We have realized that we been rather lucky to get a driver like Vinod.
The search for a driver in Mumbai had begun rather painfully, when we moved here last year. We weren't quite prepared to pay as much as the going rate, and our usual over-baked attempts at 'bargaining' (feigning heart attacks at what they quoted) drove away a good many prospects.
In fact, a couple of times, Vijay would take a new driver to office and back 'on trial' for a day or two - but they would apparently decide he just didn't cut it as a potential employer, and disappear wordlessly. This initially suited Vijay just fine, as it meant free rides to work, but it got tiring after a while.
That's when Vinod landed up.
One of the security guards at our buildings introduced him into our lives, and since then, he has been an integral part of it.
Some nice things about Vinod:
a. He is a smart, polite, young man, always well turned out, bright eyed and alert. He has greyish green eyes that twinkle as he wishes me good morning, every morning.
b. When I approach the car, he appears out of nowhere like a shot to open the door for me and always offers to help with the shopping packets. He also patiently runs after me to give me my cellphone, or purse, or whatever I have absentmindedly left in the car, and there is never a hint of sarcasm in his smile when he does this.
c. Before us, he worked for a crazy, fussy Mumbai-model-starlet-type, who would keep him out at all odd hours of the night; and so he seems to think Vijay and me are dream employers by comparison.
d. He hasn't missed a single day of work without good reason, always arrives half an hour early, and never complains about being called either too early, or beng kept too late - oftentimes, he even lands up on Sunday of his own accord, just to see if he can drive us somewhere.
e. He has apparently honed his driving skills by driving, from the age of seven upwards, a tractor in the uneven terrain in his village in UP - so he manoeuvres our Honda City like a bicycle through thin cracks in the traffic (Vijay may not agree that this is a good thing).
f. He always politely puts up with Vijay's backseat driving and contrary instructions 'Koi Jaldi nahin..aaram se chalaao...' followed by 'Late ro rahen hai...thoda daudao'. He also doesn't mind running around buying our groceries for us 'Sirf Goldie banana laana...sirf teen Alphonso mango laana..'
g. He doesn't chat while driving needlessly, but when he does speak, it is always amusing because of the overly polite, sing-song way that he talks. 'Hume gaaon nahin jaana, wahan bore hote hai....hamare papa-mummy kehte hai shaadi kar lo, par hume shaadi nahin karni...jab model memsahib hume Sanjay Dutt ke ghar le gayi to unhone hume dekh ke pooncha 'tu baarah saal ka hai, kya?..Aur phir hume paanch hazaar rupaiye diye..Bahut peete hai..'
h. Thanks to having worked for his 'model memsahib', he knows all the party places in Mumbai better than we do. To a query like 'Vinod, Hawaiian Shack maalum hai...?'....a quick 'Ji, Sir' is shot back with quiet confidence and we are off.
i. When he doesn't know a place, he consults his respected elder brother ( also a driver) who he lives with, and who serves as his map and moral guide. When he heard that we were off on our road trip weekend recently, he checked the route out with his brother and sweetly offered to drive us there 'Bhaiiya ne kahan ki mujhe aapko Wapi tak pahuchana chahiye, wahan ka raasta achha nahin hai...'. (We ended up taking him halfway and then he took a train back home)
j. He has a lot of assured self-confidence without being egoistic. This is evident in his belief that he can beat up anyone if necessary - although we haven't seen him actually lose his temper with other drivers and cretins on the Mumbai streets. 'Hum mein bahut taakat hai', he says matter-of-factly. It's a bit hard to believe this fully considering he is roughly half Vijay's size ( Vijay himself is six feet tall but one foot wide), and that Sanjay Dutt (drunkenly but excusably) has mistaken him for a twelve year old.
Some not-so-nice things about Vinod:
a. He doesn't exactly respect each and every traffic rule all the time, and tends to drive a little faster than necessary- and so he has to be chastised by Vijay, once in a blue moon ( I never notice as I am always gazing dreamily out the window at nothing, but I have heard from Vani that he confided to her 'Jab madam hoti hai gaadi mein, to main hamesha bahut aaram se hi chalata hoon..'. Just a little touch of protectiveness! Wait, these are supposed to be his bad points..)
b. He makes us feel a bit guilty by letting us take advantage of his good nature and flexibility. We tip him often and pay him well, but sometimes still end up feeling a bit like imperialist exploiters.
c. He's basically a little too good to be true, and no driver after him will match up. This is a bit of a problem, but that's in the future...
The one time when he did admit to having been in a scrap with the law, recently, we were very much interested in knowing the details. (So he is human, after all!).
Vinod (one evening): Sir, aaj hamara license chala gaya. Kal court se collect karna hai.
Vijay: Kyon, kya hua?
Vinod: Ek police-waala aaya aur hum sab driver pe chillaane laga ...bola ki humne wrong parking ki hui hai. Par humne nahin ki thi, sir. Uss ke saath sab driver log ladne lage..aur ...aur hume bhi gussa aa gaya, sir. Humne bhi police-waale ko keh diya!
Vijay (very interested to see where this goes) Kya kahan tumne?
Vinod (a little ashamed): Bas keh diya, Sir.
Vijay (cajoling him, getting ready to hear the choicest of Allahabadi abuses): Bolo, na..kya kahan?
Vinod (finally getting his crime off his chest, in his usual sing-song, slow manner): Sir..humne police waale ko poonchha...''Tumhe Hawaldar Banaya Kisne?''
And that's our Vinod.
Additional note: Last night, Vijay and I discovered that Vinod apparently sleeps 3 hours a night. 'Sir, neend hi nahin aati doh baje tak, kya kare..phir paanch baje uthke sab log ka khaana pakata hoon. Par teen ghanta bahut hai..'. I am very worried by this fact and am wondering whether the 'bright eyed, alert' look is actually a 'glazed eyes, robotic' look in disguise. I have advised him to drop his 'midnight cup of tea' habit and try to sleep more, considering that he is our driver, and will also encourage more daytime naps. I knew there was a catch, I knew it..
Monday, May 28, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
The Bread Pakoda Solution
So yesterday was a particularly bad day at work and I came home in a horrible mood.
Sometimes people in my office really amaze me, but let us not get into the details. Not good for the blood pressure. And anyway, I have decided to become a highly spiritual, forgiving person and rise above and beyond all the little matters. I will look at all my fellow human beings with a kindly eye (not sure what the other eye is supposed to be doing at this time) and try and understand other people's perspectives more. No more judgements - even for the cretins I work with.
But till I reach that stage, I will have to learn to deal with the bad moods. And I think I've hit upon one possible solution.
It is called 'Home Made Bread Pakodas and Chai'
Vijay came home at an unusually decent time yesterday ( may be indecent from his boss's perspective but who cares about that!) and started talking about going out to Bandstand for a Bread Pakoda, his favourite snack. I demurred (cool new word) because I could imagine the dirty brown lumps floating in a sea of unhygienic, reheated oil. As a compromise for him, and to get my mind off the bad day, I offered to make Vijay his snack at home, and he delightedly agreed.
I shall carefully list the steps for those of you who don't know how to cook: this is one stunt you can definitely try at home!
1. Go to the fridge, open it and start moaning that none of the ingredients you need are there. Get the husband to come and find all the ingredients from different parts of the kitchen. Feel vindicated when you prove to him that there is no white bread in the house. Make him call up nearby store and deliver the same speedily.
2. While the store guy brings the bread over, happily discover three already boiled potatoes in the fridge. Warm them in the microwave and then mash them up with your (washed - well, ideally) hands, enjoying the warm, gooey feel between your fingers. Be in a happy, relaxed mood at this time, and do not equate this in your mind to bashing somebody to a pulp.
3. Once the potatoes are properly mashed, grab a nearby knife while husband watches nervously. Don't bother to wash your hands at this point as you will need to get them into the potatoes again. Use the now mash-potatoed-knife to expertly and vigorously chop one large onion into teeny tiny pieces, all the while not imagining cutting an annoying colleague to bits.
4. Add the chopped onions to the mashed potatoes and energetically use your fingers to massage them into a nice paste. Add a spoon of salt and two spoons of red chilli powder to this mix and continue to pound away, while not bitching about office politics to your husband at all. Do not choose this moment to remove your hair from your eye, thereby getting chilli powder into your eye and running around screaming until you find a tap.
