Going the international route

(Ah, a byline after ages...!)

“I was unsure if international artwork will find takers,” Gaurav Assomul is reported to have said in December last year, when his Marigold Fine Art took a show of European art to New Delhi. There was no reason to worry, he found, when the entire exhibition was sold out on the opening night. And with the battalion of buyers clamouring for more, the Marigold gallery in Mumbai hosted paintings, lithographs, prints and sculptures by familiar names like Salvador Dali, David Kracov, Stéphane Cipre, Jorg Doring, Arman, Andy Warhol, Serge Mendjisky, Franck Tordjmann, Patrick Hughes and Pablo Picasso last month, signed, numbered and certified works available at prices between Rs3,00,000 and Rs30,00,000. Both signed Picasso lithographs and Dali’s The Persistence of Memory were snapped up, while other pieces found enthusiastic buyers.

There may have always been an audience for art of this kind, with non-Indian signatures, but gallery showings and sales in this country of these works have not been frequent. With the growing awareness of international artists and their talent and the increasing ability of Indians in India to access and buy their creative productions, it would seem logical for them to be made available locally. But as one aficionado - (who prefers not to be named here) who has counted Modigliani in his list of haute-buys and has hobnobbed socially with the likes of Lucien Freud – says, “What you would get here would not be the ‘name’ pieces, but mainly prints, lithographs and perhaps certified replicas of the originals. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have the ‘real’, original melting watch by Dali, for instance, rather than something that you know is not ‘the thing’?” He, obviously, seems to prefer to look, smile and shop elsewhere.

But there is a growing market for international signatures, judging by sales at shows. Galerie Mirchandani + Steinruecke, for one, is familiar territory for the work of non-Indian artists in Mumbai. Gallerist Ranjana Mirchandani-Steinruecke believes that “It would be exaggerated to call it a ‘market’, but there are a few collectors interested in looking at and buying art that’s not Indian. And actually the prices of non-Indian artists of similar calibre have been less than those of their Indian counterparts.” She sees the market developing “with the younger generation of Indian collector. Today, by and large, as always, the intelligentsia takes the lead and others follow.”

Ashish Nagpal, gallerist, art entrepreneur and promoter agrees that there is a market in India for international art, but “This is the wrong time, considering the meltdown,” for sales to be brisk. But the awareness is obviously growing, with people becoming more educated about art and artists. “They know art is an investment. I would see a market for prints of senior and more expensive artists and originals of the younger and more affordable ones.” However, “A person who has not bought Indian art will probably not buy international art – the education is important. Dali and Picasso rule the roost, and Damien Hirst and Anish Kapoor – I know a lot of Indian collectors are dying to lay their hands on his work, for instance,” are eagerly looked for, Nagpal says.

There are some who are not yet ready to venture into ‘foreign territory’. As Dadiba Pundole of the Pundole Art Gallery says, for him, “So far the focus has been Indian art. It took a long hard time getting Indian art where it is today. I am not sure if my involvement with my primary concern is over. At the same time, one is not closed to ideas.” As to what he believes will sell, “It comes down to quality and not just financial propositions.
Unfortunately, most people buy art for the wrong reasons, so individual perceptions will dictate the market.”

Neville Tuli, Founder Chairman - Osian's, commenting on the market, current or potential, for works of international contemporary and modern artists in India, says, “First, let the markets for the Indian arts strengthen and deepen. But it is absolutely a good idea to bring international art into India and start that process of exchange.”

And where snob values are concerned, does an international name hold a more coveted cachet for a local buyer than an Indian signature on a work of art? Assomull seems to think so, reportedly asking: "If you can own three original Dalis for the price of one Hussain, what would you buy?" Mirchandani-Steinruecke has a different take on that debatable issue, saying, “No, we are happy with our desi ghee.”

Ooh, aah, ouch!

Last week I took a break from the gym. It was my first since I joined up and more or less enforced by my trainer, the gym manager and my own anatomy. You see, many years ago I hurt my knee badly enough to need fairly drastic surgery and have needed to exercise (ha ha) a certain amount of caution ever since. Of course, that does not stop me rushing about in my usual pell-mell manner on perilously sharp and high heels, occasionally pitching into doors, up stairs and down sidewalks with not-too-happy results, but I have never worried about my ‘bum’ knee since it was fixed. Not that I worried too much about it before it was fixed, since I had no clue that it needed any fixing! But a couple of weeks ago it started hurting with the slightest movement and, after a few days of tottering across to the gym and gingerly going slower and slower on the treadmill, I finally admitted defeat. And took a few days off the exertion.

It was a strange feeling. After years of telling myself that I hated any kind of physical activity, especially the kind that made me sweaty and caused my various muscles to tick gently at rest, I rediscovered the fact that I actually like exercise. Many years ago, in what was almost another lifetime, I did lots of it, from dance to aerobics to even an abortive attempt at swimming – to no avail, I determinedly sank in any large body of water, so much so that I developed a real aversion to anything resembling a pool from a bathtub to a koi-carp pond. But I liked dance, be it the pure classical style that I had been taught for so many years or just hopping about in a discotheque or swaying vaguely idiotically to pounding beats in a dancaerobics class. It was movement, it was music, it was rhythm and it made a lot of sense to me, mind, body and soul. And slowly I found that I liked almost any sort of movement; it cleansed my skin with the sweat, it cleansed my psyche with the tiredness that allowed me to sleep hard and restfully and it cleansed my spirit and made me feel not just virtuous, but fresh and energized as well.

Finding that again was good for me. And I enjoyed it, through all the pain and sore muscles. But when I had to let it go for that whole week, it was not easy. I wanted that pull on every joint and that fatigue that made my calves and upper arms twitch gently. I wanted that feeling of having done something physical to get into better shape in so many ways, from the mental to the emotional to the bodily stretched-out-ness. I lurked around the house for that hour and a half that I am usually out in the morning, wondering what to do with myself and getting on my own nerves in the not doing of it. I teased Small Cat so much that she retreated under the living room sofa and refused conciliatory offers of chewy sticks and treat biscuits. I followed Father like a shadow all over the house getting on his nerves enough for him to suggest I read a book or do some cooking. And I trotted behind the maid from room to room until she asked me if I was not getting late for my usual morning outing.

My trainer insisted I would do only very light weights and restricted all activity to upper body lifts and stretches. When I ventured to suggest that we could do a stint on one machine or the other for the legs, he glared at me and pushed another set of reps at my hapless biceps, triceps, abs or other attenuated names for muscle groups. And he seemed to sigh when he saw me bounce into the gym with a broad smile anticipating a tough workout – and beamed approvingly when I sulked out an hour later with my top half sweating and twitching and my legs sore with disuse rather than exertion.

Be all that as it may, I am now getting back into the swing…or stretch…or lift…of things. We started slowly increasing the pressure on my legs today and though he was still rather cautious not to strain my knee and asked after every set of exercises whether I was ok, at least it was a start back on the road to recovery. I do feel like a bit of a fraud – and regressive to boot…or sneaker – when I find myself doing half my former pace on the treadmill, or slowing down on the cross-trainer, or not pushing that hard uphill on the recumbent bike, but I know I will be back up there soon enough. Now if only I could convince my knee that it would be a good thing….

