The times they are a changin'

Not so many years ago, my favourite time of the week used to be Saturday night. Come evening and phone calls would fly back and forth between me and my friends to find the unanimous decision to that all-important question – where do we go today?
Come to think of it, we never asked each other what do we do today. Saturday meant ‘going out’ which meant a trip to the pub and possibly, if we were still standing by the end of it, dinner.
After calling each other frantically for at least three hours and trying to figure out a ‘new’ place to go to, we would invariably land up at Toto’s Garage Pub, our second home in Bandra. We would ask for pitchers of beer and spend the next 20 minutes arguing over ‘what to order.’ Absolutely useless exercise, as we always ordered masala peanuts, golden fried babycorn and mushroom (‘coz H loved mushrooms and P loved babycorn) and the chicken starter.
Sometime post midnight when Toto’s had kicked us out, we would bundle outside and start the ‘where to go’ argument all over again. Because this was Saturday night, because we were such ‘hard working, super busy’ people throughout the weekday and because we were young, poor and living on our own (or had manageable parents), we had to party, even if we were dropping dead. So what if some of us ‘Toto-ed’ on Tuesdays, Thursday and even on Mondays, sometimes?
Anyway, post Toto’s and post arguments, we would again invariably decide on the usual, Club IX on Pali Hill or Madness in Khar. We would dance hysterically (often not realising who we were dancing with -- each other, strange fat sardar or the mirror) and drop dead till we could take it no more or the health conscious people at these places threw us out, whichever was earlier.
Naturally, the evening didn’t end there.
A couple of boys in the gang would more often than not, pick up more bottles from the seedy all nighter Janta Beer Bar at Pali Naka for ‘later’. I never found out when ‘later’ was. We would then set forth in search of sustenance, this time in the form of food, trudge all the way to the bhurjiwala/dosawala at the airport or sometimes even go all the way to the bhurjiwala at Churchgate station.
At around five in the morning, we would get back home, give the building’s sanctimonious morning-walk uncle the glare/fumble with key in lock/wake up sleeping and rarely-there roomie/strip off uncomfortable bits of clothing/say unintelligible things to each other and CRASH.
These Super Saturdays existed only five years ago but for some reason seems ages back. In fact, they seem quite unreal. The participants are still the best of pals, at least the ones not married to each other, are. But now my favourite time of the week is so similar to my mom’s that it’s definitely scary.
I now love my Sunday afternoons. I finish cleaning the house, cook, have a marathon shower, a heavy lunch, curl up on the bed with loads of pillows, books and newspapers, read and doze off.
And bless me, I sound exactly like my mother.

