Pry, pry again
When your friend entrusts you with the job of mending the ways of her pesky son, all you can expect in return is trouble
One evening, as I was returning from office, I heard Sonia shrieking in her shrill, almost ultrasonic, voice. Like the shameless and prying neighbour, who grows curiouser and curiouser as she grows older, I tried peeking through the windows of Sonia and Mahesh's apartment. I saw their mollycoddled 11-year-old son, fat spilling out of every inch of his body, sulking in a corner, with his face streaked black from dry tear stains.
I chuckled. Sonia still cradled her "poochie-koo", feeding him, tying his shoelaces, carrying his bag, making him sit on her lap and the fatso just about squeezed every ounce out of Mahesh and Sonia. If Mahesh dared say no to one demand, he threw a well-rehearsed tantrum and Sonia would glare at her husband for making her "chweet little chubby-wubby" cry. When she came to visit us with her son, he would just open our fridge and stuff his pockets with the chocolates and cheese I store while Sonia would look adoringly, like Yashoda smiling at the makhan-chor Krishna. So I chuckled to see Sonia in a fit over something Minti (that's what they call their precious pest) had done.
The wind made a the curtains flutter so that Minti caught me staring. I gave him an evil smile and, as he started howling again, slunk away.
Later that night, the doorbell sounded and I found Sonia and Mahesh standing there grabbing Minti by the scruff. My first reaction was intense fear, like when I used to feel at Minti's age when the neighbour auntie came complaining to mum. The little devil must have told on me.
But Sonia started sniffing as she plopped herself on the sofa. "Didi!" she wailed. Mahesh sat with a grave expression.
"What? What happened?"
"Didi, this girl in Minti's class has trapped my boy." That was something indeed! I was already loving it. The over-possessive mother was jealous and out to protect her cub. And hurt because Minti had dared to worship another female form. Sonia was the iconic saas in the making.
I wanted to hear the whole story. "Minti went and wrote love letter to her. In bad, bad English. (More on the bad English part later). He also has taken my brand new (I have never understood the use of 'brand', I mean, if it's new, it's new) Yves Saint Laurent perfume that Mahesh has been gifting to me to give to this girl." I could figure out from where Minti got his talent for English.
I was quite relishing this juicy gossip about the prodigal son, but good things don't last forever. Sonia had come to make a request -- that I take Minti under my wings. I had to teach him English, for one, and take his mind off 'distractions' (that's Mahesh's word) by 'giving him good education'.
It was a tele-serial moment. You know, how the camera pans from one face to another which have fixed expressions for five minutes, and no one speaks, the action does not move forward till the next episode. Minti and I stared at each other with frozen, icy looks. He was still cowering, and yet, he managed to give me a sly smile that clearly conveyed that by the coming week, he'd make sure that I'd be the one in trouble.
22 November 2009
Mrs Goody Two Shoes XVII
The big fight
There is no use screaming at a man for being the typical man. He has been trained that way. He just needs a new and patient instructor
A few days ago, the husband and I were having an argument. An overdone, banal squabble. I am not even sure I could label it as a tiff, since I had pulled a long face and was listing out my woes in a self-pitying voice while he just sat there stone-faced, staring at 'Bigg Boss'. This by itself became a matter of contention since "I hardly get the remote and am forced to gulp in football, cricket and reality shows (in that order) day and night, don't you ever wonder what I might like? Etc etc etc". (Well, I admit that I don't actually absolutely loathe them, especially the reality show bit, but during a fight, you have to hate whatever the other person likes, otherwise there isn't any fun.
But the argument had turned into a monologue -- mine -- and I just could not drag it any further and dropped it, for a while. My husband is an expert in this field. He offers no resistance, either sinking into a deadly silence which will make you cower and ultimately give in, or making the hurt-puppy face that will make you feel excessively guilty and, as you have guessed rightly, give in.
I may lose my calm every time I make tea and he snores away, or I hang clothes out to dry and he sits with a chilled beer, or I drop my office bag to rush into the kitchen and he sits watching movies on his laptop. But it never boils to a juicy, violent, lashing-out-with-words kind of a fight.
That particular day, I was losing my patience. We are a married couple. So where were the typical married couple arguments? If he doesn't shout back, how can I shout louder and get my point across? Seething and frustrated, I said something very mean to him, and ouch, did that hurt or what? He looked up at me with liquid eyes, wondering what he had done (if he had asked me I would have said NOT done, like the million tasks at home and outside that he doesn't share) to draw such a reaction from the otherwise usually okay wife.