Long time no write!

It happens. Sometimes you don’t know what to say and when you do, you have no idea how to say it, and when both of those come together, something else comes along that prevents you from saying whatever it is that you know you want to say. And even as you come up with fabulously satisfying sentences like that last one, you wonder why you need to say what you have to say at all – why not just leave it unsaid, which would be a whole different kind of satisfaction, no?

Be all that as it may, life has a rather strange way of rolling right over you when you least expect it to. I took off from working full time with the firm belief that the move would give me time to recover from a lot that had been going on in my life for many years. There was love and death and life and rediscovery and loss and pain and joy and satisfaction. And somewhere along the way came this surety that whatever happened, happened for a reason that became clear, at some time or the other. It was not a fun way of learning, but it was a hugely necessary experience. Some people call it growing up, some people call it adulthood, some people call it life. For me, it was just one more speedbump in my existence. Some of these bumps hurtled me forward, some held me back, others made sure that I took a new path, undiscovered and even unwanted. Today, I like who I am. And while it still matters to me that people who matter to me like that same me, it is not vital for that to happen. As my favourite character Popeye liked to say, I yam wot I yam and that is that.

So in these last few weeks, when this space has been unvisited by me for reasons I cannot even remember, I have done some more growing. Mercifully, that growth has not been physical and horizontal, bless the gym and a tough trainer for that! But the growth has been, to a great extent, internal, which does not mean that my liver is enlarged or my brain has expanded, but that I have finally figured out what I am about and what I want of myself. Which is, of course, not for anyone except me to know more about, but it is a way to start explaining why I have not updated my blog in too long.

Of course, the other major reason could be that I have been busy battling the vagaries of the entertainment world. Now that is a slice of my life I would not like to relive, but did enjoy…at some strangely masochistic and self-flagellatory level. I have hotly pursued all sorts of people, from television stars to Bollywood biggies, talked to them about the oddest possible subjects and thoroughly relished the power of knowing more than they would perhaps want me to. Of course, them saying that they do not want to be quoted along the way does not delete the words they spoke. In fact, if I was a gossip journalist with a highly coloured rag, I would make a fortune in paybacks or bylines by simply recapping the conversations I have had over the last month or so! What fun!

At the end of it all, I sit back and watch myself from somewhere above my head, wondering what this person is doing and why. Sitting on a sofa exchanging giggles and bitchy remarks with one of the hottest stars on the Indi-rap scene or watching a fabulously famous choreographer sort out domestic matters or even chatting with television’s favourite stud-muffin has been educative, to put it mildly, even as it has been greatly entertaining. And understanding how these people and others of their ilk make the magic that wins them so many fans is even more of a learning experience. Hard work, determination, resolve, or just sheer pigheadedness – who knows what does the trick. But the trick is done and, at the end of the day, that is what really makes the world go around. Taking me with it, willy-nilly.

Long time no write!

It happens. Sometimes you don’t know what to say and when you do, you have no idea how to say it, and when both of those come together, something else comes along that prevents you from saying whatever it is that you know you want to say. And even as you come up with fabulously satisfying sentences like that last one, you wonder why you need to say what you have to say at all – why not just leave it unsaid, which would be a whole different kind of satisfaction, no?

Be all that as it may, life has a rather strange way of rolling right over you when you least expect it to. I took off from working full time with the firm belief that the move would give me time to recover from a lot that had been going on in my life for many years. There was love and death and life and rediscovery and loss and pain and joy and satisfaction. And somewhere along the way came this surety that whatever happened, happened for a reason that became clear, at some time or the other. It was not a fun way of learning, but it was a hugely necessary experience. Some people call it growing up, some people call it adulthood, some people call it life. For me, it was just one more speedbump in my existence. Some of these bumps hurtled me forward, some held me back, others made sure that I took a new path, undiscovered and even unwanted. Today, I like who I am. And while it still matters to me that people who matter to me like that same me, it is not vital for that to happen. As my favourite character Popeye liked to say, I yam wot I yam and that is that.

So in these last few weeks, when this space has been unvisited by me for reasons I cannot even remember, I have done some more growing. Mercifully, that growth has not been physical and horizontal, bless the gym and a tough trainer for that! But the growth has been, to a great extent, internal, which does not mean that my liver is enlarged or my brain has expanded, but that I have finally figured out what I am about and what I want of myself. Which is, of course, not for anyone except me to know more about, but it is a way to start explaining why I have not updated my blog in too long.

Of course, the other major reason could be that I have been busy battling the vagaries of the entertainment world. Now that is a slice of my life I would not like to relive, but did enjoy…at some strangely masochistic and self-flagellatory level. I have hotly pursued all sorts of people, from television stars to Bollywood biggies, talked to them about the oddest possible subjects and thoroughly relished the power of knowing more than they would perhaps want me to. Of course, them saying that they do not want to be quoted along the way does not delete the words they spoke. In fact, if I was a gossip journalist with a highly coloured rag, I would make a fortune in paybacks or bylines by simply recapping the conversations I have had over the last month or so! What fun!

At the end of it all, I sit back and watch myself from somewhere above my head, wondering what this person is doing and why. Sitting on a sofa exchanging giggles and bitchy remarks with one of the hottest stars on the Indi-rap scene or watching a fabulously famous choreographer sort out domestic matters or even chatting with television’s favourite stud-muffin has been educative, to put it mildly, even as it has been greatly entertaining. And understanding how these people and others of their ilk make the magic that wins them so many fans is even more of a learning experience. Hard work, determination, resolve, or just sheer pigheadedness – who knows what does the trick. But the trick is done and, at the end of the day, that is what really makes the world go around. Taking me with it, willy-nilly.

Diva of dance

The first time I heard the name 'Saroj Khan' was perhaps when I started working on the website of a movie magazine. I knew nothing about Hindi films beyond what I had read in the newspapers, which at that time snootily avoided all things filmi, and I did occasionally listen to the radio late at night when I couldn't sleep and lights out had been enforced. Then, suddenly, Madhuri Dixit became a real person - not just a tinsel-dotted star on the big screen - to me, when a designer friend showed me an outfit he had created for her, saying that she and I were the same height and general shape, though there was rather more of her in parts than I had then. Curious about this person that my friend spoke of with such almost-awe, I did my research and found that she was the hot and happening star in the world of Hindi movies, that ephemeral existence called 'Bollywood'. And perhaps her strongest identification was that hip-swinging performance in a song called Ek do teen. Learn how to count, another friend teased me, you may even go into that field of journalism and interview her some day!

I did manage to watch the dance on television, on one of the many countdown shows telecast every week. And was amazed that someone could swivel a hip with such abandon and not fall over. More research followed, and I read that a choreographer called Saroj Khan was responsible for that creation. And that Ms Khan and Ms Dixit were bonded synergistically, each posing a challenge to the other to do better, to outdo, every time, every song, every movie. With typically elitist snobbery, I decided that both the star and the choreographer were loud and vulgar and I didn't want to know more about either. Until the night I watched Madhuri Dixit dance at a popular film awards event, doing what was almost pure Kathak, her grace and her emoting elevating the entire evening to a realm that transcended the noise and flashing lights of a world that never had too much appeal for me. The piece was choreographed by Saroj Khan, it was announced. Since then, I have wanted to meet the lady, the person who changed my mind about the jhatka-matka nautanki that I believed Bollywood to be.

