If only John Montagu, the late but oft remembered 4th Earl of Sandwich could see it now, he'd be deeply embarrassed by his compilation. I refer not to any sandwich, but the toasted sandwich to be found on the streets of Bombay. More specifically, outside the family court at Bandra East. Rounded edges charred and squished by the handheld toaster, it tastes of the city. Innocuous slices of white bread, gads of butter, chutney, thinly sliced boiled potatoes, onions, beets, cucumbers and tomatoes with a sprinkling of chaat masala, served on glamorous bits of magazine, but only after the golden brown package has been skillfully hacked into 6 semi-manageable bites, topped with a dollop of butter and kaadu ketchup! Waah! I'd been thinking about this sandwich ever since I got into the car in my chaste outfit, all the way to court.... surely, I'd find a toasted sandwichwallah somewhere at BKC!
Standing there, with the heat seeping through to your hands, it's heady aroma mingling with the pao bhaji next door and attendant kerbside cacophony as you absently swat at the flies while maneuvering the duppatta to the exact angle that will allow you to see their faces while shading your face from the searing heat reminds me why I want to come back.
The first bite, as with most things street side, requires oral skills peculiar to the less gentle trade, and reminds you of the city; a peculiar assortment of clashing cultures, languages, beliefs, religions inexplicably distilling into an oddly harmonious culinary experience. Aashish and Khush get stupid trading kumbh mela bichde huye bhai dialogue, 'tere chhati pe daag hai?', that sends me into spasms, omigod, the whole life imitates art, art imitates life.....we are bollywood! This has got to be the best way to file for a divorce. If only uptight hawaldar mamu could see us now....
Objection sustained
Black and bright turquoise Thai pants offering the occasional glimpse of a calf or two are apparently not only not conducive to the necessarily solemn business of being in court, but also likely to be deeply prejudicial, eliciting an unfavourable eye from any presiding judge. This from the man who bankrolled my first bikini, callously dismissed my mothers horrified protestations over aggressive hemlines and blithely ignored shocked complaints from Mim, the keeper of my morals.... the first time in 38 years. Hell, the only time Ba has ever said anything about the appropriateness of my ensemble. It's enough to stop me dead in my tracks en route to the door and actually ask Ma's opinion.... surreal city, here we go again!
Ba's objection is enough to shock me into deliberating a costume change, leaving Ma's somewhat tepid endorsement echoing behind me. What the hell is suitable court attire for divorce proceedings in this country? Why do I not have any appropriately catastrophic clothing?? I dither over grey vs. white jeans, dirty t-shirt over current tank top, dress with shawl covering offending bare shoulders, wonder why don't I have things with sleeves attached as I feel the stress notch up another point. Widows white has got to be the way to go! Mostly chaste, I keep the turquoise shawl for modesty and colour and head out for inspection. Much better.... time to file for divorce.
P.S. - He was right. Those thigh pants combined with the shushing my giggling got would have gotten me evicted by the humourless hawaldar, whose sole appointment was based on his ability to glare forbiddingly at any offenders of decorum and impressively pursed lips under a bushy mustache emitting intermittent shuuuusssh noises.
P.P.S. - I wonder if they audition for that part
P.P.S. -
Ba's objection is enough to shock me into deliberating a costume change, leaving Ma's somewhat tepid endorsement echoing behind me. What the hell is suitable court attire for divorce proceedings in this country? Why do I not have any appropriately catastrophic clothing?? I dither over grey vs. white jeans, dirty t-shirt over current tank top, dress with shawl covering offending bare shoulders, wonder why don't I have things with sleeves attached as I feel the stress notch up another point. Widows white has got to be the way to go! Mostly chaste, I keep the turquoise shawl for modesty and colour and head out for inspection. Much better.... time to file for divorce.
P.S. - He was right. Those thigh pants combined with the shushing my giggling got would have gotten me evicted by the humourless hawaldar, whose sole appointment was based on his ability to glare forbiddingly at any offenders of decorum and impressively pursed lips under a bushy mustache emitting intermittent shuuuusssh noises.
P.P.S. - I wonder if they audition for that part
P.P.S. -
Hidden treasures
Yes, a legitimate man cold is what I have been struck by. I suffer greatly, but to the victor, the spoils go. Filthy hands, dirt streaked jeans, heaving muscles, acrobatic angles and an essential Anaheeta Guha that never was later, the Warrior Goddess emerges triumphant, her saris returned to their rightful address in South Bombay. The re-discovery of the luscious fabrics and vibrant colours almost turns into a religious ceremony, the cares of the oh so soft silks against the face, the involuntary smile at the memories brought on by a flirty crepe, the mysterious delight of rich tones that come alive; some in darkness, others in light, the agitation of a favourite minus it’s matching blouse, demanding federal intervention and a 12 minute hunt, visions of smiling, lined faces fondly remembered as fingers linger over well worn, stark black and whites. No longer Warrior Goddess, I feel like a 6 year old on a tour of her toy box.
There is style. There is fashion. Then there are trends. But there is nothing, but nothing that can even pretend at what 6 yards of imagination can do to a woman. Power broker, wannabe, harried mother, drop dead gorgeous, pugilistic fishwife, insubstantial socialite, elegant matriarch, professional, earnest social worker…. for every whim, every mood, every facet. My style is my own; often frowned upon (depriving the textile industry of an adequate livelihood), eclectic (audrey hepburn meets tomb raider moments), ‘interesting’ (cocktail dress, antique jewellery and knee high boots), sometimes dubious (said ensemble accented by an outsized rainbreaker wiht flourescent yellow stripes, topped by a helmet with ears and a tail!), but it takes the sensuous moulding of a subtle honey poured over cream georgette crepe to make me feel meltingly soft, feminine and in dire need of masculine protection, yet irresistibly whip wieldingly wicked. Paradoxically dominant? What else reveals as it hides, offers glimpses of untold mysteries, hints at a sensual romance, inflames imagination while denying its elegant simplicity, demands unravelling while coyly shying away, breathtaking while leaving you breathless, makes a man falter and a woman covet, suggests grace, innocence and sin in the same breath …?? Pure sorcery and I miss it.
There is style. There is fashion. Then there are trends. But there is nothing, but nothing that can even pretend at what 6 yards of imagination can do to a woman. Power broker, wannabe, harried mother, drop dead gorgeous, pugilistic fishwife, insubstantial socialite, elegant matriarch, professional, earnest social worker…. for every whim, every mood, every facet. My style is my own; often frowned upon (depriving the textile industry of an adequate livelihood), eclectic (audrey hepburn meets tomb raider moments), ‘interesting’ (cocktail dress, antique jewellery and knee high boots), sometimes dubious (said ensemble accented by an outsized rainbreaker wiht flourescent yellow stripes, topped by a helmet with ears and a tail!), but it takes the sensuous moulding of a subtle honey poured over cream georgette crepe to make me feel meltingly soft, feminine and in dire need of masculine protection, yet irresistibly whip wieldingly wicked. Paradoxically dominant? What else reveals as it hides, offers glimpses of untold mysteries, hints at a sensual romance, inflames imagination while denying its elegant simplicity, demands unravelling while coyly shying away, breathtaking while leaving you breathless, makes a man falter and a woman covet, suggests grace, innocence and sin in the same breath …?? Pure sorcery and I miss it.
Qu'ils mangent de la brioche....
To say the impending Sunday depresses me, would make a mockery of my heritage and inherent need for melodrama. I feels as the headless queen might have felt, knowing the inevitable fate that was to await her, the inescapable silhouette of the ruthless blade looming ahead.
When did I go from being an un-tethered kite, buffeted by cross winds threatening to plummet unceremoniously before skilful hands tweak and twirl, guiding you into a surging upwind, tautening and loosening their hold to let you soar. Can I separate the people I love from the city I love? Can I come back and be happy? Can I be happy if I don’t?
Trepidation, surrealism, incredulity mingling into a disturbing uncertainty about coming back, inexplicably distilling into the unreasonable panic of having to leave too soon. Before I’m ready. Like always. This is where my heart is… isn’t it?
When did I go from being an un-tethered kite, buffeted by cross winds threatening to plummet unceremoniously before skilful hands tweak and twirl, guiding you into a surging upwind, tautening and loosening their hold to let you soar. Can I separate the people I love from the city I love? Can I come back and be happy? Can I be happy if I don’t?
Trepidation, surrealism, incredulity mingling into a disturbing uncertainty about coming back, inexplicably distilling into the unreasonable panic of having to leave too soon. Before I’m ready. Like always. This is where my heart is… isn’t it?
Business as usual?
Khush and Sujata take me to Leopold’s to pay homage. They’ve already been, in the days soon after. This one’s for me. Not a table free, and a small knot of people hovering about indecisively. I don’t believe this – they’re waiting for a table. All these years, no one has ever had to wait for a table at Leo’s. A table scrabble upstairs yields us the penultimate table with the ultimate following close behind, both relegated to the back by the speakers in relative darkness. The music makes you feel nineteen and silly and the discovery that it’s the 26th explains the hordes. One month. I’d lay odds that their sales have quadrupled. There’s no prison ambiance, the bullet holes barely visible, the food apart from the biryani mostly indifferent and the service beyond shite, as the kitchen and wait staff collectively collapse under the sentimental solidarity. I feel nothing except for recurring pangs of hunger, nostalgia with the music and a bemused irritation at the wait staff. This sucks.
Ba points out that the last time he was here, was with Aashish and Rahul. The menfolk making serious dents in the pitchers of draft and plates of oily biryani, running up a bill of hundreds, while the women wallowed in the luxurious service, yellowtail carpaccio with Yuzu, soft shell crab rolls and chocolate mango tarts at Wasabi down the road, racking it up by the thousands. Leopold’s and the Taj. Evenly split. Our family. Could’ve been us boosting sales at Leo’s a month later….
To borrow Khush’s words, “Homage paid, enough done…not coming back here.” Neither am I.
