It Really Is Hard On The Knees

Eight years ago, we travelled to the city of the smelly marble mausoleum. We were strangers in a strange house, guests of a nanchuk-weilding boor of an acquaintance. We stayed up nights, drank our sickly sweet chais and made right royal asses of ourselves. It was a strange and wonderful holiday – we laughed and gossiped and were laughed at and gossiped against.

We were teenagers in a big, bad city back then; a city we fought and loved and detested together. Our friends were our family, and therefore instinctively knew everything we tried to hide from them. We frustrated our parents and barely knew our teachers, but we were the happiest we have ever been.

That was a long time ago. We spent the next five years away from each other. We were always just a phone call away, but no closer. We made all the smart decisions, but we cursed ourselves for being prize chumps. Our lives were a convoluted mess of last-minute train tickets, sleepy airport lounges and fictitious trips to Sikkim with “the guys”.

Yesterday, we had enough. Yesterday, we decided we wanted more. Yesterday, I asked her to marry me, and she said she would. And today the world makes perfect sense again.

—–

Plain White T’s – Hey There Delilah [mp3]

The Baajuhut Guide to Mumbai

Good evening, or as Snow White said to the Seven Dwarves – Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello, Hello.

You are doing well, I hope? Good good. The colour’s definitely returned to your cheeks – no doubt a result of the magnificent psychedelic toilet paper you are so fond of. And I see you’ve done your hair up much like I do mine. We really are toupees in a pod now, aren’t we?

Anyway, we really should get started. The Arrow of time is moving ever-forward, and the Van Heusens of Shoppers Stop are finding it really hard to keep up. Today, I will show you around the famous city of Mumbai, a place I called Home for ten years because I couldn’t keep up with all the name changes. It’s a lovely city with a rich, cultural history and a remarkable array of varied vegetation. It really does grow on you – though the Municipal Corporation assures us that their new sprays are working perfectly.

Mumbai is, like New York, a largely north-south city. This has immensely inconvenienced parties as diverse as the local taxi-wallahs, the utilities companies and the sun. It was originally a group of seven large islands, but a series of reclamations have joined them together. One of the smaller islands, Elephanta, is well-known for its beautiful caves and is said to be the abode of both Lord Shiva and Dumbo. The sad, dilapidated condition of this historical site has moved many visitors to tears, with most unable to say much more than a wistful “Tusk! Tusk!”

The city is also known the center of commerce, or more specifically, ‘Me’. The financial capital of the country, it houses the oldest stock exchange in Asia. A large number of businesses, small and large, work together in perfect harmony to provide employment to millions. One of the earliest flourishing trades was that of paraffin wax, with the stuff being exported to places as far as Persia and Egypt. With the discovery of kerosene as a cost-efficient source of light and fuel, however, the demand saw a dramatic decline and manufacturers soon had wax coming out of their ears. These days, candles are used only during the frequent electricity black-outs. This gets quite messy, so the man of the house generally volunteers to clean the stains and wax off in the dark.

Home to ‘Bollywood’, the massive Hindi film industry, Bombay is also the cultural hub of the nation. Thousands of musicians, actors and media bigwigs move to the city every year with hopes of striking the right note, pose and unsuspecting passer-by respectively. While the film industry deservedly gets the lions-share of the attention, few know that the music business is extremely profitable and vibrant as well. In fact, over the last few months an Indian music director, A. R. Rahman, has managed two Oscar awards, four national awards and a surprise number one in Sweden¹. Another very popular musical artiste is the singer Alisha ‘Baby Doll’ Chinai, whose compositions have a distinct Middle Eastern influence (mostly Shiite). The outspoken Ms. Chinai is a creature of controversy, unaffected by media criticism. In fact, she was once had to suffer through a whole week of debasement, from which she emerged quite unscathed, stating that she finds “de room under de ground floor to be a most comfortable place”.

Mumbai is, like most metropolises, a city of flamboyance and warmth, and has done much to improve the living conditions of its citizens. It is, in fact, often compared to the safe, modern and connected city of London, differing from the British capital in only three respects.

You might require a map of the city to help you get around. There are many different versions floating around, but this is the only one you’ll really need.

 

I do hope you have found this useful. I, too, have enjoyed your company. Tata.

 

——————————————-

¹ Cold weather often does that to him

The Queen of the Supermarket

Curd lay in bed wondering if he had just dreamt about her. His rubbed his left arm gently – it was still asleep – and tried to recall why the rest of him had awoken with a start. He looked at his watch, and let out a sharp yelp. It was six and the joggers would soon be in. Ah well, he’d dream about her again and he was almost certain it’d be the same dream. If only he remembered his dreams, he’d know for sure.

