works by her – the iconic Leelavati being my absolute favourite – and was looking forward to this one. I knew it would probably be mysterious in theme and fabulous in physicality and was interested to know more about a production that had come so long after the ones that I had watched, not wholly understood, but was fascinated by. Also, perhaps the best part, I did not have to watch it to write about it or its creator or, in fact, anything at all. And it was indeed worth the drive into town and the change out of comfortable home-wear pajamas into a more visually-appealing sari, complete with makeup, jewellery and, of course, the heels.
The show began almost on time, with some talking – by the deceptively slim lady who seemed to be part of the NCPA, Pinakin Patel, the small and seemingly mercurial “sponsor”, a well known architect formerly based in Mumbai and Dashrath Patel, the artist (for lack of any other single word to describe his craft which includes photography, painting, sculpture…) in whose honour the event was being staged. A very old man held up by a cane and a couple of devoted arms, he spoke of memories and experiences, people and times that most of us watching and listening would want to hear more of but identify with perhaps very little. There was a blithe spirit in the gentleman, a briskness that belied his years and his weaknesses. He was funny and touching, sharp and wandering, all at the same time. Why don’t they let him be, I wondered, even as I applauded his demands for attention with his very being and his small bites of wit.
The performance had its own vocabulary, only some of which made sense to me. There were just two ‘dancers’, Tishani Doshi and Sabu John, woman and man, each playing a part as an individual even as they coordinated perfectly in their dialogue on stage. As with all of Chandralekha’s creations, the bodies were perfectly trained, honed, controlled, each movement precise and slow, speaking along the arc from start to finish. This was a virtuoso ‘dance’ that seemed to bring in the process of creation, of cosmic power, of the principle that unites man and woman even as it differentiates between the two. There was a power struggle on even as each person displayed a strength and allowed a domination.
What it was all about, what was being said, I could not explain, since I did not understand, but the overall communication between the performers and me was that it was the various forms of power and interaction, creativity and awareness, with sensuality and sexuality, each playing off the other and thereby giving both a new level of existence. Was there a story being told? Not obviously, no. Was there a theme? Not that I could figure. Was there a meaning? It escaped me. But there was a beauty, a grace, a fabulous control and an almost-otherworldly power – the only way I can describe it – that came off that couple doing slow and strong movements of body and, presumably, mind, on the stage.
Sharira was, for me, a fresh awareness. A knowledge that there was a life outside my small world, a life that I was once part of and consciously retreated from. And it became a tiny seed of wanting, to regain at least a little of that previous self that I knew made me more complete. This time, with my rules.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The Dogs of Wall
(This was published today in TOI's new Crest edition. Written in almost 20 minutes, perhaps less...!)
Many years ago, in a time that feels now like it was another life, we lived in Germany. It was West Germany then, a clearly distinguished part of the world very separate in almost every way from the other Germany, the place known as ‘East’. Between the two was a vast realm where nightmare ruled and red-eyed dogs patrolled on leashes held tight by hard-eyed soldiers, where life was a matter of belonging to the place from where escape was vital or to where escape had to be made. In our small village, high in the hills and nestled into the Black Forest, a small suburb of Heidelberg, life was sunny, the bread was fresh and crusty, the bank manager was amiable and the walk to school wound through the woods where the biggest danger may have been the rare wild boar or wolf, of which more was heard than seen.
I was very young then, my memories of that time and place more impressions than actual data. I had heard vaguely of the great divide between east and west, but believed it to be something that happened to someone else, me and mine undisturbed by its reality. And then we traveled across that rift for the first time. Father had to attend a conference, Mother and I would go with him, as we always did. Packed into our car, German-made, German-registered, with German number plates…West German. The autobahns were as clear, clean and efficient as only the Germans could create. The traffic marvelously disciplined, the super-fast lane a speedway for cars I only now can appreciate – Audis, Porsches, Ferraris. The turn-off for Berlin and the East was significant only because Mother suddenly said an audible prayer and asked me to sit up straight. The city was lively, lights on and traffic buzzing. And then there was a more careful control. Checkpoint Charlie. As Indians, we had no restrictions; as Herr Professor with a reputed institute, Father was entitled to an obvious respect. But rules were rules.
The evening was cold. The car was examined carefully. There was nothing underneath and no one hidden behind the seats or in the boot. But there was something: We had the wrong kind of number plates. They had to be changed. Father was outside, doing things with a screwdriver. We sat, Mother and I, in a small and very cold room, where the man behind the desk was not unfriendly, but hardly encouraging. Mother’s hand was cold, I was curious. At barely ten years old, it made little sense. Peering through the window into the deepening dark, I dimly saw high walls. Along the top wound rolls of barbed wire, punctuated by what looked like small houses – you could see the silhouettes of a couple of men in each; they were holding guns, I was told later. Outside, guards walked purposefully past, dogs pacing by their sides. Once it was all over, we drove across what was called No-Man’s Land, where many had died, I learned much later at a museum exhibit in the United States, trying to run away from the repressive world that was the East to a more gemutlich one in the West.
We lived in Germany when the Wall was still a symbol of division - in lifestyle, opportunity, economy and, of course, philosophy, apart from politics. At that time, there were two distinct Germanies, two vastly different lives. We travelled through Checkpoint Charlie a number of times and my very young memory still sees moments of watching the dogs and the soldiers march grimly along that narrow divide between the two nations. Having mirrors rolled under the car and the seats pulled out and poked to see if anyone was inside when crossing into Czechoslovakia, as it was then, or having our luggage turned inside out while going into Hungary, for instance, was not as dark an experience. My kiddie vision of the wall was not a graffiti-laden stretch, but grey brick, cold and truly nightmarish.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Voice over
So, back to the Kala Ghoda (mini) Festival…
It was a long evening and my feet hurt. But somehow the adrenaline had taken over and I could not feel anything (no, not even my aching feet, unless I thought about them) beyond the humid warmth of the evening and the beat of the music pounding somewhere deep inside me. I had run up and down the high stairs of the amphitheatre so many times that I could do it with my eyes closed (and me with fairly severe vertigo, too!), and knew my script for the compeering stint I was doing almost by heart, allowing for an occasional pause for a comma or to swallow a cough. Once in my car for the drive back home, I could feel the entire sequence of events go through me, from the moment I started getting dressed at home to the time I walked to the car after a nice dinner and a hug from a close friend I had dined with. And somehow it all ended up at my feet, which throbbed in parts and reveled in the highness and sharpness of my heels in others.
The fashion show was to be at 7 pm that evening. At 3, when I was leaving my home to drive into town, I was vaguely sleepy and not sure I wanted to get into whatever I had got into. But having got into it, I had to honour my commitment and stay with the programme. The ride was punctuated by regular calls from the store I was helping with the show, asking where I was with rising levels of hysteria with each conversation. Finally, I was there and bounced happily up the stairs that I have a tendency to fall up and in through the glass door, to be greeted in various pitches by various people in various degrees of panic. There was a rehearsal in progress, with many of the models not sure where they should be, which side they should face and what their next move should be. Some were in advances stages of makeup, with strangely ghostly faces glowing pink and beige, unlike anything real and human. Under the arc-lights they would look very pretty, but in the afternoon sun filtering through the windows of the space, they seemed like visitors from another planet.
I played Mother Hen quite happily. One girl was almost in tears because of something the manager had said the previous night. Another had no idea what to do after she had finished the second turn and was forgetting how she got to where she was standing every time the choreographer yelled at her for being there two beats too long. Two of them looked so grim that they could have fit right in at a retrenchment meeting , while a couple of others stood morosely around wondering when they would get something to eat. I wandered about wondering what I was doing there, but oddly enough enjoying the chaos; it was like the days when I danced on stage, and spent many moments feeling like the only oasis of calm and sanity in a world that was rapidly descending into hell flavoured by hysterics.
Finally, the show began. In the sound box at the very top of the amphitheatre I was positioned just behind and to the right of the sound engineer, my fingers ready to tap him on the shoulder every time I wanted the music turned down. The other hand multitasked – holding on to my script, waiting to tap the light-man on HIS shoulder when I needed the spotlight on or off and the stage in darkness, hanging on to my purse that dangled from arm and holding on to the rail to keep my head from spinning itself off my neck at such a steep height away from street level. My slippers were off and placed neatly on the step behind me, my bare soles feeling every tiny pebble under them as I stood there. The dance performance in progress on the stage ended, applause crashed out echoes against the stone blocks of the amphitheatre and I got my cue…
The commentary went smoothly. I managed not to stumble over my carefully crafted words, no cough burst into my sentences and everything worked as it should have, even with an unexpected demand from backstage to keep talking since the girls were not ready for the next sequence. One set of garments gave way to the next, each segueing neatly into the other. There were, of course, glitches – one girl went in the wrong direction after a central turn, leaving her partner standing on one leg for a small moment, not sure where to walk to. Two of the girls collided gently somewhere in the middle, but recovered fast and continued their sashay along their designated paths. And a model-designer finished her sequence with incredible sangfroid and professionalism even as her husband collapsed in the audience with a serious health problem.
As soon as it was over, I thanked my new-found friends in the sound box and bounced down the stairs, bag in one hand and slippers in the other. Once on the road, I put on my heels and ran – the pain was not being felt yet – across to the greenroom to check on the girls. They were ecstatic, laughing and exclaiming at their success. I was hugged by the store owner, the manager, the choreographer, the models…perhaps even by an unknown gentleman who seemed very happy to be part of the group, no matter who he was and what he was doing there. It had been a long day, and I would probably regret parts of it when I had time to think about it all, but for that moment, I was pleased with life. It was time to meet my friend, get my hug and giggle over a quick dinner….
It was a long evening and my feet hurt. But somehow the adrenaline had taken over and I could not feel anything (no, not even my aching feet, unless I thought about them) beyond the humid warmth of the evening and the beat of the music pounding somewhere deep inside me. I had run up and down the high stairs of the amphitheatre so many times that I could do it with my eyes closed (and me with fairly severe vertigo, too!), and knew my script for the compeering stint I was doing almost by heart, allowing for an occasional pause for a comma or to swallow a cough. Once in my car for the drive back home, I could feel the entire sequence of events go through me, from the moment I started getting dressed at home to the time I walked to the car after a nice dinner and a hug from a close friend I had dined with. And somehow it all ended up at my feet, which throbbed in parts and reveled in the highness and sharpness of my heels in others.
