Mahatandava

Free! Free! Free!

2012-01-20T12:30:00.001+05:30

(This piece first appeared in the Asian Age on January 19, 2012)

Ever wondered why classical dancers never write to financial columns in newspapers and magazines, asking how to invest their assets? That’s because sweat-stained silks and paper flowers are not sound investment options. If a dancer is lucky enough to come out of a performance with a cheque, it takes a few minutes of discreet backstage envelope-passing for the money to spread itself thin and wear out. The half-rotten flowers that are handed out indiscriminately at dance programmes last longer.

Gone are the glorious days of gurukul education, where a lifetime of experience in kneading corpulent hands and feet was directly proportional to artistic knowledge. Learning dance and aspiring to dance professionally calls for a significant investment of time, energy, faith and money; thus dancers are not being unfair when they look at dance performance as a means of survival.

Instead, the pattern that seems to replicate itself ceaselessly is — performing becomes a hobby, an indulgence; most young classical dancers seem to make more money teaching. What they earn as dance teachers goes into paying for costumes, jewellery, music and performance opportunities.

Performance opportunities are not scarce; nowadays, every reasonably flat surface becomes a stage and voila! You have a dance festival. Glitzy ads invite dancers to apply to such dance festivals by sending fat packages with DVDs and press reviews to pokey addresses. Cursorily scan these ads and you will find the “nots” right at the bottom — we do “not” pay for transport, we do “not” pay performers, and so on.

Kuchipudi dancer Amrita Lahiri feels that as a young dancer, one might invest in performing for the sake of visibility. “But,” she remarks, “it is a very unhealthy system; it leads to corruption. Only the ones who can afford to perform end up dancing. Organisers seem to think they’re doing dancers a favour by giving them the space to perform. After a certain point, you begin to feel you deserve better. I believe in what I have been taught and in the strength of the art form itself. There must be some dignity to professional performance.”

It is a strange situation because no one else in the dance world is working for free. Try telling the light technicians that you will not pay them for their efforts and you might just end up organising a candlelight dance festival. How, and when, did paying dancers end up last on the list of priorities?

When the performing arts were sustained mostly by temple and court patronage, the payment was often in kind. In some cases, temple dancers were awarded land by the temple. A village that engaged a drama troupe would defray all its expenses and send it on its way with generous gifts. There is also the somewhat misplaced but oft-expressed notion that dance is a spiritual pursuit. Dance is divine and is tainted by the mention of money. Even dancers pay taxes though, and at `5,000 a month, the government scholarship offered to young artistes barely covers ‘rigorous training’, let alone ‘living expenses on travelling, books, art material or other equipment and tuition or training charges, if any’.
Odissi dancer Jhelum Paranjape feels that unpaid performance opportunities are also on the rise because more and more dancers are willing to dance for free. She explains, “There is very limited patronage in the arts. In the olden times, the engagements were often long-term. Money might have not changed hands but the artistes were taken care of in every way. Now, like with any other choice of profession, when you spend your money on dance because you want to make it a career; it must pay you back!”

Dancer-guru VP Dhananjayan is all for strict action against those who organise festivals without having the means to support them well. He confirms that even certain senior performers may agree to perform for free if the venue or occasion is prestigious enough. He says, “I have been instrumental in getting sabhas to offer some remuneration to senior dancers — though not a big amount. Senior artistes should be honest enough not to accept performances without proper remuneration. The government could perhaps step in and take action against fly-by-night organisations and make them accountable for every performance they organise.”

It is all too easy to caricature festival organisers as unthinking villains; however, what makes organisers want to mount ambitious annual festivals even when funds are scarce? For instance, Anwesa Mahanta, a young Sattriya dancer and researcher, started the Pragjyoti Dance Festival in Guwahati because the city never had a regular festival of classical dance. “We have a rich performance tradition in the region, but Guwahati only had the occasional festival organised by the Sangeet Natak Akademi. Private sponsors generously contribute to pop culture causes, but they are reluctant to sponsor classical dance programmes, also because they are waiting to see if it serves their purposes and generates publicity for them. We pay dancers’ their train fare and look after their stay and food in Guwahati. If I invited a big name from Indian music, it might have been easier to find sponsors, but a Zakir Hussain can perform here despite me — my festival aims to bring younger, less-established, nevertheless, very talented dancers to Guwahati. It is a new concept, so people are still sceptical. But I feel vindicated when audiences still reminisce about young artistes who danced at Pragjyoti in previous years. It proves that people appreciate their talent and skill,” she says.

Discursive post

2011-10-06T00:12:00.000+05:30

One job interview I went to, I was literally sent home after having my cheeks pulled (and my pocket replenished with toffee) because the octogenarians interviewing me thought I was too young. But then, the other day, I was in a train, and cast a random smile in the direction of some hyperactive toddler who was sitting across from me. (Random smile = yeah it's very nice you can jump on the seats and leave your footprints all over and generally be a nuisance and make a lot of noise but there's only so much I can take; so shut up now) The mother of said toddler got very excited by this first sign of someone wanting to engage with her child. So she tells her child, "Aunty ko hello bolo. Aunty ko poocho unka naam kya hain." And thus, uses aunty in place of other subtle pronouns again and again and again. Arre, not aunty, I am not so old, I want to say. But then I risk opening the floodgates of travel overfamiliarity and dealing with an avalanche of questions - how are you - how old are you - how old are your phupha-phuphi - oh why don't you have any phupha-phuphi - do you use B-Tex on the warts in your private parts, and so on, so I grin and bear the auntyfication.

I am the surly traveller who occupies the aisle seat and glares angrily at you if you smear your mango pickle oil on the seat. Or start playing bad music which is also loud. Or if you are the Rajdhani attendant who wakes me up at 7.30 am and says, "Madam, how much will you sleep? It's late now; eat your breakfast!" Even my mother doesn't dare do that. For I am kambalapriya.

I am not an ogress. I love children. But I have noticed my stars are always cruelly aligned when it comes to travel. I always get to sit next to the crankiest, most fidgety kid on the train/ plane. When they are at that innocent age when they are just sticking their fists into everything breakable but are incapable of achieving wider circulation because they can't really walk, it's still okay. When they are old enough to walk, and concurrently to discover the joys of stamping on rexine seats and trying their hand at mountain-climbing on a train, it's a big problem.

When I came back from Cochin, there were three kids in damage-causing reach. And they served cake on the plane. Cake is crumbly. Now, having spent two days getting firsthand experience of a Kerala wedding, all I wanted to do was sleep. Alas...

I promised R I wouldn't poke fun at her wedding, but it's just sitting there like a bubble in a sea of popped bubble-wrap, waiting to be, well, burst.

I still cannot get over the fact that the make-up took three hours and the wedding took five minutes. I'm sure the food at the wedding sadya empathises with me. It must have taken hours to cook but needs to be gobbled down in five minutes. They down the shutters after filling the lunch hall to capacity, so you're in an open enclosure, where you're being watched hungrily by this hungry crowd. It was probably the fastest meal I have ever eaten and if there were ranks, I come in third from bottom. And I pride myself on having adequate banana-leaf assembly-line eating experience. At some point, my sambar and my payasam decided to run into each other. Frankly, where they ran didn't bother me much as long as it was not in the direction of my sari. I was too busy trying to eat at a certain speed.

But then, someone saw me in the act. In an hour, everyone knew I was the greenhorn who had mixed her sambar and payasam (and tried to eat it; oh, the irreverence, the cheek!). By now, I am sure mothers in Kerala are telling their children a story - once there was an ogress in a sari who mixed her sambar and payasam. And the child cowers in fear. In playgrounds, girls are staring wide-eyed at self-defence manuals titled 'How to face the sambar-payasam mixing pisachi'. And maybe there is also an MMS circulating where the sambar and payasam flirt with each, mix, and I am shown eating this unholy blend with obvious relish. So yes, I am famous.

And I am an aunty. Maybe I should add that to my CV so that people know I'm old enough.

___________________________________________________

Note on title:

At some point during my MA, I began to appreciate the immense potential of the word 'discursive'. When one spends the whole day in discursive activity, it is good to be very honest and write a term paper called 'Discursive reflections on _________ (insert choice of topic).

Of course, professors are also discursive with grades.

Auto-rant-tyrants

2011-09-05T00:14:00.001+05:30

If you saw an evil-looking woman flailing her limbs about and yelling like she was possessed outside the Egmore museum, hey, we've met. After all, I was in Chennai, the city of the brotherhood of nasty auto mafiosi where they will charge you money even to run over you with their noisy instruments of torture. In a city where the auto fares are calculated in Adi tala, (read eight times the actual price of the ride), it is hard to stomach the temerity of an auto driver who takes you to the museum when you ask to be taken to Music Academy. That broke my heart. I almost offered to teach him to count the swaras even though he charged me money for taking me to the wrong destination.

So the reality of Chennai autos didn't strike me all week, because a more patient colleague did the bargaining, gently reasoning with overambitious villains. Come Friday, she left, and I was thrown to the wolves. One day, and the delicate threads that tethered sanity to my being were blasted apart.

One thing I fail to understand is their complete disregard for all knowledge that is geographical. Or their failure to understand that localities are continuous, ongoing units, processes almost, and that you will not choose to alight at the first house in Thousand Lights when you are, in fact, looking for the thousandth light.

And that irritating habit of saying thirty rupees/ fifty rupees/ _______ (replace with random atrocious figure) when your destination is a few yards away. That is just mean. You know, the next time you go to your friendly neighbourhood ______ stall, I hope he charges you thirty rupees extra for your _______. Will keep the wheels of economy well-oiled. So mean, that even those Kurla station auto drivers look like saints; I should compose something in their praise. Even Bombay has traffic, okay?

Was Mahisasura an auto driver in Chennai in some birth?

That blotch on my face

2011-07-10T17:18:00.002+05:30

It started in February, as a persistent patch of dry skin around my eyes, when I was in Bangalore. Either the people in Bangalore are polite, or it didn't look so gruesome then. Or I usually circulated in badly-lit spaces in Bangalore.

The weather and an irresistible tendency to bother the affected area only made it worse. One day in mid-March, I couldn't dance because I awoke with one eye sealed shut under a swollen eyelid. I even went out with pustules on my face and concerned people offered advice on how I could soothe the affected area with banana peel and lemon rind and cat whiskers and lizard dung. The area around my eyes turned dark and scaly and I spent hours looking at my eyes in the mirror and coming to terms with my geriatric face.

My sister kept saying it looked like someone had given me a black eye. In desperation, I even dabbed concealer on the marks on a few occasions. Then I promptly felt miserable and washed it off.

I even resorted to blaming it on fate and destiny, reminding myself that I had to deal with SOMETHING since I've never ever dealt with a pimple outbreak, even when all my classmates were busy adding to the coffers of acne cream manufacturers.

Before you tell me how dog hair works best in such cases, I did visit a doctor who prescribed a course of smelly ointments which I faithfully slathered on my face. After a while, the scarring was minimal and I could look at myself in the mirror without making it implode. But, public memory is never short. Especially in the cosmetic recollections department. My melanin had moved on, but people hadn't. There were one or two people who found themselves moved to tears whenever they cast their eyes on my pitiable visage. They considered it their solemn duty to stare at my face and say, "Oh, what happened to you? Those marks are still there. Are you doing anything about it? Do you want to go to the doctor who treats my cows?" No, I don't.

Then there were the suspicious ones. Some thought it was malnutrition. Another woman looked at me with relish, expecting confidential revelations of domestic abuse. That day, I was already dazed, so before I knew it, my mouth was saying, "Yes, I got injured." I said that partly because I didn't want to launch into the history of my condition. She smiled knowingly. I wanted to give her a black eye.

Blotch is better, but is still around. Love me, love my blotch. But don't give me advice. Otherwise I will put hydrocortisone in your coffee.

End of story

2011-06-19T00:41:00.000+05:30

It was a happy, bright day. I was on my way to work. I asked the autorickshaw driver to take a certain route. He started talking to me. I have become less diffident and I now reply to people who strike up conversations with me.

Transcribed and translated. With the right number of ellipses. All with three dots. No more, no less. Ration card.

Auto uncle: Where are you from?
R: Bombay only.
Auto uncle: Who all in your family...brrrr...tell history of chacha nana papa phuphi.
R: Sankshep shady history.
Auto uncle: Shaadi nahi hui?
R: Erm, now where to start?
Auto uncle: Tell no? You are working, but you are not married?
R: What's in a marriage?
Auto uncle: Arre, but it is your age for shaadi. You must be twenty-five or thirty at least?

Wrong foot.
Redface.
R: Next left.

Stony silence.

End of story.

Ask a girl her age. Accuracy matters.

Dancing to nowhere: Young, beautiful and broke

2011-06-04T22:37:00.001+05:30

Only reposting this here because people empathise with the issue. It originally appeared in the Asian Age on June 2.

Dancing to nowhere: Young, beautiful and broke

RANJANA DAVE

Some young classical dancers might be forgiven for thinking that an arangetram or debut marks the end of their dance careers. An arangetram only heralds the start of a long, and sometimes, futile struggle to be known.

People often talk of dance as spiritual, and argue that dancers must treat their art as “sacred” and not trivialise it by bringing money into the equation. If, one sunny morning, they are told that they must work without expecting returns, for the spiritual good of society, can they be expected to respond with similar equanimity?

The informal yet omnipotent nature of most Indian dance training often means that budding dancers could be left in the lurch, sometimes without dance music. Recording your own music, once the norm, is now a luxury afforded only to the rich.

Dance writer Shyamhari Chakra, who has watched dancers struggle to survive, let alone make a name for themselves, insists that classical dance performances must have a price tag. He asserts, “You might charge a pittance, but it doesn’t matter because ticket sales will only amount to a small portion of the revenue. It is high time we inculcated the habit of paying to watch dance. Why should it be free?”

An upcoming classical dancer can apply to a list of unpaid festivals, where more generous organisers might sponsor sleeper-class train fare or local hospitality. Some of these festivals, like the Sur Singar Samsad’s enduring Kal-ke-Kalakar Festival in Mumbai, award titles to selected participants. Titles matter, but they don’t get you anywhere. Some dancers might apply for senior government scholarships. Often, even a chance at these opportunities requires a recommendation from a teacher. Some unpaid festivals have the gall to demand live performances by solo artists who can barely afford their own train fare. Thus it often transpires that the dancer might keep nothing for herself while she distributes the meagre amount earned between her musicians, sometimes dipping into her own pocket to cover the deficit.