Met two friends yesterday. Separately. One over lunch and one on the long drive back home. KP and Aar, the friends I met are studies in contrast. KP’s moving out of India soon and therefore the hurried lunch and attempted bonding session. She is smart, sexy and a total career girl. She and hubby live on their own. When I met her yesterday, KP was “fielding” a call from her ma-in-law. She finished it, rolled her eyes and informed me that “the woman” just won’t leave her alone.
“Now that we are moving, she wants to throw a dinner for us, with the entire family,” she whined.
Thinking that’s pretty much what my ma-in-law would’ve done too if I were to move out of the city and thinking I could have handled an evening of relatives, I made the mistake of saying, ‘pretty natural yaar, go ahead.’
Of course, you’ll think so, you good bahu, KP smirked.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be blogging about this but yesterday this comment, the good bahu bit, got my goat. Ever since I married P and moved to Delhi to live with his family, I haven’t heard the last of it from some people who thought bindaas me was sacrificing her independence. They were convinced I was going to turn into a ‘salwar kameezed, chai ka tray carrying’ person who would have to say goodbye to her jeans. When I broke the not so spicy news that the dreaded ‘in laws’ were a conservative lot but pretty much happy to let me do my own stuff and treated me exactly like they treated any other child of theirs, it wasn’t treated with much approval. This didn’t lend itself to juicy gossip. Poor girl, must’ve been brainwashed. Must be wanting to keep a happy front. Tch, tch…
KP and I met on and off all these years because before Anita decided to make Delhi her temporary (?) home and made me vvvvvvv happy, KP, and my mad friend B, were the only two old fiends I had here. KP always joked about my ‘good bahu act’ in quite a sarcastic way, especially after I couldn’t stay overnight at her place once because there was a family function to attend the next morning. She was a friend and fun to be with so I didn’t mind it much, until yesterday. Because I cannot see why KP has to brand anyone who doesn’t live life the way she does. KP has known her husband, R, since college. He comes from a middle class background. Her dad is a top-notch corporate boss. R’s first foreign visit was on their honeymoon. She has been travelling forever. Naturally, KP can’t ‘stand’ her very middle class ma-in-law. And ‘won’t be bullied’ by her sis-in-law. Forget keeping in touch with them, she gets quite pissed that despite staying apart and despite his busy schedule, R does call up and visit his mom and sis often. That he doesn’t ever expect, let alone ask her to, is totally lost on her. And when she complains about the little socialising she has to do with the ‘in-laws’, it doesn’t occur to her that she inflicts her parents on her husband often. Of course, her parents are ‘fun’ and it helps that her dad is a member of upscale clubs like India Habitat Centre, Delhi Golf Club and The Gymkhana, where Sundays are always sooo much fun to spend.
Do I sound like I am bitching about someone for no reason? Perhaps I do but I need to get this out. Trust me, I’d nothing to say about KP’s life until yesterday. Until I realised she had been sitting on judgement all the while on me and a couple of other friends, without even knowing things for the way they were. Now that I have moved to my own place, she’s thrilled that I have ‘my space’ at last. I am thrilled too. But KP just won’t believe if I told her I had ‘my space’ earlier as well in the dreaded joint family.
Anyway, post KP, I met Aar in the evening. She lives close to my place, so I dropped her home. Aar is married to a common friend of P and mine. It was a love marriage, totally against her parents’ wishes. The reason? Very different backgrounds, pretty much the same scene as KP’s. But Aar went ahead and made the best of a very challenging situation simply because she loved her guy and yes, the family may have been trying but she wanted to do the best for them as they were important to him. About a year and half back, Aar found her husband was seeing another woman. Things have been downward for her ever since. She’s moved to her parents’ with her little daughter, because of whom she’d earlier taken a sabbatical from work. She has a job and is trying to balance work and being a single parent. She’s also trying to save enough money to get a place of her own and move out, a tough deal. Her husband stands at that supremely convenient zone called ‘dilemma,’ saying the other woman is out of his life and throwing the decision making ball at Aar’s court. ‘What did I do wrong?’ Aar was wondering yesterday and before you think she’s the whimpering, pining type who blames herself at the drop of a hat, nope, she was just wondering why the relationships she’d worked so hard on had to fall flat so soon. She reminded me of KP; so carefree and indifferent in her own world and I thought once again that it isn’t cool to be good or nice. It doesn’t pay probably.

I was reading Man’s World and came across this quote from Mahima Chaudhry.

Reporter: We definitely think you have the hottest cleavage in Bollywood...
Mahima: "You know what, Suniel Shetty actually told me that to my face. I grinned and said, 'I thought you didn’t notice.' To which he replied, 'Oh No, we can tell when it’s natural.' I think it’s quite flattering to hear this and I am glad I have at least one thing I can boast of. Anything to distract attention from my face, because I have no confidence about that.”

Now if she has really said that to the reporter, must say the girl has a sense of humour and loads of chutzpah. Bollywood heroines usually come in two types. One does the ice maiden act a la Aishwarya and the other is all over your face, or Delhi/Bombay Times like Ms Sherawat.