The fashion show was to be at 7 pm that evening. At 3, when I was leaving my home to drive into town, I was vaguely sleepy and not sure I wanted to get into whatever I had got into. But having got into it, I had to honour my commitment and stay with the programme. The ride was punctuated by regular calls from the store I was helping with the show, asking where I was with rising levels of hysteria with each conversation. Finally, I was there and bounced happily up the stairs that I have a tendency to fall up and in through the glass door, to be greeted in various pitches by various people in various degrees of panic. There was a rehearsal in progress, with many of the models not sure where they should be, which side they should face and what their next move should be. Some were in advances stages of makeup, with strangely ghostly faces glowing pink and beige, unlike anything real and human. Under the arc-lights they would look very pretty, but in the afternoon sun filtering through the windows of the space, they seemed like visitors from another planet.
I played Mother Hen quite happily. One girl was almost in tears because of something the manager had said the previous night. Another had no idea what to do after she had finished the second turn and was forgetting how she got to where she was standing every time the choreographer yelled at her for being there two beats too long. Two of them looked so grim that they could have fit right in at a retrenchment meeting , while a couple of others stood morosely around wondering when they would get something to eat. I wandered about wondering what I was doing there, but oddly enough enjoying the chaos; it was like the days when I danced on stage, and spent many moments feeling like the only oasis of calm and sanity in a world that was rapidly descending into hell flavoured by hysterics.
Finally, the show began. In the sound box at the very top of the amphitheatre I was positioned just behind and to the right of the sound engineer, my fingers ready to tap him on the shoulder every time I wanted the music turned down. The other hand multitasked – holding on to my script, waiting to tap the light-man on HIS shoulder when I needed the spotlight on or off and the stage in darkness, hanging on to my purse that dangled from arm and holding on to the rail to keep my head from spinning itself off my neck at such a steep height away from street level. My slippers were off and placed neatly on the step behind me, my bare soles feeling every tiny pebble under them as I stood there. The dance performance in progress on the stage ended, applause crashed out echoes against the stone blocks of the amphitheatre and I got my cue…
The commentary went smoothly. I managed not to stumble over my carefully crafted words, no cough burst into my sentences and everything worked as it should have, even with an unexpected demand from backstage to keep talking since the girls were not ready for the next sequence. One set of garments gave way to the next, each segueing neatly into the other. There were, of course, glitches – one girl went in the wrong direction after a central turn, leaving her partner standing on one leg for a small moment, not sure where to walk to. Two of the girls collided gently somewhere in the middle, but recovered fast and continued their sashay along their designated paths. And a model-designer finished her sequence with incredible sangfroid and professionalism even as her husband collapsed in the audience with a serious health problem.
As soon as it was over, I thanked my new-found friends in the sound box and bounced down the stairs, bag in one hand and slippers in the other. Once on the road, I put on my heels and ran – the pain was not being felt yet – across to the greenroom to check on the girls. They were ecstatic, laughing and exclaiming at their success. I was hugged by the store owner, the manager, the choreographer, the models…perhaps even by an unknown gentleman who seemed very happy to be part of the group, no matter who he was and what he was doing there. It had been a long day, and I would probably regret parts of it when I had time to think about it all, but for that moment, I was pleased with life. It was time to meet my friend, get my hug and giggle over a quick dinner….
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Fashion statements
The mini version of the Kala Ghoda Festival is on in Mumbai at the moment. I have always wanted to wander through venue – regular or pint-sized – since it is now such an integral part of the city I call home and I have always wanted to see what pulls people into it. Is it all sales and interesting artifacts (apart from the ticky tacky tourist traps), or does it really showcase the history of one of Mumbai’s most significant and well-tended precincts? But aside from driving through occasionally and muttering rudely about traffic control and the lack of parking space in an already crowded area, I have done little to find out more about the event. This time, however, things were slightly different. I was dragged into becoming a tiny part of it, courtesy friends and am still not sure whether I approved of the whole shebang or whether I should stay as far away from it in the future as I have done in the past.
It began with a visit to one of the stores I frequent. It is a small boutique that specializes in traditional Indian crafts with a spin into contemporary styling where the clothes are concerned. The way I see it is simple: if I can find something to wear that is modern and global, yes uniquely reflective of the country I belong to, I prefer it to the anonymous brands that I can find in any store of the chain anywhere in the world. Makes sense, no? Anyway, I occasionally find the work of designers who serendipitously create the kind of style I like and so troll the shelves of the small space every now and then. Apart from which, as does tend to happen, I have made friends with the folks who run the store, and am always given a fond and friendly welcome, never mind whether I buy or no. So when they asked whether I would participate in their share of the festival, I agreed, with a little digging-in-of-heels just because that is the way I am.
You will model for us, the lady said with great confidence. Oh no, I disagreed, I am not in the right shape and am too shy. But it will be great, she argued, you have lost so much weight and look really good these days. And this is not a professional show, it is for real women. Which means women with curves, sometimes rather more generous than is forgivable. I still refused. But I did agree to compere the show, to make sure that I did a suitable patter for the event. The threat of being cajoled into wearing the store’s fashions and walking around on stage loomed. Then, as always, Fate stepped in, this time to save me. I got the flu, fairly severely, with the accompanying cold and cough that lingers even now. There was no way I could do a walk in front of so many people, no way I could practice for the show along with a group of girls who would also be models. The lingering question was answered – I would do the commentary, but not be a clotheshorse. God bless Fate!
I got my brief and prepared my ‘speech’. The day before the actual event I was at the store for a rehearsal. The racks were cleared away, the small space was stretched to its limits and the girls gathered, each facing her own demons and having her own special crises. I watched, feeling rather superfluous, until I found myself – to my own horror, I have to admit, because I prefer to stay away from emotion until it bashes its way into my head – playing mother hen, aunty, counselor, advisor and general dogsbody. There were tears and mini-tantrums, angsts and anger, all spilling out in a glorious vent of exhaustion, ego, inferiority and intense longing to be better than the rest. Just be yourself and enjoy what you are doing, I suggested, forget that it is a serious task you are undertaking and just have fun. Don’t worry about what who said when, I patted someone’s shoulder, these things happen in moments of stress. Smile, I threw at them all, don’t look like you are doing something grim and ghastly. It was Halloween that night, I forgot, or else I would have used that to make them less uptight. Soon I was the person holding the safety pins and Kleenex, finding solutions to little problems and providing consolation and an occasional cold shower when words rang loud and harsh.
The rehearsal itself began. There was one sequence where a group of overly generously proportioned women walked at a funereal pace in dazzlingly ugly clothes. My giggles threatened to burst out of the confines of good manners and spill into a room silenced by the sheer outrage of it all. Another routine had me looking pointedly down at my feet as models – the would-be Naomi Campbells and Kate Mosses of the Kala Ghoda mini fest – scuttled around getting in each other’s way and forgetting their poses. The choreographer clutched her aching head in despair, the manager yelled, swore and vowed never to use amateurs again and the owner held my hand and muttered anguish into my ear. I coughed sadly, still pushing semi-hysterical laughter back into myself, and soon ran out, telling everyone I would see them the next day.
It began with a visit to one of the stores I frequent. It is a small boutique that specializes in traditional Indian crafts with a spin into contemporary styling where the clothes are concerned. The way I see it is simple: if I can find something to wear that is modern and global, yes uniquely reflective of the country I belong to, I prefer it to the anonymous brands that I can find in any store of the chain anywhere in the world. Makes sense, no? Anyway, I occasionally find the work of designers who serendipitously create the kind of style I like and so troll the shelves of the small space every now and then. Apart from which, as does tend to happen, I have made friends with the folks who run the store, and am always given a fond and friendly welcome, never mind whether I buy or no. So when they asked whether I would participate in their share of the festival, I agreed, with a little digging-in-of-heels just because that is the way I am.
You will model for us, the lady said with great confidence. Oh no, I disagreed, I am not in the right shape and am too shy. But it will be great, she argued, you have lost so much weight and look really good these days. And this is not a professional show, it is for real women. Which means women with curves, sometimes rather more generous than is forgivable. I still refused. But I did agree to compere the show, to make sure that I did a suitable patter for the event. The threat of being cajoled into wearing the store’s fashions and walking around on stage loomed. Then, as always, Fate stepped in, this time to save me. I got the flu, fairly severely, with the accompanying cold and cough that lingers even now. There was no way I could do a walk in front of so many people, no way I could practice for the show along with a group of girls who would also be models. The lingering question was answered – I would do the commentary, but not be a clotheshorse. God bless Fate!
I got my brief and prepared my ‘speech’. The day before the actual event I was at the store for a rehearsal. The racks were cleared away, the small space was stretched to its limits and the girls gathered, each facing her own demons and having her own special crises. I watched, feeling rather superfluous, until I found myself – to my own horror, I have to admit, because I prefer to stay away from emotion until it bashes its way into my head – playing mother hen, aunty, counselor, advisor and general dogsbody. There were tears and mini-tantrums, angsts and anger, all spilling out in a glorious vent of exhaustion, ego, inferiority and intense longing to be better than the rest. Just be yourself and enjoy what you are doing, I suggested, forget that it is a serious task you are undertaking and just have fun. Don’t worry about what who said when, I patted someone’s shoulder, these things happen in moments of stress. Smile, I threw at them all, don’t look like you are doing something grim and ghastly. It was Halloween that night, I forgot, or else I would have used that to make them less uptight. Soon I was the person holding the safety pins and Kleenex, finding solutions to little problems and providing consolation and an occasional cold shower when words rang loud and harsh.
The rehearsal itself began. There was one sequence where a group of overly generously proportioned women walked at a funereal pace in dazzlingly ugly clothes. My giggles threatened to burst out of the confines of good manners and spill into a room silenced by the sheer outrage of it all. Another routine had me looking pointedly down at my feet as models – the would-be Naomi Campbells and Kate Mosses of the Kala Ghoda mini fest – scuttled around getting in each other’s way and forgetting their poses. The choreographer clutched her aching head in despair, the manager yelled, swore and vowed never to use amateurs again and the owner held my hand and muttered anguish into my ear. I coughed sadly, still pushing semi-hysterical laughter back into myself, and soon ran out, telling everyone I would see them the next day.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Light it up!
It is almost Diwali – in fact, the five-day long festival starts today. I like it, especially with the small lights dancing in windows all over the city. When they are electric lights, they are steady, constant, sometimes ‘running’ along the strings in a kind of disco effect. When they are oil-fired, there is a different and almost ageless beauty about them, as if they exist in some parallel world where life is slower and softer, with elephants instead of taxicabs and women in gorgeous silks and long, jasmine-scented hair. And even as the disco lights go on, sparking the nights with their ceaseless and syncopated rhythm of on-off-on-off, the darkened sky, the fireworks begin. From the shattering sounds of bombs blasting echoes against skyrises to the flash of rockets firing towards the treetops to the spray of colour that illuminates the horizon…it’s all about celebration, sound, light and prayer to invite in the gods and drive out evil.
