Archive for the ‘Delhi’ Category

Delusional ideas about the calibre of poor children!


2010
07.31

I switched on the news recently and there she was – a parent whose child studies at Bethany High school (Bangalore), saying something to this effect: “How can you place two types of children – poor and rich – students of different “calibre” alongside in the same class?” The assumption was that the calibre of a poor child is low and that of a rich child is high. She used words such as “higher” and “weaker’ to describe children from these economic backgrounds.

The pupils dilated!

The bile rose in disbelief as the lady spewed garbage on national television!

Ameeta Wattal, Principal, Springdales School, also a part of a raging debate, shook her head in disgust. ” I can’t listen to this, ” she muttered every few minutes, under her breath.

The discussion was pegged on a circular put together by Bethany, which was then circulated privately to parents; it referred to poor children as “criminals” who are likely to smoke and beat up “your” children in class. According to the principal, the idea was to warn parents of what to expect in the following one year in light of the Right to Education Act, according to which private schools must reserve 25% seats for poor students in Class 1 in 2011.

Click here to watch the debate.

It is one thing to be uncomfortable about the consequences of the RTE, but to actually believe that calibre is decided by one’s economic background is delusional! Arnab, looking bewildered and somewhat resigned at this attitude, quizzed the parent on how “calibre” could possibly be dependent on whether you are rich or poor?

The principal of yet another private school stated that putting a rich child and a poor child in the same classroom is not appropriate, as one would be gabbing about McD’s while the other “does not even know whether he will get the basic things” (perhaps if they do the latter would discuss global warming instead of McDs!). This idea was somewhat thwarted by a tweet by an ex-student of Kendriya Vidyalaya who said that many of his schoolmates came from very poor backgrounds, and some of them are his best friends even today.

Come to think of it, I had poor classmates, too. It was really no big deal. But one thing is certain; before poor children set foot into a private school populated by children of a certain strata, it is the principal, teachers and the management who need to be sensitised.  Children of course are the least of the problem as they tend to emulate whatever is practiced by their role models.

On a different note, as I fed Daffy one day (a street dog who lives down the lane), a little boy of about 7-8 years of age, who works as a rag picker watched Daffy as he lapped up half a litre of milk. I felt guilty for feeding a hungry dog whilst a hungry child, looked on. The boy began following me and asked me for some money to buy food. But instead offering him money, I gave him a packet of biscuits, which he wolfed down in a jiffy before I could say “Khao”. I asked him his name and had to stoop really low to get a whiff of what he was saying. Braj Singh, I figured.

Every now and then, the boy follows me and I give him biscuits or a kachori. One day we decided to have some aloo tikki. As it was being prepared on a wok, the man started warning me (animatedly) about how the boy uses the money people give him, to buy beer. I then reminded him that he is a kid. Then he told me that the gang of rag pickers steal, and that the police is always keeping an eye on them. Once again I reminded him that these “thieves” were between 8-12 years of age, and unless taught otherwise, they are bound to be up to no good. He quit eulogising and handed over a plate of food to the boy.

On a different note (seems I am addicted to this phrase!), a friend of mine once made a very, very odd statement during those formative days when I was getting acquainted with him. “I like poor people,” he said, later confiding in me that his parents were migrant workers who had seen very, very hard days. A bright student, books and his love for reading set him free.

A media professional who has created somewhat of a niche for himself, today, I applaud my friend for making the crossover to a white collar position that lets him influence thoughts, ideas and people. But he never forgets the difficult days and remembers the names of the children at every traffic signal, and has a smile, food and other goodies for them, when the signal turns red.

On the other hand, I have another friend who is also a position to influence thoughts, ideas and people, someone who is jovial, funny and empathetic, and yet is unempathetic to the chai boy who delivers his chai. He asked the chai boy for the amount he had to pay him to which the boy muttered something incoherently. My friend asked him rather brusquely to speak louder and gave him the amount sans a tip. The chai boy seemed like a zombie, a little zombie of eight years or less, with no expression on his face. I asked him his name and gave him some money, but his expression did not change and he seemed resigned to being expressionless.

