Like I didn't have enough to do...

... I've also taken on daily attendance at the 11th Mumbai Film Fest, don't you know. I believe that it would have been wrong - really, really bad juju actually - not to go because, you see, the largest venue is hop-skip-and-spit away from my workplace. As in, I could trip out of the office and fall into Fun Republic. Honest!

Unlike the last time I was at a film fest, I'm not on holiday and can't be watching films all day. I'm, in fact, in the middle of setting up a store all by myself. Yes, you heard me - ALL BY MYSELF! And most certainly going whatever comes after insane - this is not the time to go running off to watch films. And so, I settled for one film per day, the 8 p.m show. I figured that if I could get even six films through the fest, the delegate pass would have been worth it.

But most fortunately, I completely forgot about Sunday. I'm four days down and I've already watched six films and there's another another three to go! I cannot tell you how happy that makes me.

More details from me later but you can get more details about the fest here.

The Storyteller's Back!

Idea Smith told the story last year but this year, as Lord Jeffrey Archer returns for the Landmark Jeffrey Archer tour a second time, you'll need to settle for my patchy version of it. As I am sure anyone but me can imagine, it is impossible to take in an event when you're in the thick of organizing it. I tried very hard, I promise you, but between running around for stock, flowers, and signing pens, the two hours that he was in the store just passed me by.

Lord Archer entered about fifteen minutes past seven, by which time the book section at Landmark, Infiniti Mall was completely packed. There might have been a moment or two when I doubted if as many would turn up as last year. But I needn't have worried. All of Archer's fans were there - some new ones too. They came to be charmed, to be entertained... and no one went home disappointed.



While it's been a while since I last read Archer (the last one I read was Twelve Red Herrings in 1994), I don't doubt that the books are engaging - going by the stories he told at the store. He told stories of joining the Samajwadi Party and being Transport Minister, but my favourite was the one where his American publishers , Simon and Schuster, tried everything in the proverbial book to get him into the top 15 of the NYT bestseller list.

It was 15 minutes of a lovely, animated saga of how they flew him on the Concorde, put him up at the Waldorf Astoria, and got him two minutes on the Good Morning America show. Despite being instructed to mention the title as often as he could, he spent all of it describing the Concorde. After many botched attempts, success in the American mainstream came when Johnny Carson, while introducing Lord Archer, told his 53 million-wide audience,

Kane and Abel is one of the best books I have ever read. I stayed up all night turning page after page and I would recommend that each of you buy a copy.

A week later, Kane and Abel was #1 on the New York Times bestseller list, and stayed there for 6 weeks.


The thing about being backstage at these events is that you catch the authors/artists as they actually are, egoistic, eccentric, or not at all. But whatever Lord Archer's personal faults be, there is no doubting that he's truly happy that so many people show up to see him. He doesn't leave till every last book is signed, no matter if it takes two hours and that he's pushing seventy. He always has a smile for you and your camera, no matter how many flash bulbs have gone off in his face. And that makes everything okay as far as I am concerned.

You can still catch him at Landmark Pune, Moledina Road on the 17th of May. The last event is at Landmark Bangalore, Jaya Nagar on the 18th of May, Koramangala. Both events start at 7:00 p.m.

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Cross posted on Mumbai Metblogs

Desperately Seeking Scrappy

This is Scrappy and he belongs to Amfrid Sequeira. He's been missing since the 14th of February (a fine day to go missing!) and as you can see, he's not in very good shape right now. His left ear has been operated upon and bandaged, which is why he's wearing the scratch guard. He might still be wearing it too.

If you're in Bombay, please look out for Scrappy and mail me at once for Amfrid's number if you see him. And please let as many people know as you can — there's someone waiting for Scrappy to come home.

Since...

... my photoblog deserves a little promotion, you should go and check out the picture below over there because it really does look much better large.

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I've been having some serious problems with my internet connections BOTH at home and the office and hence, all posting activity has been greatly discouraged. Regular programming should continue soon.

Hot Monsoon Nights

You know, what I hate about the monsoon is that it just can't make up its bloody mind.

Consider. When the rains first began, it rained almost continuously for seven whole days, if you'll be kind enough to count them. Nothing tragic or even mildly distressing, thank you very much. Just the irritating kind of rain, and often drizzle, that will dirty salwar bottoms and discourage you from wanting anything else but for it to rain harder. Because then commuting is not possible, and without any guilt, one can then curl up in bed, everything but that wonderful Peter Ackroyd or E.B White forgotten. While one might seek a warm, warm cup of elachi chai, they might also venture a little while at the laptop, brightening photographs or jumping links lazily, only to come back to bed.

Then for a week and some more, it was as dry as a bone, if you'll forgive the trite comparison. And sultry and miserable and hot to boot. Since I don't sit in the perfectly air-conditioned but maddening environs of the shop floor anymore, every bit of the misery was magnified in my little room off the floor. Since this room has no manner of ventilation whatsoever, all that it really needed was a few more people stuffed inside (ranging between 4-9) to get the human humidifier going. Sigh... But the nights — dear God, the nights. Like the miserable October heat but worse — suffocating and stultifying.

But those hot monsoon nights have now disappeared, don't you know. Only to be replaced by hot, searing days interspersed too briefly with temperamental, fickle, flighty spells of rain. I tell you, the monsoon just can't make up it's bloody mind! I must admit that this does have its advantages. It is an indescribable thing to feel the humid air change character and depth, turning free and cold with the sweeping whispers of the rain through the trees. Suddenly, you wish you were out on the road, in a car of course, watching the rain envelop you... watching the city slow down...

But fanciful notions aside, I do not understand why it can't simply rain neatly in the night and let the days be overcast, dry, and gloomily beautiful. How can perfect photography weather possibly be so difficult — non-hot, non-sticky, and non-mucky? Please do me the service of not reminding me that I live in a tropical country with a full blown monsoon. I know — and apart from its indecision and heat, I quite enjoy the rains. Notice that it isn't the traffic, the congestion, or all the maddening things that make Bombay so charming in the rains that I am complaining about.