Ba points out that the last time he was here, was with Aashish and Rahul. The menfolk making serious dents in the pitchers of draft and plates of oily biryani, running up a bill of hundreds, while the women wallowed in the luxurious service, yellowtail carpaccio with Yuzu, soft shell crab rolls and chocolate mango tarts at Wasabi down the road, racking it up by the thousands. Leopold’s and the Taj. Evenly split. Our family. Could’ve been us boosting sales at Leo’s a month later….
To borrow Khush’s words, “Homage paid, enough done…not coming back here.” Neither am I.
30 years on…
and I look at the woman in front of me. 30 years, a husband, two children, community work, part time business, and a few kilos. From young, coltish, soft spoken attractive to serene, confident, pragmatically gorgeous. Maybe, all of Bombay hasn’t gone daft, and her philosophical attitude weaving in and out of the greys of life make me believe it won’t be that hard to come back home. She gives me hope. The oldest friend I have in this city, who disappeared off our juvenile radars when she got married at 21. I think we have come full circle. I’d like to think so anyway. She’s a woman worth knowing, and she piques my curiosity. So many questions – about what she now believes and why, to know more about the woman she now is, her life… but a hesitation, that a 16 year hiatus brings, steals the words from my throat. Next time, I will ask… and I’m hoping there will be a next time.
Looking out at the foliage benignly shielding the swimming pool from curious eyes as I wait makes me realise that this is the first time that I’ve ever been to Shamiana during the day. 30 years in the city, exorbitantly endless cups of tea, an embarrassing familiarity with the menu, indecision on whether the old Shamiana was better, and this is the first time I’ve moved tables as delicious sunshiny warmth shimmered into the ability to change your skin tone despite a plate glass window.
It’s also the first time either of us has been to the Taj since that Wednesday. Her kids were here that night….but she won’t hide them away in fear. The sense of surreal clings to me as I wait at the barricade for a 4 man security detail to check the car before allowing me to proceed down a eerily deserted road. She looks the same, no sign of the trauma, the gutted sections neatly boarded up and painted white to blend with the rest. If I hadn’t known better… but the shift of my heart to my throat is involuntary, and I want to cry. I never imagined a day when that road would be devoid of anything. A metal detector, baggage x-ray machine complete the illusion that you’re really an attorney consulting at a maximum security prison…. then, you’re in the lobby. Like I was last year. And the year before. And every time I’m home. Fewer people. Hushed. The tree of life, a tribute to the 31 employees lost, being photographed by the curious, the respectful, the angry and the inspired. I hurt for those not on that list, apparently, to deny the terrorists the pleasure of gloating over of just how many lives they destroyed. A warped logic that strangely deflates my anger of the day before…. But it still doesn’t make it right.
The last time Sujata and I were at the Taj together, she was getting married. A generation ago. A shared city, shared hurt, disparate lives, another first; the first time we’ve dawdled over tea, cappuccino, waffles and lunch together at the Taj. Perhaps it’s time for new beginnings, for all of us.
Looking out at the foliage benignly shielding the swimming pool from curious eyes as I wait makes me realise that this is the first time that I’ve ever been to Shamiana during the day. 30 years in the city, exorbitantly endless cups of tea, an embarrassing familiarity with the menu, indecision on whether the old Shamiana was better, and this is the first time I’ve moved tables as delicious sunshiny warmth shimmered into the ability to change your skin tone despite a plate glass window.
It’s also the first time either of us has been to the Taj since that Wednesday. Her kids were here that night….but she won’t hide them away in fear. The sense of surreal clings to me as I wait at the barricade for a 4 man security detail to check the car before allowing me to proceed down a eerily deserted road. She looks the same, no sign of the trauma, the gutted sections neatly boarded up and painted white to blend with the rest. If I hadn’t known better… but the shift of my heart to my throat is involuntary, and I want to cry. I never imagined a day when that road would be devoid of anything. A metal detector, baggage x-ray machine complete the illusion that you’re really an attorney consulting at a maximum security prison…. then, you’re in the lobby. Like I was last year. And the year before. And every time I’m home. Fewer people. Hushed. The tree of life, a tribute to the 31 employees lost, being photographed by the curious, the respectful, the angry and the inspired. I hurt for those not on that list, apparently, to deny the terrorists the pleasure of gloating over of just how many lives they destroyed. A warped logic that strangely deflates my anger of the day before…. But it still doesn’t make it right.
The last time Sujata and I were at the Taj together, she was getting married. A generation ago. A shared city, shared hurt, disparate lives, another first; the first time we’ve dawdled over tea, cappuccino, waffles and lunch together at the Taj. Perhaps it’s time for new beginnings, for all of us.
Yeh kya ho raha hain..?
The sense of the surreal abates with the normalcy of the office. The new receptionist recognises my name, and its mere seconds before loud bear hugs disrupt an otherwise circumspect workplace. A heated discussion about the terrorist attacks and what we need to do sidetracks me from my mission, and my wonderment of the low numbers of death is scoffed. These are all ex-Taj employees, and reliable sources put the number of deaths closer to 550+ than the reported under 200. Why suppress this? None of us can come up with a remotely plausible theory. The discussion is upsetting. Almost as upsetting as watching Binny’s interview on TV.
Eventually, I’m plugged in and online, and hard at it, but I find time to beg Helen to procure a toasted sandwich from the rasta. Alas, the BMC has deemed it necessary to remove all hawkers from outside the office, so I have to rely on her assurances that a toasted veg. sandwich is still an obtainable dream. She lies, in spirit if not letter. A diffident knock interrupts my creative fiction; I have been bestowed celebrity status, as my sandwich is bought to me (a fact subsequently underlined, with heavily frowning brows, on the discovery). It’s just a regular toasted sandwich with veggies staring at me, but my disappointment transmogrifies into a Dali painting as I realise the plate is being set down by a gloved hand. Yes, a little man, in a puffin suit, clad in white cotton gloves. I have just been served a toasted sandwich, in the office, by a gloved butler. My shock prevents me from voicing my reluctant gratitude and I just nod weakly. White gloves??? Are the others in the office aware that there is a person walking around this city sporting white gloves and a license to buttle?
A joyful reunion with one of my bachhas before I venture into suburbia and the Sahara Star (ex-Centaur @ the Airport of dubious sale price fame). I amble through the foreboding gate to be waved towards an airline size x-ray machine which swallows my suddenly miniscule jhola, as I pass the metal detector test, absently wondering about the profusion of golf carts. My casual, ‘which way to the reception?’ is met with another waved hand (apparently speech is no longer attractive in the days of dire security) towards a golf cart. Surreal makes a triumphant return, as I try to look dignified bouncing around in the rear of a golf cart that follows the general rule of Mumbai traffic (just watch out for the guys in front of you, and let the guys behind worry about you). 90 seconds later, I’m deposited, sheepish expression et al at the reception.
I explore the exotic coffee shop, and am enraptured. One of the coolest spaces I’ve come across with its humongous open atrium, fish tank, lake like water feature and gorgeous cane furniture. I shun the offer of a table, and set up house in an oversize cane pod that would fetch a small fortune in Mumbai’s real estate market. 4 ½ hours, 6 cups of tea, a propensity of the chef to cut up your food for you, samosas disguised at dim sum, fake flowers on the balconies, silly revelations of life, lust and laughter, confusion about the symbol for men/women, an aborted trip to Manori, parasailing/gliding/ rock climbing/diving, a sickeningly sweet crepe, netball vs. handball, sprint vs. endurance, embarrassing moments (all mine!) and it’s time to move on. A pit stop in Dadar to hug Adil, 6 of Anahita’s fabulous sevpuris, an enjoyable if wholly inappropriate comment about my hips by the patriarch (if such a thing exists in a Bawa household), before my other bachha has me in splits with her ‘you’re so lucky, you live in the holy land’ moan. My eighth bawa of the day (that is 0.013% of that entire popuation!!), and I’m in their motherland! Is there no justice?
Equilibrium is restored when Havovi demands of the grinning security guard, the depth of Nes Wadia’s financial troubles if he has to charge Rs.50 for car parking! Lmao!! My UK residency for her utterly unspeakable inappropriateness!! None of us realise that Tuesday night is live at the Hard Rock, and I feel both middle aged and adolescent as the thumping beat reverberates through my ribcage. The band is superlative, conversation forsaken for nostalgia and the inept if enthusiastic table top YMCA shake about by the waiters at half time. Smoke on water, and the group dwindles to the hardcore, as Bade Miya awaits… 2 baida rotis, 1 chicken bhuna roll, 2 sheekh rolls, just sheek, 2 maazas and 1 bheja roll (told the waiter I’d just eat Baeta’s, which sent us off into hysterics that we never recovered from…!!). PNPC rules the roost as we decimate the offering on the bonnet (artfully propped to level with a soda bottle – if we had health and safety in our vocabulary, Bade Miya’s would have been shut down right after it opened!). Cheap. Familiar. Satisfying. Late nights that melt into early mornings. Friends. Some things never change.
Eventually, I’m plugged in and online, and hard at it, but I find time to beg Helen to procure a toasted sandwich from the rasta. Alas, the BMC has deemed it necessary to remove all hawkers from outside the office, so I have to rely on her assurances that a toasted veg. sandwich is still an obtainable dream. She lies, in spirit if not letter. A diffident knock interrupts my creative fiction; I have been bestowed celebrity status, as my sandwich is bought to me (a fact subsequently underlined, with heavily frowning brows, on the discovery). It’s just a regular toasted sandwich with veggies staring at me, but my disappointment transmogrifies into a Dali painting as I realise the plate is being set down by a gloved hand. Yes, a little man, in a puffin suit, clad in white cotton gloves. I have just been served a toasted sandwich, in the office, by a gloved butler. My shock prevents me from voicing my reluctant gratitude and I just nod weakly. White gloves??? Are the others in the office aware that there is a person walking around this city sporting white gloves and a license to buttle?