To a question like that Aishwarya would’ve probably said (with a toss of L’Oreal hair and pursed lips): “Well…I think people need to focus more on serious issues like my work and stop spending their valuable time on my not so important assets. Gawd!”
(Rolls eyes heavenwards, perfectly)

And a Mallika Sherawat would’ve probably given a mini monologue on how oppressed girls from Haryana do not get noticed unless they have a hot cleavage. And Preeti Jain (or is she Pretti Jain now?) of Madhur Bhandarkur's shame...oops fame...would’ve sued the reporter for sexual harassment.

That’s why I loved Mahima’s quote. She knows where it’s at. Can laugh about her face. And thanks to her, we now know that Suniel Shetty is a natural-boob spotter.

It's absolutely gorgeous weather...rains, clouds and a slight chill in the air. Makes me feel like it's almost winter!

If there's one thing that's good about moving from Bombay to Delhi, it's the possibility of having more than one season in the year. I love winters and one reason I loved living in Pune was that it had winter, unlike Bombay which is uniformly humid throughout.

Winter means opening the balcony door at seven in the morning and getting the fog on your face, cosy quilts and blanket that brighten up the room, gajar ka halwa, hot showers, reading in the sun, outdoor lunches, long drives, warm jackets, oversized pullovers and steaming mugs of hot chocolate, coffee or soup.

It also means the end of the year and, in case of my family, a whole lot of birthdays and a trip home to meet the parents.

Can't wait.

Bride Shide Hai Rabba!

After sitting through Bride & Prejudice, I'm pretty sure Gurinder Chadha, flush with the success of Bend It Like Beckham, woke up one morning and said, 'hmmm...now that they like me in India, let me take a shot at making a pure Yash Chopra/Karan Johar style Bollywood movie!'
But why dear Chadhaji, did you have to drag Jane Austen into this? Couldn't you have made a song and dance without naming Pride & Prejudice as the inspiration? Without calling the characters Darcy, Wickham and Georgina and changing Bennet to Bakshi? Couldn't you have reduced the number of songs, especially the first one where NRI Naveen Andrews breaks into instant Karan Johar type jhatkas with Aishwarya and Namrata?
Chadhaji must've thought this would work. After all, the NRI + mera Punjab mahan + mustard fields formula always works in Bollywood, doesn't it? But this seems alien territory for Gurinder Chadha, who excelled so brilliantly, and got the essence of each character right in the closer-to-her-zone Bend It Like Beckham. Or Bhaji On The Beach for that matter.
Bride...does have its funny moments, like the Cobra dance by one of the Bakshi girls and in the trophy wife hunter Mr Kohli. But it falls badly flat, not just as a movie inspired by a classic but also as a pure Bollywood shaadi shindig. This could've been a fabulously funny movie on its own, with the characters less wooden, their relationships a little more etched out. And it didn't have to 'inspired.'
Aside: Aishwarya Rai has found her perfect filmi match in Martin Henderson. He's equally perfect looking and equally wooden. Touche
Another aside: And now Mira Nair has added an item number to 'Vanity Fair.' Should be thrilled at the Bollywoodisation of English Literature. But does it work?

Random...

I want to work for Conde Nast Traveller. Apart from obvious reasons like getting to travel around the world free and in utter luxury (they only cover top 10 resorts and things like that), the other is the sense of humour. They have an Editor At Large and if that wasn’t enough, an Acting Word Of Mouth Editor. Imagine, handing people your business card!

More on my travel related aspirations. Saw with bitter regret that the daughter of some rich industrialist has brought Time Out to Mumbai. It was originally my idea though Rich Daughter doesn’t know of it and therefore shall forgive her. Loved Time Out when I landed in London with loads of time, very little money and a desire to see EVERYTHING. Ditched Lonely Planet after fainting at the price and bought Time Out. It came with many free things like entrance to London Dungeon (why on earth!) if you cut out one corner of the mag and took it to them, canal ride for one through Camden Lock and other such highly dispensable things. But with info on free entrance days in museums and the tip about the invaluable Bus No 13 that passes all the ‘sights’, it was a fabulous guide (apart from Anita’s long email with a list of Must Do’s). Naturally, I wanted to get it here and start Time Out Mumbai, Delhi, Bangalore, Kolkata and so on but girl with munny and business skills has beaten me to it. Shucks!

