Lapses of lingy…

Have been surviving on barely 4 hours of sleep every night for about two weeks now, partly cause Al wants to have his fill of partying before returning to a more austere life of hard work in a damn expensive city (London).

In the past two weeks have some pretty interesting people in the past two weeks (some twerps and zomboids too). Yesterday we had a bit of a school reunion. I used to hang out with this set of twins, called Mobina and Mobashshera back then in Muscat when we all attended the Indian School, Muscat. We refer to them as the Mobsters. So, I was singing at the Ramada for a gig and Al, the twins, and two more chaps dropped in and it was a nice garralous evening. The interesting thing is that we had so much to talk about besides school. It’s kind of like you still related even though you meet after what feels like yesterday.

The singing gave me a high too. However, at times I felt like as if there was something missing. A little soul maybe. This could be because soul comes so much easier when you sing songs you beleive in. So, working on putting a list of my songs together as well as infusing more power into the singing, which is a wee bit rusty at the edges.

My gig partner is quite a talented chappie. He sings, arranges, composes and all that jazz. However, what’s really interesting about him is his ability to ape different singers sort of like a ventriloquist. He can do an Elvis, a Bryan Adams, the Beegees etc. But what really takes the cake is his ability to sound like a woman too, say an Aretha or Gloria Gaynor!

We then headed to a nighclub in the vicinity and I danced away with gay abandon. I felt like a teenager again, gyrating to anything and everything that the DJ dished out. The music didn’t matter. The company was great and there was a sort of fesivity in the air.

Headed for a play today called Still Single. Maybe there’s a profound message in there for all the singletons of today.

Come Monday and it’s back to work, play and music in equal measures. And 8 hours of sleep too (not once every three days).

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Went to the Hardrock Cafe last night and wasn’t impressed at all. The band is placed directly above the bar. This is not such a good idea for two reasons. a. It makes you crane your neck, which is not so good for your back. b. The wooden platform suddenly started shuddering and looked like it could come crashing down on us any moment.

The cover charge was Rs 250 on a Thursday night and for that I got a 30 ml vodka and sprite with just a measley smidge of vodka.

The only good thing was that Gino Banks (Louis Banks’ son) band played some pretty good stuff, though they screwed by doing a really BAD Micheal Buble with songs like Time After Time. The lady singer was trying very hard to camouflage her real voice (which is probably nice) by going to nasal, husky mode. Hence somehow the soul of the music escaped her.

I think HRC in Mumbai is highly overrated. It’s noisy, smokey and has a certain pretentiousness about it. One of the Tapur/Tupur twins where there with friends. We got off our seats, and she asked if she could take it, polite and all.

Next, we hit Shiro’s which has a wonderful Zen ambience. You want to just sink into the couches and fall asleep. Or else simply lie there listening to conversation or the music. We spotted Sreenivasan Jain having dinner. The roomie says that if she was there, she would go up to him and declare her teenage crush.

Al is leaving on Sunday and the house will propably feel a little empty, for a bit. However, the past two weeks have been crazy but fun. Met some people from school. Back in the day I was the nerd, the geek, the fat slob, the wallflower, etc. But these losers now are all about brand names, hanging in the hot places and on the prowl in a very desperate sort of way. The result: they know NO women. And NO women want to hang with them.

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I find Commander In Chief very inspiring. Not decause the leading lady is a woman. But because she plays no games and is solid as a rock. It’s touch finding people with so much intregrity in real life. I mean, when you have Paris Hilton and Britney Spears, as icons, it’s scary!

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The last few weeks have come and gone like a whirlwind.

As the roomie says, I now need a little space within this web of wonderful events to recuperate and breathe. However, I’m not complaining, just agreeing.

My friend Al is down from the UK and as usual his appearence has spawned off a series of statements (or cliches, rather): Ye Gora kaun hai? Firaang, yahan kya kar raha hai? and the like. Little do they realise that inspite of the white skin and pink lips, he spent 13 years growing up here and knows Hindi well (better than me he claims), especially the cuss words. He’s half Bong, quarter Kashmiri and quarter Scottish. However, I think in his heart he is Indian.

His cousin was also down from Hyderabad. As they walk down the street, they resemble two apparitions who stepped out of an ashram (or maybe the sun). Arjun has a long Osama-like beard and a mass of curls that reach up to his waist, or maybe below. And Alan is bald and white as a sheet.