A joyful reunion with one of my bachhas before I venture into suburbia and the Sahara Star (ex-Centaur @ the Airport of dubious sale price fame). I amble through the foreboding gate to be waved towards an airline size x-ray machine which swallows my suddenly miniscule jhola, as I pass the metal detector test, absently wondering about the profusion of golf carts. My casual, ‘which way to the reception?’ is met with another waved hand (apparently speech is no longer attractive in the days of dire security) towards a golf cart. Surreal makes a triumphant return, as I try to look dignified bouncing around in the rear of a golf cart that follows the general rule of Mumbai traffic (just watch out for the guys in front of you, and let the guys behind worry about you). 90 seconds later, I’m deposited, sheepish expression et al at the reception.
I explore the exotic coffee shop, and am enraptured. One of the coolest spaces I’ve come across with its humongous open atrium, fish tank, lake like water feature and gorgeous cane furniture. I shun the offer of a table, and set up house in an oversize cane pod that would fetch a small fortune in Mumbai’s real estate market. 4 ½ hours, 6 cups of tea, a propensity of the chef to cut up your food for you, samosas disguised at dim sum, fake flowers on the balconies, silly revelations of life, lust and laughter, confusion about the symbol for men/women, an aborted trip to Manori, parasailing/gliding/ rock climbing/diving, a sickeningly sweet crepe, netball vs. handball, sprint vs. endurance, embarrassing moments (all mine!) and it’s time to move on. A pit stop in Dadar to hug Adil, 6 of Anahita’s fabulous sevpuris, an enjoyable if wholly inappropriate comment about my hips by the patriarch (if such a thing exists in a Bawa household), before my other bachha has me in splits with her ‘you’re so lucky, you live in the holy land’ moan. My eighth bawa of the day (that is 0.013% of that entire popuation!!), and I’m in their motherland! Is there no justice?
Equilibrium is restored when Havovi demands of the grinning security guard, the depth of Nes Wadia’s financial troubles if he has to charge Rs.50 for car parking! Lmao!! My UK residency for her utterly unspeakable inappropriateness!! None of us realise that Tuesday night is live at the Hard Rock, and I feel both middle aged and adolescent as the thumping beat reverberates through my ribcage. The band is superlative, conversation forsaken for nostalgia and the inept if enthusiastic table top YMCA shake about by the waiters at half time. Smoke on water, and the group dwindles to the hardcore, as Bade Miya awaits… 2 baida rotis, 1 chicken bhuna roll, 2 sheekh rolls, just sheek, 2 maazas and 1 bheja roll (told the waiter I’d just eat Baeta’s, which sent us off into hysterics that we never recovered from…!!). PNPC rules the roost as we decimate the offering on the bonnet (artfully propped to level with a soda bottle – if we had health and safety in our vocabulary, Bade Miya’s would have been shut down right after it opened!). Cheap. Familiar. Satisfying. Late nights that melt into early mornings. Friends. Some things never change.
Marriage is a wonderful institution
The question is, whether you want to be in an institution!
India has the lowest divorce rates in the world. Allegedly 1.1%. Impressive, yes? (perspective check, that’s twice Norway’s population) Still, 1.1%. People say it’s because of our values, our tradition, that family is important to us, our society believes in the institution, respects it….. Bollocks. We have the lowest rate of divorce in the world, because it’s the most excruciatingly difficult process you can imagine, the magnitude of silliness involved, beyond the grasp of our puny minds! The 1.1% is a testament to unswerving determination in the face of all odds. To get married in India is a breeze (please do not confuse the legality of it with the obligatory flaunting of it). 30 days notice, Rs.20 for the certificate and a grand investment of Rs.120 ish (maybe 200 ish given inflation), and the registrar’s office throws in the daft thrones for the mandatory wedding photo. 3 signatures et voilà. Shaami Stri. Pati, Patni. Srimati, Sri. Navra, Baiko. Mister and Missus. You are now the proud possessor of a grubby (if you don’t laminate, it will disintegrate) piece of legal size paper scrawled over in poor handwriting declaring your elevated status.
Now, try and get a divorce. Hah! Divorce? Surely you jest. We don’t do that here. You persist? Very well then. File a petition in court. We’ll send you for counselling. Give it another shot. 6 months at the very least, and if you still haven’t changed your mind… but wait. Mutual consent? Don’t be daft. No one divorces mutually or consensually. Assault and battery? Lying, cheating bastard? Penniless deserter? Evil mother in law? Amnesia? Emotional abuse? No, no, no, no and no? Then why do you want a divorce? Shoo. Now go away and stop wasting the courts time.
Time to seek serious professional intervention.
The marriage between the parties is a love marriage. Before the marriage the Petitioner was a spinster and her maiden name was Aparajita Guha, by which she continued to be known even after her marriage. Before the marriage Respondent was a bachelor. (a deviously cunning opening gambit: state the obvious!)
There are no issues out of the said marriage (in Indianspeak that would mean children, not periodicals or problems)
1) The Petitioners state that the marriage between the parties was a love marriage. They had met at …. and after a brief courtship decided to get married. Their marriage also had the stamp of approval and blessings of their respective parents and finally the parties married on 29th February, 1996 with the fond hope that their marriage would be a long lasting bond. (this is what happens if you don’t let the folks choose in the first place! Fond hope alone does not a marriage sustain….)
2) Soon after the marriage the Petitioner No. 1 came to reside with the Petitioner No. 2 at his address at ……... In or about 2000 the Petitioners realized that their marriage was a mistake. There were disputes and differences between them and increasing incompatibility. There were constant quarrels between them and not a single thing upon which they could agree. However inspite of the same the parties resided together and had an off and on relationship. (would it be flippant to suggest we apparently agreed to disagree??)
3) The Petitioners state that this state of affairs continued till March 2007 when the parties separated due to irreconcilable differences and disputes which made it impossible for them to reside together. The parties have been residing separately since then and there have been no marital relations between them since then. (no sex? Impossible!)
4) Friends, relatives and well wishers have intervened and tried their level best to resolve their disputes and salvage the marriage but these interventions have only proved futile. (you guys did a lousy job! Although I must admit, neither Aashish nor I have the guts to tell Santosh or Munaaf that we’ve split…)
5) In the circumstances parties have come to the conclusion that continuing the marriage ties will not be in the interest of either of them but the same will only increase the pain and mutual animosity and acrimony. The Petitioners have therefore decided that they should part company and go their separate ways. The Petitioners by the present petition pray to this Hon’ble Court for a decree of divorce dissolving their marriage solemnized on 29th February, 1996 by Mutual Consent. (I’ll let him know when the family meets to celebrate his doctoral victory; oh, the pain!)
6) The Petitioner No. 1 shall after the divorce continue to use her name. (Yes. You may address her as the Warrior Goddess, failing which, she might answer to Maharani of Kuchbhinahin)
7) The Petitioner No. 2 has returned to the Petitioner No.1 all her articles, belongings, wearing apparels, valuables and personal and she has no claim in this regard against the Petitioner No. 2. The Petitioner No. 2 has in his custody and possession his articles, belongings, wearing apparels, valuables and other personal effects and has no claims in this regards against Petitioner No. 1. (don’t worry Bebous, I won’t tell them about the fetching lace tank top you kept for yourself ;-))
8) Both the Petitioners are educated and gainfully employed and hence are capable of maintaining themselves without depending on one another. Hence none of the parties intend nor shall claim past, present or future maintenance from each other for their respective selves. The parties have willfully and thoughtfully given up their respective claim for maintenance even taking into consideration the rising rates of inflation. (I’m lost for words on this one…. Even taking into consideration the rising rates of inflation???? What the $£*%???)
I feel weak. My defiance reduced to churned buttermilk. Forget divorce, I think I’m losing the will to live….
India has the lowest divorce rates in the world. Allegedly 1.1%. Impressive, yes? (perspective check, that’s twice Norway’s population) Still, 1.1%. People say it’s because of our values, our tradition, that family is important to us, our society believes in the institution, respects it….. Bollocks. We have the lowest rate of divorce in the world, because it’s the most excruciatingly difficult process you can imagine, the magnitude of silliness involved, beyond the grasp of our puny minds! The 1.1% is a testament to unswerving determination in the face of all odds. To get married in India is a breeze (please do not confuse the legality of it with the obligatory flaunting of it). 30 days notice, Rs.20 for the certificate and a grand investment of Rs.120 ish (maybe 200 ish given inflation), and the registrar’s office throws in the daft thrones for the mandatory wedding photo. 3 signatures et voilà. Shaami Stri. Pati, Patni. Srimati, Sri. Navra, Baiko. Mister and Missus. You are now the proud possessor of a grubby (if you don’t laminate, it will disintegrate) piece of legal size paper scrawled over in poor handwriting declaring your elevated status.
Now, try and get a divorce. Hah! Divorce? Surely you jest. We don’t do that here. You persist? Very well then. File a petition in court. We’ll send you for counselling. Give it another shot. 6 months at the very least, and if you still haven’t changed your mind… but wait. Mutual consent? Don’t be daft. No one divorces mutually or consensually. Assault and battery? Lying, cheating bastard? Penniless deserter? Evil mother in law? Amnesia? Emotional abuse? No, no, no, no and no? Then why do you want a divorce? Shoo. Now go away and stop wasting the courts time.
Time to seek serious professional intervention.
The marriage between the parties is a love marriage. Before the marriage the Petitioner was a spinster and her maiden name was Aparajita Guha, by which she continued to be known even after her marriage. Before the marriage Respondent was a bachelor. (a deviously cunning opening gambit: state the obvious!)
There are no issues out of the said marriage (in Indianspeak that would mean children, not periodicals or problems)
1) The Petitioners state that the marriage between the parties was a love marriage. They had met at …. and after a brief courtship decided to get married. Their marriage also had the stamp of approval and blessings of their respective parents and finally the parties married on 29th February, 1996 with the fond hope that their marriage would be a long lasting bond. (this is what happens if you don’t let the folks choose in the first place! Fond hope alone does not a marriage sustain….)