And the lamp sellers are out in force all over the place. This morning, wandering through the market a few blocks from home, I saw small pottery diyas in so many different shapes and sizes. From the tiniest of cups to cradle a little oil and a wick to an elaborate configuration of seven lamps held together by a decorative peacock, it was all available on the sidewalk, the road, on small carts and on the steps of a large department store. From the plainest base terracotta to vividly painted patterns in red, green, yellow, pink, even fluorescent lime and purple…name it and you could match your lamps to anything – your eyes, your carpets, your paintwork, your deepest fantasies. Just ask and you shall find.
My favourite lamps have always been the purely traditional. The brass stem that branches into curves that support small lamps, the decorative bird or busty woman who stands at the very top, the floral carvings along the base, the burst of light as all the wicks are lit – all this comes from my roots as an Indian, a South Indian at that, cultured for generations in a bath of dance, music, prayer, ritual and the oil lamps that illuminate it all. But along the way I have also collected some lights that are in no way traditional. Blown glass cups to hold oil with a narrow stem to support the wick, curved silver ending in a bowl touched by gold where the flame burns steady, a tiny set of steps with an even tinier Ganesha peeking into the light, a small Jewish clay lamp, ball lamps that are a nightmare to clean, wee copper indentations that hold oil and wick…there are a few I like, a few I treasure and one or two that mean more than I can express in mere words. They are all now part of my heritage, my history, my legacy. And what make up the world of light that I always wish to be mine.
And the lamp sellers are out in force all over the place. This morning, wandering through the market a few blocks from home, I saw small pottery diyas in so many different shapes and sizes. From the tiniest of cups to cradle a little oil and a wick to an elaborate configuration of seven lamps held together by a decorative peacock, it was all available on the sidewalk, the road, on small carts and on the steps of a large department store. From the plainest base terracotta to vividly painted patterns in red, green, yellow, pink, even fluorescent lime and purple…name it and you could match your lamps to anything – your eyes, your carpets, your paintwork, your deepest fantasies. Just ask and you shall find.
My favourite lamps have always been the purely traditional. The brass stem that branches into curves that support small lamps, the decorative bird or busty woman who stands at the very top, the floral carvings along the base, the burst of light as all the wicks are lit – all this comes from my roots as an Indian, a South Indian at that, cultured for generations in a bath of dance, music, prayer, ritual and the oil lamps that illuminate it all. But along the way I have also collected some lights that are in no way traditional. Blown glass cups to hold oil with a narrow stem to support the wick, curved silver ending in a bowl touched by gold where the flame burns steady, a tiny set of steps with an even tinier Ganesha peeking into the light, a small Jewish clay lamp, ball lamps that are a nightmare to clean, wee copper indentations that hold oil and wick…there are a few I like, a few I treasure and one or two that mean more than I can express in mere words. They are all now part of my heritage, my history, my legacy. And what make up the world of light that I always wish to be mine.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Come together!
When I first heard that Beatles classic, I was not aware that it had ramifications that were not as straightforward as I could make myself believe. Not then. Now I know, having had it pointed out to me by various people that life is not as clear and clean as I thought it was, that smut and innuendo is just part of the everyday game. Any which way, I choose to ignore almost all the seaminess and focus on what I want to see, rather than what there is to see. And at some stage, whenever, however soon or late in the game, it all comes together in one coherent image, making a statement of fact rather than imagination.
I was thinking these rather philosophical thoughts in the kitchen this morning, as I washed up the mugs used for morning coffee – or green tea, in my case. Call it kitchen philosophy or idle musing, I was getting deeper into the morass of my own creation when suddenly there was this enormous BURP from the pan of milk I had on the stove to boil. Startled out of my reverie, I looked stovewards and found to my horror that the milk, instead of being at a peaceful simmer, was seething, roiling, bursting into violent upheavals of white froth and iridescent bubbles, splashing over on to the counter and across it to the edge of my outstretched palm. Why I reached towards it I do not know, since I could hardly have imagined myself to be a modern-day feminine version of Canute trying to stop the tide…in vain, of course. But it was perhaps the first time ever that I had watched the process of milk curdling as it boiled, the solids causing the noise and fury of the whole event. Turned off, the pan and its contents were silent, peaceful, nothing to show that there was a Loch Ness-ian monster unleashed by science in my small kitchen.
In the way that the milk solids came together to form cottage cheese in its most basic form, life tends to go through violent upheavals and boils to finally settle into a semblance of delicious serenity. It is, for that moment, a feeling of completion that floods the being, as if the insomniac’s system had been invaded by chemicals that, finally, produced a gentle, undisturbed and restful sleep. My life has certainly been that way at regular intervals. From the most recent disturbance of being diagnosed with certain health problems to these being carefully treated to produce a new balance, from the violent upset of emotions and sensibilities brought up by death to the peace that follows its acceptance, from feeling bereft and alone to re-finding people you believed were important and necessary in your life even if they did not want to be part of it. It all is a process of churning, recreating, almost distilling, that leaves behind only what you want and need, not all the detritus that human relationships tends to throw up over time.
Kitchen philosophy, indeed!
I was thinking these rather philosophical thoughts in the kitchen this morning, as I washed up the mugs used for morning coffee – or green tea, in my case. Call it kitchen philosophy or idle musing, I was getting deeper into the morass of my own creation when suddenly there was this enormous BURP from the pan of milk I had on the stove to boil. Startled out of my reverie, I looked stovewards and found to my horror that the milk, instead of being at a peaceful simmer, was seething, roiling, bursting into violent upheavals of white froth and iridescent bubbles, splashing over on to the counter and across it to the edge of my outstretched palm. Why I reached towards it I do not know, since I could hardly have imagined myself to be a modern-day feminine version of Canute trying to stop the tide…in vain, of course. But it was perhaps the first time ever that I had watched the process of milk curdling as it boiled, the solids causing the noise and fury of the whole event. Turned off, the pan and its contents were silent, peaceful, nothing to show that there was a Loch Ness-ian monster unleashed by science in my small kitchen.
In the way that the milk solids came together to form cottage cheese in its most basic form, life tends to go through violent upheavals and boils to finally settle into a semblance of delicious serenity. It is, for that moment, a feeling of completion that floods the being, as if the insomniac’s system had been invaded by chemicals that, finally, produced a gentle, undisturbed and restful sleep. My life has certainly been that way at regular intervals. From the most recent disturbance of being diagnosed with certain health problems to these being carefully treated to produce a new balance, from the violent upset of emotions and sensibilities brought up by death to the peace that follows its acceptance, from feeling bereft and alone to re-finding people you believed were important and necessary in your life even if they did not want to be part of it. It all is a process of churning, recreating, almost distilling, that leaves behind only what you want and need, not all the detritus that human relationships tends to throw up over time.
Kitchen philosophy, indeed!
Friday, September 18, 2009
Class act
Earlier this week I went to guest-teach a class in a journalism course. I had done it before, many years ago, and have done my share of teaching everything from dance to English to how to deal with recalcitrant veggies in an Indian curry (that was pure fantasy, believe me!) over the years and enjoyed it all thoroughly. So much so that when people told me that I should consider teaching as a side-line to journalism, I did spend a little while thinking about it…and then decided I liked wandering in to classes, spending time with students and then wandering out again, unfettered by the arduous responsibilities of setting exams, correcting papers, formulating assignments and – perhaps worst of all – maintaining a modicum of discipline in young people that I always hated to have imposed on me. In other words, eating my cake and having it too, playing and not putting my toys away, having fun without the fuss of being grown up about it.
So when my friend asked me whether I would be guest lecturer for her class, I agreed. This, in spite of the fact that I was not first choice for it, something that would normally have ticked me off enough to growl peevedly at both friend and idea when we met again…if ever, considering my usual mood about not being asked before anyone else. But this was a close enough friend, this was a fun enough request, and this was indeed something I could enjoy doing with a clear conscience and lots of potential for laughter. So after checking on the dress code – colleges in this city are getting strangely tough on what is considered ‘decent’ clothing – and making sure I was on the same track as my friend and her class, I was up and out bright and early Tuesday morning, with due apologies to my trainer for missing my gym regimen that day and the day before for different reasons. The ride was oddly easy; not much traffic to get my frazzle level up and not too hot to make stepping out of the air-conditioning of the car an unpleasantly sticky chore. We got there in time, cool, calm, collected and casually anticipatory.
Trotting breathlessly up three flights of stairs – blame it on a raging bronchial infection, not my lax gym routine of the week – behind my friend, we came across various young people, most of whom greeted my friend formally but with wide smiles. And as we walked into the large room that served as a classroom, there were more smiles, some with an added helping of curiosity directed at me, obviously a stranger to the place and rather incongruous in that setting, but seemingly part of the décor, for the day at least. I sat quietly as my friend went through her routine of checking attendance for the session, making her comments on those who were not present and putting in a little more warmth for a few that she seemed to have a soft spot for. And then she introduced me…very briefly, as I had asked for.
The class went well, or so I thought. The young people were bright, some more involved in the semester than others, almost all taking the class because it was an ‘easy’ grade perhaps, rather than out of pure interest. A few tried to hide behind their peers, one or two fading into a sort of coma that they hoped would make them invisible, all of them with ears perked as they realized that it was not that simple. After all, I had been a student too, and knew most of the tricks they were trying to use – those never change, I understand, since my parents also told me about them. They seemed to be absorbed, participating, keen to know more. But whether they enjoyed themselves as much as I did…you will have to ask them for that one!
So when my friend asked me whether I would be guest lecturer for her class, I agreed. This, in spite of the fact that I was not first choice for it, something that would normally have ticked me off enough to growl peevedly at both friend and idea when we met again…if ever, considering my usual mood about not being asked before anyone else. But this was a close enough friend, this was a fun enough request, and this was indeed something I could enjoy doing with a clear conscience and lots of potential for laughter. So after checking on the dress code – colleges in this city are getting strangely tough on what is considered ‘decent’ clothing – and making sure I was on the same track as my friend and her class, I was up and out bright and early Tuesday morning, with due apologies to my trainer for missing my gym regimen that day and the day before for different reasons. The ride was oddly easy; not much traffic to get my frazzle level up and not too hot to make stepping out of the air-conditioning of the car an unpleasantly sticky chore. We got there in time, cool, calm, collected and casually anticipatory.
Trotting breathlessly up three flights of stairs – blame it on a raging bronchial infection, not my lax gym routine of the week – behind my friend, we came across various young people, most of whom greeted my friend formally but with wide smiles. And as we walked into the large room that served as a classroom, there were more smiles, some with an added helping of curiosity directed at me, obviously a stranger to the place and rather incongruous in that setting, but seemingly part of the décor, for the day at least. I sat quietly as my friend went through her routine of checking attendance for the session, making her comments on those who were not present and putting in a little more warmth for a few that she seemed to have a soft spot for. And then she introduced me…very briefly, as I had asked for.