Recently, I was watching a dance reality show on television. Saroj Khan, the choreographer who reigned in the kingdom of bosom-heaves and pelvic-thrusts, came on to the stage and did a tiny vignette of salsa. Her hips swayed, her hands waved and her lips pouted. And the audience, like me, was spellbound. She was not slim or beautiful, but she moved with infinite grace, each tiny shake holding so much magic that it pushed any other more vigorous performance by any other younger, slimmer, more goodlooking celebrity into oblivion. And in that few seconds of movement, she made a fan out of a skeptic - All Hail, Saroj-ji!

Dance off

There are times when one becomes clearly conflicted. As a self-confessed American Idol fan, I watch every new episode of that show, sometimes even watching a re-run in parts because the music did the trick for me. But these days, I find that I am getting good at the surf shuffle, as I like calling it, zipping between channels to optimise my viewing of two shows, especially on one day. That day comes here on Friday every week, when the elimination on American Idol clashes woefully with the contest episode of an Indian version of Dancing With the Stars, locally called Jhalak Dikhla Jaa. So which do I watch? How can I not know what goes on in one as opposed to the other? Very simple. Look at cnn.com on Thursday and you know who is gone from Idol and how. Sometimes the spoiler alert is sounded even on Wednesday. Since I don't really like watching fond farewells and tearful scenes, I prefer not watching how it happens as the episode unfolds on television, even though I cannot resist taking a peek for some usually pretty good music. So now the routine is set, more or less: Idol on Thursday night, Jhalak on Fridays with sneak peeks of Idol eliminations, and then Jhalak eliminations on Saturday night. Sounds like an exciting life? Actually, it is sweet and smells wonderfully of home, which is a good thing in my book.

How did I get into watching television so fanatically? Trust me, it is fairly fanatical, since I do not like anyone calling me during that hour that I am glued to one channel or the other (or, sometimes, both), but I will answer text messages during the commercial breaks. It started with a friend who was stuck on Jhalak. Watch it, she insisted, you will like the dance and music and general liveliness. Then she said I needed to watch one episode so I could tell her what happened, since she was out that evening. I did. And it was fun. What made it better was that a friend of mine was participating. He lost, but it was interesting to see him do something that was so out of his ken. The next thing I knew, I watched not just that show, but also others like it, from Nach Baliye to Saas vs Bahu to Zara Nachke Dikha to...

This particular season of Jhalak has a special interest for me. Not only are the stars unusual - Bhaichung Bhutia, the football player, Mohinder Amarnath, the cricketer, Gauhar Khan, the model, and others not usually seen shaking a hip, Bollywood-ishtyle - but the judges are too - Saroj Khan the 'mother' of filmi choreography, Vaibhavi Merchant, who now rules pretty sharp in tinseltown, and Juhi Chawla, perhaps one of my favourite Bollywood stars where comedy and repartee are concerned. For now, some of the players have been eliminated - Bhagyashree, Anand Raj Anand, Ugesh Sarcar, Mohinder Amarnath, Ram Kapoor and, in the last episode, Gauhar Khan. There have been many tears, some laughter, a generous amount of bitching and a huge amount of learning, but who wins eventually is still up for grabs. The wild card round could bring back one of the celebrities who have left the show, up to dance against the likes of Parul Chauhan, Monica Bedi, Karan Singh Grover, Shilpa Shukla, Hard Kaur and Bhaichung Bhutia.

Winner could take a lot home, including a new fan club, but for now, I wait and watch. And clutch the remote control for the TV in one sweaty hot hand as I shuffle between the stars and the search for an Idol.

Knives and forks on Halloween

Beezil and I have been friends since we were in college. We lived in the same college dorm, though in different corridors. We met through a bathroom door. It was past 11pm and I was inside one of the stalls doing my thing before retiring for the night when I heard voices. Actually, it was one voice, someone having along conversation with someone else. I was wary, since I had heard so much about girl gangs and the nastiness that can go on within the confines of a large, shared bathroom. I peeked cautiously under the door and saw only one pair of feet. They were sheathed in fluffy slippers and planted firmly in front of a mirror, with whatever I could see of the rest of the person talking to herself swathed in a pink towelling dressing gown. I debated whether I should just go out there and see who this strange but interesting person was, even though my native shyness and painfully activated 'be careful' gene were prodding me in the nose and telling me firmly to be quiet and wait. But then my own madness and somewhat eccentric sense of humour bubbled up and I had to ask, "Do you always talk to yourself?"

There was a startled silence for a second and then a barrage of repartee crossed and re-crossed the stall door. I was done in there and opened the door to peek out. My rather astonished gaze saw a face bare of makeup, eyes large behind big glasses, hair pulled back, the whole topped with a brightly coloured shower cap. It was the start of a long and valuable friendship, that holds strong even today, touch wood, never mind the knives and tantrums and tears. Now that is another story, for perhaps another time...

So that was the girl in the loo, as I called her for a long time in letters home. She did have a name, once that was easy to remember and easier to spell, even though the college administration managed to get it wrong on her mailing address. It wasn't long before I found the ideal nickname for her: Beezil. It was a word I found in an Regency romance novel, used by the hero for the heroine, and it fit my new friend perfectly; neither of us has any clue what it means, but it has a wonderfully warm and creative feel to it, with that touch of madness that is typical of both of us, her perhaps more than me. She and I got up to many hi-jinks, rescuing each other from situations both funny and potentially hazardous to our mental health, individually and collectively, and have managed to stay fond of each other no matter what problems litter the path to laughter.

But our first adventure was Halloween. She was off to a Halloween party and was going, she told me, as a silverware drawer. After that first bit of mouth-opening amazement, I got the idea and it was a truly inspired one. It didn't take much, just the contents of her mother's cutlery shelf, stapled or sewn on to her standard uniform of jeans and a sweatshirt. It worked. There were butter knives and regular dining knives spaced through a motley array of spoons, forks, even a fish slice perhaps, though my memory could be telling me stories on that one. Somewhere along the way I may even have helped her make sure that a wire whisk stayed in position. It was a roaring success, she reported later, and the most original costume that evening. I was at my own Halloween celebration - my first since a foray into the streets of Heidelberg dressed as Pippi Longstocking when I was a pre-teen - pretending to be a bat, in all black with glitter spray painted over my hair and a headband with small black bats mounted on wildly waving springs attached to it. It worked, too, perhaps too well, because I had quite a time trying to escape the attentions of a gentleman who believed that he was Batman and therefore needed to get overly friendly with at least one of the species that he said he was kin to. I thought fond thoughts of the knives stapled on my friend's sweatshirt.

Beezil would have offered to use one to help me, if she had been there, I knew.

