Enrique got me in the news recently.
It was quite unexpected. I’ve been avoiding him ever since he said he was coming to Mumbai. And all along, I’ve been stonily indifferent to his breathless entreaties, ‘I can be your hero baby’…
So I was a tad uncomfortable queuing up for passes for his show at the music store. Working in close proximity to a music store and having friends who are besotted with Enrique can be doubly disadvantageous. Still, I am the obliging sorts.
As I waited, I spotted an odd couple. The girl wore a lavender shirt and black trousers. Ditto for the guy. Peculiar dress code, I thought. At that moment they turned. Lavender Boy was gripping a video camera and Lavender Girl, a boom mike. And they were making a bee line for me…
Lavender Girl: I’m from Aaj Tak. Are you buying passes for the Enrique concert?
Surprised Lee: But these are for a friend, not me.
Lavender Girl: That’s ok. We just need footage.”
I’ve been called ‘background’ and ‘extra’ before. ‘Footage’ was a new insult.
I was about to protest again when the latent wicked streak began bubbling. The idea of ‘acting’ like a smitten groupie appealed. I once had a bit part in a winning play in College. And the arclights hadn’t dimmed ever since.
Ok, I will be Footage, I told Lavender Girl.
Out went the I-wish-I-was-elsewhere look. Replaced by an ‘Enrique-you’re-my-hero-baby melting-eyes tremulous-mouth’ look. Lavender Boy swung the camera this way and that to capture each nuance.
The guy in front of me bought 13 tickets worth Rs.1200 each. I hoped the camera didn’t catch that momentary flicker in my lovelorn gaze. The counter staff was saying, “Everyone’s buying the Rs. 1200 passes. We’ve only sold 9 booklets of Rs. 800 as compared to 20 of Rs. 1200." Wow, Enrique sure doesn’t miss ME.
It was my turn. The staff handed over the passes with a flourish. I accepted them with a flourish.
The boom mike was thrust under my nose. A small knot of people had gathered to watch. I patted my unruly curls in place.
Lavender Girl: Aap ye concert mein kyon jaana chahte hai?
ULP! I belatedly remembered it was Aaj Tak. I would have to speak in Hindi. My Hindi is a trifle rusty, corrupted by Bambaiyya and susceptible to gender bloopers when nervous. But seasoned performers aren’t fazed by trifling issues like these.
Hammy Lee (in Hindi): Um… I’m a big fan of Enrique. I love his songs. I love his music videos.
Lavender Girl: Most of Enrique’s fans are teenagers and teenyboppers. So what makes you such a fan?
Indignation momentarily nudged out nervousness and lovelorn-ness.
Indignant Lee: Lady, THOSE are laugh lines. And these glasses give me a severe look. So just what are you trying to insinuate?
But Indignant Lee only sputters and fumes in silence.
Hammy Lee: Erm… I’m a big fan of Enrique. I love his songs. I love his music videos.
Lavender Girl: “Have you been for other concerts before?”
Having almost got attacked by crazed fans at a UB40 concert some years ago, I didn’t care to repeat that experience. But while we’re acting here…
Hammy Lee: Yes, I’ve been for UB40… and Bryan Adams.
A belated, unsuccessful attempt to sound cool.
Lavender Girl gestures to Lavender Boy to stop filming. Whew, I thought, about time. The act was beginning to wear thin.
Lavender Girl: Could you please say on camera that you liked these concerts and you’re sure that Enrique will be even better?
Indignant Lee: What?! You’re asking me to lie? On national television? Is this HOW you gather news?
Lavender Girl: Rolling…
Hammy Lee: Yes I loved Bryan Adams and UB40 and I’m sure Enrique isse bhi better rahega.
Note to viewers: If you’re catching the news on Aaj Tak on the pre-Enrique concert hype and spot one respondent from Mumbai with red cheeks and a very very long nose… that’s me.
Saturday, April 10, 2004
Sunday, April 04, 2004
It's only words - I
First love
I have only hazy memories of the first time I was swept off my feet. But my aunt tells me I must have been 3 or 4 years old. I'd tagged along with her to her friend's house and after a while was nowhere to be seen. Assuming I'd gone down the stairs alone, they launched a frantic search. Imagine their chagrin, when they found me in one of the rooms itself, leaning over a table, swinging a leg and with total absorption, 'reading' a thick tome. I don't remember the title, but I recall being enthralled by row after neat row of alphabets and the wafery thinness of the pages.
Another memory is of a kiddies party perhaps not long after. The hostess held two cheerfully wrapped gifts and asked me, "What would you like - a game or books?" No conflict here. Thrusting my pudgy hands out, I earnestly lisped, "Bookths" And that's how the collection began... with Thumbelina, Little Mermaid and Beauty.
Toys came and went, but my precious bookths were carefully preserved. The first day of summer vacations saw an unvarying ritual: notebooks and textbooks were gleefully expelled and the motley collection of storybooks would be brought out and lined against the wall. The Library was open!
At school, the library was tucked away in one quiet corner. And my favourite moment was when we all had to troop out in a queue and climb the 54 steps or so from the Primary Section to the Secondary, where the library was located. Mystery, fantasy, adventure - all in one little room. Even the archetypal villain - the librarian. She not only rationed the Enid Blytons, but also shoved into our unwilling hands, books on animals, birds, science and even novels in Hindi and Marathi. Admirable intentions, some might think, but not us who shrank from these surrogate textbooks.
I bided my time until I became the library monitor. And then craftily went around distributing all the books I wanted to read to my classmates. Through the week I'd swap books with them and thus, swiftly worked my way through the Blytons, Hardy Boys, Nancy Drews, Richmal Cromptons and Wodehouses. Sometimes I'd even prop a novel between the pages of a textbook during a boring class and once suffered the ignominy of standing outside class when caught doing that.
The collection stayed very modest, until i discovered the detour from College to Marine Lines station. Two second hand bookstores lay in wait on that detour with books piled precariously almost up to the ceiling. Many an afternoon was spent craning and contorting, thumbing and sneezing in those musty bookstores. Rarely did i leave without carting away armfuls of trashy fiction, classics, thrillers and some rare reads. The 2 1/2 hour daily train rides were scarcely ever felt.
With English Literature, I had a reading list and therefore, a legitimate reason to indulge in my hobby. But my mother remained unconvinced as she saw empty spaces at home vanishing. She complained to Dad, who acted swiftly, but not in the way she expected. A bookcase was constructed which was dubbed rather fancifully, 'The Library'.
What kind of books do you read, I'm often asked. And here's where I flounder. The thought of limiting oneself to a certain genre is preposterous. At some point I savour Indian writers, then start craving the classics, until I get a whiff of travel writing. From there, I might hop on to short stories, dipping into inspirational and spiritual literature. There was once the war phase, where I devoured everything in sight on the Second World War and the Vietnam War. And occasionally, there's the regression to the Enid Blyton era, where I long wistfully for the Wishing Chair and the Magic Faraway Tree.
It's a journey I don't question anymore. In fact, sometimes I feel that it isn't me choosing a book but vice versa. With increasing regularity, I 'chance' upon books whose message I need to hear or books which set me off on a new path.
And along this path are also strewn quirks of various sorts. The egregious memory turns elephantine when it comes to books I've lent. I've been known to stalk people who fail to return my books in time. And then there's the meticulous cataloguing of every single book by name, author and category. Each new entrant is allowed into the Library only after it's sheathed in plastic. And I know the almost precise location of each of the 807 books right down to the shelf, row and surrounding books.
Obsession, thunders my mother. I wickedly point to the Erasmus quote pasted on the Library, 'When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes.'
Somehow, these lines reassure me that I'm not alone.
It's been six months since I started the blog. And when i think about it, the urge to write has undoubtedly been inspired by everything I've read and enjoyed all these years. The journey continues...
I have only hazy memories of the first time I was swept off my feet. But my aunt tells me I must have been 3 or 4 years old. I'd tagged along with her to her friend's house and after a while was nowhere to be seen. Assuming I'd gone down the stairs alone, they launched a frantic search. Imagine their chagrin, when they found me in one of the rooms itself, leaning over a table, swinging a leg and with total absorption, 'reading' a thick tome. I don't remember the title, but I recall being enthralled by row after neat row of alphabets and the wafery thinness of the pages.
Another memory is of a kiddies party perhaps not long after. The hostess held two cheerfully wrapped gifts and asked me, "What would you like - a game or books?" No conflict here. Thrusting my pudgy hands out, I earnestly lisped, "Bookths" And that's how the collection began... with Thumbelina, Little Mermaid and Beauty.
Toys came and went, but my precious bookths were carefully preserved. The first day of summer vacations saw an unvarying ritual: notebooks and textbooks were gleefully expelled and the motley collection of storybooks would be brought out and lined against the wall. The Library was open!
At school, the library was tucked away in one quiet corner. And my favourite moment was when we all had to troop out in a queue and climb the 54 steps or so from the Primary Section to the Secondary, where the library was located. Mystery, fantasy, adventure - all in one little room. Even the archetypal villain - the librarian. She not only rationed the Enid Blytons, but also shoved into our unwilling hands, books on animals, birds, science and even novels in Hindi and Marathi. Admirable intentions, some might think, but not us who shrank from these surrogate textbooks.
I bided my time until I became the library monitor. And then craftily went around distributing all the books I wanted to read to my classmates. Through the week I'd swap books with them and thus, swiftly worked my way through the Blytons, Hardy Boys, Nancy Drews, Richmal Cromptons and Wodehouses. Sometimes I'd even prop a novel between the pages of a textbook during a boring class and once suffered the ignominy of standing outside class when caught doing that.
The collection stayed very modest, until i discovered the detour from College to Marine Lines station. Two second hand bookstores lay in wait on that detour with books piled precariously almost up to the ceiling. Many an afternoon was spent craning and contorting, thumbing and sneezing in those musty bookstores. Rarely did i leave without carting away armfuls of trashy fiction, classics, thrillers and some rare reads. The 2 1/2 hour daily train rides were scarcely ever felt.
With English Literature, I had a reading list and therefore, a legitimate reason to indulge in my hobby. But my mother remained unconvinced as she saw empty spaces at home vanishing. She complained to Dad, who acted swiftly, but not in the way she expected. A bookcase was constructed which was dubbed rather fancifully, 'The Library'.
What kind of books do you read, I'm often asked. And here's where I flounder. The thought of limiting oneself to a certain genre is preposterous. At some point I savour Indian writers, then start craving the classics, until I get a whiff of travel writing. From there, I might hop on to short stories, dipping into inspirational and spiritual literature. There was once the war phase, where I devoured everything in sight on the Second World War and the Vietnam War. And occasionally, there's the regression to the Enid Blyton era, where I long wistfully for the Wishing Chair and the Magic Faraway Tree.
It's a journey I don't question anymore. In fact, sometimes I feel that it isn't me choosing a book but vice versa. With increasing regularity, I 'chance' upon books whose message I need to hear or books which set me off on a new path.
And along this path are also strewn quirks of various sorts. The egregious memory turns elephantine when it comes to books I've lent. I've been known to stalk people who fail to return my books in time. And then there's the meticulous cataloguing of every single book by name, author and category. Each new entrant is allowed into the Library only after it's sheathed in plastic. And I know the almost precise location of each of the 807 books right down to the shelf, row and surrounding books.
Obsession, thunders my mother. I wickedly point to the Erasmus quote pasted on the Library, 'When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes.'
Somehow, these lines reassure me that I'm not alone.
It's been six months since I started the blog. And when i think about it, the urge to write has undoubtedly been inspired by everything I've read and enjoyed all these years. The journey continues...
Sunday, March 28, 2004
A night at the Abbies
March 1998:
I wasn't even in advertising when I attended my first ABBY AWARDS. An aspiring, starry-eyed copywriter, I watched as hotshot creative teams strode up on stage to claim their awards, even as their agencies lustily cheered them on. At that time, I swore that I would be part of this industry too and maybe, just maybe, do the dream walk up to the stage.
March 2004:
6 years and 3 agencies later, a good bit of stardust had flown out of my eyes. I had realized my dream of being part of the industry. Two international awards made my resume look respectable. But then, for various reasons, I took the side exit. The Abbies weren't the annual high point that they once used to be. In fact, in the last year or two, they'd become only an excuse to catch up with friends and with the going-ons in advertising.
Still, there was a wee bit of anticipation when I headed for ABBY 2004. An ad that Art Partner and I had worked on 1 ½ year ago had been nominated. Thinking about it made me nervous, so I focused on all the familiar faces around. "Hiiii Albert… Hey Padhi…. Sangs, we must catch up… Rads, how've you beeeen!…" My head swiveled furiously as I spotted old colleagues and friends.
At the entrance, the sponsors handed us goodie bags with colourful cushions. "How thoughtful of them to think of my hemorrhoids!", someone quipped and we cracked up. Well, after all these were people who wrote one-liners for a living!
My friends and I bagged seats right in front of one of the giant screens. The comperes, Rakshanda Khan and Kunal Vijaykar, started off with some terribly lame jokes. A cardinal rule for comperes at ad shows - unless it's superlative, never never attempt humour. The cynical, jaded, chip-on-shoulder ad folk are especially unforgiving of forced humour. Two years ago when Shobha De breezily drawled, "Print advertising is seriousssssly sexy," the wags at the back hollered, "Shobha maushi, gappa bas." (loose translation: Shuddup auntie!) No sacred cows in advertising, for sure!
Another hilarious candid camera moment: Before the awards, the camera zoomed in on the current poster-boy (man?) of Indian Advertising, Piyush Pandey. Unaware of being in the crosshairs, he thrust a finger into the side of his mouth and tried to wrest that elusive bit of spinach from his teeth. Here was THE face of Indian advertising, the President of the 2004 Cannes Jury, scooping out his cavities with obvious relish. The audience watched in horror and disgust and then broke into hysterical laughter. Eeeew!
The evening was filled with a few other mirthful moments. Each time the agency, RMG David, went up to collect an award, they handed a foil-wrapped gift to the bemused presenter. By the end of the evening, everyone wanted to know exactly what was inside!
Some of the early winners - Axe, Cadbury's, Colgate, and…. Our Lady of Fatima's Church! An indication that ad folk might run out of brands, but never out of ideas!
And then the compere announced the award category that I'd been trying not to think of all evening. A loud pounding began in the region of my chest as the compere boomed, "And the nominees are…" There were six nominees including our ad. The voice in my head said, NOT A CHANCE. And I squeezed my eyes shut.
"There's a joint silver in this category. And the first joint silver goes to…"
My eyes flashed open and I gawked at the screen. OH-MY-GOD! Up on the screen was my name along with Art Partner's. And with a shock I realized we had to go up and collect OUR ABBY! That was the last thought before my mind went blank.
Like a bunch of bumbling robots, Art Partner and I did the dream walk in slow motion. Slow, because of her 7-month pregnancy and my knocking knees. Gosh, it was bright when we reached the stage. I was only dimly aware that EVERYONE was watching us. I can't remember who handed us the award, but he smiled very warmly and congratulated us. We weren't sure what to do next. Thankfully, there are no acceptance speeches at the Abbies, or else we'd have looked like blithering idiots. We walked off in a daze with goofy grins.
"Lee please hold the trophy," Art Partner requested weakly. I belatedly realized that she was finding it difficult to hold the trophy and negotiate the steps. The 'man with outstretched arms' was surprisingly heavy, but very very huggable!
For a while after that, I couldn't concentrate on the ceremony. People all around were shaking my hand or calling up or sending sms. The nicest one from Art Partner herself, "I always knew we were good together." In fact, the award couldn't have come at a better time. With me unsure about getting back into mainstream advertising and she, with Baby No. 1 on the way, it would be a while until Abby No. 2.
It was an O&M show all through, just like it's been for the last few years. Somebody SHOULD bottle their incredible success formula!
Post-awards, there were more congratulations in store. There was no need to visit the overcrowded bar, we were on a high all through. My friends laughed when they saw me with an armful of the Abby brochures. One, for each member of the family, I joked. Actually that brochure contained our only proof of winning, since the trophy would go to the agency, and the Ad Club didn't give out certificates.
I went home reliving every moment of the evening. For just a few hours, I was once again that starry eyed copywriter of 6 years ago.
I wasn't even in advertising when I attended my first ABBY AWARDS. An aspiring, starry-eyed copywriter, I watched as hotshot creative teams strode up on stage to claim their awards, even as their agencies lustily cheered them on. At that time, I swore that I would be part of this industry too and maybe, just maybe, do the dream walk up to the stage.
March 2004:
6 years and 3 agencies later, a good bit of stardust had flown out of my eyes. I had realized my dream of being part of the industry. Two international awards made my resume look respectable. But then, for various reasons, I took the side exit. The Abbies weren't the annual high point that they once used to be. In fact, in the last year or two, they'd become only an excuse to catch up with friends and with the going-ons in advertising.
Still, there was a wee bit of anticipation when I headed for ABBY 2004. An ad that Art Partner and I had worked on 1 ½ year ago had been nominated. Thinking about it made me nervous, so I focused on all the familiar faces around. "Hiiii Albert… Hey Padhi…. Sangs, we must catch up… Rads, how've you beeeen!…" My head swiveled furiously as I spotted old colleagues and friends.
At the entrance, the sponsors handed us goodie bags with colourful cushions. "How thoughtful of them to think of my hemorrhoids!", someone quipped and we cracked up. Well, after all these were people who wrote one-liners for a living!
My friends and I bagged seats right in front of one of the giant screens. The comperes, Rakshanda Khan and Kunal Vijaykar, started off with some terribly lame jokes. A cardinal rule for comperes at ad shows - unless it's superlative, never never attempt humour. The cynical, jaded, chip-on-shoulder ad folk are especially unforgiving of forced humour. Two years ago when Shobha De breezily drawled, "Print advertising is seriousssssly sexy," the wags at the back hollered, "Shobha maushi, gappa bas." (loose translation: Shuddup auntie!) No sacred cows in advertising, for sure!
Another hilarious candid camera moment: Before the awards, the camera zoomed in on the current poster-boy (man?) of Indian Advertising, Piyush Pandey. Unaware of being in the crosshairs, he thrust a finger into the side of his mouth and tried to wrest that elusive bit of spinach from his teeth. Here was THE face of Indian advertising, the President of the 2004 Cannes Jury, scooping out his cavities with obvious relish. The audience watched in horror and disgust and then broke into hysterical laughter. Eeeew!
The evening was filled with a few other mirthful moments. Each time the agency, RMG David, went up to collect an award, they handed a foil-wrapped gift to the bemused presenter. By the end of the evening, everyone wanted to know exactly what was inside!
Some of the early winners - Axe, Cadbury's, Colgate, and…. Our Lady of Fatima's Church! An indication that ad folk might run out of brands, but never out of ideas!
And then the compere announced the award category that I'd been trying not to think of all evening. A loud pounding began in the region of my chest as the compere boomed, "And the nominees are…" There were six nominees including our ad. The voice in my head said, NOT A CHANCE. And I squeezed my eyes shut.
"There's a joint silver in this category. And the first joint silver goes to…"
My eyes flashed open and I gawked at the screen. OH-MY-GOD! Up on the screen was my name along with Art Partner's. And with a shock I realized we had to go up and collect OUR ABBY! That was the last thought before my mind went blank.
Like a bunch of bumbling robots, Art Partner and I did the dream walk in slow motion. Slow, because of her 7-month pregnancy and my knocking knees. Gosh, it was bright when we reached the stage. I was only dimly aware that EVERYONE was watching us. I can't remember who handed us the award, but he smiled very warmly and congratulated us. We weren't sure what to do next. Thankfully, there are no acceptance speeches at the Abbies, or else we'd have looked like blithering idiots. We walked off in a daze with goofy grins.
