OMG!

i saw this sign out side a church in byculla.
wanted to take a picture, but it was pouring.

Feeling hot?
Come to church.
It's prayer conditioned.

ha.
who's says men of faith don't rock!

new men on the block

i think i'm getting old. either that or i'm totally losing my sense of aesthetics.

the last two big male filmstars to be launched have left me absolutely cold. this when all the newspapaers assure me that they should have had me panting with desire.

really, why would i go crazy about ranbir kappor. who looks like neetu singh in drag. he's short, his hair falls in his eyes, he has a body that looks well, white and pasty. and no self repecting man, in his first film would wear a beret and prance around. puhleez.

the other man in question is harman baweja. that's right. he looks and sounds like a particularly drab sweetshop in lajpat nagar. the clothes are hideous. i mean black see through vests and tight leather pants went out with the tapori in rangeela. the hair looks like it really needs a wash. i have nothing against punjabi beefcake, but this is cake made in the pressure cooker with ghee.

actually the only saving grace with both these guys is the stubble. it hides most of their face, and reduces the strain on your eyes.

okay. so maybe i'm being harsh, but the point is what happened to good old character, eccentricities, something about the guy that would catch your eye. something that would at least set him apart from all the clones we have.

like...like...like mimoh!!!

rough weather for some

if i was the weatherman. and i worked in MET department in mumbai, i would be ready to fling myself out of the closest window.

we got four days days of incessant rain. every road is wet and flooded. every building is dripping and looking mossy green. every kid can tell the bloody monsoons have hit us. except...yeah, except the above mentioned weatherman.

once again, the monsoon has snuck up on mumbai. the weather guys say they were caught unaware. a rogue cloud that was heading for brazil decided to relieve itself on us. a westerly wind meant for the easterly direction turned renegade and rained on our parade.

for heavens sake, these are huge bloody clouds. they've been sitting on top of the city for days, building themselves up, bit by bit. and what did the weather guys think. " Oh, guess what Cloud-dark-as-thunder is just building up his strength, just resting his tired legs before he heads all the way to brazil."

" and you see those guys, those big-daddy-o-one's, they're just wafting around, pretending to look like monsoon clouds."

Really, where do they get these guys from. What exactly do you need to study to become a MET officer. The ancient study of runes? Astrology for Dummies? The art of getting it wrong every time?

And what about the weatherman's kids. What do they do. Can they insult dad by openly carrying an umbrella just after he's said no chance of rain today. Does his wife snigger when he says, "looks like today will be dry and sunny."

Or does she just run out and pull the clothes off the clothesline?

kitchen tales 2

The kitchen was her favourite room in the house.


She hardly ever cooked there. They always just ordered in. Specially over the last few months. Her new job left her so tired.


Yet she loved her kitchen. She loved the jars of spices. All old recycled bottles that once held jams, and sauces. Now filled with turmeric, chilly, coriander, cumin. The tall bottles had the everyday spices. The fat squat ones, the mismatched ones, those held spices that were used occassionally. Jaiphal, saffron, vindaloo masala, chaat masala. They stood ready inside her small kitchen cabinet. Like soldiers waiting their turn.


She pushed the bolt back, and opened the window by the kitchen sink. Morning light flooded the room. The gas was silent. The sink was empty. Three plastic water bottles stood huddled in a corner.


She sighed. She missed him. She missed his padding into the kitchen, newspaper in hand. His sleepy eyes. The way he put the saucepan on the gas. day after day.


Then it suddenly struck her. She had stood near him, getting breakfast ready, or reaching out for something. or just feeling his warmth beside her in that small, tiny kitchen. And she had never noticed how he made his tea. Did he boil the water first. Did he measure it in his teacup before pouring it into the saucepan. Did he first pull out the tea and the sugar from the cabinet. Or did he do that once the water started to boil. Her eyes stung.


She stood there and started to cry. A small wail first and then a big gut wrenching howl. When did this happen to them? When did they just stop noticing things about each other? When did they let such a big distance creep up between them?


She suddenly longed for that tea. That sweet milky tea that was brewed and boiled till it threaten to spill over the saucepan.


But she didn't know how to make it. If it was the water that went first. or the milk and the water. Or did the sugar go in at the beginning. or was that right at the end.

kitchen tales 1

the maid sat on the floor. bent over a boti. a steel dekchi, battered with the constant scrubbing it was subjected to, lay on the newspaper.


ranu checked the stove in the corner. the rice was coming along fine. she turned her attention to the gas. one burner had a round shallow kadai. the potols stuffed with kheema were just beginning to brown. the other burner had a large kadai on it. its handles had turned black with years of use. ranu frowned. the maid never bothered to scrape the handle with a knife. that's all it took. no point telling her anything. maids were hard to get these days. and of course no one could be like Suti Mashi.