Old friend B and Me went for fishy lunch and tried to figure out how to revive our sagging spirits and careers. We thought of the Writing A Book route but since that requires imagination and contacts and both of us don’t have much of these, we came up with the Hook Rich Daddy route. Find a Readymade Rich Dad who’ll sponsor all your whims (papa, I want to get Vogue to India. NOW!), get into tie up with phoren publication house and get desirable fashion/lifestyle/travel mag to India. With us as editors (at large) of course. This is sure way to get rich and make your whole family famous by devoting the last few pages to parties and splashing pictures of self, dad, mom and rest of family. Only problem in plan: Lack of willing Readymade Rich Dads.
Result of lunch: Not so sagging spirits. Not because of our big idea but because of the nice Goan fish curry and Indonesian Prawn Sambal we had. If you are in Lodhi Market, go to Ploof. It’s got a strange name but it’s also got good fish!

Also recently opened. The Oxford Cha Bar in Statesman House, Barakhamba Road. Since the Barista in CP has become intolerable thanks to teenagers who mistake it for their college canteen and I was never a Coffee Day fan, this is a great addition. Best part is you can take books and mags you want to flip through but don’t particularly want to buy (OK. Can’t afford) on your table while you sip through your cup of chai. Reminds me of the time when Crossword in Mumbai opened its Café. The fact that you could actually sit there, read through a book and pay only for your coffee was the most thrilling part. Made my friend's dad wonder: Aajkal yeng bachchalog ko time waste karne ke liye kitna achcha jagah milta hai!'

Spent the weekend people watching in the malls. Fabulous way to distract myself from depression sustained over realisation that
a) I do not have as much money as other shoppers do
b) Window shopping is injurious to my sanity
c) Sale doesn't mean cheap

Having seen the light finally, spent most my time idling at Barista and the in front of the newly opened Donut Factory and spotting these:

Jazzy Couple Type: Found all over Delhi and Gurgaon. He is fair, in bright shirt, jeans and gelled hair, with very loud and latest mobile that spells money. She is fair (but of course), straight haired, red mouthed, in bright kurti and straight pants, arms overloaded with choodha (bangles newly married Punjabi women wear), flashy silver heels, silver evening bag, and half the shopping mall at her feet.

Undecided Bongs: Dad is 70 plus, thin, in dhoti, kurta and a Marxist frown, Mom’s in a traditional sari, very happy to be here but too scared of husband to show it. The son is 40ish, formally dressed and doubtful looking — caught between dad’s chagrin at being shown around capitalist paradise and his 10-year-old’s enthusiasm for the Tintins at the bookshop window.

Girl Uninterrupted: Young, single, earning (Doesn’t matter how much. We women spend anyway). In smart capris and vest, chatting on phone, window-shopping at every store possible, trailing along five bags from the trendiest shops. All at the same time. Multi-tasker extraordinaire.

Yuppy Couple: In Sunday casuals. Live next to the malls and have come for a leisurely stroll. Him in shorts. Her in trackpants. He checks out Nike & Reebok, she goes for The Home Store, sneers at Marks and Spencer’s prices. End up together at TGIF to watch Formula One over beer.

College Kids: In whatever clothes teenage types wear. Mission: To walk around aimlessly and find something cheap. The Boys check the scene out. The Girls giggle and dash into every shoe store with a sign that says 'SALE! SALE! RS 350 FOR ALL!'. Inexplicably, they all turn very giggly while queuing up for the lift later.

JNU Type: He’s bearded (and attractive), in trendy khadi kurta, jeans, floaters and a ‘well-I’m-here-but-couldn’t-care-less’ look. She’s in a long skirt, Fabindia top and trying to perfect that look. It’s tough for a woman in the face of so much shopping, trust me. They check out the book store, snigger at its ostentatious décor, buy Outlook and Tehelka, grab a coffee at Barista and proceed upstairs to catch a film.

