I look out of my window, for that all familiar night view of my suburb. Lights making those skyscrapers look like tall matchboxes shining with glow-dents.The only difference between today and my home as always, is that the scant furniture that gave it that ultra-home feel is out. My luggage has moved out. The kitchen is empty but for some plastic bottles that I used to store water. And walls full of memories. Twenty-four months is not a long time...
With a tear in my eye, I moved the last of my belongings from that apartment. From a complete stranger who set foot in the mad city, got overwhelmed by it, hated it, and grew eventually to love it, I have grown many times over in Mumbai.
When I arrived, my neighbours had shut their doors on my face. When I left, I had the same neighbours open their doors to give me that all friendly smile and say those words I love - `visit us when you come to Mumbai' and a bunch of other friends who said their emotional byes. The city does weave its magic! I've moved bag and baggage from the city I grew to adore, rather reluctantly.
Two years back, it was the fear of the new that gnawed me away when I arrived Mumbai. Now, it is fear of the familiar doing exactly that with Chennai.
Very soon, I want to return to Mumbai. For many reasons. One of them, is that Mumbai made me a winner at a profound level.
When I left Mumbai, I no longer felt a migrant. I felt, at home. Mumbai, I salute you!
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
Ruchika case: Thank You...
It is with utmost sincerity and deepest regards that I address this letter to the government of India, the supreme power, to the judiciary, the almighty, the politician, who surpasses all these, and the cop, who enjoys the love and benevolence of the politician.
Thank you so much sirs, for telling me, a survivor, what exactly I must expect of the system if I dare approach it for as serious an offence as Child Sexual Abuse. Thank you Constitution, for me not having to deal with those three horrible words at all in law books.
Thank you judiciary. Really, really, thank you! Blessed art thou....need I say more?
Thank you, for thereby allowing millions of offenders out there in homes, enjoying the tender bodies of vulnerable children for as many years as they can. Thank you, for letting them inflict gnashes on the bodies of girls, threatening them artfully, touching them all over, many a time even boys! Thank you, for showing me my place. And telling me that should I commit suicide like Ruchika and should my parents pursue the case as dilligently as her parents did, they would still be hounded by the system that favours the offenders rather than their daughter. Thank you for telling me right away, that at the end of such a battle, it is my parents who will cry still while the offender has the ....last laugh.
Thank you cop. You are the last word around us! You can smile easy when you are faced with a laughable jail term. For all I know, you will get treated like a king out there! After all, have you not been the one in control of thing, right? Unleash your colleagues on us hapless souls. They could satiate their lethal appetite too, and get away with it!
Thank you politician, for blessing the offender with such lovely stars that he can smile away for eternity. You, are the almighty! You walk and the cop follows! You bless and the cop becomes blessed! Bless the cop more, with some more favours for his family members, some more promotions!
Cop, should I understand that you have women in your family too! Probably women who you may in remote possibility, love! And women who you're slapping on face and saying exactly what you'd love to, that you can have your share of fun, others of your breed can have their share of fun, and women, yours or theirs, would have to put up with it!
Thank you Government, I mean, Government of India! Thank you, for doing nothing, nothing at all except for throwing empty words in the air, when it comes to the safety of women in this country. Thank you for telling me, a woman, that I would have been safer if I was not born at all. If I was killed before birth, I would not be lusted after by hungry wolves out there even if I wore a burkha, is it not? And they have a right to touch me at the slightest possible chance! If God never made me, I would not be prone to vultures out there in buses, offices, worse, homes, isn't it?
Thank you for letting me know that your prized politicians will fight tooth and nail against a 33 per cent reservation bill for women, while ensuring that women's safety should only be as far as suiting their sexual and emotional needs, 100 per cent.
Thank you all those families, who've sent out messages to your children, that should they report to you about someone of your ilk molesting them, you WILL NOT believe them. God knows what you will do, but you will ensure IT IS swept under the carpet. And let another perpetrator have his share of lust and beastliness, thanks to your ability to silence your child.
Yours...sincerely..
Thank you so much sirs, for telling me, a survivor, what exactly I must expect of the system if I dare approach it for as serious an offence as Child Sexual Abuse. Thank you Constitution, for me not having to deal with those three horrible words at all in law books.
Thank you judiciary. Really, really, thank you! Blessed art thou....need I say more?
Thank you, for thereby allowing millions of offenders out there in homes, enjoying the tender bodies of vulnerable children for as many years as they can. Thank you, for letting them inflict gnashes on the bodies of girls, threatening them artfully, touching them all over, many a time even boys! Thank you, for showing me my place. And telling me that should I commit suicide like Ruchika and should my parents pursue the case as dilligently as her parents did, they would still be hounded by the system that favours the offenders rather than their daughter. Thank you for telling me right away, that at the end of such a battle, it is my parents who will cry still while the offender has the ....last laugh.
Thank you cop. You are the last word around us! You can smile easy when you are faced with a laughable jail term. For all I know, you will get treated like a king out there! After all, have you not been the one in control of thing, right? Unleash your colleagues on us hapless souls. They could satiate their lethal appetite too, and get away with it!
Thank you politician, for blessing the offender with such lovely stars that he can smile away for eternity. You, are the almighty! You walk and the cop follows! You bless and the cop becomes blessed! Bless the cop more, with some more favours for his family members, some more promotions!
Cop, should I understand that you have women in your family too! Probably women who you may in remote possibility, love! And women who you're slapping on face and saying exactly what you'd love to, that you can have your share of fun, others of your breed can have their share of fun, and women, yours or theirs, would have to put up with it!
Thank you Government, I mean, Government of India! Thank you, for doing nothing, nothing at all except for throwing empty words in the air, when it comes to the safety of women in this country. Thank you for telling me, a woman, that I would have been safer if I was not born at all. If I was killed before birth, I would not be lusted after by hungry wolves out there even if I wore a burkha, is it not? And they have a right to touch me at the slightest possible chance! If God never made me, I would not be prone to vultures out there in buses, offices, worse, homes, isn't it?
Thank you for letting me know that your prized politicians will fight tooth and nail against a 33 per cent reservation bill for women, while ensuring that women's safety should only be as far as suiting their sexual and emotional needs, 100 per cent.
Thank you all those families, who've sent out messages to your children, that should they report to you about someone of your ilk molesting them, you WILL NOT believe them. God knows what you will do, but you will ensure IT IS swept under the carpet. And let another perpetrator have his share of lust and beastliness, thanks to your ability to silence your child.
Yours...sincerely..
Saturday, 19 December 2009
Gimme a break please!
Wondering from what? It's from travel that I want a break.
My travel schedule began on November 18 to Bangalore. After a few days in my home city, it was time for a quick stop at Chennai and from thereon, to Hyderabad. Back to home sweet home (wish I could call it home longer) Mumbai in the first week.
In the second week, divine design ensured I did not have enough time to sleep - a quick trip to Chennai for a housewarming, wedding reception, my wedding anniversary and sibling's birthday. Am back in Mumbai, to the warm embrace of these walls going empty soon.
Post-Christmas though, I've to be on the travel mode again - to Chennai for God knows how long. Trust me, travel has meant bus journeys, train sojourns, flights, and taxi-rides, car trips, not to forget the night-marish auto-rickshaw rides (at Chennai). The only mode of transport left, as my sister puts it, is by water. She hit on a brainwave if we didn't get tickets from Chennai to Mumbai - `Let's try the ship!'
Whew!
`You've been more busy on the travel front while out of work than when you were employed!' a friend remarked recently.
Can't agree more! Am praying I get back to that all familiar work territory (career) soon. As for travel....am sleepy, tired, exhausted...no more adjectives in my head. I love travel. After all this travel, I long to laze around at home. Yaaawn!!
My travel schedule began on November 18 to Bangalore. After a few days in my home city, it was time for a quick stop at Chennai and from thereon, to Hyderabad. Back to home sweet home (wish I could call it home longer) Mumbai in the first week.
In the second week, divine design ensured I did not have enough time to sleep - a quick trip to Chennai for a housewarming, wedding reception, my wedding anniversary and sibling's birthday. Am back in Mumbai, to the warm embrace of these walls going empty soon.
Post-Christmas though, I've to be on the travel mode again - to Chennai for God knows how long. Trust me, travel has meant bus journeys, train sojourns, flights, and taxi-rides, car trips, not to forget the night-marish auto-rickshaw rides (at Chennai). The only mode of transport left, as my sister puts it, is by water. She hit on a brainwave if we didn't get tickets from Chennai to Mumbai - `Let's try the ship!'
Whew!
`You've been more busy on the travel front while out of work than when you were employed!' a friend remarked recently.
Can't agree more! Am praying I get back to that all familiar work territory (career) soon. As for travel....am sleepy, tired, exhausted...no more adjectives in my head. I love travel. After all this travel, I long to laze around at home. Yaaawn!!
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
For want of a decent bathroom
Half way into an 18 hour wedding event, a minor skirmish broke out between the bride's family and the groom's. The sides avoided using loud voices or bad words, but all the same, it put the bride's family in a spot. And caused some embarassment for the groom's family.
The chain of events that led to it sound ridiculous, but show social insensitivity that could kill when profits, not customer welfare, rule the minds of those in a business.
The problem: An 83 year old matriarch who her family loved dearly, who struggled to make it to her grandson's wedding all the way from Chennai, had to use the toilet, a WC, because of her frail health.
Of the three allotted rooms with attached bathrooms for the groom's family, only one had a WC. As fate would have it, or rather the callousness of the wedding hall management, it went unfit for use on the day of the wedding.
The groom's uncle, who arrived the earliest with his family, noticed it and pushed for immediate repair, before the wedding guests made their entry. The management turned a deaf ear. The bride's relatives were too caught up in other issues in the run up to the event.
It is not as if the groom's family did not inspect the premises earlier.A few days before, the venerable matriarch's son visited the wedding hall, checked the toilets and other logistics. Relieved that she would not have to struggle, the son left. In any case, with the toilet left unusable, all the hard work looked wasted.
The bride's family took it easy too, as everything else was going fine. Meanwhile, intermittent pushing by the groom's uncle for `fixing' of the WC continued even as the guests arrived and the granny too.
A few workers and a plumber arrived after a whole hour of pestering. And realised that the bathroom overhaul was impossible in the next few hours. They vanished feigning false promises of coming back with the equipment in a while.
Winter chill prompted her to want to use the bathroom, two hours into the event. The shy octogenerian tried to hold herself for as long as possible. She did not want to bother her family.
When she mustered courage and decided to ask, all hell broke loose. It suddenly dawned on everyone that another toilet with a WC had to be located. Instantly.
The wedding hall officials were probably around, but who had the patience to `organise' something at the last moment?
The granny's daughter and groom's mother lost her cool . ``Try and understand. She (mother) cannot hold up for long. It's our problem is it not?'' she snapped at the bride's aunt and uncle who were in charge of the event. The groom's uncle who had been after the workers till now, gave them a piece of his mind too.
By now, the grandmother was embarassed, struggling hard to maintain a dignified posture, swallowing her feelings.
Brainwave: The bride's uncle offered to driver her down to his quarters, five minutes away, where some more guests were lodged. After some convincing, the groom's family agreed. Accompanied by her relatives, the matriarch who wanted to hide away in shame by now, walked slowly to the hall's main gate with her stick. Someone else came with the news that she did not have to travel so far after all. They organised the use of a bathroom at the flats opposite the wedding hall.
Putting each step forward carefully over carelessly thrown construction debris that was used to make a pathway near the hall, granny walked through the compound to the apartments block across. The concerned flat was at the rear end of that compound. She walked past strangers in that home, used the toilet and got out as quickly as she could. Once out, she expressed guilt to the bride's relatives to put them through such trouble, only to be hushed by her grandchildren. ``It's not your fault granny,'' they tried to reason.
The bride's aunt apologised about putting her through such trouble too. The matriarch returned to her seat slowly. Time for some lunch. The dining hall was upstairs. Ideally, she would have loved to dine with her family and friends upstairs. The bride's family was wiser by now and organised a few tables and chairs on the ground floor.
If one takes a quick look at this chain of events, it is easy to pass the blame on the people present there. The core issue that went unnoticed was simple: that before an event of this magnitude, the wedding hall management did not bother to set the WC right. Or if it was not possible to set it right in case of some damage just the day before, they did not bother to inform the concerned customers. Any event that sees a gathering of a few hundred people always requires more rest rooms - not taken care of by this hall management.
They probably presumed that like everything else that is compromised during such events, the toilet bit would be swept under the carpet. Wedding halls sure are a profitable business!
More often than not, when such places are designed, the presumption is that any guest who walks in to the hall is able bodied, can put up with shoddy service, climb stairs with ease and still pay up the hefty tens of thousands besides shelling out extra money for related labour charges.
It is true we have wedding halls that are built much better, charge as high as Rs 1 lakh for a day's use as rent, have more guest rooms and look more grand. More bathrooms and clean rooms with storage are a welcome respite. The tragedy: Such halls are less sensitive to the needs of elderly, the wheel-chaired and the sick too. How many such venues for instance, can boast of elevators? Or ramps for easy access from one floor to another?
How many such halls can come any closer to having toilets that suit the needs of the disabled and the elderly? A common grouse among builders who get such halls built is that it is not cost-effective (read profit oriented). Even by their own argument, all it takes is one wedding hall owner to advertise features that are friendly on the elderly and disabled, and it could help kickstart a competition. At this venue too, a ramp would have been ideal for its design.
Moreover, can providing features such as ramps, disabled friendly toilets, and other such help be measured against currency notes that one gets in return?
Most families that organise celebrations on a scale upward of a 100 guests can be assured of at least one or two people for every hundred who need help in climbing, moving about, or even elderly who are forced to stay put in their homes because such venues are less friendly on their needs.
Should we then get stuck up with a convenient mindset that everything comes with a price?
In the Indian tradition, no marriage is complete without the blessings of elders in the family. Would wedding hall owners then want to put a price on the blessings by elderly mothers simply because they became frail rearing their children?
