I sat down to read my blog after a long time. I have always enjoyed reading my own stuff. I'm funny. But it was different this time. I could see the different bits of my moods showing through each post.
From the marijuana-induced neverland thoughts to the society clean-up obsession; from bitterness to apathy and from humour to nostaligia- each transition is blatantly apparent.
Then I realize I have grown. And for once, not in size. By definition I am still young. But in essence, I am not so sure.
Young was when we thought we could take on the world. Young was when we would come up with new tunes and lyrics in a 60 minutes' lecture. Young was when we would make an award-winning anti-tobacco campaign while smoking our lungs out. Young was when we would quote literature in the BUsiness Strategy paper and then boast about it. Young was when we were dreamy, irrrational and spontaneous.
Young was when we were fearless.
Does growing up have to mean losing your zest for life? Is this reality I have a feeling I have succumbed to? I never thought we would. Not us, not this bunch. Yet, today after a mail from the past, I see this routine I have become.
So now at almost two in the morning, I am stepping back into the old shoes. I am tossing my schedule out of the window, I am digging out the long-stashed cigarettes. I am tiptoeing up the stairs and then noisily opening the door to the terrace and I am lighting up. I am lying on the dirty terrace floor in my t-shirt and shorts. I am star gazing and I am freezing. I am writing for the sheer love of it and not caring if I sound silly. I don't even care if I am scribbling on the sheet or not.
It hasn't left us after all, Khattar. Not yet.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
This senseless chain-reaction
The blame of a caste-based or racial aggression in India falls, among other things on illiteracy and on the lack of social awareness/civic sense. My observations over the years at times of such riots/aggressions tell me that racial distrust is present among the literate and the illiterate alike. The only difference may be that the latter take to the streets during such aggression, and the former don’t.
The educated class also feel resentment towards “the other caste or religion”. Their bitterness reveals itself in small comments and gestures in everyday living. It is exposed when a Hindu mother expresses apprehension over her daughter passing through a Muslim colony alone. It slips out with some angry words from a Muslim whose Hindu neighbour may have the Sanskar channel turned on loud. It is frequently heard in lame jokes about Sikhs, which is shrugged-off as humour. It has been shooting off in all directions with the North-South hostility. Intolerance is something that we have acquired from the generations preceding us- it registers in our minds sub-consciously when our elders make these supposedly “inconsequential” and harmless racist comments.
I am an ashamed Hindu today. The latest Tehelka sting operation that has exposed the people behind the anti-Muslim riots in Gujrat has left me feeling horrified at the cruelty that people are capable of. What is even more shocking is the fact that people from my religion and caste do not necessarily condemn it. And we’re talking about the educated lot here. The standard feeling is that these riots were in response to the Godhara case, where “they had burnt our people alive”.
The pregnant Muslim whose belly was slashed open and foetus thrown out had nothing to do with the Godhra Kaand. Nor did innumerable men, women and children who were killed in the riots. The irony is that the fanatic religious “leaders” are all holed up in their comfort zones during such incidents.
India is not secular. On paper, yes. In truth, no. In the quarrel over what “they” did that triggered this reaction from “us”; or the incidents before that, that led to this senseless and brutal chain-reaction, aren’t we forgetting about today and now?
It is not just about religion. During the honouring ceremony of our victorious twenty-twenty squad at the Wankhede stadium, Sharad Pawar had rudely shoved aside one of the women who were carrying bouquets to the stage. A very small incident, the common reaction to which is “Hota hai”. But we did not shrug-off the episode where the same Sharad Pawar was shoved aside by Ricky Ponting during a presentation ceremony.
Of course all issues are turned into political scandals and plots by the ministers and their respective parties. This time too, questions are being raised on the timing of this sting operation, and on the authenticity of Tehelka.
Assuming all clarifications and counter-allegations by the concerned party is worth something; one hopes that there will be some concrete action out of this “breaking news”.