He looked lost, not knowing where exactly he had gone wrong. He looked sorry, guilty, but without a clue about his crime. "I will do what you say." And then my heart melted. It's not his fault really. It's just the way he has always been taught to look at things, to be a man. He actually has been doing what has been told to him. He was told that it's okay to be a boy forever, to be loved, pampered, looked after. His job was just to be. There's a species called the woman whose job was to see to it that the machinery keeps running, that the clogs never get stuck, that the food mysteriously appears on the table on time, that his dirty laundry suddenly shines, that when the tea gets cold a steaming cup arrives in its place. The only hitch is, the story in his book of life reads very different from mine. Well, I'll help him rework and rewrite it. Slowly, but surely.
There is no use screaming at a man for being the typical man. He has been trained that way. He just needs a new and patient instructor
A few days ago, the husband and I were having an argument. An overdone, banal squabble. I am not even sure I could label it as a tiff, since I had pulled a long face and was listing out my woes in a self-pitying voice while he just sat there stone-faced, staring at 'Bigg Boss'. This by itself became a matter of contention since "I hardly get the remote and am forced to gulp in football, cricket and reality shows (in that order) day and night, don't you ever wonder what I might like? Etc etc etc". (Well, I admit that I don't actually absolutely loathe them, especially the reality show bit, but during a fight, you have to hate whatever the other person likes, otherwise there isn't any fun.
But the argument had turned into a monologue -- mine -- and I just could not drag it any further and dropped it, for a while. My husband is an expert in this field. He offers no resistance, either sinking into a deadly silence which will make you cower and ultimately give in, or making the hurt-puppy face that will make you feel excessively guilty and, as you have guessed rightly, give in.
I may lose my calm every time I make tea and he snores away, or I hang clothes out to dry and he sits with a chilled beer, or I drop my office bag to rush into the kitchen and he sits watching movies on his laptop. But it never boils to a juicy, violent, lashing-out-with-words kind of a fight.
That particular day, I was losing my patience. We are a married couple. So where were the typical married couple arguments? If he doesn't shout back, how can I shout louder and get my point across? Seething and frustrated, I said something very mean to him, and ouch, did that hurt or what? He looked up at me with liquid eyes, wondering what he had done (if he had asked me I would have said NOT done, like the million tasks at home and outside that he doesn't share) to draw such a reaction from the otherwise usually okay wife.
He looked lost, not knowing where exactly he had gone wrong. He looked sorry, guilty, but without a clue about his crime. "I will do what you say." And then my heart melted. It's not his fault really. It's just the way he has always been taught to look at things, to be a man. He actually has been doing what has been told to him. He was told that it's okay to be a boy forever, to be loved, pampered, looked after. His job was just to be. There's a species called the woman whose job was to see to it that the machinery keeps running, that the clogs never get stuck, that the food mysteriously appears on the table on time, that his dirty laundry suddenly shines, that when the tea gets cold a steaming cup arrives in its place. The only hitch is, the story in his book of life reads very different from mine. Well, I'll help him rework and rewrite it. Slowly, but surely.
20 November 2009
A writer's life: Anjum Hasan
I sat sipping coffee and opposite me was the delicate-looking lady, with a smile that reminds me of the Mona Lisa, petite but firm, her personality exuding creativity and confidence. “This looks a little strange,” she said, her eyes sparkling with impish laughter as her glistening green lime soda arrived. Anjum Hasan, an acclaimed name in the Indian literary map, was taking a little time out just before the launch of her second novel Neti, Neti by Roli Books at the Crossword last week.
An author’s life gets busy as the time of the launch of a book nears. “I am still trying to figure out the business aspect of a book. It isn’t really enough, especially nowadays, to just write a book!” she said as she settled down.
Neti, Neti picks up from where ‘Lunatic in my Head’, Anjum’s first novel, left off the character of Sophie Das. Although Sophie, like her creator, has travelled from the picturesque and smaller city of Shillong to the rapidly-transforming and busy world of Bangalore, Anjum would like to keep the parallel only till there.