Me: Wicked woman. Sits around with her third Cafe Mocha. Can only afford Barista, the small donuts and typecasting these poor souls. Sigh...

It was meant to be a quick phone from a very old friend in the middle of a busy day. He's a professional who is constantly traveling and even if we are good enough pals, he is too busy to call and I am too lazy to make the effort on a regular basis.

It turned out to be an hour long chat, the kind you have over bottles of beer and oily snacks at 7.30 pm on a lazy Saturday evening. We got over the work bit in five minutes and then started asking the usual let’s-end- this-in-five-minutes-talk.

How's life? How’s work? Buying a house? Oh my god, don't even think about a holiday for a year then! When are you coming to Bombay? When to coming to Delhi? Blah blah…

Somehow, we also drifted on to other things. How we worked together on some absolutely mad ideas, the stupidly HUGE crush I had on a fellow colleague, how some of us would hang around Marine Drive in the rains because we loved watching the waves crash and spray, his ex-girlfriend and the ‘one sided affair’ he had, wild parties we landed up in, getting ‘domesticated’, the change in our lives, etc. And then my phone’s battery ran out.

So it was only in the evening that I could see his message.

'Thank you. I smiled throught the day. We should do this more often'

Yes, I think so too. I need to smile and I need old pals for that.

But I doubt if we would. With each passing day, we get impulsive only once in a rare while, don’t we? The next time I call, my friend would probably be too busy or traveling or unavailable on his phone.

Ditto for me. Ditto for a whole world of friends out there. Friends I'm not in regular touch with anymore but who matter enough to make me think of them often; friends associated with incidents and memories. Friends I never end up calling. The intention is there but I’m always too hassled or too tired or too busy.

Wonder what makes it so difficult…

Saturday Night Live!

We went dancing after ages on Saturday night. Boy did it feel great or what! Now, you may be wondering why on earth am I getting excited about something as mundane as this. But when you spend most of your weekends alternating between giving the house a thorough scrub and being one of the boys with the husband and gang in TGIF (watching cricket or formula one), it is a novel experience to actually put makeup, wear shiny lycra top and skirt, step into your high heels and get ready to party. With one of your oldest friends.
Went partying with H, visiting from Bombay. The girl's now a sobered down version of the livewire we knew — once called the 'patakha' of the party. That she's also P's good pal means she knows exactly how to bully him to abandon thoughts of TGIF and go dancing instead!
We landed up at nightclub only to discover how out of practice we were. And spent the next four hours commenting on the following. Suffer:
First: Nobody is there yet. It’s only 10.30 pm for god’s sake…too early.
Second: Nobody eats. At least trendy girls don't, except daintily nibbling diced paneer after gingerly picking it up with a cocktail stick. They certainly do not tear Chicken Tangri with their bare, unmanicured hands. Or pour Fosters down their throat. Gosh!
Third: Trendy girls are always backless when it comes to clothes. Or without arms or legs or in some cases even midriffs. Bra straps are meant to be shown off and we were the only prehistoric women not displaying these. Utterly downmarket!
Fourth: It doesn’t matter what size you are. Only what size your clothes are. The smaller the better.
Fifth: Men like satin. With a vengeance. Or is it only the Haryana hunks? In my book, bylcreemed hair and satin shirt equals repulsive, oily schmoozer. It's time to throw the book out.
Sixth: Daler Mehndi and ilk rule the heart of every born and bred Delhiite. Doesn’t matter if that Delhiite happens to be a Mallu or a Bong or Pure Punjabi. He or she has the inborn ability to drop their glasses, partners, inhibitions and start flailing arms and legs at any song with a bhangra beat and words like ‘Kudiya’, ‘Mundiya’ 'tere naal' etc.
Seventh: Trendy girls always stand in a cluster and giggle adoringly to anything said by aforesaid bylcreemed boyfriend knocking back gallons of beer. Trendy girls also hold on to pink drinks with tiny umbrellas and never ever take more than two sips in three hours. Must learn.
Eighth: Note to self: When people do the Bhangra to Summer of ‘69 do not stare in horror. Enjoy it and er...perhaps even pick up a step or two.
Ninth: You are always older, more cynical, plumper and less energetic than the last time you went dancing.
Tenth: H is still the patakha. At least on the dance floor. She may have sobered down but the enthusiasm hasn't. And she is infectious as ever!