"Lee please hold the trophy," Art Partner requested weakly. I belatedly realized that she was finding it difficult to hold the trophy and negotiate the steps. The 'man with outstretched arms' was surprisingly heavy, but very very huggable!
For a while after that, I couldn't concentrate on the ceremony. People all around were shaking my hand or calling up or sending sms. The nicest one from Art Partner herself, "I always knew we were good together." In fact, the award couldn't have come at a better time. With me unsure about getting back into mainstream advertising and she, with Baby No. 1 on the way, it would be a while until Abby No. 2.
It was an O&M show all through, just like it's been for the last few years. Somebody SHOULD bottle their incredible success formula!
Post-awards, there were more congratulations in store. There was no need to visit the overcrowded bar, we were on a high all through. My friends laughed when they saw me with an armful of the Abby brochures. One, for each member of the family, I joked. Actually that brochure contained our only proof of winning, since the trophy would go to the agency, and the Ad Club didn't give out certificates.
I went home reliving every moment of the evening. For just a few hours, I was once again that starry eyed copywriter of 6 years ago.
Monday, March 22, 2004
A busy week for Murphy (or why I haven't left a comment on your blog)
I've had a glimpse of the Stone Ages this week. No email, no chat, no blogs (gasp!). And considering that I've strenuously held out against the insidious invasion of technology all along, I now realise I'm a regular net junkie. A net junkie with a bad case of withdrawal symptoms.
With all the 'free time' this week then, I've been ruminating about this unthinkable turn of events. Until nine months ago, I didn't even have my own computer at work. I used to share a terminal with a colleague. In my previous workplace, there were only two terminals which had the Net. This was an improvement over another agency where I worked, which had one connection. When there was information to be gathered, we went to the library. Google? Yeah, heard of it. I had a pc at home with a dial-up. Which one? Um... I didn't know. I never bothered logging on from home.
There I was, blissfully insulated from the inexorable tide of technology. Two things changed that: the hunt for a digital camera and blogging. From a bewildered, self-avowed techno-phobe, I slowly turned into a zealot. In theory, i knew all about the vastness of the medium. But for the first time, I got the feeling that I was standing at the edge of the ocean. Google and I became fast friends. My eyes almost fell off when I first discovered THREE links to my name! Mailboxes were checked throughout the day and then I'd get home and log on to check what I'd missed in the last hour. All was well; I was proceeding smoothly towards net addiction. Until Murphy struck...
First, my home pc threw a tantrum. It stopped showing the comment boxes on blogs and refused to let me access the blog home page. Also, it moodily refused to show me recent posts on some blogs. Then there was the matter of getting disconnected every few minutes. Thankfully, I had my office pc to fall back on...
Unfortunately, early last week, the management did a taliban on all mail sites. Vehement protests, wailing and sulking were as futile as our attempts to connect to hotmail, rediff and yahoo. I was especially indignant. Here I was, with bags packed, finally heading out of the Stone Ages. And now I was being forced off the bus! I ranted at every software engineer in sight, as though they were personally responsible for this development.
A minor respite. The elusive cable finally showed up at home and granted us the Internet cable. 24-HOUR ONLINE - the icon on the computer boasted when I logged on. And then this message followed:
Sorry for the inconvenience, the line is down as the underground fiber has been cut by BMC while digging the road. The line should be restored late afternoon.
And this was four days ago!
Seriously, now I know what drives people to sabotage!
Rants notwithstanding, I'm in a way grateful too. Perhaps, I've been singled out for yet another cosmic lesson in detachment. If the medium is the message, then this week's message has been loud and clear: GET A LIFE! Hmm... this has already been too much time spent on this post...
P.S. No, this isn't a goodbye-to-blogging. I'm still going to be around. Just bear with delayed comments and mails :-) Thanks!
With all the 'free time' this week then, I've been ruminating about this unthinkable turn of events. Until nine months ago, I didn't even have my own computer at work. I used to share a terminal with a colleague. In my previous workplace, there were only two terminals which had the Net. This was an improvement over another agency where I worked, which had one connection. When there was information to be gathered, we went to the library. Google? Yeah, heard of it. I had a pc at home with a dial-up. Which one? Um... I didn't know. I never bothered logging on from home.
There I was, blissfully insulated from the inexorable tide of technology. Two things changed that: the hunt for a digital camera and blogging. From a bewildered, self-avowed techno-phobe, I slowly turned into a zealot. In theory, i knew all about the vastness of the medium. But for the first time, I got the feeling that I was standing at the edge of the ocean. Google and I became fast friends. My eyes almost fell off when I first discovered THREE links to my name! Mailboxes were checked throughout the day and then I'd get home and log on to check what I'd missed in the last hour. All was well; I was proceeding smoothly towards net addiction. Until Murphy struck...
First, my home pc threw a tantrum. It stopped showing the comment boxes on blogs and refused to let me access the blog home page. Also, it moodily refused to show me recent posts on some blogs. Then there was the matter of getting disconnected every few minutes. Thankfully, I had my office pc to fall back on...
Unfortunately, early last week, the management did a taliban on all mail sites. Vehement protests, wailing and sulking were as futile as our attempts to connect to hotmail, rediff and yahoo. I was especially indignant. Here I was, with bags packed, finally heading out of the Stone Ages. And now I was being forced off the bus! I ranted at every software engineer in sight, as though they were personally responsible for this development.
A minor respite. The elusive cable finally showed up at home and granted us the Internet cable. 24-HOUR ONLINE - the icon on the computer boasted when I logged on. And then this message followed:
Sorry for the inconvenience, the line is down as the underground fiber has been cut by BMC while digging the road. The line should be restored late afternoon.
And this was four days ago!
Seriously, now I know what drives people to sabotage!
Rants notwithstanding, I'm in a way grateful too. Perhaps, I've been singled out for yet another cosmic lesson in detachment. If the medium is the message, then this week's message has been loud and clear: GET A LIFE! Hmm... this has already been too much time spent on this post...
P.S. No, this isn't a goodbye-to-blogging. I'm still going to be around. Just bear with delayed comments and mails :-) Thanks!
Sunday, March 14, 2004
Live commentary...
I love cricket. Totally, completely, absolutely love cricket.
But to assume that I’m a rabid fan who watches every match, knows every obscure statistic and worships the boys in blue, would be quite erroneous.
The truth is I haven’t watched a match in years, no, not even the World Cup. Whether India wins or loses, I enjoy a good night’s sleep. And I never ever care to ask, ‘Score kya hua?’
So why do I say I love cricket? Simply because I enjoy watching the incredible effect it has on people.
Take yesterday, for instance. My cricket loving brother was up at an abnormally early hour (read 8 a.m) just to watch the pre-match commentary. Knowing that I wouldn’t get any writing done through the day, I decided to step out to complete some chores.
I walked out into a deserted street. I could actually hear birds twittering. A sound normally obscured by impatient honking and the roar of exhaust. Forlorn shopkeepers beamed when they saw me approach. At the grocery store, a few other stragglers entered and started an animated conversation about the day’s match and prospects of winning. Perfect strangers until a minute ago.
‘Ohhhh…..’ a gasp went out in unison from several windows in a building. Some batsman probably had a near miss. It was incredible to think of families, friends and neighbours all sitting together, their voices and fervid prayers commingling with each other.
It reminded me of my office which has a rather hierarchical order. A cricket match and all the structures temporarily fold up since the director’s cabin has the only TV set on the floor. It’s fun to see people troop in under some flimsy pretext or the other. After a while all pretences are dropped and people unabashedly plonk themselves on the sofa. The transformation of serious, no-nonsense executives into raving, whooping fans is a sight to behold!
The latest tour of Pakistan has meant a brief and welcome respite from the bizarre political and filmi shenanigans. From the ‘India Shining/India Whining’ debates. From the mind-numbing soaps and go-to-any-lengths music videos. For just a little while, there’s just one religion in this crazy, troubled country. My favourite moment is when the players all stand in a row, hand over heart and with passion in the eyes sing the national anthem.
Finally, there’s one more reason why I welcome cricket this year. Since my exit from mainstream advertising, I haven’t had to ads that somehow ties in cricket with cosmetics or department stores or banks. No cricket metaphors, no clichés, no stale puns. Whew!
Cricket? I’m game for it…
But to assume that I’m a rabid fan who watches every match, knows every obscure statistic and worships the boys in blue, would be quite erroneous.
The truth is I haven’t watched a match in years, no, not even the World Cup. Whether India wins or loses, I enjoy a good night’s sleep. And I never ever care to ask, ‘Score kya hua?’
So why do I say I love cricket? Simply because I enjoy watching the incredible effect it has on people.
Take yesterday, for instance. My cricket loving brother was up at an abnormally early hour (read 8 a.m) just to watch the pre-match commentary. Knowing that I wouldn’t get any writing done through the day, I decided to step out to complete some chores.
I walked out into a deserted street. I could actually hear birds twittering. A sound normally obscured by impatient honking and the roar of exhaust. Forlorn shopkeepers beamed when they saw me approach. At the grocery store, a few other stragglers entered and started an animated conversation about the day’s match and prospects of winning. Perfect strangers until a minute ago.
‘Ohhhh…..’ a gasp went out in unison from several windows in a building. Some batsman probably had a near miss. It was incredible to think of families, friends and neighbours all sitting together, their voices and fervid prayers commingling with each other.
It reminded me of my office which has a rather hierarchical order. A cricket match and all the structures temporarily fold up since the director’s cabin has the only TV set on the floor. It’s fun to see people troop in under some flimsy pretext or the other. After a while all pretences are dropped and people unabashedly plonk themselves on the sofa. The transformation of serious, no-nonsense executives into raving, whooping fans is a sight to behold!
The latest tour of Pakistan has meant a brief and welcome respite from the bizarre political and filmi shenanigans. From the ‘India Shining/India Whining’ debates. From the mind-numbing soaps and go-to-any-lengths music videos. For just a little while, there’s just one religion in this crazy, troubled country. My favourite moment is when the players all stand in a row, hand over heart and with passion in the eyes sing the national anthem.
Finally, there’s one more reason why I welcome cricket this year. Since my exit from mainstream advertising, I haven’t had to ads that somehow ties in cricket with cosmetics or department stores or banks. No cricket metaphors, no clichés, no stale puns. Whew!
Cricket? I’m game for it…
Monday, March 08, 2004
Ro, you rock!
One of my closest friends, Ro, arrived from Sydney last week with 8-month old twins in tow. I was excited about meeting the new mum who I hadn’t seen in three years. And of course, the handsome TWINS!
I called the day after she arrived. Her sister said, “Ro is feeding little K. She’ll call you in two hours.” It seemed like an inordinately long feeding time. I didn’t hear from her so I tried again the next day. “Ro’s suctioning little K. She’ll call back,” I was told.
I could understand Ro’s inaccessibility. Twins can be a handful. And when one of them has a rare dysfunction of the vocal chords, a preoccupied mom is but natural.
The twins were a few weeks premature. J had no problem adapting. K however hit a rough patch. Like most kids, he bawled as he made his entry. But unlike most kids, no sound issued from his throat. What followed was a battery of tests and a tracheotomy to insert a tube into his lungs. The tracheotomy also meant he had to be fed through a tube in his nose.
“Lee!”, she yelled delightedly when I visited her yesterday. Her ‘telephone-wire’ curls were the same. The warm smile hadn’t changed. Only the dark crescents under her eyes were new. Little J was waiting to be introduced. I gazed at the cuddly ball with cheeks that spilled out over his shoulders. He flashed me a toothless smile and then gave an almighty yawn. I was in love.
K, an equally gorgeous but less plump version of J, was vigorously kicking his tiny feet in the air. It seemed like he was doing an airborne marathon. The tube in his nose was held firmly on his cheek with adhesive tape. The tracheal tube stuck to his neck like an amulet. And from it, his breath issued with a rasping sound.
I then understood why Ro never came to the phone. She sat with a box of tissues wiping the secretion from K’s throat. When he couldn’t cough it out, she had to suction the tube with an apparatus. She had to watch that his restless fingers didn’t dislodge the tube from his nose. And she had to hold and cuddle him when he cried tearfully but soundlessly.
I watched the feeding ritual. The formula was poured into a syringe attached to the nasal tube. The feed was drained in half an hour. But K had to be held for an hour and a half after that, to ensure that he didn’t throw up, since there was a danger of the reflux entering his already-weakened lungs. This procedure had to be repeated at each of the four daily feeds. Sometimes by the time they finished one feed, it was almost time for the next.
Ro’s dad laughingly told me of how they’d sometimes find her asleep, her head resting on little K. Once, her aunt found a way around that by tying her head to a cushioned bedpost.
“How’re you holding up Ro?” I asked her.
Without a trace of sorrow or self pity, she replied, “I’m taking one day at a time. I just want K to be well.” Doctors had given her mixed opinions. One said it was almost certain that K’s cords would recover by themselves. Another callously and decisively told her to give up hope. But she tenaciously believed that a miracle could and WOULD happen.
“I’m so grateful that my parents were with me all this time”, she said over and over. “And I’m so lucky that J and K are such adorable, peaceful, un-fussy babies”, she said looking at them fondly. Grateful? Lucky? Earlier, she’d mentioned the tubes irritating K’s trachea, causing him to cough up blood. What lay ahead – endless visits to paediatricians, multiple opinions, see-sawing hopes. But here she was using words like grateful and lucky.
I looked around at the room filled with baby things and half-unpacked suitcases. I wondered where the half-finished manuscript would be. Ro, a gifted writer, had been one of 6 people (and the only Indian) in Sydney who’d been selected for a Writing Mentorship Programme. She’d completed the first draft of a book – her FIRST book - before the twins changed her world. Now, she and her family are back in Mumbai, to start afresh. One day at a time.
International Women's Day? It's really a year long celebration.
I called the day after she arrived. Her sister said, “Ro is feeding little K. She’ll call you in two hours.” It seemed like an inordinately long feeding time. I didn’t hear from her so I tried again the next day. “Ro’s suctioning little K. She’ll call back,” I was told.
I could understand Ro’s inaccessibility. Twins can be a handful. And when one of them has a rare dysfunction of the vocal chords, a preoccupied mom is but natural.
The twins were a few weeks premature. J had no problem adapting. K however hit a rough patch. Like most kids, he bawled as he made his entry. But unlike most kids, no sound issued from his throat. What followed was a battery of tests and a tracheotomy to insert a tube into his lungs. The tracheotomy also meant he had to be fed through a tube in his nose.
“Lee!”, she yelled delightedly when I visited her yesterday. Her ‘telephone-wire’ curls were the same. The warm smile hadn’t changed. Only the dark crescents under her eyes were new. Little J was waiting to be introduced. I gazed at the cuddly ball with cheeks that spilled out over his shoulders. He flashed me a toothless smile and then gave an almighty yawn. I was in love.
K, an equally gorgeous but less plump version of J, was vigorously kicking his tiny feet in the air. It seemed like he was doing an airborne marathon. The tube in his nose was held firmly on his cheek with adhesive tape. The tracheal tube stuck to his neck like an amulet. And from it, his breath issued with a rasping sound.
I then understood why Ro never came to the phone. She sat with a box of tissues wiping the secretion from K’s throat. When he couldn’t cough it out, she had to suction the tube with an apparatus. She had to watch that his restless fingers didn’t dislodge the tube from his nose. And she had to hold and cuddle him when he cried tearfully but soundlessly.
I watched the feeding ritual. The formula was poured into a syringe attached to the nasal tube. The feed was drained in half an hour. But K had to be held for an hour and a half after that, to ensure that he didn’t throw up, since there was a danger of the reflux entering his already-weakened lungs. This procedure had to be repeated at each of the four daily feeds. Sometimes by the time they finished one feed, it was almost time for the next.
Ro’s dad laughingly told me of how they’d sometimes find her asleep, her head resting on little K. Once, her aunt found a way around that by tying her head to a cushioned bedpost.
“How’re you holding up Ro?” I asked her.
Without a trace of sorrow or self pity, she replied, “I’m taking one day at a time. I just want K to be well.” Doctors had given her mixed opinions. One said it was almost certain that K’s cords would recover by themselves. Another callously and decisively told her to give up hope. But she tenaciously believed that a miracle could and WOULD happen.
“I’m so grateful that my parents were with me all this time”, she said over and over. “And I’m so lucky that J and K are such adorable, peaceful, un-fussy babies”, she said looking at them fondly. Grateful? Lucky? Earlier, she’d mentioned the tubes irritating K’s trachea, causing him to cough up blood. What lay ahead – endless visits to paediatricians, multiple opinions, see-sawing hopes. But here she was using words like grateful and lucky.
I looked around at the room filled with baby things and half-unpacked suitcases. I wondered where the half-finished manuscript would be. Ro, a gifted writer, had been one of 6 people (and the only Indian) in Sydney who’d been selected for a Writing Mentorship Programme. She’d completed the first draft of a book – her FIRST book - before the twins changed her world. Now, she and her family are back in Mumbai, to start afresh. One day at a time.
International Women's Day? It's really a year long celebration.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Wine, Woman and Song
Dragging oneself to town on a lazy Sunday morning for a workshop, might seem like a terrible curse to some. But when you’re sitting in a conference hall with pen, paper and four wine glasses in front of you, the injustice is a little tolerable. Actually, make that, very welcome.
It was the Sula Wine Appreciation Workshop and India’s best known female bartender was holding court, seated on a bar stool. “What do you want to know about wine?”, she rasped. And 19 would-be connoisseurs spewed forth their questions:
“I know that there are red wines and white wines. Tell me more.”
“I was once asked, ‘What’s your grape?’. What does that mean and how do I ask such expert questions?”
“All I know is that it bears an expensive price tag. How do I discern?”
For my part, I wanted to graduate beyond Goa Port Wine. I wanted to be able to order French wine with a certain sangfroid and after delicately sipping it, pronounce loftily, ‘Mmm… the finish is dry.’
So there I sat, ears cocked and pen poised as Shatbi differentiated between table wines (red, white and rose), sparkling wines (like champagne) and fortified wines (where alcohol was added during fermentation to give it a sweet taste. Example, port wine.)
What gives each wine its distinctive taste? The grape variety, of course. The ‘cheat sheet’ listed all the major varieties from Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc and Gewurztraminer for white wines and Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Pinot Noir for red. This exercise of rolling our tongue around slippery French pronunciations primed us for the tasting that followed.
We started with a white wine, Madera. Everyone stared respectfully at the pale liquid being poured.
“Sniff it”, said Shatbi, plunging her nose deep into the glass. “What do you smell?”
Um… wine, I thought.
But the others seemed to have more perceptive nostrils.
‘Pineapple’
‘Jackfruit’
‘Rotten jackfruit’ (Had they been sipping already?!)
“Now, inhale and sip, and swirl it in your mouth”.
I did and the liquid imploded in my mouth. Sluggish tastebuds did the high-five as the heady vapours invaded my mouth and nose. The second sip singed a glowing trail all the way down my throat.
A Chenin Blanc followed. My sensitised nostrils now discerned the aroma of litchis. It also seemed to go down easier than the previous wine. A-ha, I thought, two wines down and I can already tell the difference. Next came a Riesling and a Sauvignon Blanc. And by this time, everyone was in high spirits. People began to detect the aroma of ‘turpentine’, ‘bookstores’ and even ‘new shoes’!
Lunch was accompanied by a sparkling Sula Brut. And post lunch, we went back to work (ha ha!) this time on red wines. Reds, we learned, are more complex and require mature taste buds. Also, one had to learn to bandy words like body, structure and depth.