Except for a lucky few, this scenario is almost always true, gritty and fatalistic. Why then do youngsters still gravitate to dance?

Ramya Nair, a Bangalore-based Bharatanatyam and contemporary dancer based in Bangalore, recently formed a dance collective with a few young dancer friends. Dance is her only source of income and she is well-versed with the scarcity of paid opportunities for young, and worse still, unknown dancers. She says, “It is difficult for young dancers to move ahead without knowing people. Even if you apply to festivals, showing them what you have done without any support, people just don’t respond to you. Take me — I am a dancer from Kerala with no background. Why does it always have to be about money? Doing an arangetram is like announcing to the world that you are ready to perform, but you need to have money to do it. I dance because I love it, but it has also increasingly become a ‘job’. At the end of the day, I have to accept performances that I wouldn’t want to take up because dance has become my livelihood.”

Nair finds that this is indeed a very vicious circle. “I need to dance to run my house. I need to pay for dance classes and costumes. So I have to dance in order to be able to dance more. It is wearying, but there’s no other option,” she shrugs.

Nowadays, the parents of some young dancers are choosing a different approach to visibility and mass acclaim. A search for teenaged Bharatanatyam dancer Harinie Jeevitha’s videos on YouTube throws up results with hits in seven figures, a number worthy of any teen pop sensation gone viral. Her teacher in Chennai, Sheela Unnikrishnan, has a host of equally popular students who are the darlings of e-connoisseurs. They fuel what seems to be an avid trade in dance DVDs which can be purchased online. Barely into their teens, most of these dancers are agile and talented.

Yet, for every Harinie Jeevitha, there are fifty unsung dancers strutting their stuff in vain to unresponsive internet audiences. Sometimes, ‘likes’ or favourable comments come their way, but internet acclaim is far from translating into performance opportunities.

Ruchika Sharma, a Kathak dancer who teaches history at Delhi University, has often toyed with the idea of making dance her career. “As a young and unestablished dancer, getting the right kind of exposure is difficult enough. For me, dance has always taken a backseat because of the institutionalisation of the art form; it is hard to experiment and get recognition as an individual performer. The whole idea of dancing for the love of dance remains a dream when you hit the reality of being a ‘nouveau’ performer and satisfy yourself by sporadic performances that come your way. Often, very practical considerations like the lack of rehearsal space, no monetary assistance, problems of acceptance and no knowledge of the right ways to go about organising a performance are magnified when you even begin to think of taking to dance full-time. When I am on stage, I wonder why I don’t do this forever; it’s when I step off stage that the reasons become clearer,” she says.

Chakra is among a group of friends who organise the Naveen Kalakar Festival for young dancers in Bhubaneswar. Meritorious dancers leave with the title “Nritya Jyoti”. He says, “As members of more established dance troupes, dancers end up becoming numbers. They are not projected as solo artists, even though solo dancing is the soul of classical dance. The same set of senior dancers visits all the important festivals. No one is recommending younger dancers; even your own students don’t matter. What surprised me was that many established young dancers were applying to our competition. I tried to dissuade them but gradually realised that they wanted to participate because we were awarding a title. Honestly, such titles hold little meaning, but they matter to dancers.”

Making the shift to paid gigs, where the dancer can aspire to put something into the bank, even if it is only a pittance, takes long. Compounding this situation is the fact that dance performance and education often go hand-in-hand. Group performances are the bulwark of many upcoming dancers’ stage time. Continuing as troupe members requires active participation in company classes and workshops, which must often be paid for. They must pay for costumes that last a few performances and expensive jewellery. To foot the bills, they teach, take on undesirable shows — sometimes doing everything short of promenading in costume along the waterways of Venice.

S(t)inging stars

2011-03-06T00:57:00.000+05:30

In my ancient past, I had once written a piece that classified concert hall audiences. Back then, I was yet to be introduced to the sixth category - the real star of the evening who never became Shivkumar Sharma or Girija Devi but makes sure his/ her voice reaches everyone who might want to listen to Shivkumar Sharma or Girija Devi. While the bathroom singers of the world unite and torment inanimate buckets and other echo-inducing objects that are unfortunate enough to be of use in bathrooms, they know the limits of their tyranny. The real things, however, aim for the big league. The concert hall is their bucket and the poor musician on stage is that fleeting choking sound which sends fallen hair and phlegm down the drain.

What induces this painfully sarcastic missive is my experience at the NCPA yesterday. As Shivkumar Sharma warmed up to his opening piece, I heard screechy noises emerging from somewhere very very close. I first suspected that the perfectly sane-looking woman seated beside me was prone to forms of alternative, erm, expulsion, given her prodigous appetite for roasted gram during the performance. Then I realised that the direction the sound came from was not so alternative. Then I realised; hey presto she was singing!

She took it upon herself to hum in ways that would shame a bee and have it excommunicated too. While Shivkumar Sharma explored one raga on stage, she was on her own trip, humming out of tune and out of tala like a bad harmonium player till I wanted to do a Captain Planet and hurl her into the orchestra pit (alas! there was none).

During the interval, there was more than one person cursing their spatial proximity to our audience-vote star. I didn't make rude faces at her because I thought she would desist from humouring me with her virtuosity during the ensuing Kathak performance. Well, she wasn't one to give up easily. She went on determinedly, like a Walkman on low battery which goes tannnnnnnnnnn-screech-taannnnnnn till some aggrieved soul next to her asked her to shut up because they were getting disturbed. In nicer terms.

At which point she looked at them, perfectly bewildered, and exclaimed, "But the music is so beautiful!"

Hyderabadi notions of distance and other things

2010-12-30T19:39:00.001+05:30

Note to A: Leave Baudrillard at home only. Also his playmates.

Myth: Bas us gali mein hain (said without accompanying bhava or gesticulation)

Reality: There are many galis. Especially in the Old City, where it is possible to simultaneously insert two fingers of the same hand into two galis.

Myth: Oh, Punjagutta/ Hitech City/ Nampally is five minutes away.

Reality: Oh, I'm talking about helicopter travel. Otherwise it's 24, 4782949 light years away, if you get the MMTS train on time...

Myth: The MMTS train is just outside the station.

Reality: The MMTS train will come to the station in ten minutes.

Myth: Hussain 'sagar'.

Reality: Speedboat covers Sagar in a minute.

Myth: Bas baju mein hain.

Reality: 'Baju' paanch km lamba hain.

Myth: Bas chauraste pe milti.

Reality: A chaurasta, ideally, is a junction where four roads meet. Not an assemblage of four streets in different directions that you will pass on your way to the imagined chaurasta.

Myth: Famous Icecream kahan hain?

Reality: Scopes icecream khaon. Bahut Famous hain.

And my favourite one of the day.

Famous Icecream kahan hain?

Yahan fridge mein hain.

My article in The Hindu

2010-12-11T13:54:00.001+05:30

Untold stories

RANJANA DAVE

Dastangoi performers Mahmood Farooqui and Danish Husain on the art they are trying to popularise.

Stepping off an empty Bandra by-lane into a chaotic world of flying sorcerers and audacious thieves requires, at the very least, a surreal shift in perception. And that is one illusion of many, a tilism, as a Dastangoi performer would put it. Over four days, ace dastangos Mahmood Farooqui and Danish Husain, with their brood of storytellers-in-training, presented tales from the Tilism-e-Hoshruba and other texts at the National Centre for Performing Arts, Mumbai, as part of the first-ever Dastangoi festival.

The dastangos, dressed in white, kept the audience riveted as their voices soared above the persistent sea wind, bringing to life remorseless tricksters who behead everything in sight and spunky empresses who command an army of sorcerers.

Excerpts from a conversation with Farooqui and Husain, who have trained other people in the art for the past year.

How did the festival come about?

Mahmood: I have been working with people in Mumbai and Delhi for a year. Part of the idea behind the festival was to showcase all these new tellers. Also, all the stories have different flavours — we were able to present more stories than we ordinarily perform in a single show.

To read more, go to The Hindu - Arts - Theatre - Untold Stories !

Eleven memories of JNU

2010-12-01T03:05:00.002+05:30

On nostalgia trip, suddenly!

1. Staring at a nilgai and being stared at. Wondering if nilgai gore people to death. Tempting fate.

2. Eating rasmalai ka ras with my fingers.

3. Being called 'gudiya'.

4. Singing 'dhagala laagli kala' while standing on the armrest of a bench on the ring road. Later explaining the meaning to a certain bemused spectator.

5. Lying down at KC OAT and staring at the stars. And crying.They were so beautiful.

6. Eating upma and curd with M. Eating curd, yeah! And becoming the local advertisement for Priya Pickle.

7. Stopping to let a peacock cross the road.

8. Bicycling across campus. Cycling down the PSR stretch at high speed. Bike rides too.

9. Watching 6 am bidaais in Saraswatipuram.

10. Dancing in a Tapti room and being asked by concerned downstairs nerd if all was well. When assured that all was indeed well, she told me she thought it was a ghost.

11. Fighting over fans, bonding over fans, switching off fans, switching on fans, indulging in sneak fan speed wars. Fans!

One afternoon in Chandni Chowk

2010-11-17T01:16:00.000+05:30

Auto Motive

2010-10-22T10:20:00.001+05:30

Today, I left home, running late again, thanks to my mother’s penchant for cooking me well-balanced insipid meals. I mean, she is a nice cook otherwise, but mornings get to her and she can never finish cooking insipid rice + insipid sambar + insipid vegetable + insipid breakfast. And telling her to leave one insipid component out doesn’t help. That my father’s favourite morning exercise is galloping from one end of the house to another whistling and making other funny sounds doesn’t help either. But then, he seems to find great solace in the act of running around the house. It makes him look busy. Hence – despite the presence of a washing machine, clothes must be subjected to third degree torture – no palpable difference in the whiteness of our whites; the bathroom, however, is a mess. To add insult to injury, after third degree torture, they are transported in ones and twos by father dearest, who cradles them like babies on his trip to the washing machine (babies who drip pee/water all over the house giving my mother good reason to go slip in them and then claim that the act of almost-slipping has permanently damaged her coccyx). But my SAB TV sitcom-material family is not the main focus of this post.

Going back to line one, as I stepped out, dreading the running behind buses that are not kind enough to stop and autos who don’t seem to want to go anywhere at all, including jahannum. I know about the last because I always ask autowallahs if they want to go there and they usually say no if they haven’t driven off yet. I don’t know; people were kinder when I was younger; buses generally stopped if you found your centre (and the centre of the bus) and ran towards the bus waving your arms. They were nice uncles. And I have always had long arms. How I digress. Today, the first auto I found agreed to take me where I wanted to go, an entirely undesirable place. I was overwhelmed with warm feelings of affection and had to resist the urge to hug him and give him a big puppy.

But that doesn’t take away from the angry young woman I usually am. All the peace karma I earned doing yoga in Bihar evaporates when I need to take an auto. My beautiful green umbrella broke a rib when I banged it on an auto windscreen on a particularly rainy day when I needed to get something really urgent done which required me to be anything other than soaking wet which I was. Sadly, nothing happened to the auto windscreen. On another taxing morning, an errant auto driver whose vehicle was commandeered by force when he refused polite means grumpily muttered something about how he would push me out of the auto if I were a man. I almost challenged him to a midnight duel in black clothing and masks but decided it was safer to unleash another round of kutte-kameeney verse instead.

Because that rascala might have the gall to ask for midnight fare to come duel with me.

When you stare, beware

2010-10-19T21:47:00.002+05:30

Men who stare need some appreciation for their unstinting, unblinking efforts. And so, I am there.

Even otherwise, I think men need workshops on doing simple things in public spaces. I don't know why men in shared rickshaws need to wait for me to stamp pointedly and ruin their polished-to-perfection shoes before they realise that spreading their stubby thighs and airing their central nether regions are not conducive to travel in communal vehicles. Especially not if the person beside you is about to fall out of the rickshaw while you dry your privates. But I rise to the occasion gallantly, stamping and nudging them into joint-legged submission. Sometimes I really regret the fact that I cannot walk in stilettos. Such potent devices for leg torture. Sigh!

Shouting at the unblinking ones won't help, because they are masters of abhinaya and would give butter-stealing Krishna a run for his butter when it comes to looking blank and guileless. Returning the stare, however, is more effective. I refer to my bus ride back home today. I was sitting right at the back, and here I digress, for I am happy to note that the new low-floor BEST buses have better shock absorbers. As we turned off SV Road, I noticed a man, around forty-five years of age, who seemed greatly intrigued by my neckline. Which was not plunging, as I immediately looked down to confirm. I looked out of the window, watching Bhardawadi go by. In the meantime, he continued staring; the polished bus windowpanes let me stare back, you see. My heart had melted considerably - also because I was listening to Yahi madhava on repeat and feeling bad about Radha and Krishna's doomed romance. So I decided I must bestow complete attention on my devoted starer. From Navrang, he became the recipient of my unstinting, unblinking stare.

Years of being stared at have taught me a thing or two about this subtle art. There is only one rule - don't shift vanishing points too often. I am a good student; by the time we reached Indian Oil, the subject was trying to hide his face in the crook of his arm. Very unsuccessfully. I was angry now, because my subject had not risen to the challenge. When Ranjana gets angry, she gets very angry. She choreographs revenge, frame by frame.

White trousers have gone out of fashion, and I think that is so sad. He was wearing grey trousers, but I decided I'd give him a kick or two. Anyway there is no kalari class in Bombay. My skills will go rusty. I did consider aiming high, for his white shirt, but the bus was full and I didn't want to injure innocents.

As luck would have it, he moved to the door, intending to alight at my stop. I gleefully got up and bolted towards the exit, momentarily startling another passenger when I overtook him in my rush to the door. But I was a woman on a mission. Staring at his impudent back, wondering how best to kick him as we got off the bus, feelings of gory revenge coursed through my body. I wanted to do something that would count for more than a few grains of dust on his grey pants. And then I remembered my kajal pencil.

It is lovely, oily kajal, full of camphor. (Try it, it's really nice and available at Khadi Gramodyog outlets.) First I thought I'd give him an autograph on his shirt (how lucky!) in red ink; but then, bigger is always better and my kajal pencil needed sharpening anyway. His shirt was so beautiful and white.