The class went well, or so I thought. The young people were bright, some more involved in the semester than others, almost all taking the class because it was an ‘easy’ grade perhaps, rather than out of pure interest. A few tried to hide behind their peers, one or two fading into a sort of coma that they hoped would make them invisible, all of them with ears perked as they realized that it was not that simple. After all, I had been a student too, and knew most of the tricks they were trying to use – those never change, I understand, since my parents also told me about them. They seemed to be absorbed, participating, keen to know more. But whether they enjoyed themselves as much as I did…you will have to ask them for that one!
Monday, September 14, 2009
Gimme red!
(Published yesterday...)
I got my first red lipstick when I was about 14 years old – perhaps a little too young for such a blatantly adult and seductive shade, but vital for a dance performance on stage, where red was about the only colour that looked decent in those brilliant arc lights and served well to show up every nuance of expression on the face and, more specifically, with every quiver of adolescent lips trying to speak of emotions they could not possibly have experienced at the time. The brand that I got was Lakme and the lovely true red did its trick not just for the dance, but for me. I felt grown up and strangely womanly, with a knowledge of dark secrets that every woman should have. Ever since, red has been a bon mot in my lipstick drawer.
Today, as I graze hopefully along the myriad cosmetic counters that stores all over the city have sprouted, I see brands that I once saw only on trips abroad or in fashion glossies. From Dior to Chanel, Clarins to Clinique, colour cosmetics with international labels are de rigueur in almost every make-up kit. And even as foundation and base have overtaken the lipsticks that women favour buying in a time of economic tightness, red lipstick has remained a symbol of almost-defiance, waiting in the fashion wings to re-emerge cyclically at regular intervals but never really vanishing completely. Now every cosmetic company offers up various shades of red in various forms, from liners to glosses, tints to long-stays, with names as seductive as Deborah’s Atomic Red Matte (Rs560), Lakme’s Nine to Five Red Hot (Rs375), Oriflame’s lip gloss crayon in Slightly Scarlet (Rs179) and Vision’s V Vibes Lip Gloss in Hottie (Rs129). There are the vaguely ‘toughie’ versions, most hard to find but well worth the hunt, with Dominatrix Red from Max Factor, Paloma Picasso’s true red ($35) embodied in that wonderful advertisement where she is all wicked red mouth, Rimmel London’s Lasting Finish Lipstick in Alarm, Red Reinvented from Revlon, Lady Danger from MAC, Red Lizard from Nars, Clinique’s long last soft matte Red Hot and Dior’s Red Premiere 752 (numbers always make me wonder what they stand for). All these are poised on shelves cheek by jowl with equivalents from Bourgeois (which you can find in stores here, at fairly high prices, but what lovely products!), Arcancil, Maybelline, Estee Lauder, Elizabeth Arden, Diana of London and others, including the more local Tips and Toes, the once easily available Biotique, and some that have entirely dubious origins and strange labels. There is, of course, stuff from Laura Mercier, Bobbi Brown, Rimmel, Yves St Laurent, and more names than can be articulated by my nicely reddened lips.
It is, I find, not really necessary to pay a lot of money to be beautiful. As dermatologist/cosmetologist Dr Rekha Sheth says, “There are cheaper branded products, since some brands do include less expensive product lines” in their formulation. “The active ingredient could cost less, so the price could come down.” However, she maintains that “Brands are much more reliable. Since the FDA approves the colours used – as in the primary pigment in red lipstick, for one – brands have to follow the set rules,” which does ensure a certain degree of quality control. She does warn that red, especially, can discolour the lips if used constantly. “And there are also too many cheap versions available,” some of which may not be advisable for use.
But, in addition to these cautions, like all things oddly naughty, red lipstick is not easy to wear. It needs to be meticulously applied, with neat liner limiting its outline, since the brilliance of the colour tends to bleed – which could make the user look as if she has had a vampiric feast. It cannot be married to darkly lined eyes unless the user has the chutzpah to carry it off. And it is traditionally a night-time, non-work-wear colour, though it does add a wonderful note of drama and assertiveness to any woman who struts her stuff at the office in it. Every woman should, at least once in a while. And that is not one of her secrets...
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Sneaking around
After about six-plus months in the gym, it is time for that big move for me. New shoes. I did find the right red track pants and I have discovered a cache of T-shirts I never remembered I had, but I never really bothered about shoes, except that they needed to be on the right feet. But then my trusty old sneakers decided that they needed a break, almost literally, and have slowly been disintegrating. It is indeed unfortunate, as I would say in a very formal statement, that just when they are getting to that stage when they are supremely comfortable and are perfect to bash around in, they need to be put aside for walks in the slush or treks to the vegetable market or the like, while new, pristine and probably painful…at least until they have been properly broken in, by which time I would need to start the process all over again…shoes will need to be acquired and carefully looked after.
Having yielded to the inevitable, I decided that I had to take a deep breath and go for it, and hence the research began. I got advice from my trainer and from my soul sister, who is more a gym bunny than I will ever be. Get nicely padded soles, they both mandated, since those would help cushion my knee while I huffed and puffed along on the treadmill or did the dreaded step-ups or marched along solemnly as my gym coach counted – and cheated, and not to my advantage. Get shoes that are supportive of your ankle, Father said, while another friend suggested I aim for footwear that will not only last, but be affordable. Look for red, my inner self demanded, since that is a favourite colour. You better get something that looks good, someone else suggested, or else you will never like your feet while you work out and that is so not happening!
Completely confused, as I am wont to get, I dropped the whole idea for a few months. Until my shoes started protesting and even I could not stand to look down at my feet for too long. Strangely, it was around this time that it seemed as if everyone else in the gym had been shoe shopping and had spanking new sneakers, with lots of bells and whistles and colourful tabs attached. I was vaguely self-conscious and got out the brush and a damp cloth and cleaned up my shoes when I got home. But that was not enough. With every wipe, a little more leather – or was it? – peeled off and instead of getting shinier, the footwear seemed to show up all its shabbier spots. I steeled my inner self to ignore my fashion solecism and went on…running on the treadmill was easier with comfortable shoes, I told myself and huffed another minute longer than my track record (and, yes, breathing heavily does bring out the worst humour in all of us). And then it was inevitable. I could feel things through my soles and along the sides of my shoes. The inside cushioning was wearing out and that was just not a good state to be in. I could feel the impact of each step push a greater amount of pressure through to my hip and with a bad knee, it was not a good thing at all.
So once again the research was begun. For the last few days I have been in and out of more sports shops than I ever did in my whole life, even when I was in college and chilling out at the mall with my soul sister who wears and knows about more sports shoes than I know about red lipstick, which is plenty. While she would step in and out of shoes that you could run in, walk in, aerobicize in, calisthenicize in (yeah, well, I can make up words too, you know!), cycle in (she tends to prefer two wheels to two legs, for some strange reason) and do goodness knows what else in, I would wander off to wiggle my toes in gorgeous footwear that, who knows why, almost always tended to be red, strappy and raised four inches above the ground at the back, lifted on what could have sewn a hem on the finest muslin petticoat. Flat and I were not sole-mates.
But for now, I forge on with my investigations. I have seen more ugly shoes than ever before, with red stripes on grey, pink and blue chevrons, black and purple bubbles (for air, madam, the sales-boy told me a I gazed on in horror) and who knows what else in the way of colour, embellishment and ‘aerodynamic technology’. When I demand a plain white pair with no more than perhaps the manufacturing company logo, I am given all sorts of excuses, from the shoes not being suitable for gym workouts to them not being available in my size – okay, so that one is vaguely credible. And I find that ugliness and price are directly proportional, since the worse the shoes look, the more they seem to cost. But I have not given up or lost my faith in humanity, at least that section of it that designs sports shoes. Somewhere there is a pair of simple, neat, functional and entirely suitable sneakers waiting for me, without any stripes, bands, patches, chevrons or any other decoration, nice padded and cushioned on the inside, perfectly fitting my feet. All I would need to do is try them on and buy them, hopefully to last a while.
My search continues…
Having yielded to the inevitable, I decided that I had to take a deep breath and go for it, and hence the research began. I got advice from my trainer and from my soul sister, who is more a gym bunny than I will ever be. Get nicely padded soles, they both mandated, since those would help cushion my knee while I huffed and puffed along on the treadmill or did the dreaded step-ups or marched along solemnly as my gym coach counted – and cheated, and not to my advantage. Get shoes that are supportive of your ankle, Father said, while another friend suggested I aim for footwear that will not only last, but be affordable. Look for red, my inner self demanded, since that is a favourite colour. You better get something that looks good, someone else suggested, or else you will never like your feet while you work out and that is so not happening!
Completely confused, as I am wont to get, I dropped the whole idea for a few months. Until my shoes started protesting and even I could not stand to look down at my feet for too long. Strangely, it was around this time that it seemed as if everyone else in the gym had been shoe shopping and had spanking new sneakers, with lots of bells and whistles and colourful tabs attached. I was vaguely self-conscious and got out the brush and a damp cloth and cleaned up my shoes when I got home. But that was not enough. With every wipe, a little more leather – or was it? – peeled off and instead of getting shinier, the footwear seemed to show up all its shabbier spots. I steeled my inner self to ignore my fashion solecism and went on…running on the treadmill was easier with comfortable shoes, I told myself and huffed another minute longer than my track record (and, yes, breathing heavily does bring out the worst humour in all of us). And then it was inevitable. I could feel things through my soles and along the sides of my shoes. The inside cushioning was wearing out and that was just not a good state to be in. I could feel the impact of each step push a greater amount of pressure through to my hip and with a bad knee, it was not a good thing at all.
So once again the research was begun. For the last few days I have been in and out of more sports shops than I ever did in my whole life, even when I was in college and chilling out at the mall with my soul sister who wears and knows about more sports shoes than I know about red lipstick, which is plenty. While she would step in and out of shoes that you could run in, walk in, aerobicize in, calisthenicize in (yeah, well, I can make up words too, you know!), cycle in (she tends to prefer two wheels to two legs, for some strange reason) and do goodness knows what else in, I would wander off to wiggle my toes in gorgeous footwear that, who knows why, almost always tended to be red, strappy and raised four inches above the ground at the back, lifted on what could have sewn a hem on the finest muslin petticoat. Flat and I were not sole-mates.
But for now, I forge on with my investigations. I have seen more ugly shoes than ever before, with red stripes on grey, pink and blue chevrons, black and purple bubbles (for air, madam, the sales-boy told me a I gazed on in horror) and who knows what else in the way of colour, embellishment and ‘aerodynamic technology’. When I demand a plain white pair with no more than perhaps the manufacturing company logo, I am given all sorts of excuses, from the shoes not being suitable for gym workouts to them not being available in my size – okay, so that one is vaguely credible. And I find that ugliness and price are directly proportional, since the worse the shoes look, the more they seem to cost. But I have not given up or lost my faith in humanity, at least that section of it that designs sports shoes. Somewhere there is a pair of simple, neat, functional and entirely suitable sneakers waiting for me, without any stripes, bands, patches, chevrons or any other decoration, nice padded and cushioned on the inside, perfectly fitting my feet. All I would need to do is try them on and buy them, hopefully to last a while.
