The endless recriminations, post mortems, bickering factions, rabid interviews, scathing editorials, pointing fingers, the foreign hand, the heroes, the resilience of Mumbaikars, derailing of peace talks between India & Pakistan, intellectual debates, David Mulfords it is Americas duty to help in the investigation, the same images looped over and over again, circular discussions, strident demands for something to be done. Another statistical entry on the South Asia Terrorism Portal. November 26, 2008. Mumbai. 195 dead. Over 300 injured.
You really didn't think it was over did you?
No more television. The aftermath in many ways is more sickening. There is no sense of euphoria or relief. Just a sense of a bruised, bone deep weariness. A sweeping sense of lethargy.
For Nitti and her boys
Samar and Uday. The younger one, having cut his teeth at the President, now an artless connoisseur of the finer things the Taj had to offer. Room service on call. Thai Pavillion, Trattoria, Konkan Café, Wasabi, Souk, Golden Dragon, Shamiana, Tanjore, Sugar n Spice.......They would've had a hard time with him once they moved out. Fourteen and five. The Kang boys. The three of them. Nitti hugging her sons to her heart. Their room next to the main Heritage suite where the fire started, the main venue for the offensive by the terrorists. Collateral damage.
The Kangs. Binny, Nitti, Samar, Uday. A lifetime together. Raised voices, running feet, broken furniture, blood, frying onions, recalcitrant maids, broken fan belt, school uniforms, shrieks of mirth, slammed doors, hurtful indifference, annoying relatives......... Your family. My family. Binny Kang. Back at the Taj supervising the clean up. A zombie in control. Doing what has to be done.
She knew her babies were going to die. The searing heat, inching closer like the obnoxious scent of the Mahim creek as you drive past. The sound of timber crackling like paper under the onslaught of the unrestrained flames. The stench of melting fabric. Binny watching from across the street, pleading for a fire tender to get his family out through the window. I hope she smothered them before they had to watch the smoke curl under the bathroom door. Smoke inhalation. Every mothers dream end for her bacchas. Oh Nitti. I can't even begin to imagine... I know you never did either.
'This is what Sameer told me..........Their story must be told, I think' from Aashish on Friday morning. "Binny is with his parents, his sister and Lamba and they are staying in the Taj Wellington Mews . Unfortunately, Binny's wife and kids' bodies had not been recovered till this morning as the skirmish is still on. However, someone from the hotel security entered the room's bathroom yesterday, and found the bodies of his wife hugging her two sons.............charred ....Their room was next to the main Heritage Suite where the fire started...."
This is for you, Samar, Uday and Binny.
For the innocent. For those left behind to mourn. For Bombay.
Aye, dil, hai mushkil, jeena yahan
Zara haat ke, zara bach ke, yeh hai Bombai meri jaan
Aye dil hain asaan jeena yahan
Suno mister, suno bandhu, yeh hai Bombay meri jaan
The Kangs. Binny, Nitti, Samar, Uday. A lifetime together. Raised voices, running feet, broken furniture, blood, frying onions, recalcitrant maids, broken fan belt, school uniforms, shrieks of mirth, slammed doors, hurtful indifference, annoying relatives......... Your family. My family. Binny Kang. Back at the Taj supervising the clean up. A zombie in control. Doing what has to be done.
She knew her babies were going to die. The searing heat, inching closer like the obnoxious scent of the Mahim creek as you drive past. The sound of timber crackling like paper under the onslaught of the unrestrained flames. The stench of melting fabric. Binny watching from across the street, pleading for a fire tender to get his family out through the window. I hope she smothered them before they had to watch the smoke curl under the bathroom door. Smoke inhalation. Every mothers dream end for her bacchas. Oh Nitti. I can't even begin to imagine... I know you never did either.
'This is what Sameer told me..........Their story must be told, I think' from Aashish on Friday morning. "Binny is with his parents, his sister and Lamba and they are staying in the Taj Wellington Mews . Unfortunately, Binny's wife and kids' bodies had not been recovered till this morning as the skirmish is still on. However, someone from the hotel security entered the room's bathroom yesterday, and found the bodies of his wife hugging her two sons.............charred ....Their room was next to the main Heritage Suite where the fire started...."
This is for you, Samar, Uday and Binny.
For the innocent. For those left behind to mourn. For Bombay.
Aye, dil, hai mushkil, jeena yahan
Zara haat ke, zara bach ke, yeh hai Bombai meri jaan
Aye dil hain asaan jeena yahan
Suno mister, suno bandhu, yeh hai Bombay meri jaan
The End?
3 fire engines. More relaxed movement from the police. They think it might actually be over. But I've heard that before. Yesterday, several times as a matter of fact. Earlier today too. Usually as a precursor to a fireball. No categorical confirmation on site, but... I can feel the cautious optimism.
Deja Vu
59 hours, and as I watch NDTV, I think 'I'm going to watch the Taj burn to the ground'. My heart is no longer thumping, tear ducts indifferent. Not a fire engine in sight. It's like the MidDay's can you spot the 6 differences. Wed pm/Thur am & Fri pm/Sat am. Well, the fire's moved from the top floor to the ground and first floors. Raging flames. Dense clouds of smoke. Flames licking their way across. The street in front is barren. Hang on. That's different.
Did I say I felt nothing? I lied. I can't bear to watch it anymore. But I can't seem to walk away either. Now, puny streams of water, like a forlorn silver medallist chasing the soaring flames. A body tumbles out of a window. How much longer can this go on? Why can't we end it?? If our governments had even a fraction of the determination of these terrorists, we'd be happily wallowing in an economic downturn. A howling stray steals the frame, echoing my sentiments. I'll bet he'd love to gnaw on slow roasted balls.
If they do bring the Taj down. I will capitulate. Enough is Enough: India's 9/11 it will be.
Did I say I felt nothing? I lied. I can't bear to watch it anymore. But I can't seem to walk away either. Now, puny streams of water, like a forlorn silver medallist chasing the soaring flames. A body tumbles out of a window. How much longer can this go on? Why can't we end it?? If our governments had even a fraction of the determination of these terrorists, we'd be happily wallowing in an economic downturn. A howling stray steals the frame, echoing my sentiments. I'll bet he'd love to gnaw on slow roasted balls.
If they do bring the Taj down. I will capitulate. Enough is Enough: India's 9/11 it will be.
It's official
We are now a television accredited franchisee of of brand 9/11. 26/11, better known as India's 9/11 on NDTV. Oh sorry - didn't get the branding quite right: 'ENOUGH IS ENOUGH': INDIA'S 9/11. Jesus fucking Christ. What is wrong with us? Are we saying that the hundreds of innocent Indians who have been victim to terrorist attacks over the years no longer matter because we've finally got a prime time slot on CNN and BBC? Or has the proximity of so much ammunition limited the supply of oxygen to the non original part of the brain - I seem to remember the media going to town with 7/11 as well? Remember that one? Shock, horror. But never so many, and co-ordinated like this..... Here, have a random sampling from our 2008 figures:
30 October, Assam: Explosions kill at least 64
13 & 27 September, Delhi: Bomb blasts kills 19
26 July, Ahmedabad: 22 small bombs over the city. 49 dead
25 July, Bangalore: 7 bombs go off in Bangalore. 2 dead. 12 injured
13 May, Jaipur: 7 bombs hit markets and crowded streets in Jaipur killing 63
7 seems to be the number of choice for 2008.
Sophisticated, well funded and high profile you say? No, we haven't seen it in Mumbai. It was Bombay in those days. Ring a bell? The 1993 Bomb Blasts. 13 blasts across Bombay. 257 dead. 713 injured. Choice of targets: Bombay Stock Exchange * Sea Rock, Bandra * Air India Building * Centaur, Juhu * Plaza Theatre, Dadar * Zaveri Bazaar * Sena Bhavan (pity they didn't get saheb and his spawn) * Passport Office * Sahar Airport * Centaur, Santa Cruz * Century Bazarish
No? Just Mumbai in general then? Fancy a table? Ah - I can't copy and paste.... No worries, it's not like I'm going to bed anytime soon.
July 11, 2006 - 7 blasts, 7 locations in 11 minutes on the Western railway. 181 dead. 890 injured.
August 25, 2003 - Gateway of India and Zaveri Bazaar. 50 dead. 150 injured
July 29, 2003 - Ghatkopar. 3 dead. 34 injured
April 14, 2003 - Bandra. 1 dead.
March 13, 2003 - Mulund Railway Station. 11 dead. 80 injured
January 27, 2003 - Vile Parle. 1 dead. 25 injured
December 6, 2002 - Mumbai Central railway station. 25 injured
December 2, 2002 - Ghatokpar. 3 dead. 31 injured
February 27, 1998 - Virar. 9 dead.
January 24, 1998 - Malad. 1 injured
August 28, 1997 - near Jama Masjid. 3 injured
30 October, Assam: Explosions kill at least 64
13 & 27 September, Delhi: Bomb blasts kills 19
26 July, Ahmedabad: 22 small bombs over the city. 49 dead
25 July, Bangalore: 7 bombs go off in Bangalore. 2 dead. 12 injured
13 May, Jaipur: 7 bombs hit markets and crowded streets in Jaipur killing 63
7 seems to be the number of choice for 2008.
Sophisticated, well funded and high profile you say? No, we haven't seen it in Mumbai. It was Bombay in those days. Ring a bell? The 1993 Bomb Blasts. 13 blasts across Bombay. 257 dead. 713 injured. Choice of targets: Bombay Stock Exchange * Sea Rock, Bandra * Air India Building * Centaur, Juhu * Plaza Theatre, Dadar * Zaveri Bazaar * Sena Bhavan (pity they didn't get saheb and his spawn) * Passport Office * Sahar Airport * Centaur, Santa Cruz * Century Bazarish
No? Just Mumbai in general then? Fancy a table? Ah - I can't copy and paste.... No worries, it's not like I'm going to bed anytime soon.
July 11, 2006 - 7 blasts, 7 locations in 11 minutes on the Western railway. 181 dead. 890 injured.
August 25, 2003 - Gateway of India and Zaveri Bazaar. 50 dead. 150 injured
July 29, 2003 - Ghatkopar. 3 dead. 34 injured
April 14, 2003 - Bandra. 1 dead.
March 13, 2003 - Mulund Railway Station. 11 dead. 80 injured
January 27, 2003 - Vile Parle. 1 dead. 25 injured
December 6, 2002 - Mumbai Central railway station. 25 injured
December 2, 2002 - Ghatokpar. 3 dead. 31 injured
February 27, 1998 - Virar. 9 dead.
January 24, 1998 - Malad. 1 injured
August 28, 1997 - near Jama Masjid. 3 injured
9/11? We'd sweep the Olympics if this was a medal event. Yes, I do have a problem. This is not India's 9/11, but enough is enough. Bombay still doesn't have an emergency reponse management team, or even the emergency service infrastructure. Her politicians only interested in maximum mileage. The Taj is now billowing thick, black smoke, and the ground floor is in flames. Well, I suppose that's one way to build a business case for an all out refurb.