Paint the horror

I just read a report on the replica of that famous anti-war painting, Guernica, done by Pablo Picasso in 1937. He was expressing his protest against the bombing of the little town of Guernica, in Basque country, by Republican forces during the Spanish Civil War. The work was shown in select galleries around the world – at the Whitechapel Art Gallery in London in 1939 - until Picasso realized that the painting was suffering rather from the wear and tear of constant travel and toing and froing from Spain to wherever. So he gave permission for three exact copies to be woven - yes, as a tapestry – by two weavers from Paris in 1950. Today, one copy is in Japan, another finds a home in France and the third is part of the property of the Rockefeller family and on loan to the United Nations, hanging just outside the Security Council chamber in the landmark New York building for 24 years. It is this replica that is now on display in London, again at the Whitechapel Art Gallery. The tapestry is part of a just-opened show by a Polish sculptor, Goshka Macuga, who ‘speaks’ of the controversy generated by the original work, now at the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía in Madrid.

There has always been debate over this particular work. After some argument, Picasso undertook to paint the piece for the World Fair in Paris, but few paid any attention to it at the time. It was only when it went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York in the 1940s, and was kept there during World War II – Picasso wanted it to stay there until democracy was restored in Spain – that it gained the adulation that it is mentioned with today. Perhaps the most recent furore came when blue curtains were drawn across the tapestry version at the UN in 2003; the synchronicity was a bit off, since the Security Council was meeting to listen to the US’s argument for starting the war on Iraq and an anti-war artwork would hardly induce the right mood. It could, of course, as cynics have said, be for reasons more mundane – blue has a great television presence!

In my own mind, Guernica is replete with controversy. I know it is a hugely significant work, a piece that should be seen and experienced at least once in a lifetime. It has depth, meaning, symbolism, greatness…everything that makes any work of art a must-do for event hose who do not hunger for cultural exposure. But it is also – or at least it was for me – an excruciatingly painful experience. Standing in front of the work, placed in a niche in a shadowed room, the first thing that hit me was how small it is. When you see photographs of it, you expect scale, vastness, almost a landscape across which the eye can travel. What you see is bodies – humans and horses - with limbs and necks at strange angles, agony in every twist and anguish in each oddly placed eye. There is death, of course, but there is an immeasurable pain in the dying. And a lot of that pain is transmitted to the viewer, cutting through all the insulation of so many critiques read and so much hype seen beyond. It has to be seen, but the seeing needs to be done at a distance, where it cannot hurt the heart, the mind and the sensibilities. The controversy is obvious - you have to see it once, but do you really need to see it?

I stood in front of the painting once, some years ago. I am not sure I ever want to see it again.

Idol chatter

For some reason, for the past couple of years, I have been rather avidly watching American Idol, the US reality show where one singer is chosen above a horde of others as the best voice, the best presence, the best showmanship. Last year, the first time I watched it from start to finish and said rude words when a late work-evening took away that pleasure from me, but I did get to see that final winning moment, when one man (David Cook) was declared better than all the rest. I even watched the musical debacle that was Sanjaya Malakar, feted in this country because he has an Indian gene somewhere deep within him, his stage presence due mainly to the indulgence of the judges and his bizarre hairstyles. This time too there is an Indian connection, a young man called Anoop Desai, but he has a voice, he can sing, he has charm and he can make it through to the finals if he doesn't think so much about it and just goes out there and sings what he can sing better than anyone else. But I bet you he won't, since he wants so hard to win that he works on whatever he thinks that the judges will like, which is usually what gives rise to that set of acerbic comments that includes words like 'boring', 'karaoke', 'wrong song' and the like.

Many of the original group have been left behind with the final eight now battling for the top spot - or there will be by tonight, since one more, Megan Joy, will be eliminated, news that is already on the Net, but which hasn't happened for us yet, local time. I have favourites in these left in the game, from the vivid-haired Alison, who sings like a rock dream but has the fashion sense of a much-younger (how can she be, since she is only 16!) teen who went on a wild shopping spree at Target, to the geeky Danny Gokey, who has a tragic story of his life but a voice that holds all the love, pain and sheer thrill of being able to sing that any one person can earn from the power that be.

My own top favourite is Adam Lambert, who can sing, has what would be described by someone slightly old-fashioned in a way that could not be equalled by more contemporary language as 'the voice of an angel' but sings with a devilish streak in his music and a wicked smile in his eyes. He does everything from straight R&B to punk with the same effortless style, his showmanship soaring beyond the funky hairdo and the black nailpolish to some place that everyone else seems to struggle to reach. He looks like he is thoroughly enjoying his performance, with a relaxed air and laid-back swagger that no one else has managed yet. Of course he has talent, bucketfuls of it, but to present it in a way that leaves seasoned judges speechless and wins kudos almost every week is something out of the ordinary. I am not sure I hope he wins. I do hope he can use his huge talent to bring pleasure to many more lives, just the way his minute-and-a-half or whatever the time limit is on the show makes me smile with a deep satisfaction of having heard something really worth hearing.

Of course, maybe the best part of the show is Simon Cowell and his supremely confident sass. Whether he is drawing a crayon moustache on Paula Abdul or whether he is agreeing with Kara Diguardi or debating with Randy Jackson, all well-known in the music business and respected for their opinions, or whether he is being utterly serious when he praises a contestant's performance, he hogs the limelight and attracts all the attention, good and bad. No judge on any Indian reality show, be it the greatly applauded Farah Khan or the often-nasty Anu Malek, can match Mr Cowell.

How the show pans out will be seen over the weeks to come. But it certainly seems to be getting more interesting with every episode. I am glad I have the time and leisure to watch it, to listen to these talented young people competing in what is often a silly contest, but an obviously worthwhile platform for a musical future. And you know already who gets my vote!

Heat of the night

It's hotter than it has been in a very long time. And, typically, I was out all yesterday, when it was about 40 degrees and humid as the air inside a steaming kettle, meeting a friend for lunch, doing myriad errands, looking covetuously at shoes and unexpectedly acquiring a pair that I would normally only lech at, and finally drooping into the house just in time for some tea and well-earned sympathy. And I did indeed droop, after a day that had started at 6:15 in the morning, exhausted me with a gym workout, polite conversation and social interaction, and progressed hotly through to a late evening cooled only by the air-conditioner and the thought of a cool shower scented by sandalwood and more sweet thoughts of soft pillows and no dreams.

It's been unusually hot, according to the Met Office. The powers that be generally off-base when it comes to weather prediction have promised that it will stay this way for another few days, which means that the media will run more stories on what to do to cool off, how to be extra-careful to ward off all the nasty bugs that love hot and steamy weather and what sunscreen and SPF and hats are good for. There will be lists of ailments that follow hot (sic) on the heels of the sultry weather and exhortations to drink plenty of cool liquid, take in plenty of watermelon, pumpkin, grapes, kiwi fruit and cucumber, and wear loose cotton clothing, stay out of the sun and avoid spicy or 'heating' foods.

