Lapses of lingy…

The Dream Run (Stanchart’s Mumbai Marathon) is akin to a carnival, and the term word ‘run’ is a myth, especially when 20,000 people participate. Trudge is more like it! However, it’s a colourful trudge and a platform for self-expression.

Corporates participate and their fleets imbibe team spirit and bonhomie. Some companies like Jet Airways, designed T-shirts for the run, with somewhat corny yet endearing slogans like, ‘225 runners, one team’ etc.

NGOs also draw attention to their worthy causes. The more colourful, emphatic and creative, the turnout, the better.

The energy and enthusiasm was pretty overwhelming, and there were lots of banners like Kingfisher’s ForceIndia campaign, which encourage a sense of India, being a strong, single, united entity.

However, what was saddening were the reports of how Indian athletes were hosted in sub-standard accommodation, a dormitory of some sort, which looked very shabby in the local and national dailies. Just goes to show that we Indians are still subservient to foreigners, and do not consider ourselves and our countrymen as equal. I experienced a similar prejudice a little while back. I met two foreigners and one Indian.

The foreigners were friendly and congenial, the Indian only spoke to them, and asked a polite question or two, when she noticed the attention, I was given by them. Similarly, at a recent media party, some of the foreigners I met, were unpretentious and friendly and the Indian’s were stuck-up (just to me, not out white counterparts).

This is not to say that all foreigners are wonderful and all Indians are stuck-up. But I have noticed that the majority of Indians I have met tend to act very odd, when in the vicinity of foreigners, especially Whites. They will pander to our foreign friends, by hanging on to their every word, and treating them like the cat’s whiskers. 

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AVO passed away, aged 96, on January 11 (last Saturday).

We were sad, but happy too; she and my late grandpa were finally be united on January 12, his birthday and the day she was returned to dust. The last time they spent it together was in 1958; he breathed his last in 1959.

I overheard someone say at the funeral, “ Twas’ a funeral befitting a great lady.” And a great woman she was.

We spent many waking hours discussing the various moods and avatars of Avo. Hardworking, generous, enthusiastic, compassionate, strong-willed. And funny. She entertained us with stories of her bizarre dreams, the funniest being that I have eloped with an African! Another memory we cherish, is when we (grandkids) hosted a fashion show at a family. The show-stopper was Avo! She was a good sport even at the ripe old age of 87 (maybe more), wrinkles, and all. 

The archbishop said a special prayer for her on the day she died; she was a great fan of his. Of course, he is close to my uncle, but she presumed he came to see her, and my uncle did nothing to dispel this. She often recited a prayer, given to her by the archbishop. In fact she flaunted it to all and sundry, like a child, who can’t help but show off, a brand new and special gift. She was made of such innocence, enthusiasm, a zest for life, and sincerity!

My uncle, mom, and the rest of the family sobbed bitterly. My dad sobbed much, too. Besides many other things, she was a peaceful mother-in-law. Avo’s maid walked around looking dejected. She genuinely loved her and performed those chores (bedpan, bath, et al), with great love.

Pepper, the little black spaniel, seemed to have lost her appetite, and every now and then, lumbered up the stairs, too gaze, intently at my grandma’s body lying in the coffin, on the ground floor. She topped greeting visitors with her usual token (a coconut shell, a little something from the trashcan, a piece of cloth lying strewn around).

My cousin, who is expecting her first baby, who could not make it back to Goa. If anyone deserved to attend Avo’s funeral it was she; avo and she have great history, comprising the good, the bad and the ugly.

She will be loved…

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Mia Cucina (My Kitchen), this new-ish Italian Bistro at Pali Naka, has this very earthy, vintage, Goa-meets-a-tiny-charming-cafe-in the Italian countryside (like in the movies), ring to it.

The food has flavour, which is such a relief. Most restaurants offer food that has a wonderful flavour at the cost of being pricey. And if affordable, then the food is bound to be doused in oil and spices, to give it some semblance of taste.