My search continues…
Sneaking around
After about six-plus months in the gym, it is time for that big move for me. New shoes. I did find the right red track pants and I have discovered a cache of T-shirts I never remembered I had, but I never really bothered about shoes, except that they needed to be on the right feet. But then my trusty old sneakers decided that they needed a break, almost literally, and have slowly been disintegrating. It is indeed unfortunate, as I would say in a very formal statement, that just when they are getting to that stage when they are supremely comfortable and are perfect to bash around in, they need to be put aside for walks in the slush or treks to the vegetable market or the like, while new, pristine and probably painful…at least until they have been properly broken in, by which time I would need to start the process all over again…shoes will need to be acquired and carefully looked after.
Having yielded to the inevitable, I decided that I had to take a deep breath and go for it, and hence the research began. I got advice from my trainer and from my soul sister, who is more a gym bunny than I will ever be. Get nicely padded soles, they both mandated, since those would help cushion my knee while I huffed and puffed along on the treadmill or did the dreaded step-ups or marched along solemnly as my gym coach counted – and cheated, and not to my advantage. Get shoes that are supportive of your ankle, Father said, while another friend suggested I aim for footwear that will not only last, but be affordable. Look for red, my inner self demanded, since that is a favourite colour. You better get something that looks good, someone else suggested, or else you will never like your feet while you work out and that is so not happening!
Completely confused, as I am wont to get, I dropped the whole idea for a few months. Until my shoes started protesting and even I could not stand to look down at my feet for too long. Strangely, it was around this time that it seemed as if everyone else in the gym had been shoe shopping and had spanking new sneakers, with lots of bells and whistles and colourful tabs attached. I was vaguely self-conscious and got out the brush and a damp cloth and cleaned up my shoes when I got home. But that was not enough. With every wipe, a little more leather – or was it? – peeled off and instead of getting shinier, the footwear seemed to show up all its shabbier spots. I steeled my inner self to ignore my fashion solecism and went on…running on the treadmill was easier with comfortable shoes, I told myself and huffed another minute longer than my track record (and, yes, breathing heavily does bring out the worst humour in all of us). And then it was inevitable. I could feel things through my soles and along the sides of my shoes. The inside cushioning was wearing out and that was just not a good state to be in. I could feel the impact of each step push a greater amount of pressure through to my hip and with a bad knee, it was not a good thing at all.
So once again the research was begun. For the last few days I have been in and out of more sports shops than I ever did in my whole life, even when I was in college and chilling out at the mall with my soul sister who wears and knows about more sports shoes than I know about red lipstick, which is plenty. While she would step in and out of shoes that you could run in, walk in, aerobicize in, calisthenicize in (yeah, well, I can make up words too, you know!), cycle in (she tends to prefer two wheels to two legs, for some strange reason) and do goodness knows what else in, I would wander off to wiggle my toes in gorgeous footwear that, who knows why, almost always tended to be red, strappy and raised four inches above the ground at the back, lifted on what could have sewn a hem on the finest muslin petticoat. Flat and I were not sole-mates.
But for now, I forge on with my investigations. I have seen more ugly shoes than ever before, with red stripes on grey, pink and blue chevrons, black and purple bubbles (for air, madam, the sales-boy told me a I gazed on in horror) and who knows what else in the way of colour, embellishment and ‘aerodynamic technology’. When I demand a plain white pair with no more than perhaps the manufacturing company logo, I am given all sorts of excuses, from the shoes not being suitable for gym workouts to them not being available in my size – okay, so that one is vaguely credible. And I find that ugliness and price are directly proportional, since the worse the shoes look, the more they seem to cost. But I have not given up or lost my faith in humanity, at least that section of it that designs sports shoes. Somewhere there is a pair of simple, neat, functional and entirely suitable sneakers waiting for me, without any stripes, bands, patches, chevrons or any other decoration, nice padded and cushioned on the inside, perfectly fitting my feet. All I would need to do is try them on and buy them, hopefully to last a while.
My search continues…
Having yielded to the inevitable, I decided that I had to take a deep breath and go for it, and hence the research began. I got advice from my trainer and from my soul sister, who is more a gym bunny than I will ever be. Get nicely padded soles, they both mandated, since those would help cushion my knee while I huffed and puffed along on the treadmill or did the dreaded step-ups or marched along solemnly as my gym coach counted – and cheated, and not to my advantage. Get shoes that are supportive of your ankle, Father said, while another friend suggested I aim for footwear that will not only last, but be affordable. Look for red, my inner self demanded, since that is a favourite colour. You better get something that looks good, someone else suggested, or else you will never like your feet while you work out and that is so not happening!
Completely confused, as I am wont to get, I dropped the whole idea for a few months. Until my shoes started protesting and even I could not stand to look down at my feet for too long. Strangely, it was around this time that it seemed as if everyone else in the gym had been shoe shopping and had spanking new sneakers, with lots of bells and whistles and colourful tabs attached. I was vaguely self-conscious and got out the brush and a damp cloth and cleaned up my shoes when I got home. But that was not enough. With every wipe, a little more leather – or was it? – peeled off and instead of getting shinier, the footwear seemed to show up all its shabbier spots. I steeled my inner self to ignore my fashion solecism and went on…running on the treadmill was easier with comfortable shoes, I told myself and huffed another minute longer than my track record (and, yes, breathing heavily does bring out the worst humour in all of us). And then it was inevitable. I could feel things through my soles and along the sides of my shoes. The inside cushioning was wearing out and that was just not a good state to be in. I could feel the impact of each step push a greater amount of pressure through to my hip and with a bad knee, it was not a good thing at all.
So once again the research was begun. For the last few days I have been in and out of more sports shops than I ever did in my whole life, even when I was in college and chilling out at the mall with my soul sister who wears and knows about more sports shoes than I know about red lipstick, which is plenty. While she would step in and out of shoes that you could run in, walk in, aerobicize in, calisthenicize in (yeah, well, I can make up words too, you know!), cycle in (she tends to prefer two wheels to two legs, for some strange reason) and do goodness knows what else in, I would wander off to wiggle my toes in gorgeous footwear that, who knows why, almost always tended to be red, strappy and raised four inches above the ground at the back, lifted on what could have sewn a hem on the finest muslin petticoat. Flat and I were not sole-mates.
But for now, I forge on with my investigations. I have seen more ugly shoes than ever before, with red stripes on grey, pink and blue chevrons, black and purple bubbles (for air, madam, the sales-boy told me a I gazed on in horror) and who knows what else in the way of colour, embellishment and ‘aerodynamic technology’. When I demand a plain white pair with no more than perhaps the manufacturing company logo, I am given all sorts of excuses, from the shoes not being suitable for gym workouts to them not being available in my size – okay, so that one is vaguely credible. And I find that ugliness and price are directly proportional, since the worse the shoes look, the more they seem to cost. But I have not given up or lost my faith in humanity, at least that section of it that designs sports shoes. Somewhere there is a pair of simple, neat, functional and entirely suitable sneakers waiting for me, without any stripes, bands, patches, chevrons or any other decoration, nice padded and cushioned on the inside, perfectly fitting my feet. All I would need to do is try them on and buy them, hopefully to last a while.
My search continues…
Monday, August 10, 2009
If life was a beach…
(Published yesterday...)
…I would have dry towels. Blame it on the monsoon, but my towels never dry fully. Neither does anything else, not unless it is almost pure polyester or some other drip dry fabric that practically repels water and seems like manna from the gods of mercy against mildew. So doing laundry during the three-odd months that it rains in Mumbai can be a nightmarish experience. Things tend to get dirty easily, what with all the mud around, and need to be washed regularly, but never seem to dry completely so that they can be stored. Towels, especially, since they need to be used more, are constantly made damp after baths, hand washes, drying dishes, whatever. And since they are part of the hygiene process, they need to be clean, both visibly and otherwise.
So just before the monsoon every year I have a good scrabble through the linen closet. With Small Cat burrowing into piles of sheets, ambushing me from under heaps of sandalwood-scented blankets and leaping over stacks of pillowcases, I work hard to sort the towels-that-dry from towels-that-never-dry-enough. The first to make the latter type are the new acquisitions; like new handkerchiefs, new towels seem to be waterproofed in some way, perhaps with starch or some kind of fabric softener that makes them appealingly fluffy and soft, just what you always want in a towel that you will wrap yourself in. Be it various Turkish towel offerings from Bombay Dyeing, Welspun, store brands and more esoteric ware from high-street boutique home-stores, all priced between about Rs 99 to Rs 2,500, it is only after a couple of washes, and vigorous ones at that, that the fabric becomes truly absorbent, mopping up whatever moisture it is required to mop up, be it just-washed dishes or bodies. And gradually, the older they get, the rougher they tend to become, providing a delicious scouring of skin as they wipe away all those beads of water. Just when you have them at that perfect consistency, when they wipe, rub and then line-dry without too much aggravation, it is time to turn them into dusters or use them to line the linen closet where they once occupied pride of place. Some towels have a synthetic component. They dry fast. But they do not feel like they mop up quite as well as the real thing.
But tradition – as is often the case – has the answer to this problem, at least for me. The thorthamundus, thin cotton bath sheets that are used in south India (often seen in Malayalam movies wrapped around the women’s freshly washed hair), are perfect for this time of year, or any time that there actually is rain. They vary in quality from loosely woven roughness that has raw edges and uneven texture, to more fine pieces that have a neat ‘temple’ style motif at each corner, usually in red or green, are nicely finished at the hems and thicker, finer and more regular in the weave. These useful swathes are generally found in stores in the south Indian strongholds of the city, like Venkateshwara Stores and Mahalakshmi Stores in Matunga, branches of Cooptex, and various other outlets. They are now also available at Fabindia outlets. They may seem inadequate or not very chic, but serve their purpose well, as they have done for generations, mop up moisture, dry off quickly in a gentle breeze and can double up as a mini-mundu, mini-lungi or lower body covering, at a pinch. Maybe Ranbir Kapoor should have used one of these when he had his big towel moment.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Blood letting
I had to go for a blood test this morning. Which meant that for the last few days, ever since my doctor demanded that a undergo a series of analyses to figure out just why whatever happened to me keeps happening to me, I have been so stressed that my allergies have been acting up big time, which has been making it all such a delightful experience. All that apart, I headed out, Father in tow for moral support, at the crack of dawn this morning to be perforated and donate much of my hard-earned corpuscles to the cause of science and, hopefully, a solution to my various problems, none of which are of any major importance, but all of which are niggling irritants.