Had a party at home on Saturday night. The husband’s school pals with their wife/husband/friend. Everyone was having quite a blast with most of the men including my husband happily high and talking of things men beyond a certain age talk when they get drunk, nostalgic and very loving towards each other. That was on Saturday. The party ended sometime around four in the morning when we saw off the last of the guests, I looked at my watch, yawned and hit the bed.
Yesterday, our next-door neighbour (we have two. This one is the decent, non-partying type) rang the bell and politely asked for his ice tray.
‘Your ice tray? Do we have it?’ I wondered aloud, then in a flash of lightening remembered the party, looked into the freezer and found two ice trays that weren't mine. Figuring the hubby must've asked for it at some point in the party I thanked neighbour and apologised for bothering him late at night. ‘Oh never mind,’ he said, ‘it was about 1.30 am we were fast asleep, our maid gave him the trays.’
Bothering a neighbour at 1.30 is beyond indecency so I went off to have a word with the husband. 'What tray?' he asked innocently, 'I don't remember getting any.'
Our suspicion fell on R, who is a close friend and part of the furniture at home. We called him instantly. 'Of course not, I was too blown to move,' came the reply. The next half an hour was spent calling all the usual suspects who could have looked into the freezer, thought we had run out of ice, not bothered to ask me or look into the kitchen for THE FUCKING ICE BOX and decided to be enterprising. In the middle of the night.
Strangely, none of the usual suspects (which also includes my 'guilty until proved otherwise' husband) remember anything about the two ice trays collected from the neighbour. In fact, none of these models of sainthood even remember whether we had run out of ice!
Seriously contemplating moving out.

On my mind...

I used to be a beach person. When I closed my eyes and thought of taking a break I saw white sands, blue sea, a boat or two on the horizon, bottles of beer, pomfret masala...
In other words, I saw Goa, though the sands are not always so white
everywhere. Lately, the vision seems to have changed. I still see water. It's an almost opaque blue and amazingly calm lake, changing colours with the shifting clouds. If I look into the distance, I can see shades of turqoise and violet and somewhere hints of jade-like green. I can see mountains looming large, glistening snow capped peaks crossing over into another country, just like the lake does.
It's hard to shake Pangong Lake out of your mind. Once you've sighted
it, tired but excited after the five hour drive from Leh, the image of it, like a jewel surrounded by mountains, gets imprinted inside your head. Almost for ever.
I remember how we stared at the lake, unable to believe anything could look so perfect. I walked up to the bank, picking up pebbles from the edge to add to my pebble collection, saying innumerable 'wows', gaping and breathing hard.
We sat there in wonder, thanking everyone (from God to the travel agent) for this glimpse of what at that moment, seemed own private paradise. When works dumps itself on me, as it has been doing lately, I close my eyes and it's there in front of me -- blue-green, beautiful and unbelievable.
Next year again perhaps...

'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.

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.

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

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 :)

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!

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!

Parmanu's blog has made me nostalgic and this is the result.