He folded his bed sheet, flattened it out and put it back on the display shelf. A little toothpaste on his fore-finger and phoos-phoos of the tester deodorant and he was all set. The system was booted and that annoying Springsteen song kicked in just as the first customer jogged into his shop.

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Curd was born, fittingly enough, in the neighbourhood gym. Mommy was in the sauna when her water broke. She didn’t even notice it. They both got free lifetime memberships to the gym, which pissed Mom off because she knew she’d never go now that she wasn’t paying for it.

When Curd was sixteen, he got the job at the supermarket. For two weeks he hated it: the long hours, the shitty pay, the saxophone record that the agency said would boost customer loyalty, up employee morale and appeal to the middle-aged horny housewife demographic. He was paid in Fruit n’ Nuts and had to smile quite a lot and all the aunties called him ‘Deekra’.

And then she joined.

Ulka was hired to woman the Cosmetics aisle. Towards the end of her first day on the job she pocketed nine bottles of sun-block, slipped some money into the cash register and went home. The next morning, she was given a joining bonus and a new uniform.

</>

Curd knew things were going wonky when he started saying things like “DinDins? Oh groovy that’d be so like fabuloso hehehe.” when asked if he’d like to order pizza. He’d insist on paying, of course, and would end up tipping the delivery guy in chewing gum. Pizzas were expensive and Ulka was… um, a large girl.

It wasn’t like he was being taken advantage of. Curd was, like all men, his own man. He was being chivalrous, that’s all. It was an investment towards a happier future for them both – a future that involved a house with a lawn, a red Japanese car and a low-carb diet. Curd would come back home from work to a hot meal and a foot massage. He’d sink into bed, and give her the look. She’d toss back her hair, lean in real close and whisper gently in his ear –

“You fucking idiot! This isn’t pepperoni. I know I didn’t write it down this time, but surely you can’t be that stupid.”

</>

It was tough, this unrequited love thing. One day Curd just decided not to go home. The shop was comfortable enough. He slept in Aisle 2 because it smelt like her. He’d write her little notes on the floor with hand lotion, but would always wipe it off before she came in. (He now had really soft hands, if only she’d bother to check.) Some days he offered to run her shift while she went to the movies or the beach. He rehearsed his lines long after he had said them, and would inevitably come up with the perfect joke or witty retort by the third attempt.

So Ulka had a short fuse. That’s not a deal-breaker, is it? Curd had his flaws too – his second toe, for instance, was longer than his first. Why do you think he wore socks with his floaters?

She swore a lot for one so pretty. She said she had once eaten peacock, and he didn’t know if it was a joke. He laughed anyway, but that just got her mad.

</>

On Saturday, two weeks after she was recruited, Ulka was asked to leave. She seemed genuinely pleased to be fired. She threw a pressure cooker at Curd on her way out and blew him a mocking kiss. It was the first time he had seen her smile and it made him smile too.

 

Bruce Springsteen – The Queen of the Supermarket [mp3]

When Hurt Came To Town

There’s not much left to be said about the attack that hasn’t been said already. Screw the clichés; embrace them for their truth. Be afraid; be strong. What could they have done; what should we do now. Maybe Han¹ is spot-on when he says that it is the location of the atrocities that makes this so different for us; maybe he’s being ridiculous.

For the last three days I have been unable to tear myself away from the news, yet with every successive ‘Breaking News’ the pain and anguish builds. I have waited patiently for the denouement that may never come. It has been painful, personal and mind-numbingly harrowing (all clichés, all true).

- -

On the evening of the 26^th, I took a taxi home from work while my driver waited patiently outside my office. His phone was unreachable, and I soon got tired of waiting. He finally called at 10:30pm (just as I was about to head back to look for him), and we yelled at him in relief.

Three hours later he reached home, nearly in tears. He was stuck on the dreaded Airport flyover-in-progress, when suddenly, ten cars in front of him, a taxi was hurled into the air. He was one of the first to react, spinning the car around and driving away from the explosion. He took a circuitous route back through the by-lanes of Vile Parle, thankful that he was once a taxi driver, thankful that he no longer is.

- -

She was a classmate of mine, one of only six girls in my class. She had made a spot in the second row her own – a spot from which she took copious notes, caught the occasional forty winks and never answered a question unless it was directed specifically at her. We were part of the same project group for a Finance course, and she carried me through it without a trace of irritation.

Two weeks ago, she made her first appearance on the college Y! group. She was getting married, she said, to her boyfriend of seven years. We were all invited.

Said boyfriend was at Café Leopold on the evening of the 26^th.