Time to revalue and revamp our wedding venues. After all, for want of a WC, a wedding would have got stalled!
The chain of events that led to it sound ridiculous, but show social insensitivity that could kill when profits, not customer welfare, rule the minds of those in a business.
The problem: An 83 year old matriarch who her family loved dearly, who struggled to make it to her grandson's wedding all the way from Chennai, had to use the toilet, a WC, because of her frail health.
Of the three allotted rooms with attached bathrooms for the groom's family, only one had a WC. As fate would have it, or rather the callousness of the wedding hall management, it went unfit for use on the day of the wedding.
The groom's uncle, who arrived the earliest with his family, noticed it and pushed for immediate repair, before the wedding guests made their entry. The management turned a deaf ear. The bride's relatives were too caught up in other issues in the run up to the event.
It is not as if the groom's family did not inspect the premises earlier.A few days before, the venerable matriarch's son visited the wedding hall, checked the toilets and other logistics. Relieved that she would not have to struggle, the son left. In any case, with the toilet left unusable, all the hard work looked wasted.
The bride's family took it easy too, as everything else was going fine. Meanwhile, intermittent pushing by the groom's uncle for `fixing' of the WC continued even as the guests arrived and the granny too.
A few workers and a plumber arrived after a whole hour of pestering. And realised that the bathroom overhaul was impossible in the next few hours. They vanished feigning false promises of coming back with the equipment in a while.
Winter chill prompted her to want to use the bathroom, two hours into the event. The shy octogenerian tried to hold herself for as long as possible. She did not want to bother her family.
When she mustered courage and decided to ask, all hell broke loose. It suddenly dawned on everyone that another toilet with a WC had to be located. Instantly.
The wedding hall officials were probably around, but who had the patience to `organise' something at the last moment?
The granny's daughter and groom's mother lost her cool . ``Try and understand. She (mother) cannot hold up for long. It's our problem is it not?'' she snapped at the bride's aunt and uncle who were in charge of the event. The groom's uncle who had been after the workers till now, gave them a piece of his mind too.
By now, the grandmother was embarassed, struggling hard to maintain a dignified posture, swallowing her feelings.
Brainwave: The bride's uncle offered to driver her down to his quarters, five minutes away, where some more guests were lodged. After some convincing, the groom's family agreed. Accompanied by her relatives, the matriarch who wanted to hide away in shame by now, walked slowly to the hall's main gate with her stick. Someone else came with the news that she did not have to travel so far after all. They organised the use of a bathroom at the flats opposite the wedding hall.
Putting each step forward carefully over carelessly thrown construction debris that was used to make a pathway near the hall, granny walked through the compound to the apartments block across. The concerned flat was at the rear end of that compound. She walked past strangers in that home, used the toilet and got out as quickly as she could. Once out, she expressed guilt to the bride's relatives to put them through such trouble, only to be hushed by her grandchildren. ``It's not your fault granny,'' they tried to reason.
The bride's aunt apologised about putting her through such trouble too. The matriarch returned to her seat slowly. Time for some lunch. The dining hall was upstairs. Ideally, she would have loved to dine with her family and friends upstairs. The bride's family was wiser by now and organised a few tables and chairs on the ground floor.
If one takes a quick look at this chain of events, it is easy to pass the blame on the people present there. The core issue that went unnoticed was simple: that before an event of this magnitude, the wedding hall management did not bother to set the WC right. Or if it was not possible to set it right in case of some damage just the day before, they did not bother to inform the concerned customers. Any event that sees a gathering of a few hundred people always requires more rest rooms - not taken care of by this hall management.
They probably presumed that like everything else that is compromised during such events, the toilet bit would be swept under the carpet. Wedding halls sure are a profitable business!
More often than not, when such places are designed, the presumption is that any guest who walks in to the hall is able bodied, can put up with shoddy service, climb stairs with ease and still pay up the hefty tens of thousands besides shelling out extra money for related labour charges.
It is true we have wedding halls that are built much better, charge as high as Rs 1 lakh for a day's use as rent, have more guest rooms and look more grand. More bathrooms and clean rooms with storage are a welcome respite. The tragedy: Such halls are less sensitive to the needs of elderly, the wheel-chaired and the sick too. How many such venues for instance, can boast of elevators? Or ramps for easy access from one floor to another?
How many such halls can come any closer to having toilets that suit the needs of the disabled and the elderly? A common grouse among builders who get such halls built is that it is not cost-effective (read profit oriented). Even by their own argument, all it takes is one wedding hall owner to advertise features that are friendly on the elderly and disabled, and it could help kickstart a competition. At this venue too, a ramp would have been ideal for its design.
Moreover, can providing features such as ramps, disabled friendly toilets, and other such help be measured against currency notes that one gets in return?
Most families that organise celebrations on a scale upward of a 100 guests can be assured of at least one or two people for every hundred who need help in climbing, moving about, or even elderly who are forced to stay put in their homes because such venues are less friendly on their needs.
Should we then get stuck up with a convenient mindset that everything comes with a price?
In the Indian tradition, no marriage is complete without the blessings of elders in the family. Would wedding hall owners then want to put a price on the blessings by elderly mothers simply because they became frail rearing their children?
Time to revalue and revamp our wedding venues. After all, for want of a WC, a wedding would have got stalled!
Friday, 11 December 2009
Auto tales across cities
Mumbai autorickshaws are called `ricksha' by the local commuters.
Chennai rests easy with the name `auto'.
You can hop into a Mumbai autorickshaw in the dead of the night. He will drop you home and give you back the exact change.
You can hop into any autorickshaw whose owner agrees to ply you at night in Chennai, except that you will flag a 100 autos before you get one.
As for the change, forget it. In Chennai you are charged in multiples of Rs 10 for any destination. Autorickshaw drivers are Gods here. After settling for Rs 210 on a distance that could cost you just Rs 100, be sure that about half a kilometre into the designated spot, the guy will start his extortion tactics, saying you did not mention the destination would be so far, or that the distance is a kilometer in excess! He'll make sure he argues with you endlessly.
He will start his emotional blackmail, in the typical Chennai autorickshaw bargain body language. He will make you feel sick, especially if you're used to the no nonsense mumbai rickshaw drivers' business wisdom of being done with the deal and walking off.
Am in Chennai at the moment, and an hour after that argument and hearing abuses from that guy, wondering if I should have slapped him.
He used the conversation I had with my husband in three languages, which meant - Hindi, Tamil and English, against me. It's horrifying to note that what I talk on phone with someone else in the capacity of a passenger could be used like this! I heard words like `people from other cities being a pain on autorickshaw drivers out here'.
Such a far cry from Mumbai autorickshaw rides where I can talk freely while on move! And not hear a word of abuse.
Autorickshaw drivers have magnified the reason I dread Chennai. I feel, unsafe in Chennai - the same city where I spent umpteen childhood summers. The city I was born in.
This city, is where I will move in to shortly, and makes me palpitate in fear.
---
If you ask me why I did not avoid an autorickshaw ride given the infamy that guards these guys anyways, I had less choice - afternoon hunger and exhaustion from a journey prompted me to hire it instantly.
Chennai rests easy with the name `auto'.
You can hop into a Mumbai autorickshaw in the dead of the night. He will drop you home and give you back the exact change.
You can hop into any autorickshaw whose owner agrees to ply you at night in Chennai, except that you will flag a 100 autos before you get one.
As for the change, forget it. In Chennai you are charged in multiples of Rs 10 for any destination. Autorickshaw drivers are Gods here. After settling for Rs 210 on a distance that could cost you just Rs 100, be sure that about half a kilometre into the designated spot, the guy will start his extortion tactics, saying you did not mention the destination would be so far, or that the distance is a kilometer in excess! He'll make sure he argues with you endlessly.
He will start his emotional blackmail, in the typical Chennai autorickshaw bargain body language. He will make you feel sick, especially if you're used to the no nonsense mumbai rickshaw drivers' business wisdom of being done with the deal and walking off.
Am in Chennai at the moment, and an hour after that argument and hearing abuses from that guy, wondering if I should have slapped him.
He used the conversation I had with my husband in three languages, which meant - Hindi, Tamil and English, against me. It's horrifying to note that what I talk on phone with someone else in the capacity of a passenger could be used like this! I heard words like `people from other cities being a pain on autorickshaw drivers out here'.
Such a far cry from Mumbai autorickshaw rides where I can talk freely while on move! And not hear a word of abuse.
Autorickshaw drivers have magnified the reason I dread Chennai. I feel, unsafe in Chennai - the same city where I spent umpteen childhood summers. The city I was born in.
This city, is where I will move in to shortly, and makes me palpitate in fear.
---
If you ask me why I did not avoid an autorickshaw ride given the infamy that guards these guys anyways, I had less choice - afternoon hunger and exhaustion from a journey prompted me to hire it instantly.
Sunday, 6 December 2009
Kids today....did you say?
Am in the middle of backstage madness at my cousin's wedding, splitting hair over the non-stop movement through the door and keeping an eye on some jewellery camouflaged in messy old travel bags.
Guests, mostly women, are moving in non-stop to change into sarees, while some need to use the bathroom. Still others need to dress up their children.
The sight of two pretty little girls waiting to get dressed for the wedding is not just soothing in the middle of all the rush, but a welcome respite. They are my nieces who I am not in touch with.
I offer to dress up the seven year old niece, yearning to know the seven year old I have not met since she was a few months. Between a polka dotted orange salwar kameez and a simpler looking pair of clothes, I suggest the former for her. She listens to every word I say to her mother, about the dresses. And insists on wearing ornate orange over a duller red!
``Wear this later, the other dress will look good on you too,'' her mother tries reasoning.
My venerable little niece puts her foot down.
``The other dress is not tight enough! I need a tight one!''
I am stumped. Whoever said figure consciousness is for 16 and 18 year olds!
I offer to give a touch of kohl to her eyes, and hear those all familiar words `I too want kajal!'
It's not her, but her kid sister, all of four years!
Just like her elder sister dresses up well, the doe eyed kid sister wants to look her best too, and will do anything to compete with her sibling!
After every dash of kohl in their eyes, each of these sisters rush to the dressing table, take a close look at their eyes and clothes. Their attention to detail could give models a run for their money.
For the younger sister, I suggest she can continue wearing her existing traditional paavada or the South Indian skirt paired with a red choli for a while, and switch to her pale copper sulphate blue chiffon ghagra choli later. Am relieved that she does not protest. Her mother and I hope she forgets about the dress bit in the excitement of group games outside the Green Room.
An hour later, am still monitoring the movement of people, clothes, beetel leaves, turmeric and kumkum that need to get distributed, savouries that need to be packed, gift-clothes, and the likes.
The younger niece and her mother return.
``She hasn't forgotten the other dress in all her running around! Made it a point to come and remind me about her blue dress..," her mother sighs.
Kids these days did you say?
If four year olds can become so conscious about their looks and beauty, imagine the kind of damning impact that our popular media imagery has done to them! Print, electronic or online, ads, films or serials, they are such powerful weapons to discreetly thrust stereotypes and shape popular notion about beauty!
Would the two kids have been so particular about the clothes they wore if they were born about 20 years back?
Guests, mostly women, are moving in non-stop to change into sarees, while some need to use the bathroom. Still others need to dress up their children.
The sight of two pretty little girls waiting to get dressed for the wedding is not just soothing in the middle of all the rush, but a welcome respite. They are my nieces who I am not in touch with.
I offer to dress up the seven year old niece, yearning to know the seven year old I have not met since she was a few months. Between a polka dotted orange salwar kameez and a simpler looking pair of clothes, I suggest the former for her. She listens to every word I say to her mother, about the dresses. And insists on wearing ornate orange over a duller red!
``Wear this later, the other dress will look good on you too,'' her mother tries reasoning.
My venerable little niece puts her foot down.
``The other dress is not tight enough! I need a tight one!''
I am stumped. Whoever said figure consciousness is for 16 and 18 year olds!
I offer to give a touch of kohl to her eyes, and hear those all familiar words `I too want kajal!'
It's not her, but her kid sister, all of four years!
Just like her elder sister dresses up well, the doe eyed kid sister wants to look her best too, and will do anything to compete with her sibling!
After every dash of kohl in their eyes, each of these sisters rush to the dressing table, take a close look at their eyes and clothes. Their attention to detail could give models a run for their money.
For the younger sister, I suggest she can continue wearing her existing traditional paavada or the South Indian skirt paired with a red choli for a while, and switch to her pale copper sulphate blue chiffon ghagra choli later. Am relieved that she does not protest. Her mother and I hope she forgets about the dress bit in the excitement of group games outside the Green Room.
An hour later, am still monitoring the movement of people, clothes, beetel leaves, turmeric and kumkum that need to get distributed, savouries that need to be packed, gift-clothes, and the likes.
The younger niece and her mother return.
``She hasn't forgotten the other dress in all her running around! Made it a point to come and remind me about her blue dress..," her mother sighs.
Kids these days did you say?
If four year olds can become so conscious about their looks and beauty, imagine the kind of damning impact that our popular media imagery has done to them! Print, electronic or online, ads, films or serials, they are such powerful weapons to discreetly thrust stereotypes and shape popular notion about beauty!
Would the two kids have been so particular about the clothes they wore if they were born about 20 years back?
Saturday, 5 December 2009
I Found my Indian Meera
My quest for an Indian Meera has ended. In my blog post dated November 8, I had spoken of the disgust at finding Meera figurines imported from China.
During my sojourn to Hyderabad this week, a quick trip to Shilparamam, the permanent crafts bazaar threw up the Meera surprise. I got the statuette at half the price quoted for Chinese make figurines. The Indian made piece has its little defects, but looks Indian, and feels homely, unlike the Chinese make Meera. At the moment, she sits pretty in my studio room.
The tourist spot is a good getaway for those in need of home shopping, ethnic wares and some fun. My only disappointment was with the artists who were doing spot portraits. It's hard to digest a piece of low quality sketch from an artist, who insists he can do a better job if you cough up Rs 100 more!
