It’s a question we ask ourselves anew each day. Would Preeti have wanted to go through this or would she have chosen differently? Does the fact that she’s pulled through for 25 days after doctors told us, ‘No hope, call your relatives,’ mean that she wants to fight it out or is that what we want to believe? Do we surrender to whatever has to happen or do we lasso her back with fervent prayers and heartfelt desires?
The days go by but the questions don’t get any easier. We are people of hope and faith. We affirm that whatever happens will be best for Preeti. But several times, we find ourselves having to make a choice on Preeti’s behalf. And that’s when the questions terrorise…
Early last week, Preeti caught an infection, and all the fledgling signs of improvement backed up and vanished. Her temperature started climbing into the alarming 100s, the kidney output decreased and she was back on the ventilator. There was more bad news, this time from two consulting neurologists. Both echoed the gloomy diagnosis of the first neurologist. (One of them used a quaint expression when I asked for chances of improvement – ‘hugely small’. The other said even if she recovered, brain capacity would be ‘greatly reduced’. Are neurologists trained to speak in oxymorons, I wonder?)
Confronted with bad news and worse news, all the doubts – effectively suppressed by hope - came rushing back in. Would we have to make that decision now? Is that what Preeti wants?
‘Make a decision’ is the euphemism that medics use to suggest that a patient has poor chances of recovery. Doctors are understandably cagey when you ask them for their recommendation. What do YOU want to do, they ask? We’ve never had to deal with this before, we say.
Between euphemisms and oxymorons, we deduce the options. One is to stop dialysis or switch off the ventilator. But can we do it knowing fully well that part of her brain still functions, that she can still breathe a little and that some body functions are stable? Another option is to continue the treatment, hoping for some improvement in the brain functioning, which might or might not happen. Neither of these is painless. For Preeti or for us.
Ultimately, each of these options is linked to the monetary factor. As one doctor told us, "The deciding factor in such cases is how long you can sustain the treatment. The day you can’t afford to pay for the dialysis and the expensive injections, the option is clear.” Mercifully, we haven’t reached there yet.
In the midst of these hopeless, confused moments, we’re truly thankful for Dr. Thomas. Three days ago, he told us, “She’s young, her heart is strong. Give her a chance.” That’s all we needed to hear. That’s all we wanted to do, despite the moments of torment and confusion.
Two days ago, the kidneys began responding to treatment. The dour nephrologist actually had a smile when he told us that. The new batch of antibiotics worked away at the infection and yesterday even the ventilator came off.
This morning, the nephrologist said, “The kidney output is extremely good. I may not even need to see her again. My work is done.” Family members and visitors gaze reverentially, even admiringly, at the urine bag hanging over the side of the bed. (Pardon this mention of unmentionables. It is a matter of celebration.)
Now, it’s the turn of the brain. Dr. Thomas warns, “It’s not a rosy picture. Be prepared for a prolonged, sometimes frustrating journey.” The damaged areas might never recover, but perhaps, the brain can find a way around them. We continue to hope.
A big Thank You to each one of you who’s praying and continues to pray for Preeti. I appreciate all of your comments. I’m also grateful to all of you who’ve written in sharing your stories of hope, and for those of you who’ve linked the previous post. I’ve shared all your comments and mails with my family and it has given us a great deal of strength to know that Preeti has so many well wishers. Please continue to keep her in your prayers.
You can write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com
Monday, April 25, 2005
Friday, April 15, 2005
Spare a prayer for Preeti
The blog break didn’t turn out as expected. But then, neither has life in the last two weeks. I’m driven to write here on account of the extraordinary circumstances in my life.
I’m back in Bombay. I’ve been here for exactly two weeks. When I boarded the flight from Dubai on April 1, I hoped against hope that the call from home had been an April Fool’s joke. How could my beloved sister, Preeti, be in the ICU? How could a simple case of Rheumatoid Arthritis result in the doctors pronouncing her as being at death’s door? For god’s sake, she’s just 32. Her little girl, my ‘best friend’, Alison, is not even five years old.
I had to bow and scrape with the medics to be allowed to see her on the 1st evening. “I will only look at her for 30 seconds,” I beseeched. I stood by her bed in shock, totally unprepared for what I was to see. She was gasping for breath; her eyes were turned upwards, half-closed, revealing cloudy white eyeballs. Even as I stood there, her eyes flew open and focussed on me. Her wide, beautiful eyes were unnaturally large and there was that characteristic, pearly smile, which even the tubes sticking out of her face did little to diminish.
“You’ve come?” she asked half-astonished, “You’ve come on holiday?”.
I told her I had.
“For how long?” she inquired. The tube in her throat made it difficult to talk.
“My boss said I could take a holiday for as long as I wanted,” I lied.
I told her that she must be strong and fight. She beamed and nodded.
“Don’t make her talk”, scolded the nurses, and I was just so thankful to them. I could not stand there for a moment longer without openly sobbing.
I was the last person she spoke to. Preeti was put on the ventilator that night. She slipped into a coma the next morning, and continues to be in a coma until this moment, almost 15 days later.
****
Preeti has had Rheumatoid Arthritis for the last 6 years. How a 26 year old could contract a sickness typically associated with old-age is another fateful story. She was walking on the road near our home when a monkey – part of a street entertainer’s troupe – bit her. She took the three prescribed anti-rabies injections. Exactly a day after the last injection she developed debilitating pains in her joints. The doctors diagnosed it as Rheumatoid Arthritis.
In the last six years, not a single remedy, therapy or exercise has been spared, not a single prayer remained unsaid. But never did Preeti ever complain or be less than cheery. Her joint stiffness became apparent in the way she walked, but she never talked about it even with friends. In fact, her replies used to be a standing joke at home.
“How are you Preeti?”…. “Better”
“Have the pains started again?”….. “Only a little”
With her limited mobility – sitting cross legged on the floor, a gesture we take for granted, is something she hasn’t attempted for many years – she continued to lead as normal a life as possible, going to work, bringing up Alison, even occasionally, and very cautiously, shaking a leg. At the small farewell party before I left for Dubai, it was she who insisted on the dance music.
A warning bell should have sounded when she took sick leave for the first time ever in mid-March. A little knee pain, she said. When one week of sick leave turned into two, and when the steroids prescribed by the family physician didn’t offer any relief, the alarm bells should have woken up the neighbourhood. But sadly, Preeti’s tendency to downplay her illness, along with neglect and mis-diagnosis led to unfortunate delays. In the two weeks that she’d been at home, the inflamed knees had developed an infection, leading to pus, which invaded her blood stream, throwing her kidneys off gear. Advanced septicaemia, they wrote, on admission. Doctors roared at my parents when they discovered that her blood pressure was only 40. “What were you’ll doing for so long?” they asked. A question we’re still coming to terms with.
*******
The last two weeks have been plagued by what-ifs. Each morning we steel ourselves to hear the worst.
“Her kidneys have failed”
“Her blood pressure isn’t stable”
“She’s in total coma”
“She’s slowly sinking”
“Now her blood sugar has shot up”
“Call your relatives…”
The MRI report six days ago, confirmed the doctors worst fears - extensive and possibly irreparable brain damage.
On Monday, 11 April, Preeti was entirely on life support – dialysis took care of the kidney functions, breathing was with the help of the ventilator and powerful drugs regulated the the blood pressure and heart rate. A decision was to be made. We waited for the doctor to tell us our options.
He came in half hour late. “I’ve disconnected Preeti from the ventilator for the last 15 minutes. She’s breathing on her own.”
It was the first sign that Preeti wasn’t ready to give up. Preeti breathed on her own for the first time in 11 days. She was put back on the ventilator an hour later so as not to tire her or to let the oxygen saturation drop. Since that day, she’s been breathing on her own intermittently. Her kidneys which had completely failed produced a small amount of urine yesterday, in what doctors admit is the very early sign of kidney recovery.
But these tiny rays of hope signs are clouded by an unbeatable knowledge – that her brain might never recover. What’s more, most of the doctors on the panel, save the chief doctor and the orthopaedic surgeon, have subtly or unequivocally told us to give up. And here’s where logic and faith, optimism and pragmatism, love and self-interest have locked horns.
Until Monday morning, we were ready to let Preeti pass on. All the signs pointed to the fact that she wanted to. She has suffered enough, we told ourselves. We whispered in her ear that we would take care of her unfinished business.
But her grasp on life has surprised us all. Each day there are tiny signs – her eyes twitch, she sometimes responds to pain stimuli, on occasion when people pray over her, teardrops roll down her eyes.
Straws, scoffs the neurologist. But he also admits that the dilemma is tricky. One the one we could be “killing off the patient”, while on the other hand we could rack up huge bills, face months or even years of uncertainty, medical complications and even with best efforts, a patient with diminished capacities (I absolutely DETEST the word ‘vegetable’. I will never use it to describe a human being, whatever the condition.)
It’s a testing time for all of us who love Preeti. There are no easy answers. Each day brings new challenges and demands fresh thinking. I have followed the Terri Schiavo case intermittently. Living it, I can tell you, is a wholly different experience. As a family, we’ve discussed it extensively. And we’ve decided to take things one step at a time. Where there is life, even the small, negligible sign of it, there is hope, we believe. We have no desire to hold on to her for our sake, but if she is hanging in there, so are we. There are voices which oppose out of interests that are perhaps misguided. But we believe they too are there for a purpose. Each day we discover new reserves of strength, courage to fight disappointment and forbearance to see the larger plan.
****
One of the most beautiful and unexpected outcomes of Preeti’s hospitalization has been the reaction of people – family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, acquaintances, even perfect strangers. An announcement was made at our church two weeks ago to pray for her. And the prayers haven’t stopped ever since. Scores of people, some of who barely know us, have offered prayers to their favourite saint or at the holy place they have utmost faith in. Prayer groups across the country, even the world, have been mobilized to intercede for Preeti. Emails have been flying furiously (now I know how the chain mails start) and each day we come across mails from distant family, friends of family, friends of friends of family…
The phone has been ringing off the hook at all times of day and night. The steady stream of visitors has only one refrain on their lips, ‘We’re praying for her’. A woman who came to the hospital last week said to us, ‘Can I please see her? I’ve been praying for her all week. I want to know who she is.’ I was extremely surprised to receive a call from a neighbour of ours who we knew was also very unwell. It turned out she was calling from Hinduja Hospital and was due for a bone-graft surgery the next day. “I’m praying for Preeti,” she said.
Early last week, Preeti required almost 22 units of blood. An email went around Preeti’s workplace, ICICI Bank. Three days later I got a frantic call from the blood bank. “Does Preeti need any more blood? If not, please stop the donors. We’ve got 17 bottles extra and there are five more people waiting to donate. We’re running out of storage space.”
We’ve been truly humbled by the deluge of prayers, hope, optimism and simple, unswerving faith. We, who see Preeti every day, who listen to the doctors, who hear all kinds of ‘expert’ advice, are far more pragmatic. But we also believe that all that positive energy has to produce SOME result. Medical science may have its limitation but the human spirit has none.
So here’s my entreaty to all my friends in blog world, even passers by. If you believe in prayer, please say a prayer for my sister, Preeti. Even if you don’t pray, please send positive thoughts her way. She needs it. We all need it.
(If you have heard of similar cases and have something to share, leave a comment or write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com)
I’m back in Bombay. I’ve been here for exactly two weeks. When I boarded the flight from Dubai on April 1, I hoped against hope that the call from home had been an April Fool’s joke. How could my beloved sister, Preeti, be in the ICU? How could a simple case of Rheumatoid Arthritis result in the doctors pronouncing her as being at death’s door? For god’s sake, she’s just 32. Her little girl, my ‘best friend’, Alison, is not even five years old.
I had to bow and scrape with the medics to be allowed to see her on the 1st evening. “I will only look at her for 30 seconds,” I beseeched. I stood by her bed in shock, totally unprepared for what I was to see. She was gasping for breath; her eyes were turned upwards, half-closed, revealing cloudy white eyeballs. Even as I stood there, her eyes flew open and focussed on me. Her wide, beautiful eyes were unnaturally large and there was that characteristic, pearly smile, which even the tubes sticking out of her face did little to diminish.
“You’ve come?” she asked half-astonished, “You’ve come on holiday?”.
I told her I had.
“For how long?” she inquired. The tube in her throat made it difficult to talk.
“My boss said I could take a holiday for as long as I wanted,” I lied.
I told her that she must be strong and fight. She beamed and nodded.
“Don’t make her talk”, scolded the nurses, and I was just so thankful to them. I could not stand there for a moment longer without openly sobbing.
I was the last person she spoke to. Preeti was put on the ventilator that night. She slipped into a coma the next morning, and continues to be in a coma until this moment, almost 15 days later.
****
Preeti has had Rheumatoid Arthritis for the last 6 years. How a 26 year old could contract a sickness typically associated with old-age is another fateful story. She was walking on the road near our home when a monkey – part of a street entertainer’s troupe – bit her. She took the three prescribed anti-rabies injections. Exactly a day after the last injection she developed debilitating pains in her joints. The doctors diagnosed it as Rheumatoid Arthritis.
In the last six years, not a single remedy, therapy or exercise has been spared, not a single prayer remained unsaid. But never did Preeti ever complain or be less than cheery. Her joint stiffness became apparent in the way she walked, but she never talked about it even with friends. In fact, her replies used to be a standing joke at home.
“How are you Preeti?”…. “Better”
“Have the pains started again?”….. “Only a little”
With her limited mobility – sitting cross legged on the floor, a gesture we take for granted, is something she hasn’t attempted for many years – she continued to lead as normal a life as possible, going to work, bringing up Alison, even occasionally, and very cautiously, shaking a leg. At the small farewell party before I left for Dubai, it was she who insisted on the dance music.
A warning bell should have sounded when she took sick leave for the first time ever in mid-March. A little knee pain, she said. When one week of sick leave turned into two, and when the steroids prescribed by the family physician didn’t offer any relief, the alarm bells should have woken up the neighbourhood. But sadly, Preeti’s tendency to downplay her illness, along with neglect and mis-diagnosis led to unfortunate delays. In the two weeks that she’d been at home, the inflamed knees had developed an infection, leading to pus, which invaded her blood stream, throwing her kidneys off gear. Advanced septicaemia, they wrote, on admission. Doctors roared at my parents when they discovered that her blood pressure was only 40. “What were you’ll doing for so long?” they asked. A question we’re still coming to terms with.
*******
The last two weeks have been plagued by what-ifs. Each morning we steel ourselves to hear the worst.
“Her kidneys have failed”
“Her blood pressure isn’t stable”
“She’s in total coma”
“She’s slowly sinking”
“Now her blood sugar has shot up”
“Call your relatives…”
The MRI report six days ago, confirmed the doctors worst fears - extensive and possibly irreparable brain damage.
On Monday, 11 April, Preeti was entirely on life support – dialysis took care of the kidney functions, breathing was with the help of the ventilator and powerful drugs regulated the the blood pressure and heart rate. A decision was to be made. We waited for the doctor to tell us our options.
He came in half hour late. “I’ve disconnected Preeti from the ventilator for the last 15 minutes. She’s breathing on her own.”
It was the first sign that Preeti wasn’t ready to give up. Preeti breathed on her own for the first time in 11 days. She was put back on the ventilator an hour later so as not to tire her or to let the oxygen saturation drop. Since that day, she’s been breathing on her own intermittently. Her kidneys which had completely failed produced a small amount of urine yesterday, in what doctors admit is the very early sign of kidney recovery.
But these tiny rays of hope signs are clouded by an unbeatable knowledge – that her brain might never recover. What’s more, most of the doctors on the panel, save the chief doctor and the orthopaedic surgeon, have subtly or unequivocally told us to give up. And here’s where logic and faith, optimism and pragmatism, love and self-interest have locked horns.
Until Monday morning, we were ready to let Preeti pass on. All the signs pointed to the fact that she wanted to. She has suffered enough, we told ourselves. We whispered in her ear that we would take care of her unfinished business.
But her grasp on life has surprised us all. Each day there are tiny signs – her eyes twitch, she sometimes responds to pain stimuli, on occasion when people pray over her, teardrops roll down her eyes.
Straws, scoffs the neurologist. But he also admits that the dilemma is tricky. One the one we could be “killing off the patient”, while on the other hand we could rack up huge bills, face months or even years of uncertainty, medical complications and even with best efforts, a patient with diminished capacities (I absolutely DETEST the word ‘vegetable’. I will never use it to describe a human being, whatever the condition.)
It’s a testing time for all of us who love Preeti. There are no easy answers. Each day brings new challenges and demands fresh thinking. I have followed the Terri Schiavo case intermittently. Living it, I can tell you, is a wholly different experience. As a family, we’ve discussed it extensively. And we’ve decided to take things one step at a time. Where there is life, even the small, negligible sign of it, there is hope, we believe. We have no desire to hold on to her for our sake, but if she is hanging in there, so are we. There are voices which oppose out of interests that are perhaps misguided. But we believe they too are there for a purpose. Each day we discover new reserves of strength, courage to fight disappointment and forbearance to see the larger plan.