5. Through watery eyes, if your eyes happen to be watery at this time for any reason, cast a withering look at your concerned, hovering husband and ask him coldly 'Who's going to prepare the besan?'. Watch him mix the besan, water and a pinch of salt to a fine consistency. As your eyes stop burning, feel better about life and therefore do not nag him about the besan mix being too thin and too thick alternately.
6. Heat some oil in a pan and watch it blankly for a while. Then ask your husband 'Who's going to slice the bread?'. Watch him cut the bread into neat pieces. Do not snap at him when he asks you if it should be cut into triangles or rectangles. Just say 'Rectangles' quietly ( You can also choose triangles if you're in that kind of mood).
7. You are now ready for the final act! Put your tasty alu-masala-mix in between the bread slices, trying not to 'sample' too much of it while doing so as this is going to give you a stomach-ache later. Since you have dirtied your hands enough, ask your husband to take over at this stage. Watch him dip the stuffed bread slices into the besan and gently drop them into the heated oil. His hands are all messy with the besan and soon, so is the ladle he is using to fry the bread-pakodas, and also the entire stove area. Do not reprimand him for strewing all the extra fried bits and pieces merrily all around the kitchen instead of into one plate.
8. Prepare the roti-dabba with napkins so that the husband can deftly drop the golden, delicious looking treats into the same, where they will remain hot and tasty until the tea is ready. Remember the tea at this point. Since you are no longer doing anything useful, prepare the tea, using only my brand, Red Label.
9. Impatiently wait for the husband to finish making the last of the bread pakodas. Useful tip: ball up the remaining alu masala into round balls, dip them into the last of the besan and fry them into delicious kofta-type balls. Voila! 6 bread pakodas, 3 kofta-balls, 2 cups of steaming tea are ready.
Ignore the fact that your kitchen looks as though its been hit by a tornado and that your maid Zareena may either have a heart attack or quit tomorrow morning when she sees it (it's a cruel world and her occupational hazards are her concern).
10. Last step: Excitedly run to the drawing room with all the food, run back, switch off the gas, run into the drawing room again to enjoy your home-made treat. Remember to take some Maggi Hot & Sweet Tomato Chilli Ketchup (It's different), and the tea with you. Sit cross legged on your mat, enjoy the sea view and pretend you are enjoying the sea breeze too ( hey, it's hot in Mumbai and we need the AC). You will notice by this time, you have forgotten all about your stupid colleagues and you realise it's wrong to let such insignificant things bother you.
After you have enjoyed the perfect cup of tea and eaten the hot, tasty, spicy, crisp bread pakodas (1.5 nos.) and kofta (1 nos.) and your husband has devoured the rest, you lie back contentedly together like 2 over-stuffed bread pakodas - and watch a two hour special on the Birth of the Universe on National Geographic. This further helps to realize how tiny you really are, and thereby strengthen your belief that all the little things in life that get you down are even tinier, so they're just not worth it.
But the converse is not true: the little things in life that make you happy are indeed worth feeling good about.
And as you lie there half asleep, you realize you've totally spoilt your dinner for the night - but what better way could there be to do it?
Sometimes people in my office really amaze me, but let us not get into the details. Not good for the blood pressure. And anyway, I have decided to become a highly spiritual, forgiving person and rise above and beyond all the little matters. I will look at all my fellow human beings with a kindly eye (not sure what the other eye is supposed to be doing at this time) and try and understand other people's perspectives more. No more judgements - even for the cretins I work with.
But till I reach that stage, I will have to learn to deal with the bad moods. And I think I've hit upon one possible solution.
It is called 'Home Made Bread Pakodas and Chai'
Vijay came home at an unusually decent time yesterday ( may be indecent from his boss's perspective but who cares about that!) and started talking about going out to Bandstand for a Bread Pakoda, his favourite snack. I demurred (cool new word) because I could imagine the dirty brown lumps floating in a sea of unhygienic, reheated oil. As a compromise for him, and to get my mind off the bad day, I offered to make Vijay his snack at home, and he delightedly agreed.
I shall carefully list the steps for those of you who don't know how to cook: this is one stunt you can definitely try at home!
1. Go to the fridge, open it and start moaning that none of the ingredients you need are there. Get the husband to come and find all the ingredients from different parts of the kitchen. Feel vindicated when you prove to him that there is no white bread in the house. Make him call up nearby store and deliver the same speedily.
2. While the store guy brings the bread over, happily discover three already boiled potatoes in the fridge. Warm them in the microwave and then mash them up with your (washed - well, ideally) hands, enjoying the warm, gooey feel between your fingers. Be in a happy, relaxed mood at this time, and do not equate this in your mind to bashing somebody to a pulp.
3. Once the potatoes are properly mashed, grab a nearby knife while husband watches nervously. Don't bother to wash your hands at this point as you will need to get them into the potatoes again. Use the now mash-potatoed-knife to expertly and vigorously chop one large onion into teeny tiny pieces, all the while not imagining cutting an annoying colleague to bits.
4. Add the chopped onions to the mashed potatoes and energetically use your fingers to massage them into a nice paste. Add a spoon of salt and two spoons of red chilli powder to this mix and continue to pound away, while not bitching about office politics to your husband at all. Do not choose this moment to remove your hair from your eye, thereby getting chilli powder into your eye and running around screaming until you find a tap.
5. Through watery eyes, if your eyes happen to be watery at this time for any reason, cast a withering look at your concerned, hovering husband and ask him coldly 'Who's going to prepare the besan?'. Watch him mix the besan, water and a pinch of salt to a fine consistency. As your eyes stop burning, feel better about life and therefore do not nag him about the besan mix being too thin and too thick alternately.
6. Heat some oil in a pan and watch it blankly for a while. Then ask your husband 'Who's going to slice the bread?'. Watch him cut the bread into neat pieces. Do not snap at him when he asks you if it should be cut into triangles or rectangles. Just say 'Rectangles' quietly ( You can also choose triangles if you're in that kind of mood).
7. You are now ready for the final act! Put your tasty alu-masala-mix in between the bread slices, trying not to 'sample' too much of it while doing so as this is going to give you a stomach-ache later. Since you have dirtied your hands enough, ask your husband to take over at this stage. Watch him dip the stuffed bread slices into the besan and gently drop them into the heated oil. His hands are all messy with the besan and soon, so is the ladle he is using to fry the bread-pakodas, and also the entire stove area. Do not reprimand him for strewing all the extra fried bits and pieces merrily all around the kitchen instead of into one plate.
8. Prepare the roti-dabba with napkins so that the husband can deftly drop the golden, delicious looking treats into the same, where they will remain hot and tasty until the tea is ready. Remember the tea at this point. Since you are no longer doing anything useful, prepare the tea, using only my brand, Red Label.
9. Impatiently wait for the husband to finish making the last of the bread pakodas. Useful tip: ball up the remaining alu masala into round balls, dip them into the last of the besan and fry them into delicious kofta-type balls. Voila! 6 bread pakodas, 3 kofta-balls, 2 cups of steaming tea are ready.
Ignore the fact that your kitchen looks as though its been hit by a tornado and that your maid Zareena may either have a heart attack or quit tomorrow morning when she sees it (it's a cruel world and her occupational hazards are her concern).
10. Last step: Excitedly run to the drawing room with all the food, run back, switch off the gas, run into the drawing room again to enjoy your home-made treat. Remember to take some Maggi Hot & Sweet Tomato Chilli Ketchup (It's different), and the tea with you. Sit cross legged on your mat, enjoy the sea view and pretend you are enjoying the sea breeze too ( hey, it's hot in Mumbai and we need the AC). You will notice by this time, you have forgotten all about your stupid colleagues and you realise it's wrong to let such insignificant things bother you.
After you have enjoyed the perfect cup of tea and eaten the hot, tasty, spicy, crisp bread pakodas (1.5 nos.) and kofta (1 nos.) and your husband has devoured the rest, you lie back contentedly together like 2 over-stuffed bread pakodas - and watch a two hour special on the Birth of the Universe on National Geographic. This further helps to realize how tiny you really are, and thereby strengthen your belief that all the little things in life that get you down are even tinier, so they're just not worth it.
But the converse is not true: the little things in life that make you happy are indeed worth feeling good about.
And as you lie there half asleep, you realize you've totally spoilt your dinner for the night - but what better way could there be to do it?
Friday, May 4, 2007
Ghet Bhell Soon, Bhani
A most unfortunate incident has occurred. I feel almost bad making fun of it.
Almost.