2) Soon after the marriage the Petitioner No. 1 came to reside with the Petitioner No. 2 at his address at ……... In or about 2000 the Petitioners realized that their marriage was a mistake. There were disputes and differences between them and increasing incompatibility. There were constant quarrels between them and not a single thing upon which they could agree. However inspite of the same the parties resided together and had an off and on relationship. (would it be flippant to suggest we apparently agreed to disagree??)
3) The Petitioners state that this state of affairs continued till March 2007 when the parties separated due to irreconcilable differences and disputes which made it impossible for them to reside together. The parties have been residing separately since then and there have been no marital relations between them since then. (no sex? Impossible!)
4) Friends, relatives and well wishers have intervened and tried their level best to resolve their disputes and salvage the marriage but these interventions have only proved futile. (you guys did a lousy job! Although I must admit, neither Aashish nor I have the guts to tell Santosh or Munaaf that we’ve split…)
5) In the circumstances parties have come to the conclusion that continuing the marriage ties will not be in the interest of either of them but the same will only increase the pain and mutual animosity and acrimony. The Petitioners have therefore decided that they should part company and go their separate ways. The Petitioners by the present petition pray to this Hon’ble Court for a decree of divorce dissolving their marriage solemnized on 29th February, 1996 by Mutual Consent. (I’ll let him know when the family meets to celebrate his doctoral victory; oh, the pain!)
6) The Petitioner No. 1 shall after the divorce continue to use her name. (Yes. You may address her as the Warrior Goddess, failing which, she might answer to Maharani of Kuchbhinahin)
7) The Petitioner No. 2 has returned to the Petitioner No.1 all her articles, belongings, wearing apparels, valuables and personal and she has no claim in this regard against the Petitioner No. 2. The Petitioner No. 2 has in his custody and possession his articles, belongings, wearing apparels, valuables and other personal effects and has no claims in this regards against Petitioner No. 1. (don’t worry Bebous, I won’t tell them about the fetching lace tank top you kept for yourself ;-))
8) Both the Petitioners are educated and gainfully employed and hence are capable of maintaining themselves without depending on one another. Hence none of the parties intend nor shall claim past, present or future maintenance from each other for their respective selves. The parties have willfully and thoughtfully given up their respective claim for maintenance even taking into consideration the rising rates of inflation. (I’m lost for words on this one…. Even taking into consideration the rising rates of inflation???? What the $£*%???)
I feel weak. My defiance reduced to churned buttermilk. Forget divorce, I think I’m losing the will to live….
Iced plum
is allegedly what I flaunt on my pampered nails. No doubt, the fetching nomenclature bestowed by a man with a healthy disregard of that food group popularly known as ‘fruit’ (no pun intended). Either that or he must buy his plums from Uncle Jimmy (he of the finest ‘herb’ garden this side of Dadar TT).
The sight of 10 gorgeous, best of Bollywood ‘where’s my sunglasses?’, raani pink toes wiggling in the sunshine please me greatly. My mission, a pedicure, but gentle persuasion on my ailing rotator cuff has me surrendering to a suggestion of a neck massage. Suddenly, I’m wrestling with my equilibrium and shoulder straps to stay aloof under the most dissolutely wicked massage (if you haven’t known it, there’s little to beat the sinful experience of a sets of strong hands working their way down your back and up your sides, while another set of equally masterful hands liquefy your bones with a sultry, just the right side of appropriate, inching up your thigh, around the kneecap technique that can make a grown woman moan!!).
Where did they find these boys?? 90 minutes of pure bliss; pretty pink toes (coloured in by shockingly shaky hands. I’d like to think it was the devastating proximity to my aura, but the word ‘habit’ kept intruding), satiny skin and loose muscles; a steal, even with the penny in penury. Its time to reclaim my city. Tea at the Taj, I think.
The sight of 10 gorgeous, best of Bollywood ‘where’s my sunglasses?’, raani pink toes wiggling in the sunshine please me greatly. My mission, a pedicure, but gentle persuasion on my ailing rotator cuff has me surrendering to a suggestion of a neck massage. Suddenly, I’m wrestling with my equilibrium and shoulder straps to stay aloof under the most dissolutely wicked massage (if you haven’t known it, there’s little to beat the sinful experience of a sets of strong hands working their way down your back and up your sides, while another set of equally masterful hands liquefy your bones with a sultry, just the right side of appropriate, inching up your thigh, around the kneecap technique that can make a grown woman moan!!).
Where did they find these boys?? 90 minutes of pure bliss; pretty pink toes (coloured in by shockingly shaky hands. I’d like to think it was the devastating proximity to my aura, but the word ‘habit’ kept intruding), satiny skin and loose muscles; a steal, even with the penny in penury. Its time to reclaim my city. Tea at the Taj, I think.
The prodigal returns...
48 hours and I’m ready to swear to having been introduced to 0.0064% of the sub-10 year demographic that makes up our 1.3 billion. When did this happen….?! I shudder to think what an encounter with the prolific breeders would be like....
Nonetheless, an enclosed space with an absurd chronological spread from 17 weeks to 87 years, the thumpa thump of melody blaring from behind peculiarly coloured traffic lights that make you wish you had on blue eyeshadow and were badly dressed mingling with the screech of an errant brat, spontaneous hugs with ex-cohorts who seem to have embraced middle age with an unnecessarily exuberant vehemence, skewering recalcitrant kernels of corn that adorn a creative sheekh kebab while being able to look over the heads of 97.5% of the motley crew in 2" heels, is a surreal experience.
Nonetheless, an enclosed space with an absurd chronological spread from 17 weeks to 87 years, the thumpa thump of melody blaring from behind peculiarly coloured traffic lights that make you wish you had on blue eyeshadow and were badly dressed mingling with the screech of an errant brat, spontaneous hugs with ex-cohorts who seem to have embraced middle age with an unnecessarily exuberant vehemence, skewering recalcitrant kernels of corn that adorn a creative sheekh kebab while being able to look over the heads of 97.5% of the motley crew in 2" heels, is a surreal experience.
The 19th that wasn't...
What a way waste an entire day of your life. A day older, none the wiser, and strongly considering an addendum to my list of pet hates. The subliminally pointless exercise that is flying long haul on Air India, during the day. Air India is a venerable airline. A quality that demands a cabin crew are indifferent bordering on rude and seldom easy on the eyes, there are no individual screens, 14% of the buttons on any console within reach will not work, there won’t be any headphones (and you won’t even care), no duty free, and if you’re lucky, an absence of any safety demonstration. What they do have, is an abundant supply of bawling babies, whimpering toddlers, stridently blustering mothers, ineffectual fathers, deaf geriatrics, overhead bins jammed to barely shut capacity and the best Indian food any airline has on offer.
Breakfast soothes my neurosis and I systematically run through the papers, the Sudoku and an interview with Benicio del Toro. He’s Puerto Rican, strange and rather compelling. I’m three quarters through my pornographic purchase when the trolley trundles by, and my hand reflexively reaches for the proffered bag of crisps even as I nod my gratitude. I hate crisps, but the inexplicable compulsion to eat everything that is offered during a flight rides roughshod over any attempt at rebellion, and I listlessly plough my way through the popularly accepted imitation of what potatoes in foil ought to taste like and the uninspiring literature with determination. Lunch is marvellous. A fabulous gobi mutter, and chicken curry that reminds me of the chicken masala we used to order for lunch at Nariman Point, mountainous portions that we’d share, for all of Rs. 25. Delicious! I succumb to my inexcusable need to consume everything, and try the suspiciously goopy looking dessert, my brain only reacting halfway through the sampling with the definitive message that I really don’t like it… the lights are turned down, and I move onto Candance Bushnell, before I realise I’m now one of those grossly annoying people who leave the light on while everyone around me is surrendering to the pretended darkness. What a perfect way to spend what I know must be a brilliantly sunny day in London.
Consciousness seeps into my being along with the sight of the dude in the jump seat chummily sharing a joke over his Heineken. The lights are back on and I struggle with an insidious headache thumping its merry way between my eyes. An untimely nap (n. anything less than 8 hours of oblivion) headache. An orange juice assists recovery in a limited manner, and I waken more fully to the sight of apes undulating on trees. Bereft of headphones, my comatose intellect grapples with the image – why? Why would they be inflicting swinging apes on 400 trapped passengers? Granted, we’re this side of callous when it comes to health and safety, but surely the inchoate mix of 70’s Bollywood songs, world news, a bizarre Hollywood virtual racing flick and this, is too much for any but the most hardened psychology? An otter on its back, lushly revelling in the fat drops rain on its face, swims languidly across the screen, making me smile. I love the rain. It viciously bites the head of a fish, contentment writ large on its furry face. Dinner time.
0040. Only an hour and ten minutes later than scheduled. The muggy air, a relief, but that’s before I find myself on the tarmac with other mystified passengers as the only bus departs imitating a can of sardines. I smirk, as the realisation kicks in that there is no other bus on the horizon. I bite my lip to stop laughing out loud as I survey my abandoned companions, milling about, while the rest ponder the meaning of life on the steps, and in the aisles of the aircraft. 8 minutes and two buses arrive. We lurch off, our enterprising driver veering off, vying for pole position as a 747 rumbles past. We beat 2 jet airways buses, 3 airport transports and the other air India bus to make it back to the terminal first….. It’s good to be back.