But it's an interesting time of year. Vegetables, shrubbery and people droop glumly around the place and it takes a special kind of mind to be happy and show it while walking down the street, waiting for a bus or standing in line to buy stamps. I sweat more walking to the gym than after 17 minutes on the treadmill and my hair streams soggily down my back as I trudge wearily back, my T-shirt clinging damply to my shoulders and my feet almost literally squelching inside my sandals. Yesterday, as I walked in and out of stores that stocked all that I needed to get, my spike-heeled sandals stuck to my soles and my freshly washed hair blew stringily around my glowing (since I am a woman and not allowed to sweat) face. Stray dogs lay in the shade under trees, cars and awnings, their tongues hanging thirstily out and their stomachs heaving. A very large cow stood under a tree sheltering a roadside temple, her sides blowing gustily in and out and the pile of grass by her side ignored for a small bucket full of water close by. And four well-filled female passengers peered into my car from the open windows of a taxi and waved magazines in front of them to muster up some kind of ventilation and cool their heavily made-up faces.

It is Indian summer, the kind only Bombay (I hate Mumbai, always have) can manage. Though it is early this year and unwontedly severe, we can only scuttle towards all the coolth there may be and be rude about the Great Power way up there who has fated this upon us. And about the Met Office's super-efficient weather people, of course!

Diamond life

I am not sure when I first saw a diamond, or when I first felt the magic of that wonderful sparkle, but I know now that the spell was irreversible and is still as strong as ever today. My first diamonds came when I was 21, the traditional gift from parents to child, and I revelled in them, never mind that the earrings were too heavy and hurt my ears and the pendant was unmatchable in its beauty and amazingly innovative in its execution so it could rarely be worn without putting the jewel and its wearer at risk from everything from kidnap and robbery to the evil eye. The pieces stayed locked up in a safety deposit box for many years while I wore tiny studs that could barely be seen but for a glint, as I lived and studied away from home. Some time later, I got myself a second piercing in one ear and have worn a wee black diamond in there to ward off that aforementioned evil eye and keep me safe from harm of various physical and psychic forces. I am not sure that works, but it is an unusual piece and charmingly hidden by the birds nest of my hair.

Soon I started learning - and writing - about diamonds, those shiny stones that can bring so much joy to the owner. I discovered the various qualities that stores sold under the guise of top-notch jewels and laughed as I saw that many of the spectacular gems worn by the social elite were actually not even real! I scoffed cheerfully at the myriad brands of diamond jewellery so easily available at retail outlets and turned up my snob snub nose at the offerings of various kinds on festive occasions - everything from Valentine's Day to Diwali to whatever other reason anyone could have to celebrate by spending a lot of money for something that is barely worth its advertising budget.

But somewhere along the way, I became seriously addicted. I liked diamonds and they liked me. We had a fatal attraction to each other, like opposite poles of a very strong magnet. I found designs I really wanted and made one or two of my diamond dreams come true. But today, when I see new pieces and look at window displays - and yes, I still scoff - I think more practically to myself. What would I do with that, I wonder. Where would I wear it? And I wander off and look at shoes instead, some of them with a diamond or two strategically placed to glitter in just that perfect way....

Screening process

(More published stuff...)

I recently read that hippo sweat--a deep red, viscous liquid--may be the best sunscreen ever. While I couldn’t possibly find it on store shelves, I did smile to myself when I stood at a beauty counter at the mall recently listening to a young woman’s spiel on SPF, sun-shield and more. I even found myself reading the list of ingredients on a tube of sunblock to see if it contained the miracle stuff, knowing full well that I would only see chemical names and never know where the molecules came from.

But I was only following my dermatologist’s advice. For years, like most brown-skinned Indian women, I never thought about shielding my skin from the sun, until the day I found myself burning while my white girlfriends basted in tanning oil glowed a gentle gold. Sun-sensitive, the dermatologist declared, mandating sunscreen at least, if sunblock (which has SPF 30 and more) was not close at hand. Use it even when you are working at the computer, the monitor is a source of ultraviolet rays that can dangerously harm your skin. Use at least 30 SPF (aka sun protection factor) and reapply it every couple of hours, more often when you are swimming or gymming or otherwise very sweaty. I do remember to follow the advice quite regularly, which explains why my skin has not aged as much as I have.

Which explains why I was shopping for sun protection. My favourite Clinique City Block was not available anywhere and I needed an alternative. I started at Beauty Centre, then trotted around the corner to Beauty Palace, both in Crawford Market. I gazed at the range of Banana Boat products, from SPF 15 to 60, and sniffed happily at the unguents that reminded me of the mixed fruit jams I relished when I was a child, the scents redolent with pineapple, coconut and sweet berries. Safe for children the tubes declared, but sensitive skin does not like strong smells, so I wandered away. The Lakme counter at a department store in Churchgate displayed a range that was packaged in attractive gold-orange containers, and the Lotus Herbals products were touted with as much enthusiasm, as were Vichy (for the very healthy budget), Ayur, Garnier, Shahnaz Herbal, Neutrogena, Fair and Lovely, Himalaya, Biotique, Nivea and VLCC.

Thoroughly confused and fleeing the attentions of all these salespeople at their counters, I headed for a well-known chemist store on Queen’s Road. The chappie in charge offered me Z-cote, a zinc oxide product that would give me the protection that the Australian cricketers used, he told me solemnly, without the odd appearance of the white mask usually seen in zinc or titanium oxide blocks. Or try Lumicare, he said, it is quite good, for sensitive skin. A little research told me that I could have saved myself a lot of trouble and sun exposure and called my friendly neighbourhood representative to get myself Avon, Oriflame or Aviance products. With all this, from the cheapest at about Rs 150, to the most expensive at about Rs 3,000, I could make my dermatologist and my skin very happy.

But I never found anything with hippo sweat in it. The miracle is yet to be made available!

Playing chicken

En route to the grocery store, Father and I stopped off at the new Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant this afternoon. That, in itself, was quite an achievement, since in all our years in various parts of the world we managed to quite successfully avoid the fast food chain for no real reason but that there was always something more interesting to sink our teeth into...literally. But since this was a new outlet, fairly clean and well lit, and it was on our way to where we were headed and it saved us from my cooking for a quick lunch, we walked in, ordered, watched and listened to the chaos behind the counter, sat down, ate, laughed, talked and then went on our way, feeling quite happy with our meal, even though it did not satisfy my usually stringent mandates on fibre and green veggies, low salt and no preservatives. But then a once-in-a-while junk food fest never hurt, did it? It may even make people appreciate my organic healthfood cuisine a little more!

And while we ate, we shared a gentle giggle remembering our first and only time at the same fast food company, albeit a different outlet in a different country in what seems like a different life completely. It was some years ago in Beijing, China, on a trip that started with an international conference that Father was attending in that enigmatic country and ended with sensory exhaustion all around and the feeling that we had lived through a wondrous and unrepeatable time. we had a guide-translator who patiently and dutifully shepherded us through many of the landmarks that so spectacularly lit up the screen in the Last Emperor, and who told us stories about each place he took us to with much drama and heavy breathing through difficult syntax and a couple of misplaced 'r's and 'l's. He was a sweet man who worked very hard to please us. He fed us everything from dimsum of various sorts to the famed Peking duck at the famed Peking Duck Restaurant, converted currency and language for us at the souvenir shops and Friendship stores, woke us up on time for the bus and sent us to bed with full tummies and even fuller minds every evening and did all this and much much more with a huge smile and many often wildly chancy adjectives.