Like good dreams, the details of which must be ritually blurred into a single hazy happiness, what I did between Indian Oil and Four Bungalows was a smorgasbord of delightful things. I slyly scrubbed my kajal pencil over his shirt. I elbowed him hard when I got off the bus, even as I dragged my foot over his pants. And I propelled myself off the bus by aiming a backward kick at him. He looked positively shattered by the time he got off. I was happy about that.

Later, I felt bad, quite bad, because I realised that the shirt I so happily stained will end up in the corner of the bathroom, perhaps waiting to be washed by a woman. Mostly.

But then, I am evil and scheming, so that has led to the idea that lipstick might be more effective next time.

Write a letter today

2010-09-25T00:37:00.000+05:30

Today, I came back from a long day, and saw a yellow package lying on a table. Then I saw my name on it. M has mailed me a letter. But this looked too big for a letter. It was a book from a completely unexpected correspondent; I remember she said she wanted to send me something, but I forgot all about it!

Since my last postal correspondent and I are no longer on the same bandwidth, I have not received a single letter for over two years now. Though, if they opened the letters addressed to me in Bihar, assuming they've now reached, they'd be reading scandalous accounts of people's lives and equally scurrilous enquiries about mine.

Seeing an envelope with my name on it (in the 'to' section) has filled me with such insurmountable joy that I have decided to embark on a letter-writing project. There's so much more texture and flavour to letters. And letters let you say what tweets or Facebook statuses don't. And because letters are 'there' and not to be scrolled away from, they're so much more meaningful.

Write to me and I will write back to you. Or send me your address and I'll write to you first. Our letters need not be long. Or poetic. Or full of news. Our letters will just tell me you're there.

Smell of ink

2010-09-24T09:42:00.004+05:30

Though this is not the first time, my name in print always thrills me! Check out my interview of Surupa Sen and Bijayini Satpathy of Nrityagram in today's Friday Review Delhi in The Hindu.

Meanwhile, Alarmel Valli and Madhavi Mudgal had lovely costumes yesterday, when they performed together. Worli Seaface looked beautiful with boats floating aimlessly in the water. And I almost had a cholesterol-induced heart attack after sharing a plate of Sardar Pav Bhaji with Reuben.

I can still feel the oil slick in my stomach.

Ganesha the DJ

2010-09-22T23:28:00.001+05:30

This post is dedicated to my unfulfilled vipralambha urge for sleep. My morning dozing, afternoon sleep and the prospect of a good night's sleep have been interrupted by real and imagined drums.

And I think fake tutaris should be restricted to birthday parties in private, soundproof quarters.

Ganesha is really, really worried. Some of the things that happened to him today are:

Random vibrating drums - Ganesha does not want to be accused of causing an earthquake. Drops of dhinchik dhinchik are setting off the seismic plate under the ocean.

Himesh Reshammiya - I really see how 'aashiq banaya' is apt, but Himesh?!

What I thought was 'Jai Bhavani' - Ganesha is very secular, but like all famous people, he is also very narcissistic. He appreciates the respect you show his mother and aunts, but how would you feel if someone sang 'happy birthday' to your mother on your birthday? Which is why he was beginning to resent the overemphasis on the family tree.

Then, as it turned out, my worries about Ganesha's injured self-esteem were unfounded. My sister pointed out I had much ground to cover when it came to interpreting aural signals. The song in question, she explained, was 'Hai Jawaani'. So Ganesha is happy again, because they are telling him how he is in that subliminally perennial state of youth. I can see him shaking his trunk and a leg (when he is not sitting) and snorting 'hai jawaani, hai jawaani'.

Nadaswaram - Why are you ending Ganesha's innings as the flippant, naughty little creature who beats up his father because the latter tried to interrupt the mother's bath? A staunch mama's boy, Ganesha must always be single and ready to mingle.

Fake tutaris - Because they sound like elephants, interrupted. Asthmatic elephants. Ghastly choking-writhing-spluttering elephants. Ganesha does not subscribe to the misrepresentation of his ilk. Any publicity is not good publicity.

For next year, Ganesha says he will bring his own music.

In which Ganesha goes to the gym

2010-09-18T00:08:00.000+05:30

So I hear that all the fairness cream defying Ganeshas are going to be disallowed next year. I shall have one less reason to hyperventilate about nirmalya lying on the beaches. And I will shed no tears on reading Ambai's description of a powerless monolith that floats aimlessly on the Versova coast and tears fishing nets to shreds. Also, Ganesha won't have to do Fair and Lovely Ads. Or even Fair and Handsome. He doesn't support stereotyping. But he is indignant. And petulant. First they put Sugar Free in his modaks, now they won't let him paint his face and then they say he should be made of clay so that he can dissolve easily. What is this dissolving-bissolving, he asks? Are they trying to tell him that he is obese and he should go to the gym because if he doesn't go to the gym he cannot paint his face and look hot? Ganesha is really worried.

Today, for the first time in my adult life, I saw an empty road, the usual kilometre of traffic strangely absent, at the masochistic traffic lights near JVPD. I am also masochistic and go there sometimes, hence I almost felt bereft, like I was being denied my lawful right. But then, I saw many strange things today. On SV Road, I saw a group of people dancing around a cart that carried the band. No horse. Check. No bridegroom. Check. No Ganesha. Check.

Why is it a rule rather than an exception - bring small truck, plonk Ganesha in it and fill with people until truck bursts at seams? You are not visarjan-worthy if the truck exterior has even a single inch of unoccupied protruding metal.

Today, I heard a lustily sung aarti in the cracked voice of an old Maharashtrian matron. It sounded so nice. It reminded me of Chavande Kaka, who was the daytime watchman and who sang the aarti every year. I always tried to drown his voice out because he didn't sing it the way Lata Mangeshkar did. And we kids hated him for not letting us play on the building's water tank. Now, I am tired of shrill-voiced Lata impersonators who are ably supported by bad accompaniment; the rule is, the higher the better. Much like Hafeez Contractor.

No, mungda, mungda, main gud ki kali... is not a Ganesha aarti. Gauri would fly down from the heavens to curse you if the airfares were not so high. However, I really like the remixed Ghalin Lotangan with DJ type beats on those flat tawa-like things in drum sets. Wonder how they'd remix Pasayadan.

Extended status message

2010-09-06T23:30:00.000+05:30

Tomorrow, Reuben and I are going to Giri Trading because our per capita income has increased, just so slightly, since the last time we went. Then, we could only look at the rows of Kalanidhi Narayanan DVDs and Aruna Sayeeram and MS and Brinda-Mukta and drool and drool some more. Meanwhile, we are also celebrating the discovery of his ancestry. He is of warrior stock. Mindit, he will banish you to Kavaratti faster than you can say Easaw Panicker if you don't give him respect.

Today I was reading about the haleem at Mohammad Ali Road and I suddenly recalled reading something about haleem getting GI status, which means it is geographically exclusive to Hyderabad and haleem made outside Hyderabad cannot be called Hyderabadi haleem. Theoretically, a vegetarian haleem is possible, I thought, though I'm not thinking of paneer...yuck! I'm just thinking of the haleem without the meat.

Radha on pot

2010-09-02T12:21:00.003+05:30

I have never broken pots in my life, but this year, I am finally open to breaking a leg. Anyway, my on-the-ground stability, or the lack of it, doesn’t count for much. I have been dwelling on the pot. Or the pots, since Bombay is a city of pluralisms. Today, my ears were assailed by five different types of Govinda music within the hour and for all the peeking out while trying not to fall out the third floor window of low-ventilation high AC fancy business centre where I work, I couldn’t see a handi.

Since that moment of suspension close to the slats of a window, I have been wondering what my handi CV looks like. I have never broken a pot. Yes, I once experimentally broke a kulhar, but I felt quite bad about it later. One needs to be emotionally detached from the pot. I didn’t even eat dahi until recently, so I was always quite disgusted when the person at the top breaks the handi to have the dahi go all over. Sure, my hair might benefit from the conditioning. Now I eat curd, so that problem is solved. My question is, can I have mishti doi instead? (Krishna could be fussy, why can’t I?)

Questions for employers

I have banged many pots, does that count? I have broken many mugs and priceless utensils. I even hold the proud distinction of having broken a sealed thermos full of hot water without spilling a shard of glass. Now, that is downright impressive.

What about insurance schemes and provident fund benefits? What if the pyramid under me collapses and I am left swaying from the rope? What will I do if the curd goes sour? Die of hunger? And worse still, die a bitter woman? Will a golden parachute erupt from the handi and float me down to safety and perfect curds? What is the perfect fist needed to break the handi? Are the pots glued together with Fevicol? Will they respond to soft caresses or do I need to jam my fist in? Thumb in or thumb out?

Can I pick my own songs please? Most DJs have terrible taste in music.

PS: In response to Ipsitaa, I can scream (and how, ask my parents for recos), randomly also, can dance anywhere (no I'm not telling you where I normally dance), and I love water. Red water is even more turning on. So HR peeps, when do you come calling?

Tax-I

2010-08-29T02:16:00.000+05:30

Erm, I’m vegetarian.

When the train pulled into Howrah station, shortly after it was scheduled to reach, I sat motionless on my seat, not sure if I was in Calcutta yet. I asked a porter, who looked at me like I was his country cousin, and sniggered to reiterate his impression. And then I spotted the local trains.

It took me a while to locate the exit to the station. I found a knot of cabbies who immediately surrounded me and quoted stupendous prices. When I finally settled on an offer that made me feel less fleeced, I started unloading my luggage. We were in the taxi lane and a Sardarji cabbie was driving past us. He exchanged pleasantries with the taxi driver and then remarked to me, “Beta, Chennai Mail aa gaya kya?”

It took us twenty minutes to cross the stretch in front of the station. I was not sure if the driver had heard where exactly I had to go. So after we had covered a safe distance, I told him again. It would have been too easy if he knew exactly where I wanted to go, so he didn’t. And my friend Srin is not very, erm, goal-oriented. She bunny hops from goal to goal, you see. And my phone wasn’t even working, so each new twist by the cabbie meant I had to check back with Srin and then confidently answer his questions. After a while…

Cabbie: Where in Lake Gardens do you want to go?

Me: AK Ghosh School. AK Ghosh Bidyalaya.

(Is it even called bidyalaya in Bangla? I should have known when I once got a prize in a Rabindra Sangeet competition for my courage, for attempting to sing in Bangla. Face it, dear Ranjana, you are Chennai Mail material.)

Cabbie: Where is this school? I don’t know.

(Cabbie has also smoked his last Charms cigarette and is getting increasingly restive)

Should I take the flyover?

Me: If it’s on the way there…

(Srin has messaged saying I can also use Dhakuria bridge)

Or we could take Dhakuria bridge.

Cabbie: (getting gruffer) Now it’s too late! How can you ask for this now? Why didn’t you tell me before? Then you will complain I took a longer route! ^?&*(**((%#$

Me: Just get to Lake Gardens, please! Whichever way you like.

(This fast resembles a lovers’ quarrel. We soon reach the lake that gives Lake Gardens its name. Cabbie stops with an air of finality. Turns back deliberately and informs me…)

Cabbie: This is the lake. (Implied speech: this is the lake, get off my back and go drown in it.) You said you wanted to go to Lake Gardens. This is the lake. This is Lake Gardens.

Me: (Gulp) Yes, that’s great. Now can we please go?

Cabbie: I don’t know where that darned school is. Find out yourself!

(I find out.)

That is past the flyover. This is too far. You didn’t tell me you had to go so far.

(One would think I’d asked him to drive me to Dhaka.)

Me: (in my best primary schoolteacher voice, as he drives, muttering angrily under his breath) Now this is the flyover, you go over the flyover and then we will be in Lake Gardens.

(Meanwhile, I am frantically messaging Srin for directions, which do not meanlandmarks. Not Lords Bakery, but right-left-right-median-fork-blah-Lords Bakery! By this time, we have left the safe space of the flyover and are again at the left-right-left crossroads. Having stopped again for directions, we are hurtling through Lake Gardens, a spluttering cab with an angry cabbie and a primary schoolteacher, my rucksack bouncing in the back. Note, we are now in Lake Gardens. I can see the signboards by the houses, which say, say, 234/4224, Lake Gardens. I hope the numbers are in some order, so that I reach 188/64 soon. But, alas, the next one is a 929!)

Cabbie: This is not Lake Gardens! This is not Lake Gardens. You fleeced me! You cheated me! (Wow! Such original indignation!)

Me: (having lost all pretence of the loving student-teacher relationship, I have now joined the decibel-busting competition with gusto, determined to lay down my life before I lose) Don’t you see the SIGNBOARDS that all say Lake Gardens? You think I’m a blasted fool who’s never been to Calcutta, which is why you’re taking me for a ride? (I’ve never been to Cal, so what? Now I have.) You operate from the railway station and you don’t even know your way around the city? What did they teach you?!

Cabbie: (yelling/ bawling) This is not Lake Gardens! This is not Calcutta! You fooled me! You fooled me!

Over the next few minutes, having woken up all the sleepy morning walkers in Lake Gardens with our early morning not-so-loving exchange, we gradually reach the school in question, where cabbie stops his car, insisting that the right turn I ask him to make takes us into Dhakuria; now we are properly leaving Lake Gardens. Another shouting match ensues, and my visit to Lake Gardens/ Dhakuria will be remembered by many early morning stragglers. Thankfully, the one place Srin did give me right-left instructions for, I didn’t go wrong and was safely deposited at her creeper-laden red house.

As a parting shot, cabbie dearest hefted my rucksack out of his boot and dumped it on the road. The dumping part, however, was not so successful, because the weight of my rucksack hampered the freefalling nature of his emotions.

The curious traveller's guide to circumnavigating the Earth. Or the North Pole. Or living at the North Pole.

2010-08-29T02:15:00.000+05:30

What we do when we have better things to do.

Tips and questions:

1. Do you like the cold? Be rest assured, the North Pole is warmer than the South Pole.

2. Does your pee freeze at the North Pole?

3. Will the dal freeze? If yes, then you have a problem. If no, what will you cook it on?

4. Do you know how to make dal? If not, you have to make do with fish and seaweed.

5. If you starve from the lack of dal, Reuben will eat you alive. He has seen Sazayein Kaala Pani and knows where to get good advice.