Breakfast soothes my neurosis and I systematically run through the papers, the Sudoku and an interview with Benicio del Toro. He’s Puerto Rican, strange and rather compelling. I’m three quarters through my pornographic purchase when the trolley trundles by, and my hand reflexively reaches for the proffered bag of crisps even as I nod my gratitude. I hate crisps, but the inexplicable compulsion to eat everything that is offered during a flight rides roughshod over any attempt at rebellion, and I listlessly plough my way through the popularly accepted imitation of what potatoes in foil ought to taste like and the uninspiring literature with determination. Lunch is marvellous. A fabulous gobi mutter, and chicken curry that reminds me of the chicken masala we used to order for lunch at Nariman Point, mountainous portions that we’d share, for all of Rs. 25. Delicious! I succumb to my inexcusable need to consume everything, and try the suspiciously goopy looking dessert, my brain only reacting halfway through the sampling with the definitive message that I really don’t like it… the lights are turned down, and I move onto Candance Bushnell, before I realise I’m now one of those grossly annoying people who leave the light on while everyone around me is surrendering to the pretended darkness. What a perfect way to spend what I know must be a brilliantly sunny day in London.
Consciousness seeps into my being along with the sight of the dude in the jump seat chummily sharing a joke over his Heineken. The lights are back on and I struggle with an insidious headache thumping its merry way between my eyes. An untimely nap (n. anything less than 8 hours of oblivion) headache. An orange juice assists recovery in a limited manner, and I waken more fully to the sight of apes undulating on trees. Bereft of headphones, my comatose intellect grapples with the image – why? Why would they be inflicting swinging apes on 400 trapped passengers? Granted, we’re this side of callous when it comes to health and safety, but surely the inchoate mix of 70’s Bollywood songs, world news, a bizarre Hollywood virtual racing flick and this, is too much for any but the most hardened psychology? An otter on its back, lushly revelling in the fat drops rain on its face, swims languidly across the screen, making me smile. I love the rain. It viciously bites the head of a fish, contentment writ large on its furry face. Dinner time.
0040. Only an hour and ten minutes later than scheduled. The muggy air, a relief, but that’s before I find myself on the tarmac with other mystified passengers as the only bus departs imitating a can of sardines. I smirk, as the realisation kicks in that there is no other bus on the horizon. I bite my lip to stop laughing out loud as I survey my abandoned companions, milling about, while the rest ponder the meaning of life on the steps, and in the aisles of the aircraft. 8 minutes and two buses arrive. We lurch off, our enterprising driver veering off, vying for pole position as a 747 rumbles past. We beat 2 jet airways buses, 3 airport transports and the other air India bus to make it back to the terminal first….. It’s good to be back.
Irony, thy name is email forwards...
..... nary a second after I published the last post, an email labelled 'the most beautiful.....' house, little boy, little girl, eyes, waterfall, horse, plant (that is a bubble you dope!), city, bridge takes up residence in my inbox. A completely random collection of photos, arbitrarily selected by an ignoramus with a sheep like qualities (niagara was the best falls...a grotesque one dimensioned, bright neon rendition no less) and a marked lack of any imagination or even an adequate eye for anything but the most banal, forwarded with the customary enthusiasm of the daft, nebulous sender of mass emails, now doing the mandatory circuit of cyberspace. For the clarification of any doubt (call it 100% redundancy if you will), I probably would have spared a second glance for the plant, simply because the combination of dark, lusciously edible green with that reflecting bubble begs an initial gasp, swiftly followed by an irresistible urge to touch it and watch it wobble precariously before losing all control and jabbing a perfect moment into oblivion before nature can beat you to it. Yes, my godchildren adore me!
Beauty and the Beholder
The clichéd bagatelle when you don't want to tell someone they're ugly. It's all in the eye of the beholder.... An enchanted being, this beholder. Like the magic mirror on the wall, reflecting nuances you've never acknowledged, magnifying the chasm between truth and belief. Whose truth, and whose belief?
They used to say seeing is believing. How very naive. Why is it then, your best memories are never visual? When you close your eyes and remember a moment, what do you see? A crooked smile? An orthodontists' mortgage payment? A lingering scent that awakes the nerve endings down your spine; a laugh that feels like mulled wine tracing a path to your stomach; an almost forgotten melody that makes your heart ache; the feeling of being smothered in a bear hug that can fix the world; ferociously knitted eyebrows, tiny pink tongue peeking out in sublime concentration; tightening nipples brought on by the rough caress a shivering monsoon wind; a taste of the smoky hint of single malt blended with the darkness of espresso on your tongue... every memory that I have, every moment, every image is painted in a watercolour of sensations. When I close my eyes and think of those I love best, I don't see then; I feel them.
Someone told me I had beautiful hands. It surprised me. Pretty nails, healthy and strong, but a man's hands. That's what I have. Is that true? or just what I believe? Interesting things, hands. I've enjoyed them on others; elegant ones, strong ones, artistic ones, menial ones, chubby, dimpled ones, gnarled ones....some have made me cringe; hideously tiny and dainty ones (I have trust issues!), unkempt ones with dirty nails, lovely hands with childishly bitten nails, baby soft hands on a man.... Perhaps my hands are beautiful. If someone believes it, is it not their reality? If it is reality, it must be true..... through my beholder's eyes. I see beauty now, where there was none before.
They used to say seeing is believing. How very naive. Why is it then, your best memories are never visual? When you close your eyes and remember a moment, what do you see? A crooked smile? An orthodontists' mortgage payment? A lingering scent that awakes the nerve endings down your spine; a laugh that feels like mulled wine tracing a path to your stomach; an almost forgotten melody that makes your heart ache; the feeling of being smothered in a bear hug that can fix the world; ferociously knitted eyebrows, tiny pink tongue peeking out in sublime concentration; tightening nipples brought on by the rough caress a shivering monsoon wind; a taste of the smoky hint of single malt blended with the darkness of espresso on your tongue... every memory that I have, every moment, every image is painted in a watercolour of sensations. When I close my eyes and think of those I love best, I don't see then; I feel them.
Someone told me I had beautiful hands. It surprised me. Pretty nails, healthy and strong, but a man's hands. That's what I have. Is that true? or just what I believe? Interesting things, hands. I've enjoyed them on others; elegant ones, strong ones, artistic ones, menial ones, chubby, dimpled ones, gnarled ones....some have made me cringe; hideously tiny and dainty ones (I have trust issues!), unkempt ones with dirty nails, lovely hands with childishly bitten nails, baby soft hands on a man.... Perhaps my hands are beautiful. If someone believes it, is it not their reality? If it is reality, it must be true..... through my beholder's eyes. I see beauty now, where there was none before.
My love, m'lady, me darlin'...
What could be a more perfect end to a cluster fuck week - a never before considered question that led to an animated if somewhat unexpected debate on the folly of the bendy bus. A charming gentleman with a fondness for effusive endearments, much concerned about the city's dwindling coffers, who informs me that we have to suffer this unsightly traffic aberration till 2015, which is when the contract runs out apparently.
One week. Exactly. Two missed deadlines, endless phone calls to maneuver through insidiously petty internal politics, desperate juggle to travel schedules to appease righteously offended client, interminable year end drama with finance and admin, client redundancies, new faces to please, inebreited colleagues full of good cheer and little else on a friday afternoon, late night concalls to ensure the client still thinks we're sexier than the competition come Tuesday, monsoon weather that makes artful dodging of maliciously gleeful vehicular spray a necessity, erratic christmas shopping (an assortment of fourteen different gifts for the same three people, with a waiting list of fifteenish cannot bode well), a horribly broken heart eliciting a resounding 'all men are fundamentally stupid' assertion, yet another working weekend mitigated by a roitous farewell, an orgasmic online encounter, and an overindulgent sunday lunch, inspirational conviction that I absolutely don't trust anyone who can't hate, or doesn't love to kiss; a nose wheel that needed to be changed (how do they do that anyway? use a jack???), Sujata's scary schedule for December, an uncharacteristic feeling of trepidation of what I will find when I go home this time, an exquisite entrecote du cheval cooked at the table, 3 martini biancos, 3 glasses of wine, an unspeakable digestif, a happy client, a headache, a long, hot shower, bad weather in Western Europe, the sexiest excuse for a watch, a centrosauras apertus (why does most of my adult life seem to have been spent at Geneva airport?), a three hour delay getting into Heathrow, BA disguised as Air India (a 'choice' between a solitary cookie clamouring for death or an apologetic bag of salted nuts), 83 unread messages since this afternoon. A client who writes 'dear loved ones....when ow when' (I think I'm in love). 7 missed calls. This is my life? How is that even possible?! Who are these people? Why is my mother calling??
Four dinner invitations turn my never before 'empty since breakfast' stomach into a Barnum & Bailey's sideshow. Two days before I leave, and people only now find the time to want to feed me?? Why do I have so many unwieldly shapes to transport? I hate packing. Uh-oh. I feel a full on crank welling over my love, m'lady, me darlin'.....
One week. Exactly. Two missed deadlines, endless phone calls to maneuver through insidiously petty internal politics, desperate juggle to travel schedules to appease righteously offended client, interminable year end drama with finance and admin, client redundancies, new faces to please, inebreited colleagues full of good cheer and little else on a friday afternoon, late night concalls to ensure the client still thinks we're sexier than the competition come Tuesday, monsoon weather that makes artful dodging of maliciously gleeful vehicular spray a necessity, erratic christmas shopping (an assortment of fourteen different gifts for the same three people, with a waiting list of fifteenish cannot bode well), a horribly broken heart eliciting a resounding 'all men are fundamentally stupid' assertion, yet another working weekend mitigated by a roitous farewell, an orgasmic online encounter, and an overindulgent sunday lunch, inspirational conviction that I absolutely don't trust anyone who can't hate, or doesn't love to kiss; a nose wheel that needed to be changed (how do they do that anyway? use a jack???), Sujata's scary schedule for December, an uncharacteristic feeling of trepidation of what I will find when I go home this time, an exquisite entrecote du cheval cooked at the table, 3 martini biancos, 3 glasses of wine, an unspeakable digestif, a happy client, a headache, a long, hot shower, bad weather in Western Europe, the sexiest excuse for a watch, a centrosauras apertus (why does most of my adult life seem to have been spent at Geneva airport?), a three hour delay getting into Heathrow, BA disguised as Air India (a 'choice' between a solitary cookie clamouring for death or an apologetic bag of salted nuts), 83 unread messages since this afternoon. A client who writes 'dear loved ones....when ow when' (I think I'm in love). 7 missed calls. This is my life? How is that even possible?! Who are these people? Why is my mother calling??
