La Diniz Chronicles

My Goa trip mostly comprised food, sleep, church, food, sleep, playing with Lassie, food, sleep, listening to the waves, food and sleep. But watching a little TV did inspire some reflections on several issues such as where our Indian democracy is headed, paid news, et al.

While the Ruchika case is no doubt gaining media mileage, it’s because her friends and family have persisted with courage and determination, and forced the media to stand up and take notice. The prospect of more pageviews and TRPs is enticing. But on a positive note, the coverage has brought random people together to protest and put pressure on the authorities, which is a good thing. But who knows how many more Ruchikas are out there, whose families and friends are neither affluent nor articulate? What is the media doing about them?

As a part of this tribe, I feel sorry to say that the India media has lost its way. On the one hand, the new-age interpretation of content is a string of words that fill up a part of the page, while the rest is paved with advertisements.  On the other hand, several mainstream media publications and channels are ready to fabricate stories of political glory in exchange for the money. Outlook’s recent cover on ‘paid news’ brought this to light, and opened a can of worms for both politicos, and media houses.

Everyone’s doing it, but some are doing it more unscrupulously than others. So, if we media folks don’t question these practices, pretty soon, it’s just a matter of time before we’ll ALL be writing puff pieces for politicians and corporates.

A very senior editor once confessed to me that he likes his job because a marketing guy is not telling him what to write (no offense meant to marketing folks). Yes, media houses need to make money and pay employees. But paid news isn’t just unethical and offensive; it’s bad strategy.

On a different note, it’s very evident that our politicians and government servants will continue to be lazy, indulgent and corrupt until someone decides to take them to task, and with a vengeance, because the former have obviously sensed that people are trudging along, each fighting their own daily battles, individually. Our expectations from politicians and their ilk have diminished to such a low, that it’s becoming more and more convenient for them to do nothing about anything.

In this day and age, when the channels of communication allow us to video-conference with anyone across the globe, us mere mortals ought to use these tools of communication to expect and demand something better from our politicians, a better quality of life, a green environment, et al. We must not have to strive so damn hard for the bare necessities be it roads, quality public transport, a reliable judicial system, subsidised food prices (which can be afforded by the lowest common denominator), to name a few things.

Unless we take the onus, no one else will.

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Every year I make New Year resolutions, and every year I break em’. But in 2009, I managed to crack one resolution that I been evading me since 2007: driving a car.

I suppose sometimes circumstance is a necessary motivator. In Mumbai I would hope into an auto, and be on my way, whether the destination was a nightclub, coffee shop or work. In Delhi, and particularly Noida, you don’t want to know the auto men. They rattle off the first figure that pops into their heads. So, I registered myself at a driving school managed by a moody, regimental ole’ ex-army man, and managed to learn how to get myself from Point A to Point B in a second-hand, Silky Silver Alto (with power steering!).

The second New Year resolution was to get fit. I have worked out, run more and eaten healthier this year, than ever before. Amending ‘losing weight’ to ‘getting fit’ did the trick. I now relish the idea of taking a power walk, running in the park and doing tummy crunches. Not to mention, other perks like getting to know the neighbourhood better and communing with nature, whatever part of it is available in this city.

For instance, I know that the street dogs on Florence Nightinglae Lane are well-fed. Every morning, the watchman at one of the bungalows, puts out a bowl of food for the little mongrels. One chilly winter morn, they were attired in the cutest little doggie sweaters (sweater-clad dogs — mostly pedigree — are a common sight in Delhi winters). The squirrels in the Rose Garden get to nibble on glucose biscuits every morning, which they do with a vengeance, before scuttling off when humans get dangerously close.

On a different note, I recently misplaced my credit card and it turns out that I left it whilst paying the bill at my fav hub, The Living Room up in Hauz Khas village. The cashier smiled a queer little smile, and pulled out a stack of credit cards, all neatly wrapped up in white serviettes. How many drunk people are there in Delhi?