6 degrees in Mumbai
Somya had called yesterday. She'd read the blog and wanted to know who Binny was... I tell her. Karambir Kang. She knows him. Apparently he has a brother. Lobby manager at the President. Aashish forwards Khush and I, an article from the ToI. On NDTV, Krishnamurthy's lacklustre tribute provides a serious challenge to Dr. Singh's address to the nation. Everyone knows his story now. Karambir Kang. GM of the Taj. His family. The tragedy.
Yet, every attempt I make sends my vital signs north. Because of what Aashish sent this morning, from Sam who was with Binny, I can see it. I can almost feel it; taste it. On the flight to Amsterdam. At Schiphol on the way back, watching CNN. On the Heathrow Express watching the BBC. Every time I see the Taj in flames, I see her and the boys. And I can't write it. Not just yet.
Yet, every attempt I make sends my vital signs north. Because of what Aashish sent this morning, from Sam who was with Binny, I can see it. I can almost feel it; taste it. On the flight to Amsterdam. At Schiphol on the way back, watching CNN. On the Heathrow Express watching the BBC. Every time I see the Taj in flames, I see her and the boys. And I can't write it. Not just yet.
On a lighter note
My Hungarian is chuffed at being immortalised on the blog. Apparently according to the BBC, it's all over. I disabuse her of that notion, happy though it is.... and the Beeb used to be my gospel for world events. Maybe I'm just getting older, mouldier, crankier and less tolerant. Maybe it's sleep deprivation. Maybe it's the client I want to slap. Or did I mean clients. I digress.
Sarolta Csikós (Sha rolta Chi kosh). My Hanuman worshipping, Mahabharata reading, pessimistic Eastern European Indophile. On being referred to on Blogàtaurus; "Blimey!!! I am famous. Now I only have to have a dance routine and will be a STAR!". Jaaneman, I can no longer give you high tea at the Taj, but Bollywood...... is yours.
Sarolta Csikós (Sha rolta Chi kosh). My Hanuman worshipping, Mahabharata reading, pessimistic Eastern European Indophile. On being referred to on Blogàtaurus; "Blimey!!! I am famous. Now I only have to have a dance routine and will be a STAR!". Jaaneman, I can no longer give you high tea at the Taj, but Bollywood...... is yours.
54 hours...
And the desire to slowly, but savagely maim is receding. The Taj still besieged, but 2 out of 3 done. Our last night of vigilance? What happened at the Cama hospital? Not high profile enough? 155 dead. Over 300 injured, and no, I'm not going to tell you how many were foreigners. A definite link to Pakistan. A demand for their ISI Chief. Pakistan says he will come. The question is, what then? Another 10 years in court? Another attack demonstrating our lack of any coherent crises management? Scathing attacks on Muslims to ramp up vote banks for the upcoming elections? Endless sombre face visits for political mileage? Decisive action? or do we leave it to our inept Government? Mumbai to be declared a Union Territory - Leave Mumbai to the Mumbaikars?
Wonder where Raj Thackeray and his boys are - no time to save Mumbai from those that seek to destroy her? Of course not, Thackeray's Marathi manoos only has time for other hapless Indians. It's time for Mumbai's fearless protector against alien invasion from the North to take advantage of the tax paying asli Mumbaikar's generously provided security. Noneities, Stars, Celebrities, Captains of Industry, Aam Janta. All outraged at what has been done to our city. Litanies of Enough is Enough. How dare they. Get rid of the politicians. Strident voices. Except from the King of sound byte himself. At least now, we know who the Mumbaikars are.
Wonder where Raj Thackeray and his boys are - no time to save Mumbai from those that seek to destroy her? Of course not, Thackeray's Marathi manoos only has time for other hapless Indians. It's time for Mumbai's fearless protector against alien invasion from the North to take advantage of the tax paying asli Mumbaikar's generously provided security. Noneities, Stars, Celebrities, Captains of Industry, Aam Janta. All outraged at what has been done to our city. Litanies of Enough is Enough. How dare they. Get rid of the politicians. Strident voices. Except from the King of sound byte himself. At least now, we know who the Mumbaikars are.
A lifetime.
36 hours. The blink of an eye. Paralysed fingers hovering over the keyboard, as my aorta begins to misbehave. All I have is words, but they seem to have taken up residence somewhere in the vicinity of my throat. An email this morning from Aashish : 'Their story must be told, I think'. I think so too Bebous. I just didn't think it would be this hard. Fifteen hours and a country later, it's easier to find a hanky than it is the right words. But we saluted Binny yesterday morning. Aashish, Khush and I. A lifetime ago.
I will be back.
I will be back.
Foreigners
The Dutchman offers a walk in the park if it'll make me feel better and makes me laugh when he tells me he much rather not visit me in jail. My Hungarian informs me that I am very angry. She also lets me know how she is so sad for my city, and she's sorry to be European (bbc/cnn keep counting the international victims as individuals and the locals are only a number..), and nothing will keep her away come December. She has faith in India and Hanuman. I think she is Indian.
The Icelander heard about 'this terrible thing this morning....., so I got this strange feeling inside'. He also let me know that the trip with the Angels on the lagoon was one of his absolute favourite trips last summer. A long lost Danish English classmate finds me on facebook to say "Oh Apara, I am so sorry to be watching the news and seeing what's happening!!! I'm praying for Mumbai! Sending you lots of love and hope you are safe XX". The Italian specialises in hugs, and mourns the Taj with me. The English watch me with concerned eyes, dropping awkward pats. The German offers ruthless management support and dark chocolate, while the other, soothing lemon green tea. And Em of the thoughtful little gestures, makes me smile and want to cry. The Scot, cryptic as ever, tells me he’s busy stringing ears for me on my home continent…..
There is the foreign media, foreign governments, foreign policy...... and then, there are foreigners.
Mr. Miliband, there's support and then, there's support.
The Icelander heard about 'this terrible thing this morning....., so I got this strange feeling inside'. He also let me know that the trip with the Angels on the lagoon was one of his absolute favourite trips last summer. A long lost Danish English classmate finds me on facebook to say "Oh Apara, I am so sorry to be watching the news and seeing what's happening!!! I'm praying for Mumbai! Sending you lots of love and hope you are safe XX". The Italian specialises in hugs, and mourns the Taj with me. The English watch me with concerned eyes, dropping awkward pats. The German offers ruthless management support and dark chocolate, while the other, soothing lemon green tea. And Em of the thoughtful little gestures, makes me smile and want to cry. The Scot, cryptic as ever, tells me he’s busy stringing ears for me on my home continent…..
There is the foreign media, foreign governments, foreign policy...... and then, there are foreigners.
Mr. Miliband, there's support and then, there's support.
I was wrong.
There are more words.
For Binny and his family. For Hemant Karkare. For those we knew.
For all those we didn't know. Those who could just as easily have been us.
A difficult vigil dissolving into unexplained tears, numbness and shared grief. Your resilience pushed to breaking as the stalemate continued, no definitive success or end in sight. As frustrating as an exercise bike... all that pedalling and you never go anywhere. A sense of futility, which like lethargy, destroys the spirit. The shock of renewed tongues of flame brazenly dancing through a window of the heritage wing. A startling image of a ball of fire viewed through a canopy of trees. I know it's the Oberoi (untold years of philosophical debate under it's shadow watching the fingers of dawn crawl up the horizon does that to you) - how is that possible? It's confirmed. Bright flames flagrantly taunting from the 12th floor of the Oberoi. Supportive gestures from colleagues: a proffered handkerchief, a quietly tucked piece of chocolate on your desk (and one for back up), a smothering hug, an offer for home delivery. It fills more than just my heart. But it makes me feel even more powerless and vulnerable. I don't even realise I'm now walking with my head down, eyes on the ground, one foot in front of the other. Ipod playing loudly, but no body parts keeping time to the sound. The thought of writing anything abhorrent.
Texts from friends force me to think, and by the time I'm four steps from my door, I feel anger surge through me. Damned if I'm going to surrender. None of us are. This will never be their victory.
Nor will it be a production for the world stage. Recurring headlines about foreigners being targetted. That would explain the 6 out of 125 dead being foreigners. Support pouring in from all over the world. Don't belittle our loss because you have a few dead nationals. This is our tragedy, NOT yours. David Milibank's grandiose 'An attack on India is an attack on all of us'. No it's not. An attack on India is exactly that. An attack on India. And this is an attack on Bombay. Our City. Not yours. You want to support us, then do so without your human rights groups yelling foul play if we want to parade the terrorists and shoot them on camera for the world stage.
I resent anyone (especially NDTV) calling this Mumbai's 9/11. Do that and 9/11 is not a date. It's a fucking brand! Sixteen years since the '93 serial blasts, an unforgivable number of impudent assaults on our people since. Innocent victims of senseless carnage, over and over and over again. This is not the shock of 9/11 when America learnt how it felt to be assaulted on her own soil.
This is what we have lived too many times. With all due respect Dr. Singh, stay calm? While my city burns? This is NOT the time to stay calm. This is the time to say ENOUGH. We will hunt you down and eliminate you. Don't presume to think you can do what you like with my city.
This isn't the time to condemn terrorist attacks in Mumbai on Facebook. We're past mere condemnation. Leave that to the world leaders. This is our city. It's time to let them know that we will not tolerate this any longer. The audacity to think you can come to our city and wreak havoc - NO. No more. We will not allow it anymore. Where is superman when you need him? In NY, trying to get his chaddis on the right way. Bombayites/Mumbaikars. This is our fight. For our city. You hurt her, you hurt us. No more.
For Binny and his family. For Hemant Karkare. For those we knew.
For all those we didn't know. Those who could just as easily have been us.
A difficult vigil dissolving into unexplained tears, numbness and shared grief. Your resilience pushed to breaking as the stalemate continued, no definitive success or end in sight. As frustrating as an exercise bike... all that pedalling and you never go anywhere. A sense of futility, which like lethargy, destroys the spirit. The shock of renewed tongues of flame brazenly dancing through a window of the heritage wing. A startling image of a ball of fire viewed through a canopy of trees. I know it's the Oberoi (untold years of philosophical debate under it's shadow watching the fingers of dawn crawl up the horizon does that to you) - how is that possible? It's confirmed. Bright flames flagrantly taunting from the 12th floor of the Oberoi. Supportive gestures from colleagues: a proffered handkerchief, a quietly tucked piece of chocolate on your desk (and one for back up), a smothering hug, an offer for home delivery. It fills more than just my heart. But it makes me feel even more powerless and vulnerable. I don't even realise I'm now walking with my head down, eyes on the ground, one foot in front of the other. Ipod playing loudly, but no body parts keeping time to the sound. The thought of writing anything abhorrent.
Texts from friends force me to think, and by the time I'm four steps from my door, I feel anger surge through me. Damned if I'm going to surrender. None of us are. This will never be their victory.
Nor will it be a production for the world stage. Recurring headlines about foreigners being targetted. That would explain the 6 out of 125 dead being foreigners. Support pouring in from all over the world. Don't belittle our loss because you have a few dead nationals. This is our tragedy, NOT yours. David Milibank's grandiose 'An attack on India is an attack on all of us'. No it's not. An attack on India is exactly that. An attack on India. And this is an attack on Bombay. Our City. Not yours. You want to support us, then do so without your human rights groups yelling foul play if we want to parade the terrorists and shoot them on camera for the world stage.