But seriously... it is quite terrible. Vani had an accident two days back. To cut a long story short, here it is for you in bullet points. Imagine, if you will:
1. Vani travelling blissfully in Auto.
2. Auto driver deciding to turn into 'Auto-pilot'
3. Vani observing auto is now flying across the road.
4. Vani and Auto-pilot screaming 'yaaargghh' or similar
4. Auto meeting Sturdy Pole. Full stop for Auto.
5. Occupants suriving. Vani slightly better off than auto-pilot.
6. They both immediately rush to hospital ( for some reason, choosing to take another auto rather than a cab, but leave us not judge them- they have been through enough).
So the upshot of it all is that Vani has been advised bed rest and has been hobbling around at home. Fans of Vani, who have got to know and love her through this blog, will be glad to know that she is recovering well.
When her boss Tarun (who is based in Bangkok) heard about the accident, he was quite concerned, naturally. To show this concern through a simple gesture, he sent me a message to ask me to send her flowers on behalf of the entire team.
I told him, no problem, and passed this task on to our (Vani's and mine) secretary Raman.
Raman needs to be understood a bit more. He is around one hundred years old and due for retirement anyday now. A soft hearted old man with a gruff exterior, he is terribly underworked because Vani and I travel a lot and work out of a different office on most days. So he usually appreciates the one or two projects given to him, making a mountain out of every possible molehill.
Me ( breezing into office): Hi Raman
Raman (gruffly): Hi
Me: Raman, Vani's had an accident - did you know?
Raman (expression showing a strange mix of disgust and concern): Noh, I diddan knowh.
Me: Well, anyway, Tarun has asked that we send her some nice flowers at home. Can you please arrange them?
Raman ( steely determination entering watery eyes): Yah. I can sand it.
Me: Great. Make it out to say 'Vani, Get Well Soon - from the Team. Regards, Tarun'
Raman (having done with me, rudely turns his back): OK.
I proceed with my work, only interrupted once by Raman.
Raman (sneaking up behind me and booming in my ear): Sand it to harr homm?
Me: Yes, please. You know her address, right?
Raman (disgusted at the question): Hobviously I knowh Bhani's haddress.
Me: Ok. When will it reach her?
Raman: Bhy twalve.
Sure enough, by twelve thirty, I got a call from Tarun who had obviously been thanked by Vani for the flowers - he thanked me for the 'quick action' and insisted on finding out how much it cost so that he could reimburse me. I assured him it was done through Raman at the office and therefore, not an issue. I, in turn, thanked Raman for the 'quick action' who grumbled back at me, pleased.
The thought of having brought a smile to poor battered Vani's face brought a warm glow over all of us. I could imagine her delight and surprise at unexpectedly receiving a huge,lovely bunch of blooming flowers. I was personally touched by our collective thoughtfulness.
Now, the actual flower delivery as I discovered after conversation with Vani. Bullet point version:
1. Vani, having resolved to work from home, sleeping between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.
2. 12 noon, calls on Vani's mobiles starting. Confused courier chap confounded by Raman's directions ( 'Haddress is A-5..mast be phipth phloor only')
3. Courier chap finally reaches Vani's house. Ringing bell.
4. Irritated Vani slams open door. Courier chap thrusts flowers into her face.
5. Flowers consist of approximately 4 dilapidated roses and 4 other unidentifiable flowers, dying in their tight plastic shroud. Vani recoils at stink and thrusts them back into courier chap's face.
6. Vani finally reluctantly accepts flowers are for her and takes them from man.
7. Vani discovers who is responsible for these pathetic posies- a dirty pink envelope contains (apart from wrong address) 'From Tarun and Team. Item: Mixed Flower bunch'
I went over to see her in the evening and discovered this horrifying Mixed Flower Bunch. Cursing Raman, I remembered that his constant endeavour, his personal life mission, is to save every possible rupee for the company - so he must have ferretted around for the cheapest option in town. (In fact, now I think I have seen similar flowers in the gardens near our office ... and he did disappear for half an hour that morning...). I shuddered at the thought of having to tell Tarun, 'Boss, you owe me Rs. 20 for the mixed flower bunch..'
Anyway, Vani and I did have a good laugh about it. And Raman and Tarun are probably still basking in that warm glow. So everybody's happy.
(Please admire the picture of the flowers, courtesy Vani. My first techno-savvy attempt at uploading pictures.)
Almost.
But seriously... it is quite terrible. Vani had an accident two days back. To cut a long story short, here it is for you in bullet points. Imagine, if you will:
1. Vani travelling blissfully in Auto.
2. Auto driver deciding to turn into 'Auto-pilot'
3. Vani observing auto is now flying across the road.
4. Vani and Auto-pilot screaming 'yaaargghh' or similar
4. Auto meeting Sturdy Pole. Full stop for Auto.
5. Occupants suriving. Vani slightly better off than auto-pilot.
6. They both immediately rush to hospital ( for some reason, choosing to take another auto rather than a cab, but leave us not judge them- they have been through enough).
So the upshot of it all is that Vani has been advised bed rest and has been hobbling around at home. Fans of Vani, who have got to know and love her through this blog, will be glad to know that she is recovering well.
When her boss Tarun (who is based in Bangkok) heard about the accident, he was quite concerned, naturally. To show this concern through a simple gesture, he sent me a message to ask me to send her flowers on behalf of the entire team.
I told him, no problem, and passed this task on to our (Vani's and mine) secretary Raman.
Raman needs to be understood a bit more. He is around one hundred years old and due for retirement anyday now. A soft hearted old man with a gruff exterior, he is terribly underworked because Vani and I travel a lot and work out of a different office on most days. So he usually appreciates the one or two projects given to him, making a mountain out of every possible molehill.
Me ( breezing into office): Hi Raman
Raman (gruffly): Hi
Me: Raman, Vani's had an accident - did you know?
Raman (expression showing a strange mix of disgust and concern): Noh, I diddan knowh.
Me: Well, anyway, Tarun has asked that we send her some nice flowers at home. Can you please arrange them?
Raman ( steely determination entering watery eyes): Yah. I can sand it.
Me: Great. Make it out to say 'Vani, Get Well Soon - from the Team. Regards, Tarun'
Raman (having done with me, rudely turns his back): OK.
I proceed with my work, only interrupted once by Raman.
Raman (sneaking up behind me and booming in my ear): Sand it to harr homm?
Me: Yes, please. You know her address, right?
Raman (disgusted at the question): Hobviously I knowh Bhani's haddress.
Me: Ok. When will it reach her?
Raman: Bhy twalve.
Sure enough, by twelve thirty, I got a call from Tarun who had obviously been thanked by Vani for the flowers - he thanked me for the 'quick action' and insisted on finding out how much it cost so that he could reimburse me. I assured him it was done through Raman at the office and therefore, not an issue. I, in turn, thanked Raman for the 'quick action' who grumbled back at me, pleased.
The thought of having brought a smile to poor battered Vani's face brought a warm glow over all of us. I could imagine her delight and surprise at unexpectedly receiving a huge,lovely bunch of blooming flowers. I was personally touched by our collective thoughtfulness.
Now, the actual flower delivery as I discovered after conversation with Vani. Bullet point version:
1. Vani, having resolved to work from home, sleeping between 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.
2. 12 noon, calls on Vani's mobiles starting. Confused courier chap confounded by Raman's directions ( 'Haddress is A-5..mast be phipth phloor only')
3. Courier chap finally reaches Vani's house. Ringing bell.
4. Irritated Vani slams open door. Courier chap thrusts flowers into her face.
5. Flowers consist of approximately 4 dilapidated roses and 4 other unidentifiable flowers, dying in their tight plastic shroud. Vani recoils at stink and thrusts them back into courier chap's face.
6. Vani finally reluctantly accepts flowers are for her and takes them from man.
7. Vani discovers who is responsible for these pathetic posies- a dirty pink envelope contains (apart from wrong address) 'From Tarun and Team. Item: Mixed Flower bunch'
I went over to see her in the evening and discovered this horrifying Mixed Flower Bunch. Cursing Raman, I remembered that his constant endeavour, his personal life mission, is to save every possible rupee for the company - so he must have ferretted around for the cheapest option in town. (In fact, now I think I have seen similar flowers in the gardens near our office ... and he did disappear for half an hour that morning...). I shuddered at the thought of having to tell Tarun, 'Boss, you owe me Rs. 20 for the mixed flower bunch..'
Anyway, Vani and I did have a good laugh about it. And Raman and Tarun are probably still basking in that warm glow. So everybody's happy.