Am still wondering, would the Chinese buy Indian make figurines of their saints and deities if we dumped the products on them?
During my sojourn to Hyderabad this week, a quick trip to Shilparamam, the permanent crafts bazaar threw up the Meera surprise. I got the statuette at half the price quoted for Chinese make figurines. The Indian made piece has its little defects, but looks Indian, and feels homely, unlike the Chinese make Meera. At the moment, she sits pretty in my studio room.
The tourist spot is a good getaway for those in need of home shopping, ethnic wares and some fun. My only disappointment was with the artists who were doing spot portraits. It's hard to digest a piece of low quality sketch from an artist, who insists he can do a better job if you cough up Rs 100 more!
Am still wondering, would the Chinese buy Indian make figurines of their saints and deities if we dumped the products on them?
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Wonderment
Is when a toddler who can barely speak words, walk-dances the street outside your home, and gets excited when he looks at the daylight moon.
It is as if moon is his friend he wants to converse with, or that ball he could play with.
He stretches his arm out in the moon's direction and tries hard to ....Catch it!
Yes, he thinks he can catch the moon! Yet, when the faraway `ball' stays elusive, he does not feel disappointed. He continues trying.
And with no sense of failure whatsoever, he half-screams in delight. No words to aid his amazingly expressive ecstacy. No sulking over not being able to get what he wanted. Only pure joy of knowing that the other exists out there. That friend. That Moon.
He holds no reserve in communicating to you about his `friend' though. He looks at the moon, at you and nods his head in a way that you understand it just right.
Sometimes, life's lessons come in packages a foot and half high.
It is as if moon is his friend he wants to converse with, or that ball he could play with.
He stretches his arm out in the moon's direction and tries hard to ....Catch it!
Yes, he thinks he can catch the moon! Yet, when the faraway `ball' stays elusive, he does not feel disappointed. He continues trying.
And with no sense of failure whatsoever, he half-screams in delight. No words to aid his amazingly expressive ecstacy. No sulking over not being able to get what he wanted. Only pure joy of knowing that the other exists out there. That friend. That Moon.
He holds no reserve in communicating to you about his `friend' though. He looks at the moon, at you and nods his head in a way that you understand it just right.
Sometimes, life's lessons come in packages a foot and half high.
Sunday, 29 November 2009
A wedding in family
It's close to two years since I tied the knot.
In a few days, a cousin I am fond of will do himself the honour. For all my opinionated struggle against too much ritual during those hectic days, I find myself advising this cousin to calm down, get more flexible, and become more sensitive to his future wife!
It was sheer team work by family, extended family, friends and relatives that saw me through that nightmare. Yet, when I look at my wedding snaps, it feels dream-like. What's heartening is that such teamwork has returned to see through the next happy family event too, despite distances, ego tussles, and everything in between.
In a few days, a cousin I am fond of will do himself the honour. For all my opinionated struggle against too much ritual during those hectic days, I find myself advising this cousin to calm down, get more flexible, and become more sensitive to his future wife!
It was sheer team work by family, extended family, friends and relatives that saw me through that nightmare. Yet, when I look at my wedding snaps, it feels dream-like. What's heartening is that such teamwork has returned to see through the next happy family event too, despite distances, ego tussles, and everything in between.
Friday, 27 November 2009
The problem of books!
Am I hoarding books? Have been tempted to ask this question to myself after facing some tough comments on the books I own.
I really really love books. Just that I do not end up reading most of what I buy. It's moving time and I have not the heart to give a single book away. Some are gifts. Some are author autographed preciouses. Some I hold on to dear life for life's lessons. When the question of having to part with them comes, I cringe, argue, put my foot down and stick to transporting them, whatever the cost.
They are what I turn to in times of depression. They are my friends. Just being around them soothes my creative senses. Have been tempted to google about it though, and it threw up some interesting results.
A piece in Bellaonline talks of doing away with book clutter.
Another one talks of how not to hoard books. Ouch.
After months of waiting for a bookshelf at home, I became the proud owner of one. For a short one month. And realised it was time to give it away. Couldn't spend a fortune transporting it, could I?
We've been busy selling away things we cannot move. As I sleep on the floor at night surrounded by bundled books, am dreaming of my own new home library, chic home office and a cozy armchair already. In another city. Only wish I face no more questions like, `why so many books?'
I really really love books. Just that I do not end up reading most of what I buy. It's moving time and I have not the heart to give a single book away. Some are gifts. Some are author autographed preciouses. Some I hold on to dear life for life's lessons. When the question of having to part with them comes, I cringe, argue, put my foot down and stick to transporting them, whatever the cost.
They are what I turn to in times of depression. They are my friends. Just being around them soothes my creative senses. Have been tempted to google about it though, and it threw up some interesting results.
A piece in Bellaonline talks of doing away with book clutter.
Another one talks of how not to hoard books. Ouch.
After months of waiting for a bookshelf at home, I became the proud owner of one. For a short one month. And realised it was time to give it away. Couldn't spend a fortune transporting it, could I?
We've been busy selling away things we cannot move. As I sleep on the floor at night surrounded by bundled books, am dreaming of my own new home library, chic home office and a cozy armchair already. In another city. Only wish I face no more questions like, `why so many books?'
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Suspended animation
Am not sure even if these two words describe the state I am in. Am a woman. Married. Am I a housewife? Noooo. I work from home. For peanuts. In between my umpteen races between the kitchen and computer, computer and door, door and phone...
I work endlessly. I write away. And wonder why I am not earning a salary. At times I envy my neighbours. Housewives, who religiously make efforts to fit into roles assigned to them by their families, friends of families, stereotypes and the like.
Yet, an hour into conversation with a neighbour, I find reality hitting hard at me. For a non-believer of discrimination on the basis of caste, she insists that caste should exist, that a mistake by someone in a lower caste is more punishable than if committed by someone of a higher caste. When I retorted that day, that all are equal in the eyes of God, she didn't know what to reply. Playfully, this friend just hit me and left the place. She said arguing with me was difficult.
I returned to my PC, shocked at what she and her peers would have been taught by their parents in her village. Of those prejudices that get instilled so early in one's life that despite technological progress, and celebration of the Indian economic growth story, they gnaw at us on all sides.
I am a journalist. Without a job at the moment. Waiting to get called after many applications. At times I celebrate my unemployment. At times I cry over it. At other times, I reason it out, rationalise, and make peace with it. I think of the numerous things I get to do now, because of this luxurious tag. Yet, I know I am not meant to be home-stuck. And not out there in the city. The city called Mumbai. The city busy remembering four digits - 2,6, 1, 1. Read 26/11.
Am I a Mumbaikar? Yes I am.
Will I ever belong to another city. I want to. I doubt if I will. For, Mumbai has become so much a part of me that falling in love with any other city just as easily will be difficult.
Yet, I am not in Mumbai now. I am to move out. And find myself in another empty apartment, another home to make before I set out looking for jobs. Another city. Another people. Thank God it is still, an Indian city I will move into.
So here I am. I don't belong to a city (reality bites). I don't belong to a job. I am in between homes. Juggling roles. Hanging in the air. Is it bliss? Am I being naive?
Not sure. But there's a parachute I am clinging on to - hope.
I work endlessly. I write away. And wonder why I am not earning a salary. At times I envy my neighbours. Housewives, who religiously make efforts to fit into roles assigned to them by their families, friends of families, stereotypes and the like.
Yet, an hour into conversation with a neighbour, I find reality hitting hard at me. For a non-believer of discrimination on the basis of caste, she insists that caste should exist, that a mistake by someone in a lower caste is more punishable than if committed by someone of a higher caste. When I retorted that day, that all are equal in the eyes of God, she didn't know what to reply. Playfully, this friend just hit me and left the place. She said arguing with me was difficult.
I returned to my PC, shocked at what she and her peers would have been taught by their parents in her village. Of those prejudices that get instilled so early in one's life that despite technological progress, and celebration of the Indian economic growth story, they gnaw at us on all sides.
I am a journalist. Without a job at the moment. Waiting to get called after many applications. At times I celebrate my unemployment. At times I cry over it. At other times, I reason it out, rationalise, and make peace with it. I think of the numerous things I get to do now, because of this luxurious tag. Yet, I know I am not meant to be home-stuck. And not out there in the city. The city called Mumbai. The city busy remembering four digits - 2,6, 1, 1. Read 26/11.
Am I a Mumbaikar? Yes I am.
Will I ever belong to another city. I want to. I doubt if I will. For, Mumbai has become so much a part of me that falling in love with any other city just as easily will be difficult.
Yet, I am not in Mumbai now. I am to move out. And find myself in another empty apartment, another home to make before I set out looking for jobs. Another city. Another people. Thank God it is still, an Indian city I will move into.
So here I am. I don't belong to a city (reality bites). I don't belong to a job. I am in between homes. Juggling roles. Hanging in the air. Is it bliss? Am I being naive?
Not sure. But there's a parachute I am clinging on to - hope.
Monday, 23 November 2009
Godsend!
You are rushing between guests, greeting people, rushing around with arrangements for a housewarming ceremony.
Something's bothering you. Your left eye waters non-stop. A dust particle got stuck in the eye the previous evening and causes it pain so bad it embarrasses you in front of the guests. No amount of washing your eye has helped. When talking to your guests, you have to pat that irritable eye with the hanky and it makes them think you are crying. Why today? Why this when your father-in-law's dream home is seeing those meaningful prayers and umpteen friends have dropped by?
Just when you decide enough is enough and get set to rush to the nearest eye doc, a member of your extended family walks up to you to check what's wrong. She, is an opthalmologist! And thinks its conjunctivitis. You explain. She rushes you to the nearest faucet, inverts your eyelid with such expertise that you don't mind more pain! And gets you to wash the particle out. Washing is more painful. But in a minute, you've returned from hell!
She quickly jots down an eye-drop prescription. God does work miracles!
Something's bothering you. Your left eye waters non-stop. A dust particle got stuck in the eye the previous evening and causes it pain so bad it embarrasses you in front of the guests. No amount of washing your eye has helped. When talking to your guests, you have to pat that irritable eye with the hanky and it makes them think you are crying. Why today? Why this when your father-in-law's dream home is seeing those meaningful prayers and umpteen friends have dropped by?
Just when you decide enough is enough and get set to rush to the nearest eye doc, a member of your extended family walks up to you to check what's wrong. She, is an opthalmologist! And thinks its conjunctivitis. You explain. She rushes you to the nearest faucet, inverts your eyelid with such expertise that you don't mind more pain! And gets you to wash the particle out. Washing is more painful. But in a minute, you've returned from hell!
She quickly jots down an eye-drop prescription. God does work miracles!
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Flying high
Am soaring high in sky. Above the grey landscape below, and above the spectacle of grey cotton clouds fluffing up like a river heading seaward. Ahead and a little beneath the horizon is an ocean of cotton balls.
Above this horizon, a distinct line between grey cotton and picturesque pale-pink and pink-gold flanked by pale sky blue, sums up for twilight. That pre-dawn spectacle is such a rare treat? However often one flies, getting to watch sun rays play magic is a treat in itself.
The colours change dramatically as the sun shows up, its golden pink tinged rays hitting fluffy clouds to sihouette them with golden white. It is as if these clouds are sun-bathing.
Nature's visual gift outside of my plane window tempts me on however, to stay awake and lose myself to it. Guess the lack of sleep and wait at the crowded security lounge, waiting in a long queue at the airport Coffee Day to pay 70 bucks for a cup of coffee, and finally drag myself into the plane...it was all worth it!
Pic Courtesy: Photography Blogger
Pic: Days Between by Oblivious Dude
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
Ten things I like about Mumbai
As the weeks roll by and I come to terms with my departure from this city slowly, I look out of the window into that distant horizon, those umpteen buildings, the winter fog that throws a white veil over them, and recall what exactly makes my heart ache at the mere thought of leaving Mumbai. Ten things I like and love about this city:
- Vada Pav - you're not a Mumbaikar if you have set foot here and never had the Indian burger that comes for as less as Rs 4. The closest it got to a burger was at Jumbo Vada Pav joint that I relished, near Malad station. Jumbo joints are of course spread all over Mumbai.
- Salad Carts at Bandra, Sandwich vendors by the roadside at every other suburb - no other city can boast of such quick snacks that cost less, to fill their hungry tummies
- Local trains - need I say more? For all the trouble in veering through those crowds, fighting to board that Ladies bogie, walking the length and breadth of the platform in the hope of a less crowded coach, and the accidents I hear of every other day. I love. Sorry, I adore the local train network here, just as I love the bus feeder system too
- Autorickshaws - don't be surprised. They are rickety. You jump when they ride over potholes. They could kill you with their reckless speed too. But guess what, I can hop off on the Western Express Highway at 4.30 am and be sure I can find a guy who will drop me home safe. Not an extra penny. I've lost count of how many times I used autorickshaws for commute here, but can recall hardly once or twice when I fought with the rickshaw guys. At Bangalore, I'd have to flag down a 100 rickshaws before getting one at night. Chennai, forget it. Delhi....don't ask me.
- My suburb - Yeah. I love my suburb Goregaon. It's the greenest den in the concrete jungle out here. It's a place that made me get overwhelmed at first with the city, then hate, and finally love the city. It made me move from calling Mumbai, the Godforsaken, to My Mumbai.
- Marine Drive - that necklace of lights with the distinct promenade...one place in the mad city where you don't need to pay to perch yourself for hours! The most memorable moment here was when I walked nearly the entire stretch from Nariman Point to Girgaum Chowpatty beach (that spans two stations on from Churchgate) and felt `Freedom'.
- Crawford Market - It's true Mumbai is an expensive place. A trip to Crawford Market will defy that notion. It reminds me of City Market and Chickpet in Bangalore. The golden rule: Don't step into the fancy looking shops on those streets. Stick to smaller shops, the pavement stores, and bargain hard. Some of my best buys have been from Crawford.