We started with a Rose (pronounced Ro-say), Sula Blush Zinfandel, a delectable pink wine that was slightly sweet and slightly tart. Sniff, swirl and two swallows later I knew I’d found MY grape!
The Merlot which followed had a pungent aroma, like varnish. And also left an acerbic aftertaste. Cabernet Shiraz was warm and spicy. Full-bodied with a dry finish. I couldn’t remember the last wine we tried, smitten as I was by the Zinfandel.
Armed with information and fortified with wine, J & I tottered out and made our way to Tata Theatre. The Bombay Chamber Orchestra along with musicians from Amsterdam and a Russian pianist were playing Beethoven’s 2nd Symphony and Rachmaninov’s spirited Piano Concerto No. 2. A treat for the already heightened senses! We listened spellbound as wave after wave of exquisite music washed over us, rendering us even more light-headed, if that were possible.
Some Sundays don’t get more di-vine!
It was the Sula Wine Appreciation Workshop and India’s best known female bartender was holding court, seated on a bar stool. “What do you want to know about wine?”, she rasped. And 19 would-be connoisseurs spewed forth their questions:
“I know that there are red wines and white wines. Tell me more.”
“I was once asked, ‘What’s your grape?’. What does that mean and how do I ask such expert questions?”
“All I know is that it bears an expensive price tag. How do I discern?”
For my part, I wanted to graduate beyond Goa Port Wine. I wanted to be able to order French wine with a certain sangfroid and after delicately sipping it, pronounce loftily, ‘Mmm… the finish is dry.’
So there I sat, ears cocked and pen poised as Shatbi differentiated between table wines (red, white and rose), sparkling wines (like champagne) and fortified wines (where alcohol was added during fermentation to give it a sweet taste. Example, port wine.)
What gives each wine its distinctive taste? The grape variety, of course. The ‘cheat sheet’ listed all the major varieties from Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc and Gewurztraminer for white wines and Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Pinot Noir for red. This exercise of rolling our tongue around slippery French pronunciations primed us for the tasting that followed.
We started with a white wine, Madera. Everyone stared respectfully at the pale liquid being poured.
“Sniff it”, said Shatbi, plunging her nose deep into the glass. “What do you smell?”
Um… wine, I thought.
But the others seemed to have more perceptive nostrils.
‘Pineapple’
‘Jackfruit’
‘Rotten jackfruit’ (Had they been sipping already?!)
“Now, inhale and sip, and swirl it in your mouth”.
I did and the liquid imploded in my mouth. Sluggish tastebuds did the high-five as the heady vapours invaded my mouth and nose. The second sip singed a glowing trail all the way down my throat.
A Chenin Blanc followed. My sensitised nostrils now discerned the aroma of litchis. It also seemed to go down easier than the previous wine. A-ha, I thought, two wines down and I can already tell the difference. Next came a Riesling and a Sauvignon Blanc. And by this time, everyone was in high spirits. People began to detect the aroma of ‘turpentine’, ‘bookstores’ and even ‘new shoes’!
Lunch was accompanied by a sparkling Sula Brut. And post lunch, we went back to work (ha ha!) this time on red wines. Reds, we learned, are more complex and require mature taste buds. Also, one had to learn to bandy words like body, structure and depth.
We started with a Rose (pronounced Ro-say), Sula Blush Zinfandel, a delectable pink wine that was slightly sweet and slightly tart. Sniff, swirl and two swallows later I knew I’d found MY grape!
The Merlot which followed had a pungent aroma, like varnish. And also left an acerbic aftertaste. Cabernet Shiraz was warm and spicy. Full-bodied with a dry finish. I couldn’t remember the last wine we tried, smitten as I was by the Zinfandel.
Armed with information and fortified with wine, J & I tottered out and made our way to Tata Theatre. The Bombay Chamber Orchestra along with musicians from Amsterdam and a Russian pianist were playing Beethoven’s 2nd Symphony and Rachmaninov’s spirited Piano Concerto No. 2. A treat for the already heightened senses! We listened spellbound as wave after wave of exquisite music washed over us, rendering us even more light-headed, if that were possible.
Some Sundays don’t get more di-vine!
Sunday, February 29, 2004
Under the Over… With Friends
The table for five had been booked.
I stepped out of the bright sunlight into the cool, tranquil interiors of ‘Under the Over’ - the Italian bistro at Kemps Corner.
‘Er… where’s the table for five?’ I asked the steward, as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.
‘Anywhere you like, ma’am’, he replied courteously. ‘We’re empty at the moment.’
Feeling a little conscious about being the only customer, I picked a table with a good view of the entrance. The traffic passed by soundlessly. The girls came in one after another almost immediately. And the placid quiet of the place was broken with effusive and delighted greetings. The attendant with the water jug waited unobtrusively, probably thinking, ‘Old friends…’
The quiet returned once more as we pored over the menu. Occasional glances were cast at the entrance. The lone male member of the group had yet to arrive.
We were deciding the flavour of the Mashed Potatoes when he walked in. And the decibel levels shot up again. The waiter stepped backward hastily, and watched the guessing game that the last entrant was subjected to. He gamely tried to guess one giggling girl from another, with marginal success.
‘Are you ready to order the Mashed Potatoes now?’, asked the waiter politely, once the brouhaha had subsided.
The orders were placed. I asked for an old Under the Over favourite - Spaghetti Siciliana. Every other place I’d tried it at had successfully disappointed me. But out here, they got it right. Always.
But meal apart, it was the company I was savouring. We had the entire bistro to ourselves. The conversation ranged from the everyday to the eclectic, old bosses and new jobs, travel tales and racy gossip. One person was missing all of this back in Delhi. A quick call to her brought her right into the centre of action. Details will follow, we promised her, five versions of it.
Orange Panties for dessert?! The chef would’ve been apoplectic if he heard our version of Orange Pancakes! But he might have forgiven us if he saw how we made short work of the brownie groaning under the weight of ice cream and chocolate sauce.
Time which had stood still until now suddenly broke loose. Lunch hour had ended ages ago. It was time to get back to work.
The five friends stepped out. Friends brought together thanks to a common hobby – blogging. This was our first offline meeting, the first of many I hope.
Anita, Subs, Uptowngirl, XXX, Rashmi… it’s been such a pleasure!
I stepped out of the bright sunlight into the cool, tranquil interiors of ‘Under the Over’ - the Italian bistro at Kemps Corner.
‘Er… where’s the table for five?’ I asked the steward, as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.
‘Anywhere you like, ma’am’, he replied courteously. ‘We’re empty at the moment.’
Feeling a little conscious about being the only customer, I picked a table with a good view of the entrance. The traffic passed by soundlessly. The girls came in one after another almost immediately. And the placid quiet of the place was broken with effusive and delighted greetings. The attendant with the water jug waited unobtrusively, probably thinking, ‘Old friends…’
The quiet returned once more as we pored over the menu. Occasional glances were cast at the entrance. The lone male member of the group had yet to arrive.
We were deciding the flavour of the Mashed Potatoes when he walked in. And the decibel levels shot up again. The waiter stepped backward hastily, and watched the guessing game that the last entrant was subjected to. He gamely tried to guess one giggling girl from another, with marginal success.
‘Are you ready to order the Mashed Potatoes now?’, asked the waiter politely, once the brouhaha had subsided.
The orders were placed. I asked for an old Under the Over favourite - Spaghetti Siciliana. Every other place I’d tried it at had successfully disappointed me. But out here, they got it right. Always.
But meal apart, it was the company I was savouring. We had the entire bistro to ourselves. The conversation ranged from the everyday to the eclectic, old bosses and new jobs, travel tales and racy gossip. One person was missing all of this back in Delhi. A quick call to her brought her right into the centre of action. Details will follow, we promised her, five versions of it.
Orange Panties for dessert?! The chef would’ve been apoplectic if he heard our version of Orange Pancakes! But he might have forgiven us if he saw how we made short work of the brownie groaning under the weight of ice cream and chocolate sauce.
Time which had stood still until now suddenly broke loose. Lunch hour had ended ages ago. It was time to get back to work.
The five friends stepped out. Friends brought together thanks to a common hobby – blogging. This was our first offline meeting, the first of many I hope.
Anita, Subs, Uptowngirl, XXX, Rashmi… it’s been such a pleasure!
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Back to skool!
It was the much-looked-forward-to holiday in the middle of the week. My aunt, a school teacher, dropped in to spend the day with us. And after a while, she did what most teachers do on their days off. She pulled out a thick wad of answer papers and the dreaded red pen. I hurriedly wore a busy look to stave off requests to help with corrections. It was a precious holiday and I didn’t want to be reminded of school!
But on seeing her shake her head and occasionally clutch her greying hair, my curiosity was aroused. A sneak peek revealed that it was a Class II English grammar paper.
Grammar! The bugbear of every student! A subject which drives grownups to their knees! And these were mere 7 year olds, delicately treading a minefield of Opposites, Plurals and Genders. Curious about how they braved their way, I started leafing through some of the corrected papers. And came away with some thrilling insights…
The first error I spotted was in Opposites.
THICK x FAT
Surprisingly, the next 7 papers also had the same error. And then I noticed other similarities as well. I was mildly shocked to discover that they’d been copying. Wasn’t Std. II a little early to start? Or was I the naïve one here?
Some answers, although erroneous, revealed considerable ingenuity.
CLEVER x DISCLEVER
BEGIN x UNBEGIN
ASLEEP x INASLEEP
And one blunder which was nonetheless apt was…
CLEVER x BULL
I couldn’t resist chortling at some of the bloopers in Gender.
SIR x MADMAN
FATHER x GRANDFATHER
Plurals also had several howlers, the most notable being…
SHEEP x SHEEPISH
Guesswork showed up in some answers, with side-splitting effect.
So, a GARDENER was the head of the school.
And a COBBLER operated on an aeroplane.
In Make Sentences With…, one smart kid thought he’d hit upon a sure shot formula. The words were Study, Apple, Leader, Tall. His answers were…
This is a study
This is a apple
This is a leader
This is a tall.
This is a zero, said the menacing red marker, which was looking for ‘meaningful’ sentences.
Some answers were poignant, and revealed the child’s unique insight.
One who sells flowers is MOTHER.
One who teaches in a school is MISS SHILPA.
One who leads a team is INDIAN
One paper stood out in terms of originality. No copying, for this child. Irrespective of the question, the answers were a breezy free association.
Opposites:
FIRST x FOUR
LONG x LION
ASLEEP x APPLE
BEGIN x BANG
Similarly with Gender:
DOG x DICTATION
SIR x SINGER
If there were rewards for originality, I was looking at a class topper!
But the answers that had me doubled up and almost on the floor were:
Gender:
DOG x GIRL-DOG
Young ones of:
DUCK x DUCK GIRL
The hilarity was tempered a bit when I saw the answers to ‘When do we celebrate Independence Day?’
Incredibly enough, DECEMBER 25, NOVEMBER 14 AND AUGUST 14 were the most popular answers, with August 15 falling somewhere on the lower rungs.
My initial resistance notwithstanding, I couldn’t help thinking about my own school days. Despite being a fairly decent student, I can’t say I ever enjoyed school. I found it terribly dull and unstimulating (something I realised when only when I joined College.) My classmates still reminisce fondly about school being ‘the best time of our lives’. But not me. The only pleasant memories I have are of time spent in the library or of playing throwball in the all-too-short Games classes. The rest of the time it was a feverish race to stay on top of all the homework and rote-learning.
The only time my mind was even awakened to the possibility of a world beyond, was in a Geography class in Std. IX. (Perhaps, the travel bug germinated from there. Thank you Miss Jacinta!)
The last question in the Std. II papers was ‘Write 8 lines about your school’. One line stood out in one of the papers, ‘MY SCHOOL IS A HARD’.
Ha! Out of the mouth of babes…
But on seeing her shake her head and occasionally clutch her greying hair, my curiosity was aroused. A sneak peek revealed that it was a Class II English grammar paper.
Grammar! The bugbear of every student! A subject which drives grownups to their knees! And these were mere 7 year olds, delicately treading a minefield of Opposites, Plurals and Genders. Curious about how they braved their way, I started leafing through some of the corrected papers. And came away with some thrilling insights…
The first error I spotted was in Opposites.
THICK x FAT
Surprisingly, the next 7 papers also had the same error. And then I noticed other similarities as well. I was mildly shocked to discover that they’d been copying. Wasn’t Std. II a little early to start? Or was I the naïve one here?
Some answers, although erroneous, revealed considerable ingenuity.
CLEVER x DISCLEVER
BEGIN x UNBEGIN
ASLEEP x INASLEEP
And one blunder which was nonetheless apt was…
CLEVER x BULL
I couldn’t resist chortling at some of the bloopers in Gender.
SIR x MADMAN
FATHER x GRANDFATHER
Plurals also had several howlers, the most notable being…
SHEEP x SHEEPISH
Guesswork showed up in some answers, with side-splitting effect.
So, a GARDENER was the head of the school.
And a COBBLER operated on an aeroplane.
In Make Sentences With…, one smart kid thought he’d hit upon a sure shot formula. The words were Study, Apple, Leader, Tall. His answers were…
This is a study
This is a apple
This is a leader
This is a tall.
This is a zero, said the menacing red marker, which was looking for ‘meaningful’ sentences.
Some answers were poignant, and revealed the child’s unique insight.
One who sells flowers is MOTHER.
One who teaches in a school is MISS SHILPA.
One who leads a team is INDIAN
One paper stood out in terms of originality. No copying, for this child. Irrespective of the question, the answers were a breezy free association.
Opposites:
FIRST x FOUR
LONG x LION
ASLEEP x APPLE
BEGIN x BANG
Similarly with Gender:
DOG x DICTATION
SIR x SINGER
If there were rewards for originality, I was looking at a class topper!
But the answers that had me doubled up and almost on the floor were:
Gender:
DOG x GIRL-DOG
Young ones of:
DUCK x DUCK GIRL
The hilarity was tempered a bit when I saw the answers to ‘When do we celebrate Independence Day?’
Incredibly enough, DECEMBER 25, NOVEMBER 14 AND AUGUST 14 were the most popular answers, with August 15 falling somewhere on the lower rungs.
My initial resistance notwithstanding, I couldn’t help thinking about my own school days. Despite being a fairly decent student, I can’t say I ever enjoyed school. I found it terribly dull and unstimulating (something I realised when only when I joined College.) My classmates still reminisce fondly about school being ‘the best time of our lives’. But not me. The only pleasant memories I have are of time spent in the library or of playing throwball in the all-too-short Games classes. The rest of the time it was a feverish race to stay on top of all the homework and rote-learning.
The only time my mind was even awakened to the possibility of a world beyond, was in a Geography class in Std. IX. (Perhaps, the travel bug germinated from there. Thank you Miss Jacinta!)
The last question in the Std. II papers was ‘Write 8 lines about your school’. One line stood out in one of the papers, ‘MY SCHOOL IS A HARD’.
Ha! Out of the mouth of babes…
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Scuffed shoes and an unending road…
One of the questions buzzing in my head the day before the Marathon was – could a city with a hugely strained infrastructure pull off an International Marathon, which entailed cordoning off a whole section of roads for over 7 hours? Granted that it was a Sunday morning, but hey, this IS the city that never sleeps! So were the city officials up to the task?
I found out in the wee hours of Sunday, 15th February, when our cab hit the first blockade near Metro Cinema. Elaborate security was in place. Police vans were patrolling the limits. Our baffled cabbie asked, “Kya ho raha hai?”
I knowledgably rattled off, ‘Aaj daud hai, Azad Maidan se Worli tak’. He turned around, gave me a sneering, ‘subah-subah-koi-mila-nahin’ look and drove off.
At Azad Maidan
Despite the early hour and the soporific pipe music that was playing on the PA system, the atmosphere at Azad Maidan was electric. Runners were warming up, others were chilling out. Some looked superbly fit; others, a little soft around the middle. The dichotomy was most visible in the gear. Nike, Adidas and Reebok logos flashed prominently on some physiques, whereas others sported simple vests and unbelievably, canvas shoes!
But the most respectful looks were reserved for those with yellow running bibs – the Full Marathon runners.
P, M, my brother and I – running buddies since the last month – were relieved when at 7 o’ clock, runners were asked to assemble at the starting point. “If we start on time, we’ll be able to finish before the sun gets unbearable”, was M’s logic.
The air was taut with tension. With over 3,500 excitable runners together, the shoving and jostling increased with every passing minute. It was impossible to see what was going on ahead. But the moment the blue and green helium balloons soared up into the sky, and the helicopter whirred overhead, we knew it was THE moment!
… and GO!
The throngs set off like it was a 100-metre dash! Only our reminders to each other to ‘start slow’ prevented us from getting sucked into that pace. 10 minutes into the run, at Flora Fountain, the crowds had thinned considerably, giving us ample room to run at our own pace.
Incredible sights and sounds
The excited bellows of 'Bharat Mata ki Jai’ and ‘Ganpati Bappa Morya’ were soon drowned out by galloping footsteps. At Fountain, a brass band in full regalia, struck up an invigorating tune. Just the right note on which to begin a marathon! And for the encore, two more brass bands livened up the long stretch on Marine Drive. Seriously, whoever thought of this deserved a medal.
No star athletes were in sight, but nevertheless, there were interesting people around. A middle aged runner assumed the role of cheerleader, and started clapping enthusiastically, attempting to get the somnolent gawkers to follow suit.
I was a bit startled to find myself next to a leering Osama. It turned out to be mask worn backwards by a runner, with comical effect. And if Osama was there, could his nemesis be far behind? One pony tailed runner had a poster tacked to his back which had Bush’s mugshot with ‘World’s No. 1 terrorist’ emblazoned on it.
‘Bankers do it… with interest’, read one T-shirt. Some sported corporate logos, some promoted a cause. The sponsors made their presence felt on every possible surface. But the simplest yet most practical message came from The Clean Mumbai Foundation. ‘Mind the banana peel’ – runners were cautioned!
And speaking of peels, exactly WHERE was all the litter which made Mumbai famous? Where were the hawkers, the jaywalkers, the polluting traffic? Any WHY OH WHY couldn’t they be locked there everyday?!
Up the hill
The turnoff towards Babulnath signalled the end of good times. Two ominous slopes lay ahead. This was where runners were separated from the also-ran. A loud cheer went up. Was it for us, I wondered hopefully. But no, it was for the marathoners who’d completed ¾ the distance in the time we took to cover 1/4! Just a glimpse at their sinewy limbs and powerful strides was both humbling and inspiring.
Since M, P and I had run on this slope before, we’d planned to go easy on the uphill and then zip down the incline. But a minor cramp in my right side meant I couldn’t charge downhill. A fierce ache was also issuing from my right ankle. It was difficult to drink water on the run and stopping wasn’t an option. So I turned my focus on the Worli flyover – the halfway mark. Just get there, and the worst will be over, I encouraged myself.
Only 11 kms to go!
Turned out I was wrong about the worst. Two treacherous slopes awaited us on our return too. I gasped and wheezed up Peddar Road, past many a runner who thought it saner to walk. This is what you’ve trained for, I reminded myself.
Exhaustion was setting in and I was running out of morale-boosting strategies. That’s where the wonderful people of Mumbai chipped in. A group of women stood singing, ‘Hum honge kamyaab’. A guy butted in, singing, ‘Hum hai kamyaab’. And I suddenly felt incredibly recharged. Another person was holding aloft a yellow poster which read, ‘Don’t worry that you may loose (sic) because you have already won our admiration.’ People called out, ‘Good going 3546! Keep running!’ Then of course, there was the promised positive energy from friends all over. That kept the momentum going for a long long while.