(Please admire the picture of the flowers, courtesy Vani. My first techno-savvy attempt at uploading pictures.)
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Let's all go jump in the lake!
A couple of weeks ago, Vani and I, along with our husbands, spontaneously decided to run away from Bombay for the weekend. Pranay, Vani's husband was the insistent one and his enthusiasm was too contagious to resist - so, one minute, the four of us were enjoying a leisurely late Saturday lunch at this nice restaurant called 'Out of the Blue' and then suddenly, out of the blue, we were out of 'Out of the Blue' (sorry, I just had to try this sentence out) and speeding along the highway towards our destination, Wapi.
Why Wapi, you may ask? And pretty soon, so were we. On the spur of the moment, we had decided the place needed to be just a couple of hours away, and further, should ideally contain someone who can help us with arrangements - this turned out to be a Commissioner friend of Vijay's, fondly referred to as Commissioner D'melo. So there we were, finding ourselves suddenly in a dusty little industrial town, with strange smells emanating from factories, seemingly situated few feet apart.
However, D'Melo and wife proved to be delightful dinner company on the evening that we landed there, despite their disastrously naughty little son (who spent most of the evening indiscriminately pouring salt and pepper onto everything in the restaurant that he could access, including the water fountain). It was due to the D'Melo's that we found out that we should not head to the beaches nearby but instead should head to a lake called Dudhni near Silvassa - an untapped paradise lake hidden away in the midst of some hills.
We agreed to wake up early the next morning. My suggestion that we wake up to see the sunrise was quashed by Vani's cunning comment 'But how can we see the sunrise? We are in the west and the sun rises in the east!'. We all had a hearty laugh until we saw the set look on her face. There was a respectful moment of silence that ensued and then we gently asked her to clarify that she was indeed joking. This turned out to be a false assumption on our part, to which she took obvious offense. She stubbornly repeated her argument. We tried to convince her that in order to see the sunrise, all one had to do was look east, but she wasn't buying it at all. When we tried a different line of logic which was 'How then, Vani, does the sun appear in the sky during the day?', she just replied firmly 'It's just there. But you can never see it rise'.
That's when I realized how seldom we actually perceive the dangers we face due to keeping the company of ubiquitious loony tunes that surround us (to remain unnamed). Everyday, in every part of the world, someone teeters close to the precipice of insanity - one step and that's it for them. I was tempted to suggest that it was perhaps because Vani herself does not rise before 10 a.m. that she has never seen the sun rise in Bombay, but kept silent for fear of being hacked to death in the night. So we all just decided to bury the argument and go to sleep.
The next morning we arose to set out - approximately three hours post the planned time, and yes, the sun was already high like a pie in the sky - Vani gave us all a catlike smile and smugly said 'See..?'. And soon we were on our way to Dudhni.
Dudhni turned out to be a truly amazing spot - our first glimpse of it as we were driving along the hilly path leading down to it sent us into raptures. A crystal clear, huge lake with picturesque islands scattered around thoughtfully - we sped downwards to the shore of the lake where there was our saviour of the day: a restaurant to have breakfast at.
While stuffing our faces at the restaurant, I also realized that Pranay can definitely match his wife in looniness. He ordered a cold beer with his breakfast of utthapam which is strange enough; but was also tempted by the promise of fresh orange juice so he ordered that too; and then, thought he felt that a cup of spicy masala chai was just the thing for him, so went for that as well. When all three of them arrived at the same time, he looked thoroughly confused and helpless. When I offered to drink his tea for him, he looked relieved for a minute; but then his face lapsed into thoughtfulness, 'Do you think I should order a lassi? I feel like a lassi'.
Luckily for him, before the rest of us could turn him into some sort of pulpy liquid, we were distracted by the sight of boats gleaming in the sunlight, inviting us to explore the lake in all its glory.
We went out on a huge speedboat, built to seat thirty people, but containing only the four of us and the boatman since it apparently was off-season time. It was a thoroughly enjoyable hour, but it actually just left us hungry for more of the lake. The water looked so pure and inviting, the day was so hot, and we had been smart enough to pack our swimsuits - so we decided to just go swimming!
A suitably innocent-looking boatboy was found by the husbands and recruited to take us to an isolated spot - we paddled out there in his small, fortunately shaded boat, and within half an hour were at our designated spot - a nice little island-type piece of land.
The lunacy that was then displayed by Pranay was of an order that had to be seen to be believed. He was the only one amongst the four of us who could not swim, so had equipped himself with a life jacket ( the boatboy was well prepared for all contingencies). This by itself is not an issue - life jackets for those who cannot swim, make perfect sense. But life jackets worn right upto your chin in a manner that make you look like a trussed-up turkey, coupled with a last minute decision whereby you refuse to take the floaters off your feet, when entering a lake - well, let's just say that this does make for a strange sight. He did kindly agree to take off his spectacles, though, so that's something.
Once he entered the water, all was fine for a bit and the four of us floated around in perfect bliss in the clear water under the midday sun. Until Pranay suddenly decided that he was drowning and started thrashing around in all directions, screaming for help - only to discover that he had unknowingly floated back to the shore and was now in knee-deep water. 'Yeh Kya hai, yaar!' was his disgusted response as he rose up like a six-foot hill and trudged back into deeper waters.
The next outburst was 'Oh, my floater - I think I've lost one of my floaters'. By this time, the rest of us were too weak with laughter to respond.
After this, he was convinced that he had finally met his death and was being attacked by a crocodile or a shark or some such aquatic monster. 'What's that', he screamed, 'I felt something on my leg'. We waited bemusedly - before deciding to swim, we had naturally checked for the presence of aquatic monsters in the lake and were not unduly worried. Soon enough, he was explaining 'It was my life jacket strap', as we struggled to keep our heads above water, while laughing hard at him.
So there we were - the four of us in our own corner of the huge lake. Vijay darting back and forth in the deeper waters like a slim, brown fish. Vani soaking up the sun, floating on her back, occasionally glancing casually over to see whether Pranay was still afloat. Pranay, again slowly drifting back towards the shore with a resigned, fairly peaceful, trussed-up turkey look. And me, too lazy to actually swim, hanging on to that round, floating device whose name escapes me at this moment.
At one point Vani came up to me and without asking, caught hold of the round floating device (what the hell is that thing called?) - and we were both hung on to it peacefully. The water felt delicious and I remarked to her that I had felt a sudden pleasant gush of a warm current running through my legs, in the cool water, and asked her if she had felt it too. And that's when I caught a glimpse of her slightly guilty face and remembered when we were changing into our suits in the ladies room, she had refused to go to the loo one last time, announcing gaily and with her typical, unnecessary candour 'My next pee will be in the lake'. Putting two and two together with my usual alacrity, I confronted her, demanding to know whether she had just peed on me but she began to deny it vociferously. I still don't know if she did it - but nevertheless one day, I will get my revenge.
We spent over an hour thus floating, laughing, slowly turning black under the hot sun, and building up massive appetites in that beautiful, cool lake. And then it was back on the boat, back to the restaurant for a hearty lunch and ice cream - and sadly, back on our way to maddening Mumbai.
By the time we got home at night, we were physically exhausted - but the overall thrill of the getaway still intact. And I really feel if all weekends were like this, maybe I could actually get through the rest of the week - and life would be pretty darn good.
Sigh.
Why Wapi, you may ask? And pretty soon, so were we. On the spur of the moment, we had decided the place needed to be just a couple of hours away, and further, should ideally contain someone who can help us with arrangements - this turned out to be a Commissioner friend of Vijay's, fondly referred to as Commissioner D'melo. So there we were, finding ourselves suddenly in a dusty little industrial town, with strange smells emanating from factories, seemingly situated few feet apart.
However, D'Melo and wife proved to be delightful dinner company on the evening that we landed there, despite their disastrously naughty little son (who spent most of the evening indiscriminately pouring salt and pepper onto everything in the restaurant that he could access, including the water fountain). It was due to the D'Melo's that we found out that we should not head to the beaches nearby but instead should head to a lake called Dudhni near Silvassa - an untapped paradise lake hidden away in the midst of some hills.