Four dinner invitations turn my never before 'empty since breakfast' stomach into a Barnum & Bailey's sideshow. Two days before I leave, and people only now find the time to want to feed me?? Why do I have so many unwieldly shapes to transport? I hate packing. Uh-oh. I feel a full on crank welling over my love, m'lady, me darlin'.....
The Tweenie Devil or life BG
Quirky store fronts in the heart of Mayfair make us meander leisurely, deeply appreciative of the city's nighttime aura, despite the cold. An almost missed plaque, discreet, set in a nondescript brick wall. The dull gold embossed with an intriguing figure. Half Polynesian god, half troll baby. A mystery. My fingers curl around the wrought iron gate that separates me from it as I lean forward with a complete lack of any decorum. The shadowy figure I'd registered, 7 nanoseconds before my attention was gently yet thoughtfully diverted to the image on the wall, morphs into Gloria Vanderbilt's chauffeur; double breasted jacket, circumspect peaked cap and sleek gloves, in a subtly protective pose. I could almost hear the purring silence of the Rolls in his wake. He's real. I know this because he nods and says 'Good Evening'. In my mind, he touches the peak of his cap, but my mind has been known to take a tangential trend every now and again. A pause between pleasantries, the chance to indolently slink away, but I have to know. 'Would you have any idea what that is?'. He smiles knowingly, his voice a pleasant drawl. 'That, is the Tweenie Devil'. He has us spellbound. 'The Tweenie Devil?' I echo in splendid style. A legacy from Alfred Dunhill who had the little devil as the mascot on his car, which then became a symbol of Dunhill. Suitably impressed, we bid him adieu, pondering the veracity of the tale. Fact or fiction? Were we just gullible tourists being callously toyed with? or was this a 'you learn something new everyday' moment? Only one way to find out.... Google it.
"First used as the mascot for the Tweenie car, the Tweenie Devil is fast becoming an iconic symbol for Dunhill. These beautiful Dunhill Tweenie Devil Cuff links have a very detailed finish and come in left and right versions to ensure they sit correctly on the cuff." Google has spoken. If it can be googled, it must be true (Somya and I dismissed the existence of some restaurant because we couldn't find it on google... turned out we had the wrong name. QED). Which then raises the fundamental question:
What on earth did we do B.G.??? Did we not ask questions pre 1998? Did we not care if they remained unanswered? Was the Encyclopedia Britannica weighty enough for frivolous pastimes? How did we get on? I do have a recollection of extreme distraction in days BG when between four of us we couldn't remember the name of that incredulously inept and ineffectual character spawned by Michael Crawford on Some Mothers do 'ave 'em... What we had was near perfect interpretations of him bleating 'Bet-ty, Bet-ty', but little else! The aggravation kept me up all night and daybreak didn't yield enlightenment from either Bangalore or Bandra. Four months later, I hear Betty in my head, 'Oh Fraank'. Oh Frank!!! That was it. Friggin' Frank. Four months to get to Frank and Betty.
10 A.G.: Google spits a possible 108,000 results at you in under a second, without the need for any spaz like histrionics. I think, quite possibly, that life B.G. was more fun....
"First used as the mascot for the Tweenie car, the Tweenie Devil is fast becoming an iconic symbol for Dunhill. These beautiful Dunhill Tweenie Devil Cuff links have a very detailed finish and come in left and right versions to ensure they sit correctly on the cuff." Google has spoken. If it can be googled, it must be true (Somya and I dismissed the existence of some restaurant because we couldn't find it on google... turned out we had the wrong name. QED). Which then raises the fundamental question:
What on earth did we do B.G.??? Did we not ask questions pre 1998? Did we not care if they remained unanswered? Was the Encyclopedia Britannica weighty enough for frivolous pastimes? How did we get on? I do have a recollection of extreme distraction in days BG when between four of us we couldn't remember the name of that incredulously inept and ineffectual character spawned by Michael Crawford on Some Mothers do 'ave 'em... What we had was near perfect interpretations of him bleating 'Bet-ty, Bet-ty', but little else! The aggravation kept me up all night and daybreak didn't yield enlightenment from either Bangalore or Bandra. Four months later, I hear Betty in my head, 'Oh Fraank'. Oh Frank!!! That was it. Friggin' Frank. Four months to get to Frank and Betty.
10 A.G.: Google spits a possible 108,000 results at you in under a second, without the need for any spaz like histrionics. I think, quite possibly, that life B.G. was more fun....
Exit Strategy
You know you've lingered too long in the delusion that is a corporate environment when you find yourself contemplating an 'exit strategy' with reference to your own life! A random debate about whether homosexuality can be induced or perhaps cultivated, i.e. a trained behaviour much like Pavolv's pooch or a terrorist indoctrine, and you start to think about metronomes ticking in cycles of 9 to 5. Another 35,000 let loose to roam the streets once BoA completes it's take over of Merrill Lynch. Do they deliberate their 'exit strategies' over bagels and coffee? Or do they just pack up and leave?
It's an interesting point. If we can create drones in the workplace, turn once vibrant minds and emotions into mind numbing conference calls and mortgage re-payments, perhaps we can inculcate sexual orientation through trained behaviour. Granted, the concept seems more plausible at 22 than at 38, but look around you. The cliché is a rat race. How long before you get so totally sucked in and the Matrix is a reality? Bob Nardelli is the Matrix. As is his corporate jet. And Capitol Hill.
A binary world. The unknown. Maya. Hmmm. I should start identifying synergies and an integrated platform - weekly brainstorming sessions, funky graphs, and at least fourteen pointless conference calls should get me to a first draft by Q1 '09....
It's an interesting point. If we can create drones in the workplace, turn once vibrant minds and emotions into mind numbing conference calls and mortgage re-payments, perhaps we can inculcate sexual orientation through trained behaviour. Granted, the concept seems more plausible at 22 than at 38, but look around you. The cliché is a rat race. How long before you get so totally sucked in and the Matrix is a reality? Bob Nardelli is the Matrix. As is his corporate jet. And Capitol Hill.
A binary world. The unknown. Maya. Hmmm. I should start identifying synergies and an integrated platform - weekly brainstorming sessions, funky graphs, and at least fourteen pointless conference calls should get me to a first draft by Q1 '09....
Kiss of Deaf
I like to think I'm a good kisser, a connoisseur even, and as indulgent as I am of most manner of kooky behaviours, I've never been able to postulate a credible hypotheses for those who claim that kissing is highly overrated. In lieu of my apparent lack of understanding, I am willing to provide demonstrations, lessons even to the dubious in my desire to convert their scepticism to this sultry art....
Despite my ongoing fascination, devotion and unqualified scrutiny of the craft, I cannot claim to have left bodies strewn in my wake, requiring urgent medical assistance (well, once doesn't really count), but I have been reliably informed by the purveyor of all truth, BBC World, that it is indeed a most dangerous activity, with serious health and safety ramifications, one that needs bear a statutory warning and possibly third party supervision.
'Tis true, a young inhabitant of the world's greatest closed economy was left partially deaf after a passionate kiss from her boyfriend. Her left ear to be precise, now, no longer capable of appreciating the lilting cadences of the Guangdong opera. The china Daily exhorts "while kissing is normally very safe, doctors advise people to proceed with caution".
Apparently, the mega smooch reduced the pressure in her mouth to such an extent, that a natural re-balancing was required, and the eardrum the only thing handily available in that confined space to correct the imbalance. I am now trying to imagine just what the hell kind of a kiss this was, and have revised my oh my! position to a hmmm, this must be like kissing a vacuum cleaner. Or was it more blow than suck? Two things. (i) this has to be one of the better ways to blow out your eardrum (ii) any volunteers?
Despite my ongoing fascination, devotion and unqualified scrutiny of the craft, I cannot claim to have left bodies strewn in my wake, requiring urgent medical assistance (well, once doesn't really count), but I have been reliably informed by the purveyor of all truth, BBC World, that it is indeed a most dangerous activity, with serious health and safety ramifications, one that needs bear a statutory warning and possibly third party supervision.
'Tis true, a young inhabitant of the world's greatest closed economy was left partially deaf after a passionate kiss from her boyfriend. Her left ear to be precise, now, no longer capable of appreciating the lilting cadences of the Guangdong opera. The china Daily exhorts "while kissing is normally very safe, doctors advise people to proceed with caution".
Apparently, the mega smooch reduced the pressure in her mouth to such an extent, that a natural re-balancing was required, and the eardrum the only thing handily available in that confined space to correct the imbalance. I am now trying to imagine just what the hell kind of a kiss this was, and have revised my oh my! position to a hmmm, this must be like kissing a vacuum cleaner. Or was it more blow than suck? Two things. (i) this has to be one of the better ways to blow out your eardrum (ii) any volunteers?
Quintessentially English??
Horror is a genre I do not subscribe to. Not just because it's daft and gory, but because I am perfectly capable of frightening myself without a chainsaw. Repeatedly. In novel ways each time.
I love my flat. I covet my cousins more sophisticated flat down the road, but I love mine. My curtains are adorned with large, hungry looking, rose coloured flowers of indeterminate pedigree, crowned by a hideous pink rosette. My characterless blue carpeted floor creaks in the most appalling manner, the sound amplified by futile lifting of heels in an attempt to diminish the trauma to the 1st floor. He has muted earth tones that effortlessly melt into each other. My shower offers either a scalding or stinging dribble. At his place you can choose between temperate jacuzzi jets or a wallow in a bath (in different locations). He has a concierge. I have a lift that breaks down every six weeks. He has a grown up fridge that doesn't frost. I have a midget you have to kick shut, that harbours icebergs. His bed doesn't make rudely inappropriate nosies, his mattress doesn't shift and the number doesn't fall off his front door.