So there I was at the hospital, waiting for the process to begin. I started with the pathology department, which to me seemed logical. There I was directed, with a friendly smile, to the accounts department, which is where it all happens – pay and you get what you need, as the mantra goes anywhere in the world. I beamed happily at the lady behind the counter (choose the most intelligent looking person, Father instructed) and she whizzed about clacking keys on her computer and looking bright eyed on whatever she managed to pull up on the screen. Things were moving along briskly and seemingly efficiently. And then we hit a snag. A fairly major one, considering the look on the lady’s face. She looked up at me, smiled sweetly, leaned over and asked her neighbour something, then looked at me again, a tint of apology in her smile, and clacked at more keys, this time a little faster. And then shrugged to herself, looked at me, smiled once more and launched into her explanation.
It turned out that her computer did not list the tests my doctor had indicated I needed to have done. Well, not all of them, at least. So she had to ask around until she figured out what she had to do, during which I had to please sit down on the alarmingly squashy sofa placed against the wall over there, she waved her arm. Obediently, I did, Father close behind me. We waited, smiled occasionally at the still confused lady and waited some more. Finally, inspiration seemed to waft over the telephone connection and some oracle gave her the information she needed. The smile was relieved this time and we trotted over to pay and then continue on our quest. All the requisite papers signed, we walked back to the pathology section, handed in the forms and waited. Finally, when it was my turn, I sat down on the little desk-chair, closed the flap, stretched out my arm and waited, feeling like a prisoner asking for her last meal of, I devoutly hoped, the best chocolate money could buy.
But it was not to be that simple. The lady at the computer found that the cashier’s receipt and the list of tests I needed to have done did not match. We went through a series of smiles, ranging from the friendly to the curious to the apologetic to the resigned. Finally, she gave me another slip of paper that detailed the omissions, told me I had to go back to the accounts department once the blood collection was done, and then I could send the receipt for that further payment back to her while I trotted off to wherever I was headed thereafter. I smiled once more, this time with a certain generous dose of trepidation attached, since it was at last the moment of truth for me: would the needle, the technician and my usually uncooperative vein behave themselves or cause me undue discomfort…once again?
It was a cinch, literally and otherwise. The smiling – why do people who are associated with anything bloody have such sweet smiles? – technician pushed up the short sleeve of my T-shirt, tied his band around my upper arm, cinched it tight and patted the vein that pulsed blue in the bend of my elbow. He inserted a needle so deftly that I barely felt more than a little and very gently cold point against my skin. Then he proceeded to fill many tubes with richly deeply dark red liquid that was my lifeblood, smiling all the while, but with no vestige of that dire Dracula-like show of teeth that the breed of blood-workers often delight in. I had been most apprehensive for no reason. Pulling the needle out of my arm was a process that I felt quite sharply, but not overly painfully, and it was done. Perhaps the most adverse reaction I had was that the skin of my inner elbow did not like the sticky tape that was placed on the spot the needle had gone in, but that is nothing new. I am allergic to almost everything. Which is why I went through this morning at all!
So there I was at the hospital, waiting for the process to begin. I started with the pathology department, which to me seemed logical. There I was directed, with a friendly smile, to the accounts department, which is where it all happens – pay and you get what you need, as the mantra goes anywhere in the world. I beamed happily at the lady behind the counter (choose the most intelligent looking person, Father instructed) and she whizzed about clacking keys on her computer and looking bright eyed on whatever she managed to pull up on the screen. Things were moving along briskly and seemingly efficiently. And then we hit a snag. A fairly major one, considering the look on the lady’s face. She looked up at me, smiled sweetly, leaned over and asked her neighbour something, then looked at me again, a tint of apology in her smile, and clacked at more keys, this time a little faster. And then shrugged to herself, looked at me, smiled once more and launched into her explanation.
It turned out that her computer did not list the tests my doctor had indicated I needed to have done. Well, not all of them, at least. So she had to ask around until she figured out what she had to do, during which I had to please sit down on the alarmingly squashy sofa placed against the wall over there, she waved her arm. Obediently, I did, Father close behind me. We waited, smiled occasionally at the still confused lady and waited some more. Finally, inspiration seemed to waft over the telephone connection and some oracle gave her the information she needed. The smile was relieved this time and we trotted over to pay and then continue on our quest. All the requisite papers signed, we walked back to the pathology section, handed in the forms and waited. Finally, when it was my turn, I sat down on the little desk-chair, closed the flap, stretched out my arm and waited, feeling like a prisoner asking for her last meal of, I devoutly hoped, the best chocolate money could buy.
But it was not to be that simple. The lady at the computer found that the cashier’s receipt and the list of tests I needed to have done did not match. We went through a series of smiles, ranging from the friendly to the curious to the apologetic to the resigned. Finally, she gave me another slip of paper that detailed the omissions, told me I had to go back to the accounts department once the blood collection was done, and then I could send the receipt for that further payment back to her while I trotted off to wherever I was headed thereafter. I smiled once more, this time with a certain generous dose of trepidation attached, since it was at last the moment of truth for me: would the needle, the technician and my usually uncooperative vein behave themselves or cause me undue discomfort…once again?
It was a cinch, literally and otherwise. The smiling – why do people who are associated with anything bloody have such sweet smiles? – technician pushed up the short sleeve of my T-shirt, tied his band around my upper arm, cinched it tight and patted the vein that pulsed blue in the bend of my elbow. He inserted a needle so deftly that I barely felt more than a little and very gently cold point against my skin. Then he proceeded to fill many tubes with richly deeply dark red liquid that was my lifeblood, smiling all the while, but with no vestige of that dire Dracula-like show of teeth that the breed of blood-workers often delight in. I had been most apprehensive for no reason. Pulling the needle out of my arm was a process that I felt quite sharply, but not overly painfully, and it was done. Perhaps the most adverse reaction I had was that the skin of my inner elbow did not like the sticky tape that was placed on the spot the needle had gone in, but that is nothing new. I am allergic to almost everything. Which is why I went through this morning at all!
Monday, July 27, 2009
Democratic rights
I had a strange morning today. Coming out the gym, my clothes and hair steaming gently in the unexpectedly sharp burst of sunshine after too many days made gloomy by rain and heavy clouds looming threateningly overhead, I finished my ritual call home and started the trek to get through my errands. They were not many, but they were must-dos. I started at the local grocery store, the Apna Bazaar. Doing a quick whizz though the aisles, I picked up some of the things I felt at that moment to be vital to my existence, and then proceeded to the checkout. All the clerks were people I had seen before, that we occasionally had a brief chat with, that we exchanged civilities with if we saw them outside the store. They have all been unfailingly polite and friendly, accommodating to their limits and helpful as far as they were able. But today came as a bit of a shock.
I got my bill and handed over a Rs500 note. Not something I generally carry when I go to the gym, since I rarely need more money than a few rupees, perhaps just enough to buy a loaf of bread or take an autorickshaw home if I need to. Today I had some shopping in mind, needed to get change and decided to combine the two to make life easier for me later on. I did have enough change to pay for my purchases, but was saving that for vegetables further on my walk home. This has never been a problem, at least not an unsurmountable one. Today, it was. The lady at the checkout counter I chose was obviously not having a good day, what little of it had passed. She stared at me and refused the note. Get change, she demanded. It was not an unreasonable request, but it was not made in that tone of voice. It was rude and harsh and, at that moment, shocking. If I had thought about it, I would have walked out. If I had thought about it, I would have retorted. If I had thought about it, I would have created enough of a stink to have the woman severely castigated by her manager in full public view. But I was too shocked to respond and all I could do was wait for my mind to start working again. Eventually, I found the change I needed, paid, collected my groceries and left.
From there I went on to the local polling office. There has been a drive recently to update all election data, from identity information to voter ID cards. Having tried to get one before, and having failed, I almost decided that it was too much of a bother to try again, but then thought that it would be a useful piece of identification to have, instead of having to carry about my PAN card or passport or even driving license as proof of my existence. So I hustled poor Father into filling in forms and getting all the supporting paperwork in order and carried the completed package over to the office today. No surprise, the place was packed out, with men sitting on chairs even as women stood and waited. I stood and waited too, for a little while. Gradually, as the sting of the Apna Bazaar incident started making its annoying little niggle felt, I decided to let go my need to be democratic and wait my turn, and barged into the small office. Some large man tried to push in front of me and I turned, glared up at him and told him in my most impeccable American accent that he would need to wait his turn.
It seemed to work. The large man did try and make his presence felt at my back, but I made a nasty remark to the official in charge, who then asked the gent to step back. The official checked all my papers, asked for one more copy of supporting documents; then, perhaps seeing the fed-up glower on my already annoyed and still gently sweaty face, he sent one of his minions to get the copy and tried to refuse to accept the trivial payment for it. If there is anything else, I told him sweetly, firmly, in English, I could send my driver with the papers, since I had to get to work, I was a journalist, you see. The minor lie worked better than I had ever seen it do before. There was a flurry of yes madams and my work was done, without my needing to stand in line for the proper counter or do any more running about. All I needed was the right snootiness and a little cold staring to do the job, better and easier than I could have expected.
Which makes me think that it is not surprising that my country, the one that I am so proud of and will always prefer to any other, is not in the league of most progressive, best developed or top of the heap of nations in the world. But then, if we list the number of influential people we have or, best of all, who our fathers are, maybe we could even manage to get there…soon.
I got my bill and handed over a Rs500 note. Not something I generally carry when I go to the gym, since I rarely need more money than a few rupees, perhaps just enough to buy a loaf of bread or take an autorickshaw home if I need to. Today I had some shopping in mind, needed to get change and decided to combine the two to make life easier for me later on. I did have enough change to pay for my purchases, but was saving that for vegetables further on my walk home. This has never been a problem, at least not an unsurmountable one. Today, it was. The lady at the checkout counter I chose was obviously not having a good day, what little of it had passed. She stared at me and refused the note. Get change, she demanded. It was not an unreasonable request, but it was not made in that tone of voice. It was rude and harsh and, at that moment, shocking. If I had thought about it, I would have walked out. If I had thought about it, I would have retorted. If I had thought about it, I would have created enough of a stink to have the woman severely castigated by her manager in full public view. But I was too shocked to respond and all I could do was wait for my mind to start working again. Eventually, I found the change I needed, paid, collected my groceries and left.