Rediff.com, recently did a series children who work for over eight hours a day and earn a pittance, everyday:

12-year old Mohammed wanted to watch FIFA. But he could not…

Lil’ un named Shumbhu

”With Rs 200 a month, I can’t even afford to dream”

The comments to these pieces were diverse. Some insist we ban child labour. But then if we ban it, what will they eat? Another observed that employing children is one thing. But being cruel and brutal is another. Yet another reader was pissed with the author: “By writing this article and giving the photograph of the 11-year old boy, you have done a grave injustice to him. Most probably he will lose this job as the government authorities will be after his employer and charge him for engaging child labour. The poor boy will lose his job and whatever little earning he is getting now to educate his brothers. Has the writer given any thought to this before writing?”

Perhaps he has a point. But the long and short of it is that the series of stories, which tells it as it is, generated much interest from readers and several comments, mostly empathetic, concerned ones. Perhaps it is because of the approach to the stories is to tell it as it is, and not romantise their situation through the use of rich prose. Either ways, these stories gave a face to the little faces in our chai stalls and grocery stores. Perhaps we cannot change their lives, but we can be kind and we can smile and we can give them a cookie or a tip every now and then.

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Why are you scared of a Muslim?


2010
06.14

A COUPLE of weeks back a close friend from Mumbai popped down to Delhi for a work trip. Right off the bat I noticed she wasn’t sporting her pristine white Hijab; she donned it some years back as an experiment, felt comfy wearing it. It was here to stay. Or so we thought.

Sadly, this pristine white piece of cloth hampers her pace of work, she explained.

This qualified dentist who now works in the social sector, is fiercely dedicated to her NGO’s mission. But it turns out that the folks she interacts with during field trips are less receptive when she dons the Hijab. During more generic activities such as (surprise, surprise) watching a play at Prithvi Theatre, it arouses odd – sometimes devious stares – from supposedly evolved theatre-goers.

She now uses discretion when wearing it.

So whilst the Burka is being banned in Europe, here in India our girl conforms (for psychological reasons), so as to get the job done. A feisty American woman @jbacyrus tweeted: ‘What’s up with French people and their burqa obsession? Will they require boob displays next? http://bit.ly/cQ5Efb

Now S, who has been living for donkey’s years with her grandparents in an old building in a Mumbai suburb, has a paan-spewing tenant for a neighbour who also happens to be Muslim. During a society meeting, some members wanted to disallow Muslims as tenants and this seems to have been triggered by the tenant’s paan-spewing shenanigans. She pointed out coolly that she is Muslim too, but not a paan-spewing one, and that this act is related to personal preference, habit, not religion. During my house-hunting days in Mumbai a broker once told me in hushed tones that the landlord would prefer if I did not keep a Muslim roomie. Sigh.

S observed, “So, even if you want out of the ghetto, no one gives you a chance and you are forced to return and feel humiliation at the hands of the very same ghetto.”

“Okay, so you will get turned down by six people but what about the twelfth house. You must persist,” I suggested. “No, the twelfth person will also turn you down,” she said with conviction.

I felt a tinge of sadness because we grew up knowing Muslims, very closely. Our neighbour in Muscat was a loud, affectionate, garrulous, bindaas dishdasha-clad Omani chap named Khalid, whose daughter was tutored by my mother and whose wives (I think there were two) babysat us when the folks had chores to attend to. We attended Zakia’s (mum’s student) wedding, ushered in by wailing women.

And then, when I was six, mom would leave my sis and I, with this homely woman, whose kids Aftab and Amar became staunch playmates. Sadly, Amar is no more. We looking forward to the  Ramzan meal with the family after the sun set every evening. To date Mrs Jameel’s mutton gravy makes my mouth water.

And back to the present.

On a more positive note, a common male Muslim friend (of S and I) took the initiative and organised a big family holiday at a valley resort located many miles from Mumbai. The quiet little resort did not know what hit it when a bus full of bearded men and burqa-clad ladies arrived at the venue. My friend, who is in his late 20s, encouraged the ladies to take a dip in the pool (clothed from head to toe), a first for many women in the family.