****
One of the most beautiful and unexpected outcomes of Preeti’s hospitalization has been the reaction of people – family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, acquaintances, even perfect strangers. An announcement was made at our church two weeks ago to pray for her. And the prayers haven’t stopped ever since. Scores of people, some of who barely know us, have offered prayers to their favourite saint or at the holy place they have utmost faith in. Prayer groups across the country, even the world, have been mobilized to intercede for Preeti. Emails have been flying furiously (now I know how the chain mails start) and each day we come across mails from distant family, friends of family, friends of friends of family…
The phone has been ringing off the hook at all times of day and night. The steady stream of visitors has only one refrain on their lips, ‘We’re praying for her’. A woman who came to the hospital last week said to us, ‘Can I please see her? I’ve been praying for her all week. I want to know who she is.’ I was extremely surprised to receive a call from a neighbour of ours who we knew was also very unwell. It turned out she was calling from Hinduja Hospital and was due for a bone-graft surgery the next day. “I’m praying for Preeti,” she said.
Early last week, Preeti required almost 22 units of blood. An email went around Preeti’s workplace, ICICI Bank. Three days later I got a frantic call from the blood bank. “Does Preeti need any more blood? If not, please stop the donors. We’ve got 17 bottles extra and there are five more people waiting to donate. We’re running out of storage space.”
We’ve been truly humbled by the deluge of prayers, hope, optimism and simple, unswerving faith. We, who see Preeti every day, who listen to the doctors, who hear all kinds of ‘expert’ advice, are far more pragmatic. But we also believe that all that positive energy has to produce SOME result. Medical science may have its limitation but the human spirit has none.
So here’s my entreaty to all my friends in blog world, even passers by. If you believe in prayer, please say a prayer for my sister, Preeti. Even if you don’t pray, please send positive thoughts her way. She needs it. We all need it.
(If you have heard of similar cases and have something to share, leave a comment or write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com)
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Blog break coming up…
Too much happening in the offline world. I will be back in May. Hope to see you all then.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Another silver lining
One year ago, Monisha and I, went up on the stage, and with trembling hands, lifted the silver Abby. Our first Abby. I thought my tryst with the Abbies had come to an end. Until I received the sms on Saturday evening: “Lee, I got a silver Abby.”
That was my younger brother. I had once tried to dissuade him from joining Advertising because I didn’t think he could handle the pressure. In a typical big-sisterly voice, I told him, “You’re too laidback, too sensitive, not at all focused.”
I’ve never been more thrilled to be proved wrong. Very proud of you, bro.
That was my younger brother. I had once tried to dissuade him from joining Advertising because I didn’t think he could handle the pressure. In a typical big-sisterly voice, I told him, “You’re too laidback, too sensitive, not at all focused.”
I’ve never been more thrilled to be proved wrong. Very proud of you, bro.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Just another weekend…
All of last week, a raccoon stared back at me from the bathroom mirror. And I swore every single morning, as I dragged myself to work, that the moment the clock struck 4 on Thursday evening, I would switch off my phone, unplug my mind, fluff up my pillow and seal my eyes, unsealing them only on Saturday morning, 7 a.m.
I must have been so immersed in this delicious fantasy that it didn’t register when I accepted a dinner invitation on Thursday night, a lunch with friends on Friday afternoon and a blogger’s meet in the evening. My poor, neglected cousins also decided the weekend was the perfect time for the heart-to-heart chats we’d been planning since the time I got here.
There was going to be no rest for the wicked, on the weekend; no rest at all.
The dinner on Thursday was at a little Chinese restaurant in the expansive City Centre Mall in Deira. The parking lots were full, the restaurants were packed and shoppers and stragglers alike crowded the aisles. Everyone’s in a shopping frenzy on the weekend; even denizens of the surrounding Emirates throng the malls in Dubai. Since my friend and I were only in the mood to nibble, we ordered a salad and a starter. As it turned out, each was a meal in itself. And when the perky waitress came around with her note pad to take our ‘main course order’, we groaned audibly, scaring her off.
My plans of waking up late were shot to bits when my treacherous eyelids flew open at seven in the morning. (Why that never happens on a weekday I will never know.) S & K picked me up at 11 for a drive around town. The roads, minus the appalling rush-hour traffic (one long post on that coming up), were a speedster’s dream, and there we were, tearing down the arterial Sheikh Zayed Road at over 160 kmph.
Our first halt was the Dubai Marina, ostensibly, the world's largest manmade marina and planned waterfront development. (Superlatives abound in every sq. km of Dubai.) Every major construction group in Dubai has some colossal project underway and there are residential towers all around in varying degrees of completion. There’s also a charming promenade with outdoor cafes and the likes; Dubai’s answer to the French Riviera. You could spend a languid morning sitting on a bench (ergonomic benches, as K noted) overlooking the azure waters, and watching the boats bobbing in the marina.
But before we could give in to these lazy thoughts, S shepherded us back into the car. ‘To the Royal Mirage’, he announced. I got the feeling that the Royal Mirage Hotel, was trying a little too hard to conjure an aura of exclusivity when the signboards leading to it, read, ‘The One & Only Royal Mirage’. But I learned later, that it’s part of the One & Only chain of resorts. On stepping into the Royal Mirage, however, I decided that it deserved its exclusive tag. Such opulence, such grandeur! From the ornate chairs to the intricate domed ceiling, to the gilded, frozen tableau of a group of Bedouins in the main courtyard, everything was excruciatingly perfect.
What I liked most about the Royal Mirage, and the Madinat Jumeirah, our next halt, was the classic Arabian architecture. Too much of Dubai is a tawdry imitation of Western style architecture. Everywhere you turn, there’s glass and neon. There are few indigenous elements that I’ve come across. The Madinat Jumeirah is a welcome relief. Walking through the Souk Madinat (the shopping arcade) is a thrilling experience. Long walkways with wooden beam ceilings, rough-hewn flooring, brass studded doors – all attempt to recreate a bygone era, but only just. I even spotted a chemist with a sign that read, ‘Apothecary: Estd 1266’. It had a charming, albeit unconvincing, old-world look. In another part of the Souk are tiny caravans, which sell curios and handicrafts.
I’d been to the Souk Madinat earlier, so I could expertly show off to K, ‘The best part about the Madinat Jumeirah is the gondolas which ferry guests from the Souk to their rooms.’ We stood and watched the gondolas from the sunny terrace, marveling at the spectacle, and muttering silently like Obelix, ‘These Arabs must be crazy’!
Back on the Sheikh Zayed Road, we raced back to Deira all the way to Makhtoum Street, halting at the Intercontinental Hotel. Established in 1975, it’s one of the oldest luxury hotels in Dubai (30 years is a long time in Dubai terms, I’ve discovered.) It also has a reputation for the best food in all of its 13 restaurants. I can vouch for the China Club at least!
Since I had a little time before I caught up with the bloggers, I browsed through the BurJuman Mall. My eyebrows repeatedly threatened to fly off my forehead when I checked the price tags in the stores, so I gave up and waited for the bloggers. Of the 9 who were to show up, only 2 did - Amit and Joshua. And as it usually happens at a blog meet, perfect strangers will find many things to talk about. All through our chat, Amit’s slight smile had me convinced that I was being hugely entertaining. Little did I know about the strappy red top at the next table!
We continued our conversation all the way to the bookshop that Amit should never have taken me to. And the storekeeper even gave me a disount on the three books I bought, which she shouldn’t have. Because it only means I’ll be throwing away all my hard earned dirhams there. And I’ll never be able to afford all those eyebrow-vanishing items in BurJuman.
I got home only at 9 that evening, not as tired as I imagined. But the raccoon’s back in the mirror these mornings. And I drag myself to work each day, swearing that on Thursday at 4 o clock…
I must have been so immersed in this delicious fantasy that it didn’t register when I accepted a dinner invitation on Thursday night, a lunch with friends on Friday afternoon and a blogger’s meet in the evening. My poor, neglected cousins also decided the weekend was the perfect time for the heart-to-heart chats we’d been planning since the time I got here.
There was going to be no rest for the wicked, on the weekend; no rest at all.
The dinner on Thursday was at a little Chinese restaurant in the expansive City Centre Mall in Deira. The parking lots were full, the restaurants were packed and shoppers and stragglers alike crowded the aisles. Everyone’s in a shopping frenzy on the weekend; even denizens of the surrounding Emirates throng the malls in Dubai. Since my friend and I were only in the mood to nibble, we ordered a salad and a starter. As it turned out, each was a meal in itself. And when the perky waitress came around with her note pad to take our ‘main course order’, we groaned audibly, scaring her off.
My plans of waking up late were shot to bits when my treacherous eyelids flew open at seven in the morning. (Why that never happens on a weekday I will never know.) S & K picked me up at 11 for a drive around town. The roads, minus the appalling rush-hour traffic (one long post on that coming up), were a speedster’s dream, and there we were, tearing down the arterial Sheikh Zayed Road at over 160 kmph.
Our first halt was the Dubai Marina, ostensibly, the world's largest manmade marina and planned waterfront development. (Superlatives abound in every sq. km of Dubai.) Every major construction group in Dubai has some colossal project underway and there are residential towers all around in varying degrees of completion. There’s also a charming promenade with outdoor cafes and the likes; Dubai’s answer to the French Riviera. You could spend a languid morning sitting on a bench (ergonomic benches, as K noted) overlooking the azure waters, and watching the boats bobbing in the marina.
But before we could give in to these lazy thoughts, S shepherded us back into the car. ‘To the Royal Mirage’, he announced. I got the feeling that the Royal Mirage Hotel, was trying a little too hard to conjure an aura of exclusivity when the signboards leading to it, read, ‘The One & Only Royal Mirage’. But I learned later, that it’s part of the One & Only chain of resorts. On stepping into the Royal Mirage, however, I decided that it deserved its exclusive tag. Such opulence, such grandeur! From the ornate chairs to the intricate domed ceiling, to the gilded, frozen tableau of a group of Bedouins in the main courtyard, everything was excruciatingly perfect.
What I liked most about the Royal Mirage, and the Madinat Jumeirah, our next halt, was the classic Arabian architecture. Too much of Dubai is a tawdry imitation of Western style architecture. Everywhere you turn, there’s glass and neon. There are few indigenous elements that I’ve come across. The Madinat Jumeirah is a welcome relief. Walking through the Souk Madinat (the shopping arcade) is a thrilling experience. Long walkways with wooden beam ceilings, rough-hewn flooring, brass studded doors – all attempt to recreate a bygone era, but only just. I even spotted a chemist with a sign that read, ‘Apothecary: Estd 1266’. It had a charming, albeit unconvincing, old-world look. In another part of the Souk are tiny caravans, which sell curios and handicrafts.
I’d been to the Souk Madinat earlier, so I could expertly show off to K, ‘The best part about the Madinat Jumeirah is the gondolas which ferry guests from the Souk to their rooms.’ We stood and watched the gondolas from the sunny terrace, marveling at the spectacle, and muttering silently like Obelix, ‘These Arabs must be crazy’!
Back on the Sheikh Zayed Road, we raced back to Deira all the way to Makhtoum Street, halting at the Intercontinental Hotel. Established in 1975, it’s one of the oldest luxury hotels in Dubai (30 years is a long time in Dubai terms, I’ve discovered.) It also has a reputation for the best food in all of its 13 restaurants. I can vouch for the China Club at least!
Since I had a little time before I caught up with the bloggers, I browsed through the BurJuman Mall. My eyebrows repeatedly threatened to fly off my forehead when I checked the price tags in the stores, so I gave up and waited for the bloggers. Of the 9 who were to show up, only 2 did - Amit and Joshua. And as it usually happens at a blog meet, perfect strangers will find many things to talk about. All through our chat, Amit’s slight smile had me convinced that I was being hugely entertaining. Little did I know about the strappy red top at the next table!
We continued our conversation all the way to the bookshop that Amit should never have taken me to. And the storekeeper even gave me a disount on the three books I bought, which she shouldn’t have. Because it only means I’ll be throwing away all my hard earned dirhams there. And I’ll never be able to afford all those eyebrow-vanishing items in BurJuman.
I got home only at 9 that evening, not as tired as I imagined. But the raccoon’s back in the mirror these mornings. And I drag myself to work each day, swearing that on Thursday at 4 o clock…
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Back off, Big Media
Mediaah!, Pradyuman Maheshwari’s no-holds barred media blog is being forced to shut down. A Big Media Group (read, The Times of India) has slapped a legal notice on him, demanding that he pull off 19 posts, which critique the Times. Are the 19 posts defamatory? Read them and decide for yourselves. Would you like to voice your support for Mediaah and Pradyuman Maheshwari? Go ahead, sign the petition. Better still, write about it on your blog.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Your time starts NOW!
What’s the last thing you’d expect on a Sunday night, in a Mexican pub frequented by Indians, with a Sri Lankan band belting out pop melodies?
20 points and a free Mexican fiesta platter if you guessed ‘a quiz show’.
If I hadn’t been at Beyond El Rancho’s at the Marco Polo Hotel in Deira, I would never have guessed, for sure. Dubai’s nightlife is famed for many reasons, but none of them are inherently cerebral.
So, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Dubai has a quizzing culture, and a flourishing one, at that. Most of the pubs in the city have a designated Quiz Nite and there are a couple of big quizzes each year – on the lines of the Brand Equity Quiz – conducted by the grand daddies of Indian quizzing, Siddhartha ‘Mastermind’ Basu and Derek ‘BQC’ O’brien. The prizes range from liquor company freebies to dinner vouchers at 5-star restaurants to gizmos and even, luxury cruises.
I got the lowdown on all of this courtesy two pals of mine - old timers on the Mumbai quizzing circuit, who even have a Brand Equity win to their credit. As it turns out, they’ve continued their winning spree on this side of the Arabian Sea as well, winning several of the pub quizzes and even an IT quiz. Now, with both of them in the same advertising agency here, and in between working on deadlines due ‘yesterday’, they came up with a plan to host an Indian quiz nite. (Apparently most pub quizzes are dominated by Brit quizzers and have a Brit trivia slant.)
The Marco Polo Hotel isn’t the most convenient location, especially on a weeknight (Sunday night, Muddle East… have I mentioned it before?) But there are a few regulars who drop by especially for the quiz. Some unwary stragglers are also coerced to participate with the assurance that it’s a ‘simple quiz, no dimaag ka dahi’.
The quiz follows a simple format: 40 questions, Bollywood-sports-trivia, a visual round, and a most generous sprinkling of ‘clues’. One of the questions last Sunday was, ‘Name the captain in the book Moby Dick?’ Faces turned into question marks. The clues all but spelt out the name. Sample: It’s an unusual name. Starts with A. Ends with B. One team piped up, “How many letters?”
The merits of flipping through the Bombay Times and other P3P-loving papers became apparent when I accurately guessed Ayesha Takia in the visual round. The need to stay updated on sports also became clear when I wrote Walter Matthau for Richard Hadlee. Actually, the poor lighting was to blame. That, and the watermelon breezer.
After two weeks of coming in a close third, my teammate and I claimed the top spot last Sunday. 33 out of 40. It was a thrilling moment. No Lexus, no 100 kilos gold, no 55” plasma TV, but it still felt good. Later, the Sri Lankan band, ‘Damage’, took over and apart, from a mutilated, non-recognisable ‘Imagine’, did a pretty good job on the other melodies. Not a bad way to spend an evening at all.
At the end of the evening, the only question that had us stumped was: How do you divide one XL Heineken t-shirt, three Jack Daniels beer glasses, one Dove sample kit and one Amstel light cushion between two teammates?
20 points and a free Mexican fiesta platter if you guessed ‘a quiz show’.
If I hadn’t been at Beyond El Rancho’s at the Marco Polo Hotel in Deira, I would never have guessed, for sure. Dubai’s nightlife is famed for many reasons, but none of them are inherently cerebral.
So, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Dubai has a quizzing culture, and a flourishing one, at that. Most of the pubs in the city have a designated Quiz Nite and there are a couple of big quizzes each year – on the lines of the Brand Equity Quiz – conducted by the grand daddies of Indian quizzing, Siddhartha ‘Mastermind’ Basu and Derek ‘BQC’ O’brien. The prizes range from liquor company freebies to dinner vouchers at 5-star restaurants to gizmos and even, luxury cruises.
I got the lowdown on all of this courtesy two pals of mine - old timers on the Mumbai quizzing circuit, who even have a Brand Equity win to their credit. As it turns out, they’ve continued their winning spree on this side of the Arabian Sea as well, winning several of the pub quizzes and even an IT quiz. Now, with both of them in the same advertising agency here, and in between working on deadlines due ‘yesterday’, they came up with a plan to host an Indian quiz nite. (Apparently most pub quizzes are dominated by Brit quizzers and have a Brit trivia slant.)
The Marco Polo Hotel isn’t the most convenient location, especially on a weeknight (Sunday night, Muddle East… have I mentioned it before?) But there are a few regulars who drop by especially for the quiz. Some unwary stragglers are also coerced to participate with the assurance that it’s a ‘simple quiz, no dimaag ka dahi’.
The quiz follows a simple format: 40 questions, Bollywood-sports-trivia, a visual round, and a most generous sprinkling of ‘clues’. One of the questions last Sunday was, ‘Name the captain in the book Moby Dick?’ Faces turned into question marks. The clues all but spelt out the name. Sample: It’s an unusual name. Starts with A. Ends with B. One team piped up, “How many letters?”
The merits of flipping through the Bombay Times and other P3P-loving papers became apparent when I accurately guessed Ayesha Takia in the visual round. The need to stay updated on sports also became clear when I wrote Walter Matthau for Richard Hadlee. Actually, the poor lighting was to blame. That, and the watermelon breezer.
After two weeks of coming in a close third, my teammate and I claimed the top spot last Sunday. 33 out of 40. It was a thrilling moment. No Lexus, no 100 kilos gold, no 55” plasma TV, but it still felt good. Later, the Sri Lankan band, ‘Damage’, took over and apart, from a mutilated, non-recognisable ‘Imagine’, did a pretty good job on the other melodies. Not a bad way to spend an evening at all.