But..... I have a double height ceiling. I have a ledge that permits precariously perched sunbathing (as long as the do gooder passers by don't interfere). I have the luxury of my personality on the walls and a cool wrought iron head board (which might have been more effective attached to the rest of the bed. A magical mirror that reflects a perfect coiffure whenever I glance by. Close your eyes, and the soothing gurgle of the freezer paints the lazy swish of a golden fantail disappearing behind a waterfall curtain. Abundant character.
An English habit. To see character in all that is flawed. The terrifying naiveté and belief that the 'perfect' man exists. My unicorn. This gets worse. My obsession with the weather. My need for a cup of tea to soothe frazzled nerves. The inevitable support for the underdog (although I now owe Taks £1.50 for having my man win - yes, he's a big spender). The idealism of fair play and justice. My need to fix Bombay. I nod yes definitively, and shake no assertively. I say trousers, knickers, bugger and wanker with abandon. I love Indian food...... Oh God. I think I'm English. Bollocks!!
I love my flat. I covet my cousins more sophisticated flat down the road, but I love mine. My curtains are adorned with large, hungry looking, rose coloured flowers of indeterminate pedigree, crowned by a hideous pink rosette. My characterless blue carpeted floor creaks in the most appalling manner, the sound amplified by futile lifting of heels in an attempt to diminish the trauma to the 1st floor. He has muted earth tones that effortlessly melt into each other. My shower offers either a scalding or stinging dribble. At his place you can choose between temperate jacuzzi jets or a wallow in a bath (in different locations). He has a concierge. I have a lift that breaks down every six weeks. He has a grown up fridge that doesn't frost. I have a midget you have to kick shut, that harbours icebergs. His bed doesn't make rudely inappropriate nosies, his mattress doesn't shift and the number doesn't fall off his front door.
But..... I have a double height ceiling. I have a ledge that permits precariously perched sunbathing (as long as the do gooder passers by don't interfere). I have the luxury of my personality on the walls and a cool wrought iron head board (which might have been more effective attached to the rest of the bed. A magical mirror that reflects a perfect coiffure whenever I glance by. Close your eyes, and the soothing gurgle of the freezer paints the lazy swish of a golden fantail disappearing behind a waterfall curtain. Abundant character.
An English habit. To see character in all that is flawed. The terrifying naiveté and belief that the 'perfect' man exists. My unicorn. This gets worse. My obsession with the weather. My need for a cup of tea to soothe frazzled nerves. The inevitable support for the underdog (although I now owe Taks £1.50 for having my man win - yes, he's a big spender). The idealism of fair play and justice. My need to fix Bombay. I nod yes definitively, and shake no assertively. I say trousers, knickers, bugger and wanker with abandon. I love Indian food...... Oh God. I think I'm English. Bollocks!!
Unicorns Anonymous
It is horribly unsettling to discover at 38, that actually, you do have a 'type'. Implausible, totally galling, and not a little scary. Should I be grateful that I'm a late bloomer, having saved several years of frustrated resignation in not finding my type? or just feel excessively sheepish for all the times I've returned uncomprehendingly blank stares at that question?
The truly galling bit of course is the fact that apparently what I seek is not a man, but a mythical being. My unicorn. A steaming, bubbling cauldron of all the best bits of the men I've known (and no, I'm not referring to just the rude bits!). Correction. The truly galling bit is to suffer the wisdom of knowing a broomstick, entrails, pixie dust and a rabid imagination (yes, I am a woman of vast resources) won't see me bareback on one....(I once watched {at an impressionable age} with an abiding fascination a Tamil film where a pawing, galloping stallion took over the screen every time the damsel bit her lip with increased proximity to the hero's generous body hair).. yet I still yearn.
There is much to be said about the sheer pleasure of a physically big man - few things compare to being enveloped by a man taller and broader than you, by arms that can wrap around you effortlessly. Granted, it's one of the very few ways that a woman with my size and disposition can empathise with the words delicate, feminine or fragile, and I rather enjoy the novelty, to say nothing of the sheer relief of not having to worry about misaligned bones or bruises if you play too rough!
Hi, my name is Apara. My Unicorn..... I can almost see him, feel his breath, the warmth of his body, the sound of his laughter, the weight of his large frame, the unconventional perspectives', the taste of his skin, the thoughtful little notes and gestures, the rough touch of his hands, the streak of evil, the tug of his teeth, his generosity of spirit. Passionate, well read, well travelled, articulate, funny, sensual, opinionated, inventive, principled (in his own way!), intense, playful, a bit of a rascally scumbag, big hearted, indulgent (of life and it's pleasures), open minded (but not so open that his brain might fall out), physical, unconventional (a little strange even), sometimes uncontrolled, strong, alpha male. Sexually dominant but willing to experiment.... err, where were we? Oh yes. My Unicorn.
Height. 6'1"-6'3". Colour. Don't care. Looks. Don't care (although I do have a thing for an aquiline nose). Religion. Don't care (better if he didn't either). Age. Don't care (really, as long as you don't remind me of my parents..... or godchildren). Children. Don't care. Wife. Don't care. Occupation. Don't care (but alpha males seldom cut hair). Financial status. Don't care, (money never hurts, but I really rather you didn't move in with me). What?! Marked down at Selfridges X'mas fantasy section??? You don't say :)
The truly galling bit of course is the fact that apparently what I seek is not a man, but a mythical being. My unicorn. A steaming, bubbling cauldron of all the best bits of the men I've known (and no, I'm not referring to just the rude bits!). Correction. The truly galling bit is to suffer the wisdom of knowing a broomstick, entrails, pixie dust and a rabid imagination (yes, I am a woman of vast resources) won't see me bareback on one....(I once watched {at an impressionable age} with an abiding fascination a Tamil film where a pawing, galloping stallion took over the screen every time the damsel bit her lip with increased proximity to the hero's generous body hair).. yet I still yearn.
There is much to be said about the sheer pleasure of a physically big man - few things compare to being enveloped by a man taller and broader than you, by arms that can wrap around you effortlessly. Granted, it's one of the very few ways that a woman with my size and disposition can empathise with the words delicate, feminine or fragile, and I rather enjoy the novelty, to say nothing of the sheer relief of not having to worry about misaligned bones or bruises if you play too rough!
Hi, my name is Apara. My Unicorn..... I can almost see him, feel his breath, the warmth of his body, the sound of his laughter, the weight of his large frame, the unconventional perspectives', the taste of his skin, the thoughtful little notes and gestures, the rough touch of his hands, the streak of evil, the tug of his teeth, his generosity of spirit. Passionate, well read, well travelled, articulate, funny, sensual, opinionated, inventive, principled (in his own way!), intense, playful, a bit of a rascally scumbag, big hearted, indulgent (of life and it's pleasures), open minded (but not so open that his brain might fall out), physical, unconventional (a little strange even), sometimes uncontrolled, strong, alpha male. Sexually dominant but willing to experiment.... err, where were we? Oh yes. My Unicorn.
Height. 6'1"-6'3". Colour. Don't care. Looks. Don't care (although I do have a thing for an aquiline nose). Religion. Don't care (better if he didn't either). Age. Don't care (really, as long as you don't remind me of my parents..... or godchildren). Children. Don't care. Wife. Don't care. Occupation. Don't care (but alpha males seldom cut hair). Financial status. Don't care, (money never hurts, but I really rather you didn't move in with me). What?! Marked down at Selfridges X'mas fantasy section??? You don't say :)
India abroad
India House. Home to the Indian High Commission in the United Kingdom, and some of the rudest Indians this side of the Suez.
After a sworn declaration never to darken it's doorways again after an aborted attempt to add pages to my passport this time last year (the prospect of trying to locate the correct unsigned window to hand in my passport in the midst of random queues and three quarters of a gazillion confused bodies heaving in an under ventilated room was too much for my delicate nerves, so I abandoned the exercise and hoped for divine intervention). God now has other things to do apparently, so there I was, at 8.30 am on a freezing Friday, armed with a suspicious looking photo, bryson's short history of everything, and a boss warned to call emergency services if I didn’t show up by 5 pm.
Two queues and a surprising absence of white skin greets me on arrival. Naturally, the one I have to join in order to obtain a token number (one always assumes there is a greater purpose to this exercise than mere statistical pleasure) is the longer. I console myself with the observation that the shorter queue stays immobile. It is 7 minutes before my keen powers of observation cut through the cold and I realise acquisition of a token number is a mere privilege for a place in the immobile queue. My vantage spot overlooks a hauntingly empty hall, with the exception of this girl working on a ‘Ladies’ sign with unwarranted dedication. 20 minutes of dard e disco type music in an effort to take your mind off the inhospitable conditions, and watching apparent employees stroll in casually as the first queue dwindles lead you to scan through your vocabulary of swear words in multiple languages. I have 17 stylish combinations ready, when there is a rumour of movement near the door.
I revel in the feeling of a marauding victor as I walk through the metal detector. Not only have all the foreigners disappeared, so has one of the windows. Unbelievably, the ones left are clearly numbered, with two obvious monitors displaying passport, PIO and other miscellaneous services, which actually change with a poignant ding with each ascending token number. Another 3 minutes devoted to admiring this deeply un-bureaucratic occurrence of positive change, before I settle down to bill, and the reluctant arrival of staff behind the windows.
I understand there is a minimum level of offensiveness that is necessary to the smooth functioning of an efficient bureaucracy, and particularly, if the said bureaucracy is in the upper echelons of foreign service, I can appreciate the professional need to temper a normal level of offensiveness with a degree of insolence in a proper government servant. Well, the IFS’ recruitment policy is flawless. No stone left unturned in their search for the rudest employees. I do not claim to have an inkling about how one aspires to a position in the Indian High Commission in London, but if I were to guess, I’d say the 2nd class ladies compartment on the Virar local is where the cream of the crop is spawned. I can state with all honesty, that aside from the aforementioned location, this is the only other place I have come across women with hideously shrill, un-modulated voices, abrasive manners, nose rings, bad hair styles and the suggestion of body odour on the journey back. And we thought it was the lack of infrastructure that kept the tourists away….