The educated class also feel resentment towards “the other caste or religion”. Their bitterness reveals itself in small comments and gestures in everyday living. It is exposed when a Hindu mother expresses apprehension over her daughter passing through a Muslim colony alone. It slips out with some angry words from a Muslim whose Hindu neighbour may have the Sanskar channel turned on loud. It is frequently heard in lame jokes about Sikhs, which is shrugged-off as humour. It has been shooting off in all directions with the North-South hostility. Intolerance is something that we have acquired from the generations preceding us- it registers in our minds sub-consciously when our elders make these supposedly “inconsequential” and harmless racist comments.
I am an ashamed Hindu today. The latest Tehelka sting operation that has exposed the people behind the anti-Muslim riots in Gujrat has left me feeling horrified at the cruelty that people are capable of. What is even more shocking is the fact that people from my religion and caste do not necessarily condemn it. And we’re talking about the educated lot here. The standard feeling is that these riots were in response to the Godhara case, where “they had burnt our people alive”.
The pregnant Muslim whose belly was slashed open and foetus thrown out had nothing to do with the Godhra Kaand. Nor did innumerable men, women and children who were killed in the riots. The irony is that the fanatic religious “leaders” are all holed up in their comfort zones during such incidents.
India is not secular. On paper, yes. In truth, no. In the quarrel over what “they” did that triggered this reaction from “us”; or the incidents before that, that led to this senseless and brutal chain-reaction, aren’t we forgetting about today and now?
It is not just about religion. During the honouring ceremony of our victorious twenty-twenty squad at the Wankhede stadium, Sharad Pawar had rudely shoved aside one of the women who were carrying bouquets to the stage. A very small incident, the common reaction to which is “Hota hai”. But we did not shrug-off the episode where the same Sharad Pawar was shoved aside by Ricky Ponting during a presentation ceremony.
Of course all issues are turned into political scandals and plots by the ministers and their respective parties. This time too, questions are being raised on the timing of this sting operation, and on the authenticity of Tehelka.
Assuming all clarifications and counter-allegations by the concerned party is worth something; one hopes that there will be some concrete action out of this “breaking news”.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
HOW MEN CAME TO BE AS CLUELESS AS PIGS
Pigs are nice. They eat, roll around in the mud, and oink sometimes. They don’t complicate their lives. Dogs don’t, either. Nor do cows for that matter.
But men do. Men weren’t happy being furry, jumping animal and they weren’t happy living on trees. So men evolved. They showed signs of insecurities pretty early on. Maybe they was jealous of how magnificent the tiger looked, with his stripes or how interesting the zebra’s hide was, so they made themselves clothes. Then they took some caves and made them their home. Then followed civilization. You know, settling down in bunches, inventing fire, farming and all that jazz.
Pigs fight sometimes. Maybe for food, or for the muddiest, smelliest spot in the sty. Dogs often fight too- when another dog crosses over to the territory the former marked with his pee or when they may be showing off in front of a bitch. She doesn’t have to be hot. She just has to be. I haven’t seen cows fight, they are quiet things, mostly eating. Good thing they are incapable of multi-tasking, else they wouldn’t chew their food that good.
Men fight. A lot. Men just don’t fight for food or the muddiest, smelliest spot in the sty, or territory or to show-off in front of a female. See men like to complicate things. When whoever created life created life, the simple rule was this-
Quite a lot of food- slightly more mouths. Now fight.
But men had a lot of brains. So this arrangement was boring for them. They did a lot of things, the order of which I am not so sure of. They cut down a lot of trees. So animals died. They also killed animals because there were a lot of guns lying around, and there was a lot of time with very little to do. Then there was sex. A hell lot of it. So there were a hell lot of babies.
There was also a new arrangement, whereby things weren’t yours anymore. Men started paying for it, first with other goods, and then with money. Food was also to be bought with this money. And you earned money by first slogging your ass off for a good degree, and then to find a good job, where the slogging-you-ass-off routine was repeated pretty much till the mortal forever.
This whole fiasco resulted in a new rule, which was like this-
Men fight FOR a job to earn money. They fight IN their jobs to earn money. They fight AT HOME with their parents and siblings and sometimes WITH their PARTNERS to earn money. Then they buy food and a lot of other things. Those who can’t earn and buy food fight, steal, kill or die of hunger. Now this was something worthy of men.