And I assure you, I am not the only one who thinks the heat is too much to take. Take, for example, our two friends below. It was two a.m and the ex-reviewer and I were on our way back from town when we passed them. Inebriated as we were, we went back to ensure that we weren't too drunk. And sure enough, there they were, licking and chomping away like it was nothing out of the ordinary. The neighborhood "icewala", as you can see in the top-right hand corner of the photograph, saw it fit or even kind to abandon this large chunk of ice on the pavement.

We watched them awhile and tried unobtrusively to take some photographs because dogs are fidgety-est creatures in creation. And the dog magnet that the ex-reviewer is, I had just a few minutes to get at least this slightly decent one. We left ten minutes later but the ex-reviewer says that he saw the female on right sitting at the block on his way home, while the male had disappeared with some of the other dogs around.

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I keep wanting to post without a photo but despite the photoblog, which I try update everyday, I might remind you dear reader, there are just too many photos to share. Perhaps I should stop carrying my camera everywhere...

Shameless Plug!

Small diversion to let you know about Landmark's 2nd Anniversary celebrations. I'm most excited so here I am to plug shamelessly.

You see, for this special occasion, Landmark Bombay's got a 10% percent discount on all book purchases over Rs 1000. The only difference is that unlike the annual sale, there aren't specific books on sale. Any book, whatsoever, in the store is game. One caveat: the offer is open only on books. So my dears, please to find yourself down at the store on the 26th and 27th of April, 2008 between 10:30 a.m and 9:30 p.m and have yourselves a blast! And honestly, this is the only chance you'll get to get all the books discounted — it won't come back anytime soon.

Just to confirm: the offer is open only on books and you have to make a minimum purchase of Rs 1000!

I keep meaning to finish the post that I'm writing about the silence and the sea... I'll get back to the Madras Chronicles soon. There are just too many beautiful photographs (if I may say so myself!) to leave languishing around and I've decided not to collect things this time around. :-)

That time of Life

Right then, my dears, I'm going back to work.

After seven months, to the day actually, of living a fuller life, I'm finally re-joining the ranks of the "gainfully employed". And totally unsurprisingly, the only person who's completely excited about this is my father. The poor man's had visions of his only daughter going down the idle poor road, you see. Once every month since I've been on a break, my father's asked me gently, but very diligently, what my plans were. No words like work or employment or job, don't you know. Dad is nothing if not sensitive and supportive. And yet every month, I'd smile beatifically at him and say "I haven't the faintest clue!" At one point I think he wondered if I ever planned on getting back to work.

The elder sibling says he will appreciate not having me underfoot all day with my "whining" and being a drain on all his resources. But personally, I think he'll miss me because not only does he utterly adore my company, he also won't have a peon anymore! The mother will generally miss me a little but the one person who's most certainly not going to miss me is M, who works in my home. I won't be dragging the sofas and chairs all over the place and enlisting her help to dust all the books for at least a month now.

To say that I am excited about the new job is a whole new acme of understatement. I finally have a job that I want, one that I am not embarrassed about, bordering on being ashamed of. I won't mumble while telling people about being intimately involved with running a bookstore, one of my very favourites places. I'll finally be realizing at least a part of my long-cherished publishing dream. So what if the execution won't be from within but from without? But I must admit, as hugely thrilling as being a book merchandiser is, I am more than a little sad about losing this break, this buttery, feathery independence. You see, there are few things as deeply saddening as not being able to ride into town on a whim for a beer at Mondy's. No, no, please don't state the obvious. The wonder of it is being able to do this at 3 p.m on a Wednesday when every other person you know, except the ex-reviewer, is working AND swearing at you when you call to say hello.

And you would have thought that my last two weeks would have been even more molasses-y. Time would have passed even more deliciously. I would have posted more, seen more of Bombay, drunk more beer, watched most of the 120 GB of films I brought back from Bangalore. Life has a way, I tell you. Like this cat outside the Standard Chartered Bank Building in Fort, I should have been sunning myself in the unnatural cold Bombay's been experiencing. Instead, I was hunched over my keyboard frantically finishing a last-minute freelance project. Life just has a bloody way that just bloody tears it!

In all the hunching, the Kala Ghoda Festival came and is almost gone. It seems to have been quite an experience, being run as an arts, music, film, literature, and children's festival this year. And I've missed most of it. All's not lost yet because in some rather excellent news, the ex-reviewer is performing at the Kala Ghoda Music Festival. I was at the festival this afternoon, looking through the schedule next to the main stage for his name. And even though I knew that I'd find it, I do not think I can describe the overwhelming pride at actually seeing his name on that large, black schedule.

The ex-reviewer's solo act is called Dischordian and will be playing between 12:30 and 1:30 p.m on Sunday the 10th of February at the Kala Ghoda Amphitheater. Come and watch him. I am not just biased but he really is a wonderful, wonderful musician who's experimenting with a new kind of sound, especially in our musically retarded and time-warped country. I can pretty much guarantee that you'll enjoy yourself.

Mumbai Unplug: Batti Bandh

A random acquaintance sent this along a while ago and I've been waiting impatiently for December to post about it! You see, Mumbai's finally going to be unplugged. Although I really wish they'd used Bombay!

In the organisers' words:

Batti Bandh is an entirely voluntary event taking place on the 15th of December between 7:30 & 8:30 p.m. This event is aimed at requesting all of Mumbai to stand up for a cause that is greater than all of us. All you need to do is switch off lights and appliances in your home, shop, office, school, college or anywhere you are for 1 hour to take a stand against global warming. Just 1 hour.

Inspired by the Earth Hour initiative in Sydney, the Batti Bandh initiative is run by Keith Menon, Neil Quraishy, Rustom Warden, Shiladitya Chakraborty, and some of their friends. And from where I left the website a few months ago, they've come a long way.