So one afternoon, when he told us he had a great treat planned for lunch, we were game for anything. It would be delicious and exotic, so don't as what's in it, just eat, was the general mood, upbeat and happy and anticipatory. The bus lumbered and blasted its way through the city traffic, dodging bicycles and people with a grace and agility I would never have expected of something so large and ponderous. But then, if you could pick up a stewed duck's foot with laquered chopsticks, you could manouvre anything, we collectively figured. And then the bus came to a slow and screeching halt just outside what seemed to be a strip mall. There were various small eateries along that stretch and I spotted a dumpling stall that belched fragrant wafts of steam and hot oil...but no, that was not it. Our guide got us all off the bus, gathered in a warm and hungry group at the foot of a small stairway. We go there, he pointed.

The big red and white sign was familiar. A couple of Americans in the group laughed. I looked, shut my eyes, looked again. The words on the sign did not have to be read, the image of an old man with a beard and glasses said it all: Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Jai ho!

Yeah, well, it had to come some day, even though I was consciously avoiding the use of anything to do with Slumdog Millionaire and the Oscars, just to be my own sweetly contrary self. But there came a moment last night that I really felt it had to be said, and this is about that moment.


What happened? I was watching the news and the launch of the new Nano, Ratan Tata's dream which finally came true - transport for the vast population of this country that does not look to buying a car with a multi-lakh price tag. Somewhere along the way, as the little vehicles edged their way on to that large stage, their headlights and fog lamps shining through the cloud and flash-glare of the media cameras, I felt like cheering, even as I felt a strange lump in the back of my throat. It was an ambition a man who will probably never drive the car in practical reality had for the people of the country he calls home and after more trials, tribulations and traumas that any one project deserves, it all came to that one point of fruition when, in a blaze of glitz and glamour, the cars were introduced to the public. Most had seen them before, when the prototype was shown off some months ago, but this was special. It is time now for people to actually start buying...or at least to plonk down some money, a tiny amount when compared to the huge sums needed to buy any of the fancy imports now so freely available. A dream is great stuff, but when it comes to the stage when other people can share it, can touch it, can take it home and coo over it, then it makes sense, it becomes more real.

I think the most moving part of the whole event for me was the fact that after all the problems that have dogged the project, and with the global economy being what it is, and the fact that the Tata group is perhaps the most respected industrial conglomerate in India today, all added to the general positive image of the man himself, Ratan Tata, that cute little car has a big smile on its face. Like the Beetle, the hood curves in a happy arc, the headlamps almost giggle with a pleased satisfaction and the overall roundness and smallness of the whole caboodle appeals to the little bit in all of us that approves of 'cute' even as we deny it. Somewhere along the way, it also feels good that a man who was hit so hard during the development of the project by politics, and very dirty politics at that, the same man whose iconic hotel was devastated by terrorists last year...that man found a new kind of success in a place where he will be, for millions who can now afford to drive, a hero.

I have made many jokes about the Nano, including how I can get a whole stable of the little cars to match all my fashion statements. Of course, the performance of the vehicle needs to be judged over time and what it actually does to the already mad traffic of the city in particular and the country as a whole remains to be seen. But for now, for Tata Motors, for Ratan Tata and his team, for the Nano, that tiny heart-stealer with a big smile, AR Rahman and co said it wonderfully: Jai ho!

Money money money, don’t be funny, honey!

(more...)

So it’s a bad time all over the world, for almost everyone, from the zillionaires who have slid down the rich-list to more ordinary folk who have chosen not to be rats in the everyday race to nab that necessary paycheck each month. Prices are down, inflation is down, the headlines say cheerfully one day, and the next they are talking about how many people have been axed from which company that is closing down operations in which country. India is no different, though there is a small degree of insulation against the very hard knocks and the government is in high gear making life easier in exchange for precious votes. Along the way, belts have been tightened, budgets have been cut and spending has slowed, to a great extent, on a very personal, individual level. That is not to say, of course, that people are not indulging themselves, crawling the malls, occasionally picking up bits and pieces that they don’t really need and burning plastic like they always did – only for now it is not as frequent as before. Saving for a rainy day seems to be the mantra, and with the rain just a couple of months away, and the global economy with a big black cloud hanging over it, all the extravagance feels like it was once a very distant dream.

But it’s not all gloom and doom, financially speaking. Women have always been good at adjusting to life and its circumstances. It’s called the ‘Lipstick effect’, according to an article in the Wall Street Journal, and has been seen every time there is an economic downturn, be it during the Great Depression in the United States from October 1929, after the catastrophe of 9/11 when grief and war clouds darkened the economy, or more recently in the current crisis. Since buying new wardrobes, new diamonds or new homes would be frowned upon by the financial pundits, women look for comfort in far smaller and inexpensive trifles, especially lipstick: red, for this time around, according to sales records. And trolling the city’s department stores or even just looking through the advertisements in glossy magazines available today, that seems to be a major must-spend right now, with special offers and sales galore.

Apart from the obvious pick-me-up that only a scarlet mouth can provide, women have other ways to fight the recession blues and make their fashion statements with their usual degree of élan, manage the home-work-self balance and still present a face that the world approves of and they themselves like to see in the mirror.

HOME: Maybe the glossies show you how to make over your home for a million dollars. It’s a bad time for money, remember? There is no million dollars to play with right now. Be practical: use flowers to brighten up corners, old dupattas work great as new cushion covers and children’s artwork is far more exclusive and appealing than that Husain or Kallat you covet.

WORK: Unless you are really exhausted and demotivated, your brain will always be ticking over. Find new ways to make old work fun, interesting, even impressive, by changing the way you approach an interview, the presentation you make for that dull toilet cleaner campaign, the pitch you use to sweet talk that new spending client into signing the contract, that loop you fit into the program you are working on to project the next quarter’s budget.

SELF: The best way to reinvent yourself is to exercise. The exertion released lots of good chemicals - including pain-killing endorphins to fight the fallout from that extra crunch you did – that bring the zing back, increasing the feel-good-ness of your day. And if it gets you into great shape, which will bring in the compliments, that beats the blues any which way! Apart from which, you feel terribly self-righteous, stop binging on that chocolate on which you spend too much money and put you back into those clothes that you had grown out of three seasons ago.

CLOTHES: The good thing about fashion is that it comes in cycles. Today you see saris with fancy designer tags on them that look amazingly like the stuff you inherited from your mother, who got them from her mother. If time has made the edges tattier than you would be comfortable with, a little cut-sew job will produce the perfect design effect, with an ingenuous combination of pattern, texture, fabric, ornamentation and weight. And vintage is always in, you know! Of course, you could also opt for the age-old paavadai-daavani (half-sari, chanya-choli, whatever) effect that is edging itself into centre-ramp these days. And if the saris don’t work for you any more, whatever you do to them, they will always make great curtains.

JEWELLERY: Vintage rules. If you feel that everyone has seen what you have many times over, do a little clever juggling and use that pendant as a brooch, stick that jhumka into your chignon, wind those pearls around your ankle, wiggle those rings over your toes.

MONEY: You may be careful with money right now, but while you save, how about checking out that new Tata FD interest rate? Get in touch with a reputed broker and find out what to invest in, reorganize your stock portfolio and figure out the intricacies of operating a demat account. Get smart with your finances.