From there I went on to the local polling office. There has been a drive recently to update all election data, from identity information to voter ID cards. Having tried to get one before, and having failed, I almost decided that it was too much of a bother to try again, but then thought that it would be a useful piece of identification to have, instead of having to carry about my PAN card or passport or even driving license as proof of my existence. So I hustled poor Father into filling in forms and getting all the supporting paperwork in order and carried the completed package over to the office today. No surprise, the place was packed out, with men sitting on chairs even as women stood and waited. I stood and waited too, for a little while. Gradually, as the sting of the Apna Bazaar incident started making its annoying little niggle felt, I decided to let go my need to be democratic and wait my turn, and barged into the small office. Some large man tried to push in front of me and I turned, glared up at him and told him in my most impeccable American accent that he would need to wait his turn.
It seemed to work. The large man did try and make his presence felt at my back, but I made a nasty remark to the official in charge, who then asked the gent to step back. The official checked all my papers, asked for one more copy of supporting documents; then, perhaps seeing the fed-up glower on my already annoyed and still gently sweaty face, he sent one of his minions to get the copy and tried to refuse to accept the trivial payment for it. If there is anything else, I told him sweetly, firmly, in English, I could send my driver with the papers, since I had to get to work, I was a journalist, you see. The minor lie worked better than I had ever seen it do before. There was a flurry of yes madams and my work was done, without my needing to stand in line for the proper counter or do any more running about. All I needed was the right snootiness and a little cold staring to do the job, better and easier than I could have expected.
Which makes me think that it is not surprising that my country, the one that I am so proud of and will always prefer to any other, is not in the league of most progressive, best developed or top of the heap of nations in the world. But then, if we list the number of influential people we have or, best of all, who our fathers are, maybe we could even manage to get there…soon.
Democratic rights
I had a strange morning today. Coming out the gym, my clothes and hair steaming gently in the unexpectedly sharp burst of sunshine after too many days made gloomy by rain and heavy clouds looming threateningly overhead, I finished my ritual call home and started the trek to get through my errands. They were not many, but they were must-dos. I started at the local grocery store, the Apna Bazaar. Doing a quick whizz though the aisles, I picked up some of the things I felt at that moment to be vital to my existence, and then proceeded to the checkout. All the clerks were people I had seen before, that we occasionally had a brief chat with, that we exchanged civilities with if we saw them outside the store. They have all been unfailingly polite and friendly, accommodating to their limits and helpful as far as they were able. But today came as a bit of a shock.
I got my bill and handed over a Rs500 note. Not something I generally carry when I go to the gym, since I rarely need more money than a few rupees, perhaps just enough to buy a loaf of bread or take an autorickshaw home if I need to. Today I had some shopping in mind, needed to get change and decided to combine the two to make life easier for me later on. I did have enough change to pay for my purchases, but was saving that for vegetables further on my walk home. This has never been a problem, at least not an unsurmountable one. Today, it was. The lady at the checkout counter I chose was obviously not having a good day, what little of it had passed. She stared at me and refused the note. Get change, she demanded. It was not an unreasonable request, but it was not made in that tone of voice. It was rude and harsh and, at that moment, shocking. If I had thought about it, I would have walked out. If I had thought about it, I would have retorted. If I had thought about it, I would have created enough of a stink to have the woman severely castigated by her manager in full public view. But I was too shocked to respond and all I could do was wait for my mind to start working again. Eventually, I found the change I needed, paid, collected my groceries and left.
From there I went on to the local polling office. There has been a drive recently to update all election data, from identity information to voter ID cards. Having tried to get one before, and having failed, I almost decided that it was too much of a bother to try again, but then thought that it would be a useful piece of identification to have, instead of having to carry about my PAN card or passport or even driving license as proof of my existence. So I hustled poor Father into filling in forms and getting all the supporting paperwork in order and carried the completed package over to the office today. No surprise, the place was packed out, with men sitting on chairs even as women stood and waited. I stood and waited too, for a little while. Gradually, as the sting of the Apna Bazaar incident started making its annoying little niggle felt, I decided to let go my need to be democratic and wait my turn, and barged into the small office. Some large man tried to push in front of me and I turned, glared up at him and told him in my most impeccable American accent that he would need to wait his turn.
It seemed to work. The large man did try and make his presence felt at my back, but I made a nasty remark to the official in charge, who then asked the gent to step back. The official checked all my papers, asked for one more copy of supporting documents; then, perhaps seeing the fed-up glower on my already annoyed and still gently sweaty face, he sent one of his minions to get the copy and tried to refuse to accept the trivial payment for it. If there is anything else, I told him sweetly, firmly, in English, I could send my driver with the papers, since I had to get to work, I was a journalist, you see. The minor lie worked better than I had ever seen it do before. There was a flurry of yes madams and my work was done, without my needing to stand in line for the proper counter or do any more running about. All I needed was the right snootiness and a little cold staring to do the job, better and easier than I could have expected.
Which makes me think that it is not surprising that my country, the one that I am so proud of and will always prefer to any other, is not in the league of most progressive, best developed or top of the heap of nations in the world. But then, if we list the number of influential people we have or, best of all, who our fathers are, maybe we could even manage to get there…soon.
I got my bill and handed over a Rs500 note. Not something I generally carry when I go to the gym, since I rarely need more money than a few rupees, perhaps just enough to buy a loaf of bread or take an autorickshaw home if I need to. Today I had some shopping in mind, needed to get change and decided to combine the two to make life easier for me later on. I did have enough change to pay for my purchases, but was saving that for vegetables further on my walk home. This has never been a problem, at least not an unsurmountable one. Today, it was. The lady at the checkout counter I chose was obviously not having a good day, what little of it had passed. She stared at me and refused the note. Get change, she demanded. It was not an unreasonable request, but it was not made in that tone of voice. It was rude and harsh and, at that moment, shocking. If I had thought about it, I would have walked out. If I had thought about it, I would have retorted. If I had thought about it, I would have created enough of a stink to have the woman severely castigated by her manager in full public view. But I was too shocked to respond and all I could do was wait for my mind to start working again. Eventually, I found the change I needed, paid, collected my groceries and left.
From there I went on to the local polling office. There has been a drive recently to update all election data, from identity information to voter ID cards. Having tried to get one before, and having failed, I almost decided that it was too much of a bother to try again, but then thought that it would be a useful piece of identification to have, instead of having to carry about my PAN card or passport or even driving license as proof of my existence. So I hustled poor Father into filling in forms and getting all the supporting paperwork in order and carried the completed package over to the office today. No surprise, the place was packed out, with men sitting on chairs even as women stood and waited. I stood and waited too, for a little while. Gradually, as the sting of the Apna Bazaar incident started making its annoying little niggle felt, I decided to let go my need to be democratic and wait my turn, and barged into the small office. Some large man tried to push in front of me and I turned, glared up at him and told him in my most impeccable American accent that he would need to wait his turn.
It seemed to work. The large man did try and make his presence felt at my back, but I made a nasty remark to the official in charge, who then asked the gent to step back. The official checked all my papers, asked for one more copy of supporting documents; then, perhaps seeing the fed-up glower on my already annoyed and still gently sweaty face, he sent one of his minions to get the copy and tried to refuse to accept the trivial payment for it. If there is anything else, I told him sweetly, firmly, in English, I could send my driver with the papers, since I had to get to work, I was a journalist, you see. The minor lie worked better than I had ever seen it do before. There was a flurry of yes madams and my work was done, without my needing to stand in line for the proper counter or do any more running about. All I needed was the right snootiness and a little cold staring to do the job, better and easier than I could have expected.
Which makes me think that it is not surprising that my country, the one that I am so proud of and will always prefer to any other, is not in the league of most progressive, best developed or top of the heap of nations in the world. But then, if we list the number of influential people we have or, best of all, who our fathers are, maybe we could even manage to get there…soon.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Reality bytes
The television show Sach Ka Saamna, based on the international Moment Of Truth, has run into some hot water. The contestants on Iss Jungle Se Mujhe Bachao, the Indian version of I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here, have run into more creepy-crawlies and yucky gunk than they are used to dealing with and want more hot water (among other things), or else they will get out of there. And all other reality shows have a strangely déjà vu flavour, like you have seen them before on other reality shows. Which is not a huge problem, except that the “other reality shows” are actually any other reality show, since there are so many of them being beamed – some not too happily – into homes all over this great and glorious country. Some have been stopped because of woefully low viewership, others have legal blocks, some never found participants and a few faded gently out into the sunset by themselves, gracefully knowing when to stop, usually before TRPs sank so low that they needed to be revived to exit.
I rarely watch reality shows unless they involve some degree of song and, more relevant for me, dance. My favourites are American Idol and Jhalak Dikhla Jaa – the latter I had to learn to like, since I was working on a project based on the show and needed to be semi-intelligent about what was going on each week. I also sat through episodes of Saas vs Bahu (dreadful dance! Though the judges were occasionally fun), Zara Nachke Dikha (where everyone behaved badly, Malaika wore little and most of the significant cast from a funny hospital drama currently on seemed to be there in some form), Dance India Dance and more that I cannot possibly remember the names of. I did watch some of Saroj Khan’s Nachle Ve, mainly because I had just met her and found her fabulous. And I tried to peep into Entertainment Ke Liye Kuch Bhi Karega, more because I had spoken to Farah Khan only a few days earlier and liked her blunt matter-of-factness and professionalism. I was fascinated by the people who contorted their bodies into strange configurations, but was so put off by the burping contest that two wannabe entertainers had that I never had the nerve to switch to that particular channel again. Horrors!
But somehow I never could watch anything with bugs. As in, real live insects, creeping and crawling all over some poor misguided individuals who would do almost anything to be in the limelight and win some shekels. So Khatron Ke Khiladi never made it to my must-see list, neither has Iss Jungle… I could never watch people being made to squirm or cry or otherwise feel like they should never have agreed to do that show. And so things like Moment Of Truth and its Indian equivalent – which the audiences are said to like, but the courts object to – are no-nos. I did sit through a bit of the celebrity shows, from the Amitabh Bachchan-helmed Kaun Banega Crorepati, the Shah Rukh Khan avatar of the same game and his Kya Aap Paanchvi Paas Se Tez Hain?, Govinda’s Chappar Phaad Ke, something really awful with Manisha Koirala - and was it Anupam Kher? - and, of course, Salman Khan’s Dus Ka Dum which, frankly, is the best of the lot, his strange grin and his even stranger accent notwithstanding. But they are classic time-pass, that wonderful typically Mumbaiyya descriptor that covers anything without much sense and some entertainment value.
So what is a good reality show? Who knows! One that people watch right through, would be a good answer to that one. Like American Idol, like even Indian Idol, like who knows what else makes viewers want to eat super-fast or delay dinner to sit on the sofa and become glued to the small screen, bug-eyed, open-mouthed and rivetted. For me, I know what works. And I will stick with that, thank you very much!
