I don’t know how many cities in this country would allow you that luxury, or callousness, if you will. To be at a party till at least 1 and then figure out that you had been sitting and talking without enough food to take you through the night. To be confident enough that no matter where you are, some decent joint would be open to welcome and feed you.
Tonight, it was Papillon, in Juhu, which did the honors. And it wasn't just us, a bunch of young kids (though "young" is doubtful to describe us, but "kid" probably still holds true) who were contributing to Papillon's post-midnight revenues, but entire families who seemed to have deliberately missed out on their suppers.
Pav Bhaji at 1:15 can actually be an exhilarating experience. The few occasions when you somehow end up appreciating Mumbai for what it is. For not sleeping. For being happily, blissfully awake (albeit in that dreamy, zonked out way). For being powerful enough to disturb the circadian rhythms of all its inhabitants who then gloat in their ability to live without the essentials. To make super humans out of humans. Where insomnia becomes a strength of character, and not something that you go to the neurologist for (although you probably end up going there eventually, but by then it’s too late…)
It’s perhaps these abnormal things that we remember more than our dinner at 9, isn’t it?
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Familiar strangers…
They just sit there. Perhaps that is their purpose. And the moving waters keep lashing against them. Arriving. Departing. Sometimes in haste, sometimes in leisure. Like a bird casually alighting on a branch, and then flying away towards another. Or an eager lover who comes running in anticipation knowing that there’s heart-break right at the edge. Or a far-off acquaintance met at a gathering, says a word or two, and then mingles into the crowd, just like those absent-minded waves…
And they wait there. For the passers-by to come and watch the play. They are the ones who give the sea its sound. For without them, the sea would be silent. Without them, the water won’t break into a million pieces, and there won’t be anything at which the onlookers will look and contemplate, and seek solace…
They are the threshold. The waters can’t cross them. The levee. It’s an odd role to play perhaps. Being the horizon. Being the edge. The border. To see both sides of the story so closely. Everyday. Protecting one from the other. And getting blamed in the process…
Wonder what would those stones and rocks think at times. That they don’t belong anywhere. Everyday strangers to the ocean. Everyday strangers to the busy streets. And as they wave at the waves, they would never know whether they are welcoming the ones that are on their way, or wishing a safe trip to the ones that just went back home…
And they wait there. For the passers-by to come and watch the play. They are the ones who give the sea its sound. For without them, the sea would be silent. Without them, the water won’t break into a million pieces, and there won’t be anything at which the onlookers will look and contemplate, and seek solace…
They are the threshold. The waters can’t cross them. The levee. It’s an odd role to play perhaps. Being the horizon. Being the edge. The border. To see both sides of the story so closely. Everyday. Protecting one from the other. And getting blamed in the process…
Wonder what would those stones and rocks think at times. That they don’t belong anywhere. Everyday strangers to the ocean. Everyday strangers to the busy streets. And as they wave at the waves, they would never know whether they are welcoming the ones that are on their way, or wishing a safe trip to the ones that just went back home…
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Welcome to the machine…
It’s almost spooky when I think of it.
The out-of-control car that claimed 7 lives (5 plus 1 pregnant woman) in Bandra. The partying group had come out of Taj Land’s End at 2:45 AM. I was at the same place at 11 PM, helping a friend buy passes for the rave party about to start there. The meandering car lost control after taking a U-turn next to CCD. I was sitting with friends in front of the same CCD till 12…
It’s odd how often we ignore that it could be one of us. On either side of the wheel. The driver, or the driven.
And perhaps what is more disconcerting is the fact that while sitting by the sea that night one of the things we talked about was actually the extremities which define pleasure for most of Mumbai. So unless it’s an exclusive party where you get drunk till 3 (and then drive around with zero control), it’s not considered cool enough. Though admittedly, this farcical coolness is worse in the northern parts of this country, but Mumbai ain’t far behind in screwing up its standards.
Yes, it’s perhaps a one-off case. At least that’s what we hope. Perhaps a lot of us get away because we get plain lucky. We don’t kill anyone, or we are not killed. Usually.
But once in a while, one of those millions on the streets of Mumbai, could become victims of another crime they didn’t commit – being homeless.
And on the news channels, the police could be seen requesting people to not sleep on the streets. As if they had a choice.