I resent anyone (especially NDTV) calling this Mumbai's 9/11. Do that and 9/11 is not a date. It's a fucking brand! Sixteen years since the '93 serial blasts, an unforgivable number of impudent assaults on our people since. Innocent victims of senseless carnage, over and over and over again. This is not the shock of 9/11 when America learnt how it felt to be assaulted on her own soil.
This is what we have lived too many times. With all due respect Dr. Singh, stay calm? While my city burns? This is NOT the time to stay calm. This is the time to say ENOUGH. We will hunt you down and eliminate you. Don't presume to think you can do what you like with my city.
This isn't the time to condemn terrorist attacks in Mumbai on Facebook. We're past mere condemnation. Leave that to the world leaders. This is our city. It's time to let them know that we will not tolerate this any longer. The audacity to think you can come to our city and wreak havoc - NO. No more. We will not allow it anymore. Where is superman when you need him? In NY, trying to get his chaddis on the right way. Bombayites/Mumbaikars. This is our fight. For our city. You hurt her, you hurt us. No more.
....
Binny's family didn't make it. His wife. His two boys.
Their suite was taken in the fire, while he watched helplessly from across the road. The GM's privilege, a suite in the heritage wing. 2 weeks till their flat was going to be ready.
There are no more words.
Their suite was taken in the fire, while he watched helplessly from across the road. The GM's privilege, a suite in the heritage wing. 2 weeks till their flat was going to be ready.
There are no more words.
Mumbai Massacare
Catchy headline.
And apparently a hot, dribbly shower doesn't really help in times of crisis. Doubt a full on power shower would either. Trident is a lousy name for The Oberoi. When did that happen? All of us like fools thinking there were 3 hotels under siege, till the Beeb cleared it up.
The England cricket team will not travel to Mumbai, and they are debating whether they want to continue with their abject humiliation by the boys in blue. What better reason to quit when your 5-0 down then fear for your life.
The terrorists are very well organised, and apparently out to cause real damage. No, really?
Forgive me. It can't be easy to have to check room by room, if the dead bodies have been booby trapped.
Pakistan has offered all assistance and support that India needs, even investigation, not to mention a hotline between the intelligence agency chiefs. Ironic? Guess getting onto the front page of every major global publication is a powerful political motivator. 16 years isn't that long to wait for the world to take us seriously is it??
Another friend accounted for.
Advani sounds like a broken 90 year old man. How odd, only when he speaks in English. In Hindi, he's so much more powerful, his whole tone changes. Assured, confident and unwavering.
And apparently a hot, dribbly shower doesn't really help in times of crisis. Doubt a full on power shower would either. Trident is a lousy name for The Oberoi. When did that happen? All of us like fools thinking there were 3 hotels under siege, till the Beeb cleared it up.
The England cricket team will not travel to Mumbai, and they are debating whether they want to continue with their abject humiliation by the boys in blue. What better reason to quit when your 5-0 down then fear for your life.
The terrorists are very well organised, and apparently out to cause real damage. No, really?
Forgive me. It can't be easy to have to check room by room, if the dead bodies have been booby trapped.
Pakistan has offered all assistance and support that India needs, even investigation, not to mention a hotline between the intelligence agency chiefs. Ironic? Guess getting onto the front page of every major global publication is a powerful political motivator. 16 years isn't that long to wait for the world to take us seriously is it??
Another friend accounted for.
Advani sounds like a broken 90 year old man. How odd, only when he speaks in English. In Hindi, he's so much more powerful, his whole tone changes. Assured, confident and unwavering.
The 9.48 Virar local
is running on schedule. The body count now, 14 policemen. 3 dead terrorists. 9 suspected arrests. 3 absconding. At least 6 Israeli hostages. All manner of armed abbreviations have been deployed. The silence is eerie. My heart still wants to beat itself to death every time the images are flashed on screen. A press release from the Taj group is defiant - we will restore the Taj to it's former glory. Damn straight, we will. It's 0441 in London. I just might get into work on time. Great. Suj's up, and it seems Binny is outside the Taj but his wife and kids are still in there....
Platitudes....
.... come pouring in from across the world. Leaders pledging support and handing out severe condemnation for this dastardly conspiracy. Democracy shall prevail. Our prayers with your families. Strange. 16 years on, with rampant terrorism in country being relegated to a domestic issue (not a serious terrorist threat), blatantly ignored by the West, a blind eye towards threat of the Lashkar e Toiba, and now tea and sympathy for all. Since US and British citizens seem to have been targeted, it must have been an international conspiracy. They used inflatable rubber dinghies. How very Bond. Definitely international.
My heart bleeds
for my poor, poor city. It's devastating to see her broken and bloody remains. And the Beeb is banging on about not just the carnage, but the damage to India's self esteem abroad. Self esteem?? Pain has no ego. The stupid bitch reporting for them in Bombay thinks people are out for the morning walks because they're just not aware of the magnitude of what's happened, or maybe they're misinformed. Daft cow. This city always carries on. Even if it's just driven by a morbid curiosity. Even when there is no respite from the sound of gunfire at the Oberoi. Shots fired outside the Taj. The beginning of the end? Curfew has been declared.
The faces of terror
As those bastards are so quaintly referred to by NDTV. Shockingly clear photographs. Young men, oh so young, resembling truant college students. 10 ruthless assaults across the city. Over a 100 dead, including 11 policemen, some of them our finest, and over a 300 hostages (possibly more) stuck inside their hotel rooms and surrounding buildings. With virtual studio portraits of the escaped terrorists, it's time for an all out manhunt. This is oh so personal now. Every single location hit, a familiar haunt, familiar names. Less than six degrees of separation.
Now the focus is on the Oberoi. Familiar images of where I've parked my car so many times. The entrance to India Jones (the ultimate clue linking Trident to apna Oberoi!), a regular haunt for Mim & Rahul. Glimpses of the plate glass shielding the lusciously comfortable sofas, perfect for an late afternoon/early evening indulgence overlooking the bay, with the mellifluous strains of the trio washing over you. Stark images of swathes of blood among abandoned luggage at VT, more blood amidst shattered glass and crippled tables at Leopold, the bastion of affordable succour to Bombay's college students and mealy mouthed tourists.
If she says another of the cities fucking landmarks, I will scream. We get it! Why the Cama hospital? I understand the Taj & Oberoi... no one's even talking about Cama. But hey, when we do remember to mention it, let's not forget it's one of the cities landmarks!! Maybe the tea wasn't such a good idea. Schools and colleges will remain closed. As will the stock market. Silver lining??
Now the focus is on the Oberoi. Familiar images of where I've parked my car so many times. The entrance to India Jones (the ultimate clue linking Trident to apna Oberoi!), a regular haunt for Mim & Rahul. Glimpses of the plate glass shielding the lusciously comfortable sofas, perfect for an late afternoon/early evening indulgence overlooking the bay, with the mellifluous strains of the trio washing over you. Stark images of swathes of blood among abandoned luggage at VT, more blood amidst shattered glass and crippled tables at Leopold, the bastion of affordable succour to Bombay's college students and mealy mouthed tourists.
If she says another of the cities fucking landmarks, I will scream. We get it! Why the Cama hospital? I understand the Taj & Oberoi... no one's even talking about Cama. But hey, when we do remember to mention it, let's not forget it's one of the cities landmarks!! Maybe the tea wasn't such a good idea. Schools and colleges will remain closed. As will the stock market. Silver lining??
A new dawn...
... and the die hard step out for their morning walk. How can you not love this city? Auckland, Hong Kong, London, New York - we're all here, keeping vigil. The calm before the storm. It feels like the worst is over. Daylight does that. It's a beautiful building, the Taj, and the flames finally seem to be out. Dear God. I can hear the crows over the reporter. Infuriating, raucous, up all night scavengers. How can you possibly miss that sound?? There are over 100 people still in the building, possibly more. Near 50 hostages between the Cama hospital, Oberoi and Taj. Gunshots, reminiscent of diwali patakas, break the lull. The worst is yet to come.
Doel on chat - her closest friend's father, Hemant Karkare, Chief of the Anti Terrorist Squad, shot. A sense of the unreal, as a voice over the NDTV stream, flows over my shocked banality..."5 of Mumbai's most decorated policemen, dead. Hemant Karkare, Chief, ATS". Apparently, he believed in leading from the front. Shot 3 times in the chest. Take no prisoners. Eradicate the Deccan Mujahideen. It's the least we can do for him.
Doel on chat - her closest friend's father, Hemant Karkare, Chief of the Anti Terrorist Squad, shot. A sense of the unreal, as a voice over the NDTV stream, flows over my shocked banality..."5 of Mumbai's most decorated policemen, dead. Hemant Karkare, Chief, ATS". Apparently, he believed in leading from the front. Shot 3 times in the chest. Take no prisoners. Eradicate the Deccan Mujahideen. It's the least we can do for him.
Catharsis
Have to confess, that our mauling of the appalling reportage on NDTV which has now reached farcical proportions, has been rather cathartic. Khush is almost hysterical with the giggles, and I'm feeling slightly less wound up. The lastest gem, a couple of over enthusiastic young, badly spoken reporters attaching themselves with abandon to someone 'rescued' from the Oberoi. A strapping young man, who in response to their excited yapping, "tell us why you were inside the hotel", "what's your good name?""where are you from?"... Ross from Sydney informs them in a sexily pitched, well modulated voice that he was out before the cops came in, more than a couple of hours ago, an answer which results in 17 seconds of dead air time from the clueless microphone brigade.
The fun looked set for a spoiling when the yappy team was replaced by a more articulate woman, able to ask coherent questions and listen...till her emotions got the better of her and she went on about the landmark Taj hotel, one of the oldest buildings in Mumbai and even in India....???? We spawned Mohenjodaro and Harappa and now 1903 is the oldest edifice we have on order? I can hear Humayun spinning like a shwarma in his tomb.
There is a reason for everything. This is why India is such a wonderful civilisation, and why we shall prevail. Resistance is futile.
The fun looked set for a spoiling when the yappy team was replaced by a more articulate woman, able to ask coherent questions and listen...till her emotions got the better of her and she went on about the landmark Taj hotel, one of the oldest buildings in Mumbai and even in India....???? We spawned Mohenjodaro and Harappa and now 1903 is the oldest edifice we have on order? I can hear Humayun spinning like a shwarma in his tomb.
There is a reason for everything. This is why India is such a wonderful civilisation, and why we shall prevail. Resistance is futile.
Gunfire at OK Corral
This is just surreal. Terrorists running amok, racing between the two wings, with the army firing indiscriminately. I have no objection to indiscriminate fire, as long as it generates dead bodies of terrorists, but seems like 2 of them are holed up somewhere in the hotels plush and cavernous facilities.
I'm too upset to be civil, and I've already bitten off Taks' head without much provocation, so will turn my attention to some of these alleged reporters instead. "Big gunshots from one of the rooms coming out....". Surely we have a plethora of regional channels they can be reporting for in a language they're comfortable in? I miss All India Radio. They had class. Knew their business, were taught voice modulation, had impeccable diction, pitch and accents, understood the difference between reportage and rambling. I believe they still do. The last bastion of civilised India. AIR. Maybe I should move to Jhumritalia.