At the end of the evening, the only question that had us stumped was: How do you divide one XL Heineken t-shirt, three Jack Daniels beer glasses, one Dove sample kit and one Amstel light cushion between two teammates?
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Sad but true
You know people have been spending way too much time in the office, when they look out of the window at dusk, spot the dull red orb in the sky and ask, “Hey, what’s that light?”
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Life in the Muddle East
Have I been to the malls? Have I availed of fabulous, stupendous, never-before discounts at the Dubai Shopping Festival? Have I called up any of the 65 ‘contacts’ given to me by friends and acquaintances at the mere mention of the words, ‘going to Dubai’?
Sadly, none of the above. Life, in the last few days, has revolved around unlearning well-entrenched habits and re-orienting myself to the Muddle East.
Crossing the road – not even an issue on the harum-scarum Bombay streets – now requires planning, prayer and insurance. There I am, standing on the kerb, heart thudding. I look right and put one tentative foot out, only to throw it over my shoulder in morbid terror in the next instant. The driver in the gleaming Pajero, racing in from the left slams the brakes and looks at me balefully. Heart thudding still, I look back belligerently. It’s his fault, first, for driving on the wrong side of the road, and, second, for not honking incessantly, mindlessly and deafeningly from at least a mile away. How is one supposed to cross the road when vehicles sneak up in silence?
Sitting at my desk at work is no less bewildering. The desk calendar has been tampered with. M T W T etc., is now S S M T... I’m not complaining about the weekend in the middle of the week, of course. It’s starting work on a Saturday, and working right through Sunday, when family and friends in the un-muddled parts of the world are doing weekend-ly things, that I find galling.
If all this wasn’t befuddling enough, my eyes are playing tricks on me. A few days ago, I logged on to google.ae and typed in a search word. Nothing happened. I hit a few more keys, and that’s when I saw the letters creeping in from the right. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes and tried again, all day and on the days that followed. It never happened again. But I could have sworn that it happened the first time. Or did it?
Guess settling down is unsettling right now. But two things are comfortingly familiar.
One, bloggers are some of the nicest people around. A big thank you to Manu and Amit who took me out on my first weekend-in-the-middle-of-the-week.
And two, advertising hasn’t changed one bit. Deadlines are still ‘yesterday’, clients continue to write copy and client servicing still stumble on the brief after the first round of creatives are presented.
Sadly, none of the above. Life, in the last few days, has revolved around unlearning well-entrenched habits and re-orienting myself to the Muddle East.
Crossing the road – not even an issue on the harum-scarum Bombay streets – now requires planning, prayer and insurance. There I am, standing on the kerb, heart thudding. I look right and put one tentative foot out, only to throw it over my shoulder in morbid terror in the next instant. The driver in the gleaming Pajero, racing in from the left slams the brakes and looks at me balefully. Heart thudding still, I look back belligerently. It’s his fault, first, for driving on the wrong side of the road, and, second, for not honking incessantly, mindlessly and deafeningly from at least a mile away. How is one supposed to cross the road when vehicles sneak up in silence?
Sitting at my desk at work is no less bewildering. The desk calendar has been tampered with. M T W T etc., is now S S M T... I’m not complaining about the weekend in the middle of the week, of course. It’s starting work on a Saturday, and working right through Sunday, when family and friends in the un-muddled parts of the world are doing weekend-ly things, that I find galling.
If all this wasn’t befuddling enough, my eyes are playing tricks on me. A few days ago, I logged on to google.ae and typed in a search word. Nothing happened. I hit a few more keys, and that’s when I saw the letters creeping in from the right. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes and tried again, all day and on the days that followed. It never happened again. But I could have sworn that it happened the first time. Or did it?
Guess settling down is unsettling right now. But two things are comfortingly familiar.
One, bloggers are some of the nicest people around. A big thank you to Manu and Amit who took me out on my first weekend-in-the-middle-of-the-week.
And two, advertising hasn’t changed one bit. Deadlines are still ‘yesterday’, clients continue to write copy and client servicing still stumble on the brief after the first round of creatives are presented.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Day 1 in Dubai
Puran poli for breakfast
Bhel puri in the evening
Amitabh Bachchan grinning from hoardings all across the city
Teen cousins singing along with the Hindi film songs on the radio
Traffic snarls at every intersection…
… maybe I’m not so far away from home.
Bhel puri in the evening
Amitabh Bachchan grinning from hoardings all across the city
Teen cousins singing along with the Hindi film songs on the radio
Traffic snarls at every intersection…
… maybe I’m not so far away from home.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Generation Zap!
A friend had this conversation with her 12-year old daughter recently.
Mom: You should start reading P.G. Wodehouse. You’ll like him.
Daughter: Is he the guy who started askjeeves.com?
Mom: You should start reading P.G. Wodehouse. You’ll like him.
Daughter: Is he the guy who started askjeeves.com?
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Paperless, and now, nameless as well!
The weekly Bharateeya Blog Mela is on. And in between dissertations on India and China’s economic policy, essays on Republic Day, an interesting explanation of ethical conceit and Patrix’s guest blogger’s highly questionable views on dating, is one little tirade against a tyrannical, toilet-paper depriving Admin machinery.
I’m pleased, no doubt, to feature in the Blog Mela, but, pray, why have you omitted my name, Ravikiran Rao?
In any case, do check out the interesting mix at the Mela.
I’m pleased, no doubt, to feature in the Blog Mela, but, pray, why have you omitted my name, Ravikiran Rao?
In any case, do check out the interesting mix at the Mela.
So long and thanks for all the pani puri
There was a commercial on TV in the early 80s for a brand which I can’t seem to recall now. (Was it Tango – the orange drink?) All I remember was a guy singing soulfully, with the resplendent Queen’s Necklace (Marine Drive for all you non-Bombayites) in the background. Sung to the tune of ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’, the jingle went like this…
Don’t cry for me Bombay City
The truth is I don’t want to leave
All the excitement
The bhel puri…
I’ve been humming this tacky ditty – written no doubt by a COPYwriter – as I pack my somewhat meagre possessions into two suitcases, which by some miracle might end up weighing only 30 kilos.
It’s a moving time for me. For one, I’m moving back to mainstream advertising, after two years of revelling on the fringes. And two, I’m moving to Dubai. (Spare me, I beg you, all the sheikh, camel, mallu, harem, gold etc., jokes. In the last three weeks I’ve heard them all.)
The move is on account of a few reasons - some personal, some professional and some, just a tad irrational. Come Friday, and I’ll be opening another suitcase in another hall (well, since we’re ripping off Evita here…)
So, yes, I’m going to miss all the excitement, and not so much the bhel puri as the pani puri! Ever since the move became imminent, I’ve risked life, limb and entrails for pani puri at various places across the city. Two places, I’ve discovered, do immense justice to the humble pani puri – the not-so-little-anymore stall outside Elco Arcade, and the one outside Shopper’s Stop on Linking Road. The attendants with plastic gloves, smocks and chef hats made me feel a little less guilty about indulging.
Flippancy aside, there’s a lot more I’m going to miss. Having lived all my life in Bombay (Mumbai, if you insist) I can’t even begun to list all the things I’ve gotten attached to, used to or just plain inured to (Western Railway, are you listening?) Most of all I’m going to miss the people – family, friends and the incredibly spirited, crazy, generous, callous, friendly, confused, never-say-die, noisy, uncivil and ultimately, endearing denizens of Bombay. Fare well fair city (allow me some illusions), I’ll be back.
Absolute Lee will continue on the other side of the Arabian Sea.
P.S. Any co-relation between my departure and the absence of a certain paper as mentioned in the previous post is purely coincidental.
Don’t cry for me Bombay City
The truth is I don’t want to leave
All the excitement
The bhel puri…
I’ve been humming this tacky ditty – written no doubt by a COPYwriter – as I pack my somewhat meagre possessions into two suitcases, which by some miracle might end up weighing only 30 kilos.
It’s a moving time for me. For one, I’m moving back to mainstream advertising, after two years of revelling on the fringes. And two, I’m moving to Dubai. (Spare me, I beg you, all the sheikh, camel, mallu, harem, gold etc., jokes. In the last three weeks I’ve heard them all.)
The move is on account of a few reasons - some personal, some professional and some, just a tad irrational. Come Friday, and I’ll be opening another suitcase in another hall (well, since we’re ripping off Evita here…)
So, yes, I’m going to miss all the excitement, and not so much the bhel puri as the pani puri! Ever since the move became imminent, I’ve risked life, limb and entrails for pani puri at various places across the city. Two places, I’ve discovered, do immense justice to the humble pani puri – the not-so-little-anymore stall outside Elco Arcade, and the one outside Shopper’s Stop on Linking Road. The attendants with plastic gloves, smocks and chef hats made me feel a little less guilty about indulging.
Flippancy aside, there’s a lot more I’m going to miss. Having lived all my life in Bombay (Mumbai, if you insist) I can’t even begun to list all the things I’ve gotten attached to, used to or just plain inured to (Western Railway, are you listening?) Most of all I’m going to miss the people – family, friends and the incredibly spirited, crazy, generous, callous, friendly, confused, never-say-die, noisy, uncivil and ultimately, endearing denizens of Bombay. Fare well fair city (allow me some illusions), I’ll be back.
Absolute Lee will continue on the other side of the Arabian Sea.
P.S. Any co-relation between my departure and the absence of a certain paper as mentioned in the previous post is purely coincidental.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Loo… and behold
Every once in a while, the Administration department at my workplace feels the need to do something dramatic to make its presence felt. The most recent act has been to ration toilet paper.
Now, this might sound facile, but it’s bloody infuriating. Consider the maths: roughly 60 women on the floor + powerful a/c’s + 3 toilets. And given my penchant for bad timing, a familiar sight greets me each time I step into the washroom – bins overflowing with toilet paper, but not a shred of it on the holder.
The fascist notice stuck on the washroom door reads, ‘It has been brought to our notice that people are wasting toilet paper to wipe hands and feet. Henceforth, toilet paper will be replaced every three hours only ie at 12.30, 3:30… etc.'
Considering the hand dryer doesn’t work and there are no paper napkins, it follows that people will use the only available paper to wipe hands, face, feet etc. But what irks me most (after the absence of toilet paper) is the seriousness with which Admin regards toilet paper. It’s toilet paper, for crying out aloud. Limited utility, non-recyclable, flimsy toilet paper. If you can’t trust employees with toilet paper, how do you entrust them with business worth crores? Talk about perspective!
While a trip to the washroom usually puts me in ill humour, there’s something that unexpectedly cheers me. It’s the view from the tiny window there. (It seems I also have a penchant for being in workplaces which have interesting views from the loo window. In a previous office, the washroom window offered a scintillating view of the setting sun, unobscured by concrete or foliage. ‘Going to watch the sunset’ became a favourite euphemism for the other business.)
The toilet-paperless washroom overlooks the primary section of a school, and affords an easy glimpse into a couple of classrooms. If I squint a bit, I can even read what’s on the blackboard. Sometimes, there’s a low drone, indicating a class in progress. At other times, there’s a high-pitched chant; sometimes a teacher’s voice thunders. Once I noticed most of the children out in the corridor. I assumed it was a free class. But then, the teacher walked into view. She stood out in the corridor chatting casually with some of the children. What intrigued me, was the way she spoke and listened to them, almost as if they were adults. An old woman, who looked like the school cleaner, came up and started shepherding the children into the class. The girls went in, but the boys continued to cavort outside. The teacher didn’t seem bothered by the ruckus.
I was thoroughly absorbed in this idyllic scene from my unusual vantage point, when I heard a discreet knock on the door. It was the washroom attendant waiting to replace the toilet paper.
Now, this might sound facile, but it’s bloody infuriating. Consider the maths: roughly 60 women on the floor + powerful a/c’s + 3 toilets. And given my penchant for bad timing, a familiar sight greets me each time I step into the washroom – bins overflowing with toilet paper, but not a shred of it on the holder.
The fascist notice stuck on the washroom door reads, ‘It has been brought to our notice that people are wasting toilet paper to wipe hands and feet. Henceforth, toilet paper will be replaced every three hours only ie at 12.30, 3:30… etc.'
Considering the hand dryer doesn’t work and there are no paper napkins, it follows that people will use the only available paper to wipe hands, face, feet etc. But what irks me most (after the absence of toilet paper) is the seriousness with which Admin regards toilet paper. It’s toilet paper, for crying out aloud. Limited utility, non-recyclable, flimsy toilet paper. If you can’t trust employees with toilet paper, how do you entrust them with business worth crores? Talk about perspective!
While a trip to the washroom usually puts me in ill humour, there’s something that unexpectedly cheers me. It’s the view from the tiny window there. (It seems I also have a penchant for being in workplaces which have interesting views from the loo window. In a previous office, the washroom window offered a scintillating view of the setting sun, unobscured by concrete or foliage. ‘Going to watch the sunset’ became a favourite euphemism for the other business.)
The toilet-paperless washroom overlooks the primary section of a school, and affords an easy glimpse into a couple of classrooms. If I squint a bit, I can even read what’s on the blackboard. Sometimes, there’s a low drone, indicating a class in progress. At other times, there’s a high-pitched chant; sometimes a teacher’s voice thunders. Once I noticed most of the children out in the corridor. I assumed it was a free class. But then, the teacher walked into view. She stood out in the corridor chatting casually with some of the children. What intrigued me, was the way she spoke and listened to them, almost as if they were adults. An old woman, who looked like the school cleaner, came up and started shepherding the children into the class. The girls went in, but the boys continued to cavort outside. The teacher didn’t seem bothered by the ruckus.
I was thoroughly absorbed in this idyllic scene from my unusual vantage point, when I heard a discreet knock on the door. It was the washroom attendant waiting to replace the toilet paper.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Run!
‘I’ve really been training for the marathon,’ said a colleague yesterday.
I looked up impressed, as did a few others.
He continued, smugly, ‘I’ve been taking the stairs for the last two days.’
I fell off the chair laughing. Our department is on the 2nd floor. And if climbing two storeys amounted to marathon training, walking up to the canteen on the 6th floor, would probably put him in line to climb Everest.
Smug colleague isn’t the only one training for what seems to be the biggest social event of 2005. Dabbawalas, senior citizens, celebrities, socialites and thousands of others are all gearing up for January 16. Imagine the clatter of 25,000 pairs of feet on Marine Drive!
Runner No. 21769 is not very excited, though…
As a result of a goof up, I’ve been signed on for the 7 km Dream Run. Having done the Half Marathon last year, where’s the motivation to do one third the distance, and that too while being elbowed, and possibly stamped over, by 20,000 people.
Oh well, that’s just a rationalisation. I’ve haven’t been training for the Half Marathon anyway. Last year, it took one month of concentrated physical and mental preparation, and an insane amount of co-ordination just to find a place where one could run without encumbrances. I tried Azad Maidan once and it was quite an experience. I got chased by dogs, stumbled over canoodling couples and lost my footing several times on the uneven, unlit ground. If I were training for the obstacle course, Azad Maidan would’ve been perfect.
Thankfully, Oval Maidan turned out to be a better alternative. It actually had a running track, lined with palm trees that swayed lazily in the evening breeze. The Rajabhai Clock Tower nearby kept perfect time. And running, while watching the city recede into the night, was as sublime an experience as any.
It strikes me that the city has such few open spaces where people can run without having to dodge traffic, other people and not to forget, animals. Running on a treadmill for anything over half an hour can be desperately boring. And while running on the beach sounds dreamy, the sanitation leaves a lot to be desired.
So, just maybe, Smug Colleague had the right idea. See, that’s another reason why I couldn’t train. I live on the ground floor…
I looked up impressed, as did a few others.
He continued, smugly, ‘I’ve been taking the stairs for the last two days.’
I fell off the chair laughing. Our department is on the 2nd floor. And if climbing two storeys amounted to marathon training, walking up to the canteen on the 6th floor, would probably put him in line to climb Everest.
Smug colleague isn’t the only one training for what seems to be the biggest social event of 2005. Dabbawalas, senior citizens, celebrities, socialites and thousands of others are all gearing up for January 16. Imagine the clatter of 25,000 pairs of feet on Marine Drive!
Runner No. 21769 is not very excited, though…
As a result of a goof up, I’ve been signed on for the 7 km Dream Run. Having done the Half Marathon last year, where’s the motivation to do one third the distance, and that too while being elbowed, and possibly stamped over, by 20,000 people.
Oh well, that’s just a rationalisation. I’ve haven’t been training for the Half Marathon anyway. Last year, it took one month of concentrated physical and mental preparation, and an insane amount of co-ordination just to find a place where one could run without encumbrances. I tried Azad Maidan once and it was quite an experience. I got chased by dogs, stumbled over canoodling couples and lost my footing several times on the uneven, unlit ground. If I were training for the obstacle course, Azad Maidan would’ve been perfect.
Thankfully, Oval Maidan turned out to be a better alternative. It actually had a running track, lined with palm trees that swayed lazily in the evening breeze. The Rajabhai Clock Tower nearby kept perfect time. And running, while watching the city recede into the night, was as sublime an experience as any.
It strikes me that the city has such few open spaces where people can run without having to dodge traffic, other people and not to forget, animals. Running on a treadmill for anything over half an hour can be desperately boring. And while running on the beach sounds dreamy, the sanitation leaves a lot to be desired.