Currently, Batti Bandh is not only supported by a number of government organisations (including the BMC, BEST, and MSEB), NGOs (including Greenpeace and Helpage India), various corporates (including Philips, Vodafone, and the Mumbai Hoarding Association!!), and media organisations, it is also supported by the UN and the WWF.

Admirably, the good people at Mumbai Unplug have managed to involve the students of Sophia College (my alma mater!), Bhavan's College, SIES Nerul, SIES Matunga/Sion, KC College, and HR College with various activities like human chains and campaigning outside college premises with eco-message placards. Even the Oberoi Hotel, now the Hilton Towers, will switch off their facade lights for the event. You can read about all the support Batti Bandh's garnered here and here.

Check out the entire website actually, there's information available not only about the event but also about global warming and what you can do to combat it. In addition, you can find about the people who have driven this fantastic idea, and how to get involved with it. Very helpfully, the website tells you what you can do for that one hour with no lights on. :-)

It might seem like a silly and inconsequential thing to do for an hour but it's important that we each make this stand. For all the nay-sayers who might say how this cannot really help, it cannot possibly hurt to try, you know. It's easy to say that one hour might not do anything in the bigger scheme of things but it's really about taking the first step. Earlier, where I was only marginally concerned about my bit for global warming, I'm now militant about plastic bags and things like unplugging all appliances and phone chargers that aren't in use. They may be small things but they all contribute. You can't always solve a problem entirely at the first go. Sometimes, it takes a lot of small steps.

Especially true of a place like Bombay. As much as I love my city, I know that it can sometimes be very apathetic. A number of citizen initiatives have enjoyed a great deal of support initially but have fizzled out just a little further down the road. This once, many different parts and people of Bombay will come together to make a difference. If on the 15th of January 2008, even an infinitesimal percentage of these people remember why they pledged their support to Batti Bandh and continue to do so in their own ways, Mumbai Unplug will have been an unqualified success.

Right then people, spread the word, blog about it, tell your friends and family — do whatever you can to support Batti Bandh. And most importantly, switch of your lights on Saturday between from 7:30 p.m to 8:30 p.m and help Bombay unplug. Finally, as part of Batti Bandh, there is going to be a concert in Bandra, at Carter Road, where the ex-reviewer will be performing. This isn't just my bias but he really is a pretty great singer. Check the website for more details on other events.


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*Image courtesy the version of the Mumbai Unplug website I first saw.

Summer in the City

Now that I am spending muggy monsoon nights clacking away at the keyboard, I miss the summer evenings. Winter evenings would be perfect but summer will do. The rains are welcome for the first week when the city cools down. After that, I’m screaming murder at every big car who thinks s/he doesn’t need to give a rat's arse about drenching pedestrians or people on bikes. That's it! Bring back the sweltering, migraine-inducing heat! But the horrendous heat apart, this summer was special because it brought rides through Aarey Milk Colony. So for those of you who don't know what Aarey is, this is what Wikipedia has to say.

As you will observe, that is a miracle in the city of Bombay. But to meander back to the story, I live in Versova and used to work in Powai, the commute to which is a first-class bitch. So I began travelling with the ex-reviewer. It seemed a relatively less painful—less traffic-infested with no useless fighting through public transport—way of getting to work. Scant days later, we'd already quite fallen into a predictable little rhythm of him not waiting to get to work to annoy me.

Aarey is not only the most peaceful way of getting to traffic-forsaken Powai from the Western suburbs, it is by far the most beautiful. Until late March, the trees are a subdued shade of light green. You can see they're slumbering, trying to ignore the persistent cold. But in April and through most of May, the gentle green undergrowth becomes a burgeoning verdure that diminishes the simmering resentment at being on my way into work. Each day brought leisurely breezes and roads covered in the graceful remains of yellow flowers.

You know how people talk about sound being switched off in certain places, when everything becomes mute? Well, it's not quite the same trite, muting experience but the moment you cross the Malad toll gate into Aarey, someone seems to muffle out the sound. The roar of the Western Express highway seems silenced by the waving grass and the astounding greenery, complete with trees with funny ears.

More often that not, the reviewer and I would stop en route for breakfast. In the shade of the picnic spot where almost every child in Bombay has been brought on a school picnic is a little canteen that sells below average samosas and some very weird snacks. I have spent many mornings here, renewing my acquaintance with coffee and pineapple Energee.

There have also been mornings of repast provided so thoughtfully by the reviewer. Halfway up the road to the Powai toll gate is a small left that might be presumed to go nowhere interesting or indeed, nowhere at all. About a hundred feet up this road, at the foot of a large tree is a moss-covered stone bench over a clogged culvert. One mild morning, the reviewer stopped because he wanted to eat. He then pulled out the leftovers of a wine bottle and roast beef sandwiches from his saddle-bag. I tell you, it's a nice, nice way to start the day!

On the precious few days that the reviewer and I managed to get out of the office while it was still early evening, there were evenings of exploratory, rambling drives and bickering peacefully. There is such a pure pleasure in selecting an unknown left or right and finding myself on a winding green-brown road that led down two years at the University of Hyderabad. And by summer's end, the entire forest burst into flame to welcome the monsoon. The yellow flowers were soon replaced by motley shades of red.

Now I don’t know if it’s A’s departure from Bombay and a lack of practice, a camera that wasn’t mine, or indifferent lighting, but of 92 shutter releases, I did not like a single one. I'll leave you with a couple of A's shots instead. They're a more than fair idea of what I saw!

French Film Evenings

I'm just done attending the The 5th Annual French Film Festival at the Fun Republic multiplex. Conducted from the 3rd to the 9th of August by the French Embassy and the Alliance Française, the ex-reviewer and I were there everyday from the 5th. Only one film was screened everyday with free seating on a first-come-first-served basis.