Gunshots. Full out gunfire at the hotels. It's just bizarre. Police 'encounters' no longer the domain of Mumbai's vast and seamy underworld. Why we call it an encounter is beyond me. Khush raises an interesting point - 100 people were rescued from within the Taj, what about the other 2,000 that usually fester on the premises? Oh brilliant. The petrol pump at Colaba causeway has been blown up, and there are a couple of terrorists possibly holed up in the building behind, and obligingly shot two men in the vicinity. Next to the petrol pump is where Arjan's cut piece shop is, next to Blue Haven salon and Bindra tailor. One lane north of Kailash Parbat, the home of pani puri made from bisleri and other delicacies, where they'll happily deliver an order for Rs.12.
Another terrorist down. A grand total of 5. Several more to go. Speculation suggests that the goal was to cripple tourism, thusly the high profile targets and taking of foreigners as hostages. And this will help their cause how?? One presumes a career in terrorism is a handy solution to congenital stupidity. As my co-contributor says, when brains were being handed out by the almighty, these guys must have reached out with chai channis (tea strainers). Seems like the current crop of TV reporters were in the same queue with colanders, "clearly things are all happening right there...." from a reporter at the Taj. What perspicacity.
I'm too upset to be civil, and I've already bitten off Taks' head without much provocation, so will turn my attention to some of these alleged reporters instead. "Big gunshots from one of the rooms coming out....". Surely we have a plethora of regional channels they can be reporting for in a language they're comfortable in? I miss All India Radio. They had class. Knew their business, were taught voice modulation, had impeccable diction, pitch and accents, understood the difference between reportage and rambling. I believe they still do. The last bastion of civilised India. AIR. Maybe I should move to Jhumritalia.
Gunshots. Full out gunfire at the hotels. It's just bizarre. Police 'encounters' no longer the domain of Mumbai's vast and seamy underworld. Why we call it an encounter is beyond me. Khush raises an interesting point - 100 people were rescued from within the Taj, what about the other 2,000 that usually fester on the premises? Oh brilliant. The petrol pump at Colaba causeway has been blown up, and there are a couple of terrorists possibly holed up in the building behind, and obligingly shot two men in the vicinity. Next to the petrol pump is where Arjan's cut piece shop is, next to Blue Haven salon and Bindra tailor. One lane north of Kailash Parbat, the home of pani puri made from bisleri and other delicacies, where they'll happily deliver an order for Rs.12.
Another terrorist down. A grand total of 5. Several more to go. Speculation suggests that the goal was to cripple tourism, thusly the high profile targets and taking of foreigners as hostages. And this will help their cause how?? One presumes a career in terrorism is a handy solution to congenital stupidity. As my co-contributor says, when brains were being handed out by the almighty, these guys must have reached out with chai channis (tea strainers). Seems like the current crop of TV reporters were in the same queue with colanders, "clearly things are all happening right there...." from a reporter at the Taj. What perspicacity.
Cruising terrorists?
They got here by boat. Alighted at the Gateway of India. Just like King George V and Queen Mary in 1911. How charmingly decadent.
As Khush says, hating terrorists is hungry work. Seems to be ages since either of us ate last. Time to forage for sustance to prop up our vigil through my night and his dawn. Spicy, oily bhurji, lightly toasted pao/bun maska and garam chai (I use the word chai with a great deal of poetic license. Gently brewed second flush makaibari). Fit for a true Mumbaikar, at the last bastions of Irani restaurants, Stadium restaurant.
As Khush says, hating terrorists is hungry work. Seems to be ages since either of us ate last. Time to forage for sustance to prop up our vigil through my night and his dawn. Spicy, oily bhurji, lightly toasted pao/bun maska and garam chai (I use the word chai with a great deal of poetic license. Gently brewed second flush makaibari). Fit for a true Mumbaikar, at the last bastions of Irani restaurants, Stadium restaurant.
Unnnngh!!
Reporter quizzing someone who's just exited the Taj.... "how are you feeling?" "did you see the terrorists?" What? This is reporting? Fucking idiots. It is shameful that they're allowed mikes and let loose to be inflicted upon traumatised victims and an unsuspecting, but aggressively angry audience. This is winding me up even more. Not only do I have to watch from a distance the fact that while 2 terrorists are dead, 2 are still alive, and hostages abound at the Oberoi and Cama hospital, I have endure this drivel? Ladies in saris without the courage to come down the ladders. Wonderful. The sari: inhibitor of feminine courage, and it's place in Indian society. A wedding reception being rescued 40-50 people. Small wedding. Well, at least it'll be an unforgettable one.
Bless Kat - she's just sent such a lovely message. She'd treated me to tea at the Sea Lounge a million years ago when they were touring India. I'm just so angry I could spit. It's not enough to rant on the blog/with family/friends/on bbcworld comments/facebook/everyone in my address book. I want to scream. They're talking about the triangle between the Taj, Oberoi, Metro/Bombay hospital. Home, work and college. My neighbourhood. My Ilaka. The desire to slowly, but savagely maim these bastards is irresistible.
PLAH! They're wondering how the city will recover, even though we always have in the past, this is apparently reminiscent of J&K. We'll recover even if all us absconding Mumbaikars have to indulge in a mass exodus from foreign lands. Shit. The fire at the Taj has reignited and the flames are like a frigging fountain and it's spreading all over the top floor. Everyone has been evacuated though, so that's some consolation. Where is the damn fire brigade? Tanking up? The fucking sea is right THERE! Dear God. Watching this is making me feel sick. If they can't control it, the heritage wing will collapse. The price of 6 or is it 15 hostages? Half of them foreigners? I'm staunchly battling my xenophobic tendencies. 'Situation beyond control in Trident and Taj'. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?? The encounter at the Taj is now allegedly over. Time to save the building and take stock of body count. Assuming the news reports are accurate, which is doubtful given the general hysteria.
Crap, images from inside the heritage wing. Just the lobby near the Sea Lounge, banquet room and boutiques. Destroyed. Oh no - the building isn't clear, there are still people in there...could have so easily been one of us. I hope it's not. None of us.
Bless Kat - she's just sent such a lovely message. She'd treated me to tea at the Sea Lounge a million years ago when they were touring India. I'm just so angry I could spit. It's not enough to rant on the blog/with family/friends/on bbcworld comments/facebook/everyone in my address book. I want to scream. They're talking about the triangle between the Taj, Oberoi, Metro/Bombay hospital. Home, work and college. My neighbourhood. My Ilaka. The desire to slowly, but savagely maim these bastards is irresistible.
PLAH! They're wondering how the city will recover, even though we always have in the past, this is apparently reminiscent of J&K. We'll recover even if all us absconding Mumbaikars have to indulge in a mass exodus from foreign lands. Shit. The fire at the Taj has reignited and the flames are like a frigging fountain and it's spreading all over the top floor. Everyone has been evacuated though, so that's some consolation. Where is the damn fire brigade? Tanking up? The fucking sea is right THERE! Dear God. Watching this is making me feel sick. If they can't control it, the heritage wing will collapse. The price of 6 or is it 15 hostages? Half of them foreigners? I'm staunchly battling my xenophobic tendencies. 'Situation beyond control in Trident and Taj'. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?? The encounter at the Taj is now allegedly over. Time to save the building and take stock of body count. Assuming the news reports are accurate, which is doubtful given the general hysteria.
Crap, images from inside the heritage wing. Just the lobby near the Sea Lounge, banquet room and boutiques. Destroyed. Oh no - the building isn't clear, there are still people in there...could have so easily been one of us. I hope it's not. None of us.
The Taj under siege
The Deccan Mujahideen have claimed responsibility. The Deccan??? 9 terrorists have been arrested.... gee, how many terrorists does it take to cause mayhem at the Taj, Oberoi, VT, Cama hospital and other sundry locales? Shit. The flame are jumping higher from the dome, spreading throughout the entire top floor of the heritage wing and there's continued gunfire. Hope they kill every last bastard. Oh crap - the flames are alive and consuming the corner of the Taj closest to the Radio club. God, this is breaking my heart. This is just to awful to even contemplate. It's like watching a part of your life burn on a funeral pyre, debris scattering all over. The fire brigade and all other rescue efforts are being kept away because of the gunfighting. Endless hours of faltugiri, philosophy, food... memories like no other. Being destroyed in front of your eyes. I can't believe I'm going to watch this building being razed to the ground. 1903, the beatles, prince charles, sujata's wedding, , raking up a bill the size of a small inheritance at wasabi with mim, high tea with ma – giggling over our doggie bag filled with goodies by the waiter, the pulsating beat at 1900's... oh God, this is unbearable. This is our ilaka, they have no business messing with what's ours. Finally - the fire brigade is here, about fucking time! This is worst than the horrified fascination of a train wreck. Please, please, please, please let them save it. Water - at last. This is my home! Our home - Mim, Khush, Sonia, Madura, Sanjukta, Kuni. All us Mumbaikars who will be up through the night maintaining a constant vigilance over our ilaka. No Madura, we're NOT going to let random sickos take over our homes and lives and toss it around. NEVER.
Bugger. There are people stranded there as well. The flames look like they're being held in abeyance. Time to get those folk out. Think the gunshots have become more subduded as well. Filmi as it may be, they'd better only be terrorist laash after laash. Think I'm going into adrenalin shock. My back and shoulder muscles are pretending to be the rock of Gibraltar. Apparently the stairwells are strewn with bodies.. how fucking dare they.
Bugger. There are people stranded there as well. The flames look like they're being held in abeyance. Time to get those folk out. Think the gunshots have become more subduded as well. Filmi as it may be, they'd better only be terrorist laash after laash. Think I'm going into adrenalin shock. My back and shoulder muscles are pretending to be the rock of Gibraltar. Apparently the stairwells are strewn with bodies.. how fucking dare they.
I CANNOT believe it's happening again...
My poor city. It's mayhem, 80 dead and counting, the Taj on fire and spreading, AK 47 toting terrorists running loose, explosions at hospitals and railway stations, gunfire at Leo's, hostages at teh Oberoi...... it's like a recurring nightmare. Every decade, a well orchestrated and successfully implemented plan to bring the city to her knees. What other city in the world, which is not a combat zone, ever sees anything like this? Not just once, so as to become a banner date like 9/11, but repeatedly. And yet again, I'm in the wrong city, impotently listening, trading emails/calls, watching the destruction of the city I love. We love. Unable to express my rage. Everyone that matters to me is fine, but it's more than that. It's my home and I hate being a bystander while it's being ripped apart.
The same feeling of helplessness during the 1993 serial blasts, of not being there where I belonged. Of not being part of that throng of Bombayites that went back to work without a blink the following day. As horrible as it sounds, I couldn't give a toss about this city - I'd feel bad, but hardly unadulterated fury, frustration and abysmal sadness. Who else but another Mumbaikar will understand, how upset you are when you worry together about the fire at the Taj spreading - it would be a calamity to lose the Taj, whereas, when you're 1.3 billion, hey, we can lose a few. Debating the merits of stringing the terrorists together and shooting them in front of a TV audience vs. a bond style bomb wrapped terrorist detonation vs burning them alive. Leave the concept of justice and our overburdened courts for the aam janta. This deserves only death. Oh, we have a winner, "chop their ears off and make a necklace of them and hang it at the entrance of the city... the fate that awaits you if you so much as look at the city with an evil eye!!", no wait, "skulls on totem poles". Actually, I'm kind of leaning towards an oldie but a goodie. "String them up by their eyelashes to the ornate ceiling fans at the Taj, with a slow burning fire under each bollock. Remember to brown evenly and serve the charred on the outside, perfectly slow roasted on the inside flesh, slightly cooled to our large pariah population would enjoy providing a fitting end".