So, just maybe, Smug Colleague had the right idea. See, that’s another reason why I couldn’t train. I live on the ground floor…
Monday, January 10, 2005
Thanks for the tip
Whatever happened to the unobtrusive salesperson? The kind who stay in the shadows and only spring to assistance when you call on them? These days department stores are swarming with irrepressibly cheerful and ingratiatingly over-helpful sorts, who simply take charge of your shopping.
“Ma’am, this colour really suits you. And you must take these matching shoes as well… No shoes? (shocked expression) Ok, what about this bag, then… No? Some perfume then...”
Then, there are the gratuitous advice givers. “Can’t make up your mind, ma’am? Take both. You can wear this one to work and this to a party.”
A couple of days ago, I had completed my shopping and was standing in the check-out queue, when I realised – quite happily – that I hadn’t been accosted by one know-it-all salesperson. I made a mental note to frequent this place more often. I scribbled my signature on the credit card slip, took my bags and headed for the exit, when the billing executive called out to me.
I turned to see him peering at the credit card slip. A slow thudding began in the region of my chest. Had I signed incorrectly? Was there an anomaly in my credit card account? Did I look like a forger? My mind tossed up every remote possibility.
He looked up and beckoned to me, even as others in the queue turned to stare. I felt like a fugitive.
“Madam, just a minute...” he called out loudly.
“Yes, what’s it?” I croaked nervously.
“Hope you won’t mind if I tell you this…”
I shook my head vigorously. I am innocent, my mind screamed silently.
“See, you’ve signed your name here and then you’ve drawn a line under it backwards. You know what that means?”
My unblinking, saucer-like gaze accurately conveyed that I didn’t.
“It means that you make progress in life but then you throw it all away; you go backwards in life. Hope you don’t mind me telling you this.”
I stared at him, my thoughts alternating between relief (that I wasn’t going to be arrested), embarrassment (at being pegged as a ‘backward’ person) and seething fury at his superfluous ‘advice’.
I swept out of the store with as much dignity as my red face could muster. I was outside before I noticed the unexpected object in my hand. It was a rather fine and expensive looking roller ball pen. Quite unlike the cheap plastic pens that stores usually offer you to sign credit card slips. I couldn’t help smiling. For someone whose life had purportedly been blighted by a ‘backward signature’, I had nimble fingers.
“Ma’am, this colour really suits you. And you must take these matching shoes as well… No shoes? (shocked expression) Ok, what about this bag, then… No? Some perfume then...”
Then, there are the gratuitous advice givers. “Can’t make up your mind, ma’am? Take both. You can wear this one to work and this to a party.”
A couple of days ago, I had completed my shopping and was standing in the check-out queue, when I realised – quite happily – that I hadn’t been accosted by one know-it-all salesperson. I made a mental note to frequent this place more often. I scribbled my signature on the credit card slip, took my bags and headed for the exit, when the billing executive called out to me.
I turned to see him peering at the credit card slip. A slow thudding began in the region of my chest. Had I signed incorrectly? Was there an anomaly in my credit card account? Did I look like a forger? My mind tossed up every remote possibility.
He looked up and beckoned to me, even as others in the queue turned to stare. I felt like a fugitive.
“Madam, just a minute...” he called out loudly.
“Yes, what’s it?” I croaked nervously.
“Hope you won’t mind if I tell you this…”
I shook my head vigorously. I am innocent, my mind screamed silently.
“See, you’ve signed your name here and then you’ve drawn a line under it backwards. You know what that means?”
My unblinking, saucer-like gaze accurately conveyed that I didn’t.
“It means that you make progress in life but then you throw it all away; you go backwards in life. Hope you don’t mind me telling you this.”
I stared at him, my thoughts alternating between relief (that I wasn’t going to be arrested), embarrassment (at being pegged as a ‘backward’ person) and seething fury at his superfluous ‘advice’.
I swept out of the store with as much dignity as my red face could muster. I was outside before I noticed the unexpected object in my hand. It was a rather fine and expensive looking roller ball pen. Quite unlike the cheap plastic pens that stores usually offer you to sign credit card slips. I couldn’t help smiling. For someone whose life had purportedly been blighted by a ‘backward signature’, I had nimble fingers.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Happy new beginnings
The tragedy has crept eerily close. A very close friend lost five members of her extended family in Sri Lanka. Only a 9-year old nephew survived. Life has to go on, for his sake, says my friend. But life won’t be the same.
On another level, life surely hasn’t been the same in the last few days. Never before has there been such a collective outpouring of empathy and aid. From convicts in Tihar jail to rickshaw pullers in Chennai to innumerable ordinary citizens (bloggers included), everybody has been a part of the collective relief effort. Most remarkable is the fact that the disaster has shattered decade long standoffs between insurgents and their governments. If ever proof was needed that the world could work together as one, then this is it.
As Spaceman Spiff puts it, ‘Wish 2005 will be a year when nature doesn’t have to turn so militant in order to bring us humans together'.
Wish you all a happy and peace-filled New Year.
P. S. Just wanted to share a Japanese Folk Tale with you.
On another level, life surely hasn’t been the same in the last few days. Never before has there been such a collective outpouring of empathy and aid. From convicts in Tihar jail to rickshaw pullers in Chennai to innumerable ordinary citizens (bloggers included), everybody has been a part of the collective relief effort. Most remarkable is the fact that the disaster has shattered decade long standoffs between insurgents and their governments. If ever proof was needed that the world could work together as one, then this is it.
As Spaceman Spiff puts it, ‘Wish 2005 will be a year when nature doesn’t have to turn so militant in order to bring us humans together'.
Wish you all a happy and peace-filled New Year.
P. S. Just wanted to share a Japanese Folk Tale with you.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Losing everything
A month and a half ago, a minor fire broke out at my workplace. It was caused by a short circuit in my boss’s cabin. Fortunately, it occurred in the night when no one was around, and even more fortunately, it was spotted by security personnel who quickly contained it even before the fire brigade arrived. But the cabin was completely destroyed. One half was a black, charred mass of paper and wood; the other half was covered with soot and embers. The soft board, once a colourful collage of photographs and Post It’s, was scorched to bits, exposing the wooden frame behind it. The telephone was a mangled, fused heap. There even was a black spot on the 25-foot high ceiling.
My boss was in a mild shock that day. She lamented about losing her papers, photographs and other paraphernalia which she’d accumulated over the last 18 years. As I brushed away the embers from my desk, a sudden fear gripped me. What if the fire had spread to my cubicle which was adjacent to her cabin? My thoughts immediately went to the printouts of all my work neatly stacked in the drawers. I’d harangued the art director for almost a year to collect all those printouts. What if the fire…? I quickly made plans to transport all my work home.
It took a moment for the absurdity of that plan to sink in. If tragedy chose you, there was no escape. I was as vulnerable at home as at any place on earth. The reality and inevitability of loss never hit me harder. I did a quick mental inventory of all the things that were dearest to me. My heart lurched when I thought of my precious books. Anything, but them, I decided.
This half-forgotten incident and the accompanying thoughts came back to me as I watched the tsunami coverage on TV. There was that phrase repeated over and over again… ‘People who have lost everything...’ Amid all the heart-rending scenes of loss, there was one that disturbed me immensely. A Muslim man was offering prayers alone in a corner of a dargah. The reporter mentioned that ‘he’d lost everything’. Everything included three children and all seven grandchildren. He spoke in a sad yet calm voice while the translations appeared on screen. ‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. It is the cycle of life.’
Perhaps he was numb with shock, but his calm acceptance disturbed me more than all the grief stricken images I had seen. My mental inventory of a month-and-a-half ago never featured people. It was just too terrifying to do that. I cannot imagine what coping mechanisms he, and others who’ve lost ‘everything’, will use. I cannot imagine what the days ahead will be like when the numbness wears off. I can only pray, and help in a very small way.
P.S. Amazing efforts at Tsunami Help. A never-before reaction to a never-before calamity! Do visit and help.
My boss was in a mild shock that day. She lamented about losing her papers, photographs and other paraphernalia which she’d accumulated over the last 18 years. As I brushed away the embers from my desk, a sudden fear gripped me. What if the fire had spread to my cubicle which was adjacent to her cabin? My thoughts immediately went to the printouts of all my work neatly stacked in the drawers. I’d harangued the art director for almost a year to collect all those printouts. What if the fire…? I quickly made plans to transport all my work home.
It took a moment for the absurdity of that plan to sink in. If tragedy chose you, there was no escape. I was as vulnerable at home as at any place on earth. The reality and inevitability of loss never hit me harder. I did a quick mental inventory of all the things that were dearest to me. My heart lurched when I thought of my precious books. Anything, but them, I decided.
This half-forgotten incident and the accompanying thoughts came back to me as I watched the tsunami coverage on TV. There was that phrase repeated over and over again… ‘People who have lost everything...’ Amid all the heart-rending scenes of loss, there was one that disturbed me immensely. A Muslim man was offering prayers alone in a corner of a dargah. The reporter mentioned that ‘he’d lost everything’. Everything included three children and all seven grandchildren. He spoke in a sad yet calm voice while the translations appeared on screen. ‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. It is the cycle of life.’
Perhaps he was numb with shock, but his calm acceptance disturbed me more than all the grief stricken images I had seen. My mental inventory of a month-and-a-half ago never featured people. It was just too terrifying to do that. I cannot imagine what coping mechanisms he, and others who’ve lost ‘everything’, will use. I cannot imagine what the days ahead will be like when the numbness wears off. I can only pray, and help in a very small way.
P.S. Amazing efforts at Tsunami Help. A never-before reaction to a never-before calamity! Do visit and help.
Monday, December 20, 2004
SWADES: A review
It was a rare event for me – watching a Hindi film, and that too on the weekend of its release. But the unusual publicity stills of Swades and the buzz surrounding it, had peaked my curiosity. Luckily, J had extra tickets and I tagged along, despite the fact that it was a 10 p.m. show. My brain usually downs the shutters at midnight and everything after that is a blur.
But I had no problem staying awake, even though my neighbour on the left went into a mouth-agape slumber post interval. That’s one thing that can be said about Swades; it’s an engrossing film even though it proceeds at a bullock cart pace.
The theme of an NRI coming face to face with the real India has been explored before; in Hyderabad Blues, for instance. But where the protagonist of Hyderabad Blues feels disconnected and disillusioned, Mohan Bhargava of Swades gets into action right from the start. Whether it’s pulling down caste barriers, canvassing for education, bringing electricity to the village or charming the uptight school teacher, he does it all in fewer than 5 weeks. Hindi film heroes!
However, despite the crusading, Bhargava comes across as earnest and credible. He starts out as the unwitting do-gooder, but the turning point is when he goes on a journey and sees the poverty-stricken face of rural India. The scene which underlines his transition is poignant; the Bisleri-toting Bhargava buys a cup of water from a waif at a railway station, and tears roll down his eyes as he drinks it. The Non-Resident Indian finally becomes a part of the Indian reality.
But symbolic gestures are few, and the film does get rather preachy at times especially about Bharatiya parampara and sanskriti. But Bhargava echoes my sentiments when he tells the village elder who gloats about India having values and culture, ‘That’s what we always take refuge in.’ He even boldly goes on to say that India isn’t a great nation, but has the ability to become one. He lays bare all of India’s shortcomings, but most importantly, gets down to action. Like he says, everyone blames the system, but we are part of the system. So rather than passing the buck, he gets the villagers to be participate in generating their own electricity supply.
For once, it seems like reality has caught up Hindi cinema. No designer villages, no buxom gao ki goris doing ‘item numbers’, no photogenic mustard fields. The faces are real. The problems are real. The dust and grime is real, disconcertingly so. Only the frequent songs remind you that you’re watching a film.
It’s hard to imagine Shahrukh Khan minus the hammy, bumbling act. But his is an amazingly restrained performance in the film. As an NRI struggling to come to terms with an India stuck in a time warp, he is credible and endearing. I can’t say the same of the female lead though. Her manicured nails and dainty mannerisms stuck out in the ‘real’ picture. Call me picky, but Bhargava’s nanny, Kaveriamma, also struck a discordant note. A fine performance notwithstanding, I couldn’t help wondering what a south Indian was doing in a distinctly north Indian village. Or did I miss a national integration message here? Hmm… maybe I should leave logic at home next time.
Minor peeves aside, I liked the film. The director has bravely sidestepped many of the clichés one has come to associate with Hindi films. I liked the fact that Bhargava chose to leave the village despite being guilt-tripped about sanskriti and parampara. And that his decision to return isn’t impulsive but well thought through. The supporting cast is excellent, especially the postman and the dhaba owner. The humour isn’t forced, thankfully. Little gems stand out. For instance, the nanny asks Bhargava, ‘Tumhara nasha kaisa hai?’ and it turns out she’s asking about NASA!
Images from the film were still unspooling in my mind, when we trooped out of the theatre at 2 a.m. It was extraordinarily late, even for a late night show, but that’s because the 10 p.m. show had started at 10.45. The reason for the delay couldn’t have been more ironic - a power failure during the earlier show!
Yeh jo des hai mera…
But I had no problem staying awake, even though my neighbour on the left went into a mouth-agape slumber post interval. That’s one thing that can be said about Swades; it’s an engrossing film even though it proceeds at a bullock cart pace.
The theme of an NRI coming face to face with the real India has been explored before; in Hyderabad Blues, for instance. But where the protagonist of Hyderabad Blues feels disconnected and disillusioned, Mohan Bhargava of Swades gets into action right from the start. Whether it’s pulling down caste barriers, canvassing for education, bringing electricity to the village or charming the uptight school teacher, he does it all in fewer than 5 weeks. Hindi film heroes!
However, despite the crusading, Bhargava comes across as earnest and credible. He starts out as the unwitting do-gooder, but the turning point is when he goes on a journey and sees the poverty-stricken face of rural India. The scene which underlines his transition is poignant; the Bisleri-toting Bhargava buys a cup of water from a waif at a railway station, and tears roll down his eyes as he drinks it. The Non-Resident Indian finally becomes a part of the Indian reality.
But symbolic gestures are few, and the film does get rather preachy at times especially about Bharatiya parampara and sanskriti. But Bhargava echoes my sentiments when he tells the village elder who gloats about India having values and culture, ‘That’s what we always take refuge in.’ He even boldly goes on to say that India isn’t a great nation, but has the ability to become one. He lays bare all of India’s shortcomings, but most importantly, gets down to action. Like he says, everyone blames the system, but we are part of the system. So rather than passing the buck, he gets the villagers to be participate in generating their own electricity supply.
For once, it seems like reality has caught up Hindi cinema. No designer villages, no buxom gao ki goris doing ‘item numbers’, no photogenic mustard fields. The faces are real. The problems are real. The dust and grime is real, disconcertingly so. Only the frequent songs remind you that you’re watching a film.
It’s hard to imagine Shahrukh Khan minus the hammy, bumbling act. But his is an amazingly restrained performance in the film. As an NRI struggling to come to terms with an India stuck in a time warp, he is credible and endearing. I can’t say the same of the female lead though. Her manicured nails and dainty mannerisms stuck out in the ‘real’ picture. Call me picky, but Bhargava’s nanny, Kaveriamma, also struck a discordant note. A fine performance notwithstanding, I couldn’t help wondering what a south Indian was doing in a distinctly north Indian village. Or did I miss a national integration message here? Hmm… maybe I should leave logic at home next time.
Minor peeves aside, I liked the film. The director has bravely sidestepped many of the clichés one has come to associate with Hindi films. I liked the fact that Bhargava chose to leave the village despite being guilt-tripped about sanskriti and parampara. And that his decision to return isn’t impulsive but well thought through. The supporting cast is excellent, especially the postman and the dhaba owner. The humour isn’t forced, thankfully. Little gems stand out. For instance, the nanny asks Bhargava, ‘Tumhara nasha kaisa hai?’ and it turns out she’s asking about NASA!
Images from the film were still unspooling in my mind, when we trooped out of the theatre at 2 a.m. It was extraordinarily late, even for a late night show, but that’s because the 10 p.m. show had started at 10.45. The reason for the delay couldn’t have been more ironic - a power failure during the earlier show!
Yeh jo des hai mera…
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Tuesday with Teresa
Continued from An Introduction to Spain
I had asked Teresa to meet me at the Regal Cinema in Colaba. As my cab reached the venue, I spotted her looking a trifle lost. She was wearing what appeared to be a cross between a kurta and a nightie. On closer inspection, I decided it was a nightie.
‘Can I hug you?,’ she asked, ‘It’s a custom in Spain and it’s been so long since I hugged someone.’
I was too bewildered to refuse. But I was struck by her candour. And her loneliness.
‘So what did you do in the last two days,’ I asked. We were standing on the steps of Regal Cinema. Except for a few stragglers, there was no one around.
Teresa began to reel off the tourist spots that she’d visited, occasionally consulting her Lonely Planet. I was impressed.
‘You went on your own?’ I asked.
‘No, the security guard in my hotel came along,’ she replied.
But she ended up seeing a lot more than the Lonely Planet recommended. Apparently the ‘Mumbai darshan’ had ended at Chowpatty. And as they sat on the beach eating bhel puri, the security guard decided he’d found the love of his life…
‘He tells me I love you and want to marry you,” she said, arms flailing again. ‘I say, it’s ok. You’ll meet someone else. But he starts hugging me. And kisses me on the cheek.’
Fortunately (or unfortunately) for Teresa someone saw this amorous exchange and alerted the police, who promptly took them both to the police station.