6. I don't like seaweed.

7. Antarctica is in the south, but it is still cold.

8. If you flattened out the globe from the top, the North Pole would be at the centre and so would the South Pole. Then you could play hopscotch between islands and travel from Russia to Canada.

9. Reuben says we might find a Mc Donalds somewhere. However, he is unsure.

10. We could volunteer as elves at Santa's workshop, he says. Do they have self-heating toilet seats,asks a niggling worm at the back of his mind? Reuben, elves are small, you're too tall.

11. He'll pull Santa's reindeer. And won't carry his own bag.

12. What after we leave Santa?

13. Maybe they'll have a beauty pageant, to crown the Ice Princess. You win ice.

14. I can drill a hole in the ice and make use of my experience in hydroponics.

15. Will Reuben fall into a hole I drill? I will be chief hunter-gatherer. That way, Reuben says, when they excavate or thaw our frozen bodies, they will see how women were the providers of sustenance. Note the doubt in his voice, he thinks I'll be such a bad provider and then we will die of starvation.

16. And when I fall into a hole, he will dial 100 and get the Mumbai Police.

17. But does MTNL have towers at the North Pole?

18. Now that Reuben has eaten seaweed and slept in his igloo, he thinks we should hire a diamond cutter from Surat or Antwerp and cut the glaciers into diamonds - show them the maal in situ, as he puts it. Clearly, he is not one for ecological sustainability. He is so lazy, he won't venture south to sell his fake diamonds. The clients have to come to him.

19. He thinks I lack suspension of disbelief.

20. We will have our own mineral water business. Because glacier water is better than Evian. And if we drink up all the 'glacier ka paani', then we don't have to worry about melting glaciers that will drown us. Makes astute business sense. He never knew he had entrepreneurial qualities. But then, living at the North Pole brings out the best in us, doesn't it?

21. We will have a different address each year.

22. Reuben has heard that reindeer grow algae on their hide in the summer. Now he will go for anything green.

23. The North Pole is nice; however, tomorrow, I will go for a walk.

24. I will have clairvoyant connections with the Aurora Borealis. Reuben thinks he could die after having seen that. And he gives me permission to eat him after he has seen AB.

25. He says we should take lovers also. I say he will eat them all after the long winter.

26. Reuben is a praying mantis.

27. PETA, where are you? Reuben wants to shave the reindeer and use some wet felting process to realise and release the fashionista in him. Well, what does one wear at the North Pole? Surely not woollens from Sarojini?

28. Reuben will wear felt.

29. And for once, we'll have a real Christmas tree! But Reuben will cut that up later, to use as fuel.

30. And he will let me teach him Odissi, in our spare time. We will have an ice skating rink too and then we will hybridise the two.

31. Maybe they'll make a film out of our past lives.

32. We will promote tourism. Paradise. Human Population: 2. Have we already eaten the lovers? My, we're sinking to new lows with each step. They'll overthrow our regime before we get there.

33. And supposing we're still alive, we'll write you more notes. No, don't say don't bother.

Leela Samson at NCPA

2010-08-28T22:23:00.000+05:30

Watched a lovely Leela Samson performance at NCPA yesterday. I seem to recall that Experimental Theatre did not have a raised stage the last time I was there. It is simply horrid. The floor was better. I remember that lovely Sutra stalactite-stalagmite set filling up the space.

The post-performance discussion was annoying and hilarious. I wish people could understand that post-performance discussions are meant to be critical ones and are not job fairs or marriage meets; you do not ask Leela Samson for her contact details five times in a row and waste valuable question time! Go backstage and hound her for all I care! To Samson's credit, she fielded questions beautifully.

More on the post-performance discussion soon.

Too many potatoes

2010-08-21T00:13:00.005+05:30

NB: For all those who recognise the title, whacked from a Bodhi Tree song, I blame my lack of imagination on the bald stupor caused by yet another display of the various ways in which potatoes can be put to use.

Before I moved to Delhi, I knew of the potato. I actually liked it; it was an occasional carbohydrate stuffed delicacy that we ate once a week.

Then I moved to Delhi.

Two months later, home with typhoid and too many boiled potatoes, I went into hysterics when my mother placed before me a dish of little diced potatoes, just the way I liked them.

Then I came back to mess food and between snake gourd and ash gourd, I wanted to do violent things with and to gourds, so I opted to eat the potatoes that were liberally sprinkled over each dish. Oh, and in case one didn't get enough of them, they also made their presence felt at breakfast, at least thrice a week.

Somewhere between all this, winter came, and ensconced in my sweaters, I failed to notice how I was fast becoming a potato. Why, now that I think of it, that sounds a little like one of Roald Dahl's stories come alive. Not too nice an allegory, I'd say, though I quite liked reading Dahl.

After that, the next 18 months passed in a war of potatoes. If you didn't like this potato there was that potato. One learnt that potato was the most transgastronomical vegetable ever. Start your day with alu paranthas or perhaps alu kachoris or chole bhature with alu in the chole thrown in for good measure. I even had sprouts with...potatoes. That little insignificant cur of a tuber suddenly dominated our lives. Except, it has always appalled me that Delhi cannot make decent batata vadas.

Like everything else, too much of the potato is harmful and one is susceptible to withdrawal symptoms no matter how much one hates it. When I went to Kerala, there was no food, and no potato. I still fail to acknowledge the side of me that walked into Big Bazaar one day and picked a ready-to-eat alu mattar off the shelf. I don't know her.

Eventually, I did return to saner climes, and saner food, where the children study their green vegetables well. Erstwhile exotic delicacies like rajma, chole and any remotely alu-using dish have been banned from the table on pain of death by potato-sized temper tantrums.

That time of the year...

2010-03-11T18:48:00.002+05:30

It is again that time of the year when an exam is not just around the corner, it is less than twelve hours away from being in your face.

I am yet to grasp the higher meaning of the words that fly around, though I have grasped the weight of the reader they reside in. It is very heavy.

I have been trying to look for notes of classes I may have been physically present in, and I have found in them much proof of the fact that the mind knows no barriers, page margins or geographical. Last semester, staircases fascinated me, now silhouettes and maps of Marine Drive are commonplace. Also, my skewed, biased, selective memory has again come to the fore – I don’t remember any of the classes I seem to have attended (credit this discovery to another newfound obsession: dating notes), but I remember what I was doing every time I have missed a class, in excruciating detail. It seems I went to Khajuraho, shopped till I dropped at the World Book Fair, slept, slept some more, washed my hair, watched innumerable dance performances, slept still more, when I could have watched my pen fly across paper (autopilot) in class.

But this is not to say that being in class is boring. The creative academic process pushes the boundaries off the edge (and us off the boundaries) and we always excel. Sample the following.

Reflections about and during a boring class

Darken classroom. The steady whir of the projector is conducive to sleep. As are all methods of vocal monoton(e)-ality.

Going to the toilet is a source of much entertainment. You rediscover leaking cisterns, watch with awe as the tank fills up, then beginning to leak, before you flush it all out, your ears relishing the sound of this gurgling mountain stream.

You splash water on your face, washing cold drops trickle down and dampen the rim of your sweater. You place a droplet on your forehead and let it make its way down till it ricochets into the washbasin with a trickle.

Creative urges expended, and temporarily suspended, I return to the dark world.

Bandra Bandstand

2009-12-21T00:34:00.000+05:30

The blue boys' hostel - JNU by twilight

2009-12-18T01:37:00.001+05:30

Weighed down

2009-12-16T02:26:00.008+05:30

Whenever I think I might have just lost a little weight between a heavily buttered-breakfast and the evening samosa, I only have to go back to one of the sari blouses that fit me well as late as January this year (and continue to do so, intermittently). Now don't say I am anorexic or bulimic; one of my teachers spoke about them extensively while teaching a course on dance. One winter night in Delhi, I slept inadequately clothed with the balcony door open, dreamt that I was bulimic and woke up with a raging fever.

Anyway, I came back to Bombay knowing that the many mirrors on walls and cupboards would not be very flattering. As expected, they did not take too kindly to all the chocolate chip biscuits one had unthinkingly downed - it is high time I admit to myself - typing is NOT a calorie-burning activity. Thinking of it, the process of studying would be so much more motivated, if, the more you studied, the more you burned calories.

Since I returned, I exercise for an hour every day. What confounds me though, is how I seem to be one of the bulkiest people in the park! Ah, I should have paid attention when a sales assistant at a denim shop in Lokhandwala patted my bum with a mixture of derision and pity - Bahut bada hain, plus size main dekh lo. I was 16. So there are these tiny people of all genders and sexes who fit into the fancy layers that were invented for tiny people, huffing and puffing away, giving great business to the enterprising man who sells soup out of the back of his van right outside the park.

We've fostered such a culture of comparision - right from the man who looks at me out of the corner of his eye to see whether my push-ups are as good as his to the I-am-Bollywood-meets-Adidas-meets-shampoo ad model who throws disdainful looks at anything fatter than a lamppost.

PS: I still cannot do proper push-ups.

Lovescreen

2009-12-16T00:42:00.001+05:30

Why do I suffer from severe cases of writer's block everytime I try to write something that resembles a love letter?

Some more Varkala and lecherous Malayali men immortalised in stone

2009-11-18T23:49:00.000+05:30

Rangoli this Diwali!

2009-10-22T00:16:00.002+05:30

This pic's slightly shaky but it feels so warm!

Nuggets. Bombay.

2009-10-21T23:14:00.002+05:30

Rambles

I took a local train after really long. I stared at feet and shoes. There were feet looped uncomfortably through numerous brown tentacles. There were feet that had resigned themselves to their shoes. There were feet waiting to spring out of shoes. Toes curled in, feet chafed by their black straps.

I was also trying to reflect on boredom and happiness. I wanted to tap my co-passengers on their shoulders and ask them if they ever got bored, taking the same train to work every day, their lunch in their Hello Kitty bag. Someone was discussing a special occasion and a piece of jewellery. Someone was using the train to catch up on sleep.

Calven Klain

Stopped at a roadside stall selling underwear. Found one that said Calven Klain all over the waistband. Seller insisted it was worth the high price because of the brand. I pointed out that they'd spelt it wrongly. In all seriousness, all Klein aspersions abandoned, he promised to have a word with the suppliers about the spelling. Honest piracy. Market economy.

Dilli

2009-10-05T15:56:00.002+05:30

It's raining again.

That makes Delhi a little more interesting than it was.

And there's dance. So much of it I don't know where to go!

Varkala

2009-06-30T20:12:00.003+05:30

Kathakali on a coconut tree...

I don't see the snow. Or reindeer.

Che wearing pink flowers...

Janardhana Swamy temple tank

FOR SRIGOPAL

2009-06-26T03:14:00.003+05:30

Dear Sri uncle,

In my heart, I always knew you would go away like this. Without preamble.

It was just your style. I sensed it when you refused to wait for a not-so-punctual brother-in-law, when you sent me my first red roses on my 20th birthday. You e-mail footer says, “We are here for a short while, so let’s keep smiling.” Were you smiling when it happened? I cried when I first heard, but now the tears don’t come. You were there when I cried about mean people and hostile places. After all that, I feel strange crying for you.

What drew me to you was your readiness to handle my teenage intensity. You never told me I was being immature and whimsical. Instead, you nurtured those fantasies. You always wanted to know why I danced. I constantly refused to tell you and it’s probably the only secret I still keep. Not that you didn’t know – you could see it all laid out, but I wanted to be able to put it into words someday. Because, if someone were to understand, it would be you.

You never finished your reincarnation theory. You’re not one to leave incomplete stories and broken trails. I’m sure you’ve completed it all, maybe in your head; but, somewhere, somewhere, you’ve put the finishing touches to it and are waiting to break it to me with a knowing twinkle in your eyes and an impish smile on your face.

I once tried to send you a tin of rasagullas from KC Das in Bangalore. The courier service refused point blank.

Just yesterday, I was going through my e-mail, looking for photographs I have not seen in a long time. I chanced upon one where you posed for the camera with a fake beard I had painted on using Nishie aunty’s eyeliner. I e-mailed it to you again. Did you see it?

Whenever I came to Cuttack, I never felt I was visiting. I was coming home. If I fell ill, if I was hungry, if I was angry, if I was homesick, I came home. When I had to take a tetanus injection after my bicycle accident, it was Nishie aunty who held me. I never missed my family because I had another one right there. When I moved to Delhi and tried to deal with typhoid, feeling lonely and unloved, for the first time in my life, I truly realised how much those summers I spent in Cuttack meant to me.

People are not replaceable. You leave a void that will never be filled. I sent you wilted flowers, shabby scraps of plastic and colouring books; you took them with joy. Who will respond to my crazy ideas and my deepest fears with equanimity now?

I meant to send you a record of my play. I meant to tell you about all the exciting things I’m going to do this year. About some freakish coincidences that would definitely make you laugh and say you always knew what was going on. I can’t call or e-mail anymore, but I’ll still tell you. And I know you’ll be listening.

Love, Ranjana
June 25, 2009
Trivandrum, Kerala.

Kwak!

2009-06-24T01:12:00.002+05:30

This place mystifies me more and more everyday! I felt nicer in sleepy little Cuttack, sandwiched between two murky and often smelly rivers. Today, I took an auto rickshaw to Vazhuthacaud, which looks like it is in the centre of Trivandrum; at any rate, it’s not some isolated outpost. At 7.20 pm, the driver asks me for return fare – “I’m only asking for night fare,” he claims. Early to bed and early to rise, makes a person healthy, wealthy and wise (Psst: I don’t see the early rising happening). But I’m living in God’s Own Country, so god proposes, disposes and imposes.

I attended a rock concert here! I was pleasantly surprised to see the huge turnout. From toddlers in their parents’ laps to octogenarians, there were people across age groups, though, by the time the concert ended, two wizened little women sitting in the first row looked quite mortified. But they were brave enough to stay on – many who turned up expecting an evening of traditional French music with a few jarring beats here and there ran away after the first two songs. As always, the Mallu men were very enterprising when it came to being lecherous. A group of them sat down next to me, and after eyeing me for a while, the boy closest to me leaned over and asked, “Would you like to dance with me?” I ideally wanted to retort, “Do I look like I want to do anything more that pounding your head to paste with a huge mortar and pestle and then feeding it to the crows? By the way, have you seen me kick with my left leg? I’ve injured it now, but if I kick real hard, you could be in Kovalam now. And I’ve been waiting for an excuse to buy a new umbrella, so let’s see if this rust-coated old rod breaks into two or cracks your skull.” (What rambling, what violence!) But the decibel level was so high, my soliloquy would have been wasted on them. So I just looked bored instead.