- Colaba Causeway, Fashion Street, Elko Market - Colaba Causeway and Fashion Street, the two reasons you won't mind a long journey to town, and Elko Market, the shopper's heaven for clothes at Bandra besides the overdone Linking Road and Hill Road (Elko is on Hill Road though). Colaba Causeway is a visual treat with its old world feel and new world clothes, Fashion Street is where you get tired shopping for Western Casuals. Elko, my recent discovery is where I want to keep returning to.
- Chembur to Vashi ride - for Navi Mumbai residents who must travel to Churchgate, it's hell - the sheer distance of the commute. But that ride on the bridge over Thane Creek, with sea stretching out on either sides while you approach land, is bliss. It's lovely.
- Safety - I feel safe in Mumbai.Promise. Am saying this in spite of that nagging fear at times on the local train platform or on a local train (terror threat?!) or Raj Thackeray's goons. It's a city with an active underworld. That doesn't matter to me as much as, when I don't have to pray non-stop on my auto-ride from the Goregaon station to home. I can go to any goddamn part in the heart of the city and hop into a taxi at 10 pm without fear. I can return to Goregaon station at 12.30 am and not have the least doubt about flagging an autorickshaw. Try that in Bangalore or Chennai. Autorickshaw drivers will demand the moon out of you and still make you feel they did you a divine favour by ferrying you home at that `devil's hour'. That's besides your doubt if you'll reach home at all.
Monday, 16 November 2009
Ten days to go
...and the date 26/11 will return to haunt the city, the state and everyone possible. Mighty are the monuments of courage. I salute, those who lost their lives, limbs, loved ones, irrespective of where they died - at the Taj, Oberoi, CST, Cama Hospital, or Nariman House. Or the streets those beasts stalked for that matter.
Yet, these three silhouettes stand tall as one glares at them from sea, bruised but undaunted. Life, goes on.
Saturday, 14 November 2009
Children's Day gift!
Children and their parents, especially those of tenants, have been called over by the housing society I live in today.
It's not to celebrate Children's Day.
Last week, some children in their mischief collected some dry trash and set fire to it, unfortunately close to the car park. The cars did not catch fire, as they were a safe distance away, but the walls near the fire went black.
So, the society heads chose November 14, Children's Day, to give the children their peace of mind! They decided that all children need to be reprimanded for what some of them did.
It's not to celebrate Children's Day.
Last week, some children in their mischief collected some dry trash and set fire to it, unfortunately close to the car park. The cars did not catch fire, as they were a safe distance away, but the walls near the fire went black.
So, the society heads chose November 14, Children's Day, to give the children their peace of mind! They decided that all children need to be reprimanded for what some of them did.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
It's India
If you're a Mumbaikar, it's `train instinct' that works as soon as it halts. You make that mad rush into it with the crowd.
Brainwaves of Desperation
Water scarcity drives me mad. Specially after three decades of existence with fairly less water trouble, and some years of absolutely no water problems.
This morning I got desperate. The taps ran dry as usual. But there was cooking left to do, some utensils needed a wash, my hair needed some shampooing...sigh. So what should I do? End up starving another morning? Or order food from the local food joint?
Hunger does get to you at times. I may not be able to reuse water that I just washed down on veggies, but I can use it to soak some utensils, or still better, use it to flush the toilet!
A worn out night gown I ripped apart, washed it, dried it. And filtered the water I had just washed vegetables with. This water I managed to use for little things like dipping my hands to rid of something sticky. To cook my favourite dish with gherkins, I steamed them in a small cooker instead of boiling the pieces directly.
To chop the pieces I am in the habit of using the cutting tray, a bowl to keep aside unwanted ends, and another to transfer chopped pieces into. I did away with the tray and devised another method to cut them. The chopped pieces of gherkin I transferred into a party paper plate, the unwanted ends went to a newspaper that partly replaced my cutting board.
After steaming the gherkins in saline water, I moved them to the pan for a quick fry, but did not throw away the water. The used water came in handy to make myself a yummy tomato onion soup, in the same cooker, with no nutrients lost. My method of cooking brown rice was rather fuel consuming though, and took up more water, but I guess there must be ways to work around that trouble.
The whole exercise was rather time consuming. And when water poured down from taps in my building, I was asleep too, and missed storing it. But then, I am learning quick. And a hunch says I may end up writing how-to survival pieces in water scarcity times!
I did not shampoo my hair today. Guess it gets reserved for the morning when taps will run water! My brainwaves in desperation did remind me a thing or two though - of those science projects at school which spoke of something basic - water filtering with sand and charcoal.
A google search has brought about some interesting results. Did you know that the water purifier industry will always tell you that home-made water filters are not good enough? Obviously it would! Hits their pockets doesn't it!
Here are some links:
Homemade Charcoal Water Filter
How to make water filter at home
This morning I got desperate. The taps ran dry as usual. But there was cooking left to do, some utensils needed a wash, my hair needed some shampooing...sigh. So what should I do? End up starving another morning? Or order food from the local food joint?
Hunger does get to you at times. I may not be able to reuse water that I just washed down on veggies, but I can use it to soak some utensils, or still better, use it to flush the toilet!
A worn out night gown I ripped apart, washed it, dried it. And filtered the water I had just washed vegetables with. This water I managed to use for little things like dipping my hands to rid of something sticky. To cook my favourite dish with gherkins, I steamed them in a small cooker instead of boiling the pieces directly.
To chop the pieces I am in the habit of using the cutting tray, a bowl to keep aside unwanted ends, and another to transfer chopped pieces into. I did away with the tray and devised another method to cut them. The chopped pieces of gherkin I transferred into a party paper plate, the unwanted ends went to a newspaper that partly replaced my cutting board.
After steaming the gherkins in saline water, I moved them to the pan for a quick fry, but did not throw away the water. The used water came in handy to make myself a yummy tomato onion soup, in the same cooker, with no nutrients lost. My method of cooking brown rice was rather fuel consuming though, and took up more water, but I guess there must be ways to work around that trouble.
The whole exercise was rather time consuming. And when water poured down from taps in my building, I was asleep too, and missed storing it. But then, I am learning quick. And a hunch says I may end up writing how-to survival pieces in water scarcity times!
I did not shampoo my hair today. Guess it gets reserved for the morning when taps will run water! My brainwaves in desperation did remind me a thing or two though - of those science projects at school which spoke of something basic - water filtering with sand and charcoal.
A google search has brought about some interesting results. Did you know that the water purifier industry will always tell you that home-made water filters are not good enough? Obviously it would! Hits their pockets doesn't it!
Here are some links:
Homemade Charcoal Water Filter
How to make water filter at home
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
Life around the faucet
It is hard to believe that while outside of my window, winds lash, rain pours incessantly, my taps are dry.
Strange game of hide and seek this. For a colony that enjoyed 24 hour water supply, home bound like me keep their ears in the direction of faucets even while working, to hear that sweet music of water from the tap.
I am not sure what the reason behind this is: regulation of water supply of plain housing society internal politics, or genuine short supply of water in Mumbai's lakes. For some reason, I go into a frenzy when I have to wake up early every morning after a late night's work schedule, only to find the tap went dry long before.
A couple of days back, the supply was turned off at 8 am instead of 10 am. This morning I woke up at 7.30 and rushed to open the tap, only to realise the supply had stopped five minutes prior. True that I store water too, but that's not a relief still.
Is this a sign of things to come? Hard to imagine.
Strange game of hide and seek this. For a colony that enjoyed 24 hour water supply, home bound like me keep their ears in the direction of faucets even while working, to hear that sweet music of water from the tap.
I am not sure what the reason behind this is: regulation of water supply of plain housing society internal politics, or genuine short supply of water in Mumbai's lakes. For some reason, I go into a frenzy when I have to wake up early every morning after a late night's work schedule, only to find the tap went dry long before.
A couple of days back, the supply was turned off at 8 am instead of 10 am. This morning I woke up at 7.30 and rushed to open the tap, only to realise the supply had stopped five minutes prior. True that I store water too, but that's not a relief still.
Is this a sign of things to come? Hard to imagine.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Meera for Sale
Meera for Rs 600! Wow! It is as recent as now.
Prices on Chinese make Indian Gods have come down a great deal! Am saying this because last year, when I asked for the price of a Meera figurine, the shop-keeper near Sai Baba shrine replied with some sarcasm.
`Yeh to bahut sasta hai...', and expected me to ask how much.
`Kitna?'
`Barah Sau (Rs 1,200).'
He knew I would not buy it. No one probably bought that piece for a few months now.
And when I saw the Rs 600 label, I yelped for joy inside.
Hey, I've grown up dreaming of owning a Meera idol all my life. I am hankering after symbols here...worldly temptation. To me she is the ultimate symbol of selfless devotion, and love that has no labels. More than that, she represents strength unlimited. She questioned overdone stereotypes inflicted on women from ages. And came out trumps.
But then, those years, I heard of the price ranging between Rs 20 and Rs 40. And knew that when I got a job, I'd buy it with my own money. Even if it is a decade on, it cannot rise to such absurd amounts! I know I am hankering after symbols here...worldly temptation.
For years I did not find these statuettes in markets that I frequented in Bangalore, and even during those shopping adventures at other cities.
And when it came to the market shelves, I ran out of money to splurge on my fancies. Reality sunk in slowly over last few years, that these stunning come-back idols were not Indian, but made in China. They looked lovely yes, but I somehow still believe that if the symbol is Indian, I would rather not support an imported product to satiate my love for owning her image.
Retailers who'll stock only Chinese idols even if you ask for Indian makes, have learnt enough by now, that a chunk of their customers will not buy Chinese make idols.
So they will swear and lie to you on face, that the idols are Indian make. The shop-keeper who showcased Meera among the umpteen other Indian Gods said the same thing - Indian make.
Look close into the picture as I did. Meera's features here give away. She reminds me of Chinese heroines.
Saturday, 7 November 2009
Move time: Lock Stock and a Barrel full of memories
Many months passed since the apartment I live in became a home. Eons have zipped by, since I stopped fearing this cluster of umpteen cities and began loving it.
Just when it was about time that I brought in things from my parents' home, and came to terms with the idea of settling down, it's time to move.
How exactly does one bade goodbye to a city that becomes home, where you've lived a lifetime in two years and yet cannot get enough of it?
How does one think of setting home in another city when most of what you loved about life came on a platter in this city?
I love Mumbai. When I set foot here first time, I got fascinated by its sheer magnitude. The next time on, I feared it, hated it, and hated it all the more when I had to collapse after a train trip to Churchgate.
Today I look forward to going to Churchgate. By train. By habit. Terror threats or no threats, I love climbing those Goregaon station stairs that once scared me outright.
It will be a few weeks before I wind up. I guess however many posts I write over the next few weeks, it will hardly do justice to what I have felt and lived over the last two years. Yeah two years. They vanished. And many things got not done in the city - difficult for my `been there done that' cravings.
Guess I will make up for some lost time now. At the moment, am letting the thought of moving out, sink in.
Just when it was about time that I brought in things from my parents' home, and came to terms with the idea of settling down, it's time to move.
How exactly does one bade goodbye to a city that becomes home, where you've lived a lifetime in two years and yet cannot get enough of it?
How does one think of setting home in another city when most of what you loved about life came on a platter in this city?
I love Mumbai. When I set foot here first time, I got fascinated by its sheer magnitude. The next time on, I feared it, hated it, and hated it all the more when I had to collapse after a train trip to Churchgate.
Today I look forward to going to Churchgate. By train. By habit. Terror threats or no threats, I love climbing those Goregaon station stairs that once scared me outright.
It will be a few weeks before I wind up. I guess however many posts I write over the next few weeks, it will hardly do justice to what I have felt and lived over the last two years. Yeah two years. They vanished. And many things got not done in the city - difficult for my `been there done that' cravings.
Guess I will make up for some lost time now. At the moment, am letting the thought of moving out, sink in.
Friday, 6 November 2009
Abandon
Is when you rush to embrace the ocean.Is when you run without having to answer for your strut.
Pic Courtesy: Subhransu Das
Location: Aksa Beach, Madh Island
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Papers are Passѐ
My doorbell rang. I wondered who it could be at that late morning hour. Was it a neighbour?
`Kaun hai?' I yelled from my hall. And managed to decipher only the word`....hai' from a man behind the door. I opened the door anyways to find the courier guy. For a change, he looked more like a company executive, not a starved employee who struggled to ride in hot sun.
I picked the envelope from him. The norm, is that courier guys instantly hand out stapled log sheets that I fight against signing. I don't like mentioning my mobile number on those precarious papers either. In style, this courier personnel flashed a palm top and asked me to sign in with the stylus! For a second, it made me the customer look small with its maze like feel.
`Yeh to modern ho gaya ji!'
`Haan madam, abhi yehi dete hai,' he said, almost apologetic.
I took the stylus and tried pressing it against the touchscreen. Not all of the strokes would show.
He hit `clear' and let me sign again. Better this time.
`Press karna madam.'
Technology does not necessarily mean convenience. This time I asked him to make do with my signature that looked 90 per cent complete. So he requested me to write in my mobile number with that signature.
Personal safety trick you may say. But I avoid listing my number. My husband's number turned saviour.
`Kitne ka hai?' My curiosity would not let me shut my mouth up.
`Ek Laakh ka hai madam!' He said this with the look of that huge burden of responsibility in safeguarding it.
His company did not mind paying it. The gait was different. Polished compared to other courier deliverers.
As I shut the door, my thoughts swung from - will my signature be misused, to why a company would allow such expensive gadgetry to be used by these employees.
If something were go wrong with the machine, they would be made to compensate. Was it just about style? Or clever ideas to get signatures and mobile numbers? Maybe courier delivery merely got techno-savvy.
`Kaun hai?' I yelled from my hall. And managed to decipher only the word`....hai' from a man behind the door. I opened the door anyways to find the courier guy. For a change, he looked more like a company executive, not a starved employee who struggled to ride in hot sun.