I don't believe this. Some idiot is worried about the message this will send. I mean really, who gives a FUCK?! My poor poor city. Just chatting with Mim, she's upset, Sonia on the phone, she's in shock, Khush is the winner with his necklace of ears, and I can feel my pulse ratchet up a notch. How DARE they?? The indifferent cold bloodedness of these attacks makes me so angry. And human rights activists moan about India's track record. When they do this to your city, and you can just sit and watch with a benign eye, it's time to go fuck yourself.
The same feeling of helplessness during the 1993 serial blasts, of not being there where I belonged. Of not being part of that throng of Bombayites that went back to work without a blink the following day. As horrible as it sounds, I couldn't give a toss about this city - I'd feel bad, but hardly unadulterated fury, frustration and abysmal sadness. Who else but another Mumbaikar will understand, how upset you are when you worry together about the fire at the Taj spreading - it would be a calamity to lose the Taj, whereas, when you're 1.3 billion, hey, we can lose a few. Debating the merits of stringing the terrorists together and shooting them in front of a TV audience vs. a bond style bomb wrapped terrorist detonation vs burning them alive. Leave the concept of justice and our overburdened courts for the aam janta. This deserves only death. Oh, we have a winner, "chop their ears off and make a necklace of them and hang it at the entrance of the city... the fate that awaits you if you so much as look at the city with an evil eye!!", no wait, "skulls on totem poles". Actually, I'm kind of leaning towards an oldie but a goodie. "String them up by their eyelashes to the ornate ceiling fans at the Taj, with a slow burning fire under each bollock. Remember to brown evenly and serve the charred on the outside, perfectly slow roasted on the inside flesh, slightly cooled to our large pariah population would enjoy providing a fitting end".
I don't believe this. Some idiot is worried about the message this will send. I mean really, who gives a FUCK?! My poor poor city. Just chatting with Mim, she's upset, Sonia on the phone, she's in shock, Khush is the winner with his necklace of ears, and I can feel my pulse ratchet up a notch. How DARE they?? The indifferent cold bloodedness of these attacks makes me so angry. And human rights activists moan about India's track record. When they do this to your city, and you can just sit and watch with a benign eye, it's time to go fuck yourself.
RUF
There is no limit to the ways you can embarrass yourself..... and wisdom that comes with age is no deterrent to moments of unadulterated daftness.
Aaah: The Power...
.... of a real shower. Returning from New York always makes me ponder popular English practices. They have an abundance of qualities, the English. A dry sense of humour, a preponderance of marvelous literature, parks all over central London, a magnificently helpful police force, highly skilled bureaucracy. Much to be admired. What they do lack however, is any understanding of the concept of a shower. A bath, yes. They seem to have a predilection for those, a distinctly alien notion from cleaning oneself. Still, wallowing in a hot bubble bath with music and candle lights is not to be scoffed at. Apparently the Greeks invented the concept of the shower, as only the Greeks can, but it seems to have been seriously lost in translation by the time it made what was undoubtedly a perilous journey across the English Channel. How an Englishman is able to keep a straight face and actually call an apologetically, inconsequential dribbling of either scalding hot, freezing cold, or grossly tepid water, a 'shower', is one of life's great mysteries.
Naturally, natural physical laws dictate that those who love to shower, and can spend many a blissful hours under one, with nary a thought about draining the planets natural resources (she does however compensate with recylcing, public transport, shunning gift wrap and doubling up under the shower), must feel the pangs of denial the strongest. Or is that karma? How many evil deeds would it take to covet other people's showers in this life? When I first moved, that was a necessary condition of residence. Obviously exposure to the inclement weather has re-routed my synapses to the point where I actually forgot to take a look at the shower before signing the lease. Kismet perhaps. Yes, this was a draft when I got back from NY, neglected by other trivial occurrences such as life, and since I began this, I have been sharply nudged by the strong, steady, sensuous stream of warm water from a real shower, and nearly cried at the sight of DDM & Jayals shower in their exquisite new flat.
It's difficult to embark upon a rant when it's fundamentally your fault, which led me to ask the difficult question - would I trade in my flat for one of those showers? The jury's still out on that one. I love my flat despite the hideous curtains, creaking floors, ugh carpeting and that fridge! I actually rather like my bathroom as well, except for that thing they accidentally keep referring to as a shower. But come winter, and you really start to wonder if high ceilings and cosy are words that can match what the English quaintly refer to as a 'power shower' - umm, that's called a 'shower'....
Bet you didn't know that the pressure and temperature of the water is believed to include the release of natural endorphins and furthermore, it causes negative ions which are known to ameliorate mood. I can confirm that this is an undeniable fact. It is absolutely true. Why do you think I spent all that time in the shower? For purely therapeutic reasons. Good mental health has never been more critical given the paradox of thrift that pervades. I shall just have to summon up my deepest reserves of pleasantness and well, beg for shower privileges where ever I can (Gumtree maybe: Seeking - Power Shower. Willing to travel.... )
Naturally, natural physical laws dictate that those who love to shower, and can spend many a blissful hours under one, with nary a thought about draining the planets natural resources (she does however compensate with recylcing, public transport, shunning gift wrap and doubling up under the shower), must feel the pangs of denial the strongest. Or is that karma? How many evil deeds would it take to covet other people's showers in this life? When I first moved, that was a necessary condition of residence. Obviously exposure to the inclement weather has re-routed my synapses to the point where I actually forgot to take a look at the shower before signing the lease. Kismet perhaps. Yes, this was a draft when I got back from NY, neglected by other trivial occurrences such as life, and since I began this, I have been sharply nudged by the strong, steady, sensuous stream of warm water from a real shower, and nearly cried at the sight of DDM & Jayals shower in their exquisite new flat.
It's difficult to embark upon a rant when it's fundamentally your fault, which led me to ask the difficult question - would I trade in my flat for one of those showers? The jury's still out on that one. I love my flat despite the hideous curtains, creaking floors, ugh carpeting and that fridge! I actually rather like my bathroom as well, except for that thing they accidentally keep referring to as a shower. But come winter, and you really start to wonder if high ceilings and cosy are words that can match what the English quaintly refer to as a 'power shower' - umm, that's called a 'shower'....
Bet you didn't know that the pressure and temperature of the water is believed to include the release of natural endorphins and furthermore, it causes negative ions which are known to ameliorate mood. I can confirm that this is an undeniable fact. It is absolutely true. Why do you think I spent all that time in the shower? For purely therapeutic reasons. Good mental health has never been more critical given the paradox of thrift that pervades. I shall just have to summon up my deepest reserves of pleasantness and well, beg for shower privileges where ever I can (Gumtree maybe: Seeking - Power Shower. Willing to travel.... )
HTML, FTP and other such rude abbreveations
A night like this makes you re-evaluate your decision to get a divorce: 5 straight hours of copying, pasting, tweaking, re-sizing, aligning, uploading, deleting, selecting... you get the drift. The screen is swimming before my eyes, and the words punch drunk take on a poignant meaning, particularly since alcohol has been prolific by its absence. In the good old days, I'd just put down my pithy comments and hey, presto! there'd be this delicious website with all our photos thanks to my resident nerd. Do I feel a touch of guilt stealthily creeping around for not having bestowed the proper amount of appreciation during our conjugal togetherness? Quite possibly. More so given the deeeep sighs, gritting of teeth evolving into faint gnashing sounds, and a voice frayed with impatience and exhaustion (Thappar, I really thought those days were long gone!!). Not that I blame him, considering I forgot all about the cover page of the website in my excitement over Islandia and it took him a very frustrating 20 minutes to snap me out of my d-uh state. But By Jove!! She's got it. I really think she's got it! Yes, Ms. Smugness herself reporting - I have just uploaded my first photo album, the long awaited bounty from Iceland (no, not the berg from my fridge). Yay!! The euphoria is too much not to share, which is why I'm still here at 1.24 am exhorting you to check it out, www.aparaguha.net (i think), although I should warn you, I haven't figured out how to get back to the home page despite Aashish's best efforts, so unless you want to keep having to go back to aparaguha.net, I suggest you open the links in a new window.
Still, success does taste sweet, and I'm feeling buzzed enough to stick up some more random photos just because I can :). The HTML & FTP princess has arrived!
P. S. - Velu hates it when I keep referring to it is hatmal
P.P.S. - I even remember to run a spell check... will wonders never cease
Still, success does taste sweet, and I'm feeling buzzed enough to stick up some more random photos just because I can :). The HTML & FTP princess has arrived!
P. S. - Velu hates it when I keep referring to it is hatmal
P.P.S. - I even remember to run a spell check... will wonders never cease
Siiigh! Is there no pleasing the Gods of refrigeration?
Apparently, they are so pleased with my defrosting efforts, they have decided to reward me with the ultimate cooling, and have now turned the regular fridge bit into a frost free freezer. I now have a cup of frozen coconut milk, chocolate soufflé that can be turned upside down with nonchalance, a block of chicken curry you could build a house with, frozen raspberry bullets.... you get the rather refreshing and nippy drift, yes? No dead cat, but I do smell a conspiracy between the makers of MaMa Thai noodles, the restaurant association of Maida Vale and Al Jannat superstore.
Blogetiquette
Why is that people who have nice things to say about your blog NEVER do so on it??? I'm now seriously weighing the cons of coming across a total prat if I were to quote Charu on here...... Given that I look eight weeks pregnant (yes, the usual fallout of a week in NY), the weather here sucks, like the hot showers (don't even get me started!), I've had 6 hours of sleep since Sunday, dealt with a dead cat in my fridge, and Taks is drinking the wine he claimed had my name on it (I don't care if it was a post-it!), it's fair to say I'm thoroughly resenting being back! Thappar, thank you, and the rest of you can just call me Apara prat Guha (although to be honest, I think it's more a case of the devasting duo of d-uh reunite ;-))
"You, my dear must author a book… you write so well and this below brings so many memories and that too so vividly… "
I suppose there's always the chance that it'll come back to bite me in the ass, and people who don't have nice things to say will obligingly get with the program, and then I'll have to move blog.
"You, my dear must author a book… you write so well and this below brings so many memories and that too so vividly… "
I suppose there's always the chance that it'll come back to bite me in the ass, and people who don't have nice things to say will obligingly get with the program, and then I'll have to move blog.
RUF
Inhaling the sultry fragrance of Darjeeling while feeling it's heat curl up towards you, will result in an involuntary relaxation of taut muscles, as a day of fatigue slithers away leaving you horizontal and mellow. The perfect way to unwind..... till you're bouncing off the walls at two in the morning wishing you hadn't let that blasted sense of benevolence lure you to a fourth cup!!