‘The police tell me such behaviour is not tolerated in our country. I tell them I didn’t do anything. But they say I shouldn’t go with such people,’ she said, all too rapidly.
The police interrogated her for a couple of hours. Later, one of them softened a bit.
‘He explains how I must not trust people, how I must be more careful. And he tells me, if you don’t have a friend in the city, I will be your friend.’
Uh-oh I thought. The sordid saga continues…
Thankfully that was the end. The police detained the security guard and allowed her to leave.
‘Did you complain about the guard to the hotel in-charge,’ I asked, knowing her reply fully well.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t want to get him into trouble. He’s very young boy and just very lonely.’
She brushed away all further objections and asked instead, ‘What you think of my dress?’
I made polite noises about the nightie while she raved about the colour and the print. She chattered happily. The ‘sight-seeing’ incident of the morning was now behind her.
We walked down Colaba causeway looking for ‘Indian clothes’.
We stepped into one of the export surplus stores, with clothes spilling out of boxes and racks, almost onto the pavement. I tugged at a pile of clothes, so did Teresa. One thing became clear; our tastes didn’t match. So I let her do the tugging.
She settled on three pieces, preening in front of the mirror. The owner refused to bargain, curtly pointing to the ‘fixed price only’ cardboard sign. Teresa paid up and we exited from the cramped, airless store.
‘Thank you, Layla’, she said, when we could breathe again, ‘now you must let me take you for a meal.’
Sure, I said, feeling no need to be coy and polite with Teresa. I suggested Kailas Parbat, a place well known for North Indian snacks.
‘Oh yesterday this lady invited me to her house for Indian food…’ she said casually, as we walked down Causeway.
I was immediately suspicious, quite expecting another unpleasant episode.
Over ‘bahut bahut kam teekha’ pani puri and dahi sev batata puri, she shared about her dinner experience. She had been sitting on a bench on the Apollo pier and had struck up a conversation with another woman there. After the usual pleasantries, the woman on the bench insisted on taking Teresa home for dinner.
Teresa went on, ‘I had dal, roti, something made of brinjal, and lots of water,’ she said waving a hand in front of her mouth, as if to put out an imaginary fire.
We laughed. Thankfully, the dinner didn’t have a dark side to it. But I told Teresa that she shouldn’t trust people so easily.
‘I know, but people are so nice too,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I trusted you and see…’
I didn’t know what to say. I felt a bit protective about her because she was alone. But she seemed to know what she was doing and was ready to accept all outcomes. I marvelled at her equanimity.
We exchanged email addresses. And she surprised me by signing her name in Hindi.
‘I can write a little, but I can’t speak much,’ she laughed.
‘Oh, you have a year to learn’, I told her, and instinctively hugged her.
I haven’t heard from her yet. But I’m sure she’ll pop up in my inbox one of these days, relating some adventure, some experience. I only hope they’re good stories.
I had asked Teresa to meet me at the Regal Cinema in Colaba. As my cab reached the venue, I spotted her looking a trifle lost. She was wearing what appeared to be a cross between a kurta and a nightie. On closer inspection, I decided it was a nightie.
‘Can I hug you?,’ she asked, ‘It’s a custom in Spain and it’s been so long since I hugged someone.’
I was too bewildered to refuse. But I was struck by her candour. And her loneliness.
‘So what did you do in the last two days,’ I asked. We were standing on the steps of Regal Cinema. Except for a few stragglers, there was no one around.
Teresa began to reel off the tourist spots that she’d visited, occasionally consulting her Lonely Planet. I was impressed.
‘You went on your own?’ I asked.
‘No, the security guard in my hotel came along,’ she replied.
But she ended up seeing a lot more than the Lonely Planet recommended. Apparently the ‘Mumbai darshan’ had ended at Chowpatty. And as they sat on the beach eating bhel puri, the security guard decided he’d found the love of his life…
‘He tells me I love you and want to marry you,” she said, arms flailing again. ‘I say, it’s ok. You’ll meet someone else. But he starts hugging me. And kisses me on the cheek.’
Fortunately (or unfortunately) for Teresa someone saw this amorous exchange and alerted the police, who promptly took them both to the police station.
‘The police tell me such behaviour is not tolerated in our country. I tell them I didn’t do anything. But they say I shouldn’t go with such people,’ she said, all too rapidly.
The police interrogated her for a couple of hours. Later, one of them softened a bit.
‘He explains how I must not trust people, how I must be more careful. And he tells me, if you don’t have a friend in the city, I will be your friend.’
Uh-oh I thought. The sordid saga continues…
Thankfully that was the end. The police detained the security guard and allowed her to leave.
‘Did you complain about the guard to the hotel in-charge,’ I asked, knowing her reply fully well.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t want to get him into trouble. He’s very young boy and just very lonely.’
She brushed away all further objections and asked instead, ‘What you think of my dress?’
I made polite noises about the nightie while she raved about the colour and the print. She chattered happily. The ‘sight-seeing’ incident of the morning was now behind her.
We walked down Colaba causeway looking for ‘Indian clothes’.
We stepped into one of the export surplus stores, with clothes spilling out of boxes and racks, almost onto the pavement. I tugged at a pile of clothes, so did Teresa. One thing became clear; our tastes didn’t match. So I let her do the tugging.
She settled on three pieces, preening in front of the mirror. The owner refused to bargain, curtly pointing to the ‘fixed price only’ cardboard sign. Teresa paid up and we exited from the cramped, airless store.
‘Thank you, Layla’, she said, when we could breathe again, ‘now you must let me take you for a meal.’
Sure, I said, feeling no need to be coy and polite with Teresa. I suggested Kailas Parbat, a place well known for North Indian snacks.
‘Oh yesterday this lady invited me to her house for Indian food…’ she said casually, as we walked down Causeway.
I was immediately suspicious, quite expecting another unpleasant episode.
Over ‘bahut bahut kam teekha’ pani puri and dahi sev batata puri, she shared about her dinner experience. She had been sitting on a bench on the Apollo pier and had struck up a conversation with another woman there. After the usual pleasantries, the woman on the bench insisted on taking Teresa home for dinner.
Teresa went on, ‘I had dal, roti, something made of brinjal, and lots of water,’ she said waving a hand in front of her mouth, as if to put out an imaginary fire.
We laughed. Thankfully, the dinner didn’t have a dark side to it. But I told Teresa that she shouldn’t trust people so easily.
‘I know, but people are so nice too,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I trusted you and see…’
I didn’t know what to say. I felt a bit protective about her because she was alone. But she seemed to know what she was doing and was ready to accept all outcomes. I marvelled at her equanimity.
We exchanged email addresses. And she surprised me by signing her name in Hindi.
‘I can write a little, but I can’t speak much,’ she laughed.
‘Oh, you have a year to learn’, I told her, and instinctively hugged her.
I haven’t heard from her yet. But I’m sure she’ll pop up in my inbox one of these days, relating some adventure, some experience. I only hope they’re good stories.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
An introduction to Spain
I met Teresa at the 1-day Vipassana course at Gorai last Sunday. She was a plump Spanish girl, ostensibly in her late 20s and spoke English with a charming accent and with much flailing of hands. She wore a white kurta and beige cotton trousers, and said a respectful ‘Namaste’ to everyone who smiled at her.
One of the assistants asked if I could drop her off at the railway station. I agreed. Another middle aged woman in a bright yellow sari volunteered as well, presumably captivated by Teresa’s profuse Namaste’s. The three of us walked to the Esselworld pier to take the ferry to Gorai.
I didn’t want to seem intrusive, but I was curious about Teresa, about what drew her to Vipassana. She had no qualms sharing, thankfully. She said that she worked in a bookstore in Spain, and was introduced to Vipassana by a friend two years ago. But there were no introductory courses in Spain at that time, so she travelled to France. ‘I stayed at the centre for 3 ½ months,’ she said, ‘I did a 10 day course each month and assisted at the centre for the rest of the time.’
She laughed at my incredulous expression and offered by way of explanation, ‘After I did the first course, I felt I wasn’t ready to get back into the world, so I stayed there for a while.’
In the ferry, the yellow sari lady pulled out a single toffee from her bag and offered it to me. I made polite noises and declined. She offered it to Teresa who accepted it delightedly. The yellow sari lady looked very gratified and boldly pushed another toffee in my palm.
‘Your country is very nice,’ she said, ‘but not so nice for me to buy things here. If I go to buy Indian clothes, they charge me double.’
I sympathised with her, and impulsively offered, ‘Would you like me to take you to some places in town?’
She readily agreed, without any coyness. Her trusting nature amazed and worried me.
The auto drivers on the other side of the creek called out respectfully when they saw the three of us, ‘Yes medem, Boroli teshun?’ Respect turned into belligerence when I flatly told them I would only pay by the meter. Finally, one acquiesced and we headed back into the chaos of the city.
‘Obviously Vipassana made a big difference to you, since you decided to come here…’ I murmured, hoping it didn’t sound nosy.
She nodded and added, ‘But everyone in my family thinks I’m…’ She tapped the side of her head and pulled a comic face. ‘My friends say, we respect your decision, but they don’t understand it. I feel so lonely in my country.’
So that’s why she headed eastwards. She had a year’s visa, an open ticket and no plan. She was to go to Igatpuri, do a few courses, serve at the centre and then head out to the Vipassana centres in Bodh Gaya or Nepal.
‘I feel good being here. I feel happy,’ she said.
She was either supremely equanimous or supremely naïve, I decided. She’d just told me of the harrowing morning spent going round in circles and getting fleeced by cab drivers on the way to Gorai.
We were stuck in an almighty traffic jam for a while. Finally, the ‘source’ of the jam lumbered into view. An elephant!
Teresa clapped her hands and exclaimed, ‘Oooh, Ive never seen an elephant before.’ I started laughing and almost had a choking fit when she said, ‘Aaj main bahoot khush hoon.’ Even the hitherto unimpressed auto driver gawped at her in the rear view mirror.
The hordes at ‘Bolivari station’ (as Teresa called it) played the usual ‘avoid-subway-dodge-traffic’ game. I looked at Teresa to see if she was overwhelmed by it all. She seemed caught up in the adventure of it.
The yellow sari lady couldn’t keep up with the conversation in English, so I stopped every few moments to translate. Suddenly Teresa asked her, ‘Aap khush hai.’ The yellow sari lady blinked in surprise.
Teresa turned to me, ‘Is that an inappropriate question?’
I guessed the yellow sari lady had a problem understanding the accent and translated. She looked surprised again, like the question had never occurred to her, and said bemusedly, ‘Main khush hi to hoon. Khush na hone ki kya baat hai.’
She went away shaking her head. Meanwhile, Teresa was captivated by the food stalls at the station. ‘Do you want to have a juice?’ she asked. I looked warily at the nimbupani wondering if she had the stomach for it. She seemed keen, so I suggested a Frooti. She sipped it and smacked her lips, marvelling, ‘In my country the juices are so watery. This is so tasty and thick.’ I couldn’t help laughing, because I disliked Frooti for the same reason.
‘So we meet on Tuesday?’ she asked a little anxiously. ‘If it’s out of your way, I could come to Bolivari’.
When I assured her that it was no problem, she thanked me and then hugged me.
‘Um… hasta la vista,’ I murmured. She threw back her head and laughed.
Next: Tuesday with Teresa.
One of the assistants asked if I could drop her off at the railway station. I agreed. Another middle aged woman in a bright yellow sari volunteered as well, presumably captivated by Teresa’s profuse Namaste’s. The three of us walked to the Esselworld pier to take the ferry to Gorai.
I didn’t want to seem intrusive, but I was curious about Teresa, about what drew her to Vipassana. She had no qualms sharing, thankfully. She said that she worked in a bookstore in Spain, and was introduced to Vipassana by a friend two years ago. But there were no introductory courses in Spain at that time, so she travelled to France. ‘I stayed at the centre for 3 ½ months,’ she said, ‘I did a 10 day course each month and assisted at the centre for the rest of the time.’
She laughed at my incredulous expression and offered by way of explanation, ‘After I did the first course, I felt I wasn’t ready to get back into the world, so I stayed there for a while.’
In the ferry, the yellow sari lady pulled out a single toffee from her bag and offered it to me. I made polite noises and declined. She offered it to Teresa who accepted it delightedly. The yellow sari lady looked very gratified and boldly pushed another toffee in my palm.
‘Your country is very nice,’ she said, ‘but not so nice for me to buy things here. If I go to buy Indian clothes, they charge me double.’
I sympathised with her, and impulsively offered, ‘Would you like me to take you to some places in town?’
She readily agreed, without any coyness. Her trusting nature amazed and worried me.
The auto drivers on the other side of the creek called out respectfully when they saw the three of us, ‘Yes medem, Boroli teshun?’ Respect turned into belligerence when I flatly told them I would only pay by the meter. Finally, one acquiesced and we headed back into the chaos of the city.
‘Obviously Vipassana made a big difference to you, since you decided to come here…’ I murmured, hoping it didn’t sound nosy.
She nodded and added, ‘But everyone in my family thinks I’m…’ She tapped the side of her head and pulled a comic face. ‘My friends say, we respect your decision, but they don’t understand it. I feel so lonely in my country.’
So that’s why she headed eastwards. She had a year’s visa, an open ticket and no plan. She was to go to Igatpuri, do a few courses, serve at the centre and then head out to the Vipassana centres in Bodh Gaya or Nepal.
‘I feel good being here. I feel happy,’ she said.
She was either supremely equanimous or supremely naïve, I decided. She’d just told me of the harrowing morning spent going round in circles and getting fleeced by cab drivers on the way to Gorai.
We were stuck in an almighty traffic jam for a while. Finally, the ‘source’ of the jam lumbered into view. An elephant!
Teresa clapped her hands and exclaimed, ‘Oooh, Ive never seen an elephant before.’ I started laughing and almost had a choking fit when she said, ‘Aaj main bahoot khush hoon.’ Even the hitherto unimpressed auto driver gawped at her in the rear view mirror.
The hordes at ‘Bolivari station’ (as Teresa called it) played the usual ‘avoid-subway-dodge-traffic’ game. I looked at Teresa to see if she was overwhelmed by it all. She seemed caught up in the adventure of it.
The yellow sari lady couldn’t keep up with the conversation in English, so I stopped every few moments to translate. Suddenly Teresa asked her, ‘Aap khush hai.’ The yellow sari lady blinked in surprise.
Teresa turned to me, ‘Is that an inappropriate question?’
I guessed the yellow sari lady had a problem understanding the accent and translated. She looked surprised again, like the question had never occurred to her, and said bemusedly, ‘Main khush hi to hoon. Khush na hone ki kya baat hai.’
She went away shaking her head. Meanwhile, Teresa was captivated by the food stalls at the station. ‘Do you want to have a juice?’ she asked. I looked warily at the nimbupani wondering if she had the stomach for it. She seemed keen, so I suggested a Frooti. She sipped it and smacked her lips, marvelling, ‘In my country the juices are so watery. This is so tasty and thick.’ I couldn’t help laughing, because I disliked Frooti for the same reason.
‘So we meet on Tuesday?’ she asked a little anxiously. ‘If it’s out of your way, I could come to Bolivari’.
When I assured her that it was no problem, she thanked me and then hugged me.
‘Um… hasta la vista,’ I murmured. She threw back her head and laughed.
Next: Tuesday with Teresa.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
An evening with R
Everyone in college referred to him as ‘the mad Bawa’. And truth be told, R did act a little crazy. A permanent fixture on the last bench – when he did attend, that is – he’d compose songs with banal lyrics, and suddenly start singing them in class, startling professors and classmates alike. His antics had everyone in splits and many a boring lecture was livened by a teacher’s attempts to rebuke him. But R’s heart was in the right place, even if his head wasn’t. And he and I became unlikely but thick pals.
One day, after drifting for several years, R announced that he was going to appear for the IAS exams. Understandably, this pronouncement was received with rapidly lowered jaws, hoots of disbelief and even hysterical laughter. The guy who barely scraped through college was going to take on the toughest exams in the country. He really had to be crazy!
We met a couple of weeks later outside the public library where he spent a good part of his day, arriving with the first rays of the sun and leaving only when the staff forcibly ejected him. The gold-rimmed glasses gave further testimony of his newfound zeal.
“God, I stink,” were his first words to me. “Here see…” he thrust his armpit into my face. I turned my face away and laughed. Same old R, I thought.
But as the evening unfolded, I was forced to rearrange my views about him. His insights on racism, politics and Indian history astounded me.
“Jews have been persecuted by the Romans, Nazis and even Shakespeare,” he thundered. “Ever noticed how he constantly refers to ‘Shylock, the Jew’?” He didn’t just read 5 newspapers every day, from cover to cover, he even annotated them, adding his own insights. He dashed off fiery letters to editors for factual inconsistencies, using words like circumlocution and obloquy. Could this be the same R who struggled to pronounce ‘industrialisation’ during a college seminar, I wondered? Important dates, famous speeches – he was quoting them verbatim!
“You know I’ve always liked learning”, he said and when I snorted in disbelief, he hurriedly continued, “It’s just that I hated cramming. Now that I understand what I’m studying and can write stuff in my own words, it’s actually fun to study.”
“Fun, yeah!” I nodded stupidly.
In fact, I did a lot of nodding that evening. Firstly, because it took me a while to adjust to this new avatar. And secondly, because on seeing my incredulity turn to admiration, he just didn’t want to stop.
“One of my dreams now,” he admitted, “is to lecture at college.”“Maybe I could even counsel the kids, giving them my own example.” We both burst out laughing.