I also ran into a CPI protest march today. Malayalam may be the language of the masses, but Hindi seems like the language of protest. Correct me if I’m wrong, but if I heard right, most of the slogans were in Hindi. And the ubiquitous ‘Inquilab Zindabad’ made its presence felt more than once. It made me feel like I was back in JNU. However, all the posters were in Malayalam, so I still don’t know what they were protesting about.

Chapattis here are made of maida and roasted or made of wheat and fried! I’m not too happy with the MTR Ready-to-Eat vegetables – they are oil slicks and make everything smell like they’ve been produced in the Lohit mess kitchen (but I still go buy them - I can't believe I'm so desperate I've been reduced to salivating about mess food). So I might keep deluding myself and going gaga about all the weight I’ve lost, but for all I know, I’ll come back fatter than I ever was. It takes almost an hour to cook rice on this cavernous gas stove I have. And I’m missing Amanda. Even boiled vegetables are welcome now! In Orissa, she acted as inspiration and I tried to make myself balanced meals (no matter how oily those were). Here, there’s only perspiration, perennially escaping LPG and boxes of burnt matchsticks. And watery rice and tapioca chips.

Some asking and telling

2009-06-23T00:16:00.002+05:30

In 2006, when I was in Goa, a small stall refused to sell me chocolate at 8 pm, since it was closing time. The other day, as I was walking back at 8 pm in Trivandrum, I noticed the longest lines were outside the euphemistically named Kerala Beverages Corporation shops. One such two-storeyed shop had lines running down its narrow flight of stairs and spilling over to the roads. These lines make the Big Bazaar billing queues seem inconsequential, for I’m often in line with a single bottle of water behind shoppers who have carts groaning under the weight of merchandise. And they always come in tow with enthusiastic kids who keep throwing extra cake and chips into the cart. That the cunning Big Bazaar works in connivance with these kids is an open secret – that is why they stow piles of junk food by the billing counters – if you’ve resisted the urge inside, throw caution and diets to the wind while waiting in a long line – as if the bulge of your belly compensates for the hole in your pocket.

‘Asking for it’ seems to be the latest feminist catchphrase. I must admit I like it. So these four colleges in Kanpur have banned jeans for girls on campus - jeans and short-sleeved t-shirts apparently mean you were ‘asking for it’. By that yardstick, Malayali men should look away whenever I walk the roads here, because I have often been irked by their extremely glad eye and have taken pains to blend in and look like I was not ‘asking for it’. But that doesn’t work, apparently. Staring is an activity programmed into them when they are in their mothers’ wombs, it seems. Like countless men elsewhere, they’ve been told they have the right to appraise our assets with impunity. And they know we’re supposed to look away or look down in shame. Because we ‘asked for it’. The air is thick with asking and I don’t know who’s going to do the telling. I, for one, am tired of pretending I am a nice Malayali girl out of her thatched tharavad, with freshly washed long hair trailing down her back, a tiny blotch of kungumam brightening her forehead, the dupatta demurely covering all that ‘asks’. So I have gone back to wearing mismatched clothes without a dupatta. Of late, one activity that I derive a lot of sadistic amusement from, is staring back at the gits who try staring at me. Some people suddenly find the road very fascinating; one could bore holes into it with the intensity of it – the municipal corporation will be made redundant then. Some continue staring as if they’ve been frozen into position, but I’m beginning to think that’s less audacity and more because they’re awestruck by a woman who stares back at them and evaluates their pendulous assets.

Dance is now big business. I’ve been watching clips of young Bharatanatyam dancers on the internet. They’re excellent for their age, but I wonder how the ensuing media blitz affects them. At the age of 14 or 15, they have two or three DVDs to their credit. And what really elicits a raised eyebrow is the crass commercialism their teachers market them with. Maybe these sentences sound the way they do because I have no crystallised views on this issue yet. One website that stands out asks the viewer to register on the site in order to stream longer video clips. The registration form asks you what you have done for the dancers – have you showered money on them, organised programmes, registered them at competitions? How much are you willing to spend to watch these videos? More ludicrously, the website has excerpts from DVDs where a space for ads throughout the video appears on one side. To make things clear, it elaborates, “Your ad could be here.” In an age, where even advertisement breaks are over-run by ads bordering other ads, ads in dance videos might only be fair, but I wish the people behind the DVD would find more creative and aesthetic methods of incorporating ads. You have the dancer flanking the ad right now, in this spirit of auctioneering, it makes one wonder – whom did we buy – the dancer or the advertisement?

Dharavi and my evening bhelpuri

2009-06-19T23:54:00.003+05:30

This evening, I ate bhelpuri out of a can. It came neatly packaged, the chutneys in their plastic puches nestling between the bhel. The puri was a little too delicate, hence powdery. It lacked the crunchiness of the puri one finds in Bombay. Even the bhel felt sanitised, nevertheless, it felt nice to have bhel sitting in a corner of the country where ordering a dosa sometimes becomes a Herculean feat.

Just before that, I spent the afternoon watching a documentary on Dharavi, where tiny workshops manufacture a gamut of products that are sold and consumed globally. It is interesting to note the possibility of some component of my bhel having come from Dharavi. Possibly the plastic. Maybe the preservatives. I'm nowhere near Bombay, but it's presence lingers around my life, in the form of Dharavi. Hmm.

I took a cue from Dharavi and recycled the bhel can. It's now my cutlery holder.

And some more Kathakali

2009-06-19T11:53:00.001+05:30

Kathakali at Margi, Trivandrum

2009-06-18T00:30:00.000+05:30

Margi

2009-06-18T00:09:00.003+05:30

Went to a Kathakali performance at Margi yesterday, where the performance was preceded by 90 minutes of music. The jugalbandis between the percussionists got quite racy at times. I like the intimate setting of the Margi theatre. One passes through a rehearsal hall to get there - it is located in the courtyard between the rehearsal hall and the temple. However, I wish they had better seating - the plastic chairs don't go well with the overall ambience. And wooden flooring!

From Kerala

2009-06-17T00:15:00.003+05:30

I've been trawling Youtube for interesting classical dance clips of late, and occasionally I come across a clip that fills my heart with joy, something that I can watch again and again without getting bored, something that just makes my heart all warm and bleary.

Some pictures I took in East Fort, Trivandrum, near West Street, today.

Kerala moments

2009-06-16T00:10:00.003+05:30

June 14

The plate brims with a mess of popcorn in various stages of development – there are those that haven’t popped, those that popped with the nurturing touch of oil and those that were burnt to death. Of which, burnt to death and haven’t popped seem like the most popular categories. Maybe it’s just my popcorn history – ideally, one learns from past mistakes, but I haven’t – the last popcorn-making session in an electric rice cooker ended in threatening thuds from the cooker, the lid flying to the other end of the room, leaving oil all over the sheets and my winter clothes. That the cooker didn’t work after that is implied.

Today has been a hugely soporific day – I did not go to a Kutiyattam conference in the morning since my lazy half assumed it would be in Malayalam – I think it was. I wish it would rain more in Trivandrum. The day my train entered Kerala, it rained heavily in spurts. I could have sworn I had never seen greenery so green. Geography lessons were recalled as I saw the rain slithering down the sloped roofs of tiny houses dotting the railway tracks. Someone had remarked about Trivandrum, “It is so sultry, not a leaf moves.” I’m beginning to think that it is true.

Not that there haven’t been any nice weather moments. The other day, I was returning from the market when I got caught in a heavy shower. Initially, I stopped for shelter, but then I decided it’s more fun to get wet. Being a wet woman at 8.30 pm on a street full of mirrors in shiny jewellery shops with people gawking at you and wondering if you are right in the head can be amusing sometimes.

June 15

I never thought I'd be the one making mistakes as far as food was concerned. But I mixed payasam into my rice today, thinking it was rasam, to the amusement of everyone around me, triggering sniggers of 'Malayalam Iliya' or something similar sounding.

June 16

I grew tired of being stared at and mentally undressed by men. And being appraised by women. So, today, I decided to stare back. And now I feel much better about going out on the roads. Men are used to letting their eyes rove wherever the mind pleases. It comes as a shock to them when someone does the same to them. I loved the feeling that coursed through me when the men looked at me, and I looked back at them and let my eyes pointedly go up and down, up and down. Everyone looked away. And did not look me in the eye again. I loved the power I wielded.

Musicz

2009-05-08T15:38:00.002+05:30

Delhi doesn't seem to have any music stores. Even if they do, go and try asking for cassettes. They'll look like you came from Mars.

Maybe I'm just in the wrong places at the wrong time. Once, when it was 10 pm, at Haze, I asked the waitress for a coffee. I'll never forget the look she gave me!

Attention seeking prats at large - Those who don't fit into pink chaddis

2009-02-27T15:43:00.009+05:30

We have been putting up the poem in support of the Pink Chaddi campaign around JNU. What Manjari put up in Tapti was torn down by some paragon of 'Indian culture. We put a giant chaddi with the poem outside SAA. The culprit proudly came up to us and said he did it. A PhD student in the cinema department, he seems to have lived in JNU for a very long time. He is the president of a hostel and boasts about his supreme control over the hostel residents. I get the impression that he is doing this more out of the need for attention than anything else. Well, he's made me angry enough to get it. And now he'll really get it. No one seems to want to listen to him otherwise.

So dear Attention-seeker (AS), as we will call him from now on, found the poster obscene. That scores of others don't think it was obscene is immaterial. In a country where bhakti texts are full of what these bigots can find equally explicit (religion and antiquity are the only shields, besides, they don't have the guts to stand up against biggies. It's only us they'll torment.)...just this morning, an old professor sang an Andal composition to us. Anyway, that's not the issue. That AS has no respect for the views of others is appalling. That he is a downright liar is even more so. He told us he had gone to the student representative of a gender-related organisation on campus, which turned out to be false when we spoke to the student in question.

So blundering AS has gone, torn down and PHOTOCOPIED our poster. He's trying to be the moral idiot we're trying to protest against. And in his obstinacy we'll achieve what we set out to do - make the poem visible, aurally and visually. But this time, he doesn't know what he's up against. For every one poster he tears down, I'll put up two more. And so will the others who support our gesture. If he wants to spend all his days and nights tearing down posters, so be it. He'll never finish, I know.

Chatak Gulabi Chaddi

2009-02-17T16:17:00.001+05:30

The poet chooses to remain anonymous...

Naa maarenge naare noore,naa todenge haddi.
Hum toh aap ko nazar karenge chatak gulaabi chaddi.
Culture wale vulture sun le. Kheli bahut kabaddi
pichchwaade mein bhar denge hum chatak gulabi chaddi

Tu piyee to dard ki dawaa, hum piye toh daaru.
Teri gaand pe jhannaa ke ek laath na mai kyun maaru?
Burkhe ghunghat pehnaa kar tune deal kya kar di waddi.
Hum toh tujhko pehnayenge chatak gulabi chaddi.

Devdaas ki paro khet mein gaddaa lekar nikal padi.
Teri akal se zyaadaa toh.woh nangi kaali bhains badi,
Sharam toh kar le, nazar jhuka, chhati se lagaa le thuddi.
Tere badan par khoob sajegi chatak gulabi chaddi

Chatak gulabi chaddi jisme ijjat hai hamari rehti.
Chatak gulabi chaddi jisme teri soch hai behti.
Chatak gulabi chaddi jisme sanskruti hamari soti.
Chatak gulabi chaddi ke jisko samjhe tu bapouti.

Devdaas ki paro khet mein gaddaa lekar nikal padi.
Teri sena muth maare hai,sandaason mein khadi khadi.

Khol jehen ka darwaaja, abey baat samajh of fisaddi.
Teri maa ki. Teri behen ki...chatak gulabi chaddi!!!

Happenings

2009-02-17T13:59:00.006+05:30

We sent a nice pink chaddi.

I can't wait for the sari I'm getting in return. I wanted to specify the colour and style, but I hear its pink. I hope it's at least cotton...some nice pochampalli print. I think Mr. Muthalik has no business telling others what to do. All these self-styled upholders of "Indian culture" piss me off so much. I attended this event the other day, where I heard a wonderful poem called Chatak Gulabi Chaddi, on the campaign. I'm trying hard to procure it. More on it when I find it.

Travel plans are crashing around me. First it was Khajuraho, then Jaipur, then Udaipur. Now, from the look of it, I'll be lucky if I make it to Munirka.

Martin Luther King's son made a much advertised appearance to speak on "A New Non-violent Revolution". The otherwise poverty-stricken JNU administration presented bouquets to all embassy officials, grand ones with all the trappings. BB Bhattacharya smirked like a slug and made superfluous comments on this prestigious university he runs like his jagir. He was quite mismatched. Looked really short, also. King was pretty disappointing, didn't tell me anything that I won 't find on Wikipedia. He couldn't understand any of the questions put to him, and kept asking people to explain them to him. After taking some timepass questions, he disappeared saying he had another engagement. Much touted, fell flat. Dev D was more interesting. Much more interesting. Especially since Devdas ki paro khet me gadda lekar gayi!

Today, I took my first cold water bath. The electricity disappeared. Poof! It was quite eventful. And painful.

24-7 has finally abandoned the washing of spoons. Yesterday, I saw shreds of cabbage lazing on supposedly washed spoons. Meanwhile, I have been drinking too much tea.

Won--wan

2009-02-07T15:58:00.002+05:30

Wanderlust strikes hard.

We spent 12 hours trying to figure how to make it to Pune, for me, how to go to Bombay from Pune. Anyway, that's not happening now.

Hopefully Khajuraho will, in any case, I'll go there in the next month.

And Bombay!

2009-01-22T17:37:00.001+05:30

I'm going to watch a dance performance at Habitat. Auto situation uncertain. Pray for moi!

F-art Collection

2009-01-21T19:33:00.003+05:30

JNU has this lovely collection of books which they call the Art Collection. It adorns the racks most of the time since it can't be issued. I find it incredibly stupid. Some books have five or six copies, but no, they won't issue any. I feel like clobbering them on their heads.