Operation Thaw
My fridge smells like a dead cat. I have debated this symptom with friends, hijacking an otherwise pleasant lunch, and many helpful and not so helpful suggestion later, plan A seemed to be the way to go. Buy soda bi-carb and leave in it the fridge, as rumour has that it will absorbs nasty smells. I feel a calming sense of domestic goddess steal over me. Unfortunately, that was the day we inflicted Quantum of Solace on ourselves, and the crushing disappointment of that endeavour completely distracted me from my mission to acquire said soda bi-carb. So, plan B: never open the fridge again. Worked shockingly well for a week. Had another round of discussions, this time in Amsterdam with workmates (I hate wallowing alone!), and given that I'd just extended my lease for another year, and I'm hungry all the time, how easy it was and the moral support they were willing to provide (work from home with boss on call!) plan C was strongly advocated. It'll only take a couple of hours....Friday the 7th was the anointed day, but I had to go into work for a bit, and my native wisdom suggested that it was unwise to commence any water related operation the same day of departure. But, I did do the groundwork - shortlisting suitable containers for overflow duty, confirming that none of the visible plugs in the kitchen are connected to the damn thing, and that an attempt to dislodge it from it's resting place results in severe resistance. Plan C: Operation Thaw. Return from New York, assault the fuse box and render the offending white good unconscious.
Back in smelly London, with the kitchen floor festooned in fuchsia (you know, i don't even try.. it just types itself!!) and roasting tin in place, I ruthlessly flip the switch on the fuse box, and head for bed in a pre-emptive strike against jet lag (in case you were wondering, it is now 2.51 am). Sleep is elusive, eye mask absconding (it is doubtful I ever had one), it's too warm and the stress of dripping water distinctly non-soporific. My steely backbone prevails and I strip and burrow deeper under the covers. It works, the world outside is dark. But then, it usually is at 5pm. A couple of hours my ass. I have been electricity free since 10am, and all I have to show for it is a delicately glistening sheen on what I presume is the catchment tray. Right. Enough of this bullshit. Jeans, screwdriver, fluffy slippers, rubber gloves, and I'm ready to roll.
I now know what the pointy screwdriver head is for. A cleverly disguised if somewhat ineffectual icepick. Suddenly, this promises to be fun, but my glee at gouging is somewhat compromised by a sound reminiscent of a breaking iceberg. This can't be good. I proceed with caution. Two saucepans of ice and I'm no longer amused. Fucking fridge. Just how much ice can one pathetic sized freezer create? Bringing the candle to close singes the ice. Not what I was expecting. OK, so physics was never my best subject, but isn't heat supposed to melt ice and not burn the damn thing? I have visitors, so have to turn the lights back on. Damned if I'm going to let the fucking fridge claw back into the game. Fortified by Makaibari's best, I bring on the hair dryer - time it was used for more than Sarolta's tresses. Full blast complemented by vicious jabs. The freezer is clean, but ice still clings outside it like an annoying ex-lover you can't get rid of.
Jayal offers to take over, and DDM and I book tickets for the tennis masters. Uh-oh, she's bored. Three quarters of a roasting tin of ice water. Hah! Amateur. I take up the slack, and suddenly, a block of ice the size of Madagascar makes itself visible. Jesus "$%$£"$ Christ! A few violent tugs and it stays stoically in place. I feel like Lady Macbeth. I zap it with my blaster (you have a better way to picture this Jabba??), and yank brutally (no wonder my rotator cuff isn't getting any better). Fuck. Madagascar is welded around some internal wiring. Fucking primitive technology. Fucking English. Just Fuck!! (my mother is not going to be pleased with this post, but Mother, you have NEVER defrosted a fridge!). I invoke Buddha, add more sugar to my tea and keep my Wa. I am determined. I zone out Jayal's not very helpful tittering and set the blaster to incinerate. Ten minutes, and that iceberg is toast. Yes it's pathological, the lying. It's an iceberg still worthy of the Titanic, but it's now taken up residence in the roasting tin, as we gather around to gawp, marvel and take photos. This is why I hate physics. How is it possible for something this size to occupy what can only be a fraction of it's size behind the freezer compartment? 3.29 am, and the ex-formidable berg in my sink is the size of the Shetland's. The fucking fridge is still the same size. I am beginning to believe in vampires and werewolves. Another 15 minutes, and the last vestige of ice has been eliminated. Operation Thaw is now officially over.
A new beginning: Pinot Gris (Hugel 2004), Sauterne (Madame de Rayne 2000), orange juice, boursin, Ardennes paté, fruit yogurts, halloumi, asparagus, Lincolnshire sausages. Tuesday, I start shopping for Friday's desi dinner for Walker and his girls. Plan D: if that dead cat is still in there come Thursday, move house.
Back in smelly London, with the kitchen floor festooned in fuchsia (you know, i don't even try.. it just types itself!!) and roasting tin in place, I ruthlessly flip the switch on the fuse box, and head for bed in a pre-emptive strike against jet lag (in case you were wondering, it is now 2.51 am). Sleep is elusive, eye mask absconding (it is doubtful I ever had one), it's too warm and the stress of dripping water distinctly non-soporific. My steely backbone prevails and I strip and burrow deeper under the covers. It works, the world outside is dark. But then, it usually is at 5pm. A couple of hours my ass. I have been electricity free since 10am, and all I have to show for it is a delicately glistening sheen on what I presume is the catchment tray. Right. Enough of this bullshit. Jeans, screwdriver, fluffy slippers, rubber gloves, and I'm ready to roll.
I now know what the pointy screwdriver head is for. A cleverly disguised if somewhat ineffectual icepick. Suddenly, this promises to be fun, but my glee at gouging is somewhat compromised by a sound reminiscent of a breaking iceberg. This can't be good. I proceed with caution. Two saucepans of ice and I'm no longer amused. Fucking fridge. Just how much ice can one pathetic sized freezer create? Bringing the candle to close singes the ice. Not what I was expecting. OK, so physics was never my best subject, but isn't heat supposed to melt ice and not burn the damn thing? I have visitors, so have to turn the lights back on. Damned if I'm going to let the fucking fridge claw back into the game. Fortified by Makaibari's best, I bring on the hair dryer - time it was used for more than Sarolta's tresses. Full blast complemented by vicious jabs. The freezer is clean, but ice still clings outside it like an annoying ex-lover you can't get rid of.
Jayal offers to take over, and DDM and I book tickets for the tennis masters. Uh-oh, she's bored. Three quarters of a roasting tin of ice water. Hah! Amateur. I take up the slack, and suddenly, a block of ice the size of Madagascar makes itself visible. Jesus "$%$£"$ Christ! A few violent tugs and it stays stoically in place. I feel like Lady Macbeth. I zap it with my blaster (you have a better way to picture this Jabba??), and yank brutally (no wonder my rotator cuff isn't getting any better). Fuck. Madagascar is welded around some internal wiring. Fucking primitive technology. Fucking English. Just Fuck!! (my mother is not going to be pleased with this post, but Mother, you have NEVER defrosted a fridge!). I invoke Buddha, add more sugar to my tea and keep my Wa. I am determined. I zone out Jayal's not very helpful tittering and set the blaster to incinerate. Ten minutes, and that iceberg is toast. Yes it's pathological, the lying. It's an iceberg still worthy of the Titanic, but it's now taken up residence in the roasting tin, as we gather around to gawp, marvel and take photos. This is why I hate physics. How is it possible for something this size to occupy what can only be a fraction of it's size behind the freezer compartment? 3.29 am, and the ex-formidable berg in my sink is the size of the Shetland's. The fucking fridge is still the same size. I am beginning to believe in vampires and werewolves. Another 15 minutes, and the last vestige of ice has been eliminated. Operation Thaw is now officially over.
A new beginning: Pinot Gris (Hugel 2004), Sauterne (Madame de Rayne 2000), orange juice, boursin, Ardennes paté, fruit yogurts, halloumi, asparagus, Lincolnshire sausages. Tuesday, I start shopping for Friday's desi dinner for Walker and his girls. Plan D: if that dead cat is still in there come Thursday, move house.
Finally: A triumphant book find!
Yes, a full blown triumph. Not a mere win, or even a joyous victory. Aravind Adiga has restored my faith in publishing houses and editors alike, not to mention the Booker selection committee. I always have conflicting feelings about Booker shortlisted authors. Reading is such a deeply personal experience; what speaks to you, is just as easily white noise to someone else, not unlike the same book read memories ago. It just seems like so many people rave about a book simply because it's politic, and not because it pleased them. One review said about this one, "One of the most powerful books I've read in decades {he obviously hasn't been reading much}....This debut novel hit me like a kick to the head......". Thus far, it's been the reviews that deterred me from the acquisition - let's face it, I'm fluffy when it comes to reading. I like to enjoy my books, be the characters, laugh, hate and cry with them, and take pleasure in an author's style, feel the words. I hate having to go back and read the same thing fourteen times to divine meaning, I hate obscure cleverness that leaves me bemused and wondering just what the hell the point was. But, it was in paperback, and well... I had time to kill, so I succumbed. The White Tiger. Winner of the 2008 Man Booker Prize. It is now mine.
Unlike the reviewer, my head is fine. More than fine. I cannot remember the last time I forgot I was at an airport, or the last time I used the overhead light on a flight. I just don't. But this book.... does not allow interruption. It's like a relentless river, and you have no choice but to follow her to the ocean. Aravind Adiga is a storyteller. Simple, direct, and achingly funny. Maybe it's because I'm Indian, but it seems to me, that all the reviews have the wrong end of the stick. It's not the story that's a masterpiece, it's the way this man writes, leaving you with a deep sense of satisfaction. I always feel so very pleased with myself having been on the receiving end of a good book, film or play, and I was very pleased by this book. Very, very pleased. Pleased enough to nearly hand out 8 gold mohurs, 5 goats, no 14 camels, and 1.25 dhigas of land in Hoshiarpur to seats 33B & 33C. It is about India, and the way we are. But then again, so was Shantaram... but the chappie who wrote that (hang on, while I google) - Gregory David Roberts, is a prat. The book, exotic, by the bucketful, with my Bombay painted well in some pages. The character, unloving, insincere, self absorbed scum. You feel nothing for him, because he cares for nothing. An exercise in glorifying an un-charming thief, liar, junkie, loser turned author given an unbearable extra 15 minutes of fame by Johnnie Depp being cast to play him in the film.
The White Tiger (our hero) has killed as well. But he cares. Deeply. Sincerely. Honestly. You feel his life. You know his heart. His tendency to go off on a tangent every now and again resonates deeply, and his unsophisticated language endears him. His world is such a familiar one. I do sometimes forget how different our frames of reference are, and how shocking our social structure can be to a Western mind. Maybe that's why the difference in our appreciation of the book. For an Indian, the story is mundane, it's just the way life is, without an excessively deeper meaning. It is how we live, which, gives us the advantage of being un-distracted by inexplicably convoluted social/feudal structure that befuddles most, and allows the unrestricted pleasure of Adiga's prose, his simplicity and vision to flow over you. Some idiot (probably not a fair comment) reviewer asked if it was important to Adiga to present an alternate view of India, one we don't often see and if a Western audience needed this.... his response. "I simply wrote about the India I know, and the one I live in It's not 'alternative India' for me! It's pretty mainstream, trust me". Do. Trust him. That's the essence of his style. Neither pretentious, nor self conscious. It isn't a great debunking of the myth that is India, or a torrid social commentary on the schisms that divide us. It's just a bloody good story. Well written, funny, sometimes dark, but always true to itself. All too often 'exotic' authors have been the trend to follow, their background and experience overshadowing their minuscule talent. Just because the story being told is one you could never imagine, doesn't make the writer special. Yes, to a Westerner, the story is deplorable, appalling and outrageous even, but don't let that take away from the storyteller's skills. Adiga is special. I'm still wallowing in how pleased the book made me feel, although I'm not that pleased to admit that I'm in full on gush mode (because nothing annoys me more than having people gush about books you MUUUUST read), but I can't help myself. I must inflict this on those I love. Ha! Have 37 camels and the maharaj from Tupu's wedding. He's worth it.