Now those were the good old days. Suti Mashi ran the house as if it were her own. Of course she also drank at least one litre of milk with her morning tea, but look at how much she worked. The floors would shine, the bartans would sparkle and the way she cooked. Cubes of kumdo. Small tangra mach in tomato gravy. Slivers of baby papayas. And small florets of gobi cooked in a tangy mustard paste.


" Hoye Gache." (It's done)


Ranu looked at Chayya. And thought, " Chayya. Nowdays even their names are fancy."


Chayya returned her gaze with one of her own. And drawled, " I can't use this boti anymore. Why cant you get a nice knife and chopping board. Like the Mehtas upstairs. They even have a micro..."


"Never mind what they have", Ranu snapped. " They have no idea how to cook or cut their food."


Chayya shrugged sulkily and got up. She clutched her knees while doing so. And twisted her face in pain. Ranu noticed it all. " Playacting. She can just go to those Mehtas. They are vegetarians. Lets see her scoff rice and fish curry there."


The mustard oil was hot. Ranu held the steel dekchi in her left hand. Fat pieces of katla bedecked in turmeric and salt lay glistening in it. She waited patiently. If it started smoking, the smell would disappear. If it wasn't hot enough the fish would stick, or even worse break.


This was the moment she knew by heart. That magic moment when with a deft hand she would slide the pieces in. One by one. The oil would sputter, threaten to spill all over her. But she was ready. With another slice. And yet another. Together they would catch the oil by surprise. The hissing and spluttering would stop. And that lovely aroma of frying fish would fill the house.


Even Chayya would come and stand beside her. She would nod her head from side to side. Ranu knew that nod. It meant no one could do this like her mistress.


Ranu smiled and said, " Aajke tui amader shonge khabar kha." (Today, you eat with us.)

A to Z of real estate in mumbai

mumbai ranks just after new york and shanghai as far as real estate or rather the lack of it goes. and since we've just plunged into house buying mode, and are still gasping for breath, here's a short guide to buying a house in mumbai.

A for Arrrrk. The first sound that'll escape your throat. half stangulated, half gasped out as you hear the price. please make sure you are not eating anything or standing near sharp objects.

B for Broker. That oily, perpetually smiling individual who's making the most of the property boom. His job is to convince you that a 400 sq feet apartment that was going for 2 million a month back is now worth 24 million. his job is to convince you that a fat loan that'll have you slaving for the next 20 years is a great idea. his job is to make you pay more than you ever dreamt of.

C for Carpet Area.That's how you have an idea of the the actual area of the house you're buying. Another matter that by the time you are done, there's no money for a carpet.

D for Deal: The one word that everyone in bombay understands. A slight nod, a gentle shake of the head, a twitching of the lips, some handshakes, and if you're lucky a cheap sweet or two. All the signs of a good deal.

E for Enos: One sachet a day keeps indigestion away. Loans, deals, black, white, EMI, just mix, wait for it to fizz and swallow.

F for Flat. Also called apartment or matchbox.

G for God. The second word that escapes your lips after Arrrck. (Please refer to A for Arrck).

H for Height. Here you pay extra for every floor you climb. You still get to see slums, and people doing potty, but from the 15th floor it probably looks pretty.

I for Incredible. Which is how the broker describes evrything. A tiny loo where you'll have to stand in the pot to shower. A poky bedroom where if you turn twice on the bed, you'll land in the kitchen. A 4 million house that's bang slap in the middle of a slum. A garden house that's actually a room in someone else's garden. Everything is incredible.

J for Joona. As in old. As in hope. Because in Mumbai, the only thing you'll ever be able to buy is not a shiny new flat, but a juna one. Decaying, crumbling, mouldy, but what the heck...this is real estate in Mumbai.

K for Kya Madame. A favourite phrase used by all brokers. As in " What Madame." Said in hurt tones. Usually uttered just after you have accused him of showing you flats way over your budget. Kya madame is followed by a small discourse on how he doesn't consider you a client but a friend/sister/mother/aunt, and is only thinking about your well being. Most "kya madame" performances are worthy of an oscar or two.

L for Lucky. Which is always someone else. So when you are house hunting, friends and relatives will all tell you about Lucky Sumit who bought his house before the boom. Lucky Madhu who got a steal. Lucky Kamal who's landlord pratically begged him to buy the house, that also at half the price. Grrr. I want to bite them all.

M for money. Black or white. Cheque or cash. Loan or ready. Have or not.

(N to Z to be cont)

the last bow

I blame Mr Galliano. And the Famous Five.