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And continuing with my new-found interest in old movies, I watched An American In Paris last week and I must say, the film is a complete carnival!

And not in a good way. It’s as if MGM (the studio) took all their best dancers, musicians, costumes and sets and poured them into this one production, and finally ended up with a garish extravaganza with an ill-conceived plot, half-baked characters and some very forgettable songs. In fact, the characters have been reduced to dancing machines, much like Hrithik Roshan in the Hometrade ads.

You can’t peel your eyes off the man’s anatomy, which has a mind of its own. But the product and the characters and the plots are all a blur. Leslie Caron is wasted, except for her exquisite ballet, which the movie greedily laps up at every instant. She is one of my favourite actresses, so impressive in The Glass Slipper, Lili and Gaby, and adorable at the ripe old age of 69 in Chocolat.

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This week I attended a glamourous fashion extravaganza at a five star hotel in the city of gargantuan malls, swanky townships and lush, green parks. Oops. Just malls and townships. No parks.

The bold and the beautiful of Delhi, turned out, well-coiffured in tuxes, cocktail dresses and saris. It was a motley crew of people – the glamazons, the intellectuals, the activists and the artists. A prominent actress was the chief guest. Also in attendance were some big names, and some designers, up and coming, of the fashion fraternity. There was white wine and sushi and sinful little chocolate desserts, and my favourite fruit – the kiwi. And some air kissing. I bumped into a couple of people from my fashion week reporting days.

What was most interesting really was the theme of the fashion show – sustainable development – a fashion forward idea that’s somewhat ahead of the curve in these parts. Contemporary designers teamed up with traditional craftsman, to create new looks. I can’t say I loved all the designs, but I liked the ones by my favourite designers, and a few more. At the end of the show, the crafts people walked alongside the designer, to take a bow. I dare say some of the former may never have set foot outside their villages, let alone walk the ramp amidst the bold and the beautiful of Delhi. But they did it with flair, anyway. Touché.

Interestingly, even though Dilli Haat is a favourite haunt, I always feel that one sees the same old crafts every season. What the crafts people need is some help, some insight and some financial assistance on how to blend the old with the contemporary, because one is incomplete sans the other.

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I discovered not one, but three parks in the vicinity, each frequented by folks of a different demographic.

There’s a little one (by Delhi standards ie) located a stone’s throw away from my place, mostly patronised by old ladies and middle-aged married gals living in the neighbourhood. Auntyville.

The peacocks in the Rose Garden are a sight to behold, as they dart across the running track, one after another. The woods sandwich the track on either side, and you have a few seats and clearings, every now and then. There’s one large clearing dotted with rose plants. This park has the best running track of the three, and is frequented by the nouveau young (middle-aged but youthful) couples, people of diverse nationalities and some very athletic-looking solo joggers. It’s massive by any standard. This one I like best; it’s pure magnificence in the midst of a chaotic Indian city.

The Deer Park has deer, ducks and peacocks and somewhat rudimentary but functional badminton courts. This one is frequented by the classes, the masses and everyone in-between. Running here is not so hot, as every now and then you need to jump over mounds of earth, being dug up for God knows what reason.

But I am not complaining. Three isn’t a crowd. It’s helping me commune with nature.

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In the midst of an editorial meeting, today, the agonising wail of a street dog travelled at lightening speed from the parking lot to the second floor of the building. A little black and white mongrel was lying under the wheel of a car, in incredible pain, its right leg, smashed.

It continued howling in pain. So, I called up animal shelter Friendicoes who said they would try and send their ambulance soon. I went looking for my colleague S who is a fierce dog lover, so, fierce she would risk being bitten to save a little one from hurting. She was already on top of things; the organisation was sending a helper who would capture the dog, and they would transport it in her car to the centre, where medical facilities would be available.