We agreed to wake up early the next morning. My suggestion that we wake up to see the sunrise was quashed by Vani's cunning comment 'But how can we see the sunrise? We are in the west and the sun rises in the east!'. We all had a hearty laugh until we saw the set look on her face. There was a respectful moment of silence that ensued and then we gently asked her to clarify that she was indeed joking. This turned out to be a false assumption on our part, to which she took obvious offense. She stubbornly repeated her argument. We tried to convince her that in order to see the sunrise, all one had to do was look east, but she wasn't buying it at all. When we tried a different line of logic which was 'How then, Vani, does the sun appear in the sky during the day?', she just replied firmly 'It's just there. But you can never see it rise'.
That's when I realized how seldom we actually perceive the dangers we face due to keeping the company of ubiquitious loony tunes that surround us (to remain unnamed). Everyday, in every part of the world, someone teeters close to the precipice of insanity - one step and that's it for them. I was tempted to suggest that it was perhaps because Vani herself does not rise before 10 a.m. that she has never seen the sun rise in Bombay, but kept silent for fear of being hacked to death in the night. So we all just decided to bury the argument and go to sleep.
The next morning we arose to set out - approximately three hours post the planned time, and yes, the sun was already high like a pie in the sky - Vani gave us all a catlike smile and smugly said 'See..?'. And soon we were on our way to Dudhni.
Dudhni turned out to be a truly amazing spot - our first glimpse of it as we were driving along the hilly path leading down to it sent us into raptures. A crystal clear, huge lake with picturesque islands scattered around thoughtfully - we sped downwards to the shore of the lake where there was our saviour of the day: a restaurant to have breakfast at.
While stuffing our faces at the restaurant, I also realized that Pranay can definitely match his wife in looniness. He ordered a cold beer with his breakfast of utthapam which is strange enough; but was also tempted by the promise of fresh orange juice so he ordered that too; and then, thought he felt that a cup of spicy masala chai was just the thing for him, so went for that as well. When all three of them arrived at the same time, he looked thoroughly confused and helpless. When I offered to drink his tea for him, he looked relieved for a minute; but then his face lapsed into thoughtfulness, 'Do you think I should order a lassi? I feel like a lassi'.
Luckily for him, before the rest of us could turn him into some sort of pulpy liquid, we were distracted by the sight of boats gleaming in the sunlight, inviting us to explore the lake in all its glory.
We went out on a huge speedboat, built to seat thirty people, but containing only the four of us and the boatman since it apparently was off-season time. It was a thoroughly enjoyable hour, but it actually just left us hungry for more of the lake. The water looked so pure and inviting, the day was so hot, and we had been smart enough to pack our swimsuits - so we decided to just go swimming!
A suitably innocent-looking boatboy was found by the husbands and recruited to take us to an isolated spot - we paddled out there in his small, fortunately shaded boat, and within half an hour were at our designated spot - a nice little island-type piece of land.
The lunacy that was then displayed by Pranay was of an order that had to be seen to be believed. He was the only one amongst the four of us who could not swim, so had equipped himself with a life jacket ( the boatboy was well prepared for all contingencies). This by itself is not an issue - life jackets for those who cannot swim, make perfect sense. But life jackets worn right upto your chin in a manner that make you look like a trussed-up turkey, coupled with a last minute decision whereby you refuse to take the floaters off your feet, when entering a lake - well, let's just say that this does make for a strange sight. He did kindly agree to take off his spectacles, though, so that's something.
Once he entered the water, all was fine for a bit and the four of us floated around in perfect bliss in the clear water under the midday sun. Until Pranay suddenly decided that he was drowning and started thrashing around in all directions, screaming for help - only to discover that he had unknowingly floated back to the shore and was now in knee-deep water. 'Yeh Kya hai, yaar!' was his disgusted response as he rose up like a six-foot hill and trudged back into deeper waters.
The next outburst was 'Oh, my floater - I think I've lost one of my floaters'. By this time, the rest of us were too weak with laughter to respond.
After this, he was convinced that he had finally met his death and was being attacked by a crocodile or a shark or some such aquatic monster. 'What's that', he screamed, 'I felt something on my leg'. We waited bemusedly - before deciding to swim, we had naturally checked for the presence of aquatic monsters in the lake and were not unduly worried. Soon enough, he was explaining 'It was my life jacket strap', as we struggled to keep our heads above water, while laughing hard at him.
So there we were - the four of us in our own corner of the huge lake. Vijay darting back and forth in the deeper waters like a slim, brown fish. Vani soaking up the sun, floating on her back, occasionally glancing casually over to see whether Pranay was still afloat. Pranay, again slowly drifting back towards the shore with a resigned, fairly peaceful, trussed-up turkey look. And me, too lazy to actually swim, hanging on to that round, floating device whose name escapes me at this moment.
At one point Vani came up to me and without asking, caught hold of the round floating device (what the hell is that thing called?) - and we were both hung on to it peacefully. The water felt delicious and I remarked to her that I had felt a sudden pleasant gush of a warm current running through my legs, in the cool water, and asked her if she had felt it too. And that's when I caught a glimpse of her slightly guilty face and remembered when we were changing into our suits in the ladies room, she had refused to go to the loo one last time, announcing gaily and with her typical, unnecessary candour 'My next pee will be in the lake'. Putting two and two together with my usual alacrity, I confronted her, demanding to know whether she had just peed on me but she began to deny it vociferously. I still don't know if she did it - but nevertheless one day, I will get my revenge.
We spent over an hour thus floating, laughing, slowly turning black under the hot sun, and building up massive appetites in that beautiful, cool lake. And then it was back on the boat, back to the restaurant for a hearty lunch and ice cream - and sadly, back on our way to maddening Mumbai.
By the time we got home at night, we were physically exhausted - but the overall thrill of the getaway still intact. And I really feel if all weekends were like this, maybe I could actually get through the rest of the week - and life would be pretty darn good.
Sigh.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
They're here! The Mangoes are here!
Aah, the mango. Has there ever been such a sublime fruit?
Mangoes are my absolute favourite. They are so versatile. You can have kachha mangoes with salt and chilli that make your face scrunch up all squinty-eyed - or scoop out the sweet parts of the side pieces with a spoon - or cut them into long, elegant slices - or abandon all elegance and make a little hole at the top, and squeeze the pulp out straight into your mouth like a happy little monkey.
On the weekend, I was walking with my husband to the market (how domestic), and we came across a dilapidated fruit shop with boxes of alphonso mangoes and a 'For Sale- Mangoes' sign. How ultimately delightful, I thought - I was just in the mood for mangoes, having recovered from a bad stomach infection that had made everything taste like cardboard.
We approached the shop hopefully, and started picking up fruit randomly. I asked the price of the mangoes, and the man muttered something that sounded like 'thousand rupees'. I nodded wisely and waited for my ears to clear up and asked again. But he repeated 'thousand rupees'. I examined the box. It had a dozen pieces in it. I clarified 'A thousand?'. He nodded. I said 'For a dozen?'. He said yes. I said 'Achha' and wilted.
Vijay had been on the phone during this exchange, and he got off it and said 'What about the mangoes?' in a businesslike fashion. I whispered to him 'The man is saying one thousand'. Vijay sprang backwards and said 'What?' in the manner of the outraged consumer. He turned towards the man 'Bhaiyya? Ek hazaar?'. The man said yes. ' Ek hazaar, ek durzon ke liye?' The man nodded. Vijay bubbled over with indignation and sputtered 'Sone ka bana hai kya'? The man's lips tightened into a fake smile at my husband's razor sharp wit. However, he refused to lower the price, so we left disappointed.
We soon chanced upon an even smaller, more dilapidated shop where the rate was Rs.600 for a dozen. Vijay immediately blurted to this new man 'But that shop over there is charging Rs.1000'. The new man swallowed his emotion and shrugged non-commitally. I looked aghast at Vijay wondering what kind of new bargaining style this was. After some dillying followed by some dallying, we decided to try our luck and asked for just two pieces. The new man protested loudly but eventually, he grudgingly parted with two for a hundred. We walked back with our booty, Vijay holding all the other fruit ( melons, bananas, apples, oranges, etc) in bulging large packets, while I carried just the two small mangoes gingerly.
In the evening after dinner, I cut the mangoes into small pieces, careful not to waste even a bit of the pulp, and we ate them (okay, I ate most of them) with vanilla ice cream. And Oh, they were Heavenly! They were dark yellow, with a melt-in-the-mouth sweetness beyond description. The most perfect dessert ever, and worth every paise, according to me. I went to bed happy that day.
But the mangoes were over.