The word circus will always remind me of pretty caravans, campfires, boiled eggs, packs of dogs doing tricks. Clowns, trapeze artists, lion tamers, elephant handlers. Who loved their animals and lived merry lives as they went from one pretty town to another.

In fact as a child whenever my parents scolded me, I felt smug in the knowledge that someday I would run away to the circus. And my parents would miss me fantastically. I of course would be busy learning how to work with elephants and big cats, and eating hot scones and hard boiled eggs. And would never think of them till the circus visited their town. And one bright night, my parents would be sitting under the big top ( for some reason my mom would be wearing a shawl and my dad a suit), and as the trumpets would blow, the band would start, and I'd march out in my shiny tights, leading little Jumbo. My mom would scream and go hysterical with delight. My dad would try and remain stoic, but a few tears would roll down his cheeks. And then they'd gather me in their arms, and hug me over and over again. I of course would be happy to see them, but the lure of hot scones and hard boiled eggs would be too great to resist.

and these day dreams always ended with my dad driving a red caravan. my mom in a gypsy skirt, same shawl over her shoulders sitting on the steps of the caravan chatting with dad. And me up ahead, on an elephant.

I stopped going to the circus when I was about 10. when I realised that Mr Galliano was a fraud. The animals looked starved. The performers looked unhappy. And the last time I left the circus in tears, after trying hard to get the dog trainer to stop using a sharp iron rod on the dogs. I was holding up the performance, things got ugly and my cousin dragged me out.

last week I saw the mast of a big top. The circus was in town. A part of me was dying to go. A part of me was repulsed and upset. I still really wanted to believe the circus would be happy, and cheerful. Then I thought I'd play safe, just stroll around outside, take pictures, soak in the atmosphere, see the fantastically couloured signs on the window.

But I never went.

Instead yesterday, when I knew the circus was gone I went online to find out. And I found what I suspected I would find.

Great Indian Circus walks the tightrope
By: Kanika Parab November 10, 2006

A circus is supposed to lighten you up, suffuse your being with a warm feeling and an edge of tension: Will the juggler drop that fifth ball? Will the two motorcyclists in the bubble collide? Will the rifle shooter miss the balloon and shoot her head instead? Will the tightrope walker make it to the other side?

And when they finally do, there’s a flood of relief, an inching back from the edge of the seat, and a smile leading to an applause that’s fighting to be heard over the merry circus waltz. And now that protected wild animals no longer feature in the scheme of things, there’s all the more reason to celebrate. Or at least we thought so.
Disinterested performers, average acts When we visited Kohinoor Circus at Mahim last Wednesday, the vibe seemed disconnected from the carnivalesque feel that every travelling circus adds to a city. Visiting Mumbai from Kolkata, most of the performers seemed disinterested and tired, and could barely manage a smile as they entered the ring.

The audience (if a handful of people can be called that) pinned their hopes on the clowns, but they too failed to infuse life into the big top. After a string of average performances, and sloppy in-between acts, we finally found someone who succeeded in keeping the circus spirit alive — the juggler. His acts didn’t entail anything we hadn’t seen before, but his startling precision and fanfare was like a breath of fresh air on that muggy November evening.

As the evening extended into night, the acts got better, with electrifying rifle shooters and daredevil motorcyclists between 7.30 pm and 8.30 pm. We hoped the ban on wild animals would make room for innovation. No such luck. Laughing at disabilities and clapping at a bunch of scared and seemingly-unhealthy dogs performing tricks, is still our idea of a circus.

Other participating animals included horses, elephants and Australian parrots. The nostalgia that came with sitting under a circus tent transformed lifeless performers into graceful acrobats, and filled empty chairs with laughing faces, but not for long.

Who will revive the circus?A peek behind the tent revealed why fatigue hangs heavy in the air above the circus. Maybe the performers didn’t care enough because they are paid a pittance. Maybe the audience, who didn’t know any better, missed the wild animals. And the circus owner was probably struggling to rise above the staggering rent that our city demands. Publicity manager Farhad Ansari couldn’t have put it better.

“The circus is heaving its last breath,” he said, pointing to hole-ridden tent top. “Our collection in Mumbai has been dismal, thanks to multiplexes and malls. Our costs involve travelling, feeding and paying over 170 artists, ground rental charges and newspaper ads.” And in the last stage of its life, even the government is doing little to revive this dying art. “They don’t ease up on permission hassles, NOCs and taxes,” Ansari said.

With an almost 0% profit rate in Mumbai, owners believe that circus collections have taken a beating thanks to the ban on wild animals. And while most rope in foreign artists to attract audiences, Kohinoor cannot afford this. “Sometimes, I wonder how we are still hanging on,” said the circus managers, as the 7 pm show came to an end.