The last push
Back onto Marine Drive and the sun was straight in our faces. It was going to be a very long 7 kilometres. Another loud cheer went up. A vehicle with a timer whizzed by, followed closely by a runner. The timer showed 2:00 hours and the runner, I assumed, was leading in the marathon. Even after 35 kilometres, he looked indefatigable.
My legs and lungs had settled into a weary rhythm. Water wouldn’t quench anymore. Most people were walking, some limping and a handful were determinedly running. I was shocked to see some running barefoot. Was there no limit to the amount people would push themselves??
Maybe it was exhaustion or delirium, but I couldn’t spot any familiar landmark which would indicate we were nearing the turnoff to Churchgate. I asked P, ‘Have we reached Marine Drive?’, and he nodded confidently (and I later realised, ignorantly as well.) But that kept me going until we reached the actual turnoff.
Home run
The brass band was whipping up a frenzy, which worked better than steroids could at that moment. Churchgate, Eros and Fountain whizzed by. The roads were almost empty now and far (too far!) in the distance, my eyes finally picked out the FINISH LINE!
500 metres from mecca, and a tidal wave called ‘The Dream Run’ was unleashed. The marathon runners were swept to the fringes while the 15,000+ mob swarmed both sides of the street. Thankfully, we missed the worst, as we sprinted the last 100 metres on our last legs, literally. Relief overshadowed triumph when P & I first stepped onto the electronized mats under the timer. 2:34:02! M had completed it 3 minutes earlier, while my brother clocked an unbelievable 1:57. Better than our estimated time of 2:45, we exulted.
Post-script
Headed back home, our cabbie grumbled as he had to negotiate through some back lanes of Mumbai. When another cabbie asked him what all the fuss was about, he launched a full invective with, ‘Arre, daud tha. Akkha Mumbai bhag raha tha. Kya maloom kyon?’ My brother and I exchanged grins.
I found out in the wee hours of Sunday, 15th February, when our cab hit the first blockade near Metro Cinema. Elaborate security was in place. Police vans were patrolling the limits. Our baffled cabbie asked, “Kya ho raha hai?”
I knowledgably rattled off, ‘Aaj daud hai, Azad Maidan se Worli tak’. He turned around, gave me a sneering, ‘subah-subah-koi-mila-nahin’ look and drove off.
At Azad Maidan
Despite the early hour and the soporific pipe music that was playing on the PA system, the atmosphere at Azad Maidan was electric. Runners were warming up, others were chilling out. Some looked superbly fit; others, a little soft around the middle. The dichotomy was most visible in the gear. Nike, Adidas and Reebok logos flashed prominently on some physiques, whereas others sported simple vests and unbelievably, canvas shoes!
But the most respectful looks were reserved for those with yellow running bibs – the Full Marathon runners.
P, M, my brother and I – running buddies since the last month – were relieved when at 7 o’ clock, runners were asked to assemble at the starting point. “If we start on time, we’ll be able to finish before the sun gets unbearable”, was M’s logic.
The air was taut with tension. With over 3,500 excitable runners together, the shoving and jostling increased with every passing minute. It was impossible to see what was going on ahead. But the moment the blue and green helium balloons soared up into the sky, and the helicopter whirred overhead, we knew it was THE moment!
… and GO!
The throngs set off like it was a 100-metre dash! Only our reminders to each other to ‘start slow’ prevented us from getting sucked into that pace. 10 minutes into the run, at Flora Fountain, the crowds had thinned considerably, giving us ample room to run at our own pace.
Incredible sights and sounds
The excited bellows of 'Bharat Mata ki Jai’ and ‘Ganpati Bappa Morya’ were soon drowned out by galloping footsteps. At Fountain, a brass band in full regalia, struck up an invigorating tune. Just the right note on which to begin a marathon! And for the encore, two more brass bands livened up the long stretch on Marine Drive. Seriously, whoever thought of this deserved a medal.
No star athletes were in sight, but nevertheless, there were interesting people around. A middle aged runner assumed the role of cheerleader, and started clapping enthusiastically, attempting to get the somnolent gawkers to follow suit.
I was a bit startled to find myself next to a leering Osama. It turned out to be mask worn backwards by a runner, with comical effect. And if Osama was there, could his nemesis be far behind? One pony tailed runner had a poster tacked to his back which had Bush’s mugshot with ‘World’s No. 1 terrorist’ emblazoned on it.
‘Bankers do it… with interest’, read one T-shirt. Some sported corporate logos, some promoted a cause. The sponsors made their presence felt on every possible surface. But the simplest yet most practical message came from The Clean Mumbai Foundation. ‘Mind the banana peel’ – runners were cautioned!
And speaking of peels, exactly WHERE was all the litter which made Mumbai famous? Where were the hawkers, the jaywalkers, the polluting traffic? Any WHY OH WHY couldn’t they be locked there everyday?!
Up the hill
The turnoff towards Babulnath signalled the end of good times. Two ominous slopes lay ahead. This was where runners were separated from the also-ran. A loud cheer went up. Was it for us, I wondered hopefully. But no, it was for the marathoners who’d completed ¾ the distance in the time we took to cover 1/4! Just a glimpse at their sinewy limbs and powerful strides was both humbling and inspiring.
Since M, P and I had run on this slope before, we’d planned to go easy on the uphill and then zip down the incline. But a minor cramp in my right side meant I couldn’t charge downhill. A fierce ache was also issuing from my right ankle. It was difficult to drink water on the run and stopping wasn’t an option. So I turned my focus on the Worli flyover – the halfway mark. Just get there, and the worst will be over, I encouraged myself.
Only 11 kms to go!
Turned out I was wrong about the worst. Two treacherous slopes awaited us on our return too. I gasped and wheezed up Peddar Road, past many a runner who thought it saner to walk. This is what you’ve trained for, I reminded myself.
Exhaustion was setting in and I was running out of morale-boosting strategies. That’s where the wonderful people of Mumbai chipped in. A group of women stood singing, ‘Hum honge kamyaab’. A guy butted in, singing, ‘Hum hai kamyaab’. And I suddenly felt incredibly recharged. Another person was holding aloft a yellow poster which read, ‘Don’t worry that you may loose (sic) because you have already won our admiration.’ People called out, ‘Good going 3546! Keep running!’ Then of course, there was the promised positive energy from friends all over. That kept the momentum going for a long long while.
The last push
Back onto Marine Drive and the sun was straight in our faces. It was going to be a very long 7 kilometres. Another loud cheer went up. A vehicle with a timer whizzed by, followed closely by a runner. The timer showed 2:00 hours and the runner, I assumed, was leading in the marathon. Even after 35 kilometres, he looked indefatigable.
My legs and lungs had settled into a weary rhythm. Water wouldn’t quench anymore. Most people were walking, some limping and a handful were determinedly running. I was shocked to see some running barefoot. Was there no limit to the amount people would push themselves??
Maybe it was exhaustion or delirium, but I couldn’t spot any familiar landmark which would indicate we were nearing the turnoff to Churchgate. I asked P, ‘Have we reached Marine Drive?’, and he nodded confidently (and I later realised, ignorantly as well.) But that kept me going until we reached the actual turnoff.
Home run
The brass band was whipping up a frenzy, which worked better than steroids could at that moment. Churchgate, Eros and Fountain whizzed by. The roads were almost empty now and far (too far!) in the distance, my eyes finally picked out the FINISH LINE!
500 metres from mecca, and a tidal wave called ‘The Dream Run’ was unleashed. The marathon runners were swept to the fringes while the 15,000+ mob swarmed both sides of the street. Thankfully, we missed the worst, as we sprinted the last 100 metres on our last legs, literally. Relief overshadowed triumph when P & I first stepped onto the electronized mats under the timer. 2:34:02! M had completed it 3 minutes earlier, while my brother clocked an unbelievable 1:57. Better than our estimated time of 2:45, we exulted.
Post-script
Headed back home, our cabbie grumbled as he had to negotiate through some back lanes of Mumbai. When another cabbie asked him what all the fuss was about, he launched a full invective with, ‘Arre, daud tha. Akkha Mumbai bhag raha tha. Kya maloom kyon?’ My brother and I exchanged grins.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Just did it!
... in 2 hours, 34 minutes and 2 seconds!
Thanks to each one of you for the good luck wishes. It sure helped!
Thanks to each one of you for the good luck wishes. It sure helped!
Friday, February 13, 2004
Just do it!
Training manuals and sports instructors don’t recommend it, but running a marathon calls for a certain pre-requisite – blissful ignorance.
When I signed up for the Mumbai International Marathon early in January, there were many things I didn’t know. For starters, there was the big question mark about running. I’ve never really run. Ok, not if you count the customary dash for the 8.22 local, and the paltry 10 minutes on the treadmill. Running entailed stamina and discipline and fell somewhere in the realm of ‘serious fitness’.
The second question mark came after kilometre. For someone who computes distance by railway stations and travel time, discerning the distance in one kilometre was tricky. Leave alone 21 kms. - the length of the Half Marathon, for which I’d signed up.
Third, how did one go about training for a marathon? The website proposed a 10-week training period. And here, I was looking at 4 1/2 weeks. How did one train anyway? Was there a recommended diet? Gear?
But one thing I DID know was that when I first read about the Marathon early in January, I began to think ‘What if…’ with that familiar feeling of fear-tinged excitement, which has preceded most other adventures.
The decision was made. Entries were mailed. Then came the challenging part – duelling with a mind over a body.
The last month has been filled with exhilarating and liberating discoveries. The question marks have drawn their answers. The moment I lace up my shoes and go through the routine of warm-ups, there’s a certain impatience to begin. To discover the limits of the day. To register the feeble protests of the various parts of the body and to gently tune them out. To collapse in one aching, gasping heap only to forget it all and start over the next day.
Nike’s first ever advertising effort was a poster which featured a runner against a headline – THERE IS NO FINISH LINE. When I came across it many years ago, I thought it was a profound statement about the joys of running (in the right pair of shoes, of course!). More recently, I’ve discovered it’s really about the absence of mental finishing lines. If Terry Fox could run it on one leg, and people the world over have battled life-threatening infirmities to successfully complete it, there are few excuses left anyway.
Two days from now, 20,000+ runners will take to the streets in ‘Asia’s biggest marathon’. The mob features some high-profile international athletes, corporate heavyweights and movie stars. But rubbing shoulders with them will also be the physically challenged, people with heart ailments, street children and rank amateurs like me.
The marathon, after all, is not about running. It’s never been. It’s about belief.
And yes, ignorance too…
When I signed up for the Mumbai International Marathon early in January, there were many things I didn’t know. For starters, there was the big question mark about running. I’ve never really run. Ok, not if you count the customary dash for the 8.22 local, and the paltry 10 minutes on the treadmill. Running entailed stamina and discipline and fell somewhere in the realm of ‘serious fitness’.
The second question mark came after kilometre. For someone who computes distance by railway stations and travel time, discerning the distance in one kilometre was tricky. Leave alone 21 kms. - the length of the Half Marathon, for which I’d signed up.
Third, how did one go about training for a marathon? The website proposed a 10-week training period. And here, I was looking at 4 1/2 weeks. How did one train anyway? Was there a recommended diet? Gear?
But one thing I DID know was that when I first read about the Marathon early in January, I began to think ‘What if…’ with that familiar feeling of fear-tinged excitement, which has preceded most other adventures.
The decision was made. Entries were mailed. Then came the challenging part – duelling with a mind over a body.
The last month has been filled with exhilarating and liberating discoveries. The question marks have drawn their answers. The moment I lace up my shoes and go through the routine of warm-ups, there’s a certain impatience to begin. To discover the limits of the day. To register the feeble protests of the various parts of the body and to gently tune them out. To collapse in one aching, gasping heap only to forget it all and start over the next day.
Nike’s first ever advertising effort was a poster which featured a runner against a headline – THERE IS NO FINISH LINE. When I came across it many years ago, I thought it was a profound statement about the joys of running (in the right pair of shoes, of course!). More recently, I’ve discovered it’s really about the absence of mental finishing lines. If Terry Fox could run it on one leg, and people the world over have battled life-threatening infirmities to successfully complete it, there are few excuses left anyway.
Two days from now, 20,000+ runners will take to the streets in ‘Asia’s biggest marathon’. The mob features some high-profile international athletes, corporate heavyweights and movie stars. But rubbing shoulders with them will also be the physically challenged, people with heart ailments, street children and rank amateurs like me.
The marathon, after all, is not about running. It’s never been. It’s about belief.
And yes, ignorance too…
Sunday, February 08, 2004
There’s something about Memory…
A couple of days ago at work, I stopped to read a new notice in the glass-enclosed bulletin board. And then something rather peculiar below that notice caught my eye.
It was a pair of spectacles hanging on a pin!
What was a pair of spectacles doing on a notice board?!! And while we’re asking questions - why did they look exactly like the glasses I’d been frantically hunting for in the last few days?!!
The admin head looked at me sternly when I asked for the keys to the glass enclosure. “Where did you leave them?”, she asked.
“I have no idea”, I replied with wide-eyed honesty. "I could’ve sworn they were on my desk."
But for all my wide-eyed honesty, I don’t for a moment credit my personal effects with itinerant tendencies. Far from it. In fact, lost-and-found is a leitmotif in my life.
Now, some might mistakenly call this quirk of misplacing things a habit. I demur. It’s a fine art, honed by years of meticulous practise! Glasses, watches, bags, pens, folders, books, jewellery, keys… have all assisted in upholding this art. And if losing things calls for a certain skill, finding them fortuitously requires an even more critical talent.
I once had a rather bulky planner which never fit into my bag. So I carried it in my hand, reminding myself to ‘be careful’. It escaped my careful grasp not once or twice, but an unparalleled seven times! And seven times it was returned to me!!! By friends, colleagues, strangers… Twice, I travelled to the nether regions of Bombay to retrieve it from cab driver’s shanty dwellings.
The eighth time I successfully lost it!
I’ve analysed this trait extensively and have come to the conclusion - I don’t really forget, I only remember a wee bit late.
There was this time, when I sat up for days making personalised Christmas cards for friends. I was about to buy stamps when I decided to visit my aunt in Sion. I alighted from the auto and precisely 9 seconds later, I remembered the cards in the back of the vehicle. For the next hour, I ran half-tearful all around the Sion junction. It wasn’t one of those fortunate days. Still, for a few weeks I kindled the hope that the driver might post my cards.
“Your head’s not on your shoulders”, is my parents’ explanation of the missing link. There’s an unwritten policy at home to never shut the door when I leave. Because I inevitably turn up a few minutes later for my cell phone or glasses or wallet and on one occasion, for my shoes. My brother jocularly computes my ‘latency time’ – the time taken to remember what I’ve forgotten! Recent calculations have shown a marked improvement, but I know better than to trust that.
But seriously, my memory is far from egregious. For instance, I have an almost prodigious recall for names, birthdays and phone numbers. And as an effective counterpoint, I’ve developed an ease for multi-tasking. And there are some areas where I’m so fanatically methodical and organised, that I can find precisely what I’m looking for in the dark.
In a way, this quirk has also served as invaluable spiritual practice. Detachment from the material world comes more easily to me now. And after every episode, I console myself by quoting ‘What does it profit a person to gain the world but suffer the loss of his soul?'
Coming back to the glasses, I walked away from the admin head’s table telling myself sternly, keep your head on your shoulders and your glasses on your nose. I remembered the injunction all day, especially when I left the office. And then recalled leaving them in the washroom. Thankfully, I retrieved them before they reached the glass enclosure.
Practise, they say, makes perfect.
It was a pair of spectacles hanging on a pin!
What was a pair of spectacles doing on a notice board?!! And while we’re asking questions - why did they look exactly like the glasses I’d been frantically hunting for in the last few days?!!
The admin head looked at me sternly when I asked for the keys to the glass enclosure. “Where did you leave them?”, she asked.
“I have no idea”, I replied with wide-eyed honesty. "I could’ve sworn they were on my desk."
But for all my wide-eyed honesty, I don’t for a moment credit my personal effects with itinerant tendencies. Far from it. In fact, lost-and-found is a leitmotif in my life.
Now, some might mistakenly call this quirk of misplacing things a habit. I demur. It’s a fine art, honed by years of meticulous practise! Glasses, watches, bags, pens, folders, books, jewellery, keys… have all assisted in upholding this art. And if losing things calls for a certain skill, finding them fortuitously requires an even more critical talent.
I once had a rather bulky planner which never fit into my bag. So I carried it in my hand, reminding myself to ‘be careful’. It escaped my careful grasp not once or twice, but an unparalleled seven times! And seven times it was returned to me!!! By friends, colleagues, strangers… Twice, I travelled to the nether regions of Bombay to retrieve it from cab driver’s shanty dwellings.
The eighth time I successfully lost it!
I’ve analysed this trait extensively and have come to the conclusion - I don’t really forget, I only remember a wee bit late.
There was this time, when I sat up for days making personalised Christmas cards for friends. I was about to buy stamps when I decided to visit my aunt in Sion. I alighted from the auto and precisely 9 seconds later, I remembered the cards in the back of the vehicle. For the next hour, I ran half-tearful all around the Sion junction. It wasn’t one of those fortunate days. Still, for a few weeks I kindled the hope that the driver might post my cards.
“Your head’s not on your shoulders”, is my parents’ explanation of the missing link. There’s an unwritten policy at home to never shut the door when I leave. Because I inevitably turn up a few minutes later for my cell phone or glasses or wallet and on one occasion, for my shoes. My brother jocularly computes my ‘latency time’ – the time taken to remember what I’ve forgotten! Recent calculations have shown a marked improvement, but I know better than to trust that.
But seriously, my memory is far from egregious. For instance, I have an almost prodigious recall for names, birthdays and phone numbers. And as an effective counterpoint, I’ve developed an ease for multi-tasking. And there are some areas where I’m so fanatically methodical and organised, that I can find precisely what I’m looking for in the dark.
In a way, this quirk has also served as invaluable spiritual practice. Detachment from the material world comes more easily to me now. And after every episode, I console myself by quoting ‘What does it profit a person to gain the world but suffer the loss of his soul?'
Coming back to the glasses, I walked away from the admin head’s table telling myself sternly, keep your head on your shoulders and your glasses on your nose. I remembered the injunction all day, especially when I left the office. And then recalled leaving them in the washroom. Thankfully, I retrieved them before they reached the glass enclosure.
Practise, they say, makes perfect.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
Kolad Magic!
You know the ‘adventure weekend’ is off to a good start, when at the first dinner halt, you find the tables are set on 20-feet high stilts. And after you’ve climbed a rickety ladder, your order is taken by the manager, who could pass off for a benign politician. And when even the whimsically ordered fries turn out to be exceedingly good!
The menagerie:7 happy adventurers, two guides, one attendant, two vehicles and 3 bicycles.
The destination: Kolad, a dozy little town 3 hours away from Mumbai, and just off the Mumbai-Goa road.
The plan: Drive to Kolad, take turns to explore the countryside on cycles and camp in the wild.
It was midnight when we reached Kolad and found a little spot off the main road to camp. The air was redolent with the thick sweet scent of wildflowers. A delicious nip hung in the air. That, and the starry night sky lured some of the bravehearts to bring their sleeping bags out of the tents.
In the morning, a curious knot of village children gathered at our campsite. We must have provided an amusing spectacle as we wrestled with the tent pegs, did warm ups and tested the cycles. After a hearty breakfast, the first three cyclists set off, while we tailed them in the two vehicles.