In the meantime, the hurt little fellow was lying in a corner, S’ driver keeping watch, and with good reason. A brawny chap started poking around, and S called out to him sternly from her vantage point on the 2nd floor. He was shooed away. When the helper arrive, his intentions were no doubt, good, but he wasn’t exactly qualified to deal with an antagonised (and possibly hungry) street dog. The injured one snarled suspiciously and yelped in pain. A spray of pee dotted the footpath, the pee of fear, and he scuttled off into a corner. A huge crowd of curious folks gathered.

Someone offered milk, some were tickled by the spectacle, that of people trying to save a mere street dog, when people died on the streets every day. We shooed those who were not contributing in any manner, away. The helper got busy, but with no luck. Finally, a chap who worked at the neighbouring kiosk turned up. At first we doubted his intentions as his manner was a little rough. But then he caught hold of the dog, and bundled him in the trunk of S’ car, and they were off to the venue. But not before S gave the driver, the perpetrator of the crime a big lecture. He was a driver, who didn’t express any sort of emotion, negative or positive. It was just another day in the parking lot, for him.

Coaxing the dog into a cage at the centre took more time. Post work S was off to check on his progress; such is the dedication of this dog-lover, putting the rest of us canine-lovers to shame.

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I recently met someone who loves talking movies; a regular guy who is neither a film-maker nor a critic, but appreciates films with a vengeance. It reminded me of the films I grew up with. So, on a whim I downloaded Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and chuckled at Dick Van Dyke’s shenanigans, for the 100th time.

But I realised two interesting things about the film, when watching it as an adult. This kiddie tale was penned by the creator of James Bond, Ian Fleming, and the screenplay was written by one of my favourite authors, whose work I read as an adult — Roald Dahl.

I was 10 years old when I saw it last. Yet, every scene played out in my mind’s eye, split seconds before it did on screen. Kind of like an echo. Sigh.

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Enjoyed a charmed weekend after a long sabbatical from charmed weekends, and reaffirmed three ‘old new’ friendships, too. I met all these folks in Delhi. One is an affectionate Punjabi, who hails from the city. Another, just like me, relocated from Mumbai to Delhi for work. The third, is originally from Jaipur, but Delhi is now home, courtesy work.

Dilli Haat is a treat for handicraft junkies, and I have visited a couple of times and picked up quaint pieces of this and that, for my house. But visiting it with a gal, who knows her crafts exceptionally well, makes for a much more productive shopping expedition. Between the Orissa and Tripura stalls, her accent altered considerably, and she metamorphosed from a petite gal with deceptively mousy disposition, into a force to be reckoned with on the bargaining table.

We picked up melt-in-your-mouth homemade honey that does not crystallise when at freezing point, and a pair of wooden candlesticks with snatches of mosaic. They looked a little worn out, which in fact gave them more character. I could easily visualise Cinderella using them to find her way around the attic, somewhere in the European countryside, in the days of no electricity. We had fruit beer and momos at the Shillong stall, and my friend, with childlike enthusiasm picked up sticks of flaming pick old lady’s hair, and spread the love by offering one to me, too.

The next morning, I was supposed to team up with a friend for a run at the Deer Park and then breakfast at the India Habitat Centre. But it was such a lovely, chilly morning, that we decided to skip the run and just head for breakfast at IHC.

The All American Diner has a BIG, FAT breakfast buffet, with all things fattening and yum-yum; bacon, eggs, sausages, smoked cheese, pate, quiche Lorraine (veg and non-veg), croissant, idli sambar, frittatas, terrines, canapés, kiwi, watermelon, toast, juices, mushrooms, peppers….phew! Don’t eat for a week before you head here. People were heading for 4ths and 5ths. And we are all going to carb hell!

The damages are Rs 395 + tax, which ultimately amounts to about Rs 500 per head. I won’t say that they have the most memorable food, but they do have the most attractive pricing. Unlimited cheese and meats, music from the 50’s and a breakfast in the sunlight, on a chilling winter morn. It’s bliss.