I picked the envelope from him. The norm, is that courier guys instantly hand out stapled log sheets that I fight against signing. I don't like mentioning my mobile number on those precarious papers either. In style, this courier personnel flashed a palm top and asked me to sign in with the stylus! For a second, it made me the customer look small with its maze like feel.
`Yeh to modern ho gaya ji!'
`Haan madam, abhi yehi dete hai,' he said, almost apologetic.
I took the stylus and tried pressing it against the touchscreen. Not all of the strokes would show.
He hit `clear' and let me sign again. Better this time.
`Press karna madam.'
Technology does not necessarily mean convenience. This time I asked him to make do with my signature that looked 90 per cent complete. So he requested me to write in my mobile number with that signature.
Personal safety trick you may say. But I avoid listing my number. My husband's number turned saviour.
`Kitne ka hai?' My curiosity would not let me shut my mouth up.
`Ek Laakh ka hai madam!' He said this with the look of that huge burden of responsibility in safeguarding it.
His company did not mind paying it. The gait was different. Polished compared to other courier deliverers.
As I shut the door, my thoughts swung from - will my signature be misused, to why a company would allow such expensive gadgetry to be used by these employees.
If something were go wrong with the machine, they would be made to compensate. Was it just about style? Or clever ideas to get signatures and mobile numbers? Maybe courier delivery merely got techno-savvy.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Divine and the devout
Signs of devotion. Signs of eternal joy. Signs of thirst, as God watches coy.Pic Courtesy: Radhika M
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
TV War: Ceasefire
`When I get to earn lots of money,' I began.
Hubby D knew it was one of my potshots aimed at him. I continued undaunted, `I'll buy another TV.'
His non-stop jibes over the months at my preference for Balika Vadhu over IPL, or a reality show over action movies have moved me up the wall.
Our dislike for each other's perception of entertainment is mutual.
He hates daily soaps. I cringe when he watches WWE.
I watch reality shows even if I don't like them. He prefers cricket anyday.
Among films, I love romantic English movies, while nothing less than an action flick would satiate his appetite.
I don't react much to these daily fights until it is about his switching to some vulgar comedy from Tamil cinema. Believe me, I have nothing personal against those comedians or the language. I laugh at some of the forced jokes too. But as a viewer I find a lot that is demeaning in these jokes. Am stunned too, that they tend to get away with some of the worst statements they can make about women. To my surprise, I find women in my extended family and elsewhere too, enjoy these jokes. When I think of children growing up on such toilet humour, I want to hide away.
Not sure if I am being an escapist. Over the last few weeks, it is less TV and more internet at times I should be spending time with my husband. Home TV wars are a norm more than dismissable domestic incidents.
They are intra-family assertion of power - over what the person perceives as entertainment, depending on that person being male, female, elderly, child, etc. Home TV wars are a symbol of dominance over the remote. Women win these wars at times. Men get to control it in the name of cricket, most times.
I have begun to perceive TV, cricket and crass Tamil Comedy as the `other' of late. Dinner time, I gulp down morsels rather than look up at the TV, not out of any major grudge, but tired with those things I don't perceive as entertainment. In any case, I no longer enjoy watching Balika Vadhu. Reality shows tend to bore me too. Serials tend to drag on so much I would be happier watching them once a week - only to catch up with story progress. Or have I simply given up?
Can peace be made about over the years? Time will tell in my house. But if I have the money...
Hubby D knew it was one of my potshots aimed at him. I continued undaunted, `I'll buy another TV.'
His non-stop jibes over the months at my preference for Balika Vadhu over IPL, or a reality show over action movies have moved me up the wall.
Our dislike for each other's perception of entertainment is mutual.
He hates daily soaps. I cringe when he watches WWE.
I watch reality shows even if I don't like them. He prefers cricket anyday.
Among films, I love romantic English movies, while nothing less than an action flick would satiate his appetite.
I don't react much to these daily fights until it is about his switching to some vulgar comedy from Tamil cinema. Believe me, I have nothing personal against those comedians or the language. I laugh at some of the forced jokes too. But as a viewer I find a lot that is demeaning in these jokes. Am stunned too, that they tend to get away with some of the worst statements they can make about women. To my surprise, I find women in my extended family and elsewhere too, enjoy these jokes. When I think of children growing up on such toilet humour, I want to hide away.
Not sure if I am being an escapist. Over the last few weeks, it is less TV and more internet at times I should be spending time with my husband. Home TV wars are a norm more than dismissable domestic incidents.
They are intra-family assertion of power - over what the person perceives as entertainment, depending on that person being male, female, elderly, child, etc. Home TV wars are a symbol of dominance over the remote. Women win these wars at times. Men get to control it in the name of cricket, most times.
I have begun to perceive TV, cricket and crass Tamil Comedy as the `other' of late. Dinner time, I gulp down morsels rather than look up at the TV, not out of any major grudge, but tired with those things I don't perceive as entertainment. In any case, I no longer enjoy watching Balika Vadhu. Reality shows tend to bore me too. Serials tend to drag on so much I would be happier watching them once a week - only to catch up with story progress. Or have I simply given up?
Can peace be made about over the years? Time will tell in my house. But if I have the money...
My other blogs
Blogging of late has been an exciting creative experience. Those little thrills range between going over hundreds of blogspot templates, trying out those things that remained a mystery for me in wordpress, and trying out new templates, to actually starting new blogs.
I have started two new blogs after a lot of pondering over. And they are linked on the right of this page - Cerebral Toothbrush, and Insights.
Three reasons:
this blog has made me break barriers, yet is a limiting experience for certain pieces I would want to write.
this blog is more personal in nature and although the other two blogs are my personal perspectives too, they will be different from this.
niche is the buzzword in any sphere of life today - blogging included. the two other blogs help me grow as a writer and help you enjoy my pieces too, in a different direction.
Readers who have kept me going, please give me your feedback on the two other blogs. My blog Cerebral Toothbrush is only a layout for now. It will grow soon. That's my word.
I have started two new blogs after a lot of pondering over. And they are linked on the right of this page - Cerebral Toothbrush, and Insights.
Three reasons:
this blog has made me break barriers, yet is a limiting experience for certain pieces I would want to write.
this blog is more personal in nature and although the other two blogs are my personal perspectives too, they will be different from this.
niche is the buzzword in any sphere of life today - blogging included. the two other blogs help me grow as a writer and help you enjoy my pieces too, in a different direction.
Readers who have kept me going, please give me your feedback on the two other blogs. My blog Cerebral Toothbrush is only a layout for now. It will grow soon. That's my word.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Night Lights
It's how beautiful my suburb Goregaon looks on a festive night. Stretching across, down the hill into Malad, these concrete buildings give a reason to smile at night. At the horizon, is the sea. I, am on cloud nine.Pic Courtesy: Subhransu Das
Saturday, 31 October 2009
Is this true?
I paid deposit for my internet broadband in April 2008. A year and six months later, I am shocked.
The cable TV operator who supplies the net line to us actually responds to my complaints, and a maintenance guy lands up at my door in half an hour!
If the main server supplying bandwidth is down, they actually inform me about it. They even call back to check if the complaint has been addressed! Or if the connection has been set right.
What a difference from those hairsplitting hours and days I lost yelling at them, and lost time on precious work that I could do too!
Is it that my tricks and stunts at getting them to renew my account every month or repair the line paid off? Or reporting non-stop to their bandwidth provider about their callous attitude did the trick?
A hunch tells me it could be a drop in the number of connections. The internet line provider was a monopoly out here till recently. Some friends I know switched to wireless internet because of such bad service.
During the Diwali weekend, this provider spent a fortune on pamphlets advertising his broadband packages. Competition works!
Just in case you wondered why I put up with shoddy service for a whole 18 months, some friends suggested a move to a bigger company's broadband service when they saw me going through torture in the name of broadband internet.
I had a sound reason not to. When we moved in to this home, I called up the big companies for a connection - hoping for that quality stamp on them. Two out of the three I called up said they had no `feasibility' in my colony. With 168 homes in an enclosure and 10 such enclosures on a single road stretch - meaning not less than 50 per cent of them for potential customers, I don't know what they meant by no feasibility.
The third company had only six months and three months package options, which meant I pay lumpsum. I wanted to tell them I was newly married, and had no money left to pay them such huge sums. It would not matter, would it? I would look a fool too. Why would they be concerned about my not having money?
I took heart by deciding not to give them business for as long as I could.
The cable TV operator who supplies the net line to us actually responds to my complaints, and a maintenance guy lands up at my door in half an hour!
If the main server supplying bandwidth is down, they actually inform me about it. They even call back to check if the complaint has been addressed! Or if the connection has been set right.
What a difference from those hairsplitting hours and days I lost yelling at them, and lost time on precious work that I could do too!
Is it that my tricks and stunts at getting them to renew my account every month or repair the line paid off? Or reporting non-stop to their bandwidth provider about their callous attitude did the trick?
A hunch tells me it could be a drop in the number of connections. The internet line provider was a monopoly out here till recently. Some friends I know switched to wireless internet because of such bad service.
During the Diwali weekend, this provider spent a fortune on pamphlets advertising his broadband packages. Competition works!
Just in case you wondered why I put up with shoddy service for a whole 18 months, some friends suggested a move to a bigger company's broadband service when they saw me going through torture in the name of broadband internet.
I had a sound reason not to. When we moved in to this home, I called up the big companies for a connection - hoping for that quality stamp on them. Two out of the three I called up said they had no `feasibility' in my colony. With 168 homes in an enclosure and 10 such enclosures on a single road stretch - meaning not less than 50 per cent of them for potential customers, I don't know what they meant by no feasibility.
The third company had only six months and three months package options, which meant I pay lumpsum. I wanted to tell them I was newly married, and had no money left to pay them such huge sums. It would not matter, would it? I would look a fool too. Why would they be concerned about my not having money?
I took heart by deciding not to give them business for as long as I could.
Friday, 30 October 2009
Birds on my window sill
Indoor moments can be fun at times!
A pigeon waits for that opportune moment when you've left the window partly open, and flies into your room only to head for the slab above, even if it meant pushing the curtain away with its beak.
All your pleas to leave fail to get those mercy looks from the bird. What do you do then? Show gestures, to indicate the way out, Air India Maharaja style. It will not budge.
The next thing, play around with the window shutters a little. This time it knows there is some trouble in waiting. So when you make space for the winged guest to leave, it obliges. And hops to the window sill, perches on the grill ahead, and flies away.
Pigeon mornings in this part of my colony no longer begin at forlorn spaces. These days they flock to the inner walls of the storm water drain near my building. With the water turning to just a trickle after rains, they love its cool in the day, when these buildings shade over the drain.
...
Pigeons in my colony have grown smart over the months. Yesterday afternoon, they perched themselves outside the curtain to check for any noise from this room. In careful movements, they moved to the window sill just behind the curtain. A pigeon partly pushed the curtain to check for perils if any. What this one and its friend were not aware of, is that I was watching their silhouetted shadows clearly from my room.
When the bird tried to move in, all I said is, `No', like a teacher chides her student! Can you believe the pigeon moved back in as many steps? And came by again to check on the noise! I repeated the `No'. Now it gave up. And flew away. Its fellow pigeon waiting flew after it.
A pigeon waits for that opportune moment when you've left the window partly open, and flies into your room only to head for the slab above, even if it meant pushing the curtain away with its beak.
All your pleas to leave fail to get those mercy looks from the bird. What do you do then? Show gestures, to indicate the way out, Air India Maharaja style. It will not budge.
The next thing, play around with the window shutters a little. This time it knows there is some trouble in waiting. So when you make space for the winged guest to leave, it obliges. And hops to the window sill, perches on the grill ahead, and flies away.
Pigeon mornings in this part of my colony no longer begin at forlorn spaces. These days they flock to the inner walls of the storm water drain near my building. With the water turning to just a trickle after rains, they love its cool in the day, when these buildings shade over the drain.
...
Pigeons in my colony have grown smart over the months. Yesterday afternoon, they perched themselves outside the curtain to check for any noise from this room. In careful movements, they moved to the window sill just behind the curtain. A pigeon partly pushed the curtain to check for perils if any. What this one and its friend were not aware of, is that I was watching their silhouetted shadows clearly from my room.
When the bird tried to move in, all I said is, `No', like a teacher chides her student! Can you believe the pigeon moved back in as many steps? And came by again to check on the noise! I repeated the `No'. Now it gave up. And flew away. Its fellow pigeon waiting flew after it.
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
Which language is superior?
In the age of MNS style politics that wreak fear in the name of language, it is with some unease that one reads about `Convent' school teachers punishing children for speaking in their mother tongue.
We know English language gets us that much needed exposure to the world and its politics.
We know too, that in the recent years, it is unthinkable to let our children stay behind in the rat race without the knowledge of English.
We've heard the IT Czars of Bangalore and knowledge advocates of Delhi stress on the language in curriculum many a time.
But punishing children in the name of language! What's the difference between a violent political party bashing up drivers from a particular state or those who speak a particular language, and teachers who beat up children in the name of language at school?
Those in the know will tell you that it was their native knowledge that took them places - on the global map I mean. Where we as Indians should pride ourselves in our local culture, we love to impose an overly Western system in the name of education, and ask our children to become English speaking machines of the future.
For the moment, the incident has grabbed political mileage for the concerned politicians. What happens to the children who suffered humiliation? With the noise dies down, will they still be able to hold their heads up in their classroom?
Will their confusion about what the right language to speak is, clear too? My hunch is, it definitely will not. God save today's children.
We know English language gets us that much needed exposure to the world and its politics.
We know too, that in the recent years, it is unthinkable to let our children stay behind in the rat race without the knowledge of English.
We've heard the IT Czars of Bangalore and knowledge advocates of Delhi stress on the language in curriculum many a time.
But punishing children in the name of language! What's the difference between a violent political party bashing up drivers from a particular state or those who speak a particular language, and teachers who beat up children in the name of language at school?