He experienced “sheer delight” watching them enjoy themselves. “I had to cajole them into trying it. Someone said: this is so funny, water is going in everywhere! I had to hold their hand and slowly introduce them to the waters, something they have resisted for so long,” he says. According to him, the men and women in his family are so brilliantly house-trained that the housekeeping staff must wonder if anyone actually stayed in their rooms!

Coming back to my conversation with S I asked her very earnestly,” Why are people scared of Muslims?” She posed the very same question to me, and we pondered together. A couple of days later, I posed this question to another friend, a non-Muslim who was engaged to a Muslim boy for many years. This was her answer,” The sight of so many people praying in unison makes people sub-consciously envious of the community. It’s the numbers that instill the fear.”

”Okay, so people are scared but perhaps the younger generation should try and change perceptions,” I suggested to S. “I don’t think that’s the solution; people should just mix more, not keep a distance. Talk more, mingle more, have regular experiences,” she said, earnestly…

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Gay night out!


2010
03.31

WHEN a gay fashion designer invites one for the opening of his new signature store, be ready for both drama and surprise. Not that all gay people are dramatic. Some folks are subtle, and prefer maintaining a low profile (such as my friend Sunshine).

But coming back to the evening, post working the zombie hour for a couple days with pasty skin and disheveled kurtas, this soiree presented a nice opportunity to transform from geek to goddess. It was time to deck up to the nines, with heels, pencil jeans, chunky silver jewellery, the works. It was also time for eye shadow. Powder blue.
I landed up at chic little boutique, which had stark white décor and found myself in a room teeming with gay men. A familiar face popped out of the woodwork, and some air kissing happened. He introduced me to his friends. One of them was a doctor who also choreographs. Another owned an art gallery and sweetly invited me to explore it on a Sunday.

Post white wine, sushi and banter, someone christened me with an epithet that is popular in the gay world. It sounded a lot like ‘Fat Hag’. I stared at the boy curiously, and turns out he meant Fag Hag; a straight woman who hangs out with gay men (detailed description available on Wiki). Someone then asked me if I had noticed so-and-so’s brand new shoes. I said,” No”. “Then you’re an FFH…a Fake Fag Hag,” he said, tweaking epithet with precision.

In the course of the evening I chatted with this chap who grew up in a predominantly Roman Catholic country. His coming out (at the age of 12) was a horrific journey, and I was shocked to hear that he was beaten up every day by family and at school kids were encouraged to throw things at him. Daily living was a nightmare and he finally fled to the US. Since then he has been very happy with an Indian partner, who’s own coming out story was much more tender. His mother cried for one night. Now, all is well.

Post the inauguration, we proceeded to a nightclub owned by a well-known fashion designer in Delhi. One of the straight boys in the group (who hails from my hometown), looked bewildered, flabbergasted, flummoxed by this explosion of effeminate men, who air kissed, dressed chic and expressed themselves with a certain joie de vivre. The doctor who choreographs took me under his wing and began scoping out straight men in the vicinity, and with a vengeance.

While he went off to continue with his R&D, one chap came up to me and asked for my number. This very forward gesture by a Delhi straight male, reminded me of something I was told when I first came to the city. It is the gay capital of the country. “Also, everyone is sleeping with everyone,” the person said of people in the upper middle class and upper class, where promiscuity reigns supreme. Indeed, the folks oozed sexiness from every pore. As they canoodled with one person, they also scoped out remaining eye candy in the room.

I shooed away the chap, figured that all straight (or most) men in room looked kinda daft and joined some people on the dance floor. A couple was grooving together just a stone’s throw away, when one of them dropped his beer.

Two drops fell on my sleeves, and he apologised profusely. Seizing the moment, I told him that he could make good by buying me a drink. And he did. And guess how much this measly pint of Kingfisher cost? Rs 300. “This would have cost me Rs 5 or something to that effect in Goa, “ I whispered to a friend.

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Eggetarian days


2010
03.27

I AM giving eggetarianism a serious shot. It’s not a health and fitness decision, but an emotional one (as my Editor pointed out); I realise that I can no longer suffer the cruel methods used to butcher animals in this country (maybe others, too).