Both of them are nice chaps from dysfunctional families (divorced parents, tons of half brothers and sisters, estranged dads, dads to were mean to moms etc, the whole shebang). And envious of not having a ‘normal’ family. They think mine is a normal family, while I used to think that mine was too conventional. As they say the grass is greener on the other side, and for now I’m happy that I live on mine.

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The suicide toll for the Vidarbha farmers has risen to 4 a day. Why doesn’t the government bail them out? Why can’t NGOs pool together and offer them support? Why can’t the media do something? Why can’t we do something.

I want to do something. But I don’t know how and what. What if we offer money and it get flushed into the coffers of some miscreant along the way? Found this link on the web: Andolan Blog, which could give you an update on the situation.

There should be a revolution in this country to revive the strenght of the farmer. Without him, Chinese silk will replace Indigo, cotton etc, foriegn fast food chains will bulldoze their way into our stomachs, we will import our agricultural staple (I think we already are) and our kids will be precribed antipshycotic drugs to help deal with their non-existent insanity.

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Mr Baer tells Josephine March: “You must write from the depths of your soul”. I found these words quite insightful.

Here’s an example of that: http://muslimmedianetwork.com/mmn/?p=471

And yet another person has proclaimed me as a lunatic: http://gypsysenorita.blogspot.com

Sigh!

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My cousin who stopped over in Mumbai enroute from Goa to the US, gave me the latest dope on the granny back home in Goa.

Apparently the 94-year old lady is now telling people in hushed tones that I have disgarced the family by eloping with a haampri. That’s konkani for African. Sometimes the plot changes and the African metamorphoses into a Pathan (wonder where she got that from!).

She has a reputation in the family for making up such colourful stories. And dreams too, with great entertainment value. My granny usually has positive thoughts about everyone, so I wonder what brought this on.

Maybe deep down in the sharp crevices of her psyche she thinks that it is a slightly disgraceful thing for a girl to be single at the age of 29. Either way, she’s an absolute dear and such colourful stories do amuse everyone including me. Sometimes she talks about an invisible thief who has come to rob her and commands the dog to bite him. And sometimes, there’s an invisible procession passing by and she loves to watch these processions. We usually agree that it is a delightful procession.

Other than that have a houseguest over these days, my school friend Alan (Dutt), who I had not seen for 13 years! He sent me an e-mail promising to be well-behaved. ‘My mother has trained me to be an impeccable houseguest’, he wrote in his e-mail. Turns out that mom has trained him well indeed.

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Am not quite convinced that this Fashion Week is going to survive. A little birdie (with big credibilty) told me quite vehemently that the big (designer) cheese at the event is defecting to the FDCI fashion week next year. Once he vanishes the big (buyer) cheese will follow him there.

The food at the event was insipid and greasy! I mean if a journo has to spend five days at this place, then they need to eat. And something simple but nutritious. And here’s some more food for thought. I almost came to fisty cuffs for a seat during a show. What’s the point of the accreditation then? Of course most of the time, the seats were empty. And there were no seats. Just benches. I wonder why. Could it be because one cannot count the number of empty seats if these are replaced by backless (read spineless) benches? Hmmm…gives the word backless a whole new meaning.

There was also a nasty little thing from a foreign newspaper who came charging down the aisle looking for her designated seat. She almost knocked me over and the chap sitting next to me over. Until I pointed out her seat. Then she sat quietly for a few seconds until one of the PR girls started falling all over her as if she was the most fascinating person she had ever met.

Besides, half the organisers strutt around as if they are celebrities themselves. And we experienced more hype than hardcore business. One could count the number of buyers in the first nech on their fingers. ie the fingers of one hand.

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I find it rather amusing when journalists (mostly newbees) and models walk around, consumed by their own importance. All the really good designers like Wendell and Sabyasachi and the really hot models are down-to-earth and real. Amusing. Maybe a little disheartening too.

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As the days pass by, the complexions of the journos and cameramen at the Fashion Week look more and more pasty – especially the television people. 9 hours a day and 5 days of chasing celebrities, talking fashion, sitting on backless benches during shows and filing stories takes a toll on you. 

I usually dash without any breakfast. I’ve lost interest in this meal, and my book The Lambert’s is languishing on my bedside waiting to be read. And I am waiting to continue from where I left it. The book and life.

Sneaked in a little manicure this morning, as they have a salon at the venue. The massage was the main draw.

Also met an international stylist who worked as a fashion editor for Harper’s Bazaar, the best fashion, art and lifestyle magazine on the planet. Their editorial are mindblowing. And he was a rather strange looking man with a mohawk haircut, yellow pants and a yellow chilly for a pendant. But he knows his stuff.

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