The rules for other animals are different. There are two types of countries. Developed countries and developing countries. The difference between the two is NOT the extent to which you can slog your ass off but the amount of money you can earn consequently. But anyways, if you are a pig in a poor country, you can splash around in really dirty drains and roam around freely with your piglets. If you are a pig in a rich country, you will live in a farm. You will be fed with really good food, and men will be your god, who will decide when and where you are to be transported to your next life, where you are called bacon. The rules for dogs are different, as are those for cows. Basically the rule is that if you are not men you shut up and watch. Believe it or not, a lot of men do this too, especially the ones who are called leaders.
Pigs are hungry for food. As are dogs, and cows too for that matter. Men are hungry for food and for power. Men explain the meaning of power very frequently (though they may not realize it) when they say- “I am right. Do as I say. Do not argue.”
All men want this. Some men can say this to the whole world, some to a country or region, and some to their partner and kids. Some men cannot say this to anyone, though they dream of it quite a lot. Some of these people protest to put across their point, but it doesn’t really matter.
All men think different. Which implies that all powerful men in all countries think different. And all powerful men in all countries say- “I am right. Do as I say. Do not argue.” This, as news readers say, leads to a lot of friction among the countries when in fact this leads to a lot of friction among the powerful men of the countries- same countries and different countries. Pigs don’t think. Pigs are nice.
(We don’t know who, so we say) THEY say that anger makes men do strange things. So to show who is more powerful, these powerful men do a lot of strange things. They develop their factories and businesses, which make very good things. The factories also generate a lot of harmful things, but men don’t see bad things until these have spiralled out of control.
Among the good things is very good food. But when whoever created the world created the world, another rule was like this- What tastes good is bad. What tastes like shit is good. So when they make good food, which is actually bad, people start getting diseases.
Pigs don’t get diseases. Pigs eat polythene and shit it out whole.
The powerful men build big houses so show how powerful they are. Now with all the sex still happening, there are a lot more men. And big houses mean less space for other men. So the other men start cutting down trees. They cut down whole forests. They have a lot of brains but they can’t understand that they are destroying somebody else’s house to build their own. So then the earth becomes warmer. Then they make air-conditioners, which makes it really cool inside but way hotter outside.
The powerful men also make weapons to kill other powerful men with. But they mainly kill a lot of men who are not powerful. Then the other powerful men either support or condemn the killings, and then they hold summits and meetings to fight over why they are supporting or condemning the other powerful men. Like this very powerful man in the US who kills people in Iraq and Afghanistan for no apparent reason.
So all of this has led to a lot of madness everywhere. Men are killing and dying. Some even kill themselves so others will die with them. They are creating diseases and then trying to find cures for them. They are ruining things that matter, and are making things that mean nothing. They are even building a road to the Mt. Everest because they want to run on it with a torch. But you really can’t say anything because all men think they are right.
But there are some others who know they are not right. They know what the matter is. They know that the mind of men will always find reasons to justify their plans and the resulting actions- in the name of modernisation or development, of discovery or knowledge, of war-for-peace or jihad, of religion or terrorism. The justifications are numerous. The summits and meetings will go on, the protests will go on, the wars and attacks will go on, injustice and inequality will continue to prevail- all because men refuse to see and accommodate the point of view of other men.
Simply put the few men who know what the matter is know that power is stupid. But since they don’t believe in power, they don’t say “I am right. Do as I say. Do not argue.” So nobody listens to them and nothing changes.
When men created their own rules, they thought they knew what they were doing. Pigs didn’t think that. Pigs don’t think. But now the men are as clueless as pigs are. And as dogs are. And cows too, for that matter.
But men do. Men weren’t happy being furry, jumping animal and they weren’t happy living on trees. So men evolved. They showed signs of insecurities pretty early on. Maybe they was jealous of how magnificent the tiger looked, with his stripes or how interesting the zebra’s hide was, so they made themselves clothes. Then they took some caves and made them their home. Then followed civilization. You know, settling down in bunches, inventing fire, farming and all that jazz.