Surprisingly, there are more takers for French cinema in this city than I would have bargained for. I stood in serpentine lines for over an hour each day, believe it or not, despite getting there at 18:30 for a 20:00 film. Judgemental as it may sound, I think the lines were due in no small measure to the films being free.

I could rant on about it but frankly, I'm not sure it's worth the debate an opinion like that will spark off — especially if one of my recent posts is anything to go by. Most of you know the kind of stragglers I mean, and that's enough said. :-)

I don't think the entire festival was managed well at all. Everyday was an exhausting experience. You first waited forever for passes. Then you went up and waited just to be let into the lobby of the multiplex, and that's just bloody ridiculous! Simply because we didn't pay for the passes doesn't mean they should treat us any less than paying customers. I highly doubt that Fun Republic was screening the films free, don't you agree? Someone, somewhere was paying for the screening. So why should they treat us thus?

But I meander; to the films, then. These are listed in the order in which we saw them.

Les Mauvais Joueurs (The Gamblers)
A fast-paced movie set in a side of Paris you won't see in mainstream romantic films. This is a Paris infested with illegal immigrants and petty crime. Yuen (Teng Fei Xiang), the Chinese rebel without a clue, is an immigrant who does his best to annoy his French "sponsors". Vahé (Pascal Elbé), a thug in love with Yuen's sister, tries to keep Yuen out of trouble with the others. The tension culminates in Yuen losing control and shooting the owner of a sweatshop. The rest of the film plays out neatly, tying up all the possible and sometimes predictable loose ends.

I personally didn't think that the movie was saying anything new or particularly profound about the exploitation in sweat shops, angst-ridden youth, or the seamy underbelly of a large city. It's a story often told in American films, about New York, Chicago, or Boston. But with it's engaging music, quick pace, and decent performances from most of the cast, I enjoyed watching it all the same.


La Petite Jersusalem (Little Jerusalem)
Set in a Jewish community in a suburb of Paris, La Petite Jerusalem tells the tale of three (stereo?)types of orthodox Jewish women in a single household. There's Laura (Fanny Valette), a student of philosophy, grappling with her Jewish identity and love for a Muslim Algerian colleague. Mathilde (Elsa Zylberstein), her sister, is the frum wife, following the Torah to the letter only to find her marriage in a mess because of her interpretation of it. And finally, their mother (Sonia Tahar), is the over-anxious Jewish mother, carrying on about possession and the evil eye on her daughter. Finally though, the film is about the personal journeys of both the sisters towards peace, reconciliation, and acceptance.

La Petite Jerusalem won the SACD Screen writing Award at the Cannes Film Festival and I cannot understand why! The dialogues are nothing great but that could also be because they got lost in translation somewhere. Additionally, another annoying aspect of the screenplay is that the discussions in Laura's philosophy classroom lack depth and meaning. Personally, I don't think Valette is particularly convincing as the young Jewish girl, tortured and torn by her beliefs and her upbringing. Mathilde is more real in her relationships with her mother, sister, and husband. Also, I quite liked the the effective use of grey tones for the grubby neighbourhood the family lives in and the somber mood of the film. The music is also decently effective, if unsurprising, in its discordant piano and the stark acoustic sounds.

You'll find an interesting interview with director Karin Albou and the interviewer's take here.


Le Petit Lieutenant (The Young Lieutenant)
Definitely one of the films I enjoyed most. Le Petit Lieutenant follows the lives of the members of a crime unit in Paris. A rookie police lieutenant, Antoine Derouère (Jalil Lespert), moves to Paris for a more exciting career than he would have had in his native Le Havre. Here he is part of Commandant Caroline Vaudieu's team (Nathalie Baye). Vandieu is a recovering alcoholic who takes an initially ambiguous but finally motherly interest in Antoine. Things go horribly wrong during the investigations of a murder when Antoine’s enthusiasm leads to tragedy.

Each of the characters is superbly acted and even as the film reaches a predictable denouement, you cannot help but feel very impressed with the way it was handled. As more than one review will point out, Le Petit Lieutenant revolves around the personalities of the people in Vandieu's team and their equations with each other instead of the intricacies of the investigation. This, I think, is what makes this a really good film and sets it apart from the usual murder investigation film.

Amongst the most striking things about this film was the complete lack of music. The film ends with Baye on the beach in Nice, looking directly at the camera, the surf crashing behind her. The waves continue to break over the rolling credits and are the only memorable sound in a film otherwise filled only with ambient sound.


Changement d'Adresse (Change of Address)
My very favourite in the festival, this beautiful film follows David (Emmanuel Mouret - also the director) a wonderfully charming, sweetly inept French horn player who is accosted by Anne (Frédérique Bel) while reading an ad for a roommate. David soon finds himself living with Anne. They become good friends, seeing each other through various romantic problems and occasionally sharing more than a living space.

David's love interest is his student, Julia, played by Fanny Valette, while Anne is in love with a man whose name she does not know but who is a customer at her copy shop. David does everything he can to attract Julia's attention and affection, even taking her away on a romantic getaway to the seaside. The surreal and farcical sequence of rapidly changing emotions and events that follow unfolds like a mime - only with dialogues.

The acting from most of the cast is superb and the film reaches a funny but sad climax. I particularly liked Mouret and Bel in their hilarious, innocent, and offbeat way of handling everything a seemingly bizarre life throws at them. Dany Brilliant is quite good in his role as David's smooth-talking and confident nemesis. However, there is something about Valette that I cannot quite connect with. I am, however, willing to admit that she's really good as the reserved and cold young woman because she left me cold altogether.


Bled Number One (Back Home)
Honestly, I am not quite sure if I understood this film. The story is told of Kamel (Rabah Ameur-Zaïmeche - also the director), Louisa (Meryem Serbah), and Algeria. Kamel's been deported from France and Louisa's walked out on a husband who won't let her sing. The film portrays the effects of their alienation from and oppression in Algerian society

However, a number of the finer nuances, elucidated here, escaped me altogether. I also got the sense that Kamel and Louisa seem to find a manner of friendship, of solace, in each other. This equation remains unexplored in many ways. Perhaps Ameur-Zaïmeche intended for them to be and remain alienated and uprooted but I think the film just might have worked better for an exploration of their equation.