- -

My father was to head back to Mumbai on the 25^th. He was attending his company’s Annual Operating Meet, and was looking forward to getting back home. His bags were packed, the taxi was waiting; the jet plane, however, wouldn’t leave.

My dad never did like Bangkok.

- -

I spoke to J in the taxi on the way home. I cursed him playfully, he cursed back. Hee hee. I cursed him some more, perhaps I went too far.

Back home, I heard the word “gunshots” on the News. Bloody gangsters, I thought, dismissively². And then I got J’s email. He spoke of gunshots and blasts and terrorists in South Bombay. He spoke of flames and panic. And he was trapped at work. Express Towers is the building just behind the Oberoi. Shit.

He and his colleagues spent the night at work. In the morning, he made sure everyone got back home safe, and only then did he leave. It was scarier than I can imagine; it was scarier than he will admit.

- -

The Taj Mahal Palace & Towers has always been more than just another IHCL property. Friends working there call it ‘a jewel in our Taj’ and laugh every time. Growing up, if ever I found myself in South Bombay, I’d insist on walking over and peeing in their super-fancy loo. Their managers came to recognize me for the pest I was, but apart from a slight frown, they never did stop me. I have seen every bit of the hotel – the Presidential suite, the ballrooms, the kitchen and laundry area, Wasabi, the CCTV room. It was part of our induction process to the Group, and it left me thrilled. When they talk of hostages being held in the Crystal Room, I can only visualize the space as I saw it then – pristine and opulent. Now, there’s smoke, a stench and snipers. And infinite sadness.

¹ That’s in the commentspace. But read the excellent post first.

² Dismissively!

An Ode to Conjunctivitis

You wake up groggy; the world’s a blur,

You stumble, you trip, you curse the liqueur.

You were supposed to awaken crisp like toast

Yet here you are, as blind as a post

(You’re mixing your metaphors¹ now, never a good sign.

The next time you drink, you stick to your rum.)

Damn.

 

You look in the mirror, you recoil with fear,

You trip on the pot and moisten your rear.

(Of the slapstick, dear poet, there is no real need,

Let’s stick to the symptoms, I humbly plead.)

 

Fine, hmph, so your eyes are all gummy,

And bloodshot and itchy and watery,

Accompanied by an infection of the upper respiratory tract, a common cold and/or a sore throat.

(Now see what you’ve done, you imbecilic son of Zorg,

You’ve made him quote from Wikipedia.org.

You’ve insulted his art; you’ve taken his mickey,

You’ve made him resort to quoting from… Oh, wait, I already said that.)

 

Anyway, where was I?

 

It’s highly infectious, people look quickly away,

You begin to feel ostracized, like Robert Mugabe.

Of Zimbabwe.

Hehe.

(Now cut it out, Mister. This is an ‘ode’, you realise?

It should be stately and profound and lyrical and wise.

No more horsing around now, this is going all awry,

Let’s get back to talking ’bout your old Chenn-eye).

 

Your local physician, he tells you to rest,

And to sit around the house in that dirty, holey vest.

Use eye drops and cough drops and keep your hands clean,

And most important of all, don’t stare at that computer screen.

 

Oh.

 

_______

¹
Similes, actually. How much did you drink, anyway?

The Rhyme Without The Reason

I was four when I spoke my first word. My parents insist I could understand everything and that I was just plain lazy, but I’m pretty sure they were worried. Needless to say, when the first excruciating word was finally extracted out of me, there was much celebration. I was expected, thence, to quickly race through the alphabet, dodge effortlessly past those pesky numbers and conquer the mighty Noddy books in a bid to make up for lost time. I’d be reading Shakespeare by July and fixing the hole in the ozone layer by next winter. Baajuhut, the young ‘un (,) was on a roll.

And then, suddenly, he wasn’t; waylaid by that dastardly fiend, that wrecker of self-esteem, the ultra-vile Nursery Rhyme!

I could never get the hang of those blasted poems. Granted, they were magnificently violent tales that dealt cheerfully with subjects as diverse as death, deception, adultery and communicable diseases – no complaints there – but why were/are they considered essential to a kid’s early education? You could just as easily strap a kid into his high chair, plonk him in front of the telly and play Scarface over and over again. He might even get a cool accent that way.

And what’s with the magnificently archaic language? What were these mysterious ‘poses’, for instance, that manifested themselves in my pockets, causing me to make asthmatic noises and get dragged painfully to the ground? And that treacle-eating weasel that went Pop! from time to time. Pop?