Those in the know will tell you that it was their native knowledge that took them places - on the global map I mean. Where we as Indians should pride ourselves in our local culture, we love to impose an overly Western system in the name of education, and ask our children to become English speaking machines of the future.
For the moment, the incident has grabbed political mileage for the concerned politicians. What happens to the children who suffered humiliation? With the noise dies down, will they still be able to hold their heads up in their classroom?
Will their confusion about what the right language to speak is, clear too? My hunch is, it definitely will not. God save today's children.
Ambiguity
Is when you wonder if the destination means bliss, or the journey toward it.An aim. The longing. Those perils. And finally...
Sunday, 25 October 2009
A pagoda across the creek
Somewhere on an island across Gorai creek, is the Global Pagoda. This imposing spire invites you from miles away. Be disappointed that hardly any real pictures of it exist on the internet. It is `complete' in construction, but has a long way to become the real finished structure. In the years to come it is sure to become a must-stop tourist spot of Mumbai.Promoters of the Vipassana form of Buddhist meditation have built the structure up. After all, if we have a Lotus temple at Delhi for the Bahai faith, or the Auroville meditation centre, brand names like the Pagoda are so essential! The yet-to-be finished structure is a 20-minute ferry ride away from Marve and Gorai beaches, through the fishing territories on the backwaters of Gorai Creek.
Any Esselworld ferry will take you to the spot. We took the ferry from Marve's coast at Malad. The centre's compound is adjacent to Esselworld entrance. What a contrast - one is about worldly abandon, another about being less worldly. A walk into the inside of the grand pagoda will leave you disappointed if you plan to meditate there, just as its giant dome cools your senses (and your skin) thoroughly after a hot afternoon walk from your ferry alighting point. Your sweat will not go in vain.
Only those who complete the 10-day Vipassana course are eligible to spend time inside the hall.
My gnawing doubt: is any other method of meditation under the giant structure detrimental to its cause? Or is it just a way of promoting their own method of meditation? If so, why call it a global pagoda of world peace? I mean, you need to be more inclusive on that front!
After all, every method to meditation is aimed at a singular purpose - seeking the Supreme.
On a personal front, my friends, hubby and brother accompanied me after me coaxing them into it. I took heart from the lovely ferry views and clean air leading to the giant spire. And of course the berry fruit cart we bought stuff from after the journey.
We had those `will-we make it to the coast?' moments too. On our return trip, the boat was manned by an amateur motorman. Negotiating through those gaps between stationary fishing nets was not easy. And the ferry halted right in the middle.
Instant talk by those in the ferry went back to the recent ferry tragedy at Kerala's Thekkady. My people came on my coaxing them. What if something happened? Its alright if I hit the creek bed, but what about them? God, let me not survive with guilt! Prayer is that ultimate weapon that a human mind resorts to in such no-win-in-sight situations. A prayer went up: save every soul in this ferry, with no damage whatsoever, take us all across safely!
Was I really being unselfish in this situation? I mean, it could have brought out the survivor in me! I marvelled secretly in that brief moment of selflessness. Did a trip to that `monument in the making' do it?
As if by divine design, the motorman's more experienced senior took the steer over after giving him some hard-hitting words I got no clarity of. The ferry moved. And in the direction we had to move in. When we touched shore, it was only natural that sighs of relief went up in our hearts. No wonder that a couple of us dashed for a berry-cart the first thing we saw after getting off, not even bothered about carcasses of fish buried in sand, we may be stamping on our way there.
Of course those berries worked away in our tummies later that day. My friend suffered more. As for me, elation worked its wonders. A trip of this nature could charge one up a great deal, even if the results are not gratifying. On our return home, I had all the energy to make a few cups of green tea nimbu cha for the bunch of us.
That night was about learning from my husband how to make stuffed idlis. Needless to say, our friends enjoyed his idlis!
The next morning, I stared out of my window into the horizon and looked lovingly at the pagoda silhouette on its distant horizon. The first time I noticed it many months back, I thought it was a church.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
The kids are watching!
Colors has managed to bring in those TRPs with the biggest coup in recent months - Big B.
Big Boss 3 has its big share of audience too. For all the two second disclaimer at the start of the programme, Wednesday's episode of Kamal (Kamaal) Khan's bottle-throwing at Rohit Verma was not only ugly. It was sick.
Should such violence be aired in the first place? Trust me I have nothing against people on the show or off it. But why subject our children to such episodes of foul language and nasty behaviour by inmates?
The online newswire is flooded with Kamaal Khan's ouster. Am hoping it is true. For all the parental guidance that the channel speaks of, it would be difficult even for a parent to justify to a child, why the most foul-mouthed guy is still around on the show. If it is voyeuristic aims at TRPs, it needs to be dealt with in a separate post.
Big Boss 3 has its big share of audience too. For all the two second disclaimer at the start of the programme, Wednesday's episode of Kamal (Kamaal) Khan's bottle-throwing at Rohit Verma was not only ugly. It was sick.
Should such violence be aired in the first place? Trust me I have nothing against people on the show or off it. But why subject our children to such episodes of foul language and nasty behaviour by inmates?
The online newswire is flooded with Kamaal Khan's ouster. Am hoping it is true. For all the parental guidance that the channel speaks of, it would be difficult even for a parent to justify to a child, why the most foul-mouthed guy is still around on the show. If it is voyeuristic aims at TRPs, it needs to be dealt with in a separate post.
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Magic of Lights
Diwali is over. Lights decorating windows are gone too. Cracker noises have thankfully vanished. But something about this Diwali has been so special I could cherish for life.
Tired after a momo dinner, a bunch of us got suddenly energised when the momo expert friend declared at 12 am, half an hour after our sumptuous treat. As if momos were not enough, we had an excuse for a quick pastry voyage. And set out in our suburb. Cafe Coffee Day was closed. And so were the three pastry joints we relied on.
Our friend drove on, past Western Express Highway and into the city. ``Don't worry. He's thought of some place special,'' said S, the friend's wife.
Could it be Marine Drive, or simply some place in Bandra? We went past Mahim Police Chowky when this friend stopped by near a sleeping taxi driver to enquire about Diwali market. Whatever could that be? Cracker shops opened so late?
A kilometer on, the visual treat stunned us. On either sides of road in that near-zero traffic hour were lanterns of all sizes and shapes. They stretched over a mile, lighting up the otherwise throttle-traffic roads with heavenly glow. For a minute or two we gazed in daze at the lovely lights. I must admit those Chinese lanterns were not a welcome sight. The light and colour riot made up for that feeling though.
The market opens only after 9 pm, when the killer traffic eases a little. It's a rare treat to watch families and individual lantern makers quickly work through the glue and kite paper to bend, stick and pattern hanging lanterns. Night is when families venture out to buy lanterns too. A pity we did not carry cash along. We fell for innovative white ball lanterns that could make any room decor dream-like.We were not so lucky about the birthday cake. But this one beat any imagined slurp of honey dripping from the pastry. It made us want to spend the night on pavements.
Of late, the Diwali fad has travelled across the globe and as far as Obama and Gordon Brown, but no White House party can match such local splendour.
Pic Courtesy: Subhransu Das
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Criminal Offence This: Noise Pollution
After a few minutes of being surrounded by playful children bursting crackers, I ran home. My ears were bursting with pain from that meaningless noise from diwali bombs and rockets. Five more minutes of that noise and my weak ears would have gone deaf.
I am a no-crackers person since teenage. This year, my husband did not buy crackers for his own reasons. My visiting cousin who loves crackers did not insist on buying them too, so we managed a cracker-less Diwali and still enjoyed it. And enjoyed it better too!
But one flight downstairs of our apartment building, and the noise was killing. It is as if there were no norms at all in controlling noise levels. I could hear crackers bursting as late as 12 am.
For the last four days, pigeons on my building and the one across suffered the noise, just as dogs that got confused with the noise on the roads barked away frightened. As for the cats, they were nowhere to be seen around with all the noise.
Parents who may not want to burst crackers too, are indulgent with their children. Children on the other hand love crackers. They feel deprived when their friends get to burst crackers. I remember how colleagues and friends felt generous enough during the festival, and bought crackers for children who could not afford them. Great intention, but a deed that does not benefit either them (except for the temporary pleasure), nor the environment.
The only way one can get them to feel otherwise, is to teach them how their crackers hurt the environment. It's time schools inculcated the no-crackers spirit in them on a massive scale.
The real after effects of this festival I read this morning. A news piece spoke of how birds and animals bore the brunt of human pleasure for noise.
I am still confused as to how human beings can derive pleasure from noise that erupts out of burning some chemicals. Real joy should come through sharing and caring, especially during a festival that means the triumph of good over evil.
Our idea of celebrating the festival lights has gone astray in that respect. Is it not about time that we made noise pollution criminal?
All the noise around global climate change would have no meaning with such blatant violations!
I am a no-crackers person since teenage. This year, my husband did not buy crackers for his own reasons. My visiting cousin who loves crackers did not insist on buying them too, so we managed a cracker-less Diwali and still enjoyed it. And enjoyed it better too!
But one flight downstairs of our apartment building, and the noise was killing. It is as if there were no norms at all in controlling noise levels. I could hear crackers bursting as late as 12 am.
For the last four days, pigeons on my building and the one across suffered the noise, just as dogs that got confused with the noise on the roads barked away frightened. As for the cats, they were nowhere to be seen around with all the noise.
Parents who may not want to burst crackers too, are indulgent with their children. Children on the other hand love crackers. They feel deprived when their friends get to burst crackers. I remember how colleagues and friends felt generous enough during the festival, and bought crackers for children who could not afford them. Great intention, but a deed that does not benefit either them (except for the temporary pleasure), nor the environment.
The only way one can get them to feel otherwise, is to teach them how their crackers hurt the environment. It's time schools inculcated the no-crackers spirit in them on a massive scale.
The real after effects of this festival I read this morning. A news piece spoke of how birds and animals bore the brunt of human pleasure for noise.
I am still confused as to how human beings can derive pleasure from noise that erupts out of burning some chemicals. Real joy should come through sharing and caring, especially during a festival that means the triumph of good over evil.
Our idea of celebrating the festival lights has gone astray in that respect. Is it not about time that we made noise pollution criminal?
All the noise around global climate change would have no meaning with such blatant violations!
Sunday, 18 October 2009
Celebration
Is when your friends surprise you after a hectic day of festivities, giving you the best moment of the day.
Is when you make that rangoli without any chemical-laden colour. It's your first attempt at the turmeric-kumkum pattern and a neighbour gets tempted to decorate her doorstep too.
Is when a neighbour who never spoke to you offers you some mango leaves for the doorstep decor.
Is when in the middle of boring glitz at your neighbourhood mall, you get floored by Rajasthani folk dancers with their energetic beats. And do not want to leave the mall.
Is when a kid walks into your home with diwali delicacies. Is when your maide attempts at dishes get their share of praise.
Is when after the festival, you can lie down on your bed and close your eyes with a smile...those sweet moments flooding your thoughts!
Is when you make that rangoli without any chemical-laden colour. It's your first attempt at the turmeric-kumkum pattern and a neighbour gets tempted to decorate her doorstep too.
Is when a neighbour who never spoke to you offers you some mango leaves for the doorstep decor.
Is when in the middle of boring glitz at your neighbourhood mall, you get floored by Rajasthani folk dancers with their energetic beats. And do not want to leave the mall.
Is when a kid walks into your home with diwali delicacies. Is when your maide attempts at dishes get their share of praise.
Is when after the festival, you can lie down on your bed and close your eyes with a smile...those sweet moments flooding your thoughts!
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Real Diwali
What is real Diwali? In the last few days my head has been racing with the question.
A refreshing story in Times of India today gave me some food for thought.
Read this.
Diwali should be about respect for life...not just human, but animal and bird too.
A refreshing story in Times of India today gave me some food for thought.
Read this.
Diwali should be about respect for life...not just human, but animal and bird too.
Signs and Symbols
Two pots of Tulsi plant. A carelessly drawn rangoli, muggu, or kolam, in rice flour. A flower to adorn the plants. A lamp in waiting for the evening light. Symbols of piety. Nostalgia for me. Signs of tradition. Signs of home. Science Ancient. Medicine most trustworthy. But symbols and signs alone are they.Pic Courtesy: Radhika M
Who said only celebs are camera savvy?
Sweating after a two kilometres walk, friend S and I squat on the parapet of a shopping centre fountain in its courtyard, while our husbands go about their errands. Some guys are playing snooker a few feet away. A guy is busy selling soft drinks at his three-by-three feet stall. Feeling that cool from the water in that fountain tank is one thing.
Finding something you fall for instantly in that water is another. I snoop around to look for fish in the water. And find a turtle! We rarely find turtles as pets! My friend is as excited. We watch the little one swim around on the tank floor, settle down in one of the dents for a while, look for food and swim away disinterested. When we tap our fingers to draw its attention, it responds lovingly and swims to the surface.
S decides to click a picture of the turtle and focuses her mobile over the moving pool resident. Guess what? The turtle turns to the camera! He swims to the pool surface and sticks out his head to pose for S. After she finishes clicking the shot, he turns around and swims away. One thought only celebs were shutterbug sunflowers!
Finding something you fall for instantly in that water is another. I snoop around to look for fish in the water. And find a turtle! We rarely find turtles as pets! My friend is as excited. We watch the little one swim around on the tank floor, settle down in one of the dents for a while, look for food and swim away disinterested. When we tap our fingers to draw its attention, it responds lovingly and swims to the surface.
S decides to click a picture of the turtle and focuses her mobile over the moving pool resident. Guess what? The turtle turns to the camera! He swims to the pool surface and sticks out his head to pose for S. After she finishes clicking the shot, he turns around and swims away. One thought only celebs were shutterbug sunflowers!
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Diwali Deco
Some windows across in the other building are all decked up with lights.