Unlike the reviewer, my head is fine. More than fine. I cannot remember the last time I forgot I was at an airport, or the last time I used the overhead light on a flight. I just don't. But this book.... does not allow interruption. It's like a relentless river, and you have no choice but to follow her to the ocean. Aravind Adiga is a storyteller. Simple, direct, and achingly funny. Maybe it's because I'm Indian, but it seems to me, that all the reviews have the wrong end of the stick. It's not the story that's a masterpiece, it's the way this man writes, leaving you with a deep sense of satisfaction. I always feel so very pleased with myself having been on the receiving end of a good book, film or play, and I was very pleased by this book. Very, very pleased. Pleased enough to nearly hand out 8 gold mohurs, 5 goats, no 14 camels, and 1.25 dhigas of land in Hoshiarpur to seats 33B & 33C. It is about India, and the way we are. But then again, so was Shantaram... but the chappie who wrote that (hang on, while I google) - Gregory David Roberts, is a prat. The book, exotic, by the bucketful, with my Bombay painted well in some pages. The character, unloving, insincere, self absorbed scum. You feel nothing for him, because he cares for nothing. An exercise in glorifying an un-charming thief, liar, junkie, loser turned author given an unbearable extra 15 minutes of fame by Johnnie Depp being cast to play him in the film.
The White Tiger (our hero) has killed as well. But he cares. Deeply. Sincerely. Honestly. You feel his life. You know his heart. His tendency to go off on a tangent every now and again resonates deeply, and his unsophisticated language endears him. His world is such a familiar one. I do sometimes forget how different our frames of reference are, and how shocking our social structure can be to a Western mind. Maybe that's why the difference in our appreciation of the book. For an Indian, the story is mundane, it's just the way life is, without an excessively deeper meaning. It is how we live, which, gives us the advantage of being un-distracted by inexplicably convoluted social/feudal structure that befuddles most, and allows the unrestricted pleasure of Adiga's prose, his simplicity and vision to flow over you. Some idiot (probably not a fair comment) reviewer asked if it was important to Adiga to present an alternate view of India, one we don't often see and if a Western audience needed this.... his response. "I simply wrote about the India I know, and the one I live in It's not 'alternative India' for me! It's pretty mainstream, trust me". Do. Trust him. That's the essence of his style. Neither pretentious, nor self conscious. It isn't a great debunking of the myth that is India, or a torrid social commentary on the schisms that divide us. It's just a bloody good story. Well written, funny, sometimes dark, but always true to itself. All too often 'exotic' authors have been the trend to follow, their background and experience overshadowing their minuscule talent. Just because the story being told is one you could never imagine, doesn't make the writer special. Yes, to a Westerner, the story is deplorable, appalling and outrageous even, but don't let that take away from the storyteller's skills. Adiga is special. I'm still wallowing in how pleased the book made me feel, although I'm not that pleased to admit that I'm in full on gush mode (because nothing annoys me more than having people gush about books you MUUUUST read), but I can't help myself. I must inflict this on those I love. Ha! Have 37 camels and the maharaj from Tupu's wedding. He's worth it.
RUF
Using pink Tigi bed head products will result in a close resemblance, aromatically speaking, with overripe strawberries at Church Street market on a hot summer's day
Deflatinglingly D-uh
Years ago, Charu and I established a procedural bounce 'software/net related challenges' off each other system, before seeking external intervention in the form of Mr. Velkar. Every puzzle debated, potential angles quizzed, daftness queries anticipated before the final approach of seeking help. Why? Invariably, one or the other would present what seemed to be an insurmountable problem to our venerable leader and techno geek, and he'd just look at us. A wonderful balance of exasperation (not you two again), long suffering patience (what is it this time), unveiled incredulity at our native stupidity (did you hit refresh?). A talented man. A single look can make you squirm at your incompetence. A few of those looks, and the calcium in your spine turns to steel and you're determined the next time will necessitate extortionate consultancy fees to fix. While we never paid for any consultancy, we did reset the equilibrium to 'now what?' dominating the pie as opposed to Charu and I shooting mortified 'how the fuck did we miss something that obvious' looks at each other, as we gather our saris and the tattered shreds of our dignity on our way out.
It's been a while since I've felt my cheeks burn in a similar fashion, but here I was brimming over with righteous indignation at the blog's inability to pick up typos, fuming about having to get a proof-reader, moaning about going back and correcting spelling errors, my annoyance spilling over at the thoughtlessness of the blogspot creators neglecting a spell checker picker upper . I thump out my rant, and as I'm about to hit publish post, my eye is snagged by the tool bar.....and an innocuous {ABC} icon. Even as I feel my embarrassment swarm over my face, I could swear it wasn't there before!!! Jeez -there are times I have actually copied the contents of a post across to word for a quick spell check. It must be a conspiracy. Charu! Help!
P.S. - almost posted without running the spell check.
P.P.S. - it works
P.P.P.S. - aaaaarrrrrrrgggggh!!
It's been a while since I've felt my cheeks burn in a similar fashion, but here I was brimming over with righteous indignation at the blog's inability to pick up typos, fuming about having to get a proof-reader, moaning about going back and correcting spelling errors, my annoyance spilling over at the thoughtlessness of the blogspot creators neglecting a spell checker picker upper . I thump out my rant, and as I'm about to hit publish post, my eye is snagged by the tool bar.....and an innocuous {ABC} icon. Even as I feel my embarrassment swarm over my face, I could swear it wasn't there before!!! Jeez -there are times I have actually copied the contents of a post across to word for a quick spell check. It must be a conspiracy. Charu! Help!
P.S. - almost posted without running the spell check.
P.P.S. - it works
P.P.P.S. - aaaaarrrrrrrgggggh!!
Chez Mims: Degustation, 12th November 2008
Croquetas y Tortilla
Croquetas of pork with apple sauce & Tortilla with potato, qualit egg and shallot confit
*****
Crudo of Hamachi
sweet & purple potato, artichoke
*****
Trio of Sardines
grilled iwth celery root & dill, lamb bacon
cured with celery & parsley
sandwich with pickled onion & cilantro
*****
Chipetos
fried sepia, steel cut oatmeal squid ink risotto, garic & herbs
*****
Filet of Durade
amaranth, crab stock, wild mushrooms with grapfruit foam
*****
Grilled octopus & Berkshire pork belly
with citrus & basil
*****
Rabbit soup
carrots, radish, lemon thyme oil
*****
Soft scrambled duck egg
with duck bacon, chives & breadcrumbs
*****
Grilled sweetbreads
fresno pepper & white bean, cilantro & lemon
*****
Wagyu flank "Cheesesteak"
robiola cheese sauce, roasted red pepper, red onions & herbs
*****
Ginger tequila sorbet with plum
*****
Torija
Caramelised brioche with orange and grapefruit
Puppy love
I have just been told by Mimi that she's really fond of me. As a matter of fact, she loves me so much she wants to put me in a bag and take me everywhere. Little psycho.
Stay in New York long enough (a couple of days should do it), and the impeccably attired pets (no, I do not refer to l'oreal ash blonde with boobs 4.0) will make you want to head back upstairs to raise your game. Call it the small mutt syndrome (sms); a congenital condition where kerchief size dogs only travel Balenciaga or Fendi, superciliously peering over pure leather rims at the plebians littering the parks. They know that size doesn't matter. Not when your wardrobe is the inspiration, nay, the occupation of Britian's WAG-in-chief. Come to think of it, she does have a piquantly puppy face and could easily fit into my Gucci clutch, but no, we'd have to leave her oversize sunglasses behind, and that would be tragic.
Does dog DNA permit superior smugness? Let me rephrase, if you're not a Russian wolfhound/similar, or more precisely, if you're only capable of reaching higher than human ankle level if it's (a) a child, or (b) a supine adult, could you sneer at humans? I'll bet these sms inflicted creatures know. I can feel their disdain from a distance, ears twitching with disapproval at my borrowed Kenneth Cole. It's positively insulting that these uber chic, Hermès scarf, Dolce & Gabbana t-shirt, Burberry raincoat & booties sporting sms' puppies won't even condescend to gambol over in my general direction as I meander along. I'll just save my sympathy for the munchling in retro gear galloping along just to keep up with its lackadaisically strolling keepers. Siiigh.... sm abusers. Invest in a Prada handbag already!
Stay in New York long enough (a couple of days should do it), and the impeccably attired pets (no, I do not refer to l'oreal ash blonde with boobs 4.0) will make you want to head back upstairs to raise your game. Call it the small mutt syndrome (sms); a congenital condition where kerchief size dogs only travel Balenciaga or Fendi, superciliously peering over pure leather rims at the plebians littering the parks. They know that size doesn't matter. Not when your wardrobe is the inspiration, nay, the occupation of Britian's WAG-in-chief. Come to think of it, she does have a piquantly puppy face and could easily fit into my Gucci clutch, but no, we'd have to leave her oversize sunglasses behind, and that would be tragic.
Does dog DNA permit superior smugness? Let me rephrase, if you're not a Russian wolfhound/similar, or more precisely, if you're only capable of reaching higher than human ankle level if it's (a) a child, or (b) a supine adult, could you sneer at humans? I'll bet these sms inflicted creatures know. I can feel their disdain from a distance, ears twitching with disapproval at my borrowed Kenneth Cole. It's positively insulting that these uber chic, Hermès scarf, Dolce & Gabbana t-shirt, Burberry raincoat & booties sporting sms' puppies won't even condescend to gambol over in my general direction as I meander along. I'll just save my sympathy for the munchling in retro gear galloping along just to keep up with its lackadaisically strolling keepers. Siiigh.... sm abusers. Invest in a Prada handbag already!
Etiquette and the art connoiseur
Before you raise that haughty eyebrow, I write this because I severly lack that etiquette. The unimaginable strain of having to walk around sculptures with your arms either tightly folded across your chest, or ferociously clamped together behind your back so as not to touch them! And yet, I got told off four times. For stepping in too close, for letting my coat touch the pedestal, for hovering too long under the suspicion of taking surreptitious photos, for exhaling with too much gusto, for waving my hands around without restraint..... fun way to spend an afternoon, yes? Well, to be fair, it was. The Frick collection is rather spectacular and compensates for it's peculiar recruitment strategy - only humourless, surly underachievers need apply. I have never come across such uptight art guards in my whole life - apparently, it is debilitating to the great masters hung in the room if you carry your coat/sweater in your hand. Such offending items must be worn on your person at all times, and failure to comply will lead to eviction from the hallowed premises. Perhaps I lie about the latter, but outer garments not covering your person are required to be left at the coat check. What fun, my first Art Nazis, and they're posted in every room, sometimes, even two to a room. Yay!