The music is particularly discordant and jarring because suddenly in the middle of events, the scene cuts to a solitary guitar player perched on a hillside with a basic electric sound set up. Out of nowhere he launches into, as the ex-reviewer pointed out, a musical rendition of William Blake’s The Little Vagabond. Kamel merely flits in and out of the scene. Just as suddenly, the film ends with the same man playing a solo. Indeed, I don’t think I understood the film and I am not sure I liked it.

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I missed Le Couperet (The Axe) and Je ne suis pas là pour être aimé (Not Here To Be Loved). They both seem quite interesting, especially Not Here To Be Loved. You can find a review for each here and here.

Random Ribbits

Nothing makes a weekend simply sublime better or faster than some retail therapy. Make it books and food and I'm halfway to heaven—if, indeed, there is such a place.

I started it with one of my closest friends, spending hours at the Bombay branch of the best bookstore in India, browsing through prohibitively expensive editions of old favourites and overpriced but much desired new books.

Strangely, nothing works as well as book shopping, or even spending time in a book store, endlessly browsing. Not shoes, not clothes, not jewellery, not anything. I'm a strange, silly woman, I think.

Many, many thanks to a birthday many months past, an indulgent friend, and my own overwrought wallet, I walked out loaded with these:

• Albion
• The Delta of Venus
• Numbers in the Dark
• The Wind Singer
• The Dalemark Quartet, Vol I
  
• "Through the Looking Glass" - The Grade I Heritage of Mumbai

The next day, I went into town with the said friend, another one, and the elder sibling for a trip to what a beautiful death must be like. After cutting across a snarl after snarl of hideous traffic, living in the abject terror of missing lunch, we finally made it to Apoorva at Fort.

I am not going to sing paeans to the food, describe the place, or my experience there. That's just repetitive and trite. But I will say this. Two large vodkas, prawns koliwada, fried surmai, butter-garlic clams, prawn ghassi, pomfret curry, clams sukkha, and endless neer dosa later, I was blissed out. All I was fit for was a toffee ice-cream sandwich from K. Rustom's.

Now if only every weekend was like this, I'd be more than somewhat happy. :-)

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Randomly blog-hopping and I came across a fun little widget. I fell completely in love!

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Bombay Evenings

Right then. I was tagged by Geetanjali aeons ago to list five favourite things in my city. Now, it hasn't taken this long merely because I am a gifted procrastinator. It's not that difficult either to choose one city/home or narrow favourites down, don't you know.

But somehow, somewhere, I'd ruled out too much. Sigh... back to the drafting board then, dearie. And somehow, somewhere, in the writing and thinking, eliminating and appending, something intriguing emerged.

I seem to enjoy Bombay most by late evening/night. This is, I think, strange because being in the city has never had any defined, cognizable purpose for me. Save being home.

For example, I savour Hyderabad most from the late afternoon to the late evening. Perhaps... because I've never been anything but a student in Hyderabad? The daylight was for class, chores, and assorted adventure. The night was when I'd return to the sanity of campus, tea, and a long, long walk.

Anyhow, to meander back to the tag at hand, hmm? This is, I think, the most accurate list of the things I miss the most in Bombay. It doesn't matter whether I am within the city or without.

• The Carter Road promenade. The scene of much believing, bonding, booze... being. A rare place where the city, the sea, and the mangroves come together in glorious anomaly. I've forged some lovely bonds, renewed old ones, and been in the peace of myself here—smack in the middle of noisy Bandra.
• Lemon Grass, Bandra. For dinner, conversation, and photography. I love the multifarious feel and tastes of this, my favourite restaurant. I’ve had insights into different cultures, cities, and people here. I’ve bullied the management (into serving other patrons faster) for a clear frame. Shockingly, I also have an unconditional invitation to annoy them again!
  
• Café Mondegar. The rites of passage into adulthood—my first unchaperoned drink. A place adorned with mosaics of memories—Bombay, the jukebox, camaradrie, football matches, and space amidst all the jostling and noise. I'm not as much of a fan of Colaba as everyone else but I'd go across town to Mondy's to voluntarily drink beer and choose my own music.
  
• Regal Cinema. From a time when an English movie was necessarily 30 kms away. I’ve always loved the ambience and architecture of this, my favourite theatre – much before I knew it was Art Deco. The dark wood, the ornate panelling, the bad seats, caramel popcorn, and my first movie date… Sigh! :-)
  
• Watching/walking the ocean. It really doesn't matter where—the Queen's Necklace, Banganga crematorium, Juhu Beach, Rock Beach (Versova), Silver Beach (Juhu Scheme), or Madh Island. All my life, like him below, I’ve been all and nothing at so many sunsets. Today, with subdued regret, I miss every one… every day.
  

The View from Saturday

Saturday is a fine, fine day, don't you know. I mean, how can it not be when you spend all day doing three things you enjoy most: reading, eating, and photography.

It begins by haring across town to the British Library to be able to spend at least one hundred minutes of wonderful self-indulgence, and I also get to be a geeky student again. Then it's one of two things: a movie or photography. If it's a movie, the time I leave the cinema determines whether my camera runs away with me first or dinner does. Whatever the order, the meal usually has only one address - Crystal Restaurant near Wilson College on Marine Drive.

In a hyper-expensive city like Bombay, Crystal is a boisterous, rundown place that serves vegetarian food at prices hardly credible. Where else in Bombay could you order 14 butter rotis, 2 plates of rajmah, 1 plate of aloo jeera, 2 bowls of kheer, and 1 bottle of water and pay only 175? And to say the food is merely superlative is to insult it. I think it's the best North Indian food you will eat - outside a home... or a dhaba in Amritsar, I'm told.