If I took a left turn from our one room apartment in Amsterdam, the road took me past ‘coffeeshops’ and canalside apartments to a building standing there since 13th century. The old church in Amsterdam is just called that, The Old Church or Oude Kirk. It houses a world famous organ dating back to the 1700s, has a floor littered with graves and looks out onto the red light district!
To me the BIG curiosity factor were the tombstones that were set into the church floor. Most of these are of famous Dutch people I couldn’t recognise, including Rembrandt’s wife, who was married to him the same church.
I loved Oude Kirk. Not just because my first visit coincided with a rehearsal for an upcoming organ concert. There was something so distinctly ancient (and even a bit musty) about the place it was magical. Since the church was almost next door, I’d go there when the tourist flow wasn’t much, sit in a corner and lose myself imagining life centuries ago.
Later I asked a friend if he had seen Oude Kirk. We'd gone to the new church on the Dam square, he said, and skipped the old one. Don’t make that mistake if you ever go to Amsterdam.
I couldn’t leave Amsterdam without seeing another church. The Westerkirk next to Anne Frank House. Remember Anne writing in her diary about the bells ringing every fifteen minutes and giving her hope?
On my last day in Amsterdam, I joined a tour to the bell tower to see how they rang. We climbed stairs, ladders, huffed and puffed and followed our guide, who looked like a hot long haired rock star and we found ourselves in the bell tower. After explaining the mechanics, we stepped outside on what is the tallest church tower in Amsterdam. The view was to die for. Never mind complicated bell mechanics.
This wasn’t supposed to be a blog on churches but it is turning into one. I love sitting in churches. The light filtering in through stained glass windows, the strange smell of frankincense and the stillness in the air has me hooked. I love history and old historical sites and in some way churches bring you closer to that.
Like the church in Aachen. Like Bill Bryson, I hated the touristy and overhyped Cologne Cathedral and loved the less-visited one in Aachen.
The dimly lit interiors, the chapel, and the amazing mosaics on the ceiling are mesmerising in this church built under Charlemagne’s supervision in medieval times. I could have spent hours here. We spent whatever time we had on our hands and moved on to the treasury or Schatzkammer. It was an exercise in eye-popping, especially the golden bust of Charlemagne. But I guess a man who built a church like this, deserves a bust like that!

Amazing how one mail can change your day.

Was typing away listlessly on the keyboard, trying to edit horror story in a hurry, staring at the walls in utter boredom, thinking of beaches, mountains and holidays when got this mail from Meeta that read:

'Hiiiiiiiii. Am bored. Sitting at airport. Waiting for flight to take me to another idiotic meeting. Must prepare pre-meeting notes but don't feel like. Want a beach...You too?'

Telepathy? That's what friends are for?

Book That Flight

I hate flying. Nothing troubles me more than air pockets, turbulence and seat belt signs getting switched on during boring calm phases of long haul flights.
My mind throws up a million ideas from the moment the plane takes off: Omygod! The plane is almost vertical! Why haven't we been served food yet? What's wrong? Why haven't they switched offseatbelt sign yet? Why is it circling the sky and NOT LANDING? Did the pilot say somehting about flying over mountains and turbulence?
Unlike some lucky people who start snoring the moment they hit the sky, I stay wide awake during the entire duration of the flight, whether it lasts for one hour or fourteen.
The end result of being the worst example of in-flight bad nerves is that, while flying, I need distraction. Loads of it. This means not the eye-straining in-flight movie or ear-popping channel music but books.
If it's a two hour flight I carry at least three books in my hand baggage. The numbers increase with the flight duration. The max I've carried is five books and three newly bought mags for a 16 hour flight with a two hour changing halt.
There is of course a perfectly good reason (To me obviously) for this book mania. The first book I put in is something I've been reading. Which means there are chances it could be over by the time the flight is halfway thru'. What would I do then? To prevent such panic attacks I carry Book No. 2. However, I have no idea whether this is an engrossing, enjoyable read and if it isn't, then I'll be reminded of being suspended over oceans and mountains again. To avoid this extremely unpleasant situation I carry Book No. 3 and so on...
The number of books to be carried is always a sour point between the man and me. He thinks I'm plain crazy. I think he's one of them lucky peoples who can sleep through the entire journey.