It was a pleasant, sunny morning. The roads were in superb condition as we zipped through hamlets with quaint names like Paoor and Kudli and Sanasvadi. When I got my turn at the pedals, we’d reached the ghats and the start of a gentle incline. For the next two hours, one enticing thought kept me going as I gritted my teeth, tormented my muscles and worked my way uphill – that I’d soon be rewarded with a heart-stopping downhill slope, and I’d rip through it with my eyes streaming and hair flying!
At one point, as I stopped to catch my breath on a narrow pass, I came upon an unfamiliar sound in the air. A silence so deep and pervading that it seemed to go on forever. In that timeless moment, the only movement came from a tiny yellow butterfly flitting in the yellow grass and from my heart doing the lambada in my ribcage. It was one of those soul-perfect moments that one seeks endlessly but only rarely stumbles upon.
Just when I’d run out of gears and my legs were all wobbly, I spotted that elusive downhill slope. And as it turned out, the group had broken for lunch. That’s Lucky Leela for you!
After a Maharashtrian-style lunch replete with bhakri, fiery chicken curry and a mug full of toddy, we retreated to a shady copse to escape the fierce noonday sun. Later, we rode some more, until we arrived at a perfect night stop - a flat plain which dropped steeply into a lush green valley. No tents, we decided, let’s sleep under the stars. We stretched out lazily to watch a glorious sunset, munching on ‘Melange de Jaipur’ (a needlessly fancy name for Haldiram’s Bhujia Sev!)
The incandescent gibbous moon rendered torches unnecessary. And a crash course in astronomy and dinner later, we eased into our sleeping bags, waiting just long enough to sing a cacophonous ‘happy birthday’ for A at the dot of 12.
… and then all hell broke loose!
The mild, pleasant breeze transformed into a furious, raging hurricane. It was like a dozen freight trains roaring by. I opened one eye and peered out of the sleeping bag and was instantly pelted with a mixture of hay and loose mud. The flapping tarpaulin began to sound like a thunderclap. No rain Lord, we prayed, no rain! The wind had swelled our sleeping bags, giving it a balloon-like appearance. And we fervently hoped that we wouldn’t have to climb down the gorge the next morning to recover our bags and shoes! Still, I not only managed to sleep intermittently but also to have bizarre dreams.
Sunrise the next morning had no effect on this renegade wind. Was this a message to beat it? We wasted no time in setting off.
From the mountains, we detoured to the sea. To a town called Shrivardhan, 40 kms away. Another fiery Maharashtrian lunch later, we hightailed it back to Bombay.
As we neared the city limits, long-silent cell phones started beeping out belated messages. And items from my To-Do list started popping back into my head. It was back to the grind, but one was ready for it now…
The menagerie:7 happy adventurers, two guides, one attendant, two vehicles and 3 bicycles.
The destination: Kolad, a dozy little town 3 hours away from Mumbai, and just off the Mumbai-Goa road.
The plan: Drive to Kolad, take turns to explore the countryside on cycles and camp in the wild.
It was midnight when we reached Kolad and found a little spot off the main road to camp. The air was redolent with the thick sweet scent of wildflowers. A delicious nip hung in the air. That, and the starry night sky lured some of the bravehearts to bring their sleeping bags out of the tents.
In the morning, a curious knot of village children gathered at our campsite. We must have provided an amusing spectacle as we wrestled with the tent pegs, did warm ups and tested the cycles. After a hearty breakfast, the first three cyclists set off, while we tailed them in the two vehicles.
It was a pleasant, sunny morning. The roads were in superb condition as we zipped through hamlets with quaint names like Paoor and Kudli and Sanasvadi. When I got my turn at the pedals, we’d reached the ghats and the start of a gentle incline. For the next two hours, one enticing thought kept me going as I gritted my teeth, tormented my muscles and worked my way uphill – that I’d soon be rewarded with a heart-stopping downhill slope, and I’d rip through it with my eyes streaming and hair flying!
At one point, as I stopped to catch my breath on a narrow pass, I came upon an unfamiliar sound in the air. A silence so deep and pervading that it seemed to go on forever. In that timeless moment, the only movement came from a tiny yellow butterfly flitting in the yellow grass and from my heart doing the lambada in my ribcage. It was one of those soul-perfect moments that one seeks endlessly but only rarely stumbles upon.
Just when I’d run out of gears and my legs were all wobbly, I spotted that elusive downhill slope. And as it turned out, the group had broken for lunch. That’s Lucky Leela for you!
After a Maharashtrian-style lunch replete with bhakri, fiery chicken curry and a mug full of toddy, we retreated to a shady copse to escape the fierce noonday sun. Later, we rode some more, until we arrived at a perfect night stop - a flat plain which dropped steeply into a lush green valley. No tents, we decided, let’s sleep under the stars. We stretched out lazily to watch a glorious sunset, munching on ‘Melange de Jaipur’ (a needlessly fancy name for Haldiram’s Bhujia Sev!)
The incandescent gibbous moon rendered torches unnecessary. And a crash course in astronomy and dinner later, we eased into our sleeping bags, waiting just long enough to sing a cacophonous ‘happy birthday’ for A at the dot of 12.
… and then all hell broke loose!
The mild, pleasant breeze transformed into a furious, raging hurricane. It was like a dozen freight trains roaring by. I opened one eye and peered out of the sleeping bag and was instantly pelted with a mixture of hay and loose mud. The flapping tarpaulin began to sound like a thunderclap. No rain Lord, we prayed, no rain! The wind had swelled our sleeping bags, giving it a balloon-like appearance. And we fervently hoped that we wouldn’t have to climb down the gorge the next morning to recover our bags and shoes! Still, I not only managed to sleep intermittently but also to have bizarre dreams.
Sunrise the next morning had no effect on this renegade wind. Was this a message to beat it? We wasted no time in setting off.
From the mountains, we detoured to the sea. To a town called Shrivardhan, 40 kms away. Another fiery Maharashtrian lunch later, we hightailed it back to Bombay.
As we neared the city limits, long-silent cell phones started beeping out belated messages. And items from my To-Do list started popping back into my head. It was back to the grind, but one was ready for it now…
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Weight and watch!
Is it possible for a person to gain a few kilos and NOT notice it? Not notice the frantic tussle with the recalcitrant jeans zipper? Not notice the snug fit of the once comfortable T-shirt? Not notice the extra chin bobbing under one’s face?
Well, most people seem to think, no, BELIEVE that people who pile on the pounds are completely and blissfully unaware of this fact. What’s more, they believe it’s their duty to immediately bring this to the burgeoning friend’s attention.
“You’ve put on SO much weight!,” they’ll exclaim loudly, their eyes darting to the thickening parts of the poor ‘fatty’s’ anatomy.
Wait a minute, was that too subtle? Could fatty have not got the message? To be doubly sure, the helpful folks will extend elbows outwards, hunch shoulders and puff up cheeks, giving fatty a pretty good clue of what he looks like.
I haven’t come across a single person who isn’t sensitive about his or her weight. And yet, most will gleefully seize the opportunity to prod another’s soft (fleshy) spot.
Recently, Art Partner was buttonholed by a ‘helpful’ colleague, who said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that you've been putting on a lot of weight in the last few months.”
Art Partner wryly replied, “Considering I’m five months pregnant, that’s expected, isn't it?"
My weight’s hardly fluctuated in the last couple of years, so I simply disregard all the ‘helpful’ observations. Still I was surprised when an elderly neighbour, who I barely exchange pleasantries with, said to me, “You’ve put on!” For a few seconds, I wasn’t even sure what he meant, until he made the above-mentioned simian gestures!
Then there are those who willingly proffer their weighty information. “I’ve put on SO much weight”, they’ll wail, grabbing a handful of flesh from their midriff, so that you can’t miss the sight. They do this for two reasons, I’ve surmised. One, to pre-empt any helpful observations and two, to kick themselves for not refusing all those second helpings.
I’ve developed a simple strategy to deal with weighty matters. I refrain from pointing out any weight gain and if someone persists with, “But don’t you think I’ve put on weight?” I say contemplatively (and sometimes not too truthfully), “Not that I’ve noticed.”
If weighing scales can be inaccurate, well, so can I.
Well, most people seem to think, no, BELIEVE that people who pile on the pounds are completely and blissfully unaware of this fact. What’s more, they believe it’s their duty to immediately bring this to the burgeoning friend’s attention.
“You’ve put on SO much weight!,” they’ll exclaim loudly, their eyes darting to the thickening parts of the poor ‘fatty’s’ anatomy.
Wait a minute, was that too subtle? Could fatty have not got the message? To be doubly sure, the helpful folks will extend elbows outwards, hunch shoulders and puff up cheeks, giving fatty a pretty good clue of what he looks like.
I haven’t come across a single person who isn’t sensitive about his or her weight. And yet, most will gleefully seize the opportunity to prod another’s soft (fleshy) spot.
Recently, Art Partner was buttonholed by a ‘helpful’ colleague, who said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that you've been putting on a lot of weight in the last few months.”
Art Partner wryly replied, “Considering I’m five months pregnant, that’s expected, isn't it?"
My weight’s hardly fluctuated in the last couple of years, so I simply disregard all the ‘helpful’ observations. Still I was surprised when an elderly neighbour, who I barely exchange pleasantries with, said to me, “You’ve put on!” For a few seconds, I wasn’t even sure what he meant, until he made the above-mentioned simian gestures!
Then there are those who willingly proffer their weighty information. “I’ve put on SO much weight”, they’ll wail, grabbing a handful of flesh from their midriff, so that you can’t miss the sight. They do this for two reasons, I’ve surmised. One, to pre-empt any helpful observations and two, to kick themselves for not refusing all those second helpings.
I’ve developed a simple strategy to deal with weighty matters. I refrain from pointing out any weight gain and if someone persists with, “But don’t you think I’ve put on weight?” I say contemplatively (and sometimes not too truthfully), “Not that I’ve noticed.”
If weighing scales can be inaccurate, well, so can I.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Gentleman Pandu
One of the advantages of me living in the far-flung suburbs is that it brings out the chivalrous side of ‘gentlemen’ colleagues and friends. “How are you planning to go home?,” they ask, solicitously, after a long evening at work or a late night movie.
“By train,” is my unvarying answer.
Eyebrows shoot up. “But is it safe to go alone?!”
“Who’s alone?,” I counter. “Pandu will keep me company.”
Pandu, of course, has been my dutiful travelling companion for a few years now. The moment I spot his reassuring khakhi presence in the near empty ladies compartment, I immediately feel secure. And knowing that he’s keeping watch, I lose myself in a book, and on occasion, even grab some shut-eye.
Pandu has given me the freedom and confidence to travel on my own. But I can’t help wondering: Does Pandu really relish his role as ‘Protector of the Non-Peak Hour Female Traveller’?
For starters, he has to travel the entire rail strip thrice every night, in a compartment that says, ‘LADIES ONLY FOR ALL 24 HOURS”. Secondly, he has a ringside view of ladies at their un-ladylike best. He has to helplessly watch their graceless lunging and clambering, clawing and fighting, shoving and shrieking… Why, if he isn’t nimble enough, he might just get steamrolled by the juggernaut at each station!
Pandu’s presence serves as a deterrent for urchins, vagrants and other dubious sorts. But exceeding his role as an impassive guardian can sometimes prove awkward. I once watched Pandu help a ticketless traveller with two small children and two large suitcases into an already cramped compartment. The resentful women unleashed such a tirade that a lesser man would have flung himself in front of a passing train. But not Pandu! Despite their venomous looks and vicious taunts, he stood by the lady and even helped her alight at her stop.
Recently, I got into a conversation with Pandu. I had dozed off and when I awoke I found Pandu observing me nervously.
“Where are you getting off?”, he asked politely. When I told him, at the last stop, he looked relieved and said, “I didn’t want you to miss your station.”
To my surprise, he then apologised for asking that question. “Some women think I’m being nosy and snap at me. But I only don’t want them to go beyond their stop.”
We got talking and the different facets of a railway constable’s life tumbled out. I learned that he had to do 15 days railway duty in a month. And that after an entire evening of shepherding women home safely, he had to spend the night on the platform.
Sensing my interest, Pandu went on to tell me about his life, his training, even of the time he single-handedly nabbed a notorious, elusive criminal. The train pulled in at my station just as he finished his account.
As I thanked him and got ready to leave, he politely asked me, “Can I have your number?”
I was dumbstruck for a moment, but then old conditioning set in. I mumbled a hasty apology and retreated, feeling vaguely guilty for suspecting the motives of someone I regularly trusted to escort me home. Better safe than sorry, I reassured myself feebly. Perhaps Pandu would understand after all…
“By train,” is my unvarying answer.
Eyebrows shoot up. “But is it safe to go alone?!”
“Who’s alone?,” I counter. “Pandu will keep me company.”
Pandu, of course, has been my dutiful travelling companion for a few years now. The moment I spot his reassuring khakhi presence in the near empty ladies compartment, I immediately feel secure. And knowing that he’s keeping watch, I lose myself in a book, and on occasion, even grab some shut-eye.
Pandu has given me the freedom and confidence to travel on my own. But I can’t help wondering: Does Pandu really relish his role as ‘Protector of the Non-Peak Hour Female Traveller’?
For starters, he has to travel the entire rail strip thrice every night, in a compartment that says, ‘LADIES ONLY FOR ALL 24 HOURS”. Secondly, he has a ringside view of ladies at their un-ladylike best. He has to helplessly watch their graceless lunging and clambering, clawing and fighting, shoving and shrieking… Why, if he isn’t nimble enough, he might just get steamrolled by the juggernaut at each station!
Pandu’s presence serves as a deterrent for urchins, vagrants and other dubious sorts. But exceeding his role as an impassive guardian can sometimes prove awkward. I once watched Pandu help a ticketless traveller with two small children and two large suitcases into an already cramped compartment. The resentful women unleashed such a tirade that a lesser man would have flung himself in front of a passing train. But not Pandu! Despite their venomous looks and vicious taunts, he stood by the lady and even helped her alight at her stop.
Recently, I got into a conversation with Pandu. I had dozed off and when I awoke I found Pandu observing me nervously.
“Where are you getting off?”, he asked politely. When I told him, at the last stop, he looked relieved and said, “I didn’t want you to miss your station.”
To my surprise, he then apologised for asking that question. “Some women think I’m being nosy and snap at me. But I only don’t want them to go beyond their stop.”
We got talking and the different facets of a railway constable’s life tumbled out. I learned that he had to do 15 days railway duty in a month. And that after an entire evening of shepherding women home safely, he had to spend the night on the platform.
Sensing my interest, Pandu went on to tell me about his life, his training, even of the time he single-handedly nabbed a notorious, elusive criminal. The train pulled in at my station just as he finished his account.
As I thanked him and got ready to leave, he politely asked me, “Can I have your number?”
I was dumbstruck for a moment, but then old conditioning set in. I mumbled a hasty apology and retreated, feeling vaguely guilty for suspecting the motives of someone I regularly trusted to escort me home. Better safe than sorry, I reassured myself feebly. Perhaps Pandu would understand after all…
Monday, January 19, 2004
Er... Blog?
The world, I am convinced, is divided into two kinds of people: those who blog (or atleast know of blogs) and those who don’t.
98% of people I know fall into the latter grouping!
Blog?!? My friends' reactions have ranged from bafflement to polite interest to total stupefaction…
“YOU WHAAAAT!” exclaimed a flabbergasted friend when I told her I’m doing a blog.
It took a few minutes to convince her I wasn’t going in for ‘blonde’ highlights. And another few minutes to explain exactly what blogs were.
B-l-o-g. I’ve had to spell it out for friends who hear ‘blong’, ‘block’, ‘blob’ and yes, ‘blonde’. I’ll admit it IS a rather clunky un-mellifluous word, requiring a certain adroitness of jaw to render the 1 ½ syllables optimally.
But the boo-boos aren’t just in the area of enunciation.
A friend to whom I’d sent the link to my blog, called back puzzled. ‘I read a bit,’ she said, ‘but I don’t get it. There’s no connection between the pieces.’
I seized the opportunity to expound on the unmitigated freedom of blogging. No word limits, no thought censorship, no grammatical correctness, no nothing… I tried telling her. No big deal, was the expression I read in her face.
Another friend used to call me up every week to ask for the link. ‘The url is a little tricky’, she complained. Until I pointed out that she could simply add the link to Favourites. ‘Ohhhhh…’ she said, as illumination flooded the room. With my meagre info, I still manage to pass off as a geek, thanks to friends like these.
Blog evangelising is a tricky business, I’ve discovered. Beyond a point, it’s like explaining a sunset to someone who’s never seen one before. Words are a mangy substitute for experience. For how do you explain blog friends? How do you explain knowing someone’s innermost thoughts without knowing anything else about them? How do you explain hours melting away when you’re plowing through blogdom?
Like I said, there are two distinct kinds of people in this world.
98% of people I know fall into the latter grouping!
Blog?!? My friends' reactions have ranged from bafflement to polite interest to total stupefaction…
“YOU WHAAAAT!” exclaimed a flabbergasted friend when I told her I’m doing a blog.
It took a few minutes to convince her I wasn’t going in for ‘blonde’ highlights. And another few minutes to explain exactly what blogs were.
B-l-o-g. I’ve had to spell it out for friends who hear ‘blong’, ‘block’, ‘blob’ and yes, ‘blonde’. I’ll admit it IS a rather clunky un-mellifluous word, requiring a certain adroitness of jaw to render the 1 ½ syllables optimally.
But the boo-boos aren’t just in the area of enunciation.
A friend to whom I’d sent the link to my blog, called back puzzled. ‘I read a bit,’ she said, ‘but I don’t get it. There’s no connection between the pieces.’
I seized the opportunity to expound on the unmitigated freedom of blogging. No word limits, no thought censorship, no grammatical correctness, no nothing… I tried telling her. No big deal, was the expression I read in her face.
Another friend used to call me up every week to ask for the link. ‘The url is a little tricky’, she complained. Until I pointed out that she could simply add the link to Favourites. ‘Ohhhhh…’ she said, as illumination flooded the room. With my meagre info, I still manage to pass off as a geek, thanks to friends like these.
Blog evangelising is a tricky business, I’ve discovered. Beyond a point, it’s like explaining a sunset to someone who’s never seen one before. Words are a mangy substitute for experience. For how do you explain blog friends? How do you explain knowing someone’s innermost thoughts without knowing anything else about them? How do you explain hours melting away when you’re plowing through blogdom?
Like I said, there are two distinct kinds of people in this world.
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Indigestible logic!
‘Have you been to the Canteen yet?!!’, asked S, my co-worker. It was my first day at work in my current company.
Something in her tone suggested that it was more than a question. Her eyes had turned large and round, and her eyebrows were about to vanish into her hairline.
‘Is it good?’, I asked tentatively.
In reply, she insisted I accompany her for lunch. As we entered the lift, I wondered what to expect. In my previous offices, the food ranged from burp-worthy to revolting to UFO-garnished (Unidentified Furry Objects!) So despite S’s vanishing eyebrows, I didn’t want to get my hopes up.
We stepped into an incredible cacophony of clattering spoons, clanking trays and raucous lunch room chatter.
At the food counter, attendants in spiffy aprons and caps were efficiently ladling the contents of enormous vessels onto steel trays. I was so mesmerised by the spread, I just nodded to all their queries.
Rice? (nod), Roti? (nod), Dal? (nod), Vegetable in gravy? (nod), Gravy in vegetable? (nod), Boiled egg? (nod), Gravy for boiled egg? (nod)
And I was just halfway down the line!