The next day, we found ourselves outside the second, smaller shop again. Vijay jauntily asked the man 'Aaj kya rate hai, bhaiyya?'. The man replied equally jauntily 'Aaj to sasta hai. 600 rupaiye durzon'. Vijay did a double take ' par yeh hi to kal ka rate tha...'. The man also did a double take, and recoiled as he recognized us 'Oh. Aap! Haan, ek din mein kaisa girega, saab?' He turned his attention to me as I gazed longingly at the mangoes 'Par meetha tha na, Madam?'. I blushed and muttered yes ( I really don't know why I am so coy about mangoes, it's really inexplicably weird). He continued hopefully 'Pack kar du aur?' I nodded assent and he said 'Ek pethi ya doh?'. I said 'Doh'. He beamed for an instant but I clarified quickly 'Doh piece'. He was aghast 'Doh piece? Phirse?'. But then, he noted the steely determination in our eyes and said weakly 'Teen to leh lo'. We took pity on him and bought three for Rs. 150.
The next day, Zareena ruined one of the precious three by cutting it up for us and leaving it in the fridge the whole day and it got all brown and rotty-looking. But in the evening, I salvaged the remaining two with the vanilla ice cream and we enjoyed the sweet sublime perfection again.
If I had known that I would feel this way about mangoes at this point of time, I would have eaten a lot more in those summer days of my childhood. I would have climbed more mango trees. Would have picked more mangoes from those trees. And maybe, would have thrown fewer at my brother and sister, too.
The thing is, I don't know how long I can keep doing this fake-nonchalant 'doh piece dena, bhaiyya' thing - I really hope the prices come down soon. But I have now made up my mind, and I intend to eat a LOT of mangoes this summer season. It just strikes me as one of those things that make this life worth living.
The prices will come down soon.
And I will be waiting.
Mangoes are my absolute favourite. They are so versatile. You can have kachha mangoes with salt and chilli that make your face scrunch up all squinty-eyed - or scoop out the sweet parts of the side pieces with a spoon - or cut them into long, elegant slices - or abandon all elegance and make a little hole at the top, and squeeze the pulp out straight into your mouth like a happy little monkey.
On the weekend, I was walking with my husband to the market (how domestic), and we came across a dilapidated fruit shop with boxes of alphonso mangoes and a 'For Sale- Mangoes' sign. How ultimately delightful, I thought - I was just in the mood for mangoes, having recovered from a bad stomach infection that had made everything taste like cardboard.
We approached the shop hopefully, and started picking up fruit randomly. I asked the price of the mangoes, and the man muttered something that sounded like 'thousand rupees'. I nodded wisely and waited for my ears to clear up and asked again. But he repeated 'thousand rupees'. I examined the box. It had a dozen pieces in it. I clarified 'A thousand?'. He nodded. I said 'For a dozen?'. He said yes. I said 'Achha' and wilted.
Vijay had been on the phone during this exchange, and he got off it and said 'What about the mangoes?' in a businesslike fashion. I whispered to him 'The man is saying one thousand'. Vijay sprang backwards and said 'What?' in the manner of the outraged consumer. He turned towards the man 'Bhaiyya? Ek hazaar?'. The man said yes. ' Ek hazaar, ek durzon ke liye?' The man nodded. Vijay bubbled over with indignation and sputtered 'Sone ka bana hai kya'? The man's lips tightened into a fake smile at my husband's razor sharp wit. However, he refused to lower the price, so we left disappointed.
We soon chanced upon an even smaller, more dilapidated shop where the rate was Rs.600 for a dozen. Vijay immediately blurted to this new man 'But that shop over there is charging Rs.1000'. The new man swallowed his emotion and shrugged non-commitally. I looked aghast at Vijay wondering what kind of new bargaining style this was. After some dillying followed by some dallying, we decided to try our luck and asked for just two pieces. The new man protested loudly but eventually, he grudgingly parted with two for a hundred. We walked back with our booty, Vijay holding all the other fruit ( melons, bananas, apples, oranges, etc) in bulging large packets, while I carried just the two small mangoes gingerly.
In the evening after dinner, I cut the mangoes into small pieces, careful not to waste even a bit of the pulp, and we ate them (okay, I ate most of them) with vanilla ice cream. And Oh, they were Heavenly! They were dark yellow, with a melt-in-the-mouth sweetness beyond description. The most perfect dessert ever, and worth every paise, according to me. I went to bed happy that day.
But the mangoes were over.
The next day, we found ourselves outside the second, smaller shop again. Vijay jauntily asked the man 'Aaj kya rate hai, bhaiyya?'. The man replied equally jauntily 'Aaj to sasta hai. 600 rupaiye durzon'. Vijay did a double take ' par yeh hi to kal ka rate tha...'. The man also did a double take, and recoiled as he recognized us 'Oh. Aap! Haan, ek din mein kaisa girega, saab?' He turned his attention to me as I gazed longingly at the mangoes 'Par meetha tha na, Madam?'. I blushed and muttered yes ( I really don't know why I am so coy about mangoes, it's really inexplicably weird). He continued hopefully 'Pack kar du aur?' I nodded assent and he said 'Ek pethi ya doh?'. I said 'Doh'. He beamed for an instant but I clarified quickly 'Doh piece'. He was aghast 'Doh piece? Phirse?'. But then, he noted the steely determination in our eyes and said weakly 'Teen to leh lo'. We took pity on him and bought three for Rs. 150.
The next day, Zareena ruined one of the precious three by cutting it up for us and leaving it in the fridge the whole day and it got all brown and rotty-looking. But in the evening, I salvaged the remaining two with the vanilla ice cream and we enjoyed the sweet sublime perfection again.
If I had known that I would feel this way about mangoes at this point of time, I would have eaten a lot more in those summer days of my childhood. I would have climbed more mango trees. Would have picked more mangoes from those trees. And maybe, would have thrown fewer at my brother and sister, too.
The thing is, I don't know how long I can keep doing this fake-nonchalant 'doh piece dena, bhaiyya' thing - I really hope the prices come down soon. But I have now made up my mind, and I intend to eat a LOT of mangoes this summer season. It just strikes me as one of those things that make this life worth living.
The prices will come down soon.
And I will be waiting.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Ooh - I just love that pink!
Last week, my friend Vani sent out a characteristically strange and flourishy email announcing her decision to hold 'Mural making' art classes. She felt it was time to let loose her more creative side, as a weekend release from the corporate grind, and unleash it upon us lesser mortals. After threatening that she was very expensive and that there would be no discounts for so-called 'friends', she managed to get three confirmations for her first class. She had invited around 200 people but seemed happy at the 'positive response'.
I was one of the three and felt, rather enthusiastically, that this was my chance to rediscover my own creative side. I have always borne a grudge against my art teacher in school, with whom I had to part ways after I apparently 'indisciplined' with him. You wouldn't blame me, if you knew how irritating it was to have a bearded old crony pop up at your shoulder every time you were trying to paint a tree (the only form you could manage), to ask you in a quavering emotional voice 'So what do you want to be when you grow up?'. After changing my answer every class, three times, I lost it and finally told him 'A Woodcutter', which was the only thing that occured to me while painting a tree. After lecture that ensued from behind that quavering beard, I walked out in a huff, never to return or to paint again.
Until Vani, of course. Of course, I had very serious doubts about the whole affair when she sent a subsequent email announcing that the name of the classes would be 'Vani's Arty Tarties' ( I had loudly appealed to get her to change it, but without success), and these would begin at the unearthly hour of 9 a.m. on a Saturday. But my adventurous side prevailed and I went along to her place this morning.
I discovered that the only other student Vani had was Harman, as the third student had got cold feet and needed one more week to 'mentally prepare'. Little Harman had landed up on time, an hour before me, and was sitting on a cushion in the balcony, finishing a colorful painting consisting mostly of large blue stars. She was very proud of it and Vani was quite encouraging. She said 'Oh, I love the fact that there is absolutely no logic to your painting... It doesn't matter that it is daytime and that there are stars in the sky, on the ground....Very nice'. I personally felt that this was a disguised barb but Harman beamed and refused to do any more after that. Vani tried hard to get her to paint something else, but by this time, she had lost interest and preferred to talk on her phone and generally flip through a few art books. 'I am absorbing this', she explained, while listlessly turning the pages and throwing the books aside, one by one. She finally came across one she liked and said to me 'Look, Yash-this 'Nude in Sunlight'. See the way the sunlight is playing over her? Fantastic. She looks like...like...a ...nude ...in sunlight'. I agreed, because it was indeed a penetratingly accurate observation.