Post, we visited a photography, sculpture and porcelain exhibition, the latter being the most interesting. All these very exotic creations made by all kinds of porcelain techniques. I liked the paper porcelain work, which had this feathery touch to it, and which looked like it would fold any moment, but is in truth hard as a knuckle. The work was beautiful, but the artist was a grouchy old bag. Nevertheless, I bought this gorgeous porcelain neckpiece. And we walked and walked and walked in the gorgeous morning sun. The weather was perfect; chilly ‘n’ sun.

I have decided to dispense with a cook. They get catty after a while, and never understand the difference between flavour and spice/ grease. So, I picked up some spring onions, white pepper and chilly flakes, ginger, chicken and coconut milk and voila…a comforting chicken recipe that needs no tomato. Now, it may sound like I am showing off my newly developed culinary interest/ skill…but my Punjabi friend did seem to like it. She had two BIG helpings, and she’s not a girl with a big appetite, typically.

Mmmmmmmmm….

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Typed on November 26, 2009:

Last year, on this very day, I was headed back to Mumbai post accepting a job offer in Delhi, Noida to be more precise. The previous night I remember watching on TV (in the days when I used to watch telly), bullets flying around at Leo’s in Colaba. I presumed it was a gangbang and drifted off to slumber-land. I woke up to an SMS, which conveyed concern and a sense of urgency from dad; Mumbai seemed to be burning.

My new boss texted to ask if I was alright, and en route to Mumbai. My friend, the Slug asked me to SOS if I could not find transport at the airport. The deafening silence at the a deserted domestic terminal in Mumbai, made this honourary Mumbaikar, very queasy. I headed to the Slug’s house and we watched in wonder and horror, as the gory events of 26/11 unfolding at the Taj Mahal Hotel in Colaba.

Shobha De was ranting (like a banshee) with fury to Barkha Dutt, about politicians from opposing parties travelling on the same flight, while the latter seemed impressed by this unlikely feat (a la such a national sacrifice!). Though I must admit, De was saying what should have been said, about politicians and their little tawdry tricks.

Narendra Modi arrived in Mumbai, and was posing tall in front of a TV camera. A man positioned himself (unknowingly) between the minister and the viewfinder, and a split second later, NM shoved the unsuspecting bloke out of the way! Comical. Akin to swatting a fly.

26/ 11 now seems light years, away. I no longer live in Mumbai, something I thought unimaginable a little over a year back. I resided for eight months in Noida, which for me is like the urbane wilderness. It’s quiet, dull, and what I disliked most is the lack of any cultural activity in this allegedly developed town.

I don’t know how eight months went by, and even though I lived there, I wasn’t really living. As I walked the streets, I was constantly looking over my shoulder to see who was observing me and what cars were approaching dangerously close. Though I must dmit, there were no “incidents”.

And yet, I don’t regret the experience, because I learned to appreciate the simple, joyous things in life. Like being able to stroll in broad day light, in a pair or shorts. Or stepping out at 12 am, to gab with a friend over a cup of coffee. And not having to travel (on an average) for four hours a day for a job I thoroughly detest.

Ahhh…life is good. Touch wood.

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I have a new good friend who shared some insights on the modern-day marriage. She crossed over (to the dark side) eight years back and drew an analogy between the characters of the 2006 film, The Break-up and the stakeholders of her own marraiges, and tried to explain why she and hubby work as a couple, whilst Jennifer Aniston’s and Vince Vaughn’s characters, didn’t.

The man is a beer, football ‘n’ buddies kinda of guy, while the woman is happy to curl up in bed with a glass of wine and a book, post work. There are moments of supreme irritation, when the twain does not meet. But she and the hubby have worked out some ground rules.

For instance, they never go to bed without making up. Sometimes she tries to get away with it, but her hubby is staunch about resolving issues before hitting the sack.

They don’t always do stuff together. Sometimes, she heads out for a movie with friends while he’s working the playstation counters. She doesn’t get playstation, but their home has a room, which accommodates all his toys.

She pampers her guy every now and then, by springing on the surprise; maybe a candlelit dinner or a simple yet sweet gesture of affection. Sigh.

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