'You're not a Bombayite anymore. You left it a while back now,' laughed by Bambaiya friend, breaking my heart into a million pieces, because if there's one city I feel like belonging, it's Bombay.
'Well, I'm not a Delhiite either,' I growled back.
I'm a perfect case of neither here nor there. I've always been. Right from the time I was a kid. My dad got transferred all over and we got to live at various places in UP, West Bengal, Maharashtra and Goa. As a kid, whenever someone asked me where I was from, I'd love to say nowhere. I loved my rootlessness. Loved seeing new places and people.
Untill I landed in Bombay, instantly loved everything about it and wanted to stay there forever.
I loved the rush to catch the 8.29 local from Bandra. I loved the shoe-bargaining on Linking Road. I loved movies at Regal and Sterling. I loved walking along Marine Drive just like that. I loved the small fishy eateries. I loved the Bhel. I loved the smell of the sea. I loved the people.
That's the strange thing. Now, after four years of living in Delhi, I have a house of my own here. Ok, it's actually in Haryana but going by current logic, it is all the same. It's a nice house with two wonderful balconies, a place I love and call home. Sadly, I can't call the city that.
For reasons I can't ever put a finger to, Delhi has always left me cold. First, it's the people. Perhaps I interacted with only one set of people in Bombay, perhaps I wasn't observant enough earlier, but most people I've met in Delhi come across as interfering and judgemental. (I know this is illogical. Bombay must be crawling with such people too but I'm unashamedly biased)
Yes, I know Delhi has a lot of nice things to offer like theatre, space, greenery, PVRs, Cafe Turtle, Dilli Haat, a handful of very genuinely nice people (who are going to hate me at this instant) and certain stretches of wide, un-potholed roads but I don't get to travel on them so they're out.
And I don't have patience with this city when its out of order. And to love anything (place or person), patience is a must. I don't quite go gaga over Tandoori Chicken and chaat, gimme chutney sandwich anyday. And I do find it strange that most Delhiites aren't even bothered enough to check out any form of public transport (even if it is the gleaming metro) and consider people from Bombay a strange lot because they actually leave their cars back home and travel by local trains!
As P says, it's all in my mind. The bads and goods exist everywhere. I've tried to change things (Now look mind, a nice huge park. Would you get this in Bombay?) but I'm clearly not good at convincing my mind. When I comes to a place I love, it's Mumbai first. Anything else comes not even a close second, whether I have a home there or not.
So here I am, living in a city I don't quite like, in a house of my own I love a lot and don't quite want to leave. And still not ready to be called a Delhiite. Don't think I'll ever be.
Monday, August 30, 2004
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Bliss!
Went to Ladakh on a week long vacation. Magical. Not just the place but also the experience. I've never felt to completely cut off from the world and happy to be so in any holiday ever...
There's so much to write about the place and so many images you wish to forever retain at the back of your mind, that I don't even know where to start.
Just couldn't believe the barrenness of the land — the miles stretching in front of my eyes, interrupted only by rocks or a patch of green or a lonely little white house with red wood-worked windows.
And the sound of silence, when you switched the jeep's engine off and just sat on the bend of a road, without talking, watching a gorge that fell where you dared not look.
Where else but in Ladakh would you drive through a rocky, deserted landscape that seems to have been torn off from some other planet and landed there. On our way to Hemis Monastery, we passed one such. A stark, boulder-laden expanse that seemed tailor-made for Clint Eastwood and his horse and of course Gabbar Singh. :)
The drive to Hemis is a wonderful one. You pass bends, loops and turns and suddenly discover that there’s a huge monastery hidden from view, tucked away in the mountains somewhere. This is where a festival is held every year and as a chatty young monk we met told us, the surrounding hills serve as seating area!
The chatty monk studied in North Campus (Delhi University) the same year as P. He looked happy, living here in hardened austerity, far away from all that he had probably grown up with, happy to point out details missed by tourists like us. I'm happy we met him.
The warmth of the local people was touching, especially at the monasteries and at the Stok palace, which incidentally is next to a Prasar Bharti transmitter!
Stok Palace has a small museum set up by the king. The caretaker was so thrilled he could communicate with people who understood his broken Hindi and English (foreigner kya bur bur karta samajh nahi aata) that he took an old rusty key and opened countless drawers to show us eye popping lapis lazuli and other such precious stones.
There was more eye popping to come when we landed up in Pangong Lake on the fourth day. What made the journey special was a fresh snowfall the night before, that turned Chang La, the 17000-something ft pass you have to cross to get to Pangong, into a magical, white blanket. The other heartstopping site was Durbuk, which was a pastureland taken out of a picture book — wild horses grazing along a mountain stream, green patches...you get the picture.