I studied not very far from Crystal and ate away my undergraduate years there. Those days I loved it because I was perenially penurious and Crystal was great food really cheap. Today, I love it because not only is the food great but everyone's equal - no reservations, no special treatment. Everyone wants a table, no one's willing to wait in line. The waiters don't always know your name but they smile genuinely. No culinary flatulence while "discussing the order."

As an aside, I must admit that the prices at Crystal have gone up since 1998 - the rajmah was 20 bucks to the 25 it is now. :-)

The photography? Where shall I start? This is St Thomas Cathedral in Fort, Bombay. Here, I was regaled by a constable telling me about how a student of JJ College was taking photographs near the CID headquarters and was promptly taken in as some manner of spy!

He stayed talking to me for nearly two hours. Time punctuated only by him explaining to other cops on his own beat and others that I was this worthy young woman who was doing no harm - only photographing "aamchi Mumbai."



This is the front entrance of the Institute of Science, Bombay. One of my most fun photography jaunts ever. Imagine long exposure shots - about 10-14 secs - with my subjects moving all over the place after I released the shutter!



The epiphany for the night: Saturdays keep me sane.

***
The title is borrowed, I admit. Surely - but slowly - more on that later.

My Kingdom...

... for every crappy evening after work to end like this one.

Innocuously enough, after a horrid and lonely day at work, I was on my way home. Last evening was the first day of immersion for Ganapati and the traffic is usually enough to curdle your marrow. I believe it was an act of God that after leaving work by 19:40, by about 20:35, I was almost home.

Along with the downwind of drying fish, only Ganapati immersions can make one almost regret living close to the sea. Would you believe that it took over 40 minutes to go about 1.5 kms? I would have walked home if there'd been enough room to get off the rickshaw. But as it happens, I'm damn glad I didn't because in my concentrated effort to get home, I'd have missed the show.

And would have had a poorer life for it, I assure you.

Now, if you've lived in India for even a nanosecond, you know that by no means of the imagination is the music played in an immersion procession lounge, house, hip-hop, Bollywood numbers (no people, it's not even that!), or "hard rock." So imagine my stunned amusement when I come across three different groups of people doing:

1. A hip-hop groove - complete with the finger waving and dipping in the air.
2. Pub/lounge bar/disco-type gyrations – a la Aishwarya Rai in Kajra Re to a nankhatai, Bollywood brass band sound!
3. Head banging - nope, not making a mistake here. I've seen enough people head bang in my life to know what this dude was doing.

Now either Ganapati's gone hip or at 26, I'm just plain old!

Understand that I am not being bitchy or nasty about these people. I fully admire and understand the enthusiasm with which these people were participating in the festival. I probably would not be able to do the same. But the sheer incongruity of these dances with the music, the occasion, and the other celebrants was too much fun not to laugh my head off!

The head banger was the best - he was the crowd-watching finale. Initially, he was merely walking along with a procession till they were stopped in traffic. Amidst the dancing, he began a slow nod to the music. And as the music grew more frenzied, with growing fascination I watched him bend half-over and begin a full-blown head banging number! Rage against the Machine in concert with Ganesha - woohoo!

Every one in a five foot radius stopped dead to stare. I think that was what made him stop dead as well. Unfortunately, my rickshaw moved forward right then and I lost sight of my head banger friend. I kept looking back for him but I think he'd melted into the throng. More's the pity because I don't think I've laughed like that in a while. Long, liberating, and stomach-deep laughter - of the simpler pleasures of this flawed life.

Thank the Lord that "these are the days when anything goes." :-)

Clouded!

I have half a mind to sit quietly in one corner. It's been well over a week, the wonderful weather in Bombay has vanished faster than beer on a hot afternoon and this post is now entirely irrelevant. I mean, there's really no point now in going on about how the weather was so perfect or that this time, the rain, light as it was, didn't bring slushy roads and maddening traffic jams in its wake.

No point either in waxing on about the rain also bringing overcast weather - the sort where you want to curl up under a blanket. With either a pizza, or a cup of tinned tomato soup, or a bowl of moong ka dal and rice. (I have funny rainy day comfort foods - what can I say?) One of those days when you put on some Miles and leaf your way through a book all day. In the evening, you catch up with friends, clean and roll their weed, while drinking gently into that good night.

I always mean to post every three or four days and if it isn't a tyrannical reviewer or my own sloth that prevents it, there's something else that requires my attention exactly then. And once it's done, my point and the post are usually immaterial. And that, my dears, is the fate of most posts in the Drafts folder.

But perhaps this once, both me and the post shall make an exception because of the overcast weather which brought such wonderful lighting for photography, even in the middle of the day when light is usually harsh. At the risk of stupendous immodesty, I don't believe I've ever shot as well as these and only on a few other occasions, enjoyed myself that much!

I was on my way to town to collect my transcripts, return books to the library, and watch a film perhaps. I do not wish to make the beauty of the day trite, ergo, I am going to let these images speak in their own voice. A couple of things though. These images are in chronological order and none of them has been touched up for the colours or improved in composition - among the reasons I am so proud of them. :-)











I can only be grateful that A was kind enough to let me monopolise his camera (since I had been stupid enough to forget mine) and patiently pull over wherever I asked - even if we were in the middle of the Western Express Highway, doing 70 kmph! The mercies, I tell you, of being driven by a fellow photographer. :-)

There are, of course, some more here.

Of Drying Fish

Among the million things I did last month was to "show" the friend of a very dear friend, Bombay. Her name is Holly: a chirpy-warm person and great fun to hang out with - willing to be dragged up and down, checking stuff out! She's also a Fulbright scholar, in India for the first time and was working at the Met. I'd give an eye-teeth to do that - sigh!

We met up in Bandra and after a very leisurely and enjoyable lunch at Lemon Grass, the Carter Road promenade it was, to get drenched in the indolent, late afternoon sun. Mea culpa, I must admit. We didn't go there simply because the promenade is gorgeous. Ever since the last time I had seen the bombil, or Bombay Duck, drying at the koliwada at the northern end of Carter Road, my shutter-button-happy finger had been dying to go back.