Attendant No. 2 took over…
Sambar? (nod), Vegetable (dry)? (nod), Buttermilk (nod), Papad (nod), Pickle (nod), Dessert (nod), Banana (shook head from side to side)
Anyone would think I was preparing for winter!
‘How much?’, I asked
Attendant No. 2 surveyed the hill on my plate and said, ‘Two rupees’. And then almost immediately. ‘No banana… that’s. Rs. 1.50.’
I’d only heard stories of subsidised canteens. This was the first time I was eating in one! I couldn’t wait to gloat to all my ex-colleagues who were still reeling from canteen bills.
But at the end of one week, three things became clear:
a. My innards, convalescing from a virulent ailment, couldn’t stomach this oil and spice rich fodder.
b. I’d have to re-start my old dabba
c. There’d never be anything like a free lunch!
A month ago, I was surprised to find a new addition to the menu.
SALAD OF THE DAY
Sprouts with lettuce
Russian Salad
About time, I whooped to myself, as I helped myself to the salad.
A few days ago, another counter and another sign came up: LESS OILY AND LESS SPICY FOOD.
Someone was doing their bestest to woo me, I thought delightedly. I sailed across to the counter.
Salad (nod)
Sunny yellow dal (nod)
Green vegetables, not doused in flaming red gravy (nod nod)
Fat, fluffy puris (pause)
Were these the oil-free cousins of the usual variety, I wondered. But no, a closer examination revealed big, gleaming beads of oil.
The girl in front of me pounced on this aberration. ‘Why are you serving these oily puris here? Isn’t this an oil-free counter?’
The attendant had perfected his reply. ‘If you don’t take them, they’re not oily!’
I struggled with that logic a bit before I sat down to my old dabba.
Something in her tone suggested that it was more than a question. Her eyes had turned large and round, and her eyebrows were about to vanish into her hairline.
‘Is it good?’, I asked tentatively.
In reply, she insisted I accompany her for lunch. As we entered the lift, I wondered what to expect. In my previous offices, the food ranged from burp-worthy to revolting to UFO-garnished (Unidentified Furry Objects!) So despite S’s vanishing eyebrows, I didn’t want to get my hopes up.
We stepped into an incredible cacophony of clattering spoons, clanking trays and raucous lunch room chatter.
At the food counter, attendants in spiffy aprons and caps were efficiently ladling the contents of enormous vessels onto steel trays. I was so mesmerised by the spread, I just nodded to all their queries.
Rice? (nod), Roti? (nod), Dal? (nod), Vegetable in gravy? (nod), Gravy in vegetable? (nod), Boiled egg? (nod), Gravy for boiled egg? (nod)
And I was just halfway down the line!
Attendant No. 2 took over…
Sambar? (nod), Vegetable (dry)? (nod), Buttermilk (nod), Papad (nod), Pickle (nod), Dessert (nod), Banana (shook head from side to side)
Anyone would think I was preparing for winter!
‘How much?’, I asked
Attendant No. 2 surveyed the hill on my plate and said, ‘Two rupees’. And then almost immediately. ‘No banana… that’s. Rs. 1.50.’
I’d only heard stories of subsidised canteens. This was the first time I was eating in one! I couldn’t wait to gloat to all my ex-colleagues who were still reeling from canteen bills.
But at the end of one week, three things became clear:
a. My innards, convalescing from a virulent ailment, couldn’t stomach this oil and spice rich fodder.
b. I’d have to re-start my old dabba
c. There’d never be anything like a free lunch!
A month ago, I was surprised to find a new addition to the menu.
SALAD OF THE DAY
Sprouts with lettuce
Russian Salad
About time, I whooped to myself, as I helped myself to the salad.
A few days ago, another counter and another sign came up: LESS OILY AND LESS SPICY FOOD.
Someone was doing their bestest to woo me, I thought delightedly. I sailed across to the counter.
Salad (nod)
Sunny yellow dal (nod)
Green vegetables, not doused in flaming red gravy (nod nod)
Fat, fluffy puris (pause)
Were these the oil-free cousins of the usual variety, I wondered. But no, a closer examination revealed big, gleaming beads of oil.
The girl in front of me pounced on this aberration. ‘Why are you serving these oily puris here? Isn’t this an oil-free counter?’
The attendant had perfected his reply. ‘If you don’t take them, they’re not oily!’
I struggled with that logic a bit before I sat down to my old dabba.
Saturday, January 10, 2004
A Star is (Still)Born!
There was something familiar about the scene at Phoenix Mills when I walked in the other day.
A generator van with its sonorous drone. Thick black wires crisscrossing the path. Huge metal plates mounted on stands. An untidy perimeter of people with craned necks and identical zombie-like gaze. It HAD to be a film shoot in progress.
As I walked past the outdoor café set that had been erected, there was a sudden trickle of old memories. Not of the shoots I’d worked on in my ad agency days. But of my first tryst with filmdom.
* Flashback *
Scene 1: The Olde College
I’d just walked into College when my friends, F and G, ran up with the news…
F: ‘There’s an ad film shoot'…
G: '...and they want college students'…
F: ‘650 bucks for the day.’
650 bucks meant a lot of books at the Second Hand Bookstore. But even better, it meant seeing oneself on TV! Of being recognized on the road! Of perhaps even signing autographs… I made a U-turn and with my friends in tow, headed for Film City.
Scene 2: Film City
We tried not to look too awed as we told the guard ‘Studio 2’. It was like stepping into another world. We passed by the cast of a mythological serial who looked decidedly unreal with soft drink bottles and cigarettes, we spotted models and bit actors, costumed dancers and technicians and even the actress Tabu, as she whizzed by in her car.
At some point, the starry aura pervaded our feather heads. We became hopeful that after seeing our ‘acting talent’ in the ad film, we would be besieged with roles. Unknowingly, our walk developed a certain sway. And with a coy toss of the head, we sashayed all the way to Studio 2. (We were impressionable 17-year olds, after all!)
Scene 3: Studio 2
There was no fawning crew to receive us. In fact, except for a group of labourers and a production assistant barking at them, there was no one around. Perhaps, the production assistant would be the person to ask about the ‘script’, we decided. But he took one look at us and said tersely, ‘Extras, wait on the lawn outside!’
From celebrities-in-waiting to extras! We mustered the tattered remnants of our pride and joined the dozen or so forlorn looking ‘extras’ on the lawn.
We waited for 5 unbelievably long hours for the set to be erected; the lights to be set up; the director to decide camera angles; for the ‘real’ model to emerge from the make up van… And in the course of that wait, a good deal of stardust flew out of our eyes.
We’d almost dozed off when an excited buzz began. The ‘model’ (better known today as Mahima Chowdhary) had emerged. We couldn’t help noticing how pretty she looked even with her hair in curlers. What followed was three hours of relentless takes where we had to fake cheesy expressions when the director called ‘Action!’
At one point the director called out, ‘Move out the background’. And the production assistant waved us away! From ‘extras’ to ‘background’, could they rub it in any further? I couldn’t wait to leave.
As we queued up for payment, the producer called the three of us aside and said, ‘Look, we have more shots tomorrow and we need a few girls. It’s just a half day shoot. Can you make it?
We looked at each other, the travails of the day mirrored on our faces. But suddenly there was a leap of hope from an almost dry wellspring. Perhaps tomorrow would be the day when we would be ‘discovered’.
We nodded unanimously and walked back with a sway in our step.
P.S. I caught the ad ONCE on TV and spotted the pink blur that was me!
P.P.S. As for the product itself, I found out that it failed in the test markets!
A generator van with its sonorous drone. Thick black wires crisscrossing the path. Huge metal plates mounted on stands. An untidy perimeter of people with craned necks and identical zombie-like gaze. It HAD to be a film shoot in progress.
As I walked past the outdoor café set that had been erected, there was a sudden trickle of old memories. Not of the shoots I’d worked on in my ad agency days. But of my first tryst with filmdom.
* Flashback *
Scene 1: The Olde College
I’d just walked into College when my friends, F and G, ran up with the news…
F: ‘There’s an ad film shoot'…
G: '...and they want college students'…
F: ‘650 bucks for the day.’
650 bucks meant a lot of books at the Second Hand Bookstore. But even better, it meant seeing oneself on TV! Of being recognized on the road! Of perhaps even signing autographs… I made a U-turn and with my friends in tow, headed for Film City.
Scene 2: Film City
We tried not to look too awed as we told the guard ‘Studio 2’. It was like stepping into another world. We passed by the cast of a mythological serial who looked decidedly unreal with soft drink bottles and cigarettes, we spotted models and bit actors, costumed dancers and technicians and even the actress Tabu, as she whizzed by in her car.
At some point, the starry aura pervaded our feather heads. We became hopeful that after seeing our ‘acting talent’ in the ad film, we would be besieged with roles. Unknowingly, our walk developed a certain sway. And with a coy toss of the head, we sashayed all the way to Studio 2. (We were impressionable 17-year olds, after all!)
Scene 3: Studio 2
There was no fawning crew to receive us. In fact, except for a group of labourers and a production assistant barking at them, there was no one around. Perhaps, the production assistant would be the person to ask about the ‘script’, we decided. But he took one look at us and said tersely, ‘Extras, wait on the lawn outside!’
From celebrities-in-waiting to extras! We mustered the tattered remnants of our pride and joined the dozen or so forlorn looking ‘extras’ on the lawn.
We waited for 5 unbelievably long hours for the set to be erected; the lights to be set up; the director to decide camera angles; for the ‘real’ model to emerge from the make up van… And in the course of that wait, a good deal of stardust flew out of our eyes.
We’d almost dozed off when an excited buzz began. The ‘model’ (better known today as Mahima Chowdhary) had emerged. We couldn’t help noticing how pretty she looked even with her hair in curlers. What followed was three hours of relentless takes where we had to fake cheesy expressions when the director called ‘Action!’
At one point the director called out, ‘Move out the background’. And the production assistant waved us away! From ‘extras’ to ‘background’, could they rub it in any further? I couldn’t wait to leave.
As we queued up for payment, the producer called the three of us aside and said, ‘Look, we have more shots tomorrow and we need a few girls. It’s just a half day shoot. Can you make it?
We looked at each other, the travails of the day mirrored on our faces. But suddenly there was a leap of hope from an almost dry wellspring. Perhaps tomorrow would be the day when we would be ‘discovered’.
We nodded unanimously and walked back with a sway in our step.
P.S. I caught the ad ONCE on TV and spotted the pink blur that was me!
P.P.S. As for the product itself, I found out that it failed in the test markets!
Sunday, January 04, 2004
Ghost Town
The closest that Bombay came to resembling a ghost town was on January 2 this year.
Three friends and I had decided to meet. B and A were on vacation from their universities abroad. So, it fell upon P and me - the locals - to show the out-of-towners just what they’d been missing.
Our first halt was Hawaiian Shack, an unpretentious, inexpensive nightspot tucked away in a bylane in Bandra. Also one of the few places which played undiluted, ear-numbing Rock, minus the annoying remixes. Naturally, people swarmed the place until there was no room to stand. Why, on a Saturday night, you could pass out cold and still not hit the floor!
‘It’s going to get real crowded’, I warned A and B with the air of a regular.
‘I LIKE THIS PLACE!’, hollered B over Bon Jovi. I gave him a pitying smile and looked at my watch. It was 11 pm. The hour when all differences between the Shack and a peak-hour Virar local cease to exist. But hang on! The floor was uncharacteristically empty. There were empty tables. And the usually harassed looking waitress was actually humming along with Bon Jovi. I hoped A and B were wasted enough to not notice the absence of the promised hordes.
‘Let’s check out this other place,’ P piped up. ‘My company is allowed free entry there.’ We were taking turns to show off. The ‘other place’ was a celebrity hangout with the extremely hep, extremely phoren name, Tres Botas Tapas Y Musica!
‘Is it pronounced Tres Botas or Thray Bota?,’ asked A, not wanting to make a gaffe. But she needn’t have bothered. The place was Tres Empty! Except for two sots at the bar and one bored female dj.
‘Either this place is usually like this or we’re missing one heck of a party somewhere else,’ murmured B. He was less wasted than I expected.
We decided on one last halt before calling it a night. At 80s - The nostalgia bar. Just the setting for old friends. By now, we’d gotten used to walking into near empty watering holes. The manager looked almost grateful when we entered. His smile faltered a little though when P suddenly announced, ‘Soup! I want soup.’ His face fell further when she added, ‘Make it one-by-two.’ But the poor fellow hadn’t a choice. We could have asked the waiters to tap dance on the table and gotten away with it that day.
As we tittered, B pointed out that we’d all met first at a college festival in Madras, exactly 10 years ago! We marvelled at the discovery. There was no ‘how time has flown’, no ‘gosh, we’re getting old’…. Just a thrilling sense of timelessness.
So while Bombay’s die hard party animals recovered from the excesses of year-end jamborees, 4 old friends lived it up that night.
Three friends and I had decided to meet. B and A were on vacation from their universities abroad. So, it fell upon P and me - the locals - to show the out-of-towners just what they’d been missing.
Our first halt was Hawaiian Shack, an unpretentious, inexpensive nightspot tucked away in a bylane in Bandra. Also one of the few places which played undiluted, ear-numbing Rock, minus the annoying remixes. Naturally, people swarmed the place until there was no room to stand. Why, on a Saturday night, you could pass out cold and still not hit the floor!
‘It’s going to get real crowded’, I warned A and B with the air of a regular.
‘I LIKE THIS PLACE!’, hollered B over Bon Jovi. I gave him a pitying smile and looked at my watch. It was 11 pm. The hour when all differences between the Shack and a peak-hour Virar local cease to exist. But hang on! The floor was uncharacteristically empty. There were empty tables. And the usually harassed looking waitress was actually humming along with Bon Jovi. I hoped A and B were wasted enough to not notice the absence of the promised hordes.
‘Let’s check out this other place,’ P piped up. ‘My company is allowed free entry there.’ We were taking turns to show off. The ‘other place’ was a celebrity hangout with the extremely hep, extremely phoren name, Tres Botas Tapas Y Musica!
‘Is it pronounced Tres Botas or Thray Bota?,’ asked A, not wanting to make a gaffe. But she needn’t have bothered. The place was Tres Empty! Except for two sots at the bar and one bored female dj.
‘Either this place is usually like this or we’re missing one heck of a party somewhere else,’ murmured B. He was less wasted than I expected.
We decided on one last halt before calling it a night. At 80s - The nostalgia bar. Just the setting for old friends. By now, we’d gotten used to walking into near empty watering holes. The manager looked almost grateful when we entered. His smile faltered a little though when P suddenly announced, ‘Soup! I want soup.’ His face fell further when she added, ‘Make it one-by-two.’ But the poor fellow hadn’t a choice. We could have asked the waiters to tap dance on the table and gotten away with it that day.
As we tittered, B pointed out that we’d all met first at a college festival in Madras, exactly 10 years ago! We marvelled at the discovery. There was no ‘how time has flown’, no ‘gosh, we’re getting old’…. Just a thrilling sense of timelessness.
So while Bombay’s die hard party animals recovered from the excesses of year-end jamborees, 4 old friends lived it up that night.
Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Wishing Well
May your best day in the Old Year
Be your worst day in the New Year.
- Old Scottish prayer
Wishing all of you wonderful people a happy new beginning!
Be your worst day in the New Year.
- Old Scottish prayer
Wishing all of you wonderful people a happy new beginning!
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Where have all the cards gone?
‘Twas the night before Christmas. When all through the house, not a creature was stirring…
…Except my cell phone!
It beeped, it rang and very nearly leapt off the table in excitement. It jiggled its way through Christmas day and by the end of it, had rung in some 43 text messages and over a dozen calls from friends scattered across the world. A parallel stream of emails and e-cards was also pouring in. One was happily inundated with wishes of every kind… Except the ones that are delivered by the friendly neighbourhood postman!
I was struck by the complete absence of Christmas cards this year. Sure, there was the small stack sent by relatives, but oddly, none from friends. There were virtual greetings aplenty, but how in the name of Dancer, Prancer and Rudolph are you going to string them over the fireplace? (No fireplace here, but isn’t wishful thinking permitted at Christmastime?)
It set me thinking: Have people given up on the simple thrill of a greeting card? The rush of excitement at seeing one’s name on the envelope? The faint suspense until the cover is torn open? And then the unbridled delight? Compare this with an email which says, ‘xyz has sent you an e-card. To view it, copy and paste this hotchpotch of letters, numbers and signs, that in some way, which you won’t care to understand, will lead you to a grotty card, which will try your patience as it downloads…..’
For me, greeting cards have always been the harbinger of things special. They made the agonising wait for the birthday a little sweeter. They brought in the festive cheer. They even gave you a heady sense of your own popularity. I remember being over the moon in College one year, when I received 23 birthday cards! With messages ranging from corny (‘Roses are red, cookies are chewy… another year of your life, just went ka-blooey’!) to schmaltzy (‘It’s a good thing you can’t put a price tag on friendship… coz I could never afford a friend like you!’) to downright wicked (Heard you like sex on you birthday?... That’s strange, most people like it more often!!!)
I still have a sizeable collection of most of the cards I’ve received, the earliest dating back to my 5th birthday. A few years ago, I discovered a hitherto latent calligraphy skill, and combined with a whit of wit, set about making my own cards for family and friends. I still indulge in it whenever I can. Still it was very heartening to receive a hand-made birthday card this year from my ‘bess frend’ Alison. What looked like different coloured pens being tried out was actually her message, ‘Dear Leela, I love you lots. The end. Alison’.
It’s going to take Alison and me a while to revive the heading-for-extinction greeting card industry, but hey, we’ll get there.
…Except my cell phone!
It beeped, it rang and very nearly leapt off the table in excitement. It jiggled its way through Christmas day and by the end of it, had rung in some 43 text messages and over a dozen calls from friends scattered across the world. A parallel stream of emails and e-cards was also pouring in. One was happily inundated with wishes of every kind… Except the ones that are delivered by the friendly neighbourhood postman!
I was struck by the complete absence of Christmas cards this year. Sure, there was the small stack sent by relatives, but oddly, none from friends. There were virtual greetings aplenty, but how in the name of Dancer, Prancer and Rudolph are you going to string them over the fireplace? (No fireplace here, but isn’t wishful thinking permitted at Christmastime?)
It set me thinking: Have people given up on the simple thrill of a greeting card? The rush of excitement at seeing one’s name on the envelope? The faint suspense until the cover is torn open? And then the unbridled delight? Compare this with an email which says, ‘xyz has sent you an e-card. To view it, copy and paste this hotchpotch of letters, numbers and signs, that in some way, which you won’t care to understand, will lead you to a grotty card, which will try your patience as it downloads…..’
For me, greeting cards have always been the harbinger of things special. They made the agonising wait for the birthday a little sweeter. They brought in the festive cheer. They even gave you a heady sense of your own popularity. I remember being over the moon in College one year, when I received 23 birthday cards! With messages ranging from corny (‘Roses are red, cookies are chewy… another year of your life, just went ka-blooey’!) to schmaltzy (‘It’s a good thing you can’t put a price tag on friendship… coz I could never afford a friend like you!’) to downright wicked (Heard you like sex on you birthday?... That’s strange, most people like it more often!!!)
I still have a sizeable collection of most of the cards I’ve received, the earliest dating back to my 5th birthday. A few years ago, I discovered a hitherto latent calligraphy skill, and combined with a whit of wit, set about making my own cards for family and friends. I still indulge in it whenever I can. Still it was very heartening to receive a hand-made birthday card this year from my ‘bess frend’ Alison. What looked like different coloured pens being tried out was actually her message, ‘Dear Leela, I love you lots. The end. Alison’.