In all this, there are so many options you can select to shrug off the blues. Adopt a kitten and giggle happily as you watch it grow up. Buy processed cheese instead of your usual gourmet fare and spend many good moments being nasty about its amazingly plastic texture and flavour. Pull out those ridiculous spike heels you bought on impulse and never wore and strut about the house in them. Do what you fondly imagine to be a belly dance. Plan what you will do with slush-money when the recession fades into better times and your increment actually materializes.

And slather on the red lipstick – it works best of all.

Sweet sensation

(More published work...)

It’s come at last. Medical specialists have finally agreed that chocolate is indeed a good thing. Women have known this for almost ever, since chocolate has helped them get through so many crises, from PMS to Bad Boss Days to break-ups to singed soufflés to jeans that don’t button up to hair that will not behave. And sometimes, to deal with situations of this kind, as a woman, I know you need to have a bite or four of something rather more special than the chocolate you can buy at any common garden grocery shop. Custom-made, special order, for that one moment that makes sense…chocolate has wandered off the shelf and into kitchens that belong to people who do not manufacture it on a huge commercial scale, but carefully hand-make it to suit specific tastes, for specific occasions. There are many who do this, with a few more added to the list every year, some who make it all a completely family operation, others who have professional helpers. And as tastes evolve, so do methods, packaging and sales techniques.

Thereza Gomes is someone who is always looking for adventure. So for her, making chocolate became a new kind of adventure, one that is fairly happy and, so far, profitable. The story started when a friend showed her how to make chocolate. Gomes tried it, and “It turned out okay. And I am always happy to be creative, especially since chocolate is a passion with me!” So she experiments, like every natural chef, adding a little here, a little there and finding the results to be not just delicious, but a hit with her test-tasters too. She is not a professional chocolate maker, in that the word about her culinary creativity is spread through friends, on the train into town every day as she commutes to work, at church, wherever she meets people who like eating. “I don’t advertise or push it too much, since I work fulltime and I can only do this when I have spare time,” says Gomes, “but I am willing to make it on a larger scale if I get really big orders.” Her sweets range from about Rs750 (plain chocolate) to about Rs1050 (with nuts), “but it depends on the prices of the ingredients today,” she explains.

Psychologist Alzeyne Dehnugara was once in a fairly high-pressure work situation. Today, her training takes a back seat as her passion takes over her life, becoming an all-consuming fervour: making chocolate. The magic ingredient is instinct, which directs her to play with flavour and proportion. Dehnugara started her chocolate making as an experiment, after a friend gave her simple instructions. “I am an absolute foodie,” she says, “and I tried various fillings and kinds of chocolate. My family and friends gave me very positive feedback and I started selling.” The orders have been coming in fairly easily and quickly, with corporate offers following a friend’s wedding. In fact, she spoke as she travelled back to Mumbai from Gujarat, focused on making chocolates for a Holi kit for a company. She prices her delicacies at about Rs500 for plain fudge to Rs550 plus for assorted nut chocolate to about Rs560 for the intriguing chocolate crumble.

Seema Abbott, whose family owns the Abbott Hotel in Vashi, has been making sweet treats for about nine years now. “It started as a hobby, time pass, with friends and relatives being my customers.” Today, she is registered on the Times Food Guide and takes corporate orders, apart from working on sweet treats for the hotel. “It took me about a year to develop a client list; profits were practically nil until then,” she recalls. Trained at the Catering College in Dadar, Abbott always liked “playing around with desserts. I polished up my skills with a course with a professional chef and paid more attention to presentation and, of course, quality control – after all, if it is appealing to the eye, people will want to eat it,” she knows. She has professional help, working out of the second flat she owns, which has been converted to a bakery-confectionary unit. She makes chocolates, fudge, brownies, cakes, biscuits and more, with prices starting at about Rs400, with a minimum order of 750 grams.

Bandra-based Marzia Ramzanali also works out of her home, with professional help. And her repertoire is as varied, ranging from plain chocolate (Rs500 per kilo) through chocolates with butterscotch and nougat (Rs600) to dry fruits (Rs700) and liquor fillings. She also caters to children, with chocolate alphabets (Rs5 apiece), cartoon characters (Rs10), biscuits (Rs15), lollipops and more. “In 1999 I took a course in the subject and what I made impressed my family with its taste and presentation,” she reports. It may have begun as a hobby, but today her client list is indeed impressive, her resume including treats for the wedding of Bollywood actor Aamir Khan and Kiran Rao, and for Helen Khan, apart from corporate and special orders and exclusive gifts. “It has come with word of mouth and my website,” Ramzanali says, “and I am quite happy working from home.” She would like to start a store, but outlets in the area where she lives are not doing roaring business, rents are prohibitive and her way of functioning works well for the newly married chocolatier.

Packaging and presentation is as much part of the desserts business as the sweets themselves. Abbott, like the others, looks for wrapping paraphernalia herself, since only she can spot that special foil or that perfect bow that she wants for a gift order. Ramzanali says that while friends and relatives do tell her when they see something interesting, she has to choose the wrapping for herself. Vashi-based Gomes gets her supplies from the city, with a little help from her “wrapping machine called Leo Gomes (her husband),” who also doubles as dish washer and general helper. But, for all these chocolatiers with a passion for the craft, like all their customers who have an equal passion for the sweet brown stuff they create, as Gomes says, “chocolate is chocolate, the ultimate food!”

Woman hood

I was at the mall with Father yesterday in the afternoon and was stopped at regular intervals by eager and beaming young people asking me to fill in forms for a Women’s Day raffle of sorts. I never did find out what I could win, partly because I had not bought anything yet and so had no bills to use to enter the draw, but also because since I never ever win anything, I was not especially interested in finding out what I could possibly win if I entered. But somewhere along the way, the age-old truism made its presence felt in my mind once again: Why does there have to be a special day to celebrate being a woman? Isn’t being a woman enough celebration?

But then again, perhaps not. Almost every day I see instances of how being a woman makes you, somehow, for reasons I never understood, less able, less deserving, less everything. In this country, at least, the great and glorious nation that is Hamara Bharat Mahan. Many many many generations ago, womanhood was exalted, given a status that was equal to or higher than that of men. This was in a more enlightened time, when the Vedas were the tenet by which life was lived. There is apparently evidence to show that in ancient times being a woman meant that you were in a way a more evolved, more aware, more privileged form of life. And then things went to hell and woman was reviled, cast to a position far lower than her male counterpart. Today, surprisingly, even the most educated and liberal man will, at some level, see women as being a little less equal, a little less capable, a little less worthy. I see a lot of it, I get some of it and I don’t like any of it.

Some years ago, I opened an account in the bank near where I live. When I filled in the forms – something I have always hated doing, since I tend to hit a glorious blank when asked deep and searching questions like ‘Do you have an account with this bank?’ or ‘What is your income tax folio number?’ – I had to write in my father’s name. Without that, I could not start banking with that institution, I was told by a greasily smiling manager when I asked why they needed that information. At which point I threw a bit of a tantrum, which could be why the bank manager still peeks warily and sideways at me whenever I go in there. I was a legal adult, I had my own source of income, the account would be in my name, so why did they need to know who my father was? Why didn’t they ever ask who my mother was, or something less gender-biased like that? I have no idea why I was so annoyed, since I am usually far more accepting and understanding of my own country and its modern culture, but I was. Be all that as it may, the account was opened, albeit with a little intervention from the aforementioned male parent, who came in and soothed every ruffled feather and fluff in the building, or so it seemed.