The writer said, “I am the creator. I can’t be the character. I mean, Sophie is not writing the story, is she? I have always been conscious of the fact that it’s a different person, and think of what her, not my, responses would be.” She added, “I am definitely more ambitious than Sophie.”
Well, for this ambitious writer, it is important to be read, and that is one of the reasons why she cannot give as much time to poetry as she does to fiction. “There are not enough readers at all. There are less for poetry. I feel there are so many things I want to say that can be said better in fiction and that will be read by more people. Poetry is something you do more for yourself.” Also, since fiction is all-consuming, she gets back to poetry only occasionally.
A writer’s task is an arduous one. Anjum has spent four years with the Sophie of Neti, Neti and the moment her final draft was ready, she began sketching her next work. She said, “Most of a writer’s life consists of the unglamorous, lonely and often very hard process of just sitting down and writing day after day. I think when you start out as a writer you’re conscious of the importance of regimentation but after some years it becomes part of you. Like Don Delillo says, at some point ‘…discipline no longer seemed something outside me that urged the reluctant body into the room… Discipline is inseparable from what I do.’” Her Swedish writer husband Zac O’ Yeah is the first critic of her works and she has reached that level of trust with him to take even the negative feedback from him in the right spirit.
But no writer goes without that famous, or infamous, block. “When I get blocked I step back and look at what I’m doing. What am I trying to achieve in a particular scene or with a particular character? That often does the trick — asking oneself questions about motivations. Writing is a lot about psychology — you need to dig deep and then you’ll strike gold.”
Anjum does go deep. She relishes describing minute details. In Neti, Neti, you will find Sophie’s imaginative and fantasy world, her sense of unbelonging, her shrinking choices, her love for the baby Mani that reveals her sensitivity as vivid as her more “functional, but endearing” boyfriend Swami and his love for cars. Bangalore, which is more than just a neutral background in the story, and the fast-rising middle class with brittle ideologies also come alive in every detail.
Although writing occupies the better part of her life, Anjum takes time off when she can. She likes to walk in the open, anywhere green and without traffic, and to cook simple meals at the end of a working day. We hope that the Bangalore caught in the web of evolution that she captures in Neti, Neti will have enough open spaces to offer her.
[A recent story on Anjum after the release of her second novel Neti, Neti]
Band of brothers
Who could have imagined? That too in these days of distortions on electric guitars or mixing and making entire scores on a PC. But Anurag Kashyap and Amit Trivedi thought it possible. Music director Trivedi created the cult song 'Emosanal Atyachar' in Dev D with the help of brass bands, a struggling breed of musicians. The song was performed by BandMaster Rangeela and Rasila and fired music charts all over the country. It created even more ripples as people were taken by surprise -- the usually only-wedding-procession musicians who are just supposed to make you dance while remaining obscure were star performers.
But the real story is this: not everyone gets to feature in Bollywood, although music from Hindi films has been a hot favourite with almost all bands for ever since one can remember, and survival is a battle. Ask Babu of the Chamundeshwari Brass Band and he says with a faraway, forlorn look in his eyes, "My father was also a musician with a band, so you can say I have been attached indirectly to the profession for the last 50 years. Back then, there was so much respect for bands. Now the glory days are over." He has been playing the trumpet with brass bands for the past decade.
The band is thirty years old and now has its premises near Sepings Road. Its small room is brightly painted in orange and blue, colours which match those of the dazzling livery. Babu and his band members are very fond of their uniforms -- they have two sets for the year -- and it is quite interesting to watch them deck up. This ritual begins with the jacket with jazzy golden zari. Then come special trousers, a bulky belt, sparkling cap and a boot lookalike that just needs to be wrapped around the leg and fixed with Velcro to complete the ensemble.
The band members, instruments and dresses jostle for space in that tiny space. Manjunath, whose family owns the band, says, "Business is fine only during season, like the marriage season during November to January." Babu pipes in enthusiastically, "And during Ganapathi festival, we have work continuously for 20 days! We are around 40 members, but during the season, we bring many more from suburbs." But his excitement dims as he adds that six months of the year are barren.
Yet, their eyes light up when they show us their instruments which include trumpets, various kinds of drums, clarinet. They play "new hits" like 'Mauja hi mauja', 'Jhoom barabar' and songs from DDLJ or Hum Apke Hain Kaun are all-time favourites.