In the meantime, my own 'painting' was getting done. I had announced at the beginning that it would be a gift for my husband and there was a sigh of 'so sweet!' from both of them. When I told her that it would have a window as a main theme, Vani thought it was a great idea. But after talking about it for half an hour, I found I was still staring blankly at a blank sheet of paper. Some encouragement led me to make the first stroke and I began to draw a window. Vani panicked when she saw me draw two straight lines and said quickly opened one of her books to show me 'Look at this, Yash, look - some artists actually use abstraction to represent forms - see this bed here? No straight lines..and here, this one looks like an impression of the outside and inside, without there being a physical window'. I glanced at it and realised that this was her kind but vaguely pathetic attempt at hinting that I clearly sucked. I hesistantly began to start on a fresh sheet of paper, but she must have sensed my disappointment because she then asked me to continue with what I had started. So I happily painted away for the next hour.
Vani's husband, Pranay, who had been despatched to buy vegetables to stay out of her way, returned presently. He said hi from afar and then came up to observe what Harman and I were doing. He recoiled a bit when he saw our creations and then said the only sensible thing 'Wow! It's a real riot of colours out here!' and then retreated hastily, and stayed far away for the rest of the time.
Mostly, Vani pretty much let us do our own thing, saying we were both very creative, and she didn't really have to do anything, and these classes were easier than she thought. Then came the matter of remuneration. When she named her asking price, Harman and I scoffed loudly, reminded her of how creative we were and how she was not doing anything really, and unkindly added that we might as well buy fabulous professional paintings for that much. A bit crestfallen, she reduced her price and without much more bargaining, we agreed. I personally feel it is important to encourage these young folks when they are starting out on new ventures.
Towards the end, Harman announced 'I have decided I can only do abstract' and Vani assured her that it was more difficult to be abstract than to have forms to play with. She then gave us a long list of materials to buy for the 'Actual Murals' - I was a bit disappointed to learn that today's attempt was only a rough version and the actual would be much larger and using a variety of different materials (outside of crayon and poster colours that were so comfortable to use). But I hid my feelings well, and agreed that a 3*3 feet board would probably be more impactful than a crumpled, stained chart paper as a 'mural'. I was further reassured I was a creative genius by Vani exclaiming 'How did you get that wonderful shade of Pink over there, Yash?'. My doubtful response of 'I mixed the red and white together?' met with a serious, silent nod and then a round of uncontrollable giggles.
So the two of us left with promises of returning next week, and happy with the illusion that we can now paint. And Vani, simply by virtue of having created that illusion successfully, earned every bit of the ridiculous price she is charging us.
It's kind of nice when everybody's a winner.
And it really was a pretty shade of pink.
I was one of the three and felt, rather enthusiastically, that this was my chance to rediscover my own creative side. I have always borne a grudge against my art teacher in school, with whom I had to part ways after I apparently 'indisciplined' with him. You wouldn't blame me, if you knew how irritating it was to have a bearded old crony pop up at your shoulder every time you were trying to paint a tree (the only form you could manage), to ask you in a quavering emotional voice 'So what do you want to be when you grow up?'. After changing my answer every class, three times, I lost it and finally told him 'A Woodcutter', which was the only thing that occured to me while painting a tree. After lecture that ensued from behind that quavering beard, I walked out in a huff, never to return or to paint again.
Until Vani, of course. Of course, I had very serious doubts about the whole affair when she sent a subsequent email announcing that the name of the classes would be 'Vani's Arty Tarties' ( I had loudly appealed to get her to change it, but without success), and these would begin at the unearthly hour of 9 a.m. on a Saturday. But my adventurous side prevailed and I went along to her place this morning.
I discovered that the only other student Vani had was Harman, as the third student had got cold feet and needed one more week to 'mentally prepare'. Little Harman had landed up on time, an hour before me, and was sitting on a cushion in the balcony, finishing a colorful painting consisting mostly of large blue stars. She was very proud of it and Vani was quite encouraging. She said 'Oh, I love the fact that there is absolutely no logic to your painting... It doesn't matter that it is daytime and that there are stars in the sky, on the ground....Very nice'. I personally felt that this was a disguised barb but Harman beamed and refused to do any more after that. Vani tried hard to get her to paint something else, but by this time, she had lost interest and preferred to talk on her phone and generally flip through a few art books. 'I am absorbing this', she explained, while listlessly turning the pages and throwing the books aside, one by one. She finally came across one she liked and said to me 'Look, Yash-this 'Nude in Sunlight'. See the way the sunlight is playing over her? Fantastic. She looks like...like...a ...nude ...in sunlight'. I agreed, because it was indeed a penetratingly accurate observation.
In the meantime, my own 'painting' was getting done. I had announced at the beginning that it would be a gift for my husband and there was a sigh of 'so sweet!' from both of them. When I told her that it would have a window as a main theme, Vani thought it was a great idea. But after talking about it for half an hour, I found I was still staring blankly at a blank sheet of paper. Some encouragement led me to make the first stroke and I began to draw a window. Vani panicked when she saw me draw two straight lines and said quickly opened one of her books to show me 'Look at this, Yash, look - some artists actually use abstraction to represent forms - see this bed here? No straight lines..and here, this one looks like an impression of the outside and inside, without there being a physical window'. I glanced at it and realised that this was her kind but vaguely pathetic attempt at hinting that I clearly sucked. I hesistantly began to start on a fresh sheet of paper, but she must have sensed my disappointment because she then asked me to continue with what I had started. So I happily painted away for the next hour.
Vani's husband, Pranay, who had been despatched to buy vegetables to stay out of her way, returned presently. He said hi from afar and then came up to observe what Harman and I were doing. He recoiled a bit when he saw our creations and then said the only sensible thing 'Wow! It's a real riot of colours out here!' and then retreated hastily, and stayed far away for the rest of the time.
Mostly, Vani pretty much let us do our own thing, saying we were both very creative, and she didn't really have to do anything, and these classes were easier than she thought. Then came the matter of remuneration. When she named her asking price, Harman and I scoffed loudly, reminded her of how creative we were and how she was not doing anything really, and unkindly added that we might as well buy fabulous professional paintings for that much. A bit crestfallen, she reduced her price and without much more bargaining, we agreed. I personally feel it is important to encourage these young folks when they are starting out on new ventures.
Towards the end, Harman announced 'I have decided I can only do abstract' and Vani assured her that it was more difficult to be abstract than to have forms to play with. She then gave us a long list of materials to buy for the 'Actual Murals' - I was a bit disappointed to learn that today's attempt was only a rough version and the actual would be much larger and using a variety of different materials (outside of crayon and poster colours that were so comfortable to use). But I hid my feelings well, and agreed that a 3*3 feet board would probably be more impactful than a crumpled, stained chart paper as a 'mural'. I was further reassured I was a creative genius by Vani exclaiming 'How did you get that wonderful shade of Pink over there, Yash?'. My doubtful response of 'I mixed the red and white together?' met with a serious, silent nod and then a round of uncontrollable giggles.
So the two of us left with promises of returning next week, and happy with the illusion that we can now paint. And Vani, simply by virtue of having created that illusion successfully, earned every bit of the ridiculous price she is charging us.
It's kind of nice when everybody's a winner.
And it really was a pretty shade of pink.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Can you please not shake the hall?
It is not often that I go out for movies with my friends.
And yesterday reminded me why.
After a hard day at work ( well...), we felt we deserved a little recreational entertainment. So a bunch of us decided to go for the movie 'Eklavya'.
The movie goers, in no particular order of insanity:
- Harman: Long haired girl from Chandigarh. Bubbles over continuously with unnecessary enthusiasm. Architect of the movie plan.
- Vani: Strange Indian Girl referred to in earlier posts. Possessor of most clear and penetrating voice in the world.
- Atul: Harassed, mild mannered young man. Always surrounded by powerful women and girl trainees.
- Ruchika: Girl trainee of Atul. In terms of whiny-voice-quotient, beats even Vani.
- My husband: Yet another hapless victim who got pulled along.
- Me: The heroine of the story and all-round good-gal - because I get to write it.
So off we went - Vani, my husband and I went ahead to buy the tickets, and the remaining three promised to follow in ten minutes - which stretched to twenty and caused us to miss many trailers.
Vani and I, offended, bombarded Atul with phone calls and abusive SMS's continuously.
Unbeknownst ( I love that word!) to us, Atul had been accosted, while leaving, by the Head of Sales, and was getting screamed at (What you need to understand about Atul is that it's not just the women that harass him).