For the last two days, cartloads of garbage is finding its way out from homes, in huge shopping covers. My studio too has gone through its share of Diwali cleaning. Some housewives have bought fancy lamps in advance. Others have rushed to buy some gold for Dhanteras.
The shopping centre at Gokuldham in my suburb is so bedazzled with lights, that you want to grab those lovely LEDs hanging like grapes from shops. Paper lanterns, crackers and sweets have piled up at shops and are getting sold out too. At the Oberoi mall, a giant LED lantern hangs precariously from the ceiling, over the mall's central court.
Every product in town has the Diwali Dhamaka tag to it! Home-maker friends of mine scour the newspapers, not for news, but ads and exchange offers. It is about that long overdue washing machine, or a tea table, or still better, a bedroom set. TV ads, LCD packages. Clothes. Gold...the list goes on endlessly.
With the market promising to pick up and that eager anticipation of future money in the household, families I know are hoping they buy up goods in advance. Of course, their shopping spree includes a little bit of expenditure on worship paraphernalia too. Goddess Lakshmi needs to be kept happy after all, while we humans convince ourselves that she means the home appliance we are buying up, she means the clothes we wear.
As for me, I love watching those umpteen paper lanterns that light up not just shops, but entire streets and shopping arcades before they find way to some apartment window. I must confess the temptation to buy them up is too hard to resist for me too. But that `eco-friendly' bell rings in my head just in time.
Something about these lamps irritated me when on my mini-shopping spree a few hours back. Chinese style lanterns with prints of Goddess Lakshmi. Agreed lanterns and lamps have undergone enormous design changes over the years. But considering China has swept through even the Indian God idols market, why this craze!
Probably had this God invasion and dumping of Chinese products had not happened, I'd have nurtured a different opinion. Does a Chinese citizen out there lap up anything Indian just as eagerly? Thinking aloud. Opting for those Pipli cloth lanterns from Orissa looks anyday a better idea. We're helping those artisans from our own villages and towns.
Wish I could map the route of these lanterns to check where they exactly came from!
My little deco plan is confined to a floral rangoli with earthern lamps. Made in India. Am assured completely. Can we as humans, step aside for once, from this consumerist mindset hanging over our heads? It's a festival to celebrate good over evil. Can we not keep it that way and hit ourselves less hard?
The more we consume plastic and gold in the name of the festival, the harder we're hitting at our resources. Let's shun that evil in us for a few minutes! And save some power and oil too!
For the last two days, cartloads of garbage is finding its way out from homes, in huge shopping covers. My studio too has gone through its share of Diwali cleaning. Some housewives have bought fancy lamps in advance. Others have rushed to buy some gold for Dhanteras.
The shopping centre at Gokuldham in my suburb is so bedazzled with lights, that you want to grab those lovely LEDs hanging like grapes from shops. Paper lanterns, crackers and sweets have piled up at shops and are getting sold out too. At the Oberoi mall, a giant LED lantern hangs precariously from the ceiling, over the mall's central court.
Every product in town has the Diwali Dhamaka tag to it! Home-maker friends of mine scour the newspapers, not for news, but ads and exchange offers. It is about that long overdue washing machine, or a tea table, or still better, a bedroom set. TV ads, LCD packages. Clothes. Gold...the list goes on endlessly.
With the market promising to pick up and that eager anticipation of future money in the household, families I know are hoping they buy up goods in advance. Of course, their shopping spree includes a little bit of expenditure on worship paraphernalia too. Goddess Lakshmi needs to be kept happy after all, while we humans convince ourselves that she means the home appliance we are buying up, she means the clothes we wear.
As for me, I love watching those umpteen paper lanterns that light up not just shops, but entire streets and shopping arcades before they find way to some apartment window. I must confess the temptation to buy them up is too hard to resist for me too. But that `eco-friendly' bell rings in my head just in time.
Something about these lamps irritated me when on my mini-shopping spree a few hours back. Chinese style lanterns with prints of Goddess Lakshmi. Agreed lanterns and lamps have undergone enormous design changes over the years. But considering China has swept through even the Indian God idols market, why this craze!
Probably had this God invasion and dumping of Chinese products had not happened, I'd have nurtured a different opinion. Does a Chinese citizen out there lap up anything Indian just as eagerly? Thinking aloud. Opting for those Pipli cloth lanterns from Orissa looks anyday a better idea. We're helping those artisans from our own villages and towns.
Wish I could map the route of these lanterns to check where they exactly came from!
My little deco plan is confined to a floral rangoli with earthern lamps. Made in India. Am assured completely. Can we as humans, step aside for once, from this consumerist mindset hanging over our heads? It's a festival to celebrate good over evil. Can we not keep it that way and hit ourselves less hard?
The more we consume plastic and gold in the name of the festival, the harder we're hitting at our resources. Let's shun that evil in us for a few minutes! And save some power and oil too!
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Krishna and PM
Its a relief that the prime minister has done an aerial survey and announced `relief' for the flood-hit in North Karnataka and Andhra Pradesh. Thankfully, politicking has not hampered his announcement. It's not the first time Karnataka has been hit by floods. It definitely means there are ways to look at building a flood relief system to minimise damage too. The number 226 for deaths may be a mere statistic. But for families that have lost them, they are people - breadwinners, loved ones, fathers, mothers, children...Relief announcements in multiples of 10 are a norm too. But is it not about time governments made public flowcharts showing the last paise spent?
This one is a picture of the Krishna river between the Raichur and Krishna stations, clicked in mid-August from my Mumbai-bound train, when monsoon was at prime. For me, Krishna - the name as a station, was a pleasant revelation. It bears the name of my favourite God.
Change in tone on river-linking
For a government that was over-zealous in treating river-linking as panacea to all water woes in the country, Manmohan Singh's mentioning of it being `complex' is a sign of hope too.
It's true floods and drought look beyond human control at face value. It is truer still, that humans messing up with nature and playing God by controlling rivers has a lot to do with floods.
Pic Courtesy: Radhika M
How to get crowds for a book release
Book releases of English language books in India are usually affairs confined to five star hotels, with the right dose of writers, publishers, and book-lovers.
The trend has switched to upmarket bookstores in the recent years, but the audience has still been a limited number. The book release of Chetan Bhagat's latest 2 States at my suburb threw the niche notion to winds. It took place at Oberoi Mall, Goregaon. To rake in enough crowd, the mall placed a prominent ad in the newspapers, announcing the book release, with the name of an actress.
The actress in question for the best-seller writer's book release - Vidya Balan. Glitter. Din. And a huge crowd. Not so much for the book, but Vidya Balan.
``I have never seen this huge an audience for a book release,'' she remarked to the crowd spread over two floors above the atrium where it happened. The actress added, that she related to the book because of her South-Indian connection. When you have your star quotient and are decked up enough for the shutterbugs, and at a mall on the weekend, what else do you expect?
She made a quick exit after the event. Needless to say, the writer spend the next couple of hours autographing copies of his book that sold like hotcakes. The book, is a love story. Its back cover summary is filmy enough for the sales to come in.
In my recent trips to the mall, I had seen a dip in the numbers. Marketing brains surely work overtime to sell more copies! Am wondering how conventional lovers of literature, and writers, would digest such sweeping changes in writing and marketing books.
The trend has switched to upmarket bookstores in the recent years, but the audience has still been a limited number. The book release of Chetan Bhagat's latest 2 States at my suburb threw the niche notion to winds. It took place at Oberoi Mall, Goregaon. To rake in enough crowd, the mall placed a prominent ad in the newspapers, announcing the book release, with the name of an actress.
The actress in question for the best-seller writer's book release - Vidya Balan. Glitter. Din. And a huge crowd. Not so much for the book, but Vidya Balan.
``I have never seen this huge an audience for a book release,'' she remarked to the crowd spread over two floors above the atrium where it happened. The actress added, that she related to the book because of her South-Indian connection. When you have your star quotient and are decked up enough for the shutterbugs, and at a mall on the weekend, what else do you expect?
She made a quick exit after the event. Needless to say, the writer spend the next couple of hours autographing copies of his book that sold like hotcakes. The book, is a love story. Its back cover summary is filmy enough for the sales to come in.
In my recent trips to the mall, I had seen a dip in the numbers. Marketing brains surely work overtime to sell more copies! Am wondering how conventional lovers of literature, and writers, would digest such sweeping changes in writing and marketing books.
`Bill please'
The doorbell rang. I rushed to open it. Bills for the month were paid. So who could it be? Milk, flowers, maid's salary, electricity, cable TV, internet...what could be left?
It was the newspaper vendor, sheepishly giving me a...bill. Relief. My relief was ironic that moment. For I had not paid up for four months. My non-payment had nothing to do with recession.
For some strange reason, the vendor stopped producing bills. Considering this agent has a monopoly on newspaper supply for residents of my colony of about 170 households, and some neighbourhood buildings, his customer base was good.
It's still a mystery - the sudden vanishing of bills. First they moved from a printed bill to a paper-bit with rubber-stamp. The next time, it was a few figures shabbily jotted down on another bit. I asked them each time they came by to collect money. Why this? No answer. I refused to pay. The boy the vendor sent would wear a perplexed look. But have no choice if I did not budge. Last month, I stood my ground again.
``Ask my boss why he's not giving bill,'' the young lad snapped, irritated. I was sure there were others who refused to pay too.
``Give me his number.''
``I don't have it.''
``No bill and no phone number too! Wonderful. Tell him I'll pay all the money up if he brings the bill.''
He left in a huff. My husband was bemused.
``Why not pay him? It's a newspaper bill after all!''
I was adamant. A faint fear did creep in for sometime. Will those guys land at my doorstep and create a scene?
The sight of that blue bill this time brought a secret smile inside me. I payed up instantly.
``You could have done this before too! Bringing the new bill-book,'' I told the vendor.
He gave a guilty smile. And left.
It was the newspaper vendor, sheepishly giving me a...bill. Relief. My relief was ironic that moment. For I had not paid up for four months. My non-payment had nothing to do with recession.
For some strange reason, the vendor stopped producing bills. Considering this agent has a monopoly on newspaper supply for residents of my colony of about 170 households, and some neighbourhood buildings, his customer base was good.
It's still a mystery - the sudden vanishing of bills. First they moved from a printed bill to a paper-bit with rubber-stamp. The next time, it was a few figures shabbily jotted down on another bit. I asked them each time they came by to collect money. Why this? No answer. I refused to pay. The boy the vendor sent would wear a perplexed look. But have no choice if I did not budge. Last month, I stood my ground again.
``Ask my boss why he's not giving bill,'' the young lad snapped, irritated. I was sure there were others who refused to pay too.
``Give me his number.''
``I don't have it.''
``No bill and no phone number too! Wonderful. Tell him I'll pay all the money up if he brings the bill.''
He left in a huff. My husband was bemused.
``Why not pay him? It's a newspaper bill after all!''
I was adamant. A faint fear did creep in for sometime. Will those guys land at my doorstep and create a scene?
The sight of that blue bill this time brought a secret smile inside me. I payed up instantly.
``You could have done this before too! Bringing the new bill-book,'' I told the vendor.
He gave a guilty smile. And left.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Patchwork Nostalgia
What could be special about a ragged old wall-piece of patchwork? This one is a curio from the eighties. That was when netting plastic wire over glasses to make plastic flower vases, and patchwork pieces were a rage among housewives in my neighbourhood.Over later years, some housewives `graduated' to making bigger Mickey Mouse patchwork designs for homes. This design beat them all. I could not find its replicas anywhere through those changing decor years. My sister and I bid adieu to the piece with a heavy heart, a few weeks back. Not easy to let go of something you've grown up staring at.
Friday, 9 October 2009
Allergic Cold? Rush not to the doc
Rain. Sun. Rain. Clouds. Tricky weather this.
A trip to Bangalore and back. And it's enough to give you that cold and cough you dread. Unlike at Bangalore where working while cursing the weather and using hankies is a done thing, Mumbai's cold and cough bouts drain me out. Living on a hill with passing rain clouds waiting to pour, worsens it.
Hubby and I head to doctor. General Physician. I narrate my cold symptoms obediently. She knows what antibiotics to prescribe already. I tell her anyways. And add for conversation's sake, that Bangalore tends to cause me some wheezing, but not so now that I live in Mumbai.
What does she do? Goes on writing on that prescription slip, scaring me outright. And adds an asthma inhaler prescription. Why on earth an inhaler when my wheezing is history (it vanished two years back), and for mere allergic cough and cold that only need some intervention?
``You have to take it as a precaution. If you don't use it, I may end up not treating you in OPD (as an outpatient),'' she retorts.
``But...'' I shut up. No use arguing with doctors.
Inhalers for Asthma are Schedule H drugs. Side effects of these could range from some psychiatric troubles to bronchospasm. Read about these side effects.
``Doctors are so prescription-happy!'' I tell myself as hubby and I walk out of the physician's room.
``I am not going to use that inhaler if you buy it,'' I declare.
``I won't let you use it even if you want to. Don't worry,'' says he.
Relief. I dread allopaths. Such prescriptions only enhance that dread.
As for my cold, it got cured. Only for a few days. It returned promptly after the next round of 24/7 rains last weekend. I have not gone back to the doctor. Water boiled with cumin seeds and crushed Tulsi (Basil leaves) is doing the job. And better.
A trip to Bangalore and back. And it's enough to give you that cold and cough you dread. Unlike at Bangalore where working while cursing the weather and using hankies is a done thing, Mumbai's cold and cough bouts drain me out. Living on a hill with passing rain clouds waiting to pour, worsens it.
Hubby and I head to doctor. General Physician. I narrate my cold symptoms obediently. She knows what antibiotics to prescribe already. I tell her anyways. And add for conversation's sake, that Bangalore tends to cause me some wheezing, but not so now that I live in Mumbai.
What does she do? Goes on writing on that prescription slip, scaring me outright. And adds an asthma inhaler prescription. Why on earth an inhaler when my wheezing is history (it vanished two years back), and for mere allergic cough and cold that only need some intervention?