For such bands which earn much less than Rs 10,000 a show, it is difficult to purchase or even maintain these instruments. Also, they need a "master" to teach them music, and the learning process can take more than a year, sometimes even two.
One of Bangalore's oldest brass bands the New Bharat Brass Band, set up in 1949 by J Swamy and now run by his son S Ramesh Kumar. The city has around a score of such bands, and the story is virtually the same everywhere. These artistes join us at weddings, at felicitations, at launches and even at death, always there but never really visible.
[A story about brass bands that I wrote a few months back]
But the real story is this: not everyone gets to feature in Bollywood, although music from Hindi films has been a hot favourite with almost all bands for ever since one can remember, and survival is a battle. Ask Babu of the Chamundeshwari Brass Band and he says with a faraway, forlorn look in his eyes, "My father was also a musician with a band, so you can say I have been attached indirectly to the profession for the last 50 years. Back then, there was so much respect for bands. Now the glory days are over." He has been playing the trumpet with brass bands for the past decade.
The band is thirty years old and now has its premises near Sepings Road. Its small room is brightly painted in orange and blue, colours which match those of the dazzling livery. Babu and his band members are very fond of their uniforms -- they have two sets for the year -- and it is quite interesting to watch them deck up. This ritual begins with the jacket with jazzy golden zari. Then come special trousers, a bulky belt, sparkling cap and a boot lookalike that just needs to be wrapped around the leg and fixed with Velcro to complete the ensemble.
The band members, instruments and dresses jostle for space in that tiny space. Manjunath, whose family owns the band, says, "Business is fine only during season, like the marriage season during November to January." Babu pipes in enthusiastically, "And during Ganapathi festival, we have work continuously for 20 days! We are around 40 members, but during the season, we bring many more from suburbs." But his excitement dims as he adds that six months of the year are barren.
Yet, their eyes light up when they show us their instruments which include trumpets, various kinds of drums, clarinet. They play "new hits" like 'Mauja hi mauja', 'Jhoom barabar' and songs from DDLJ or Hum Apke Hain Kaun are all-time favourites.
For such bands which earn much less than Rs 10,000 a show, it is difficult to purchase or even maintain these instruments. Also, they need a "master" to teach them music, and the learning process can take more than a year, sometimes even two.
One of Bangalore's oldest brass bands the New Bharat Brass Band, set up in 1949 by J Swamy and now run by his son S Ramesh Kumar. The city has around a score of such bands, and the story is virtually the same everywhere. These artistes join us at weddings, at felicitations, at launches and even at death, always there but never really visible.
[A story about brass bands that I wrote a few months back]
Speaking to the modern Chanda
Under the glow of the neon, she looked radiant, almost luminous. Before trooping into the greenroom, we had been drawing a mental picture of this Indian girl of French origin, who speaks fluently in Tamil and is making great headway with her Hindi, wondering what this famous lady would be like. After all, Kalki Koechlin has made many heads turn with her portrayal of Chandramukhi in Anurag Kashyap's 'Dev D'. But once she greeted us with a smile, her unassuming yet vibrant persona made our trepidations vanish. Casually dressed in a pair of jeans and a black tee, she was hastily clearing the sofa of the props, costumes, bags, make-up kits to make room for us to sit and have a chat.
Kalki was recently in the city with Anurag Kashyap's stage production Skeleton Woman, co-written and performed by her and Prashant Prakash, presented by Scullers at Kyra.
Kalki has been actively involved in theatre since 2002, when she went to the University of London to study the stage craft. "I was part of a group called Theatre of Relativity in London, but there, it is still the big-budget traditional musicals make the standard theatre and that is limiting to what they call fringe theatre. You really struggle, financially too, if you experiment. In India, there is more scope for doing new kinds of work," she said.
So Kalki, who loves to explore new stuff (and hates the winters abroad), was drawn back to India. She is an intuitive and focused actor, and the 'Skeleton Woman' came alive with her expressiveness and Prashant's emotive performance. One would wonder what made Kalki, whose passion lies in acting, take up the pen to script, with Prashant, this modern drama based on the original Inuit folk tale. "It happened by mistake, I think!" she laughed. "Actually, I find writing therapeutic, although I have written short stories and poems only for myself before. This story just stuck in my head and I started writing." In fact, she mentioned in the passing that she and beau Anurag are writing together.