I rarely watch reality shows unless they involve some degree of song and, more relevant for me, dance. My favourites are American Idol and Jhalak Dikhla Jaa – the latter I had to learn to like, since I was working on a project based on the show and needed to be semi-intelligent about what was going on each week. I also sat through episodes of Saas vs Bahu (dreadful dance! Though the judges were occasionally fun), Zara Nachke Dikha (where everyone behaved badly, Malaika wore little and most of the significant cast from a funny hospital drama currently on seemed to be there in some form), Dance India Dance and more that I cannot possibly remember the names of. I did watch some of Saroj Khan’s Nachle Ve, mainly because I had just met her and found her fabulous. And I tried to peep into Entertainment Ke Liye Kuch Bhi Karega, more because I had spoken to Farah Khan only a few days earlier and liked her blunt matter-of-factness and professionalism. I was fascinated by the people who contorted their bodies into strange configurations, but was so put off by the burping contest that two wannabe entertainers had that I never had the nerve to switch to that particular channel again. Horrors!
But somehow I never could watch anything with bugs. As in, real live insects, creeping and crawling all over some poor misguided individuals who would do almost anything to be in the limelight and win some shekels. So Khatron Ke Khiladi never made it to my must-see list, neither has Iss Jungle… I could never watch people being made to squirm or cry or otherwise feel like they should never have agreed to do that show. And so things like Moment Of Truth and its Indian equivalent – which the audiences are said to like, but the courts object to – are no-nos. I did sit through a bit of the celebrity shows, from the Amitabh Bachchan-helmed Kaun Banega Crorepati, the Shah Rukh Khan avatar of the same game and his Kya Aap Paanchvi Paas Se Tez Hain?, Govinda’s Chappar Phaad Ke, something really awful with Manisha Koirala - and was it Anupam Kher? - and, of course, Salman Khan’s Dus Ka Dum which, frankly, is the best of the lot, his strange grin and his even stranger accent notwithstanding. But they are classic time-pass, that wonderful typically Mumbaiyya descriptor that covers anything without much sense and some entertainment value.
So what is a good reality show? Who knows! One that people watch right through, would be a good answer to that one. Like American Idol, like even Indian Idol, like who knows what else makes viewers want to eat super-fast or delay dinner to sit on the sofa and become glued to the small screen, bug-eyed, open-mouthed and rivetted. For me, I know what works. And I will stick with that, thank you very much!
Reality bytes
The television show Sach Ka Saamna, based on the international Moment Of Truth, has run into some hot water. The contestants on Iss Jungle Se Mujhe Bachao, the Indian version of I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here, have run into more creepy-crawlies and yucky gunk than they are used to dealing with and want more hot water (among other things), or else they will get out of there. And all other reality shows have a strangely déjà vu flavour, like you have seen them before on other reality shows. Which is not a huge problem, except that the “other reality shows” are actually any other reality show, since there are so many of them being beamed – some not too happily – into homes all over this great and glorious country. Some have been stopped because of woefully low viewership, others have legal blocks, some never found participants and a few faded gently out into the sunset by themselves, gracefully knowing when to stop, usually before TRPs sank so low that they needed to be revived to exit.
I rarely watch reality shows unless they involve some degree of song and, more relevant for me, dance. My favourites are American Idol and Jhalak Dikhla Jaa – the latter I had to learn to like, since I was working on a project based on the show and needed to be semi-intelligent about what was going on each week. I also sat through episodes of Saas vs Bahu (dreadful dance! Though the judges were occasionally fun), Zara Nachke Dikha (where everyone behaved badly, Malaika wore little and most of the significant cast from a funny hospital drama currently on seemed to be there in some form), Dance India Dance and more that I cannot possibly remember the names of. I did watch some of Saroj Khan’s Nachle Ve, mainly because I had just met her and found her fabulous. And I tried to peep into Entertainment Ke Liye Kuch Bhi Karega, more because I had spoken to Farah Khan only a few days earlier and liked her blunt matter-of-factness and professionalism. I was fascinated by the people who contorted their bodies into strange configurations, but was so put off by the burping contest that two wannabe entertainers had that I never had the nerve to switch to that particular channel again. Horrors!
But somehow I never could watch anything with bugs. As in, real live insects, creeping and crawling all over some poor misguided individuals who would do almost anything to be in the limelight and win some shekels. So Khatron Ke Khiladi never made it to my must-see list, neither has Iss Jungle… I could never watch people being made to squirm or cry or otherwise feel like they should never have agreed to do that show. And so things like Moment Of Truth and its Indian equivalent – which the audiences are said to like, but the courts object to – are no-nos. I did sit through a bit of the celebrity shows, from the Amitabh Bachchan-helmed Kaun Banega Crorepati, the Shah Rukh Khan avatar of the same game and his Kya Aap Paanchvi Paas Se Tez Hain?, Govinda’s Chappar Phaad Ke, something really awful with Manisha Koirala - and was it Anupam Kher? - and, of course, Salman Khan’s Dus Ka Dum which, frankly, is the best of the lot, his strange grin and his even stranger accent notwithstanding. But they are classic time-pass, that wonderful typically Mumbaiyya descriptor that covers anything without much sense and some entertainment value.
So what is a good reality show? Who knows! One that people watch right through, would be a good answer to that one. Like American Idol, like even Indian Idol, like who knows what else makes viewers want to eat super-fast or delay dinner to sit on the sofa and become glued to the small screen, bug-eyed, open-mouthed and rivetted. For me, I know what works. And I will stick with that, thank you very much!
I rarely watch reality shows unless they involve some degree of song and, more relevant for me, dance. My favourites are American Idol and Jhalak Dikhla Jaa – the latter I had to learn to like, since I was working on a project based on the show and needed to be semi-intelligent about what was going on each week. I also sat through episodes of Saas vs Bahu (dreadful dance! Though the judges were occasionally fun), Zara Nachke Dikha (where everyone behaved badly, Malaika wore little and most of the significant cast from a funny hospital drama currently on seemed to be there in some form), Dance India Dance and more that I cannot possibly remember the names of. I did watch some of Saroj Khan’s Nachle Ve, mainly because I had just met her and found her fabulous. And I tried to peep into Entertainment Ke Liye Kuch Bhi Karega, more because I had spoken to Farah Khan only a few days earlier and liked her blunt matter-of-factness and professionalism. I was fascinated by the people who contorted their bodies into strange configurations, but was so put off by the burping contest that two wannabe entertainers had that I never had the nerve to switch to that particular channel again. Horrors!
But somehow I never could watch anything with bugs. As in, real live insects, creeping and crawling all over some poor misguided individuals who would do almost anything to be in the limelight and win some shekels. So Khatron Ke Khiladi never made it to my must-see list, neither has Iss Jungle… I could never watch people being made to squirm or cry or otherwise feel like they should never have agreed to do that show. And so things like Moment Of Truth and its Indian equivalent – which the audiences are said to like, but the courts object to – are no-nos. I did sit through a bit of the celebrity shows, from the Amitabh Bachchan-helmed Kaun Banega Crorepati, the Shah Rukh Khan avatar of the same game and his Kya Aap Paanchvi Paas Se Tez Hain?, Govinda’s Chappar Phaad Ke, something really awful with Manisha Koirala - and was it Anupam Kher? - and, of course, Salman Khan’s Dus Ka Dum which, frankly, is the best of the lot, his strange grin and his even stranger accent notwithstanding. But they are classic time-pass, that wonderful typically Mumbaiyya descriptor that covers anything without much sense and some entertainment value.
So what is a good reality show? Who knows! One that people watch right through, would be a good answer to that one. Like American Idol, like even Indian Idol, like who knows what else makes viewers want to eat super-fast or delay dinner to sit on the sofa and become glued to the small screen, bug-eyed, open-mouthed and rivetted. For me, I know what works. And I will stick with that, thank you very much!
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
In continuation....
Someone asked me a couple of days ago whether I still do a blog. It took me a few moments to think about that one. Do I? Considering that a blog is supposed to be a regular input online and that I have often scoffed at those who purport to blog and update theirs only about once a year, I have been most remiss indeed. But that is how life overtakes you when you least expect it to – you are there, minding your own business, and suddenly a crisis of sorts rolls over you and you are left wondering what happened, when, how, why and all the other questions you would have asked when you had the time and energy to ask.
Which is what has been sorely lacking with me for a while now. When there is time, the energy levels are too low for comfort and when there is great energy and gung-ho, I have things that have to be done NOW, leaving no time for that thing called a blog which I started some years ago with such enthusiasm. Problem is – or was – a bug that wormed itself into my system and refused to go away for way too long. It still pops in every other day to remind me what it was like to be visited full time by its exalted self. In simple language, I got a fever that developed into bronchitis and staggered about for a while before taking to my bed and feeling like I had been run over by a steamroller and had lost my legs and any volition to move more than one muscle at a time in the process. And I coughed my way sadly through the week…fortnight?...and more, feeling like there was something nasty in my chest (which there was) and wondering why it couldn’t just go away.
When I finally mustered up enough energy to get up and go - to wherever, from the gym to lunch with a friend to shopping for groceries to a business meeting – my time management had got up and gone. Deadlines were breathing heavily and hotly down my unsuspecting neck and those had to be dealt with before any frivolities like blogs and eyebrow grooming could be thought of. As I plucked out that elusive stray hair from just above my left brow and said a mean word as it hurt like the dickens (I did think of a ruder phrase, but this blogsphere is a family space), I decided that in all that needed to be left out for the time being, a blog would top that list. And it has. As always, I promise to be more regular, time, weather and adrenaline permitting, but who knows what Fate will throw at me next.
Which is what has been sorely lacking with me for a while now. When there is time, the energy levels are too low for comfort and when there is great energy and gung-ho, I have things that have to be done NOW, leaving no time for that thing called a blog which I started some years ago with such enthusiasm. Problem is – or was – a bug that wormed itself into my system and refused to go away for way too long. It still pops in every other day to remind me what it was like to be visited full time by its exalted self. In simple language, I got a fever that developed into bronchitis and staggered about for a while before taking to my bed and feeling like I had been run over by a steamroller and had lost my legs and any volition to move more than one muscle at a time in the process. And I coughed my way sadly through the week…fortnight?...and more, feeling like there was something nasty in my chest (which there was) and wondering why it couldn’t just go away.
When I finally mustered up enough energy to get up and go - to wherever, from the gym to lunch with a friend to shopping for groceries to a business meeting – my time management had got up and gone. Deadlines were breathing heavily and hotly down my unsuspecting neck and those had to be dealt with before any frivolities like blogs and eyebrow grooming could be thought of. As I plucked out that elusive stray hair from just above my left brow and said a mean word as it hurt like the dickens (I did think of a ruder phrase, but this blogsphere is a family space), I decided that in all that needed to be left out for the time being, a blog would top that list. And it has. As always, I promise to be more regular, time, weather and adrenaline permitting, but who knows what Fate will throw at me next.
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