And stuff that CAN be issued and is worth reading can never be found. I was looking for a translation of Bhasa's plays, they have three copies, but all three are missing. Even the government run Asiatic Library is more organised despite less security and less technology. Those guys manually log books and here they have all those jazzy barcodes but can't figure when they lose a book within this mammoth library. I've heard PhD students can just take books if they feel like it and lock them into their study cupboards. There is no track of who takes what and for all you know, a doctoral candidate could hoard books like that for years. I think that is incredibly ridiculous - one should have to log a book as soon as it leaves its floor. I ended up taking my anger out on the guy sitting the the issue counter, though, looking back at it, I think I should have slapped the a%$&^&hole who made me look on the fifth floor for an aeon.

The problem with these big institutions is there are so many idiots at every level you don't know whom to shoot your arrows at. I hate it. I really hate it.

Sunset seconds

2009-01-19T19:13:00.002+05:30

19.10 pm
A new template soon.

19.15 pm
Meanwhile, I'm trying to do somersaults. I have decided it is high time I get these basic things in line...all those fats balls in yoga class would manage halasana and I would draw circles in the air with my toe, only ninety degrees off the floor. I do not trust my balancing abilities, which is why I am unable to turn over...but soon I will. Then I'll progress to cartwheels.

19.20 pm
I've been terribly sleepy all day. However, I cannot hit the bed the moment I get back. I have work to do. Loads of it.

The Lohit dinner is waiting. Dal full of onions. Half-cooked rice. Vegetable (read potato), again full of onions. Too many days I've avoided it. Now it's calling.

Today's Kathgulab was a nice play, though not without weird lines.

19.35 pm
I'm really sleepy now. So sleepy my eyelashes are obstructing my vision.

NSD Nightmare

2009-01-16T17:25:00.003+05:30

These festival dudes can be really egoistic and inane at times. On Wednesday, I was late for the 9.30 show of a Japanese play at NSD's Abhimanch. That was because the 7.30 play at Kamani had just ended. They stopped me at the entrance, saying I couldn't go in because I was late. Meanwhile, people with tickets kept turning up and were ushered in with the utmost politeness. Only those of us with student passes were punished for our ideas on punctuality. After a while, I really lost it - people from Hyderabad University and other places were standing outside, waiting to be let in. Had I come from Hyderabad to watch a festival where half the plays are way below standard, I would have probably murdered the doormen by now. They kept saying we were late and there was no place inside, so they wouldn't let us in. I kept abusing them below my breath and shooting dirty looks that would make a persistent eve-teaser quail while making audible comments about how they were so low down in the chain that they couldn't give hell to anyone other than us students.

After a while, someone else from NSD emerged from the auditorium and a friend approached him. He was furious...apparently the auditorium was half-empty since a lot of people left after the first ten minutes, and here the stupid door guys weren't letting people in. The doormen still refused to let us in but we just ran in anyway. The play was quite a sham, the only things I liked were the frames with jagged edges where projections were accompanied by the sound of electric switches being turned off and on.

Coming back to core issue, I don't understand why it is human nature to give shit to those lower down in the food chain. And we're not talking about guards, but about NSD officials. Why should you stop anyone from watching plays? The more the better, your play is more popular, has a big audience, why behave in such a juvenile fashion? Is that a form of reverse superiority? Because if it is, then they so totally deserve the inferior treatment meted out to them by most theatre audiences.

January comes

2009-01-06T15:41:00.002+05:30

In Delhi again. It's coolllllddd! But it feels nice sometimes (when one is not washing clothes). JNU looks great...I cycled to some of the more secluded areas...saw a peacock too. But my butt is now aching thanks to the winter cold butt syndrome and I have to sit very awkwardly in order to cycle.

I'm also very sleepy.

Degas

2009-01-03T01:40:00.001+05:30

Came across this lovely Degas template while looking for a new template...

Yippee!

2008-12-26T23:17:00.001+05:30

I'm leaving later than planned! It's just a few more days in Bombay, but I'm thrilled!

Sparkly night

2008-12-25T01:17:00.003+05:30

Went for midnight mass. Nice, with hilarious moments. More tomorrow...

Amphi headache

2008-12-24T01:49:00.007+05:30

On Sunday, I attended this dance event at an open-air theatre near my place. The amphitheatre is surrounded by tall buildings...that somehow curbs the amphi quotient. I headed towards the first few rows, but my path was blocked by an usher - reserved, he said. Nevertheless, I found a nice place right above the reserved rows. The compere entered and greeted the audience and made some comment on the lines of 'oh such a nice evening, so much breeze and so many trees'. Then came the clincher - no photographs and videos please. Okay, the flash bit and how it distracts dancers, I understand. Reminds me, I just chanced upon a blog post where the author ranted about how she can't fathom why dancers allow people to post their choreography on Youtube. Though she made some valid points, not everyone can afford to buy 200 and 500 rupee tickets to attend events with decent dancers. Though I've always wondered, in the case of many dancers...by the time they become famous they're too soggy and too sappy. And why not put stuff on Youtube...sure, there are those who learn stuff off Youtube videos. But I'm sure 95% of those who watch a dance performance on Youtube are not exactly about to spring up from their chairs and mimic what is going on. Online videos have their disadvantages, but they also grant phenomenal accessibility. And one likes to watch a good performance again, there aren't that many anyway. The official videographers will probably sell me a DVD for a bomb. And copyright? Dude, the choreography may have been passed down to you and is probably performed by a hundred others. Whom are you kidding?! When dance is such a big business - many popular dancers in India are abroad for months at a time, doing workshops wherever they go, that choreography we're talking about is being passed on to hundreds of people who may find different uses to put it to. So why are we singling out video footage and lampooning it as a means of copyright violation?

Anyway, coming back to my amphi experience, the music was too loud. And most of the dancing quite podgy. Some of the students who danced could have done with lessons on costume draping. Having a sexy figure and looking poised doesn't solve the problem! And I wish dancers would not stick to the same popular abhinaya pieces. Salbeg was great, but get over him now! The corniness in the air was so thick, my head stayed foggy.

Chaaty day!

2008-12-23T22:10:00.009+05:30

Krupali ditched me five minutes after we planned a trip to Juhu beach in minis, so I went to Chandru's today, with Lulu, to eat some bhelpuri. All the people I met ask me - don't they have great chaat in Delhi? I haven't tasted any yet. I still think Bombay chaat rocks! When I told the waiter "pyaz mat dalna" and he said "kanda?", it felt like bliss :)

Mother dearest gave me strict instructions, telling me not to go within a foot of the vile panipuri. I didn't bother mentioning that I had abandoned all reserve yesterday and eaten it right off the street. Chandru's is slightly more hygienic-looking (at a price). Yesterday's plate was not award-winning, but it was my first in three months, so it didn't matter. Chandru's had smooth puris (the smoother it is, higher the calorie count, I've realised), thanda pani, just tangy enough, and succulent boondi. But the guy making it didn't seem to remember the masala puri at the end, and when we asked for it, he gave us a rather insipid one.

On our way, we passed a popcorn thelawala, whose kadhai gave out this extremely enticing aroma of roasted corn, so we treated ourselves to some of that. We also walked all around Versova, yours truly ogling the bungalows...I still want a bungalow, but one by the beach is first priority. A lot of icecream and dessert places seem have sprung up - there was one called 'Havmor', and its tagline said something like 'havvfunn'. Numerology is definitely ruling the roost. Now as long as they call it pav bhaji and not ppavv bhajiii, I don't care!

At large in JNU, starved...

2008-12-21T01:11:00.008+05:30

I thought Manguli's cooking was the worst fate that could ever befall a potato. Of course, I hadn't been to a JNU mess then. Anna's mess food at St. Xavier's College was of questionable hygiene, but looked slightly more palatable. And then he also came up with occasional delicacies like banana halwa.

One day, I had a bright idea. I took a plastic tiffin set to store mess dinner so that I could have it later. After I had removed the onions from the dal, I wasn't left with much. But what really cuaght my eye was the layer of oil clinging to the sides of the container - it conjured up memories of oil spills on wide oceans, what did they call them...oil slick? Since then I've soaked those containers in a thick solution of water and dishwashing soap thrice, overnight. It still smells of mess dal. Whenever I don't feel too motivated about eating my mother's cooking, all I have to do is go sniff the container. It works better than stories of ghosts who gobble children up.

JNU has conspired to feed us goat poo. If the mess dishes out oil spills, the "dhabas" around campus are no better. I ate the aloo paranthas at 24/7 till I started bursting into tears at the sight of a parantha. And since typhoid, I haven't eaten a morsel there. And even if you did eat there, how much choice do you have, between aloo parantha, dal makhani, paneer and rajma, everything decent on the menu's finished.

Sabarmati dhaba is no better. When I earn some money, I'll donate a bar of soap. The Maggi vessel, well, has been scarred for life by the tortured souls of countless Maggi packets that have boiled to their death in its depths. They also make gaja, though the flies seem to enjoy it more than the pronunciation-deficient people who come and ask for gAAjAA as if it were ganja.

Canteens...Aravali, called the best, अंधों में काना राजा, as they say... the food is marginally nicer than "death-camp" cuisine, but the plates are super-dirty. Everytime I go there, I suppress the urge to scourge the plate clean with my probably grubby handkerchief.

TEFLA, the one time I went there, I figured the sofas look too Egyptian pyramid-like mouldy. No, maybe not. Tutankhamen and his buddies probably knew more about preservation. What's the food like, one daren't ask. Library canteen. I once asked for papad, the guy came rushing with it, it fell to the floor, he put it on a plate, and gave it to me. The dosas come through a window grill that hasn't been...you get the drift.

And the oh-so-famous Mamu's - big price, big benches, big voice, no VFM.

Nightscapes

2008-12-20T01:46:00.006+05:30

2.00 AM, Saturday

I am enjoying secret dessert - the one that really makes the night (and the weighing scales) - loads of milk powder with a dash of milk and as much sugar as you desire.

12.55 AM, Sunday

I am growing quite fat. But Resmi tells me she put on 5 kgs in two weeks. I can't be that fast, huh? Makes me feel slightly better.

I had pav bhaji at Mithibai the other day. Divine (and cheap). Oh, I would give anything to teach those Khattha Meetha guys at Sarojini how to make good pav bhaji. In an era where my coffee mug has been gifted by a nationalised bank but made in China, how come the capital city has no decent pav bhaji?! It's a crime, I tell you. Bombay pays all the tax and they can't even show us gratitude! Worse still, I have not heard of vada pav there...even Bhubaneswar had it, so what if it was priced as Rs. 55...the only thing Dilliwalas know are samosas, in all horrible shapes and sizes, dripping with oil, with more oil, with blobs of boiled potato, I can't believe I actually loved samosa once. And that little octopus they call pakoda...always pyaz ka pakoda, pyaz, that detestible little tuber or whatever it is, all over the place, looking like tiny clusters of tree gnomes...aarghh!

Had batata wada for dinner! Danced enough this afternoon...so not too guilty about it!

1.00 AM

Watched some Yakshagana today. Only when I reached the auditorium, I realised there was one little problem - my knowledge of Kannada (the lack of it rather) has landed me in a quagmire (ahem ahem) earlier. Nevertheless, though it took me a while to figure out it had something to do with the Subhadra and Arjuna of Mahabharata, I did...I think another three years of watching Yakshagana and I can return to the cook at the Hindu canteen and apologise in chaste Kannada for telling him he didn't know Kannada!

Also, it's more fun watching it live, I slept through every video in class.

Gopika Varma

2008-12-19T18:40:00.002+05:30

Mohiniattam dancer Gopika Varma at Jayadeva Utsav in Delhi...

Dearoldsofa

2008-12-19T18:25:00.002+05:30

Our sofa left us recently. She's been around for ages, before I was born I guess...this is the last I saw of her.

Mandingo

2008-12-19T18:23:00.002+05:30

A disturbing still from Mandingo (1975), that I found in a book on African American cinema

Window shopping

2008-12-19T18:13:00.002+05:30

Some pictures I discovered...from a recent trip.

Ekamra college by night...but the colour of the sky is even more charming...just like the light blue shade in a 12 crayon set of wax crayons in my kiddie days.

Behind Kapilaprasad, Ganesh Chaturthi celebrations are in progress...the locality is called Azad Nagar if I'm not mistaken.

Grrr...

2008-12-17T01:51:00.002+05:30

...I'm getting old.

And I'm not 21 yet.

zzzz

2008-12-11T02:00:00.001+05:30

Sleepy...sleeby

Feeling....

2008-12-04T16:32:00.002+05:30

I'm feeling diligent. Spent last evening making a list of articles in the Dance reader. And this afternoon I photographed them.

Now all that's left is reading them.

Bakhtinspeak

2008-12-03T15:02:00.003+05:30

In a carnival, people like to have fun and take everyone's case.

That's what Bakhtin said in ten thousand more words.

Home!

2008-12-02T16:47:00.001+05:30

Home in 6 days!

TP

2008-11-11T21:45:00.001+05:30

I have to write a tempaper!

Dilli's getting nicer.

2008-10-30T19:51:00.003+05:30

Delhi seems nicer all of a sudden. I abandoned the paying guest plan (that woman was being quite unreasonable anyway). I now have a bed to sleep on. So what if it's in Tapti, dirty little Tapti, with the big black cat. It's still a bed I can call my own...well, for a few months!

Visual arts midsem next week, need all the divine intervention I can get.

Delhi bully

2008-10-26T23:37:00.002+05:30

Tomorrow I'm back to the capital of the country. But I'm going to be all resilient and ready to face things...hopefully.

The vagaries of being a sentimental idiot

2008-10-22T00:50:00.006+05:30

When I enter my past and sift through my thoughts, I keep marvelling at how I've become less of a sentimental idiot as far as some things are concerned. And I'm alarmed at how I continue being a sentimental idiot...the objects and issues change, the idiocy remains.

But, yes, I have managed to rid myself of some of my most nonsensical fantasies. And while they made me feel like the world had come to an end once they collapsed around me or were shattered by others, they've taught me that belief is precious and should not be wasted on anything and everything. I have been robbed of my ability to approach things with a completely open mind and proclaim my love to the world and anyone else who would listen. Now I treat every new thing cautiously, even if I try really hard, I always start with a bit of skepticism.