Stage is where her heart lies, where she wants to come back again and again, but as for her career, it definitely is Bollywood calling. "In Hindi cinema, all the films I have so far been offered are alternative. They are great, but I would love to do in mainstream, commercial Bollywood movies! Everyone seems to think I am a serious actor only. But why should I say no to a big commercial film?" The only commercial movies she has been offered so far are in Telugu, which she had to decline because of the language barrier.
Kalki's foreign looks have been a hindrance sometimes. "I often get offers for roles of the foreign face girl. To some level, I think Bollywood still has that bias. So I have to be patient," Kalki said.
The actor has busy days ahead. She wants to do a play written by Kaizad Gustad called 'Lesson Zero' which has "a snappy, interesting script". And she has films like Bijoy Nambiar's 'Shaitan' and Anurag Kashyap's 'Happy Ending' (which Mr Kashyap has said was written for her) lined up.
"It's not like that!" (Did we see a hint of a blush there?) "He had the idea, it's a role that he saw me fit to do. It wasn't like he wrote it FOR me. There's this girl from England and her dad's Indian. She comes back to look for her dad, that's the story. That's why it suited me. It makes sense, I mean, it feels good, I mean... We are so enthusiastic to work together." We certainly wish a happily ever after to this talented pair who love to think, and live, out of their cultural boxes.
(An interview with Kalki Koechlin I did a few months ago)
The original steak holders
From an experiment that started as an attempt to make the Peace Corps feel more comfortable in the city, The Only Place has grown to become a culture with Bangaloreans
Bangalore was a quiet city then, content in itself, where life ambled along in its sluggish pace. Those were the days when two-way traffic was allowed on Brigade Road, and yet, one could cross the street unhurried, un-harried. Those were the days when Haji Sulaiman Ebrahim Sait sat in his cosy little shop at the Mota Arcade site, sewing impeccable suits for the airforce and armed forces with his sons.
Back then, tourists were a rare sight here, but the Peace Corps would troop into the city, and Ebrahim Sait's son, Haji Haroon Sulaiman Sait, would sit and watch them from their textiles shop. Haroon could understand that it was a bit of a struggle for the foreigners to get accustomed to the food and lodging here. For sometime, he had been feeling that the father's shop did not need so many hands, and with the Peace Corps and other foreigners (Danes, Swedes, Germans, Americans) often seen in the city, he had an idea. Haroon converted a bungalow they had on Brigade Road into a guest house, offering decent accommodation and simple English food -- omelette and toast for breakfast, stews and baked dishes for lunch and dinner -- to them.
Those are the beginnings of The Only Place, the steak house that is much loved and has become a habit with city dwellers, now nestled on Museum Road. Shoaib, Haroon's son, who heads the business now, said, "It was 1965. The guest house started and my grandmother, who was a great cook, would prepare the food for the foreigners."
Eating at the place was a communal affair, with the guests coming together for meals, and so became the cooking. Haroon would ask them about the kind of food they ate and preferred, fetch the ingredients from the market himself and often, the boarders would cook their native dishes while Haroon stood and watched. As his expertise grew, so did his menu. Shoaib said, "Iraqui soldiers also came in. They got their suits stitched at my grandfather's and had their meals at my father's. Thus, even Middle Eastern influences crept into our cooking." Steaks, pasta, spaghetti, pizzas, burgers -- names that sounded exotic and enticing were in Haroon's kitchen within a few years and in early 1970s there were cooks he was training, and city dwellers who also wanted to be a part of this new food movement.
Haroon threw his doors open to all. Shoaib, an electronics engineer by profession who has been a part of the computer revolution, also joined him in the business. "We would run on losses because my father would give food for free. Saturdays used to be barbeque days. He would roast a whole calf or sheep and feed everyone on the house. It used to be a social gathering more than anything else."
This restaurant, tucked away in a corner at the back of where now stands Mota Arcade, became a place where people would come to escape from the world, to meet and socialise. "So many love stories have begun here," said Shoaib, with a nostalgic look in his eyes. "In fact, guess who we used to see at the very beginning of his career. Prasad Bidappa would sit at the steps right in front and get the models ready with make-up there."
But on Christmas, 1987, they had to walk out of the premises -- 161, Brigade Road. The place was demolished with Mota Arcade coming up there. And suddenly, the original steak house of the city, the meeting place of people, was lost. But the many for whom The Only Place was exactly what it's name suggests, would not have it that way.