Pangong was breathtaking. Not just because the oxygen level is bottom rate there. The water played with the sun and shade and chaged from sky blue to aqua to turqoise green...I could live there for years looking at it. (Well at least I think I could)
Pangong Lake or Tso is like those 'sceneries' you paint as a kid: Blue sky, white floaty clouds, blue lake, brown mountains. The perfect world. With prayer flags fluttering in a corner adding extra colour. We drove up another five kilometres along the lake, oohing and aahing all the way; came back and found that we had got lucky. We were the only tourists there at that hour and the wonderful army chaps had agreed to take us on a boatride thanks to A's Tamil roots.
The drive the day after to the world's highest motorable road Khardung La at 18000-something feet was easier than the Pangong one had been. We took the mandatory show-off pictures at Khardung La, standing next to a board that proclaims 'World's Highest Motorable Road' and started the journey towards Nubra, which is the green bowl of Ladakh.
That night at the camp was a special one, thanks to Alberto and his happily high friends, who sang beautifully in languages we didn't understand. The next morning, as we sat huddled having our early morning coffee, A and I discovered Alberto looked even better than he sang. And guess what he turned out to be? A gondolier from Venice! If this was Ally Mcbeal, our tongues would've been dancing on the floor :)
We stayed at Sumur in the Nubra Valley and walked up to the gompa. A silent one, with plush rooms reserved for the Dalai Lama's special visit, said (yet another) young monk who showed us around. He turned out to be a Ladakhi born and brought up in Canada. A professor of philosophy, he joined the monastery to teach and give back something to his village, Tigger, which was nearby. Whoever said, a journey is all about the encounter was so right.
There were some interesting encounters en route to Nubra. The road to Khardung La was for some reason biker-infested! We met everyone from backpacking Israelis on Enfields to a Bengali couple.
"We are doing this the second time in two years," the Bengali couple, he a bank employee and she a government school teacher in Calcutta, told us. Somewhere in my mind, they broke a barrier, about people who travel, not because they can afford to but because they need their adventure.
There's so much to write about the place and so many images you wish to forever retain at the back of your mind, that I don't even know where to start.
Just couldn't believe the barrenness of the land — the miles stretching in front of my eyes, interrupted only by rocks or a patch of green or a lonely little white house with red wood-worked windows.
And the sound of silence, when you switched the jeep's engine off and just sat on the bend of a road, without talking, watching a gorge that fell where you dared not look.
Where else but in Ladakh would you drive through a rocky, deserted landscape that seems to have been torn off from some other planet and landed there. On our way to Hemis Monastery, we passed one such. A stark, boulder-laden expanse that seemed tailor-made for Clint Eastwood and his horse and of course Gabbar Singh. :)
The drive to Hemis is a wonderful one. You pass bends, loops and turns and suddenly discover that there’s a huge monastery hidden from view, tucked away in the mountains somewhere. This is where a festival is held every year and as a chatty young monk we met told us, the surrounding hills serve as seating area!
The chatty monk studied in North Campus (Delhi University) the same year as P. He looked happy, living here in hardened austerity, far away from all that he had probably grown up with, happy to point out details missed by tourists like us. I'm happy we met him.
The warmth of the local people was touching, especially at the monasteries and at the Stok palace, which incidentally is next to a Prasar Bharti transmitter!
Stok Palace has a small museum set up by the king. The caretaker was so thrilled he could communicate with people who understood his broken Hindi and English (foreigner kya bur bur karta samajh nahi aata) that he took an old rusty key and opened countless drawers to show us eye popping lapis lazuli and other such precious stones.
There was more eye popping to come when we landed up in Pangong Lake on the fourth day. What made the journey special was a fresh snowfall the night before, that turned Chang La, the 17000-something ft pass you have to cross to get to Pangong, into a magical, white blanket. The other heartstopping site was Durbuk, which was a pastureland taken out of a picture book — wild horses grazing along a mountain stream, green patches...you get the picture.
Pangong was breathtaking. Not just because the oxygen level is bottom rate there. The water played with the sun and shade and chaged from sky blue to aqua to turqoise green...I could live there for years looking at it. (Well at least I think I could)
Pangong Lake or Tso is like those 'sceneries' you paint as a kid: Blue sky, white floaty clouds, blue lake, brown mountains. The perfect world. With prayer flags fluttering in a corner adding extra colour. We drove up another five kilometres along the lake, oohing and aahing all the way; came back and found that we had got lucky. We were the only tourists there at that hour and the wonderful army chaps had agreed to take us on a boatride thanks to A's Tamil roots.