Today, when someone looks at me leeringly and implies that because I am a woman, and a fairly pulchritudinous one at that – though what looks have to do with anything, I do not know – I cannot possible do what a man can, I smile tolerantly and go ahead and do exactly what I want to. After much trial and error, anger and some unwanted unwonted stress, I know what I am capable of and firmly believe that those who see me as a somehow lower form of life are just plain ignorant. And I show more teeth and defeat them at their own game.

Which is the best course of action, don’t you think?

Across the line

First off, what happened yesterday was horrific. I am talking about the attack on the Sri Lankan cricket team in Lahore as they drove to the stadium. Some of them were injured, though not seriously, while a number of Pakistani policemen who were part of the team's security detail were killed. At this point, there is a lot of finger-pointing going on and many of my own countrymen, Indians, are doing the told-you-so thing, once again labelling the people of Pakistan, collectively and otherwise, as the villains of this - and every other - piece. I do not agree with that; after all, one bad apple does not mean that the whole orchard was rotten, but who is going to stop and think hard enough to see how true that is, at this time? Everyone just needs a scapegoat and our neighbours across the way just happen to be it...for now. No one has stopped to think that so many of the "baddies" were killed, innocent guards doing their job. And I have another question: Why the Sri Lankans? I thought the Indians and the Americans were the prime targets for the nasty Pakistanis, all of whom carry machine guns in their hands and hatred in their eyes, especially for us, the nice, loving, caring, sharing folk who live in a world on the other side of a thin line.

What a crock of you-know-what! Baddies are baddies, of any shape, colour, size, nationality, religion or any other distinction. If you are going to kill, if you are a killer, you will destroy lives and spread darkness. If you are trained to do so, you will, because it has become your job and, with prolonged indoctrination, your way of living. If you are on the wrong side, which a lot of people unfortunately are, you will be coloured with the same bucket of paint, just because you happen to be standing in the same general area when it splashed. Mud sticks. And in this case, the mud just happens to be in the form of a group of people who have adopted a twisted ideology and who are, by chance or circumstance, part of a nation that has plenty to be proud of, in spite of its small faction that believe in guns, fanaticism and blood-lust.

Of course, with all this, the media finally has something to sink its teeth into. I was once part of that small community that thrives on readership (or viewership) and I now watch it with a certain interest. Journalists have a rather distressing tendency to take a fact and weave myths around it, making it out to be a great deal more than it is actually worth, be it the villainly of a whole country because of the deeds of a few, or the fact that a popular actress had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction under the full glare of the flashbulbs. It all makes for rising TRPs and eyeballs, the more attention that a story attracts, the better, being the ethos. Along the way, no one has spoken of why the Sri Lankans, of all people, were attacked, how a prolonged video grab of the attacks could have been done - a time period that could have brought the security forces out to nab the bad guys, perhaps? - and how so many men could have come together, with so much weaponry, to attack one small target with no one having any clue about its happening.

So many issues to think about. And one more: Is Pakistan always and inevitably the villain of any piece of this kind? Or is there someone else responsible? Who? And why?

Always a woman

A very long time ago, a friend of mine sang the Billy Joel classic She's always a woman to me for me. It said everything I always believed a woman was all about, from her sense of humour to her tantrums, her whimsies and her madness. And somewhere along the way, I saw a lot of it in me, taken with a rather oversized pinch of salt, of course, since it was, after all, just a song.

Today, at the gym, I saw those same qualities in a lot of women who were sweating their way through exercise routines. They were of various sizes and shapes, in form and out of it, happy about themselves and obviously not. But they all seemed to know - as all women instinctively do - that they had a special power. They were strong and resilient and determined, some of the best qualities in any human being. And, considering the way so many men in this country treat women, it seems that these same qualities are so necessary for survival of any woman today.

A friend of mine, a woman of my mother's generation, always told me to use my femininity as an additional qualification to get whatever I needed to do, done. Another friend, a little younger, once told me that it was a matter of pride to be a 'babe', however pejorative it may sound when used by the average male human. And I find that there is a way in which a feminine voice, a smile, a sweep of a set of nicely mascaraed eyelashes, gets the job done faster, better and easier than if I was a macho type who marched in and demanded whatever it is.

Is that some strange form of sexism, chauvinism, selling of the self, all that is nasty and negative about using your gender to smooth the path? Not at all. Not in my mind, at least. After all, today it is all about war and occasionally about love, especially in a professional situation. And, as they say, all's fair...isn't it?

Thinking into the box

(Again, this becomes a record of published work!)

It’s that time of year when advice floods the headlines. Parents are told how to treat children who have been made fragile by an overload of schoolwork, studying and pre-examination pressures. Children are told how to behave when parents push them, when they need to finish revision of impossibly sized coursework portions, when they don’t think they have done enough to top a class or a college or even a state list. And everyone has ideas on what to eat, what to avoid, what to moderate and what to focus on.

Along the way, food becomes all important. Nutritionists and dieticians have all sorts of suggestions: high protein, low fat, low-carbs, no carbs, extra carbs…a kitchen manager’s nightmare. But once the food is put together and ready to be packed, a strange problem arises. With the plethora of plastics available today and the sturdy and die-hard metals that were so ubiquitous in naani’s time, what does the modern mother – or father, since the nicely-trained-in-housework daddy is the man to watch these days – use to stash her baby’s carefully balanced meal in? Aluminum foil is handy, but expensive; plastic wrap is not easy to handle when you are in a hurry; neither is eco-friendly. The old favourite tiffin dabba is passé, its multi-tiered compactness generally limited to lunches delivered by the dabbawalla or seen in more modern avatars as individual containers within an insulated box. But those are more adult-use food-ware, carried primarily by the busy executive commuting by train, or by a driver taking the boss lunch to the office.

Today plastic reigns. It is easy to use, convenient to wash, comes in bright colours and interesting shapes appealing to any child and is light and inexpensive, no devastating loss if it is lost at school, left on the bus or broken during a session of breaktime roughhousing. In fact, plastic boxes for children’s snacks or mini-meals come in all sorts of forms, from the dabbas available on the street in Crawford Market (about Rs25-150 for a set) to more fancy versions in Gala Stores in Breach Candy, Hypercity in the Inorbit Mall, Asiatic Stores in Churchgate, Akbarally’s and elsewhere, with prices going up to about Rs650 for all the bells and whistles, higher for a foreign make). Brands include Pearlpet, Cello, Ajanta, Lunchmate and others. The American import Tupperware is considerably more expensive, available only from the friendly neighbourhood sales representative, with a tag of about Rs745 for the executive lunch box set which comes in a smart insulated bag to Rs255 for a single internally divided box.

All delicious ways to store a healthy lunch that will surely add to a child’s energy and enthusiasm during a stressful time.