One of the worst killing rituals I have witnessed is the excruciatingly painful and gruelingly long manner in which we butcher pigs in Goa. I was about 10 years old. Some folks cooed and whistled with rapt excitement akin to Spaniards at a bullfight. Both are equally inhumane killings, though the bullfight would figure higher up on the cruelty scale. They prepare the bull; intoxicate and agitate it sufficiently, by poking it with spears before it thunders down the rink. The matador’s job is to massacre it, and this spectacle entertains fair maidens and royalty.

I watched a documentary on a bullfight at a bullfighting rink, which is no longer functional, in Barcelona. Thank God. It made the bile rise.

Coming back to the little piggy, a slit is made in its throat, and the blood is collected, and later used to add flavour and thicken the gravy in certain dishes. For some time the poor thing scampers about, looking very alarmed. Then it bleeds and squeals itself to death, literally. The entire village knows what’s happening and so do the remaining pigs in the pen. That’s how loud the squealing gets.

Some have asked: what about plants? Yes, they suffer too. But having been born a non-vegetarian, giving up meat by itself is a tough nut to crack, but I am committed. Every now and then, I feel very tempted to bite into some salami, and then I remember the squealing piggy. So if you see me taking a bite of a chicken wing, forgive me. It’s probably during a moment of weakness, when the flesh is weak.

Baby steps.

I also come from a family, with a legacy of meat eaters. In the past, I have jokingly called myself a carnivore when people enquired if I eat meat. Turkey, sorpatel, vindaloo and tiger prawn balcao, grace the dinner table at family dos. Holidays and dinners may prove difficult if there’s only meat on the menu. How does one tackle such limitations without causing a scene, inviting difficult questions and being labeled as someone gone cuckoo? It’s something I need to figure out.

On the bright side, I am sampling a variety of vegetarian food in a city, which has some of the best food I have ever tasted in my whole life. This transition is forcing me to do it, and there were some wonderful surprises, along the way. Dal Bhatti, a crunchy Rajasthani delicacy, best consumed when warm. Paneer Tikka Masala, a spicy concoction, relished with a garlic naan. Bhatura. Paneer Chilli Fry.

A veggie friend should be thrilled about this development. Now, we can break bread together.

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NEW RESOLUTIONS


2009
12.22

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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Fashion forward…


2009
12.05

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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Doggie drama outside the office


2009
12.02
Doggie drama outside the office
I was mist of an editorial meeting, when the wail of a dog travelled at lightening speed from the parking lot to the second floor of the building. The wail grew into an unbearable howl of agony. A street dog was lying under the wheel of a car, in incredible pain, its right leg, smashed.
The sound was disturbing, and I called up Friendico’s 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 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 pseudo-canine lovers to shame.

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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En route to carb hell…


2009
11.30

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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Goodbye old life…


2009
11.27

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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Becoming Jane


2009
11.09

The Costa Coffee at Green Park sprung a couple of surprises. The fellow behind the counter who took the order communicated with his colleague rather efficiently, in sign language. As the latter prepared my takeaway, I walked towards another trooper who was whipping up a cappuccino. He motioned towards the sugar and the stirrer, his oriental features breaking into a smile. Then he communicated in sign language with the guy behind the counter, for the next order. It was a smooth operation, smoother than most in these parts.

On a different note, I watched Anne Hathaway sporting a somewhat awkward, somewhat quaint British accent in Becoming Jane. The movie gains momentum as it progresses. But all romantics be warned, the story ends on a rather heart wrenching note. Sigh.

What is most interesting though, are the similarities between the characters in Pride And Prejudice and Jane’s own life. Jane Austen’s mom is constantly fretting about her daughter’s marriage a la Elizabeth Bennet’s mom. On the other hand, Jane’s father is proud of his daughter’s literary prowess and agrees that she must marry for love, and not money or security, merely, a la Elizabeth Bennet’s father.

The wealthy Lady Gresham is a woman of means, pride and arrogance, as is the wealthy Lady Catherine De Burgh, a woman of means, pride and some arrogance. They say that Mr Darcy’s character was inspired by Jane’s real-life love interest. However, the former is a little uptight and wealthy, and the latter is a regular Don Juan who is poor as a church mouse.

Nevertheless, a heart wrenching, sweet film, about love and it’s complexities.

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