My brother, incidentally, knew every single one (he still does). Very likely, you too still remember a dozen or so of these jolly ditties. No doubt they take you back to a happier time and fill you with memories of Horlicks and Rice Paysam (or warm apple pie, as the case may be). Those were the days, eh? Yeah, me too! Hmph.

See Also: Zonuts

All Gone To Look For America

I’ve been working for thirteen months now without a break. I’ve managed to run through four different companies, three countries and two bottles of after-shave. I’ve been yelled at, reasoned with, shabaash-ed, cajoled and made to buy lollipops (I kid you not). There’ve been good bosses, nasty bosses and right-royal studs. I have called in sick only thrice and I have shaved every single working day.

I have worked in a steel wire manufacturing plant in China, a startup mobile phone company, a tea shop and a budget hotel. Lunch at work has spanned the culinary spectrum from Tihar-style dal-chawal to white rice with raw shrimp and boiled veggies. One colleague of mine set his car on fire; another had half his face paralysed; yet another slept with that hot lady from accounts (and bragged about it the next day).

I have sung ‘Hey Jude’ at a shady karaoke bar (nobody was drunk). I have lovingly informed a CEO that his company was “a disaster” (everyone was drunk).

And I have made Powerpoint presentations. Lots of them.

So, for the next two weeks, I’m on holiday! My phone will be off, my computer will be in its bag and my liver will be abused. Super.

–

When I get back to work, I will be working for yet another company – this time for a couple of years. Work will start in Mumbai, but embassy officials permitting, I will be based in some place called Matawan in New Jersey.

Han, Undead, JC , anyone else I know out there – don’t get yourselves deported until after I’ve arrived!

Nothing (In four parts)

I

Poetry

Is not some

thing I am good at.

I try (maybe not hard enough),

But

somehow

It ends up looking like this.

Damnit.

II

I remember this Ogden Nash book lying around at home. My brother had picked it up, and though I never saw him read it, he knew all the clever ones. Clever chap, my brother.

I remember wondering why stuff in ‘A Pageant of Poems’ couldn’t be like this. I hated that poetry textbook. ‘The Bazaars of Hyderabad’ was rubbish. ‘Jack’ was pointless. The only thing I liked about ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’ was its title (and that, it turns out, was pilfered).

I remember being asked to ‘commit them to memory’ (as opposed to ‘by heart-ing them’). I did. But I didn’t like it. I’m not comfortable with confrontation.

I also remember, strangely enough, tripping a classmate on the basketball court as she skipped around muttering “Butterfly, Butterfly” in a nauseatingly saccharine voice. I think I did it on purpose. She needed three stitches on her chin. She later studied Sociology in Delhi, shaved off all the hair on her head, grew it back, and is now a (very beautiful) nurse in France. Some countries have all the luck.

III

TMH and I used to write some pretty funny stuff (we thought) in Prof. Horace Jacob’s Quantum Mechanics class. We’d write a stanza at a time, as the Lego-esque poem slowly took shape. We were both, inevitably, very proud of the end result.

Aforementioned HoJo, meanwhile, talked about falling into a Black Hole in the middle of a crowded market, and backed that up with a complex formula that seemed bogus (but was probably correct). There was creativity in the air.

IV

A friend of mine now is now part of a band that plays Indian folk-fusion. They are the only tri-lingual band I know (unless Usha Uthup has a band), singing in English, Hindi and Kannada. I bet you’ve never heard a Kannada song before. I hadn’t, and I’ve been going to Bangalore every summer since I was two.

It’s a good band. They do stuff they enjoy, and it shows. Not pretentious, not profound. Just pleasant.

Made To Hors d’œuvre

“If Yan can cook”, he used to say, ’so can you.”

I took that seriously. I even tried the no-look coriander chopping trick that he used to perform to much applause. All I got was a bloody (painful) pinkie and a swift bottom-paddling. It was a pity meat was never allowed at home, for I was pretty darned sure I could cook the finest Mongolian Hot Pot in all of northern Chennai. By the tender age of twelve I could distinguish a cucumber from a courgette, an orange from a kumquat and a de-glaze from a demi-glace. I even baked a magnificent upside-down chocolate marble cake (it wasn’t meant to be ‘upside-down’ – the blasted tray slipped) with half a bottle of my Dad’s finest sherry.

My grand-uncle once spent two hours trying to get me to apply to Culinary School (“that’s where the money is. Oh, and your wife will be a lucky woman. Nudgenudgewinkwink.”). For my thirteenth birthday, the kind Mrs. Choudhary gave me a book called ‘The Ultimate Guide to Cooking, Baking and Grilling’; I still have it around here somewhere. Very soon, in addition to Yan Can Cook!, I was watching cooking shows starring a French guy called Pierre, a balding British chap called Floyd and a strange lady from nowhere called Madhur Jaffrey. I even took notes. I was barely into my teens and I was already a middle-aged woman.