When an artist paints or sculpts, does he do so with the intention that it is never to be touched? I understand the degradation that many hands can bring, but isn't the point of art, particularly sculpture more than just clinical observation? All galleries stress me out deeply. The active repression of my natural inclination to reach out, for what touches and intrigues me, is fatiguing. Not to mention grossly unsatisfying. I can deal with the confines of visual appreciation when it comes to paintings (although Van Gogh does beg unrestrained fingers over those lush strokes), as long as we're allowed just a teeny weeny touch to confirm the medium. Sometimes it is hard to tell textures even from multi-angle squints. Actually, I do believe I lie. Paintings I like, I want to be able to touch. Renoir, Turner, Vermeer, Klimt, Holbein the younger, Van Gogh..... I lie copiously. How can you not want to touch a Van Gogh?? Well, at least I didn't get caught.
How about a trade off - I'll keep my sticky fingers off the canvas/wood/whatever as long as I can touch the sculptures. Surely sculptors understand and actually want people to run their hands over those exquisitely wrought forms? How else do you realise the extent of your awe of the perfect rendering of a grotesquely twisted neck, straining trapezoids, veins on a restraining hand? The Frick is home to two of the most beautiful sculptures I've ever seen. Compelling bronzes from the mid 17th century. The restrained violence, desperation and movement in the lines of the one depicting Nessus carrying away Deianira (attributed to Pietro Tacca) just stops you in your tracks, your hands itching to trace his straining flanks, the raised veins on the hand holding her down, her fluid limbs struggling, her fingers reaching, begging for divine intervention, that dominant second toe. It's just so perfect, it makes your heart beat faster. Then an indistinct voice behind you insists you're getting to close. Frown, deep breath, reminder to self that you come from the land of Gandhi, a token step back, and the breath leaves your body. Hercules battling Hydra. Unrestrained violence, startling and absolutely mesmerising. The viciousness of the twisted, striking heads oddly poetic in their frozen cruelty, it's spine thrown into relief like a knotted rope, each vertebrae screaming malevolence. The menace of Hercules' downward club vying with the brutal wrenching of one of the outstretched heads. The play of muscles across his bent torso defensive yet aggressive, focused on destruction while his tautening thigh acknowledges the fangs breaking skin. My hackles rise and a shiver twists down my spine. An unknown French sculptor.
The Art Nazi's don't like the attention I bestow on the two pieces and one of them asks me if I'm taking photographs. I look him in the eye and lie without a blush, but I've been marked. I'm followed not so discreetly by a posse as I make a cursory visit to the remaining rooms. The absurd dichotomy of our ready acceptance of all pervasive reality TV with the insistence on aloof and detached admiration doesn't make me smile. My need to touch is killing me. I covet. This is why art theft happens. I really need to know what Hercules, Hydra, Deianira and Nessus are feeling and living. These are three dimensional pieces that need to be felt. Let us touch them, close our eyes and feel the artistry that is no longer, the unadulterated pleasure of perfection. Please.....
When an artist paints or sculpts, does he do so with the intention that it is never to be touched? I understand the degradation that many hands can bring, but isn't the point of art, particularly sculpture more than just clinical observation? All galleries stress me out deeply. The active repression of my natural inclination to reach out, for what touches and intrigues me, is fatiguing. Not to mention grossly unsatisfying. I can deal with the confines of visual appreciation when it comes to paintings (although Van Gogh does beg unrestrained fingers over those lush strokes), as long as we're allowed just a teeny weeny touch to confirm the medium. Sometimes it is hard to tell textures even from multi-angle squints. Actually, I do believe I lie. Paintings I like, I want to be able to touch. Renoir, Turner, Vermeer, Klimt, Holbein the younger, Van Gogh..... I lie copiously. How can you not want to touch a Van Gogh?? Well, at least I didn't get caught.
How about a trade off - I'll keep my sticky fingers off the canvas/wood/whatever as long as I can touch the sculptures. Surely sculptors understand and actually want people to run their hands over those exquisitely wrought forms? How else do you realise the extent of your awe of the perfect rendering of a grotesquely twisted neck, straining trapezoids, veins on a restraining hand? The Frick is home to two of the most beautiful sculptures I've ever seen. Compelling bronzes from the mid 17th century. The restrained violence, desperation and movement in the lines of the one depicting Nessus carrying away Deianira (attributed to Pietro Tacca) just stops you in your tracks, your hands itching to trace his straining flanks, the raised veins on the hand holding her down, her fluid limbs struggling, her fingers reaching, begging for divine intervention, that dominant second toe. It's just so perfect, it makes your heart beat faster. Then an indistinct voice behind you insists you're getting to close. Frown, deep breath, reminder to self that you come from the land of Gandhi, a token step back, and the breath leaves your body. Hercules battling Hydra. Unrestrained violence, startling and absolutely mesmerising. The viciousness of the twisted, striking heads oddly poetic in their frozen cruelty, it's spine thrown into relief like a knotted rope, each vertebrae screaming malevolence. The menace of Hercules' downward club vying with the brutal wrenching of one of the outstretched heads. The play of muscles across his bent torso defensive yet aggressive, focused on destruction while his tautening thigh acknowledges the fangs breaking skin. My hackles rise and a shiver twists down my spine. An unknown French sculptor.
The Art Nazi's don't like the attention I bestow on the two pieces and one of them asks me if I'm taking photographs. I look him in the eye and lie without a blush, but I've been marked. I'm followed not so discreetly by a posse as I make a cursory visit to the remaining rooms. The absurd dichotomy of our ready acceptance of all pervasive reality TV with the insistence on aloof and detached admiration doesn't make me smile. My need to touch is killing me. I covet. This is why art theft happens. I really need to know what Hercules, Hydra, Deianira and Nessus are feeling and living. These are three dimensional pieces that need to be felt. Let us touch them, close our eyes and feel the artistry that is no longer, the unadulterated pleasure of perfection. Please.....
Le Roi est mort... Vive la Roi!
As my palate sinks in a graceful bow to the mastery of Wesley Genovart. He may look all of 12, but has the cojones to ease out Jean George, from my little book of men I'd beg for, and go head to head with Eric Ripert (why does this now sound like Playgirl porn??). Drooling will occur, but only if you are a connoisseur of men who wend their magic in an industrial kitchen... (I say men, but I'd beg for Catherine Guerraz anytime). But back to young Wesley who holds court in the lower bowels of Manhattan at Degustation. Reviews call it a Franco-Spanish tapas bar (the rustic elements of tapas sent to an expensive finishing school, blossoming into tapas with élan and sophistication). Like a teppan bar, the chef and his sidekicks are flanked by rapt diners, and directed by this extraordinary hostess - it's a triumph of operational excellence (truly, it runs like a well oiled machine - right from the reservations, the laying of cutlery, refilling glasses, pacing of the plates to giving directions to wayward patrons and explaining each creation set before you), and while I stridently detest people that gush... it's like watching an orchestra: the tantalising aromas wafting towards you competing with the flash flames off the grill, and the visual pleasure of the creation of delicate plates from nothing. A virtuoso performance. Flawless conducting. A sensual symphony. Much too much? Blame it on the Torija - I can't remember the last time a meal made me feel this smug.
While the temptation to inflict the entire 10 course tasting menu is undeniable, I'm feeling merciful.
My moanworthy moments had to be the tortilla with potato, quail egg and shallot confit that burst in your mouth an unexpected mouthfull of lightness and air, puncutated with flavour; the sardine sandwich with pickled onions and cilantro, a lingering sense of a clean, crisp bite with a sense of decadance (and i hate onions, but this was wicked!); the chipetos: fried sepia, steel cut oatmeal squid ink risotto with garlic and herbs. A poem (not much of a poetry fan either, but if it read like this....!!). The delicious crunch of the squid combining shockingly well with the less than glamorous sounding oatmeal, lifting it to evangelical proportions - I'd have sung hallelujah if my mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied with the most amazing textures and much self control was expending towards not licking the bowl; the soft scrambled duck egg with duck bacon, chives and breadcrumbs, served in their shells (well maybe not theirs, these were unspeakably clean), the poshest way to eat scrambled eggs ever! I do come over all bawa when it comes to eggs, and will consistently pay for poached eggs much to my mothers disgust, but as much as I love her and Ba, there is no way they can make this at home! and finally, the pièce the résistance, the caremelised torija (which happens to be somewhere in Guadalajara, but turned out to be brioche deftly grilled or was it toasted on the hotplate (I tend to treat desserts like second class citizens unless they're french), before being gently persuaded into crisp submission by a welders torch, served with orange and grapefruit). I'd been protesting the waste of a plate on dessert all evening.... just desserts as they say. To say it was sublime is inadequate. To say it was a nuked brioche is fatuous. A sensory overload. I would have gone down on my knees for another helping (if Mimi hadn't evoked seven generations of Guha solidarity towards utter humiliation for younger siblings). A mouthful of melting, barely there sweetness and firm brioche bite conflicting with the crunch of the caramalised edge. Utterly orgasmic. Chef, I'm begging.....
While the temptation to inflict the entire 10 course tasting menu is undeniable, I'm feeling merciful.
My moanworthy moments had to be the tortilla with potato, quail egg and shallot confit that burst in your mouth an unexpected mouthfull of lightness and air, puncutated with flavour; the sardine sandwich with pickled onions and cilantro, a lingering sense of a clean, crisp bite with a sense of decadance (and i hate onions, but this was wicked!); the chipetos: fried sepia, steel cut oatmeal squid ink risotto with garlic and herbs. A poem (not much of a poetry fan either, but if it read like this....!!). The delicious crunch of the squid combining shockingly well with the less than glamorous sounding oatmeal, lifting it to evangelical proportions - I'd have sung hallelujah if my mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied with the most amazing textures and much self control was expending towards not licking the bowl; the soft scrambled duck egg with duck bacon, chives and breadcrumbs, served in their shells (well maybe not theirs, these were unspeakably clean), the poshest way to eat scrambled eggs ever! I do come over all bawa when it comes to eggs, and will consistently pay for poached eggs much to my mothers disgust, but as much as I love her and Ba, there is no way they can make this at home! and finally, the pièce the résistance, the caremelised torija (which happens to be somewhere in Guadalajara, but turned out to be brioche deftly grilled or was it toasted on the hotplate (I tend to treat desserts like second class citizens unless they're french), before being gently persuaded into crisp submission by a welders torch, served with orange and grapefruit). I'd been protesting the waste of a plate on dessert all evening.... just desserts as they say. To say it was sublime is inadequate. To say it was a nuked brioche is fatuous. A sensory overload. I would have gone down on my knees for another helping (if Mimi hadn't evoked seven generations of Guha solidarity towards utter humiliation for younger siblings). A mouthful of melting, barely there sweetness and firm brioche bite conflicting with the crunch of the caramalised edge. Utterly orgasmic. Chef, I'm begging.....
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