The drive the day after to the world's highest motorable road Khardung La at 18000-something feet was easier than the Pangong one had been. We took the mandatory show-off pictures at Khardung La, standing next to a board that proclaims 'World's Highest Motorable Road' and started the journey towards Nubra, which is the green bowl of Ladakh.
That night at the camp was a special one, thanks to Alberto and his happily high friends, who sang beautifully in languages we didn't understand. The next morning, as we sat huddled having our early morning coffee, A and I discovered Alberto looked even better than he sang. And guess what he turned out to be? A gondolier from Venice! If this was Ally Mcbeal, our tongues would've been dancing on the floor :)
We stayed at Sumur in the Nubra Valley and walked up to the gompa. A silent one, with plush rooms reserved for the Dalai Lama's special visit, said (yet another) young monk who showed us around. He turned out to be a Ladakhi born and brought up in Canada. A professor of philosophy, he joined the monastery to teach and give back something to his village, Tigger, which was nearby. Whoever said, a journey is all about the encounter was so right.
There were some interesting encounters en route to Nubra. The road to Khardung La was for some reason biker-infested! We met everyone from backpacking Israelis on Enfields to a Bengali couple.
"We are doing this the second time in two years," the Bengali couple, he a bank employee and she a government school teacher in Calcutta, told us. Somewhere in my mind, they broke a barrier, about people who travel, not because they can afford to but because they need their adventure.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
stray thoughts...
Watched Agnipath on TV yesterday. Not by choice, was cleaning cupboard so couldn't wrestle the man for remote. As far as I'm concerned Agnipath and the films came aroud it, was the Big B's worst phase.
Just when I was pondering over this, Archana Puran Singh in black goggles, black cap, black tights and horrible makeup started doing her item number. Both man and I sighed. Boy am I glad we are in the 21st century. At least now we have Yana Gupta and Lara Dutta. And of course, the Dekh Le girl from Munnabhai.
Everything in Agnipath (including AB and unmentionable Mithun) was garish and over-the-top, the highlight of the early 90s. I couldn't help but remember baggy tops, stonewash jeans, kalidar kurtas, dhoti salwars, plastic hoops...
Shudder shudder
Just when I was pondering over this, Archana Puran Singh in black goggles, black cap, black tights and horrible makeup started doing her item number. Both man and I sighed. Boy am I glad we are in the 21st century. At least now we have Yana Gupta and Lara Dutta. And of course, the Dekh Le girl from Munnabhai.
Everything in Agnipath (including AB and unmentionable Mithun) was garish and over-the-top, the highlight of the early 90s. I couldn't help but remember baggy tops, stonewash jeans, kalidar kurtas, dhoti salwars, plastic hoops...
Shudder shudder
Thursday, August 05, 2004
My brother called this morning for something and we had the usual, hurried conversation. I was rushing to work and he was already at work, with a presentation to make. After the two minute call, I thought that I’d like to see more of him, chat with him over a long lunch, meet him more often. But that rarely happens.
My brother’s living the fast-pace-no-worries life I led some years ago, when I’d started working. His office is almost his entire life. He works long hours and doesn’t seem to mind hanging around the office waiting for the other guys to finish before they go out for a drink. He wonders what to do on those rare days when he finishes work early, which means at about eight. He has a decent place to stay with basics like TV, DVD player and air conditioner (his basics, not mine) but finds himself with nothing to do when he returns early and all his three flatmates are at work.
He loves visiting us but rarely does because he “hardly ever has the time.” When he has the time, he likes hanging out with his friends, catching a movie with them, going on a drive or a trek or hanging out in a pub.
So many plans...Exactly like mine some years ago, when I lived in Bombay and would always be too busy at work or too caught up with friends to visit a very dear family friend who lived in Chembur. Her house was like a second home to me and the doors always open. But once I started living on my own, I rarely visited. Luckily for me, she understood. ‘Never mind. You won’t live this time in your life again’ she’d say, when I’d call and cancel lunch plans, groggy after coming back home at doodhwala hour on Sunday mornings.
Now when bro cancels off Saturdays and Sundays and doesn’t give us a ‘darshan’ for days, I no longer get hyper in mother type manner, as I used to when he first started living in the same city.
What goes around, comes around :)
My brother’s living the fast-pace-no-worries life I led some years ago, when I’d started working. His office is almost his entire life. He works long hours and doesn’t seem to mind hanging around the office waiting for the other guys to finish before they go out for a drink. He wonders what to do on those rare days when he finishes work early, which means at about eight. He has a decent place to stay with basics like TV, DVD player and air conditioner (his basics, not mine) but finds himself with nothing to do when he returns early and all his three flatmates are at work.