The police could also be seen requesting people to not drink too much and drive responsibly. As if they will exercise this choice…
The out-of-control car that claimed 7 lives (5 plus 1 pregnant woman) in Bandra. The partying group had come out of Taj Land’s End at 2:45 AM. I was at the same place at 11 PM, helping a friend buy passes for the rave party about to start there. The meandering car lost control after taking a U-turn next to CCD. I was sitting with friends in front of the same CCD till 12…
It’s odd how often we ignore that it could be one of us. On either side of the wheel. The driver, or the driven.
And perhaps what is more disconcerting is the fact that while sitting by the sea that night one of the things we talked about was actually the extremities which define pleasure for most of Mumbai. So unless it’s an exclusive party where you get drunk till 3 (and then drive around with zero control), it’s not considered cool enough. Though admittedly, this farcical coolness is worse in the northern parts of this country, but Mumbai ain’t far behind in screwing up its standards.
Yes, it’s perhaps a one-off case. At least that’s what we hope. Perhaps a lot of us get away because we get plain lucky. We don’t kill anyone, or we are not killed. Usually.
But once in a while, one of those millions on the streets of Mumbai, could become victims of another crime they didn’t commit – being homeless.
And on the news channels, the police could be seen requesting people to not sleep on the streets. As if they had a choice.
The police could also be seen requesting people to not drink too much and drive responsibly. As if they will exercise this choice…
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Returns of the day...
So here's another one of those nights that has crept up to me, telling me that I am one step closer... The Sun is the same, (as Floyd said) in a relative way, but I ain't the same....
What should such a day be like? A day to introspect? retrospect? inspect? or just suspect?
What is more worth remembering on a night like this? The pocket full of marbles that I used to run with, or those games of summer, or those high-school Maths problems, or the races I ran, or the races I just watched?
How do you choose from amongst those memories? You can't favor one over the other. Even memories have egos. You can't ignore any one of them. What if one of them is hurt and refuses to come back forever? Can I handle that?
The whole process is a lot like looking in the rear-view mirror. Especially those ones which say "Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear". I guess the same holds true for each one of those images in our mind. Much closer than they appear. And catching up fast. Sometimes rushing past to get ahead of you, till you become another object in the mirror of your memories...
And as I sit here I am trying to count something. Though I don't know what. I just found that it's so very difficult to measure a life only in terms of years... in terms of greeting cards, in terms of bouquets, in terms of phone calls... Perhaps it's also in terms of the times your hands didn't hurt someone, the lies you never told and the tears which don't have your name written on them... Basically things that we generally don't care a damn about. Meaningless episodes in our otherwise meaningful lives.
But is that bringing me back to the most basic question, the one people spend their entire lives without getting a hold on?
Many happy returns.
Of what?
What should such a day be like? A day to introspect? retrospect? inspect? or just suspect?
What is more worth remembering on a night like this? The pocket full of marbles that I used to run with, or those games of summer, or those high-school Maths problems, or the races I ran, or the races I just watched?
How do you choose from amongst those memories? You can't favor one over the other. Even memories have egos. You can't ignore any one of them. What if one of them is hurt and refuses to come back forever? Can I handle that?
The whole process is a lot like looking in the rear-view mirror. Especially those ones which say "Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear". I guess the same holds true for each one of those images in our mind. Much closer than they appear. And catching up fast. Sometimes rushing past to get ahead of you, till you become another object in the mirror of your memories...
And as I sit here I am trying to count something. Though I don't know what. I just found that it's so very difficult to measure a life only in terms of years... in terms of greeting cards, in terms of bouquets, in terms of phone calls... Perhaps it's also in terms of the times your hands didn't hurt someone, the lies you never told and the tears which don't have your name written on them... Basically things that we generally don't care a damn about. Meaningless episodes in our otherwise meaningful lives.
But is that bringing me back to the most basic question, the one people spend their entire lives without getting a hold on?
Many happy returns.
Of what?
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Umrao...?
As per statistics, my usual rate of watching Hindi movies is two per year. Since this year is coming to a close, I thought I should complete my quota and maintain a healthy track record.
And so today it was decided that the latest flick "Umrao Jaan" shall be the chosen one. After all, there was a lure of the Lucknow setting, perhaps the thought of classic dialogues, or something else...
And though there are umpteen number of reviews of the movie floating around on the net, I still decided to punch the keyboard for one more... Afterall, it's rarely that such a movie arrives which makes you feel that you have lost something valuable.