And back it came, on Museum Road yes, but with the old benches and tables (which used to be black and white because "paint was too expensive to afford) and tiled roof for that old world charm.
They still hand roll their pasta and pizza like in the olden days. Shoaib still has the pizza bases he had to get made from scratch from sheet aluminium, and the menu still has old favourites like steak and eggs (from Haroon's kitchen) and Shoaib's touches like the Whopper. In fact, they still have their forty-year-old menu card too, except that it is no longer Rs 5 for a steak.
We lost Haroon recently, but his legacy lives on, in Shoaib, in the great food and in the tradition he has left the city with.
[This was one of my articles for the space we call 'Down Memory Lane' in Expresso, The New Indian Express, Bangalore]
Bangalore was a quiet city then, content in itself, where life ambled along in its sluggish pace. Those were the days when two-way traffic was allowed on Brigade Road, and yet, one could cross the street unhurried, un-harried. Those were the days when Haji Sulaiman Ebrahim Sait sat in his cosy little shop at the Mota Arcade site, sewing impeccable suits for the airforce and armed forces with his sons.
Back then, tourists were a rare sight here, but the Peace Corps would troop into the city, and Ebrahim Sait's son, Haji Haroon Sulaiman Sait, would sit and watch them from their textiles shop. Haroon could understand that it was a bit of a struggle for the foreigners to get accustomed to the food and lodging here. For sometime, he had been feeling that the father's shop did not need so many hands, and with the Peace Corps and other foreigners (Danes, Swedes, Germans, Americans) often seen in the city, he had an idea. Haroon converted a bungalow they had on Brigade Road into a guest house, offering decent accommodation and simple English food -- omelette and toast for breakfast, stews and baked dishes for lunch and dinner -- to them.
Those are the beginnings of The Only Place, the steak house that is much loved and has become a habit with city dwellers, now nestled on Museum Road. Shoaib, Haroon's son, who heads the business now, said, "It was 1965. The guest house started and my grandmother, who was a great cook, would prepare the food for the foreigners."
Eating at the place was a communal affair, with the guests coming together for meals, and so became the cooking. Haroon would ask them about the kind of food they ate and preferred, fetch the ingredients from the market himself and often, the boarders would cook their native dishes while Haroon stood and watched. As his expertise grew, so did his menu. Shoaib said, "Iraqui soldiers also came in. They got their suits stitched at my grandfather's and had their meals at my father's. Thus, even Middle Eastern influences crept into our cooking." Steaks, pasta, spaghetti, pizzas, burgers -- names that sounded exotic and enticing were in Haroon's kitchen within a few years and in early 1970s there were cooks he was training, and city dwellers who also wanted to be a part of this new food movement.
Haroon threw his doors open to all. Shoaib, an electronics engineer by profession who has been a part of the computer revolution, also joined him in the business. "We would run on losses because my father would give food for free. Saturdays used to be barbeque days. He would roast a whole calf or sheep and feed everyone on the house. It used to be a social gathering more than anything else."
This restaurant, tucked away in a corner at the back of where now stands Mota Arcade, became a place where people would come to escape from the world, to meet and socialise. "So many love stories have begun here," said Shoaib, with a nostalgic look in his eyes. "In fact, guess who we used to see at the very beginning of his career. Prasad Bidappa would sit at the steps right in front and get the models ready with make-up there."
But on Christmas, 1987, they had to walk out of the premises -- 161, Brigade Road. The place was demolished with Mota Arcade coming up there. And suddenly, the original steak house of the city, the meeting place of people, was lost. But the many for whom The Only Place was exactly what it's name suggests, would not have it that way.
And back it came, on Museum Road yes, but with the old benches and tables (which used to be black and white because "paint was too expensive to afford) and tiled roof for that old world charm.
They still hand roll their pasta and pizza like in the olden days. Shoaib still has the pizza bases he had to get made from scratch from sheet aluminium, and the menu still has old favourites like steak and eggs (from Haroon's kitchen) and Shoaib's touches like the Whopper. In fact, they still have their forty-year-old menu card too, except that it is no longer Rs 5 for a steak.
We lost Haroon recently, but his legacy lives on, in Shoaib, in the great food and in the tradition he has left the city with.