It’s going to take Alison and me a while to revive the heading-for-extinction greeting card industry, but hey, we’ll get there.
Thursday, December 25, 2003
Chris-missed!
It feels like Christmas crept up on me this year.
Guess that’s a rather fatuous claim when the signs of its advent were unmistakable. Store windows decorated with stockings, reindeers, snowflakes and whatnot… Mailers from credit card companies advertising their ‘Christmas Offers’… Cell phones ringing with ‘Jingle Bells’ instead of ‘Mission Impossible’… Department store clerks wearing fluffy Santa hats (over brown smocks!)… Even the neighbourhood carollers who came a-singing the sole carol in their repertoire, ‘Saantha Close is coming to town…’
Still, I missed all the cues and with two days to go, discovered I had no presents to show. The tree, usually resplendent by this time, was still on the loft, awaiting its annual resurrection. And Mother was turning out all the goodies by herself. If Santa was making his list of naughty and nice, I knew whose name would head the former list.
Come Christmas Eve and all’s well. Alleluia! The presents are wrapped and tagged with cutesy messages for the cousins and niece. No plastic tree this year. Tinsel and crepe streamers bedeck a surprised shrub in the garden in front of the house. Soft carols waft out from the neighbour’s apartment. Droplets of wax gleam and fall from the candles around the house. The aroma of freshly-baked cake fills the room. And the star outside the window glows with contentment.
Peace on earth…
Goodwill to all…
Wish all of you wonderful people the warmth of Christmas!
Guess that’s a rather fatuous claim when the signs of its advent were unmistakable. Store windows decorated with stockings, reindeers, snowflakes and whatnot… Mailers from credit card companies advertising their ‘Christmas Offers’… Cell phones ringing with ‘Jingle Bells’ instead of ‘Mission Impossible’… Department store clerks wearing fluffy Santa hats (over brown smocks!)… Even the neighbourhood carollers who came a-singing the sole carol in their repertoire, ‘Saantha Close is coming to town…’
Still, I missed all the cues and with two days to go, discovered I had no presents to show. The tree, usually resplendent by this time, was still on the loft, awaiting its annual resurrection. And Mother was turning out all the goodies by herself. If Santa was making his list of naughty and nice, I knew whose name would head the former list.
Come Christmas Eve and all’s well. Alleluia! The presents are wrapped and tagged with cutesy messages for the cousins and niece. No plastic tree this year. Tinsel and crepe streamers bedeck a surprised shrub in the garden in front of the house. Soft carols waft out from the neighbour’s apartment. Droplets of wax gleam and fall from the candles around the house. The aroma of freshly-baked cake fills the room. And the star outside the window glows with contentment.
Peace on earth…
Goodwill to all…
Wish all of you wonderful people the warmth of Christmas!
Monday, December 22, 2003
Tech travails
Early this year, my point-and-shoot camera entered its digital dotage. And in casting around for a suitable replacement, I was forced to confront a long-standing adversary – technology.
At the risk of sounding anachronistic, I’ll admit I’m extremely distrustful of gadgets, gizmos and anything that comes with an explicatory manual. Distrustful because these ‘thingies’ amble into your life pretending to be your best friends, and then when you’re slavishly dependant on them, they find the most (in)opportune moment to betray you. Distrustful also because they brag about adding value to your life, when in effect they only add clutter by offering you a bewildering bouquet of unnecessary options. Worse still, by the time you’ve finally figured out all their arcane functions, they’re obsolete, which means you’ve got to start all over again!
Sure, technology has its merits. But it’s the insidious invasion into every aspect of life that I’m holding out against.
But coming back to the camera, another point-and-shoot wasn’t an option. Scanning pictures to post on the Net was becoming too much of hassle. Then, there also was the proliferation of albums at home. My friend recommended a digital camera and suggested I consult her brother. Our conversation…
Me: I want to buy a digital camera.
Friend’s brother: What resolution are we talking of here?
Me: Erm… to buy a good digicam!
(Long silence. Chuckles. Then very slowly…)
Friend’s brother: I meant picture resolution!!!
What followed was a flurry of words… megapixels… flash card… optical zoom… all of which drifted in the hollow space above my head.
I tried another tack – the Internet. In the weeks that followed, I worked my way down a few of the 6,807,551 sites for digital cameras. The fog began to clear as I studied and compared features, decoded jargon and read reviews. I received weekly updates about new models, downloaded data and made notes. At the end of 6 weeks, I’d not only shortlisted 3 models, but had even turned consultant for another tech-challenged friend.
“Try X model’, I told her jauntily, ‘it’s got 3.2 megapixels, with 3X optical zoom and with 32 MB installed memory you should get about 110 pictures of 1600 x 1200 Resolution.’
Once she got over her amazement, she paid me a rather dubious compliment – ‘Wow,’ she said, ‘you talk like a guy!’
Next was the actual purchase. I purposefully strode into the camera store and rattled off the model I wanted. The dealer, as he is wont to, pulled out another model saying, ‘This has a longer warranty and has built in speakers… better than… .’ I slipped back into indecision country.
‘I’ll go for a walk and come back,’ I muttered. A few gulps of fresh air and I decided to stick to my original choice.
The last weekend has been spent poring over the manual and sizing up the many options. Where once there was point-and-shoot, now there was point-select mode-select scene-decide image size-check ISO equivalency-check sharpness-and shoot (if the ‘Kodak moment’ still lingered, that is!)
How the mighty ranters have fallen! Guess I've just validated the 'insidious invasion' argument...
At the risk of sounding anachronistic, I’ll admit I’m extremely distrustful of gadgets, gizmos and anything that comes with an explicatory manual. Distrustful because these ‘thingies’ amble into your life pretending to be your best friends, and then when you’re slavishly dependant on them, they find the most (in)opportune moment to betray you. Distrustful also because they brag about adding value to your life, when in effect they only add clutter by offering you a bewildering bouquet of unnecessary options. Worse still, by the time you’ve finally figured out all their arcane functions, they’re obsolete, which means you’ve got to start all over again!
Sure, technology has its merits. But it’s the insidious invasion into every aspect of life that I’m holding out against.
But coming back to the camera, another point-and-shoot wasn’t an option. Scanning pictures to post on the Net was becoming too much of hassle. Then, there also was the proliferation of albums at home. My friend recommended a digital camera and suggested I consult her brother. Our conversation…
Me: I want to buy a digital camera.
Friend’s brother: What resolution are we talking of here?
Me: Erm… to buy a good digicam!
(Long silence. Chuckles. Then very slowly…)
Friend’s brother: I meant picture resolution!!!
What followed was a flurry of words… megapixels… flash card… optical zoom… all of which drifted in the hollow space above my head.
I tried another tack – the Internet. In the weeks that followed, I worked my way down a few of the 6,807,551 sites for digital cameras. The fog began to clear as I studied and compared features, decoded jargon and read reviews. I received weekly updates about new models, downloaded data and made notes. At the end of 6 weeks, I’d not only shortlisted 3 models, but had even turned consultant for another tech-challenged friend.
“Try X model’, I told her jauntily, ‘it’s got 3.2 megapixels, with 3X optical zoom and with 32 MB installed memory you should get about 110 pictures of 1600 x 1200 Resolution.’
Once she got over her amazement, she paid me a rather dubious compliment – ‘Wow,’ she said, ‘you talk like a guy!’
Next was the actual purchase. I purposefully strode into the camera store and rattled off the model I wanted. The dealer, as he is wont to, pulled out another model saying, ‘This has a longer warranty and has built in speakers… better than… .’ I slipped back into indecision country.
‘I’ll go for a walk and come back,’ I muttered. A few gulps of fresh air and I decided to stick to my original choice.
The last weekend has been spent poring over the manual and sizing up the many options. Where once there was point-and-shoot, now there was point-select mode-select scene-decide image size-check ISO equivalency-check sharpness-and shoot (if the ‘Kodak moment’ still lingered, that is!)
How the mighty ranters have fallen! Guess I've just validated the 'insidious invasion' argument...
Thursday, December 18, 2003
Sunset at Harishchandragad
A few months ago I chanced upon the perfect antidote to chaotic life in the city: the mountains. The trek in the Himalayas, many many miles from home, in effect felt like a homecoming. And since then, it’s been hard to resist the call of the nearby Sahyadris.
Last weekend when the summons became particularly strident, 5 of us bundled into an Indica and headed off. Our destination: an ancient fort called Harishchandragad, which is also a well-known trekking route.
The moment we cleared the city limits, the horizon magnificently expanded. No concrete heaps, no raucous horns, no scurrying hordes… Even the wind began to whistle as the first of the peaks hove into view… Siddhagad, Dhakoba, Naneghat, Jivdhan… Their resolute visages limned against the sky brought on a warm, familiar feeling.
By noon, we were at the base village of Khireshwar. A cool breeze wafted out towards us. We hitched our backpacks and sleeping bags, smeared sun block and set off.
The blistering sun didn’t affect our pace as the trail was lined with shady copses. Conversation fell to a minimum as the grunting and gasping increased. The ‘real’ world faded away and all my concentration was narrowed down to balancing my 12-kg backpack and myself over the sharp stones.
The meditative silence was shattered by loud, grating yowls. Another group of trekkers had come thrashing through the woods. Their glazed eyes suggested that they were ‘spiritually fortified’. We hurried on, keen to put enough distance between them and us.
An hour later, we stopped to catch our breath at a place called Tolar Khind. I was examining an impossibly contorted tree trunk when I spotted the board, which listed the forest regulations and penalties for breaking them. For some reason, the officials had decided to tack it in a place where it could do no harm. And no good either. What else could explain it being high up in the tree, semi-obscured by foliage?
Even as I mulled over this, a tinny sound reached our ears. The next moment a thin youth appeared carrying a transistor, which spewed filmi tunes. Behind him, was another who was awkwardly lugging a VIP-type suitcase. And bringing up the rear was a third, who was carrying a chicken. A live one! While their enthusiasm for roast chicken at 3500 feet could be commended, their folly could not. Perhaps no one had told them that the woods were home to leopards and wild boar!
Two hours later, we passed the crumbling ruin of the old fort and reached the Harishchandreswar temple. For an 1100-year-old temple, it had aged well. But its more recent history had been fairly blighted. Dried tallow, garbage filled bags, even an empty Old Monk bottle all shared space with the hallowed deity. On one of the walls, a certain ARUN J. RAUT made a vain attempt to go down in history by scrawling his name in hideous yellow paint.
Outside the temple was a board, which proclaimed this ruined edifice to be a national monument. The board itself was covered with a metal grill, which would’ve protected it from the likes of Arun J. Raut. Can you think of a more telling irony?
Somehow, the serenity I’d experienced at the start of the trek had evaporated. All the minor irritations through the day were now hanging like a black cloud over my head.
We followed the snaking trail behind the temple and reached the edge of the cliff, Konkan Kada, just in time to view the sunset. Shrugging off our backpacks, we settled down on the rocks and waited…
Kestrels flew around in lazy arcs. The golden orb turned crimson. And the lofty peaks, bathed in the dying sun’s glow, kept their mute, impassive watch. It occurred to me then that these silent sentinels had watched millions of sunsets. They’d seen everything that was there to see. Seen generations of humans come and leave a trail of destruction. And yet, there was no air of judgment or resentment. And here was I, getting hot around the collar all day…
As the sun slipped below the horizon, a pink glow spread across the sky. The cool breeze now had a nip in it. And I noticed with relief, that the black cloud over my head had vanished.
Last weekend when the summons became particularly strident, 5 of us bundled into an Indica and headed off. Our destination: an ancient fort called Harishchandragad, which is also a well-known trekking route.
The moment we cleared the city limits, the horizon magnificently expanded. No concrete heaps, no raucous horns, no scurrying hordes… Even the wind began to whistle as the first of the peaks hove into view… Siddhagad, Dhakoba, Naneghat, Jivdhan… Their resolute visages limned against the sky brought on a warm, familiar feeling.
By noon, we were at the base village of Khireshwar. A cool breeze wafted out towards us. We hitched our backpacks and sleeping bags, smeared sun block and set off.
The blistering sun didn’t affect our pace as the trail was lined with shady copses. Conversation fell to a minimum as the grunting and gasping increased. The ‘real’ world faded away and all my concentration was narrowed down to balancing my 12-kg backpack and myself over the sharp stones.
The meditative silence was shattered by loud, grating yowls. Another group of trekkers had come thrashing through the woods. Their glazed eyes suggested that they were ‘spiritually fortified’. We hurried on, keen to put enough distance between them and us.
An hour later, we stopped to catch our breath at a place called Tolar Khind. I was examining an impossibly contorted tree trunk when I spotted the board, which listed the forest regulations and penalties for breaking them. For some reason, the officials had decided to tack it in a place where it could do no harm. And no good either. What else could explain it being high up in the tree, semi-obscured by foliage?
Even as I mulled over this, a tinny sound reached our ears. The next moment a thin youth appeared carrying a transistor, which spewed filmi tunes. Behind him, was another who was awkwardly lugging a VIP-type suitcase. And bringing up the rear was a third, who was carrying a chicken. A live one! While their enthusiasm for roast chicken at 3500 feet could be commended, their folly could not. Perhaps no one had told them that the woods were home to leopards and wild boar!
Two hours later, we passed the crumbling ruin of the old fort and reached the Harishchandreswar temple. For an 1100-year-old temple, it had aged well. But its more recent history had been fairly blighted. Dried tallow, garbage filled bags, even an empty Old Monk bottle all shared space with the hallowed deity. On one of the walls, a certain ARUN J. RAUT made a vain attempt to go down in history by scrawling his name in hideous yellow paint.
Outside the temple was a board, which proclaimed this ruined edifice to be a national monument. The board itself was covered with a metal grill, which would’ve protected it from the likes of Arun J. Raut. Can you think of a more telling irony?
Somehow, the serenity I’d experienced at the start of the trek had evaporated. All the minor irritations through the day were now hanging like a black cloud over my head.
We followed the snaking trail behind the temple and reached the edge of the cliff, Konkan Kada, just in time to view the sunset. Shrugging off our backpacks, we settled down on the rocks and waited…
Kestrels flew around in lazy arcs. The golden orb turned crimson. And the lofty peaks, bathed in the dying sun’s glow, kept their mute, impassive watch. It occurred to me then that these silent sentinels had watched millions of sunsets. They’d seen everything that was there to see. Seen generations of humans come and leave a trail of destruction. And yet, there was no air of judgment or resentment. And here was I, getting hot around the collar all day…
As the sun slipped below the horizon, a pink glow spread across the sky. The cool breeze now had a nip in it. And I noticed with relief, that the black cloud over my head had vanished.
Friday, December 12, 2003
Gym Jam
Picture this:
X, a high-flying executive in Behemoth Multinational Ltd. (BML), looks at himself in the mirror one morning. Ouch, it hurts! Too many loose folds of meat. The executive lunches have left their mark on the once modest waistline. And some curves have emerged that would shame even a well-endowed woman. Seems like while X was busy totting up impressive figures for the company, his own has gone to seed.
When the different mirror angles fail to reveal any redeeming features, X decides it’s time to shed the excess baggage. He casts around for solutions, and the first he hits upon is BML’s state-of-the-art gym. A-ha, he tells himself, today is the day.
With firm resolve, X strides into BML’s gleaming, air-conditioned gym. Lithe, well-toned figures glance at him as he passes. X self-consciously sucks his gut in and walks up to the trainer. Rippling muscles seem to strain the fabric of the trainer’s black tee. X feigns confidence that has worked so well in so many boardrooms. He pumps the air, swings his arms and says, ‘Ok, where do I begin?’
The trainer looks at the semi-hidden tummy and the other notorious bulges and with a supercilious air, remarks, “Sorry you can’t work out here. You’re not in shape’.
No, this isn’t a Dilbert joke. It’s really the way things are in a company where a friend works.
Want to know why? There’s an incredible reason.
Apparently, the Big Cheese at BML has an MBO that states ‘No employee should die on the job.’ Now Big Cheese has a lurking suspicion that some overworked, overweight sucker like X will one day attempt to correct the weighing scales. In his enthusiasm, he might overdo it, and end up giving up his ghost on the treadmill. And if that happens, Big Cheese will have to kiss the big fat bonus goodbye. Can’t have that, can we? So Plan B, ban all unfit people from working out in the gym.
Moral of the story: Stay fit or just die at home, fatty.
X, a high-flying executive in Behemoth Multinational Ltd. (BML), looks at himself in the mirror one morning. Ouch, it hurts! Too many loose folds of meat. The executive lunches have left their mark on the once modest waistline. And some curves have emerged that would shame even a well-endowed woman. Seems like while X was busy totting up impressive figures for the company, his own has gone to seed.
When the different mirror angles fail to reveal any redeeming features, X decides it’s time to shed the excess baggage. He casts around for solutions, and the first he hits upon is BML’s state-of-the-art gym. A-ha, he tells himself, today is the day.
With firm resolve, X strides into BML’s gleaming, air-conditioned gym. Lithe, well-toned figures glance at him as he passes. X self-consciously sucks his gut in and walks up to the trainer. Rippling muscles seem to strain the fabric of the trainer’s black tee. X feigns confidence that has worked so well in so many boardrooms. He pumps the air, swings his arms and says, ‘Ok, where do I begin?’
The trainer looks at the semi-hidden tummy and the other notorious bulges and with a supercilious air, remarks, “Sorry you can’t work out here. You’re not in shape’.
No, this isn’t a Dilbert joke. It’s really the way things are in a company where a friend works.
Want to know why? There’s an incredible reason.
Apparently, the Big Cheese at BML has an MBO that states ‘No employee should die on the job.’ Now Big Cheese has a lurking suspicion that some overworked, overweight sucker like X will one day attempt to correct the weighing scales. In his enthusiasm, he might overdo it, and end up giving up his ghost on the treadmill. And if that happens, Big Cheese will have to kiss the big fat bonus goodbye. Can’t have that, can we? So Plan B, ban all unfit people from working out in the gym.
Moral of the story: Stay fit or just die at home, fatty.
Sunday, December 07, 2003
If tomorrow comes... at Fun Republic
Two FREE tickets to watch the thumpingly-successful, heavily pre-booked blockbuster KHNH. On a Saturday afternoon. At a multiplex not too far from home. With a free meal and soft drink thrown in…
This was like having your cake and eating it and marrying the rich, handsome baker as well!
Ok, rather fanciful analogy. But then we’re talking movies, remember. Where life inevitably sashays towards a happy ending. But first, there are twists in the plot… And I got more than a fair share of them when I landed up at ‘Fun Republic’.
On first glimpse, it resembled a State of Chaos. A higgledy-piggledy mix of steel, glass and concrete which stuck out sorely in a conservative landscape. Food courts, play stations, coffee bars, candy dispensers – all the trappings of ‘fun’ were in evidence. But for some reason, I simply disliked the place.
We took the glass elevator to the loftily-titled ‘Xenon 3’. And waited to be ushered inside.
25 minutes later, we were still waiting. The foyer got crowded and soon every available inch was covered. I was hemmed against the wall, when the lights went out. Groans of dismay arose and soon turned into mutinous rumblings. If the snag wasn’t rectified soon, Fun Republic would have a bloody uprising on hand.
Thankfully, it was a momentary lapse and minutes later, the recalcitrant masses were herded into the auditorium. Our FREE seats turned out to be smack in front of the big screen. But before we had time to rue this, the lights dimmed and the opening credits appeared.
The first stirrings of romance were being kindled, when the lights went out again. A howl of protest erupted. Being stuck in the dark with fragmented images of a promising love story was downright frustrating. If this was a rock concert, a rude chant would have gone up…
10 minutes later, the lights came back. All was forgiven and we were ushered back into dreamland.