It was a crestfallen R who called me a few days later to tell me that he hadn’t cleared the preliminary exams. As I sympathised with him, he brightened up and said, “Now I’m more confident than ever of passing the next attempt.” And I believed he would. After all, I had seen miracles happen…
P.S I'd written this some time ago. Since then R had a change of heart and got into business, a very successful one. However it was that one evening which changed my perception of him as a class jester forever.
One day, after drifting for several years, R announced that he was going to appear for the IAS exams. Understandably, this pronouncement was received with rapidly lowered jaws, hoots of disbelief and even hysterical laughter. The guy who barely scraped through college was going to take on the toughest exams in the country. He really had to be crazy!
We met a couple of weeks later outside the public library where he spent a good part of his day, arriving with the first rays of the sun and leaving only when the staff forcibly ejected him. The gold-rimmed glasses gave further testimony of his newfound zeal.
“God, I stink,” were his first words to me. “Here see…” he thrust his armpit into my face. I turned my face away and laughed. Same old R, I thought.
But as the evening unfolded, I was forced to rearrange my views about him. His insights on racism, politics and Indian history astounded me.
“Jews have been persecuted by the Romans, Nazis and even Shakespeare,” he thundered. “Ever noticed how he constantly refers to ‘Shylock, the Jew’?” He didn’t just read 5 newspapers every day, from cover to cover, he even annotated them, adding his own insights. He dashed off fiery letters to editors for factual inconsistencies, using words like circumlocution and obloquy. Could this be the same R who struggled to pronounce ‘industrialisation’ during a college seminar, I wondered? Important dates, famous speeches – he was quoting them verbatim!
“You know I’ve always liked learning”, he said and when I snorted in disbelief, he hurriedly continued, “It’s just that I hated cramming. Now that I understand what I’m studying and can write stuff in my own words, it’s actually fun to study.”
“Fun, yeah!” I nodded stupidly.
In fact, I did a lot of nodding that evening. Firstly, because it took me a while to adjust to this new avatar. And secondly, because on seeing my incredulity turn to admiration, he just didn’t want to stop.
“One of my dreams now,” he admitted, “is to lecture at college.”“Maybe I could even counsel the kids, giving them my own example.” We both burst out laughing.
It was a crestfallen R who called me a few days later to tell me that he hadn’t cleared the preliminary exams. As I sympathised with him, he brightened up and said, “Now I’m more confident than ever of passing the next attempt.” And I believed he would. After all, I had seen miracles happen…
P.S I'd written this some time ago. Since then R had a change of heart and got into business, a very successful one. However it was that one evening which changed my perception of him as a class jester forever.
Monday, November 15, 2004
Proof that anti-ageing creams work…
I was using a moisturiser on my face when Alison came up and asked me sternly, 'Leela, what are you doing?’
The question ended in a high-pitched squeak. I wondered exactly what I was being chastised for.
She wagged her inch-long index finger at me and in a tone dripping with authority, said, ‘That cream is for big people, not for you and me.’
Being mistaken for a 4-year old feels ridiculously good!
The question ended in a high-pitched squeak. I wondered exactly what I was being chastised for.
She wagged her inch-long index finger at me and in a tone dripping with authority, said, ‘That cream is for big people, not for you and me.’
Being mistaken for a 4-year old feels ridiculously good!
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Snide and Prejudiced
I will always be indebted to the gentleman or lady who coined the word execrable. My deepest gratitude also goes out to the one who came up with egregious. Thanks to these thoughtful folks, I can now describe the movie Bride and Prejudice without resorting to such weak, ineffective words like bad, appalling, disgusting, awful, terrible.
I saw it early this week and it wreaked havoc with my digestion for two days. I did my best to obliterate it from memory, but yesterday I read an interview with director, Gurinder Chadha, in an old issue of Time Out and the bile rose again…
‘I never intended to make a Hindi movie, it’s not my sensibility’, she says. Truer words were never spoken. She goes on to say that hers is ‘a British movie that pays an affectionate tribute to Hindi cinema’. Perhaps in the same way that Judas’ kiss was affectionate.
Let’s overlook for a moment the effrontery to Jane Austen in the title. Let’s also excuse the absurd lyrics, dance epidemics and tepid dialogue. Out of the goodness of your heart, excuse Aishwarya’s incomprehensible indignation, Aishwarya’s credibility as a rustic Amritsar kudi, Aishwarya’s unidentifiable accent. While at it, condone the lack of chemistry, and surfeit of melodrama, which seeks to gleefully announce, ‘We are like this only.’
Now, that we’ve pardoned the whole balderdash, let’s come to the unforgivable part. How could a director who crafted the little gem called Bend it like Beckham go so wrong? How could someone who had discovered a warm, funny, inoffensive way of portraying Indian foibles, successfully cast the spotlight on the crudest, crassest, vilest behaviour of Indians? How can she claim to be ‘pissed off by films that parody Bollywood’ and then perversely misrepresent not just Bollywood, but India?
And who do we have to blame for this travesty of a movie? Believe it or not, Aditya Chopra! 'It was after seeing Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayengethat I decided to make my version of a Hindi film,' says Chadha and adds, 'I later told him that if Bride and Prejudice falls flat, I’d blame him.'
Aditya, I want my money back!
I saw it early this week and it wreaked havoc with my digestion for two days. I did my best to obliterate it from memory, but yesterday I read an interview with director, Gurinder Chadha, in an old issue of Time Out and the bile rose again…
‘I never intended to make a Hindi movie, it’s not my sensibility’, she says. Truer words were never spoken. She goes on to say that hers is ‘a British movie that pays an affectionate tribute to Hindi cinema’. Perhaps in the same way that Judas’ kiss was affectionate.
Let’s overlook for a moment the effrontery to Jane Austen in the title. Let’s also excuse the absurd lyrics, dance epidemics and tepid dialogue. Out of the goodness of your heart, excuse Aishwarya’s incomprehensible indignation, Aishwarya’s credibility as a rustic Amritsar kudi, Aishwarya’s unidentifiable accent. While at it, condone the lack of chemistry, and surfeit of melodrama, which seeks to gleefully announce, ‘We are like this only.’
Now, that we’ve pardoned the whole balderdash, let’s come to the unforgivable part. How could a director who crafted the little gem called Bend it like Beckham go so wrong? How could someone who had discovered a warm, funny, inoffensive way of portraying Indian foibles, successfully cast the spotlight on the crudest, crassest, vilest behaviour of Indians? How can she claim to be ‘pissed off by films that parody Bollywood’ and then perversely misrepresent not just Bollywood, but India?
And who do we have to blame for this travesty of a movie? Believe it or not, Aditya Chopra! 'It was after seeing Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayengethat I decided to make my version of a Hindi film,' says Chadha and adds, 'I later told him that if Bride and Prejudice falls flat, I’d blame him.'
Aditya, I want my money back!
Thursday, November 04, 2004
Cinderella at the Ball
I’m a bit of a disgrace to the media fraternity (and sorority). 7 years of working in high profile advertising agencies and a media behemoth, and yet I cannot claim first name familiarity with any ‘celebrity’. Some of the biggest pashas of print sit less than 20 feet away from my work desk. From time to time, friends in other news agencies update me on gossip about them. My customary excuse to pass up most late night schmoosing is that it conflicts with my bedtime.
As it happens, in media, all virtue is a vice. Proclaiming utter disinterest in the Who’s Who, Who’s with Who and Who did What Last Summer can be bad for business. If not for these tantalising details, what are people going to buy your newspaper for? The news? Uh-uh, it’s no good being high brow with high society.
Luckily for me, redemption came in the form of a wicked looking black envelope. Two passes to THE ultimate crash course for social ignoramuses – The Bombay Times 10th Anniversary Bash. Months of gaucherie could be purged in single night, I thought gleefully as I set off with a photographer friend.
I came away suitably enlightened. Presenting the 10 invaluable lessons gleaned from the Bombay Times 10th Anniversary Bash:
Lesson No. 1
High fashion is remarkably low cost. All you need are sequins worth Rs. 20 from Crawford Market. Tack them onto a lacy bedcover or curtain or laundry bag, and voila, you’re haute tamale!
Fashion for men: Anything tight and tacky. Allowing Calvin Klein to peer over the top of your trousers is vital. If you’re really cool, sport a thong and show it off prominently.
Lesson No. 2
Never ever question people’s fashion sense. If the high priestess of fashion, Rekha and the ultimate gay style icon, Imam, sashay in wearing tent like robes, well tent-like robes are in.
Lesson No. 3
Be careful, be very careful at the food courts. Ask detailed questions about each item even if it makes you look foolish. After all, it’s better to eat crow figuratively than to come away with a mouthful of raw oyster.
When it comes to cheese, follow a sniff and nibble routine. Do not pop a sizeable chunk like the woman next to you, especially if the cheese is ‘Gorgonzola’, unless of course you like the taste of rotting flesh. (Still gagging)
Lesson No. 4
It’s possible to have 5 margaritas, 2 tequila shots and one Vodka with tonic and still be unnaturally sober. It boils down to a simple technique: Lift long-stemmed, wide-mouthed margarita glass from counter, steer yourself across narrow corridor teeming with sozzled, flying limbs, reach your corner, spot one remaining sip of margarita, down it. After 20 minutes, repeat the process.
Lesson No. 5
When Abhishek Bachchan, up in the DJ console, suddenly points at you with a look of recognition, do not instinctively entertain hopes of being the Next Big Thing. He’s merely waving to your photographer friend. Make a mental note however to keep in touch with photographer friend more.
Lesson No. 6
Tall, dark and handsome is soooo out, so last decade. Old, bald and iconic is in.
If you are a male model, learn to deal with loneliness or hang out with other model buddies. And watch as guys blessed with a face that only a mother can love, dance with a bevy of bootylicious beauties.
Lesson No. 6
Hah, to all you atheists! There is a God and his name is Alyque Padamsee. Else explain how a 75-plus, concave-postured relic can part crowds on a packed dance floor with a statuesque teenager clutching onto him like he was a Baywatch lifeguard? Oh no, there is a God and I’m a believer.
Lesson No. 7
You can be Andre Nair, chairman and CEO of the most powerful media network in South East Asia and still cut a ludicrous figure on the dance floor, especially when you dance with actions to ‘Yeh Wada Raha’. Note to self: If you intend to stay in media it’s a good idea not to let him catch you laughing.
Lesson No. 8
You don’t need cricket records to tell you Michael Slater is a gifted player. He’s a natural when it comes to scoring.
Lesson No. 9
A family that parties together stays together. Take for instance, the Vengsarkar family. Perhaps the current day team picked up the famous ‘huddle’ from this foursome.
Lesson No. 10
There is a certain advantage in being a Who’s Not. Nobody notices that your blue handbag and black shoes don’t quite match…
As it happens, in media, all virtue is a vice. Proclaiming utter disinterest in the Who’s Who, Who’s with Who and Who did What Last Summer can be bad for business. If not for these tantalising details, what are people going to buy your newspaper for? The news? Uh-uh, it’s no good being high brow with high society.
Luckily for me, redemption came in the form of a wicked looking black envelope. Two passes to THE ultimate crash course for social ignoramuses – The Bombay Times 10th Anniversary Bash. Months of gaucherie could be purged in single night, I thought gleefully as I set off with a photographer friend.
I came away suitably enlightened. Presenting the 10 invaluable lessons gleaned from the Bombay Times 10th Anniversary Bash:
Lesson No. 1
High fashion is remarkably low cost. All you need are sequins worth Rs. 20 from Crawford Market. Tack them onto a lacy bedcover or curtain or laundry bag, and voila, you’re haute tamale!
Fashion for men: Anything tight and tacky. Allowing Calvin Klein to peer over the top of your trousers is vital. If you’re really cool, sport a thong and show it off prominently.
Lesson No. 2
Never ever question people’s fashion sense. If the high priestess of fashion, Rekha and the ultimate gay style icon, Imam, sashay in wearing tent like robes, well tent-like robes are in.
Lesson No. 3
Be careful, be very careful at the food courts. Ask detailed questions about each item even if it makes you look foolish. After all, it’s better to eat crow figuratively than to come away with a mouthful of raw oyster.
When it comes to cheese, follow a sniff and nibble routine. Do not pop a sizeable chunk like the woman next to you, especially if the cheese is ‘Gorgonzola’, unless of course you like the taste of rotting flesh. (Still gagging)
Lesson No. 4
It’s possible to have 5 margaritas, 2 tequila shots and one Vodka with tonic and still be unnaturally sober. It boils down to a simple technique: Lift long-stemmed, wide-mouthed margarita glass from counter, steer yourself across narrow corridor teeming with sozzled, flying limbs, reach your corner, spot one remaining sip of margarita, down it. After 20 minutes, repeat the process.
Lesson No. 5
When Abhishek Bachchan, up in the DJ console, suddenly points at you with a look of recognition, do not instinctively entertain hopes of being the Next Big Thing. He’s merely waving to your photographer friend. Make a mental note however to keep in touch with photographer friend more.
Lesson No. 6
Tall, dark and handsome is soooo out, so last decade. Old, bald and iconic is in.
If you are a male model, learn to deal with loneliness or hang out with other model buddies. And watch as guys blessed with a face that only a mother can love, dance with a bevy of bootylicious beauties.
Lesson No. 6
Hah, to all you atheists! There is a God and his name is Alyque Padamsee. Else explain how a 75-plus, concave-postured relic can part crowds on a packed dance floor with a statuesque teenager clutching onto him like he was a Baywatch lifeguard? Oh no, there is a God and I’m a believer.
Lesson No. 7
You can be Andre Nair, chairman and CEO of the most powerful media network in South East Asia and still cut a ludicrous figure on the dance floor, especially when you dance with actions to ‘Yeh Wada Raha’. Note to self: If you intend to stay in media it’s a good idea not to let him catch you laughing.
Lesson No. 8
You don’t need cricket records to tell you Michael Slater is a gifted player. He’s a natural when it comes to scoring.
Lesson No. 9
A family that parties together stays together. Take for instance, the Vengsarkar family. Perhaps the current day team picked up the famous ‘huddle’ from this foursome.
Lesson No. 10
There is a certain advantage in being a Who’s Not. Nobody notices that your blue handbag and black shoes don’t quite match…
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
The loose ends...
... happen to be on a stout rope. One end's tied to a peg on the ceiling, the other around my neck.
After a month of browbeating the cable guy, the connection's been restored. Now, my new computer's crashed. And this cybercafe lacks inspiration.
A spare laptop, anyone??
After a month of browbeating the cable guy, the connection's been restored. Now, my new computer's crashed. And this cybercafe lacks inspiration.
A spare laptop, anyone??
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
SONGLINES: Bruce Chatwin
‘In Alice Springs – a grid of scorching streets where men in long white socks were forever getting in and out of Land Cruisers – I met a Russian who was mapping the sacred sites of the Aboriginals….’
The opening lines from Songlines create an air of intrigue befitting a whodunit, rather than a travel book. For instance, my thoughts were, who were these men in long white socks? Why Land Cruisers? And what was a Russian doing Down Under?
The rest of the first chapter is equally taut. Dispensing with rambling descriptions that characterize travel writing, Chatwin tells us about the Russian, Arkady Volchok, and his unusual vocation.
Arkady first worked as a school teacher on an Aboriginal settlement near Alice Springs, when he came across the Songlines – the invisible pathways criss-crossing Australia. According to Aboriginal myth, totemic beings wandered over the continent singing out the name of everything that crossed their path – birds, animals, plants – and thus sang the world into existence.
A railway line was being constructed through Alice Springs and the authorities were wary of treading over the sacred ground. Here’s where Arkady came in. He’d built a special friendship with the Song-men and could work with them to ensure that no sacred site was disturbed.
Arkady was married, even had a daughter of 6, but no longer lived with his wife. Chatwin’s description of Arkady’s union is wonderfully wry…
‘On the Acropolis in Athens, there was a dusting of snow and only one other tourist: a Greek girl from Sydney. They traveled through Italy, and slept together, and in Paris they agreed to get married.’
Likewise, the portrayal of their separation…
‘After a single summer, in a tin-roofed house that heated like a furnace, they began to drift apart.’
The chapter ends with the enigmatic introduction of Arkady’s secretary…
‘…a pliant brown girl in a brown knitted dress. She smiled and said, ‘Hi Ark!’ but her smile fell away at the sight of a stranger.’
Do Arkady and the construction group steer clear of the Songlines? Are the Aboriginals lying in wait to sabotage the construction? Is there more than meets the eye between Arkady and his secretary?
Find out more after I read the book…
The opening lines from Songlines create an air of intrigue befitting a whodunit, rather than a travel book. For instance, my thoughts were, who were these men in long white socks? Why Land Cruisers? And what was a Russian doing Down Under?
The rest of the first chapter is equally taut. Dispensing with rambling descriptions that characterize travel writing, Chatwin tells us about the Russian, Arkady Volchok, and his unusual vocation.
Arkady first worked as a school teacher on an Aboriginal settlement near Alice Springs, when he came across the Songlines – the invisible pathways criss-crossing Australia. According to Aboriginal myth, totemic beings wandered over the continent singing out the name of everything that crossed their path – birds, animals, plants – and thus sang the world into existence.
A railway line was being constructed through Alice Springs and the authorities were wary of treading over the sacred ground. Here’s where Arkady came in. He’d built a special friendship with the Song-men and could work with them to ensure that no sacred site was disturbed.