He loves visiting us but rarely does because he “hardly ever has the time.” When he has the time, he likes hanging out with his friends, catching a movie with them, going on a drive or a trek or hanging out in a pub.
So many plans...Exactly like mine some years ago, when I lived in Bombay and would always be too busy at work or too caught up with friends to visit a very dear family friend who lived in Chembur. Her house was like a second home to me and the doors always open. But once I started living on my own, I rarely visited. Luckily for me, she understood. ‘Never mind. You won’t live this time in your life again’ she’d say, when I’d call and cancel lunch plans, groggy after coming back home at doodhwala hour on Sunday mornings.
Now when bro cancels off Saturdays and Sundays and doesn’t give us a ‘darshan’ for days, I no longer get hyper in mother type manner, as I used to when he first started living in the same city.
What goes around, comes around :)
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Wondering...
Why isn't Bill Bryson travelling anywhere and giving us a book?
Why isn't JK Rowling writing any faster?
Isn't it funny when an eye doctor is called Sunaina...
Why does the driver bunk when the skies finally open up?
Why is 15th August on a Sunday?
What it takes to write a book?
Why don't I work for Lonely Planet?
Whether I should buy chicken or prawn today?
Why are people from the department-next-door shouting so much?
Why are teenagers the way they are...
Why don't I clean my desk when I am obviously aimless and jobless?
Why am I writing this when I SHOULD BE CLEANING MY DESK!
Why isn't JK Rowling writing any faster?
Isn't it funny when an eye doctor is called Sunaina...
Why does the driver bunk when the skies finally open up?
Why is 15th August on a Sunday?
What it takes to write a book?
Why don't I work for Lonely Planet?
Whether I should buy chicken or prawn today?
Why are people from the department-next-door shouting so much?
Why are teenagers the way they are...
Why don't I clean my desk when I am obviously aimless and jobless?
Why am I writing this when I SHOULD BE CLEANING MY DESK!
Monday, August 02, 2004
Toy Boy
The 16 year old boy-next-door has been gifted a mobile by his parents and came to show it off yesterday. It’s the new Nokia 2300, he said, flashing it under my nose. “Pretty good. No camera but mom said you can’t have everything at once.”
I silently thanked mom who definitely doesn’t want her teenager spending all his time clicking mini skirts. But the boy has plans. "I’ll sell this after six months and upgrade to a camera phone."
“What’ll you do with one?’’ I ask, only to get a sceptical look.
Camera phone or not, the boy is excited. His phone maybe a simple one by current mobile standards that have everything from computers, MP3 players to wardrobes but it’s his very own. And at 16, the thrill lies in possessing something that belongs to you and only you!!
I thought of the good ole’ days when my brother was gifted his first two-in-one. It was one of those ultra simple things you could carry from one room to the other, plug in and listen to your Guns and Roses tape while you shut the door on mom. Bro would show it off as he probably will when he acquires his first ultra cool home theatre system with sound by Nakamichi or similar (His ultimate ambition, trust me).
Blinded by nostalgia, I asked the boy what features the phone had: “FM Radio, number screening, in call timer, call and sms speed dialling, polyphonic ringtones, games…” he sounded like a product list from a hi-tech shopping mart. And there was more to come.
“The bad thing is…” the boy was saying, “the phone has only two colours, the other was too girlie so I was left with black and grey. At least it's not pink and blue!”
Boys will be boys. No matter how over-the-top, hi-tech, modest or simple the toy is!
I silently thanked mom who definitely doesn’t want her teenager spending all his time clicking mini skirts. But the boy has plans. "I’ll sell this after six months and upgrade to a camera phone."
“What’ll you do with one?’’ I ask, only to get a sceptical look.
Camera phone or not, the boy is excited. His phone maybe a simple one by current mobile standards that have everything from computers, MP3 players to wardrobes but it’s his very own. And at 16, the thrill lies in possessing something that belongs to you and only you!!
I thought of the good ole’ days when my brother was gifted his first two-in-one. It was one of those ultra simple things you could carry from one room to the other, plug in and listen to your Guns and Roses tape while you shut the door on mom. Bro would show it off as he probably will when he acquires his first ultra cool home theatre system with sound by Nakamichi or similar (His ultimate ambition, trust me).
Blinded by nostalgia, I asked the boy what features the phone had: “FM Radio, number screening, in call timer, call and sms speed dialling, polyphonic ringtones, games…” he sounded like a product list from a hi-tech shopping mart. And there was more to come.
“The bad thing is…” the boy was saying, “the phone has only two colours, the other was too girlie so I was left with black and grey. At least it's not pink and blue!”
Boys will be boys. No matter how over-the-top, hi-tech, modest or simple the toy is!
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