We were hooked as the hero liberated his lass with a single-line profundity. But then the screen went blank even while the audio continued. We were torn between hollering loudly and hanging onto the dialogue, allowing our fervid imagination to supply the images. Was this a state-of-the-art multiplex or a banana republic? I certainly wanted to secede.
A few more of these unscheduled intermissions and the fragile link was broken. We were no longer swept up in the intense emotional drama. Still a lone tear escaped my sardonic gaze as the hero lay on his deathbed. But even that turned to mirth a moment later.
A star-struck tot had climbed onto the stage. His mother made a frantic dash for him. Unbelievably, a classic chase scene was being enacted live. The onscreen drama forgotten, everyone applauded when the long arm of the law caught up with the errant youngster.
Thus, an utterly forgettable movie experience was salvaged by an impromptu addition to the screenplay.
I walked away marvelling at how the kid had intuitively grasped the movie’s philosophy of ‘living like there was no tomorrow’.
This was like having your cake and eating it and marrying the rich, handsome baker as well!
Ok, rather fanciful analogy. But then we’re talking movies, remember. Where life inevitably sashays towards a happy ending. But first, there are twists in the plot… And I got more than a fair share of them when I landed up at ‘Fun Republic’.
On first glimpse, it resembled a State of Chaos. A higgledy-piggledy mix of steel, glass and concrete which stuck out sorely in a conservative landscape. Food courts, play stations, coffee bars, candy dispensers – all the trappings of ‘fun’ were in evidence. But for some reason, I simply disliked the place.
We took the glass elevator to the loftily-titled ‘Xenon 3’. And waited to be ushered inside.
25 minutes later, we were still waiting. The foyer got crowded and soon every available inch was covered. I was hemmed against the wall, when the lights went out. Groans of dismay arose and soon turned into mutinous rumblings. If the snag wasn’t rectified soon, Fun Republic would have a bloody uprising on hand.
Thankfully, it was a momentary lapse and minutes later, the recalcitrant masses were herded into the auditorium. Our FREE seats turned out to be smack in front of the big screen. But before we had time to rue this, the lights dimmed and the opening credits appeared.
The first stirrings of romance were being kindled, when the lights went out again. A howl of protest erupted. Being stuck in the dark with fragmented images of a promising love story was downright frustrating. If this was a rock concert, a rude chant would have gone up…
10 minutes later, the lights came back. All was forgiven and we were ushered back into dreamland.
We were hooked as the hero liberated his lass with a single-line profundity. But then the screen went blank even while the audio continued. We were torn between hollering loudly and hanging onto the dialogue, allowing our fervid imagination to supply the images. Was this a state-of-the-art multiplex or a banana republic? I certainly wanted to secede.
A few more of these unscheduled intermissions and the fragile link was broken. We were no longer swept up in the intense emotional drama. Still a lone tear escaped my sardonic gaze as the hero lay on his deathbed. But even that turned to mirth a moment later.
A star-struck tot had climbed onto the stage. His mother made a frantic dash for him. Unbelievably, a classic chase scene was being enacted live. The onscreen drama forgotten, everyone applauded when the long arm of the law caught up with the errant youngster.
Thus, an utterly forgettable movie experience was salvaged by an impromptu addition to the screenplay.
I walked away marvelling at how the kid had intuitively grasped the movie’s philosophy of ‘living like there was no tomorrow’.
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
The Revolving Doors
A couple of days ago I was bobbing along with the surge of humanity at Churchgate station, when something caught my eye. The drab railway office opposite the ticket window looked uncommonly bright and colourful. Streamers and fairy lights bedecked the entrance. A bright blue curtain served as the backdrop for a glitter-etched placard which read, ‘Mr. M.G. ROY RETIRES TODAY AFTER 37 YEARS SERVICE.’
I climbed out of the subway with the number 37 still on my mind. 37 years! I tried to imagine what it would be like coming to the same desk each day and seeing the same faces, perhaps with new wrinkles as the years went by. And finally signing out with fairy lights, cheery placards and teary speeches. Perhaps, even a gold watch.
Well, one thing’s certain. No one’s handing me a gold watch. My peripatetic career graph has covered 5 jobs in 8 years. No moss on me, for sure. And while I’ve no regrets about each move, I’ve begun to feel a wee bit guilty lately. ‘Work Experience’ has far too many bullet points on my bio-data. Friends and acquaintances ask me, ‘Now where are you working?,’ heavily emphasising the ‘now’. And if my answer hasn’t varied, they feign shock with, “Still there???”
On the other hand, ‘Still there?’ has a different ring in Advertising circles. It’s like asking Liz Taylor, ‘Still Married?’ The shock accompanying the question is real. That’s because at any given time, most people are either switching jobs or planning to switch. My ex-boss evenly admits that she’s worked in 7 out of the top 10 agencies in a span of 12 years. My ex-art partner sheepishly confesses she’s been in the same agency for 6 years and promptly suffixes that with, ‘But I’m planning to move now.’
My new workplace is an eye-opener. My boss recently spoke of someone who worked in the company ‘for a short while’. The short while, I discovered, was 8 years! My boss completes 19 years next month. Most people around tell me they’ve ‘been here for donkey’s years’. (Wonder if there’s something in that phrase now!)
Recently, an old colleague from Advertising joined the team. In the course of our conversation she said, ‘You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you?’
I replied, ‘I’m nearing the one-year mark.’
Without missing a beat, she queried, ‘Ok, so what are your plans now?”
I climbed out of the subway with the number 37 still on my mind. 37 years! I tried to imagine what it would be like coming to the same desk each day and seeing the same faces, perhaps with new wrinkles as the years went by. And finally signing out with fairy lights, cheery placards and teary speeches. Perhaps, even a gold watch.
Well, one thing’s certain. No one’s handing me a gold watch. My peripatetic career graph has covered 5 jobs in 8 years. No moss on me, for sure. And while I’ve no regrets about each move, I’ve begun to feel a wee bit guilty lately. ‘Work Experience’ has far too many bullet points on my bio-data. Friends and acquaintances ask me, ‘Now where are you working?,’ heavily emphasising the ‘now’. And if my answer hasn’t varied, they feign shock with, “Still there???”
On the other hand, ‘Still there?’ has a different ring in Advertising circles. It’s like asking Liz Taylor, ‘Still Married?’ The shock accompanying the question is real. That’s because at any given time, most people are either switching jobs or planning to switch. My ex-boss evenly admits that she’s worked in 7 out of the top 10 agencies in a span of 12 years. My ex-art partner sheepishly confesses she’s been in the same agency for 6 years and promptly suffixes that with, ‘But I’m planning to move now.’
My new workplace is an eye-opener. My boss recently spoke of someone who worked in the company ‘for a short while’. The short while, I discovered, was 8 years! My boss completes 19 years next month. Most people around tell me they’ve ‘been here for donkey’s years’. (Wonder if there’s something in that phrase now!)
Recently, an old colleague from Advertising joined the team. In the course of our conversation she said, ‘You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you?’
I replied, ‘I’m nearing the one-year mark.’
Without missing a beat, she queried, ‘Ok, so what are your plans now?”
Saturday, November 29, 2003
Do you copy?
What’s the toughest part about being a copywriter?
Is it churning out fresh, original ideas day after day? Is it deadlines called ‘yesterday’? Is it defending your ideas from cretins sometimes masquerading as clients?
None of that. In my experience, the toughest part has been answering the question: What do you do?
Sample conversation:
Neighbour: So what do you do?
Me: I’m a copywriter
Neighbour: ???
Me: I work in an advertising agency. You see the ads on TV, in the paper…. I do stuff like that.
Neighbour: Ohhhhhh….. you’re a model!!!
And that’s one of the flattering interpretations. Over the years, I’ve been mistaken for a journalist, a billboard painter, even an obituary writer. Some have a low opinion about my abilities, obviously misled by the ‘copy’ bit in Copywriter. A friend’s grandmother thought she finally understood what I did when she commented, ‘Ah, so you have a good handwriting.’
My parents too took a while getting used to my vocation. “My ad’s in the paper”, I yelled one morning, proudly displaying my first creation in print. My parents avidly pored over it, taking in every line. I waited breathlessly.
Dad looked up, nonplussed, ‘But where’s your name on it?”
Always practical, Mom wanted to know, “Will they pay you more for this?’
Plumbers don’t have this problem. Neither do politicians nor palm readers nor software programmers. Everyone’s professions are self-explanatory, making it easy to slot them into neat, little boxes. Copywriters, in comparison, are a slippery lot. They don’t copy (at least they’re not supposed to!) and they don’t just write.
‘So what do you DO then?’ people ask curiously, even suspiciously. I point out ads they might have seen on TV or in the newspapers. They struggle with that for a while and then launch the dreaded question, ‘But how do you come up with ideas?’
Recently I quit mainstream advertising and joined a media house as the in-house copywriter. My job is to create advertising for the different publications in the Group. Now, more than ever, I shrink from occupation related questions.
A gist from a recent conversation:
Aunt: Where do you work?
Me: ‘I’m with XYZ (Newspaper name)
Aunt: ‘You’re a journalist?’
Me: No, I’m a copywriter. I do ads to promote the newspaper.
Aunt (frowning): ‘You mean you write those matrimonial ads?’
Me: ‘Er.. aunty, actually I’m a journalist.’
I know when it's time to give up.
Is it churning out fresh, original ideas day after day? Is it deadlines called ‘yesterday’? Is it defending your ideas from cretins sometimes masquerading as clients?
None of that. In my experience, the toughest part has been answering the question: What do you do?
Sample conversation:
Neighbour: So what do you do?
Me: I’m a copywriter
Neighbour: ???
Me: I work in an advertising agency. You see the ads on TV, in the paper…. I do stuff like that.
Neighbour: Ohhhhhh….. you’re a model!!!
And that’s one of the flattering interpretations. Over the years, I’ve been mistaken for a journalist, a billboard painter, even an obituary writer. Some have a low opinion about my abilities, obviously misled by the ‘copy’ bit in Copywriter. A friend’s grandmother thought she finally understood what I did when she commented, ‘Ah, so you have a good handwriting.’
My parents too took a while getting used to my vocation. “My ad’s in the paper”, I yelled one morning, proudly displaying my first creation in print. My parents avidly pored over it, taking in every line. I waited breathlessly.
Dad looked up, nonplussed, ‘But where’s your name on it?”
Always practical, Mom wanted to know, “Will they pay you more for this?’
Plumbers don’t have this problem. Neither do politicians nor palm readers nor software programmers. Everyone’s professions are self-explanatory, making it easy to slot them into neat, little boxes. Copywriters, in comparison, are a slippery lot. They don’t copy (at least they’re not supposed to!) and they don’t just write.
‘So what do you DO then?’ people ask curiously, even suspiciously. I point out ads they might have seen on TV or in the newspapers. They struggle with that for a while and then launch the dreaded question, ‘But how do you come up with ideas?’
Recently I quit mainstream advertising and joined a media house as the in-house copywriter. My job is to create advertising for the different publications in the Group. Now, more than ever, I shrink from occupation related questions.
A gist from a recent conversation:
Aunt: Where do you work?
Me: ‘I’m with XYZ (Newspaper name)
Aunt: ‘You’re a journalist?’
Me: No, I’m a copywriter. I do ads to promote the newspaper.
Aunt (frowning): ‘You mean you write those matrimonial ads?’
Me: ‘Er.. aunty, actually I’m a journalist.’
I know when it's time to give up.
Sunday, November 23, 2003
Alison goes to the movies
Last week I decided to take Alison for her first movie. Alison is the precocious 3-year old niece who cutely lisps that I’m her ‘bess friend’. That kind of a compliment can be quite heady and enslaving. So when ‘Finding Nemo’ came to town, I offered to take her for it.
The excitement was unbelievable. The wait seemed interminable. The anticipation almost unbearable. And that was just her grandparents!
“Have you got the tickets?,” my mother asked on Monday. A full 5 days before the promised movie.
I’m an ardent movie lover, but I’ve always treated advance booking with disdain. The last-minute dash to the theatre, bagging the last two available seats, feeling one’s way into the darkened auditorium, reading the opening credits while stumbling into one’s seat – are to me a part of the complete movie experience. But when there are 4 excitable grandparents to contend with, advance booking is the lesser evil.
Wednesday onwards, a flurry of mails congested my inbox. Surprisingly, they were from my usually phlegmatic sister. “Should I tell Alison or will you?” “Are you booking tickets today?” “Let me know as soon as you get tickets. I have to tell them to prepare her at home…”
A fun outing was beginning to take on the solemnity of a ceremony. I was beginning to get nervous. Egged on by the excitement around, even Alison had begun asking, ‘When we are going for de movee?’ This even before she knew what a movie was.
Tickets were bought. All concerned parties were informed.
INTERMISSION
Then began the second part. “What time are you coming to pick her up?’ “Should I pack something for her?” “How long is the movie?” Movie, what movie?! This was a rite of passage.
Before I set out, I got the final instructions. “Carry her waterbottle and some biscuits.” “Bring her out during the interval for fresh air.” “If she starts crying take her home.”
Was Alison on pins, waiting for her introduction to the marquee? When I reached, she was sound asleep with her little bottom in the air. A quick change of clothes and a swig of milk later, we were off. “What we are going to do?,” she asked me naively. How wonderful to be blessed with short-term memory!
Armed with popcorn and chips and with me as interpreter, she serenely watched the movie. Occasionally asking loudly, the way only children can, “Why are the lights off?” and “Where’s the big TV?” The only time she got animated was when she saw the Happy Meal toy at McDonald’s. ‘Hee-mo, Hee-mo,’ she chirruped, ‘I want Hee-mo’.
That’s what it came down to for her. A stuffed toy. All that animation wizardry and cutesy story ultimately meant an addition to her toy collection.
‘So how was the movie,” everyone began asking her. And she spun off some fanciful tale while they listened enthralled.
Alison starts school next year. I can’t wait to watch the drama unfold then.
The excitement was unbelievable. The wait seemed interminable. The anticipation almost unbearable. And that was just her grandparents!
“Have you got the tickets?,” my mother asked on Monday. A full 5 days before the promised movie.
I’m an ardent movie lover, but I’ve always treated advance booking with disdain. The last-minute dash to the theatre, bagging the last two available seats, feeling one’s way into the darkened auditorium, reading the opening credits while stumbling into one’s seat – are to me a part of the complete movie experience. But when there are 4 excitable grandparents to contend with, advance booking is the lesser evil.
Wednesday onwards, a flurry of mails congested my inbox. Surprisingly, they were from my usually phlegmatic sister. “Should I tell Alison or will you?” “Are you booking tickets today?” “Let me know as soon as you get tickets. I have to tell them to prepare her at home…”
A fun outing was beginning to take on the solemnity of a ceremony. I was beginning to get nervous. Egged on by the excitement around, even Alison had begun asking, ‘When we are going for de movee?’ This even before she knew what a movie was.
Tickets were bought. All concerned parties were informed.
INTERMISSION
Then began the second part. “What time are you coming to pick her up?’ “Should I pack something for her?” “How long is the movie?” Movie, what movie?! This was a rite of passage.
Before I set out, I got the final instructions. “Carry her waterbottle and some biscuits.” “Bring her out during the interval for fresh air.” “If she starts crying take her home.”
Was Alison on pins, waiting for her introduction to the marquee? When I reached, she was sound asleep with her little bottom in the air. A quick change of clothes and a swig of milk later, we were off. “What we are going to do?,” she asked me naively. How wonderful to be blessed with short-term memory!
Armed with popcorn and chips and with me as interpreter, she serenely watched the movie. Occasionally asking loudly, the way only children can, “Why are the lights off?” and “Where’s the big TV?” The only time she got animated was when she saw the Happy Meal toy at McDonald’s. ‘Hee-mo, Hee-mo,’ she chirruped, ‘I want Hee-mo’.
That’s what it came down to for her. A stuffed toy. All that animation wizardry and cutesy story ultimately meant an addition to her toy collection.
‘So how was the movie,” everyone began asking her. And she spun off some fanciful tale while they listened enthralled.
Alison starts school next year. I can’t wait to watch the drama unfold then.
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
There's no such thing as a free lance
It’s been a while since the last instalment in the blog, and there’s a reason for that – freelance.
In a copywriter’s expansive vocabulary, few words elicit such unadulterated pleasure as ‘freelance’. It’s the advertising term for moonlighting, converting clever words into numbers (with rupee signs in front of them!) Why, with the right client and the right fee, one could end up making a month’s salary for just a few days work.
But like all things which sound too good to be true, freelance has its downsides. The most perilous being the name itself. FREE-lance. Somehow, that bit misleads clients into thinking they don’t really have to pay. Or rather, that there’s no hurry to pay up.
So here I wait to be paid for the URGENT job I did in January. I’ve spent more in phone calls following up on that cheque. Each month I’m haranguing a new person, because the previous bloke has quit the company. Sometimes I wonder if I should quit too. But then the galling thought of being cheated makes me lunge for the phone once again.
Another cheque-in-the-mail is due from my ex-agency. If I had an ounce of sense I would have refused the job, because I knew their haphazard functioning. Still the thought of being indispensable to one’s ex-agency was flattering. Now I listen to the same excuses every week ‘We’ve sent the estimate for approval’… ‘Cash crunch in the agency’… ‘Will look into the matter’. Maybe I should invest in a few voodoo dolls.
Recently, I did a job for a friend. That sounds like it has disaster written all over it, right? But hang on; he actually paid me an advance. The job’s been completed a few months now, but not the payment issues. The last time I tentatively brought up the subject, he mumbled something about checking his bank balance.
For a while I began refusing freelance work. Offers came up but I referred other copywriters. Nothing was worth the hassle, I told myself virtuously.
But the filthy love of lucre can’t be quashed and I accepted not one, but three assignments. I’ve just sent my bills yesterday. Now, I’m keeping my fingers crossed and my voodoo dolls poised.
In a copywriter’s expansive vocabulary, few words elicit such unadulterated pleasure as ‘freelance’. It’s the advertising term for moonlighting, converting clever words into numbers (with rupee signs in front of them!) Why, with the right client and the right fee, one could end up making a month’s salary for just a few days work.
But like all things which sound too good to be true, freelance has its downsides. The most perilous being the name itself. FREE-lance. Somehow, that bit misleads clients into thinking they don’t really have to pay. Or rather, that there’s no hurry to pay up.
So here I wait to be paid for the URGENT job I did in January. I’ve spent more in phone calls following up on that cheque. Each month I’m haranguing a new person, because the previous bloke has quit the company. Sometimes I wonder if I should quit too. But then the galling thought of being cheated makes me lunge for the phone once again.
Another cheque-in-the-mail is due from my ex-agency. If I had an ounce of sense I would have refused the job, because I knew their haphazard functioning. Still the thought of being indispensable to one’s ex-agency was flattering. Now I listen to the same excuses every week ‘We’ve sent the estimate for approval’… ‘Cash crunch in the agency’… ‘Will look into the matter’. Maybe I should invest in a few voodoo dolls.
Recently, I did a job for a friend. That sounds like it has disaster written all over it, right? But hang on; he actually paid me an advance. The job’s been completed a few months now, but not the payment issues. The last time I tentatively brought up the subject, he mumbled something about checking his bank balance.
For a while I began refusing freelance work. Offers came up but I referred other copywriters. Nothing was worth the hassle, I told myself virtuously.
But the filthy love of lucre can’t be quashed and I accepted not one, but three assignments. I’ve just sent my bills yesterday. Now, I’m keeping my fingers crossed and my voodoo dolls poised.
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