Arkady was married, even had a daughter of 6, but no longer lived with his wife. Chatwin’s description of Arkady’s union is wonderfully wry…
‘On the Acropolis in Athens, there was a dusting of snow and only one other tourist: a Greek girl from Sydney. They traveled through Italy, and slept together, and in Paris they agreed to get married.’
Likewise, the portrayal of their separation…
‘After a single summer, in a tin-roofed house that heated like a furnace, they began to drift apart.’
The chapter ends with the enigmatic introduction of Arkady’s secretary…
‘…a pliant brown girl in a brown knitted dress. She smiled and said, ‘Hi Ark!’ but her smile fell away at the sight of a stranger.’
Do Arkady and the construction group steer clear of the Songlines? Are the Aboriginals lying in wait to sabotage the construction? Is there more than meets the eye between Arkady and his secretary?
Find out more after I read the book…
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Absolute Lee 2.0
With sincere apologies to Client Servicing
There was one question that remained unanswered during all my years in advertising – why would anyone, in their sane mind, join an ad agency in Client Servicing?
It was undoubtedly the shittiest job in the agency – liaising between bull-headed clients, creative prima donnas, cold number-crunchers in media, impudent cut paste artists and incompetent bosses. The balancing act turned them into vacillating, conniving, annoying dimwits, who were equally loathed and laughed at. They were derided as ‘postmen’ and ‘flunkeys’ and those were the printable terms. To insult a copywriter or art director, you spat out, ‘@$# Servicing!!’ It was hard to like yourself when you were Client Servicing.
The point of this ramble is that in the last month, I’ve come to empathize with this reviled bunch, having unwittingly slipped into their shoes myself.
It started when I decided to revamp the blog.
Nothing too fancy, I said to myself. (All bull-headed clients start out that way.) The intrepid yet unsuspecting Spaceman Spiff volunteered to do the programming, and tossed in a few ideas. Yes, no, yes, no, no, no, no, went ‘client servicing’ (at the behest of the ‘client’).
The old Art Partner called to say, ‘It’s a boy!’
Congratulations, congratulations… psstcanyoudesignmyblog… congratulations. When you’re Client Servicing, scruples mean nothing.
An illustrator friend was similarly arm-twisted for an illustration ‘…which should be distinctive to the blog and also epitomize the essence of it…’ Illustrator friend pulled out his dictionary, forgetting for a moment that Client Servicing uses words to detract from one immutable fact – ‘I don’t know what in hell’s name I’m talking about’.
Thankfully (for still-nonplussed Illustrator friend) one of the illustrations worked in a ‘dipstick survey’.
Next, Art Partner with baby in one hand and mouse in the other, produced two simple, scintillating designs. Spaceman was informed thus:
Day 1: Design 1 is final!
Day 2: Design 2 is final!
Day 3 (a.m): Um.. let’s go with Design 1.
Day 3 (p.m.): Make that Design 2…
It’s not hard to lose friends when you’re Client Servicing.
Spaceman mailed requirements, Art Partner went to work. Art Partner mailed requirements, Spaceman went to work. Client Servicing with a feigned casualness (and having plied them with gmail accounts) huffed and puffed down their necks.
Full circle, it is. From looking down my Copywriter-nose at them to joining their oily ilk. But there’s one thing Client Servicing does quite generously. And that is, allow the names of the Creative team to precede their own on the award form. So here goes:
Design: Monisha K.
Illustration: Avinash V.
Programming: Spaceman Spiff
@$# Servicing: Leela A.
P.S. It’s been a year (already!) on the blog. Thank you all for your encouragement.
There was one question that remained unanswered during all my years in advertising – why would anyone, in their sane mind, join an ad agency in Client Servicing?
It was undoubtedly the shittiest job in the agency – liaising between bull-headed clients, creative prima donnas, cold number-crunchers in media, impudent cut paste artists and incompetent bosses. The balancing act turned them into vacillating, conniving, annoying dimwits, who were equally loathed and laughed at. They were derided as ‘postmen’ and ‘flunkeys’ and those were the printable terms. To insult a copywriter or art director, you spat out, ‘@$# Servicing!!’ It was hard to like yourself when you were Client Servicing.
The point of this ramble is that in the last month, I’ve come to empathize with this reviled bunch, having unwittingly slipped into their shoes myself.
It started when I decided to revamp the blog.
Nothing too fancy, I said to myself. (All bull-headed clients start out that way.) The intrepid yet unsuspecting Spaceman Spiff volunteered to do the programming, and tossed in a few ideas. Yes, no, yes, no, no, no, no, went ‘client servicing’ (at the behest of the ‘client’).
The old Art Partner called to say, ‘It’s a boy!’
Congratulations, congratulations… psstcanyoudesignmyblog… congratulations. When you’re Client Servicing, scruples mean nothing.
An illustrator friend was similarly arm-twisted for an illustration ‘…which should be distinctive to the blog and also epitomize the essence of it…’ Illustrator friend pulled out his dictionary, forgetting for a moment that Client Servicing uses words to detract from one immutable fact – ‘I don’t know what in hell’s name I’m talking about’.
Thankfully (for still-nonplussed Illustrator friend) one of the illustrations worked in a ‘dipstick survey’.
Next, Art Partner with baby in one hand and mouse in the other, produced two simple, scintillating designs. Spaceman was informed thus:
Day 1: Design 1 is final!
Day 2: Design 2 is final!
Day 3 (a.m): Um.. let’s go with Design 1.
Day 3 (p.m.): Make that Design 2…
It’s not hard to lose friends when you’re Client Servicing.
Spaceman mailed requirements, Art Partner went to work. Art Partner mailed requirements, Spaceman went to work. Client Servicing with a feigned casualness (and having plied them with gmail accounts) huffed and puffed down their necks.
Full circle, it is. From looking down my Copywriter-nose at them to joining their oily ilk. But there’s one thing Client Servicing does quite generously. And that is, allow the names of the Creative team to precede their own on the award form. So here goes:
Design: Monisha K.
Illustration: Avinash V.
Programming: Spaceman Spiff
@$# Servicing: Leela A.
P.S. It’s been a year (already!) on the blog. Thank you all for your encouragement.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
In the eye of the beholder
Recently, I accompanied my friend, B, to buy a perfume. Now, B is a determined-but-leisurely shopper. Neither snappish salespeople no closing hours can coax her to rush with her shopping. So I didn't immediately brush off the salesgirl who came up to me and asked, 'Madam, are you interested in a free Revlon makeover?'
After confirming that it was indeed free, and seeing that B was not even halfway through the dozen perfumes, I agreed.
The 'free makeover' zone was the teensy space between the counters of two cosmetic brands. The Beauty Advisor (or the politically corrected 'salesgirl') steered me onto the stool and appraised my face. I was sure it resembled a wrung-out towel, since we'd just left office. Her face was impeccably made up of course, to the point of being a little excessive. Violet eye shadow and a matching shade of lipstick tend to stick out a bit.
'We'll start with a Revlon cleanser and a Revlon toner', she bubbled. A cotton swab with cleanser went over my face, followed by another swab of a melon-scented toner. I could feel my pores tingling.
'Now I'll outline your eyes with the Revlon eyeliner,' she said. Smart girl, I thought. I used to work on a rival cosmetic brand a few years ago, and we'd always recommended makeovers. Now I was getting to test its efficacy.
'You have nice high cheekbones. Blush-on suits you very well,' she remarked. The colour on my cheeks was not entirely from the blush.
A lip pencil came next and outlined the contours of my mouth. Meanwhile, B had taken a break from the fragrances and come over to watch me. Her appreciative expression changed when the Beauty Advisor applied a pale lip gloss. I glanced at the mirror quickly. It looked like I'd swallowed a saucer of mercury. No lip gloss, I shook my head. She looked at me thoughtfully and nodded, 'Let's go for a liquid lip colour. Revlon has recently come out with a new product...'
She applied the lip colour and I looked to B for approval. A knot of curious shoppers had gathered and were watching intently.
'Doesn't make up really suit her?' the savvy Advisor asked B.
Another advisor chimed in, 'Your skin is ideal for make up. See how it highlights your eyes.'
One of the shoppers asked, 'Show me the lipstick you've used on her.'
'Not lipstick, this is a liquid lip colour,' corrected the Advisor.
'Psst.. madam, would you like anything from Maybelline', the advisor who'd chimed in, called out surreptitiously.
I smiled indulgently, seeing right through this whole marketing shtick.
But then I remembered that my eyeliner was almost over. Also, this eye pencil was much better than the one I had at home. And coming to think of it, this bronze liquid eye shadow might come in handy for a dressy evening...
B and I laughed heartily as we exited the store a few minutes later. She was empty handed; I was 700 bucks lighter.
Nothing like a free makeover to perk up an evening.
After confirming that it was indeed free, and seeing that B was not even halfway through the dozen perfumes, I agreed.
The 'free makeover' zone was the teensy space between the counters of two cosmetic brands. The Beauty Advisor (or the politically corrected 'salesgirl') steered me onto the stool and appraised my face. I was sure it resembled a wrung-out towel, since we'd just left office. Her face was impeccably made up of course, to the point of being a little excessive. Violet eye shadow and a matching shade of lipstick tend to stick out a bit.
'We'll start with a Revlon cleanser and a Revlon toner', she bubbled. A cotton swab with cleanser went over my face, followed by another swab of a melon-scented toner. I could feel my pores tingling.
'Now I'll outline your eyes with the Revlon eyeliner,' she said. Smart girl, I thought. I used to work on a rival cosmetic brand a few years ago, and we'd always recommended makeovers. Now I was getting to test its efficacy.
'You have nice high cheekbones. Blush-on suits you very well,' she remarked. The colour on my cheeks was not entirely from the blush.
A lip pencil came next and outlined the contours of my mouth. Meanwhile, B had taken a break from the fragrances and come over to watch me. Her appreciative expression changed when the Beauty Advisor applied a pale lip gloss. I glanced at the mirror quickly. It looked like I'd swallowed a saucer of mercury. No lip gloss, I shook my head. She looked at me thoughtfully and nodded, 'Let's go for a liquid lip colour. Revlon has recently come out with a new product...'
She applied the lip colour and I looked to B for approval. A knot of curious shoppers had gathered and were watching intently.
'Doesn't make up really suit her?' the savvy Advisor asked B.
Another advisor chimed in, 'Your skin is ideal for make up. See how it highlights your eyes.'
One of the shoppers asked, 'Show me the lipstick you've used on her.'
'Not lipstick, this is a liquid lip colour,' corrected the Advisor.
'Psst.. madam, would you like anything from Maybelline', the advisor who'd chimed in, called out surreptitiously.
I smiled indulgently, seeing right through this whole marketing shtick.
But then I remembered that my eyeliner was almost over. Also, this eye pencil was much better than the one I had at home. And coming to think of it, this bronze liquid eye shadow might come in handy for a dressy evening...
B and I laughed heartily as we exited the store a few minutes later. She was empty handed; I was 700 bucks lighter.
Nothing like a free makeover to perk up an evening.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
Help! The teens are taking over
Episode 1: Mind that Doll!
I was flipping through a magazine at work yesterday, waiting for the muse to descend. And that’s when I spotted her.
She looked cool, aloof yet mind-blowing even in a school uniform. Although, if that was a uniform, then the school could only have been, ‘St Lucifer School of Higher Seduction’. The white shirt was missing several vital buttons and the skirt was intriguingly abbreviated. Her pout certainly didn’t convey, ‘Dang! Jasma got more marks than me in History.’
She was Babydoll - the toast of the music video circuit. She was only 18 but her list of achievements was considerably longer than her skirt. She’d bagged a role in an international music video which also featured Beyonce (of Destiny’s Child). But she was to do more than strut her stuff. A trained classical singer, she was to lend vocal talent to the song titled, ‘Simple Things in Life’. Bollywood had been seduced too. She’d signed a film, ‘Daag: Shades of Love’ which was a ‘sensitive love story” in which she had a ‘hardhitting role’.
The part that intrigued me was her reply to the question, ‘What were you doing before your discovery?’
She replied that she was studying Psychology in College and that, ‘Industrial psychology always interested me.’
My eyebrows flew up. Industrial Psychology is about as interesting as watching a remix video featuring Anupam Kher. Of the 6 papers in the BA Psychology, IP was the second most tedious and mind-numbing.
My eyebrows stayed suspended while she explained why Psychology interested her.
‘I think it’s because psychology is all about reading the human mind, it’s about analyzing behaviour. And I’m very judgmental, so I think that’s why I love it.’
Jeez, what was I thinking when I chose to major in Psychology? Ah yes, I thought it would help clear the clutter in my mind…
Episode 2: Hack & Hacker
In the evening, I stopped to browse at the Oxford Book Store. As I walked in, I saw that irksome notice, ‘The Cha Bar will remain closed on account of ….’ I didn’t need to read further. It always meant the same thing – an event featuring a boring, pompous oration by a wannabe author/director/playwright with journos hanging on for trite soundbites.
I hated being deprived of one of the few real indulgences in life – sitting in the Cha Bar, sipping on a Latte and snacking on the armful of books gleaned from the shelves.
I scowled as I passed the agog audience and cast unclean looks at the speaker who was droning about Internet and dotcoms.
I walked off in a huff and as I waited for the guard to hand me my bag, the speaker’s words floated towards my unwilling ears… ‘I want to thank my publishers for speeding up the publicity of the book, when I told them I was returning to the U.S…’
My eyes fell on the notice I’d ignored earlier and my jaw skidded to the floor.
The ‘wannabe author’ was Ankit Fadia, a 19-year old computer hacker who’d just written his third book! Between foiling the attempts of Pakistani hackers to deface Indian websites and tutoring computer experts in the CBI and FBI, he’d sold 80,000 copies of his books. Now, he juggled classes at Stanford University, lectures on corporate network security and book release functions.
Earthlings, needn’t fear a superior alien species taking over the planet. The teens are doing a pretty good job!
I was flipping through a magazine at work yesterday, waiting for the muse to descend. And that’s when I spotted her.
She looked cool, aloof yet mind-blowing even in a school uniform. Although, if that was a uniform, then the school could only have been, ‘St Lucifer School of Higher Seduction’. The white shirt was missing several vital buttons and the skirt was intriguingly abbreviated. Her pout certainly didn’t convey, ‘Dang! Jasma got more marks than me in History.’
She was Babydoll - the toast of the music video circuit. She was only 18 but her list of achievements was considerably longer than her skirt. She’d bagged a role in an international music video which also featured Beyonce (of Destiny’s Child). But she was to do more than strut her stuff. A trained classical singer, she was to lend vocal talent to the song titled, ‘Simple Things in Life’. Bollywood had been seduced too. She’d signed a film, ‘Daag: Shades of Love’ which was a ‘sensitive love story” in which she had a ‘hardhitting role’.
The part that intrigued me was her reply to the question, ‘What were you doing before your discovery?’
She replied that she was studying Psychology in College and that, ‘Industrial psychology always interested me.’
My eyebrows flew up. Industrial Psychology is about as interesting as watching a remix video featuring Anupam Kher. Of the 6 papers in the BA Psychology, IP was the second most tedious and mind-numbing.
My eyebrows stayed suspended while she explained why Psychology interested her.
‘I think it’s because psychology is all about reading the human mind, it’s about analyzing behaviour. And I’m very judgmental, so I think that’s why I love it.’
Jeez, what was I thinking when I chose to major in Psychology? Ah yes, I thought it would help clear the clutter in my mind…
Episode 2: Hack & Hacker
In the evening, I stopped to browse at the Oxford Book Store. As I walked in, I saw that irksome notice, ‘The Cha Bar will remain closed on account of ….’ I didn’t need to read further. It always meant the same thing – an event featuring a boring, pompous oration by a wannabe author/director/playwright with journos hanging on for trite soundbites.
I hated being deprived of one of the few real indulgences in life – sitting in the Cha Bar, sipping on a Latte and snacking on the armful of books gleaned from the shelves.
I scowled as I passed the agog audience and cast unclean looks at the speaker who was droning about Internet and dotcoms.
I walked off in a huff and as I waited for the guard to hand me my bag, the speaker’s words floated towards my unwilling ears… ‘I want to thank my publishers for speeding up the publicity of the book, when I told them I was returning to the U.S…’
My eyes fell on the notice I’d ignored earlier and my jaw skidded to the floor.
The ‘wannabe author’ was Ankit Fadia, a 19-year old computer hacker who’d just written his third book! Between foiling the attempts of Pakistani hackers to deface Indian websites and tutoring computer experts in the CBI and FBI, he’d sold 80,000 copies of his books. Now, he juggled classes at Stanford University, lectures on corporate network security and book release functions.
Earthlings, needn’t fear a superior alien species taking over the planet. The teens are doing a pretty good job!
Friday, September 10, 2004
The Amazing Tiffin Box III: Despatches from S.A.S.S*
*Streehitavardhini Audyogik Sahakari Sansthan.
Continued from The Amazing Tiffin Box I: Save Our Stomach and The Amazing Tiffin Box II: The Interview
* Green Tea (with honey, no milk)
* Apple –1
* Sweet Lime - 1
* Grapes – 1 bunch
* Bananas – 2
That was *breakfast* on Day 1 of my newest attempt to beat IBS. Between 6:30 a.m and 12 noon, each time my yet-unsuspecting stomach emitted a ravenous growl, I pulled out a Tupperware container and started munching. But I still felt peculiarly empty. I checked my watch with increasing frequency as lunchtime approached.
Lunch started off with another Tupperware tiffin filled with salad, followed by rice, dal and steamed vegetables. Nuts and dryfruits replaced the canteen teatime snack. And ignoring the tendency to dawdle, I raced home to dinner at 8.