 All this came to a screeching halt, of course, when I landed up at Stephen’s. I used to make Maggi occasionally, but that takes as much skill as removing lint from your belly-button. For six years (with the exception of brief holidays spent at home) I didn’t think about cooking.

And then this happened.

Every Monday evening, I find myself watching Nigella Express with the gusto of a hormonal teenager chancing upon his first episode of Baywatch. It’s not just that the lady is phenomenally good looking and that she refuses to dress in the vapid white overalls that make artists look unsuccessfully like scientists. (They stain easily too!) It’s her approach to cooking that is so refreshing. It can be easy, fun, quick and yet, magically, very stylish. Her desserts (which are what I rate chefs on) are fabulous. And she doesn’t skimp on the butter (or chocolate sauce, olive oil, parmesan, marshmallows, bourbon biscuits, m&ms). Mmmm.

In college, I saw a BBC Documentary called “In Search of Perfection: Heston Blumenthal”. This Heston chap is part of the elite group of fancy-schmancy chefs who call themselves Molecular Gastronomists. Forget what I just said about the buxom Ms. Lawson above, this really is magic. If only I had known about this while I was grappling with Solid State Physics problems in Delhi.

Blumenthal’s 3 (Michelin) starred restaurant in England is called The Fat Duck. Their £125 tasting menu has long been considered the finest, most plebian-friendly introduction to the science to-date. The key, apparently, is to focus not so much on taste or smell, but on the memories associated with food. Hence the Nitro-scrambled bacon and eggs ice-cream with sour tomato and red pepper ‘jam’ and caramelized French Toast. And then, there’s the Hot & Cold Tea – a Willy Wonka creation with two fluid gels that don’t coalesce immediately.

Which brings me to this morning: I burnt my toast, put too much sugar in my coffee and spilt some orange juice into a just-boiled pot of milk.

Maybe I should just stick to selling unsellable hotel rooms!

Stroked Through The Covers

I’ve wanted to do a post on music for sometime now. You know, zonuts style. [It's the only music blog I track, I know these guys and I (generally) like what they like.]

Sadly, though, I have no clue what to say. Since I started working, I neither have the time nor the patience to try out new artists/genres/albums. I could honestly survive with an album each of The Beatles, Pearl Jam and Dire Straits. It’s all been very humdrum.

So, here’s my first tentative step into the New Music Scene – the one they’re all so kicked about. It’s half a stride actually, with my back foot firmly inside the popping crease.

I’ve always been fascinated by cover versions. The first truly memorable cover I remember was Joe Cocker yelling away at the beginning of The Wonder Years. It still is the only version I can listen to – the original sounds wimpy in comparison. It has character (Good character. Unlike Delhi.), it adds something new while keeping the stuff that works. And it reminds me of Winnie Cooper (Danica McKellar, author of ‘Math Doesn’t Suck: How to Survive Middle-School Math Without Losing Your Mind or Breaking a Nail’). Ah, well.

So, here’s my list. Five covers that I find myself listening to a whole lot:

a) The Miserable Rich – Over & Over (Hot Chip Cover): I have heard the Hot Chip original only once; it didn’t do much for me. Then I heard this dark chamber pop version. It starts slowly. The violins are beautiful. And then, the joy of repetition. Over and over and over and over. K-I-S-S-I-N-G-S-E-X-I-N-G-…

[Listen]

b) Richard Thompson – Oops! I Did It Again (er, yup. Her.): He’s sent from above. He’s not that innocent. And he totally cracks this. It’s hilarious, but only because he’s so earnest. The guitars are lovely. I really need to listen to his other stuff.

[Listen]

c) The Vines – Miss Jackson (Outkast Cover): A bunch of wailing Aussies. Not my favourite people right now, but I’ll try to retain my stoic professionalism.

Bloody Whingeing Losers! Let’s move on.

[Listen]

d) Lily Allen – Oh My God (Kaiser Chiefs Cover): What’s there no to like about her. She’s pretty(ish), has a lovely British voice. It’s a great song. She took the Internet by storm, apparently (I wouldn’t know, I was busy listening to Abbey Road!). Wait for the little sax bit.

[Listen]

e) Coldplay (feat. Buena Vista Social Club) – Clocks: This makes me want to pour myself a stiff Old Monk with Thums Up, smoke a cigar, ride a motorcycle without a helmet and watch women with large hips sashay around the room in a bright green dress. In a nice sort of way.

[Listen]