Two and a half hours later, after a frustrating 99% download complete situation (yes, token # 240 is on the board, when the lady, in what should have been my window decides it is an opportune moment for her tea break!!), I’m grudgingly asked, “Jumbo?”. I do not retaliate with “Haathi teri maa!”, but politely say “yes please” and am rewarded with a white receipt (pink copy stays with them), with 10/12 3-4pm Jumbo scrawled on it. Veni, Vidi. Vici.
After a sworn declaration never to darken it's doorways again after an aborted attempt to add pages to my passport this time last year (the prospect of trying to locate the correct unsigned window to hand in my passport in the midst of random queues and three quarters of a gazillion confused bodies heaving in an under ventilated room was too much for my delicate nerves, so I abandoned the exercise and hoped for divine intervention). God now has other things to do apparently, so there I was, at 8.30 am on a freezing Friday, armed with a suspicious looking photo, bryson's short history of everything, and a boss warned to call emergency services if I didn’t show up by 5 pm.
Two queues and a surprising absence of white skin greets me on arrival. Naturally, the one I have to join in order to obtain a token number (one always assumes there is a greater purpose to this exercise than mere statistical pleasure) is the longer. I console myself with the observation that the shorter queue stays immobile. It is 7 minutes before my keen powers of observation cut through the cold and I realise acquisition of a token number is a mere privilege for a place in the immobile queue. My vantage spot overlooks a hauntingly empty hall, with the exception of this girl working on a ‘Ladies’ sign with unwarranted dedication. 20 minutes of dard e disco type music in an effort to take your mind off the inhospitable conditions, and watching apparent employees stroll in casually as the first queue dwindles lead you to scan through your vocabulary of swear words in multiple languages. I have 17 stylish combinations ready, when there is a rumour of movement near the door.
I revel in the feeling of a marauding victor as I walk through the metal detector. Not only have all the foreigners disappeared, so has one of the windows. Unbelievably, the ones left are clearly numbered, with two obvious monitors displaying passport, PIO and other miscellaneous services, which actually change with a poignant ding with each ascending token number. Another 3 minutes devoted to admiring this deeply un-bureaucratic occurrence of positive change, before I settle down to bill, and the reluctant arrival of staff behind the windows.
I understand there is a minimum level of offensiveness that is necessary to the smooth functioning of an efficient bureaucracy, and particularly, if the said bureaucracy is in the upper echelons of foreign service, I can appreciate the professional need to temper a normal level of offensiveness with a degree of insolence in a proper government servant. Well, the IFS’ recruitment policy is flawless. No stone left unturned in their search for the rudest employees. I do not claim to have an inkling about how one aspires to a position in the Indian High Commission in London, but if I were to guess, I’d say the 2nd class ladies compartment on the Virar local is where the cream of the crop is spawned. I can state with all honesty, that aside from the aforementioned location, this is the only other place I have come across women with hideously shrill, un-modulated voices, abrasive manners, nose rings, bad hair styles and the suggestion of body odour on the journey back. And we thought it was the lack of infrastructure that kept the tourists away….
Two and a half hours later, after a frustrating 99% download complete situation (yes, token # 240 is on the board, when the lady, in what should have been my window decides it is an opportune moment for her tea break!!), I’m grudgingly asked, “Jumbo?”. I do not retaliate with “Haathi teri maa!”, but politely say “yes please” and am rewarded with a white receipt (pink copy stays with them), with 10/12 3-4pm Jumbo scrawled on it. Veni, Vidi. Vici.
And some of us get the winter we deserve!
Like those of us who wildly conjecture what kind of Divas the Pravasi Bhartiya Divas are, and objectively speculate whether we would qualify as one..... only to realise when read in Devnagiri, the Pravasi Bhartiya दिवस is on January 7, 2009.
"People get the government they deserve"
Or do they?
An email debate on what happened: time for a massive correction on the leadership front. So true.
Was it a failure at a strategic, operational or tactical level? Strategic failure would imply we actually have a strategic focus on an issue such as this. We don't. It's not the first time it's happened to us.... but unlike all the other times, it is the first time that our so called leadership has demonstrated a level of congenital stupidity and callousness that just leaves you wondering if you're in a badly directed sitcom. To say I'm inclined to be biased, is well, an understatement. South Bombay is where I grew up, my home. And even if no one had died, I would have wanted to see political carcases at a bare minimum for the trauma caused to my city.
Given our laughable political leadership, I would want to see Bombay governed independent of Maharashtra and even the Centre. Not a union territory, but a corporation, run by a CEO with a management board accountable to its shareholders, who's only mandate is to do what is best for that city. Be it the creation of a single agency to handle emergency responses, deal with intelligence, issue building permits, plan mass transit systems, maintain law and order or clean up the sewage system. Not being systematically raped by a steady stream of politicians who have turned a state government into little more than a revolving door to unscrupulous wealth creation.
It makes me cringe, but we have stood by and watched the endemic corruption and politically motivated rhetoric invade every part of our life. Our police force has been employed in clearing the streets of hormonally challenged teenagers... unspeakable threat to national security that they are. We have tolerated thugs shutting the city down at will, causing untold damage to property and life without the fear of any reprisals. 'Managing' the authorities - tax, bmc, police.... has become a way of life. It's not the what you know, it's who you now.... We stood by and watched as Bombay turned into another Delhi. Honest, cornerstone restaurants turn into trendy, fusion eateries. Children below the age of 6, acutely aware of status.....
Spectators, watching the decline of a metropolis, her government, her infrastructure, her uniqueness.
Maybe we have gotten the government we deserve.
An email debate on what happened: time for a massive correction on the leadership front. So true.
Was it a failure at a strategic, operational or tactical level? Strategic failure would imply we actually have a strategic focus on an issue such as this. We don't. It's not the first time it's happened to us.... but unlike all the other times, it is the first time that our so called leadership has demonstrated a level of congenital stupidity and callousness that just leaves you wondering if you're in a badly directed sitcom. To say I'm inclined to be biased, is well, an understatement. South Bombay is where I grew up, my home. And even if no one had died, I would have wanted to see political carcases at a bare minimum for the trauma caused to my city.
Given our laughable political leadership, I would want to see Bombay governed independent of Maharashtra and even the Centre. Not a union territory, but a corporation, run by a CEO with a management board accountable to its shareholders, who's only mandate is to do what is best for that city. Be it the creation of a single agency to handle emergency responses, deal with intelligence, issue building permits, plan mass transit systems, maintain law and order or clean up the sewage system. Not being systematically raped by a steady stream of politicians who have turned a state government into little more than a revolving door to unscrupulous wealth creation.
It makes me cringe, but we have stood by and watched the endemic corruption and politically motivated rhetoric invade every part of our life. Our police force has been employed in clearing the streets of hormonally challenged teenagers... unspeakable threat to national security that they are. We have tolerated thugs shutting the city down at will, causing untold damage to property and life without the fear of any reprisals. 'Managing' the authorities - tax, bmc, police.... has become a way of life. It's not the what you know, it's who you now.... We stood by and watched as Bombay turned into another Delhi. Honest, cornerstone restaurants turn into trendy, fusion eateries. Children below the age of 6, acutely aware of status.....
Spectators, watching the decline of a metropolis, her government, her infrastructure, her uniqueness.
Maybe we have gotten the government we deserve.
The penny dropped
it's spinning ricochet as it hit the ground, the culmination of the last few months of slowly watching it fall. Why am I here? Unhappily, not an existential paradigm, but rather a more mundane, what the fuck am I doing in this city? I did wonder if it was time to go back. Now I know it is. Not in a Superman/ Krypton sense, although there is a certain festering desire to do superhero stuff and save Bombay from those who run it (albeit in a faaar cooler costume), but more in a sense of living in a city I love. Which makes me wonder, New York 1986, "It's just like Bombay, only colder and BIGGER". 22 years and 63 cities later, could I do this in New York? At least they'd have proper showers there.
The only thing that's a given now, is that procrastination shall ensue with immediate effect. What will I go back and do? While this city's not one I call home, there is much to be said about the work, life balance that it affords you. If the rat race is not where I'm going, then what precisely, is it that I will be considering as a response in that picturesque section of all immigration forms entitled 'occupation'? If this were Blogs Anonymous, I suppose this would be the first step towards recovery. It's out there, and the sheer embarrassment of having to fend of 'but you said...' moments seems to motivate most of what we do with our lives. Don't think I've vacuumed in a couple of weeks. Hell, if I'm going home, I might as well get a maid....
The thought of the potential packing paralyses me and I start to think. If we all know life is a cliché, why does it still surprise us when someone points it out to us? It is because in truth, we're all mired in a bourgeois desire not to be a cliché? I think I like being a cliché. It has a certain cachet. But then again, I do have a marked preference for my dulcet accent over any other....
The only thing that's a given now, is that procrastination shall ensue with immediate effect. What will I go back and do? While this city's not one I call home, there is much to be said about the work, life balance that it affords you. If the rat race is not where I'm going, then what precisely, is it that I will be considering as a response in that picturesque section of all immigration forms entitled 'occupation'? If this were Blogs Anonymous, I suppose this would be the first step towards recovery. It's out there, and the sheer embarrassment of having to fend of 'but you said...' moments seems to motivate most of what we do with our lives. Don't think I've vacuumed in a couple of weeks. Hell, if I'm going home, I might as well get a maid....
The thought of the potential packing paralyses me and I start to think. If we all know life is a cliché, why does it still surprise us when someone points it out to us? It is because in truth, we're all mired in a bourgeois desire not to be a cliché? I think I like being a cliché. It has a certain cachet. But then again, I do have a marked preference for my dulcet accent over any other....
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