But it brings me more peace of mind. At least, there is a false sense of insulation that I can believe in, because it is a figment of my imagination. In short, I try to make myself labour under the delusion that I don't care. Not with much success, but I don't know if I would be proud of this success.

Ticket kata

2008-10-21T13:44:00.004+05:30

I got a train ticket to Delhi...and it's for the 27th. So that means I'll be spending Diwali in a train. But I'm happy about leaving home later...makes me feel almost euphoric!

You are welcome...to do nothing

2008-10-21T00:57:00.003+05:30

A howler that came to me as part of an e-mail from IRCTC, the Indian Railway's ambitious online ticketing site, telling me why my work could NOT be done, of course.

"In case of any problem, you are welcome to contact us at 24*7 Hrs. Customer Support at 011-23340000, MON - SAT(10 AM - 6 PM) 011 - 23345500/ 4787/ 4773/ 5800/ 8539/ 8543 , Fax No. 23345900, Chennai Customer Care 044 - 25300000 or mail us at care@irctc.co.in. We will be glad to help you out in solving any such problem encountered during booking your ticket."

Well, I understand that one number is probably 24*7 and I assure you, having spent some absolutely frustrating minutes trying to get an operator on the phone on railway numbers, that your calls will never be answered.

The best part is, I still don't have tickets to Delhi. The future looks bleak, from where I see it.

I want to stay right here...

2008-10-19T23:03:00.003+05:30

I just don't want to go back. I'm cooped up at home in Bombay, I've left the house only on five occasions, all to go to the doctor. But I don't want to go back to Delhi.

I've developed this alarming fear of suitcases. The thought of packing makes me break into a sweat. I am absolutely TIRED of packing and unpacking and then packing. I cannot live out of a suitcase anymore. What makes this worse is the underlying knowledge that it's not a two month Orissa adventure but a two year committment that I voluntarily made.

I don't find the time to get out of campus, and now, after one month of not attending class, it's very unlikely I'll find time for ANYTHING other than those books. Visual art is frankly freaking me out. I still haven't got over that failing the drawing exam block. In those classes I feel like a kindergarten tot trying to give the Class 12 exams. Everything flies a mile above my head. No, two miles.

And I know school is great, so I don't want to leave the course and come back. I'm enjoying what I do there. I'm having a ball. But I just cannot stand leaving Bombay. Maybe it's just that I don't have a place to live and that I don't know where I'll go when I go back to Delhi. I hope the PG thing I'm trying to arrange works out. I never thought I would have a househunting story. But now I have some very bitter memories of the whole process. It is just so draining - the fact that you don't know when the roof above your head is going to collapse. Or worse, snatched away.

And I actually thought everything was going so great till I was rudely jolted out of my reverie. In any case, I have to go back in five days, and I hate that. I never knew I'd want to cry for a city. Now I know.

Adventures with Delhi doctors

2008-10-14T14:51:00.007+05:30

JNU runs this Health Center which magnanimously provides free treatment to its students. Pretty noble for India, I thought. So recently, I fell ill. Ill enough to want to go to the doctor. And since everyone who looked at me asked me - Have you gone to the Health Center, I decided it was worth a dekko.

I went there and realised I did not possess the "booklet", where doctors would chart the trajectory of my ailments. No problem. I paid for an OPD card, at the ominously named "Injection and Dressing Room", where injections are administered by a guy in sleeveless banyan. Now now, I have no prejudice against this naturally air-conditioned form of dress, but he didn't even have six-pack abs...more like a six kg stomach. So after "injection sahab" finished doing whatever he was doing to a girl behind the curtain, she looked quite hapless and thin, may I add, he came to attend to the business of my OPD card.

"Ab tak aapne OPD booklet kyon nahin banvaaya?"
"Health Center aane ka mauka hi nahin mila."

No appreciation shown for my humour, he asked for my ID card, filled the OPD card up and told me where the doctor was. Off I went. Outside the doctor's room, it seemed rather quiet. So I peeked into his chamber and saw he was attending to a patient. I waited, patiently. Very soon, the beleagured patient emerged and it was my turn to go in.

Seeing that Bappi Lahiri meets failed Abba aspirant meets Michael Jackson fruit salad, I knew I was up against something very unpleasant. He barked, "Close the door." I promptly followed orders. Then he made me sit on a really tiny bar stool and asked, "What's wrong with you?"

Me: I've had a fever, headache and stomach upset.
Doc: How do you know you have a fever. Did you check?
Me: No, but I know...
Doc: What do you mean you know. You can't play guessing games with your body.
(Pulls thermometer out of cleansing solution with a flourish and shoves it in my mouth. Turns the clock on the table towards me)
Doc: One and a half minutes.
Me: (Still struggling with thermometer jabbed into mouth) Mmm...hmmm.
(Meanwhile, he returns to a small brochure on Abba. I have nothing against those tall and gorgeous singers, but hellooooo, you're supposed to be working. There is something called a work ethic!)
(Time passes. He removes the thermometer.)
Doc: (Triumphant look covering his face slowly) You don't have a fever. You're completely normal.
Me: No but it keeps coming and going you see.
Doc: (In the tone of a petulant child) But you don't have a fever.
Me: But...
(Interrupts me icily)
Doc: Open your mouth. (Peers in) You have a cold. Stomach upsets can happen when you have the common cold virus.
Me: Ok, if that's what you say...

After two more doctors, two thousand rupees and near heart attack moments, I realised I had typhoid. So much for the common cold virus. I'm beginning to hate Delhi. And fear suitcases.

House-hunting

2008-09-27T22:45:00.003+05:30

I remember thinking of a topic to write on for the Personal Journal column in IE last year, and Alaka said - no house-hunting stories. I never thought I would have one.

Well, that's how Murphy's law functions. So now I've decided there is no point shifting from hostel to hostel and am looking for a place off campus till I get a room of my own.

Orissa

2008-09-08T20:42:00.003+05:30

I'm leaving Orissa tonight. Sad trip...no cycling, not much, my body couldn't take it. I couldn't even make it to Sisupalagarh. And I was planning Hirapur.

More when I'm back in JNU.

Am terribly homesick though. Maybe it's just the lack of decent food.

Bohred

2008-08-31T22:20:00.004+05:30

I am dead bored. What's new?

I know this is one of THOSE days. I slept through the afternoon and stuff, so I'm quite soporific-lethargic.

Dinner in the mess was priced at Rs. 50 for guests, so I just decided to skip it and ended up at the horrid 24*7 instead.

Kulfi was also bad.

This is one of those pregnant moments.

Water woes

2008-08-30T21:46:00.004+05:30

I thought the worst form of physical exercise that ever existed was walking (running) to SAA from Lohit Hostel, knowing that you are very very late, and feeling very very guilty about that. What is "worst" about it is the sun. Though it is only 9 am, the sun is in midday mode, beating down on your head. I've come to the conclusion that I can take a bath on my way to SAA and manage to wash off all the soap by the time I'm there. But just for your information, I do it in the bathroom.

For the past few days, the water crisis has been acute. So we get water for a couple of hours in the morning and evening only. Today, it was particularly bad. In the morning, I went to Sarojini Market and found exactly the kind of bucket I had envisioned. Thereafter, I went to Sagar's place and picked up one bag. Of course, on the way there, I got lost and ended up on the way to Kotla before he came and rescued me.

I was dog tired by the time I returned and I used up almost all my water to take a bath since I was sure the water would come back in the evening. At 7, for the lack of something to do, I fell asleep for "20 minutes" and woke up at 8.15 pm. As I was going down to dinner, I saw people dragging buckets to the second wing. Then I got to know that the moment Swasti has been talking about had arrived. The tankers were here.

My new pink bucket finally had its moment of glory. I took it down and wondered where the tanker was. A boy hanging around near the entrance had to show me how to use the valve. Of course, I couldn't carry it up. I promptly called upon the loiterer to help me up the stairs with it. He looked at his friends in an embarassed way and obliged. A short distance later, a friend saw me struggling and we carried the water up together. I went down for a second but filled only half of it this time, since I didn't want another back breaking round...

Even the water cooler was running out of water. I used the mess cooler to wash my utensils and gather around eight litres of water...

All this left me totally bewildered. If I continue doing this for two years, I could give any Parisienne model a run for her money. Meanwhile, I am trying to figure whether living in the Amazon rainforest is easier. At least, in those jungles, you don't have to worry about the water going away.

Dilli Billi

2008-08-26T18:18:00.004+05:30

I've been exposed to a range of temperatures since I moved to Delhi.

I will never figure how to reach the 9 am class on time. Every morning, I exclaim how I will be early this one day and then promptly do something to ensure that I can't leave the hostel before 9. This morning, while I was huffing and puffing it to SAA from Lohit Hostel, I suddenly realised HOW hot it was. In a matter of minutes, my white shirt was stained with mud, I was dripping like the water crisis of Lohit was caused by my exertions and I reached class looking like a refugee, which I am.

To add to the mess, the prof just realised I'm not an earnest student who comes from Ghaziabad or someplace. Which means I have to be on time tomorrow.

Meanwhile, our cinema classes can be Eskimo glacial. And sometimes soporific. I did my first sleeping session at JNU today. I dozed off for 15 minutes and missed the 3 min 11 sec Touch of Evil tracking shot I've been waiting for these past two classes. Anyway, not that I regret my refreshing nap...!

I have been going Golgappa hunting. I quite liked the stuff they have at Aggarwal Sweets in Munirka. Meanwhile, someone has asked me to try out the golgappa at a place called Evergreen. They also sell pav bhaji at Aggarwal. It looks quite revolting, with that chole brown colour and all the tomato and coriander garnishing. If I muster the courage to taste it, you will definitely hear about it.

JNU, being such a big campus, has a sad variety as far as food goes. Aloo paranthas can be good, some North Indian dishes are decent. The rest includes badly cooked South Indian food and extremely oily Chinese food.

Unfortunately, there is no chaat scene. I can't even find a simple golgappa/bhelpuri guy on campus. How sad :(.

JNU

2008-08-21T21:45:00.004+05:30

I've been here five days...

I've learned a lot. These five days have been a crash course in life.

On Sunday, I stood in the courtyard of Ganga hostel like a refugee, trying to figure how I would live without having any place for my luggage. Now I've learnt to take up minimum space. And share beds.

The aloo paranthas are great. South Indian food sucks...not that I want any of it...

I finally got down to buying some essentials today...a bucket, some rope for a clothesline and so on. So I feel more settled. I figured that even if I have to live like a refugee, I might do so decently.

The walk from Lohit hostel to SAA is too long when I have to choose between breakfast or punctuality. Also, since for some unknown but surely valid reason, we have only one cyber cafe and one proper phone booth. The campus spans over 1000 acres. What fun.

Nostalgia...

2008-08-12T22:02:00.001+05:30

It is 1:32 am. I have broken my promise to myself by not going to bed in time. Today, I was walking towards Smitalay on SV Road. I narrowly sidestepped a pool of water splattered with paan. At the same time, a No. 222 bus passed by. I felt a little sad, having to leave this city and go away.

This was a planned move that I’ve contemplated over two years. And I am generally not the type who’s averse to leaving home. I think nothing of taking off to Bhubaneswar for a month or two. Even here, I know it only takes a day to come back, but there is this underlying apprehension.

I have managed to understand my rush of feelings for certain places. When I first stayed in Bangalore and Bhubaneswar, I came back smitten. Looking back, I bored everyone within a mile with tales of the place. I left nothing to the imagination. Now, I don’t go overboard. I liked what I saw of Delhi, I’m not as scared as I was, and am looking forward to it.

I am listening to Sitaaron se aage. I associate it with the ethnography project…which is obvious enough. But now that I’m going away, it is a sound I will associate with Bombay. Though this city is quite the opposite…chaotic and crowded, while this song speaks of silence.

There may be another explanation for this sudden urge to listen to that song.
Sitaaron se aage jahaan aur bhi hain, abhi ishq ke imtihaan aur bhi hain.
It probably means I’m going to fall in love with many other places, things and…

Ripped off at Rajdhani

2008-08-12T22:01:00.001+05:30

Yesterday, I finally lunched at Rajdhani in Malad. For the past two years, I’ve been hearing an assortment of people praise its food. A few months ago, Ipsita and I went there, intent on having dinner, but there were so many people waiting for a table and we had to eat at the Food Court instead.

I met Poornima at 12 pm, determined to beat the rush. We were among the first few customers of the day. I was happy at not having to queue up with “whole families and their boisterious kids”, a dark prediction by someone else. It was amusing watching Poornima and the thali…we could easily seat her among all those tiny steel cups.

Strangely, dal-bati choorma has eluded me, even at Chokhi Dhani, the heritage village near Jaipur. The same goes for Rajdhani. There was a choice of dals – sweet and spicy and a heavenly sweet kadhi. The vegetable dishes included palak paneer, papdi, chana in besan/curd-based gravy and potato gravy. They had a “Bengali sweet” – chamcham in this case, the only incongruous addition to the meal. Apart from that, there was jalebi with rabdi and halwa. The rotis were soft and warm, while the thepla was tantalisingly salty. I tried the khichdi and a pulao, the name of which sounded like “ramarama”.

Poornima was fascinated by the pots of warm water with receptacles to wash one’s hands in. Alas, we remained enthralled only till we came to the bill. The last time I was at Inorbit, I remember the cost of a meal there was around Rs. 170. But our lunch set us back by Rs. 260 each. We were both left with just enough money to go back home. Not amused by the indiscriminately high rate of inflation, we didn’t leave a tip. Rather, we couldn’t afford to.

The party

2008-08-10T03:02:00.004+05:30

I have six days in Bombay.

Not everyone could make it to my farewell party, but it turned out to be great fun. My friends surprised me with a delicious eggless cake and a touching card. As in all Ranjana parties, we watched some Odissi and sincerely discussed a performance of Bandha Nritya. But I ensured a good quantity of Dard-e-Disco and Mauja hi Mauja in the end. Ipsita and I made lame attempts to lap-dance, much to the consternation of Reuben. I finally ended up injuring her finger and applying the peach balm held by white monkey to it...