Sales Head: Atul! What's happening? Sales are down, shares are down, why is this happening? What's going on? What are you doing about it? I need an immediate review of performance across categories, as well as the correction plans for the next three months. This is apalling performance and I am just not seeing enough accountability amongst the individuals in this system. Well?
Atul (desperately trying to hide buzzing phone behind his back): Uhhh...Boss! I'll talk to you tomorrow, I have to go for a movie now.
Somehow, they made it to the hall after the movie had started. And that's when the real fun began.
I was absorbed in the storyline and wondering how Amitabh can still run up stairs so fast at his age, when the other three landed up, disturbing as many people as humanly possible. They then insisted on saying Hi to each of us individually and demanded to be filled in on the story so far.
Vani obliged penetratingly, getting most of the facts wrong and leaving out the crux of the story. I gritted my teeth and kept watching.
We discovered that the new entity Ruchika, (Atul's trainee) was a talkative young woman who in fact, looked upon this little outing as a chance to socialize rather than merely paying attention to a screen. Every two minutes, there would be a comment from her in a whiny voice, which Vani would happily respond to and take to a full length conversation.
Ruchika was then admonished by the women in the seats in front of us - 'Can you please not shake your legs, my seat is shaking'. Ruchika was naturally aghast at this unfair accusation and retorted 'But the entire hall is shaking. I am not shaking the hall' and then proceeded to loudly protest her innocence every few minutes, and Vani staunchly supported her 'Of course, you were not shaking your legs - the whole hall is shaking. My seat is also shaking'. What Vani didn't realise was that at least her shaking seat was due to my sitting next to her with hands quivering with the desire to strangle the both of them.
It continued, with every tense and important scene punctuated by giggles ( at the emotional scenes), gasps of surprise (minutes after the relevant scene) and inane comments (evenly spread across scenes) from my female companions. At the interval, I cooled off in a corner with a Mangola and was restored to blissful hope that the second half would be better.
This hope was ruined around five minutes after the second half began. I was nervously sipping my drink and watching Amitabh's splendid display of distraught anger as the most key revelation of the movie was made. But the excitement of this scene seemed to make Harman, sitting at the very furthest end of the chain from me, thirsty - because she suddenly shouted in a moment of dead silence 'Hey! Thoda Mangola baccha hai kya?'. I heard her and tried to ignore it and concentrate on the scene, but this was rendered impossible by the fact that this question was then repeated equally loudly by Ruchika, and then by Vani, who turned to face me inquiringly, almost accusingly. I thrust the blasted drink into her hand, and it was passed along to thirsty Harman, who slurped it noisily, shouted 'Thanks'. The bottle ( now left with two drops in it) was then passed back along the group, accompanied by two loudly whispered explanations of 'Mangola'.
The scene was over. I sighed and settled back to more of the same. The second half was as disastrous as the first. A good movie had been ruined. And then we went home.
This experience has placed me in bit of a thoughtful dilemma. I have often gone for movies when other people have been insensitive, loud and brash. In typical style, I have never had a problem with indignantly and righteously telling them where to go. But it's never actually been my own friends who I have wanted to murder.
So perhaps I am taking movie-watching too literally as 'watching the movie'. Maybe it's not about that. Maybe it's about obtaining the DVD first, watching it alone in the peace and quiet of your own home, and then proceeding to the hall in order to loudly exclaim important dialogues a split second before the actors, or chat with your friends, and generally make a nuisance of yourself.
Yes, maybe it's time for me to adjust to a new way of experiencing movies in the hall. In the meantime, the idiot box has begun to look pretty attractive again. So it may be quite a while before I go for the next movie. But probably even longer before I drink a Mangola again.
And yesterday reminded me why.
After a hard day at work ( well...), we felt we deserved a little recreational entertainment. So a bunch of us decided to go for the movie 'Eklavya'.
The movie goers, in no particular order of insanity:
- Harman: Long haired girl from Chandigarh. Bubbles over continuously with unnecessary enthusiasm. Architect of the movie plan.
- Vani: Strange Indian Girl referred to in earlier posts. Possessor of most clear and penetrating voice in the world.
- Atul: Harassed, mild mannered young man. Always surrounded by powerful women and girl trainees.
- Ruchika: Girl trainee of Atul. In terms of whiny-voice-quotient, beats even Vani.
- My husband: Yet another hapless victim who got pulled along.
- Me: The heroine of the story and all-round good-gal - because I get to write it.
So off we went - Vani, my husband and I went ahead to buy the tickets, and the remaining three promised to follow in ten minutes - which stretched to twenty and caused us to miss many trailers.
Vani and I, offended, bombarded Atul with phone calls and abusive SMS's continuously.
Unbeknownst ( I love that word!) to us, Atul had been accosted, while leaving, by the Head of Sales, and was getting screamed at (What you need to understand about Atul is that it's not just the women that harass him).
Sales Head: Atul! What's happening? Sales are down, shares are down, why is this happening? What's going on? What are you doing about it? I need an immediate review of performance across categories, as well as the correction plans for the next three months. This is apalling performance and I am just not seeing enough accountability amongst the individuals in this system. Well?
Atul (desperately trying to hide buzzing phone behind his back): Uhhh...Boss! I'll talk to you tomorrow, I have to go for a movie now.
Somehow, they made it to the hall after the movie had started. And that's when the real fun began.
I was absorbed in the storyline and wondering how Amitabh can still run up stairs so fast at his age, when the other three landed up, disturbing as many people as humanly possible. They then insisted on saying Hi to each of us individually and demanded to be filled in on the story so far.
Vani obliged penetratingly, getting most of the facts wrong and leaving out the crux of the story. I gritted my teeth and kept watching.
We discovered that the new entity Ruchika, (Atul's trainee) was a talkative young woman who in fact, looked upon this little outing as a chance to socialize rather than merely paying attention to a screen. Every two minutes, there would be a comment from her in a whiny voice, which Vani would happily respond to and take to a full length conversation.
Ruchika was then admonished by the women in the seats in front of us - 'Can you please not shake your legs, my seat is shaking'. Ruchika was naturally aghast at this unfair accusation and retorted 'But the entire hall is shaking. I am not shaking the hall' and then proceeded to loudly protest her innocence every few minutes, and Vani staunchly supported her 'Of course, you were not shaking your legs - the whole hall is shaking. My seat is also shaking'. What Vani didn't realise was that at least her shaking seat was due to my sitting next to her with hands quivering with the desire to strangle the both of them.
It continued, with every tense and important scene punctuated by giggles ( at the emotional scenes), gasps of surprise (minutes after the relevant scene) and inane comments (evenly spread across scenes) from my female companions. At the interval, I cooled off in a corner with a Mangola and was restored to blissful hope that the second half would be better.
This hope was ruined around five minutes after the second half began. I was nervously sipping my drink and watching Amitabh's splendid display of distraught anger as the most key revelation of the movie was made. But the excitement of this scene seemed to make Harman, sitting at the very furthest end of the chain from me, thirsty - because she suddenly shouted in a moment of dead silence 'Hey! Thoda Mangola baccha hai kya?'. I heard her and tried to ignore it and concentrate on the scene, but this was rendered impossible by the fact that this question was then repeated equally loudly by Ruchika, and then by Vani, who turned to face me inquiringly, almost accusingly. I thrust the blasted drink into her hand, and it was passed along to thirsty Harman, who slurped it noisily, shouted 'Thanks'. The bottle ( now left with two drops in it) was then passed back along the group, accompanied by two loudly whispered explanations of 'Mangola'.
The scene was over. I sighed and settled back to more of the same. The second half was as disastrous as the first. A good movie had been ruined. And then we went home.
This experience has placed me in bit of a thoughtful dilemma. I have often gone for movies when other people have been insensitive, loud and brash. In typical style, I have never had a problem with indignantly and righteously telling them where to go. But it's never actually been my own friends who I have wanted to murder.
So perhaps I am taking movie-watching too literally as 'watching the movie'. Maybe it's not about that. Maybe it's about obtaining the DVD first, watching it alone in the peace and quiet of your own home, and then proceeding to the hall in order to loudly exclaim important dialogues a split second before the actors, or chat with your friends, and generally make a nuisance of yourself.
Yes, maybe it's time for me to adjust to a new way of experiencing movies in the hall. In the meantime, the idiot box has begun to look pretty attractive again. So it may be quite a while before I go for the next movie. But probably even longer before I drink a Mangola again.
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