You see, in Bombay, I've lived all my life by the sea. Well, most of all my life. Our new home is the only one I've not looked out onto endless expanse of ocean from at least one of the windows. I've grown up with the smell of bombil drying, rising up from the koliwada, offending the nostrils. Only this stench, beside the smell of burning rubber at Kalyan station at four in the morning, will get me smiling like one crazed because my city, my home, approaches.

Wondering what a koliwada is? Allow me. The original inhabitants of Bombay are the kolis, a community of deep-sea fishermen and a koliwada is their settlement along the shore. Mumbai, the official name of Bombay, originates from Mumbadevi, the patron goddess of the kolis, enshrined to this day in Dongri. A number of well-known areas also owe their names to the original koli versions. For example, Kolbhat is what we know and love as Colaba. :-)

A koliwada is usually a bustling and colourful place, replete with the sounds, smells and business of the sea. Bombay used to have six "great koliwadas" of which, none survive in their erstwhile glory. The growth and spread of urbania has pushed the kolis into increasingly smaller spaces, now seen only at places like Backbay Reclamation, Mahim, Bandra, Khar, Bassien and Madh Island. If it wasn't for a number of landmark Supreme Court rulings protecting the fishermen's rights in the 1960s, they'd have nowhere to call home.

When you first approach the Bandra koliwada, rack upon rack of drying bombil assault the nose. But once you've gotten past that, you begin to see how beautiful the red-white fish look against the flush of the retreating sun. You have to appreciate the effort going into cleaning and putting the fish out to dry because that's one fish that smells up a storm. You also had to admire the efficient, disciplined way in which the racks are set up and the various dried fish sorted for sale and export.



Note: I am firmly of the opinion that where there are fish to be had, there you will find a feast of crows. These, I believe, were waiting to swoop in for the kill once the fisherwomen had moved away. I fully accept that this may be the hypothesis of a suspicious mind.



A little further down were the aforementioned fisherwomen, cleaning out shrimp. I moved closer to capture them going about their business with a stunning economy of movement. When they noticed me, the usual questions about which newspaper/magazine I worked for and the self-conscious smiles came but their hands didn't stop - not for a second.

So there I was, composing my shot when I caught a couple of sentences in Gujarati - and nearly dropped my camera. To my utter shock, these women were not kolis but my brethren from Gujarat. Now, it's not that Gujarat doesn't have its indigenous community of fishermen but drying fish in Bandra, these ladies are a long way from "home." I switched to my broken Gujarati and we were off!

A few families from their village had apparently moved to Bombay a couple of generations ago - between 35-40 years ago - from Kuchchh. They had come to the city of dreams to realise their own. Being outsiders in a community so far removed from their own cannot have been easy and indeed, it didn't seem to be because they were quite unwilling to talk about it. And they still spoke of Gujarat as their gaam. The word is translated as village but I do believe home would be far more accurate. And yet, Bombay is still home. Strange as it is, I understand that.

After a long conversation, they told me I could take more photos if I wished. One them even posed for me! She had the loveliest smile - tired but warm as the noonday sun. Unfortunately, the light on that one didn't do her justice thus I will not post it. However, in the photo below she's the lady in the brown saree, half-obscured by the tray of cascading shrimp.



This last photo? Well, Holly and I walked down from the dying yard to the rocks on the beach - I use the word loosely, I should like you to know. I turned around to see, in the center of all the drying rack, this crow perched on a pole, the king of all he surveyed. I quite liked it. I hope you do too.

News Flash!

I am sorry to interupt the relay from Bangalore but matters of extreme championship (much to my chagrin) and "Bombay-ness" (much to my pride) must be reported.

Thursday morning I was running so terribly late that unmindful of the cost, I took a rickshaw straight to work because I was to meet a friend for lunch and en route, I was also due to lend my pride and joy, my F75, to another friend. Since the day looked a little relaxed, I also grabbed my entire folder of negatives, scans, contact sheets - the works! I thought I'd put up my feet, post some pictures, do stuff I want to do - I am sure you know the rest of that song.

The camera duly dropped off with the friend in question and I proceeded to work, dying a million deaths about being late for lunch. About twenty minutes later, the rickshaw screeched to a halt and I jumped out, desperate to pay the driver and be on my way. I jammed money in his hand, ran up to the office, signed in, made a pretence of checking my mail, grabbed my wallet and ran down again.

We didn't linger much over lunch because he was due to take a train in a few hours and after we had said our au revoirs, I came back to work, settled down at my seat, and was ready to start posting photos. And that's when it hit me.

My folder was riding in the back of a rickshaw somewhere in North Bombay.

That folder contained everything I've ever shot with my F75... everything. I do not think the enormity of my utter and complete stupidity made any sort of impact at all. All it did was compound the nagging feeling that I should give up all aspirations to photography and give my camera away to someone who actually deserves it. Perhaps it was foolish, but what kept me sane through the rest of the day was the hope that the rickshaw driver would return the folder because he knew where I lived - as it were.

Office day over, I returned home by about 21:30 still in quite the daze. On my way in, I stopped by the security guard's cabin to check if my miracle has happened. I could not finish my question because my folder was lying there on the guard's table.

Sweet Christ, I couldn't react but forty-eight hours later, gratitude and a sense of Bombay-ness are my overwhelming emotions. I know that my folder was a very small thing but whether the rickshaw driver lived close by or away from my home, he most certainly took a good deal of trouble through the entire day for an arbitrary woman who may never take his rickshaw again. I do not think this would have happened anywhere in India except Bombay.

Perhaps I am being unfair in my generalization but my irrational heart tells me otherwise. For all of Bombay's faults - and fear not, I am not being swept away by the romanticism of this seemingly random act of kindness - she's a city with a soul and a heart as big as the world. There is, I believe, sometimes no choice - but to fall in love with her.