[This was one of my articles for the space we call 'Down Memory Lane' in Expresso, The New Indian Express, Bangalore]
16 November 2009
Mrs Goody Two Shoes XVI
Charity begins at home for sure
It is easy to gather a few people, organise a show and label it a charity event
The phone rang. I am tired of its insistent rings. I keep changing the ringtone, but it takes me only two days to get bored of the tune. Earlier, I used to set my favourite songs as the alert for incoming calls. I had hoped that those melodies would help me keep my calm when the mobile rang, endlessly. Unfortunately, I had to quickly change my strategy since I began losing my special tunes to boredom, irritation even -- that happens when you get a minimum of three dozen calls, and that, on a lean day. Then I began choosing those popular but not-so-interesting songs. That way, I had nothing to lose, and had a huge variety to choose from; I needed at least twenty a month. And when any kind of phone sound began irking me and driving me up the wall, I tried putting it on the vibrator-silent mode. So that the phone began doing an angry "Gnnnn gnnnn gnnn..." and I jumped every time at the sudden growl.
Well, so I don't have a particularly amicable relationship with my cellphone at present. That afternoon, as I struggled with my writing and edition and messed up life, stuck the iPod in my ears to block phone sounds and the gnawing thoughts in my brain, glued as I was at my office desk, the phone rang. My instant reaction, "Nooooooo... Don't you get it? I don't want to talk!" Reluctantly, I looked at it. 'Society Secy' it flashed. Damn. Now what's wrong? "Hello?" (I wonder why I still have the question mark tone in my voice when I know who's on the other side. Maybe years of good ol' landline handling.)
"Beta, you have to do one thing."
I am always being ordered. No "please", "can you", "thank you" for me. "Yes Mr Nair, what do I HAVE to do?" He did not notice the edge and sarcasm there. Sigh.
"Yes. My wife is having a charity at the society. Please take an article." It took me 15 precious minutes to explain I can't suddenly take an article on a random (I did not use the word) event by random people. In the end I agreed on two things -- I will take a listing and I will be present at the charity. Not just present. Take part in it.
I had not really paid attention to the details. The D-day came and I saw a few stray cats and dogs chained (stringed really) to the gate. Latika auntie's charity for street animals. I looked at the poor, scrawny creatures. They looked more tortured here than on the roads. My assignment: Cook "good" (auntie emphasised on it) food for the animals. I don't have much faith in my culinary skills, but I guessed the animals wouldn't really mind.
The highlight of the event was a fashion show. There was a donation box to extract money from innocent people who were being forced to watch aunties trailing down the ramp. The money was supposed to go to the strays. At the end came Latika auntie, in a heavily embroidered sari and four-inch heels. As she gloated on "successful charity by kind souls" (meaning her), and I wanted to throw up on her face, plonk broke the ramp, and down went Latika. There were some shouts, lots of confusion and stifled giggles. I looked at the donation box. There was only one way that this charity collection was going for sure -- Latika auntie's personal doctor's expenses.
It is easy to gather a few people, organise a show and label it a charity event
The phone rang. I am tired of its insistent rings. I keep changing the ringtone, but it takes me only two days to get bored of the tune. Earlier, I used to set my favourite songs as the alert for incoming calls. I had hoped that those melodies would help me keep my calm when the mobile rang, endlessly. Unfortunately, I had to quickly change my strategy since I began losing my special tunes to boredom, irritation even -- that happens when you get a minimum of three dozen calls, and that, on a lean day. Then I began choosing those popular but not-so-interesting songs. That way, I had nothing to lose, and had a huge variety to choose from; I needed at least twenty a month. And when any kind of phone sound began irking me and driving me up the wall, I tried putting it on the vibrator-silent mode. So that the phone began doing an angry "Gnnnn gnnnn gnnn..." and I jumped every time at the sudden growl.
Well, so I don't have a particularly amicable relationship with my cellphone at present. That afternoon, as I struggled with my writing and edition and messed up life, stuck the iPod in my ears to block phone sounds and the gnawing thoughts in my brain, glued as I was at my office desk, the phone rang. My instant reaction, "Nooooooo... Don't you get it? I don't want to talk!" Reluctantly, I looked at it. 'Society Secy' it flashed. Damn. Now what's wrong? "Hello?" (I wonder why I still have the question mark tone in my voice when I know who's on the other side. Maybe years of good ol' landline handling.)