``You have to take it as a precaution. If you don't use it, I may end up not treating you in OPD (as an outpatient),'' she retorts.
``But...'' I shut up. No use arguing with doctors.
Inhalers for Asthma are Schedule H drugs. Side effects of these could range from some psychiatric troubles to bronchospasm. Read about these side effects.
``Doctors are so prescription-happy!'' I tell myself as hubby and I walk out of the physician's room.
``I am not going to use that inhaler if you buy it,'' I declare.
``I won't let you use it even if you want to. Don't worry,'' says he.
Relief. I dread allopaths. Such prescriptions only enhance that dread.
As for my cold, it got cured. Only for a few days. It returned promptly after the next round of 24/7 rains last weekend. I have not gone back to the doctor. Water boiled with cumin seeds and crushed Tulsi (Basil leaves) is doing the job. And better.
On the brink
For die-hard Bangaloreans living in Bangalore's once non-descript eastern side know this familar Ulsoor landmark. It is the spot where the road forks on the left before you approach the Ulsoor Police Station. It is a spot remnant of the real Bangalore of yore. It is all but a little temple with flower stalls that mark the place, opposite the Someshwara Temple chariot shelter and flanking the Yellamma temple's backwall (the shops in the backdrop hide the wall). Come festival season, this whole stretch, from the Ulsoor Bus-stand Petrol Bunk would come alive. Garlands, unstrung flowers, Ganesha idols ahead of the Ganesh pooja, puffed rice ahead of Vijayadashami and Ayudha Pooja, coconuts, incense sticks...this stretch was full of them.For the brand royalty kind, there was Sreedevi Hotel with its good food, the coffee grinding shops and the Ulsoor bazaar street.
That was, until this village Halasuru found itself suddenly bull-dozed with burgeoning two-wheeler and four-wheeler population marauding it to make way to MG Road and other central parts of the city. Metro, has turned the stretch into an open grave.
This little temple bears testimony to the immense ruthlessness of humans in the name of infrastructure building. City Czars rarely bother about destroying the original character of cities. Even if it is about razing down what was once the very popular jhatka stand. Over the years the horse-driven tonga stop became a haven All they are bothered about is, raking in the moolah - cash or credit, hype or hoopla. Places like the South of Mumbai have the luxury of some heritage saver groups hitting out at anything that mars the city's aesthetics.
Bangaloreans, are busy making their IT money and buying apartments on loans. Before they find enough time to fight back, probably eons away, ruthless greed would have turned this place to mud.
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Wake Up Sid: real, refreshing, yet repackaged
Get serious in life! Just how many films have we watched with that overdone theme before! Wake Up Sid does just that.
Sitting there, with husband D and friend S by my side, those visuals took me straight back to Dil Chahta Hai, touted widely way back in 2002 as the coming of age kind. Over the past year, other films in this genre have made their mark too! We've had Luck By Chance, watched Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na and rocked with Rock On. Their stories were not the get-serious message oriented, but their scripts were, and targeted straight at youngsters.
Wake Up Sid more or less fits into the genre. Every scene of the film appeals to you, because you relate to its characters, its dialogues, and its sets. The somewhat closer to life film has its message etched right through, but does not get preachy. It took me straight back to Dil Chahta Hai. Peppy dialogues. Trendy clothes. Real places.
And while one is overloaded with backdrops from different countries for films, this one is refreshing for its closer home feel. Dil Chahta Hai had Goa. Wake Up Sid has Bombay (Mumbai did we hear?). A breathtaking terrace view of the sea and boats, the typical and overdone, yet very likable Marine Drive promenade, those little narrow lanes in the neighbourhood...some outdoors you take home with you.
Renting a studio flat and turning it into a dream nest is something most migrants dream of. When Sid and his friends help Aisha do just that, you wow at it. It could also be something as simple as converting a few slices of bread into a birthday cake, or Sid's mother desperately talking in English with that faint hope that someday she can become his...friend.
That generation gap and familial conflict between parents and youngsters of the current generation is handled by the director with some finesse. Small roles, but notice the pain that comes through when Anupam Kher and Supriya Pathak react to Sid's failing at college.
Or that scene where Sid's pizza bill is paid by someone who hates him at college, only for him to discover how he usurped her merit seat thanks to daddy dear's influence.
Artfully done and crafted with realism, Wake Up Sid is a reflection of today's society, at least part of it if not the whole.
The only issue is that while its plot is predictable, it looks repackaged. It's the script's sensitivity that saves the film. For instance, Sid has to land in a magazine conveniently, just as Aisha has. Branding of products has been done cleverly and taken advantage of. You are not spared those bright colours that make up for a magazine office, despite their giving that real feel to the place.
Wish the complexities and older woman-younger guy came through better. Effort has been made. Many scenes bring through some of them to fore too, primarily through Konkana's brilliance. But what about those self-doubts that plague one's mind during such attraction? And that million dollar question: Will it work?
Nevertheless, its a film worth the money you pay.
Green on my shoe
Jungle delights: A grasshopper on my shoe! Golden moments that make for a trek!Picture Courtesy: C Dhinesh Kumar
Location: Naneghat, off Mumbai
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
My bookshelf dream comes true
On my recent return from a Bangalore trip, D, my husband closed my eyes and brought me to my home studio.
Surprise. A bookshelf I had been craving for and dreaming of since our wedding. Part closed in glass and rest of it completely shut. Neat. It can hold most of my books now. And some of those truckloads of files in the name of story research too. A good second hand deal, D loves it so much that he would not want to resell it anytime in future...even if we shifted out!
This bookshelf strangely brings me some hope! Things we dream of may come true after all! Am inching closer to remove tackiness from my home office, home studio, home study...whatever you call it.
Surprise. A bookshelf I had been craving for and dreaming of since our wedding. Part closed in glass and rest of it completely shut. Neat. It can hold most of my books now. And some of those truckloads of files in the name of story research too. A good second hand deal, D loves it so much that he would not want to resell it anytime in future...even if we shifted out!
This bookshelf strangely brings me some hope! Things we dream of may come true after all! Am inching closer to remove tackiness from my home office, home studio, home study...whatever you call it.
Monday, 5 October 2009
Weekend whizzed by
Two cakes. Two candles. A surprise.
A movie. Some pasta. Yummmm...!
Two hours at the parlour.
A friend comes calling. Another, we head off to meet.
Coffee. Banter. Bombay rain.
A bit of nostalgia. Introspection. Hmmm...
My birthday weekend... just flew by.
A movie. Some pasta. Yummmm...!
Two hours at the parlour.
A friend comes calling. Another, we head off to meet.
Coffee. Banter. Bombay rain.
A bit of nostalgia. Introspection. Hmmm...
My birthday weekend... just flew by.
Friday, 2 October 2009
Bye Allen
Early July: Times of India Bangalore office internship. Metro Desk, said the Resident Editor. And I walked out scared on those neat white tiles, strutted past corporate cubicles spreading away left and right. I had seen this Metro desk chief before! College Fest. A journalism veteran called him cynical for his blunt views on market vs journalism.
A few days on at this reporters' corner: A better dressed and westernised fellow intern found favour with this man over me - the khadi-clad bore. Am I doomed? I wondered. Playing musical chairs to grab reporters' PCs . Stuck to keying in City Scan and events column. Promoted to typing the City Briefs at times!
Come Sunday: a neglect assignment. Which overstressed journo would want to wake up early on a Sunday, rush to Press Club for an outdoor story plant pick -up? But for me, finally there was a story to do! Not typing in Events!
Vipassana meditation camp. That was the story. Ten days of silence at a outside Bangalore on Kanakapura Road! We were there on the final day for some publicity to that `cause'.
Two days later, chief quick scanned my finished story on the PC, his signature wrist holding face style. Will it get past chief at all! Wondered a battered me.
`Who wrote this?' asked Mr Chief, aloud and rather curiously.
`It was me.' I hid back into the borrowed cubicle.
`It's good dear! Was it really you?'
`Yeah. We wrote it!' Co-Byline justice! He knew this story was mine. Thank God! `So you discovered me!' I muttered to myself.
By now in my head, he came to personify all of Bangalore journalism. Flamboyant. That swagger stood out. He was all over the place, and at all times of the day! As if he lived at the TOI office! And how he wore his heart up his sleeve! Colleagues calming him down when he yelled and shouted expletives or fought his seniors for his team! How he teased that sub-editor with her `flying nest -like' hair so openly she gave him a smirk and escaped into those back desks! Or pushed interns all over the city to write on and do stories without fear!
My `downmarket' dress sense obviously kept this celebrity scribe off! Vipassana meditation story won him over. `It's good!' came singing into my years thrice over the next hour! And it got published the following Sunday. I got a couple of bylines more, but this one gave me that `arrived' feel so much! He sure had that eye for quality!
A bunch of us interns went out for coffee and lunch with him at eateries outside S & B towers. Arguments over issues, his being called names by rivals, those marketing strategies of Times he loyally defended, or his arguing against my joining dream college - Asian College! I differed with him a great deal on women turning glamour dolls to sell newspapers. Or about why he was being so sexist. But I was glad it did not invite vengeance. He seemed to take it all rather playfully. He was not idealist material. A fun-lover who egged you with pep-talk, he was no doubt.
Through years that followed, I've heard many adjectives and anecdotes around this popular boss. From his well-wishers and detractors alike. Flamboyant - the must word. Amusing. `Colour' - a convenient label by a fellow political correspondent. Colour meant he and his stories were colourful!
I was not surprised either, that during his tough times and publication changes later, he did not recognise me when he walked into Express Library on some reference work. Reporters rarely remember interns. Once he remembered, he chatted away. And hinted at how he felt victimised by the paper he lived for.
Am sure he forgot me and my colleague who saw him off from our Reporter's Desk aisle soon after he left. Something in the way he spoke suggested, he wanted peace.
How does one react when those letters RIP stare out against his name on Facebook? It can't be. He is not old! Is it a prank? Googling confirmed it. Senior Journalist Allen Mendonca Dead. Age 49.
Obits have flown back and forth on blogs last four days. Newspapers reluctantly carried quickie obits too. His wife reportedly sounded out to his detractors that they did not break his spirit. He died peacefully, in sleep. How we die often defines how we've lived!
Bye Allen. You may not have known me. I have not subscribed to you or your style always. A picture pinned on your cubicle wall then sums up my best memory of you though. Ale splashing out of a wine glass and you revelling in it. The now defunct fortnightly Bangalore magazine Family had carried those pics. You loved that picture. Me will remember you best from that picture.
A few days on at this reporters' corner: A better dressed and westernised fellow intern found favour with this man over me - the khadi-clad bore. Am I doomed? I wondered. Playing musical chairs to grab reporters' PCs . Stuck to keying in City Scan and events column. Promoted to typing the City Briefs at times!
Come Sunday: a neglect assignment. Which overstressed journo would want to wake up early on a Sunday, rush to Press Club for an outdoor story plant pick -up? But for me, finally there was a story to do! Not typing in Events!
Vipassana meditation camp. That was the story. Ten days of silence at a outside Bangalore on Kanakapura Road! We were there on the final day for some publicity to that `cause'.
Two days later, chief quick scanned my finished story on the PC, his signature wrist holding face style. Will it get past chief at all! Wondered a battered me.
`Who wrote this?' asked Mr Chief, aloud and rather curiously.
`It was me.' I hid back into the borrowed cubicle.
`It's good dear! Was it really you?'
`Yeah. We wrote it!' Co-Byline justice! He knew this story was mine. Thank God! `So you discovered me!' I muttered to myself.
By now in my head, he came to personify all of Bangalore journalism. Flamboyant. That swagger stood out. He was all over the place, and at all times of the day! As if he lived at the TOI office! And how he wore his heart up his sleeve! Colleagues calming him down when he yelled and shouted expletives or fought his seniors for his team! How he teased that sub-editor with her `flying nest -like' hair so openly she gave him a smirk and escaped into those back desks! Or pushed interns all over the city to write on and do stories without fear!
My `downmarket' dress sense obviously kept this celebrity scribe off! Vipassana meditation story won him over. `It's good!' came singing into my years thrice over the next hour! And it got published the following Sunday. I got a couple of bylines more, but this one gave me that `arrived' feel so much! He sure had that eye for quality!
A bunch of us interns went out for coffee and lunch with him at eateries outside S & B towers. Arguments over issues, his being called names by rivals, those marketing strategies of Times he loyally defended, or his arguing against my joining dream college - Asian College! I differed with him a great deal on women turning glamour dolls to sell newspapers. Or about why he was being so sexist. But I was glad it did not invite vengeance. He seemed to take it all rather playfully. He was not idealist material. A fun-lover who egged you with pep-talk, he was no doubt.
Through years that followed, I've heard many adjectives and anecdotes around this popular boss. From his well-wishers and detractors alike. Flamboyant - the must word. Amusing. `Colour' - a convenient label by a fellow political correspondent. Colour meant he and his stories were colourful!
I was not surprised either, that during his tough times and publication changes later, he did not recognise me when he walked into Express Library on some reference work. Reporters rarely remember interns. Once he remembered, he chatted away. And hinted at how he felt victimised by the paper he lived for.
Am sure he forgot me and my colleague who saw him off from our Reporter's Desk aisle soon after he left. Something in the way he spoke suggested, he wanted peace.
How does one react when those letters RIP stare out against his name on Facebook? It can't be. He is not old! Is it a prank? Googling confirmed it. Senior Journalist Allen Mendonca Dead. Age 49.
Obits have flown back and forth on blogs last four days. Newspapers reluctantly carried quickie obits too. His wife reportedly sounded out to his detractors that they did not break his spirit. He died peacefully, in sleep. How we die often defines how we've lived!
Bye Allen. You may not have known me. I have not subscribed to you or your style always. A picture pinned on your cubicle wall then sums up my best memory of you though. Ale splashing out of a wine glass and you revelling in it. The now defunct fortnightly Bangalore magazine Family had carried those pics. You loved that picture. Me will remember you best from that picture.
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