That night, I wrote in my diary, ‘Day 1 – still alive.’
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
By Day 5, things changed. I wasn’t just alive. I felt good!
Since my attention was focused on co-ordinating all those Tupperware containers, it took a while before I realized that the gripes had eased. The fires of hell burnt less brightly. And my waking thoughts weren’t of gloom and doom.
But two years of trying out iffy remedies unsuccessfully can’t be obliterated. Where allopathy, homoeopathy and ayurveda had proved feeble, how could a crazy diet which contradicted popular beliefs, succeed. And that too, in just a few days?
So I reined in the optimism and continued hauling my mini-army of Tupperware. Contrary to my initial concern that I would find this diet oppressive, I actually began to appreciate the discipline it brought in my life.
Two weeks later, I danced up the stairs of the Health Awareness Centre and almost hugged Pink Lady. I couldn’t wait to tell her how I was a new person – inside out.
She smiled and thrust a 3 page review form in my hand, ‘Fill this form first.’
Later, we talked about my improvement and she suggested minor changes. For instance, she said it was ok to eat white meats but to avoid cereals and meat at the same meal.
Finally, we got around to the tiffin. She said she would start it from the following week. I danced all the way back to the office.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The tiffin arrived… and brought with it our daily dose of lunchtime entertainment.
Work stopped in the department and colleagues pushed their tiffins aside to make way for The Amazing Tiffin Box. The air would be taut with greedy anticipation as I pulled out the wire frame with the four tiffins…
“Beetroot cutlets with mint chutney!!”
“Sprouts in tamarind sauce!”
“Tomatoes stuffed with american corn!”
“Steamed dumplings in peanut sauce!!”
Wasn’t health food supposed to be bland and boring, colleagues drooled enviously. If the creative rendition of ordinary vegetables and cereals whetted everyone’s appetite, the flavour had them in raptures. Quite a feat actually, when you consider the meager use of spices and the complete absence of oil, salt and sugar. (Lemon and tamarind replaced salt, jaggery substituted refined sugar.)
I thought I’d gotten used to their precision and attention to detail. Until they sent me Burmese Khao Suey one day! Now, Khao Suey is essentially noodles in a broth (non-veg mostly), served with a variety of garnishes. The Amazing Tiffin Box turned out the following…
Tiffin 1 - rice noodles
Tiffin 2 – broth(veg, of course)
Tiffin 3 – four different garnishes ranging from crushed peanuts to springs onions
Tiffin 4 – A flyer with a short history of Burmese Khau Suey, how to mix all the ingredients and the nutritional benefits of the meal.
Lunch wasn’t just lunch anymore. It was a culinary adventure! Once in every couple of weeks there’d be a printed leaflet tucked into the tiffin detailing the Centre’s philosophy on different foods - ‘Why Meat is not for us’, ‘Shake the salt habit’, ‘Soft drinks: hard on the body’. There was a detailed explanation too on the ‘water theory’. Since the diet recommended a good amount of juices, fresh fruit and vegetables which have over 70% water content, one didn’t need to drown ones insides with 16 glasses of water. (All of you, who swear by water therapy, take this with a pinch of organic salt substitute.)
I relished the food, of course. But more than that, I was floored by the passion which went into the preparation and presentation of the meal. Now, I could appreciate the song and dance over an interview. Because of the effort required, they couldn’t supply more than 200 tiffins at a time, and quite often there was a ‘waiting list’. (I was surprised at having missed that impediment!)
There was another quirk – no tiffin during the month of May. I’ve heard of two reasons. One, was an annual vacation cum rejuvenation for their entire staff and two, fresh food spoiled easily at the height of summer. From all that I’d come to know of Streehitavardhini Audyogik Sahakari Sansthan (that’s what I wrote on the cheque each month), it just seemed like the thing they’d do to uphold their standards.
The Amazing Tiffin Box satiated, entertained and restored me for over a year and a half. I stopped it six months ago for several reasons, prominent among them being, I didn’t want to get too used to a good thing. IBS has long been history, but I continue to follow the schedule and the broad guidelines.
On some days, when the food at the ‘Less Oily and Spicy’ counter in my office canteen is egregious (‘The sprouts are too hard’… ‘the vegetables are overcooked’… ‘what’s THAT in the rice’…) I think fondly of The Amazing Tiffin Box and wonder what delightful surprises it might have held...
P.S. For all you IBS-afflicted out here, hope you won't go by the info on this post. Try this instead.
Continued from The Amazing Tiffin Box I: Save Our Stomach and The Amazing Tiffin Box II: The Interview
* Green Tea (with honey, no milk)
* Apple –1
* Sweet Lime - 1
* Grapes – 1 bunch
* Bananas – 2
That was *breakfast* on Day 1 of my newest attempt to beat IBS. Between 6:30 a.m and 12 noon, each time my yet-unsuspecting stomach emitted a ravenous growl, I pulled out a Tupperware container and started munching. But I still felt peculiarly empty. I checked my watch with increasing frequency as lunchtime approached.
Lunch started off with another Tupperware tiffin filled with salad, followed by rice, dal and steamed vegetables. Nuts and dryfruits replaced the canteen teatime snack. And ignoring the tendency to dawdle, I raced home to dinner at 8.
That night, I wrote in my diary, ‘Day 1 – still alive.’
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
By Day 5, things changed. I wasn’t just alive. I felt good!
Since my attention was focused on co-ordinating all those Tupperware containers, it took a while before I realized that the gripes had eased. The fires of hell burnt less brightly. And my waking thoughts weren’t of gloom and doom.
But two years of trying out iffy remedies unsuccessfully can’t be obliterated. Where allopathy, homoeopathy and ayurveda had proved feeble, how could a crazy diet which contradicted popular beliefs, succeed. And that too, in just a few days?
So I reined in the optimism and continued hauling my mini-army of Tupperware. Contrary to my initial concern that I would find this diet oppressive, I actually began to appreciate the discipline it brought in my life.
Two weeks later, I danced up the stairs of the Health Awareness Centre and almost hugged Pink Lady. I couldn’t wait to tell her how I was a new person – inside out.
She smiled and thrust a 3 page review form in my hand, ‘Fill this form first.’
Later, we talked about my improvement and she suggested minor changes. For instance, she said it was ok to eat white meats but to avoid cereals and meat at the same meal.
Finally, we got around to the tiffin. She said she would start it from the following week. I danced all the way back to the office.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The tiffin arrived… and brought with it our daily dose of lunchtime entertainment.
Work stopped in the department and colleagues pushed their tiffins aside to make way for The Amazing Tiffin Box. The air would be taut with greedy anticipation as I pulled out the wire frame with the four tiffins…
“Beetroot cutlets with mint chutney!!”
“Sprouts in tamarind sauce!”
“Tomatoes stuffed with american corn!”
“Steamed dumplings in peanut sauce!!”
Wasn’t health food supposed to be bland and boring, colleagues drooled enviously. If the creative rendition of ordinary vegetables and cereals whetted everyone’s appetite, the flavour had them in raptures. Quite a feat actually, when you consider the meager use of spices and the complete absence of oil, salt and sugar. (Lemon and tamarind replaced salt, jaggery substituted refined sugar.)
I thought I’d gotten used to their precision and attention to detail. Until they sent me Burmese Khao Suey one day! Now, Khao Suey is essentially noodles in a broth (non-veg mostly), served with a variety of garnishes. The Amazing Tiffin Box turned out the following…
Tiffin 1 - rice noodles
Tiffin 2 – broth(veg, of course)
Tiffin 3 – four different garnishes ranging from crushed peanuts to springs onions
Tiffin 4 – A flyer with a short history of Burmese Khau Suey, how to mix all the ingredients and the nutritional benefits of the meal.
Lunch wasn’t just lunch anymore. It was a culinary adventure! Once in every couple of weeks there’d be a printed leaflet tucked into the tiffin detailing the Centre’s philosophy on different foods - ‘Why Meat is not for us’, ‘Shake the salt habit’, ‘Soft drinks: hard on the body’. There was a detailed explanation too on the ‘water theory’. Since the diet recommended a good amount of juices, fresh fruit and vegetables which have over 70% water content, one didn’t need to drown ones insides with 16 glasses of water. (All of you, who swear by water therapy, take this with a pinch of organic salt substitute.)
I relished the food, of course. But more than that, I was floored by the passion which went into the preparation and presentation of the meal. Now, I could appreciate the song and dance over an interview. Because of the effort required, they couldn’t supply more than 200 tiffins at a time, and quite often there was a ‘waiting list’. (I was surprised at having missed that impediment!)
There was another quirk – no tiffin during the month of May. I’ve heard of two reasons. One, was an annual vacation cum rejuvenation for their entire staff and two, fresh food spoiled easily at the height of summer. From all that I’d come to know of Streehitavardhini Audyogik Sahakari Sansthan (that’s what I wrote on the cheque each month), it just seemed like the thing they’d do to uphold their standards.
The Amazing Tiffin Box satiated, entertained and restored me for over a year and a half. I stopped it six months ago for several reasons, prominent among them being, I didn’t want to get too used to a good thing. IBS has long been history, but I continue to follow the schedule and the broad guidelines.
On some days, when the food at the ‘Less Oily and Spicy’ counter in my office canteen is egregious (‘The sprouts are too hard’… ‘the vegetables are overcooked’… ‘what’s THAT in the rice’…) I think fondly of The Amazing Tiffin Box and wonder what delightful surprises it might have held...
P.S. For all you IBS-afflicted out here, hope you won't go by the info on this post. Try this instead.
Friday, September 03, 2004
The Amazing Tiffin Box II: The Interview
Continued from The Amazing Tiffin Box I: Save our Stomach
Look out for the ‘hand’, I was told.
My cab pulled up in front of the Congress office at Dadar, with a large mural of the party symbol. Adjacent to it, was a nondescript two-storey building with a tiny board over the entrance, ‘The Health Awareness Centre’.
I entered a small room, which led to a spiral staircase on the right and opened out into a large kitchen on the left. A dozen or more workers in smocks and caps were filling row after row of shiny tiffins. With anticipation mounting, I climbed the staircase.
The room at the top was bright and airy. There a few low tables and wicker stools arranged around them. Potted plants and wooden bookcases lined the walls. Pithy quotes on health also dotted the room. It didn’t seem like a formidable setting for an ‘interview’.
'Can I help you?', a petite, bespectacled woman in a pink salwar, asked me.
'I'm here for the interview', I stammered.
She disappeared into another small room and came back with a 6-page form.
"Here fill this first", she said.
Either this was an endurance test or they were trying to dissuade me from getting the tiffin. Whatever the case, I decided they’d have to try harder. I sat down on a wicker stool and started filling the form, detailing my medical, mental and emotional history. A small ball of fear began forming in my afflicted gut. The thoroughness of the investigation made me suspect that I was in for a major overhaul.
I handed over the completed form to her. She looked at the form and then peered at me over her glasses, ‘So tell me, what’s the problem?’
That was my cue to spew. Two years worth of gut-wrenching tales poured out.
She nodded grimly and said, ‘Hmm… I see the problem. But you’ve to be prepared for drastic changes.’
I nodded anxiously.
(A note before I proceed: The following stunts have been performed by an ahem.. expert. Please don’t try them without prior consultation with a nutritionist.)
'You eat a heavy breakfast?’, she asked
I nodded.
'That's got to stop. Eat only fruits until noon.'
This went quite contrary to the ‘breakfast like a king’ idiom I’d grown up with, but I continued nodding.
'You consume milk and milk products?’, she continued
I nodded.
'That has to stop. Your body doesn’t need it and it interferes with your digestion.’
I’d dismissed lactose intolerance as a new age fad. In fact, I was sold on the ‘Doodh doodh’ commercial on TV. But she gave me a slew of reasons why milk was anathema.
'How much water do you drink?’ she asked
3-4 litres a day, I said, sure that this would earn me merit.
'It's too much. You don’t need more than 2-3 glasses.'
Now, this was too much for me. Everyone concurred when it came to water – that you could never get enough of it. For the first time I was being told it was straining my kidneys.
She systematically eliminated foods from my diet - non-veg, alcohol, sugar, foods with refined flour, oily food, even wheat products. I saw my social life wither with her injunction to eat dinner latest by 7.30.
What CAN I eat, I asked, feeling weak and malnourished.
Plenty, she said enthusiastically. All fruits, all vegetables, sprouts, dry fruits, juices, unpolished grain, green tea…
Whee! I thought cheerlessly.
She gave me a detailed explanation of the body’s functioning and how to maximise energy. She wrote down a chart of what I should eat and when. And she wrote down a long list of donts, underlining the key words, just in case I missed them.
I didn’t mind following this eccentric diet (she made very convincing points and I was too weak to protest.) But what worried me was the logistics of carting all those fruits, vegetables and dryfruit to work.
Suddenly, I remembered the real reason why I was here. The tiffin! I asked her when she’d start me on the tiffin.
She thought for a moment and said, 'Start this routine and I’ll check your improvement in two weeks time. Then, we’ll talk about the tiffin.’
I staggered out of The Health Awareness Centre clutching my diet chart and nutrition primer. Not getting the tiffin was bad enough. But now, all my ideas of nutrition were turned on their head. I didn’t think I could even drink a glass of water now without worrying about my kidneys.
That evening, I went and bought out the neighbourhood grocer. My mother shrieked when she saw the mountain of fruits and vegetable in the fridge. But I was determined.
Two weeks, she said. Let’s try this for two weeks then.
Part III – Despatches from Streehitavardhini Audyogik Sahakari Sansthan
Look out for the ‘hand’, I was told.
My cab pulled up in front of the Congress office at Dadar, with a large mural of the party symbol. Adjacent to it, was a nondescript two-storey building with a tiny board over the entrance, ‘The Health Awareness Centre’.
I entered a small room, which led to a spiral staircase on the right and opened out into a large kitchen on the left. A dozen or more workers in smocks and caps were filling row after row of shiny tiffins. With anticipation mounting, I climbed the staircase.
The room at the top was bright and airy. There a few low tables and wicker stools arranged around them. Potted plants and wooden bookcases lined the walls. Pithy quotes on health also dotted the room. It didn’t seem like a formidable setting for an ‘interview’.
'Can I help you?', a petite, bespectacled woman in a pink salwar, asked me.
'I'm here for the interview', I stammered.
She disappeared into another small room and came back with a 6-page form.
"Here fill this first", she said.
Either this was an endurance test or they were trying to dissuade me from getting the tiffin. Whatever the case, I decided they’d have to try harder. I sat down on a wicker stool and started filling the form, detailing my medical, mental and emotional history. A small ball of fear began forming in my afflicted gut. The thoroughness of the investigation made me suspect that I was in for a major overhaul.
I handed over the completed form to her. She looked at the form and then peered at me over her glasses, ‘So tell me, what’s the problem?’
That was my cue to spew. Two years worth of gut-wrenching tales poured out.
She nodded grimly and said, ‘Hmm… I see the problem. But you’ve to be prepared for drastic changes.’
I nodded anxiously.
(A note before I proceed: The following stunts have been performed by an ahem.. expert. Please don’t try them without prior consultation with a nutritionist.)
'You eat a heavy breakfast?’, she asked
I nodded.
'That's got to stop. Eat only fruits until noon.'
This went quite contrary to the ‘breakfast like a king’ idiom I’d grown up with, but I continued nodding.
'You consume milk and milk products?’, she continued
I nodded.
'That has to stop. Your body doesn’t need it and it interferes with your digestion.’
I’d dismissed lactose intolerance as a new age fad. In fact, I was sold on the ‘Doodh doodh’ commercial on TV. But she gave me a slew of reasons why milk was anathema.
'How much water do you drink?’ she asked
3-4 litres a day, I said, sure that this would earn me merit.
'It's too much. You don’t need more than 2-3 glasses.'
Now, this was too much for me. Everyone concurred when it came to water – that you could never get enough of it. For the first time I was being told it was straining my kidneys.
She systematically eliminated foods from my diet - non-veg, alcohol, sugar, foods with refined flour, oily food, even wheat products. I saw my social life wither with her injunction to eat dinner latest by 7.30.
What CAN I eat, I asked, feeling weak and malnourished.
Plenty, she said enthusiastically. All fruits, all vegetables, sprouts, dry fruits, juices, unpolished grain, green tea…
Whee! I thought cheerlessly.
She gave me a detailed explanation of the body’s functioning and how to maximise energy. She wrote down a chart of what I should eat and when. And she wrote down a long list of donts, underlining the key words, just in case I missed them.
I didn’t mind following this eccentric diet (she made very convincing points and I was too weak to protest.) But what worried me was the logistics of carting all those fruits, vegetables and dryfruit to work.
Suddenly, I remembered the real reason why I was here. The tiffin! I asked her when she’d start me on the tiffin.
She thought for a moment and said, 'Start this routine and I’ll check your improvement in two weeks time. Then, we’ll talk about the tiffin.’
I staggered out of The Health Awareness Centre clutching my diet chart and nutrition primer. Not getting the tiffin was bad enough. But now, all my ideas of nutrition were turned on their head. I didn’t think I could even drink a glass of water now without worrying about my kidneys.
That evening, I went and bought out the neighbourhood grocer. My mother shrieked when she saw the mountain of fruits and vegetable in the fridge. But I was determined.
Two weeks, she said. Let’s try this for two weeks then.
Part III – Despatches from Streehitavardhini Audyogik Sahakari Sansthan
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