This one is not a good shot as far as focus is concerned but I think it makes for a good frame and I love the colours. And to me, it sings Bombay.



Surely I am allowed a "bad" favourite! :-)

****
Addendum: I mean no insult to any other place in India, really I don't. Please do not take it as such. :-)

Three in a Row

A girl could really get used to this, you know. I've had another lovely weekend, which makes it three in a row. This time, I am posting as Sunday closes upon itself and while my mind is still untouched by the filth of SQL Server 2005, and not a week later!

Last weekend, I grew up. I made the greatest single purchase of my life to pursue a passion. After months of saving, scrimping and yearning, last Saturday, I bought my fully loaded, unbelievably beautiful Nikon F75 with a AF Zoom-Nikkor 28-100mm lens.
I promptly spent the next day reading through the manual and learning that I know sweet nothing of photography. No matter; forward interprid traveller and all that later, I took her out to test yesterday. Dear Christ, I don't think I have enjoyed the sunset more. In my life. And this is not my usual dramatic self, hamming away to apoplexy!

It started Saturday morning; a friend asked me along to Madh Island. The Bombayites know where it is, and for the non-Bombayites - well, it is the north-western most tip of Bombay and where idiots like me who haven't been to Goa in coherent memory feel a little better about being idiots. It would be a good idea not to digress into the "I-haven't-been-to-Goa-in-twenty-years!" rant now, though I feel compelled to say that I am the only 25 year old I know who hasn't been to go Goa in twenty years! Sigh...

To meander back to the point, the road to Madh was so much more gorgeous than memory serves me. Hardly Bombay at all. Shadowed roads curved in and out of breathtaking verdance while schoolboys skated wildly across to get to the football ground. Mild-mannered misses and their mammas walked sedately to an early evening mass while eager young college kids replenished their beer supply and drove back to a party. A lazy, almost comatose vibe beckons you closer as you push further into Madh, and is really hardly Bombay at all.

This was my first view of the beach, taken from a friend's digital camera. Once my film is developed, I will post the progress of this sunset as well. :-)


I almost feel that I should end this post with the image but I must gloat over the sheer volume of books I bought today, the number that arrived with a friend and the wonderful afternoon I spent with him. I bought fourteen today and thirty odd were brought from Hyderabad and these I will post about later. All of this, a lovely pizza lunch, loads of conversation, plus one of the cutest babies in the world! How much do I rock? Let me count the ways.

I tell you, a girl could really get used to this!

A Weekend Past

Abstaining from my weekly pilgrimage to the British Library is not a good idea. It makes for a dreary Saturday and a bad mood. Thankfully, by the evening a friend from long ago had called and I was off for dinner. This was especially comforting because my brother and three of my best friends were drinking themselves sillier than monkeys in Bangalore while I was in Bombay. Sometimes, life, is indeed elsewhere.

This weekend, I did things unlike other weekends. I consciously stayed off the phone, watched a movie, listened to some music and started Ulysses (which decided to call to me at last) instead and had me a blast! Apart from the wonderful Saturday evening, of course! Two and a half years of promises finally came to some fruition over two days.

There is nothing either extraordinary or "different" about what I did. People do it all the time but I, who have been drowning in self-pity and a ridiculous (and almost false) sense of loneliness, was experiencing something new... with a little twist of déjà vu. Like 'her' of my story, I too will head out for movies alone.

It is, I think, a funny thing with me. I always have opportunity to retract every last claim to maturity and sense three months after I have made it. Mark you, not 2 weeks, not 3 months, not a couple of years but precisely three months. There is a curious sort of solace, a familiarity in this steady kick in the teeth. I find it keeps my feet on the ground.

The images below were taken on Saturday night. The first one is of the Gateway of India, taken from the other side. For those familiar with Bombay, we were driving in from the Radio Club and I thought this was a good shot. The second one is the water-front in South Bombay - one end of the Queen's Necklace. Not particularly great shots but I'd like to share them anyway. :-)



A funny sort of weekend, really. A liberating, thoughtful and lovely sort of weekend.

Bombay in the Rains

It is raining in Bombay again.

Finally. The miserable heat is over. The hill right behind my office building is awash with verdant life; ballooning clouds of mist intermingling with cigarette smoke. A languorous stupor slowly envelopes me. I feel more reluctant than usual to go back to work.

I am obviously not alone.

... Since everyone's lingering over their coffees and cigarettes.
... Since contentment tempers the mood all around me.
... Since too many eyes stray window-wards.

I feel quite like this image. At home in the rain. Longing for a cup of soup, my bed and a good or favourite book. Some Astrude Giberto and The Girl from Ipanema playing gently in the background. At peace with my world.

I wrote this impression of the rains a few weeks ago. I am still not sure why I didn't post it right away. Much has changed since.

... Since, a thousand mm of rain has fallen in Bombay- in a single day.
… Since, years of life have been swept away.
… Since, 768 people have died in Maharashtra.
... Since, the phrase "Nature's Fury" has taken on new dimensions.
... Since, I've learned callousness annoys me as much as dishonesty and is every bit as distasteful.
… Since, for the first time in living memory, I've felt daunted in Bombay.
... Since, too much has happened to still fully comprehend.

For me, the verdant lushness of the first photo will forever be Bombay in the rains. The second, however, is to remind me of the here and right now. To remind me of the helplessness of the 26th of July, 2005 and yet to also remind me of this city's strength, indefatigble spirit and the sheer will to survive.

Forgive the sentimental, trite ranting. Us Bombayites and our city went through quite a right mess this week. We emerged scared and yet awestruck by both our resilience.

Bombay , illic est haud alius similis vos. Ego tutus vos.

To give credit where it is due, neither photograph is mine. I have made use of someone else's images this time. Unfortunately, since they came in forwards, I don't know to whom they specifically belong. Accept both my apologies and my gratitude.