"Beta, you have to do one thing."
I am always being ordered. No "please", "can you", "thank you" for me. "Yes Mr Nair, what do I HAVE to do?" He did not notice the edge and sarcasm there. Sigh.
"Yes. My wife is having a charity at the society. Please take an article." It took me 15 precious minutes to explain I can't suddenly take an article on a random (I did not use the word) event by random people. In the end I agreed on two things -- I will take a listing and I will be present at the charity. Not just present. Take part in it.
I had not really paid attention to the details. The D-day came and I saw a few stray cats and dogs chained (stringed really) to the gate. Latika auntie's charity for street animals. I looked at the poor, scrawny creatures. They looked more tortured here than on the roads. My assignment: Cook "good" (auntie emphasised on it) food for the animals. I don't have much faith in my culinary skills, but I guessed the animals wouldn't really mind.
The highlight of the event was a fashion show. There was a donation box to extract money from innocent people who were being forced to watch aunties trailing down the ramp. The money was supposed to go to the strays. At the end came Latika auntie, in a heavily embroidered sari and four-inch heels. As she gloated on "successful charity by kind souls" (meaning her), and I wanted to throw up on her face, plonk broke the ramp, and down went Latika. There were some shouts, lots of confusion and stifled giggles. I looked at the donation box. There was only one way that this charity collection was going for sure -- Latika auntie's personal doctor's expenses.
Music chooses you: An interview with Sona Mohapatra
The sultry-voiced diva can hold you in a trance. Her music has a strangely enigmatic quality about it, a quality that one would be tempted to call hypnotic, even intoxicating. Sona Mohapatra is emerging as one of the new-age artistes who are taking India's non-film and rock music scenes to new horizons.
Sona the engineer and MBA chose to leave her lucrative job as an FMCG manager to sing her dulcet tunes full-time. She says, "You don't choose music, music chooses you." As you pause, mulling over this much-used explanation, she adds, "I was always doing music. (She has trained in Hindustani classical for over 12 years.) But I realised that I had to devote myself completely to it and not try to juggle both. There is no escape button."
So began her journey and she has been singing strains of rock, folk, Sufi, balancing and experimenting with the genres. "My music is fusion but its bedrock is essentially Indian. I believe in soul music. Instead of strict adherence to genres, my music is an absorption of different cultures. I imbibe as I move on. I think there is good music and bad music. I just want to be part of good music, music that is timeless."
Her first album was eponymous and her second album 'RAAT/DIN' is in the making. Sona has found a unique way of releasing the songs from it though. "Instead of cribbing about free downloads and all, I think we should use new media." So, the first single from 'RAAT/DIN', Diljale, was launched via Nokia Digital Music Store, and a new song will come there every two months.
But there is one song of hers you could not have missed. Remember 'Paas Aao' from the Close Up ad? That is a part of Sona's upcoming single actually, and the singer has sung all the 13 language versions (including Kannada). She also has another Kannada connection, in a funny sort of a way. "My first single 'Bolo Na' has a Kannada version. Actually, it was just ripped, but when they came to Sony, the company told me about it. So now, you have a Chitra version and a Sona version in Kannada," she laughs.
She has had her stints in Bollywood too, like a duet with Shreya Ghosal under Vishal-Shekhar and more, but playback singing does not enthuse her as much as non-film music, and especially live performances. "I love to face my audience," the artiste says.
The singer has recently been a part of MTV Rock On and you will catch her performing on the show today (November 16) with Palash Sen. She praises the show effusively, calling it a "refreshing change". "I am glad that MTV is back to concentrating on music so intensively. India is waking up to live shows, where magic can happen impromptu, and a show like this helps."
Sona has been wowed by the number of talented bass players that Rock On has discovered, and has even taken one of them, Keshav, on board. Although she is very impressed by the instrumentalists, she has a slight regret. She says, "There is But although dressing up and being a 'performer' as they say is more of your individuality and personality in my opinion – I mean, to each his own -- I do believe that a lead singer needs to be the frontrunner and to hold the stage together. This is the area where Rock On has lacked."
Rock On, album, live shows, and a collaboration in London and a project with a French DJ on dance music in the offing -- Sona is busy creating original expressions and genuine music.
(A hacked version of this interview appeared in Expresso, The New Indian Express on November 16, 2009)
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