Ipsi copied my move from her 18th birthday and got me a garland..only a more flamboyant one in this case. Although they've left me with a variety of options fit for my obit page, this should give you an idea. Note the shapely contours...the amount of chocolate cake I've eaten, they won't last long.

The perpetrator of the crime...held under Section something or the other for cracking inciting jokes about the insart.

Krupali wants to give all the pouty sultry sirens a run for their money. My rude angel says she looks like her nose hit the wall. This is what we will post on HER matrimonial profile!

An extremely interesting composition, with Krupali playing a cat...she is proud of her ability to make feline faces. Rajat is an active supporter. Meanwhile, Reuben contemplates the madness around him, while Ipsita's desperately trying to dial 100, asking those dudes to come and rescue her from us.

Dinner at Saswat's

2008-08-09T01:13:00.004+05:30

I may be no good at cooking, but I know my salad well...

Nightscapes

2008-08-08T00:47:00.004+05:30

1:30 AM
I read that Haji Ali is going to be demolished soon. It's such a shame...I pass it all the time, but I've never been there. I must try to make a trip before I leave

1:45 AM
Today has been another 'let's gorge on Bombay delicacies' day. On a whim, I went to Dadar for batata vadas. I wish I had a reason to be out on Tuesday...it's ekadashi and I want to be in Dadar, sampling sabudana khichdi. I remember how we used to declare that we would go to Doctor's mess on ekadashi, especially after Monish and Animesh raved about the khichdi. We got the vadas, but always missed the khichdi!

1.50 AM
I continued with some shrikhand from Samant Bros. It was sour, and I couldn't feel the kesar. Warana is the best, while Chitale comes a close second. Amul shrikhand tends to feel dry and grainy. Parsi Diary has amazing stuff but it's also ridiculously expensive.

1.58 AM
I wanted to go to bed by 11 pm, hahhahahaha! But I'm not sleepy...

If SAA doesn't work out, I could always go work for Google. Or Indian Railways!

I should write more often. Really write.

2.10 AM
David? Hmm...

2.14 AM
Poornima and I are planning to have lunch at Rajdhani on Sunday. While one person thinks I ought to queue up by 11 if I want to eat by 3, I'm being slightly more optimistic. But eating at Rajdhani days are jinxed for me. Every single time I go with the intention of eating there, I end up eating some other horrid thing.

2.17 AM
So much cake today. How many calories?

Shera

2008-08-02T00:03:00.003+05:30

Shera my nemesis glares hither...why do you hate me Shera? I thought all dogs loved me.

The view from our Old Town terrace

2008-07-30T01:58:00.003+05:30

The view from our house in Old Town. Lingaraj Temple is visible in the distance.

Sign of our times

From ape to human...or is it the reverse?

Landing vistas...

Migration woes

2008-07-29T16:14:00.005+05:30

I am always careful when it comes to dealing with Mumbai University. It often makes me feel like the silly kid who irons his fingers to see if they get smoother. And then does it again.

Now, there is this archaic document called the migration certificate. You are required to produce it when you switch universities. So, you remain a student of University A even 30 years later, by which time you don't know where your degree lies (if you collected it in the first place). That you are not allowed into campus buildings is another story altogether. And that you have no access to its library is yet another.

To obtain this treasured scrap of paper, you fill a four page form that is processed by the college. A sheaf of miscellaneous documents accompanies the application. You hotfoot it to the university campus, trying to get there before 1 or after 1:30 or before 2:30. If you are not as unfortunate as I am (or more punctual), you shall be one of the privileged ones in the "accessible" line.

You reach the head of the line, only to be told you're at the wrong counter. Then you sigh and join the right line. Please note that the person at the counter will have a sudden urge to clear out her cupboard just when you begin to think this is the end of it. Once she makes sure she can't send you back because you attached the right things (in the right order) with the right stamps, she hands over a tiny receipt and asks you to come back in eight days.

Eight days later, I go expectantly...there are few people around. The woman at the counter looks for my form but never finds it. I am apprehensive...I wouldn't put it past MU to ask me to go back and redo the whole thing because they lost my form. Finally, she finds my certificate, and makes me sign on the receipt book itself.

I am disappointed. I have made a substantial contribution to the raddi profit of this university. And they still skimp on the paper. My migration certificate is smaller than a stationery shop receipt!

How on earth?

2008-07-14T13:12:00.002+05:30

Clothes shoes books...sheesh...even carting my stuff to Orissa is crazy...packing for JNU will be super crazy.

Chalo Dilli

2008-07-14T13:05:00.003+05:30

To Delhi next week
But two years away from Bombay? How does one move a life?
Loads of things to take.Too less space.

Farewell Orissa!

2008-07-07T12:13:00.005+05:30

In three hours, I shall leave Bhubaneswar. I'm waiting to see the Bombay coastline, eat pav bhaji, sabudana khichdi and batata vada (not alu chop!), but I'll miss Orissa. My bicycle rides around Bhubaneswar constituted some of the most exhilarating and euphoric moments of my life.

The day (and moment) the BMM results were declared will remain etched in my heart forever. I was on a cycle, struggling to balance a whole bag of vegetables, trying to buy paneer while protecting myself from the rain. In the midst of this confusion, I received an SMS with my result. As I cycled towards the sweet shop, past BDA Chhak, I could only think of one thing - balancing a load of bhaji while your results are declared is not the best way to do things, but it sure is the funniest. To celebrate, I started singing at the top of my voice in English. And ate a whole lot of chhena poda!

Yesterday's trip to Dhauli was also fabulous. The paddy fields flanking NH - 203 make it a wonderful cycling trail. More on it when I'm back home...

Pictures from Khandagiri and Udayagiri

2008-07-03T20:18:00.004+05:30

Rainy view from Hathigumpha

Udayagiri ki unchai...

Hathigumpha inscription of Kharavela

Khandagiri - 2

2008-07-03T17:21:00.004+05:30

While we were on our way down, Amanda fell for a monkey and insisted on being photographed with it. The intensity of the rain had ebbed and we walked up to Hathigumpha on the other side of the road again. Then we went higher. We reached this plateau where we did some crazy posing with raincoats and umbrella. We walked down towards Ganesh Gumpha, ending up on this isolated trail.

Now the brain called for nourishment. My taste buds were clamouring for warm and crisp singadas. Amanda was thinking on similar lines, so we ran out of Udayagiri like 10-year-olds on an overdose of testosterone. At Khandagiri Chhak, we looked around, but couldn't find any singadas but we ate some nice alu chops. Further down the road, near Jagamara, we stopped again. This time, the vendor had a selection of vadas - he had singada, dal vada, alu chop and potol chop (wish Manguli were here :P). I tried some of the singada (which was ok) and potol chop (which tasted nice). As far as singadas go, I haven't had a single decent one ever since I got to Orissa.

Near Gandamunda Chhak, we met Saswat...safe in "rainycoat and rainypants". Amanda was shivering from getting drenched (a little heavier and she would have put Sridevi to shame). Ever the chivalrous guy, he gallantly offered her his rainwear (I prodded him to). In a short while, we stopped for chai in plastic cups. All the priming had prepared me for the grand finale - gupchup (wink). At Lingaraj Vihar in Pokhariput, we found a gupchup guy who had braved the rain. He was not great, but who cares when gupchup beckons!

Gupchup done, I was back home. I practised for a bit and then fell asleep after a boring dinner. But the afternoon fun overshadowed it all.

Khandagiri trip - 1

2008-06-29T16:11:00.007+05:30

A few days ago, Amanda suggested a cycling trip to Khandagiri. If Satchita, Amanda and I had three bicycles to make this trip together, it would have rocked. Anyway, I'm happy I did this...Market Building was getting a little monotonous.

"Idyllic" is how one could describe the weather. By the time we were past Pokhariput, we decided to sing...and we found Ramani ratana most appropriate. But I only kept it up till Gandamunda Chhak; it is difficult to hold a tune and bicycle.

Amanda attracted quite a bit of attention, especially in Jagamara. The fact that she was on a gents cycle didn't help much. Some people passed audible comments, my favourite being - Look at the whitey and negro on bicycles! We were at Khandagiri Chhak in 25 minutes. We crossed the national highway and cycled on. A comical wrong turn brought us to the western boundary of the Khandagiri complex, where I amiably cycled down a slope for 1 km...don't even ask what it was like on the way back.

Amanda had to pay a hefty entrance fee, but she did not give in without a struggle...she insisted she was Oriya. The place wasn't too dirty...I guess that is because it isn't an extremely popular destination...Konark and Puri seem to overshadow practically everything here.

The cave in the picture is Ranigumpha in the Udayagiri complex. It was raining heavily when we finally made it to Hathigumpha. We rested for a while, then outfitted ourselves suitably. Amanda photographed my bangs and I tucked in my kurta the way my sister used to do ghagra-cholis as a kid.

Love was evidently in the air - there were couples in cute poses all over...while some went the whole hog and "anka palanke shayan" ed their spouses, others looked like endorsements for Fevicol.

Anyway, monsoon fury prevented us from venturing any further. We also spent time standing on a rock and locating Lingaraj Temple and Dhauli from a distance. We walked down and reached the entrance of Khandagiri. After some deliberation, we decided to go in. When we reached the first level, near Tentuligumpha, there was an exodus of people from the temple above. We reached the temple eventually and went around, trying to read descriptions in Oriya. There was an awkward moment when I unbuttoned my raincoat and the men huddled at the entrance of the temple stared at my bohemian kurta tuck.

To be continued...

Dinning and dining

2008-06-27T13:41:00.002+05:30

A grand dinner is being planned for tonight. Let's see how it turns out. Meanwhile, I've progressed to rava dosa and paneer sabji.

Pav Bhaji tales

2008-06-23T13:51:00.004+05:30

I've been trying out the pav bhaji at various places around town.

The one at Food Junction in Bapuji Nagar is full of chhole masala and garam masala. And it is served with SWEET pav. The most distinctive feature of pav bhaji is its aroma. But this one smells like standard fare from a bad cook who thinks pav bhaji is from Punjab because both start with "P". When I talked to the staff about it, they said - try it again and you'll know the difference. Sorry guys, Rs. 40 means 4 days of good gupchup.

Last Saturday, I cycled towards Ram Mandir on an impulse. I had already had my share of gupchup for the day and was looking for a light dinner. I landed up at the New Marrion chat counter, outside Cafe Coffee Day. If Food Junction was a poor cousin of the real thing, this one was an outright alien. Tiny bits of capsicum, carrot, potato and a few stray green peas floating in curry - that's pav bhaji for you. And all this, with undercooked BUNS sliced in two...what a pity.

I remember the pav bhaji at Forum Mall in 2006 - at least it looked like pav bhaji. Maybe I should just haul that cycle down there and check it out again...

Vicious cycle

2008-06-23T13:27:00.003+05:30

So I decided to go lose my cycle keys...

It's a long story, but its main elements are

1. Overhaul of my luggage
2. Prayers to my patron saint...and a host of other patron saints.
3. Cycling in the sun to Lingaraj Temple and back and back again.
4. Dealing with tantrum-throwing rickshaw drivers who are worried about the adverse effects of my dusty tyre on their nua-ly painted autos...with good reason!
4. Waiting around and admiring this uncanny ability that all Oriya mechanics possess - one that lets them do all the dilly-dallying of the world like it's their birthright.

One thing I've learnt - never lose your cycle keys. And now I have a headache...time to head home.

Bhubaneswar diary

2008-06-16T21:06:00.001+05:30

I love cycling around Bhubaneswar. It feels so liberating. Nowadays, I feel uncomfortable when I have to take an auto somewhere. With my bicycle, I am the queen of the roads.

It's been raining all day. And quite heavily at that. I had been planning a trip to Bhubaneswar station for a while. Since I couldn't put off cancelling that ticket for the 18th anymore, I bicycled there today - autorickshaws take away all the fun. I had to pull my pants all the way above my knee. Only one side was partially protected by the raincoat. I've prayed to all the Gods I know - I shouldn't end up with a cold.

Gupchup is going strong - the rains do not deter my hardy stomach. Only malpuas do. Even the sight of them makes me want to puke. The gupchup vendor near Market Building now recognises me. They cleared out all the hawkers from the interior and opened the road to two-wheelers. I miss my "Bhubaneswar Gupchup". Narula's Kulfi has diversified to include Badam Milkshake on the menu.

I watched Sarkar Raj with Sujata Apa and Amanda a few days ago. It was an interesting film and it was interesting to observe the theatre. The electricity was cut during the movie and while they switched to an inverter, people kept yelling their heads off and booing the theatre management. There was claps and whistles from the stalls when Abhishek held Aishwarya's hand, but that happens at Alfred too. What was most intriguing was the way the lights went out...almost funny.

I had a very bad experience at an ATM that very day. It has again reminded me there are some idiots in this world. And I am not one of them. How narcissistic!

I'm happy I went today - I got one of the last tickets for that date. Since its just a few days after Rath Yatra, there are probably a lot of people going back. I hope it doesn't turn out to be a very bad idea though...I have a middle berth...that's shitty...but it's at least a berth. Poor Amanda travelled SITTING...sharing the ticket collector's seat with others. She says there was stuff even in the loos...I hope it's not that bad when I go.

I've been cooking! My first attempt was upma - a fortnight ago. That very night, I made some biryani. I must have asked a hundred people how to cook rice. I added some paneer and carrots. And biryani masala. And it turned out perfect. Satchita came that night. I went to Sangita Apa's house with a small sample. Though I landed up at 10 pm without any notice, they were quite nice to me. She tasted the biryani and approved of my culinary expertise.

The next day, I went bonkers. Sabudana khichdi. A jinxed dish that our family has been unable to perfect over decades. Since Sangita Apa had returned my tiffin with peanuts in them, I roasted them and Satchita crushed them. I soaked the sabudana, cut potatoes and chillies...my fingers burned for the rest of the day. I used a really tiny kadhai and burnt it a bit, made it slightly soggy, but I think the effort was commendable.

Now I feel like I can give any five-star chef a run for his money, but psst psst, whenever I make khichdi Sangita Apa has to measure the stuff...so you know where I stand...

I love the view from the terrace. My favourite occupation is - standing on the terrace and staring out into the vast open field that borders Ekamra College and faces our house.

Too much khichdi. Time for a menu change. The downside is we have no gas.

Time to go. This cafe's closing. To "Benasin". For dinner. Am tired of bread and cornflakes.