The service is swift and the waiters are a friendly bunch. And the prices are decent (between Rs 95 and Rs 300 per dish). No alcohol is served. But the kiwi slush was nice; sour and not saccharine sweet.

The chef-cum-proprietor of the place, this strapping chap in chef’s garb, seems very hand-on, chatting with guests between his bouts in the kitchen. Pop would brand this experience as ’simple and good’.

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Mia Cucina (My Kitchen), this new-ish Italian Bistro at Pali Naka, has this very earthy, vintage, Goa-meets-a-tiny-charming-cafe-in the Italian countryside (like in the movies), ring to it.

The food has flavour, which is such a relief. Most restaurants offer food that has a wonderful flavour at the cost of be rather expensive. And if it is affordable, then the food will definitely be doused in oil and spices, to give it some semblance of taste.

The service is swift and the waiters are a friendly bunch. And the prices are decent (between Rs 95 and Rs 300 per dish). No alcohol is served. But the kiwi slush was nice; sour and not saccharine sweet.

And the chef-cum-proprietor of the place, this strapping, 30-something chap, seems very hand-on, donning  a white apron and chatting with guests between his bouts in the kitchen. Pop would brand this experience as ’simple and good’.

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I recommend this peice to every Indian: No Indians, please!  It’s hilarious and so familiar…

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A recent meeting with an old friend, had me wondering why most people place so much emphasis on what other people think. This person is bright, accomplished, articulate, poised and would strike one as confident. One could classify her marriage as happy and secure and her career as, flourishing.

And yet, she feels a deep sense of guilt about her past, a phase of excesses, which many a deeply passionate and creative individual may experience, an expected hazard of trying to ‘find oneself’. Some may classify it as scandalous. I would classify it merely as been-there-done-that. She thinks a lot about what people will think, because some of them have made snide remarks in the past. Once or twice, she has come up with sharp repartees that have silenced the critics.

She was telling about how she never envisioned herself as good mom material (Anjolina Jolie thought she was too ‘dark’ to be a mom). But I think she’s a wonderful and fun mom. It’s easy to tell; her child is neither spoilt nor materialistic, but playful and peaceful. Overall, she looked happy, except for ths smattering of guilt, which seems to be simmering beneath the surface, and must be nipped in the bud, a good resolution for now. Her hubby recommends it too.

Cut to another friend, who’s parents seem overtly concerned about what people will think of her dalliance with an inappropriate man of her choice. Little do they know that the inappropriate dalliance might be a sub-set of their lack of effort to understand what she wants and what makes her happy. And hence is born, a poor substitute for real love, romantic and otherwise.

So, why does it matter so much what ‘people will think’? In the past, ‘what people think’ has clouded my thought processes, but usually for only a brief period of time, 30 seconds to be precise. Then common sense prevails over bourgeois opinions.

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New year’s eve and morn were FANTASTIC!

This year, some of us opted to whip up good food and sip chilled wine at a friend’s pad, dilate our pupils at the cheap antics of a crude but well-meaning Kazakh journo and laugh at familiar impersonations of Indians and folks of other nationalities, abroad, by a Canadian Indian stand-up comedian. There was microwave-roasted chicken made in herbs, garlic and wine. And smokes sausages. And a smattering of vindaloo. And buttered bread.

And so, we beat the crowds, traffic, potential molestation by hordes of depraved Indian men and potential death by drowning post dancing atop a lame stage.

We crashed at about 5 am and woke up at leisure. Breakfast was eclectic — margarita sandwiches, rose-flavoured tea, cookies, plum cake and followed by more rose-flavoured tea.

Initially, I was wondering if age is catching up. But when I checked in with a couple of 20-somethings on their party plans for New Year’s Eve, most were hitting the sack, early or attending/hosting a house party.

Then it dawned on me. The Mumbai party scene is a trifle jaded now, and needs some spicing up. There’s nothing new and affordable and unpretentious and avant-garde, to offer. Sam old, same old…sigh.

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