The valuable thing in this case was 220 Indian Rupees. 160 for the ticket, 30 for the auto, and 30 for what was claimed to be a Russian salad sandwich (just as an aside, whatever little plans I had to ever visit Russia were thwarted by this concoction).
The thing is, it's not very often that I walk out of a moviehall as soon as the screen claims "Intermission". This time, I ran out of the hall and paused only when I was sure that I was a safe distance away.
So what exactly happened during those crawling minutes before the break that caused this? One word - artificial. Too much of Urdu thrust into the movie as if compensating for the otherwise nonsensical dialogues generally strewn about. I come from a place which was frequented by some of the best Urdu writers of all times (Mirza Ghalib, for instance, was born there). And if I had a tough time figuring out half the words spoken, then I can't imagine the plight of those hapless Mumbaikars around me who anyway have their own distorted version of Hindi itself.
And the next thing artificial was the theme itself. An overdrawn love story, which looked too polished, too cloy, too Mills & Boonish almost.
But the clincher was that one 10 minute scene where our dim-wit son of BigB turns up drunk at the doorstep of Miss Saccharine. That was the end of patience. That's when I walked away...
...Mourning my loss of a couple of hours on a lovely Saturday afternoon... and yes, the 220 Rs. as well...
And so today it was decided that the latest flick "Umrao Jaan" shall be the chosen one. After all, there was a lure of the Lucknow setting, perhaps the thought of classic dialogues, or something else...
And though there are umpteen number of reviews of the movie floating around on the net, I still decided to punch the keyboard for one more... Afterall, it's rarely that such a movie arrives which makes you feel that you have lost something valuable.
The valuable thing in this case was 220 Indian Rupees. 160 for the ticket, 30 for the auto, and 30 for what was claimed to be a Russian salad sandwich (just as an aside, whatever little plans I had to ever visit Russia were thwarted by this concoction).
The thing is, it's not very often that I walk out of a moviehall as soon as the screen claims "Intermission". This time, I ran out of the hall and paused only when I was sure that I was a safe distance away.
So what exactly happened during those crawling minutes before the break that caused this? One word - artificial. Too much of Urdu thrust into the movie as if compensating for the otherwise nonsensical dialogues generally strewn about. I come from a place which was frequented by some of the best Urdu writers of all times (Mirza Ghalib, for instance, was born there). And if I had a tough time figuring out half the words spoken, then I can't imagine the plight of those hapless Mumbaikars around me who anyway have their own distorted version of Hindi itself.
And the next thing artificial was the theme itself. An overdrawn love story, which looked too polished, too cloy, too Mills & Boonish almost.
But the clincher was that one 10 minute scene where our dim-wit son of BigB turns up drunk at the doorstep of Miss Saccharine. That was the end of patience. That's when I walked away...
...Mourning my loss of a couple of hours on a lovely Saturday afternoon... and yes, the 220 Rs. as well...
Friday, November 03, 2006
The pigeon and the statue...
They say sometimes you are the pigeon. They also say that as per the laws of karma, you must be the statue at times as well. Something like a bad hair day. Happens even to bald people, or so I believe. Except that this time, I almost knew when the fast winds would start shuffling my otherwise "Setted-Wetted" hair.
Though frankly, for the past few days, my health has anyway made a comfortable, middle-of-the-road statue out of me, with the "common cold" (I wish it were somewhat less common than what it is...) and random fevers leaving me dazed through my work.
And then to top it all, as if the week was vying to end on a particularly irksome note, I suffered a small setback at work. Here the word "small" has been used taking full advantage of relativity and related concepts.
You win some, you lose some. Only sometimes, you lose some more. That's precisely what all pigeons and statues feel about their relationship. Every dog has it's day. And today as I looked up, standing in the middle of the road, "statuesque" and all, with things falling straight into my eyes, I realized that birds aren't too far behind in claiming their days...
Though frankly, for the past few days, my health has anyway made a comfortable, middle-of-the-road statue out of me, with the "common cold" (I wish it were somewhat less common than what it is...) and random fevers leaving me dazed through my work.
And then to top it all, as if the week was vying to end on a particularly irksome note, I suffered a small setback at work. Here the word "small" has been used taking full advantage of relativity and related concepts.
You win some, you lose some. Only sometimes, you lose some more. That's precisely what all pigeons and statues feel about their relationship. Every dog has it's day. And today as I looked up, standing in the middle of the road, "statuesque" and all, with things falling straight into my eyes, I realized that birds aren't too far behind in claiming their days...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)