Pigs fight sometimes. Maybe for food, or for the muddiest, smelliest spot in the sty. Dogs often fight too- when another dog crosses over to the territory the former marked with his pee or when they may be showing off in front of a bitch. She doesn’t have to be hot. She just has to be. I haven’t seen cows fight, they are quiet things, mostly eating. Good thing they are incapable of multi-tasking, else they wouldn’t chew their food that good.
Men fight. A lot. Men just don’t fight for food or the muddiest, smelliest spot in the sty, or territory or to show-off in front of a female. See men like to complicate things. When whoever created life created life, the simple rule was this-
Quite a lot of food- slightly more mouths. Now fight.
But men had a lot of brains. So this arrangement was boring for them. They did a lot of things, the order of which I am not so sure of. They cut down a lot of trees. So animals died. They also killed animals because there were a lot of guns lying around, and there was a lot of time with very little to do. Then there was sex. A hell lot of it. So there were a hell lot of babies.
There was also a new arrangement, whereby things weren’t yours anymore. Men started paying for it, first with other goods, and then with money. Food was also to be bought with this money. And you earned money by first slogging your ass off for a good degree, and then to find a good job, where the slogging-you-ass-off routine was repeated pretty much till the mortal forever.
This whole fiasco resulted in a new rule, which was like this-
Men fight FOR a job to earn money. They fight IN their jobs to earn money. They fight AT HOME with their parents and siblings and sometimes WITH their PARTNERS to earn money. Then they buy food and a lot of other things. Those who can’t earn and buy food fight, steal, kill or die of hunger. Now this was something worthy of men.
The rules for other animals are different. There are two types of countries. Developed countries and developing countries. The difference between the two is NOT the extent to which you can slog your ass off but the amount of money you can earn consequently. But anyways, if you are a pig in a poor country, you can splash around in really dirty drains and roam around freely with your piglets. If you are a pig in a rich country, you will live in a farm. You will be fed with really good food, and men will be your god, who will decide when and where you are to be transported to your next life, where you are called bacon. The rules for dogs are different, as are those for cows. Basically the rule is that if you are not men you shut up and watch. Believe it or not, a lot of men do this too, especially the ones who are called leaders.
Pigs are hungry for food. As are dogs, and cows too for that matter. Men are hungry for food and for power. Men explain the meaning of power very frequently (though they may not realize it) when they say- “I am right. Do as I say. Do not argue.”
All men want this. Some men can say this to the whole world, some to a country or region, and some to their partner and kids. Some men cannot say this to anyone, though they dream of it quite a lot. Some of these people protest to put across their point, but it doesn’t really matter.
All men think different. Which implies that all powerful men in all countries think different. And all powerful men in all countries say- “I am right. Do as I say. Do not argue.” This, as news readers say, leads to a lot of friction among the countries when in fact this leads to a lot of friction among the powerful men of the countries- same countries and different countries. Pigs don’t think. Pigs are nice.
(We don’t know who, so we say) THEY say that anger makes men do strange things. So to show who is more powerful, these powerful men do a lot of strange things. They develop their factories and businesses, which make very good things. The factories also generate a lot of harmful things, but men don’t see bad things until these have spiralled out of control.
Among the good things is very good food. But when whoever created the world created the world, another rule was like this- What tastes good is bad. What tastes like shit is good. So when they make good food, which is actually bad, people start getting diseases.
Pigs don’t get diseases. Pigs eat polythene and shit it out whole.
The powerful men build big houses so show how powerful they are. Now with all the sex still happening, there are a lot more men. And big houses mean less space for other men. So the other men start cutting down trees. They cut down whole forests. They have a lot of brains but they can’t understand that they are destroying somebody else’s house to build their own. So then the earth becomes warmer. Then they make air-conditioners, which makes it really cool inside but way hotter outside.
The powerful men also make weapons to kill other powerful men with. But they mainly kill a lot of men who are not powerful. Then the other powerful men either support or condemn the killings, and then they hold summits and meetings to fight over why they are supporting or condemning the other powerful men. Like this very powerful man in the US who kills people in Iraq and Afghanistan for no apparent reason.
So all of this has led to a lot of madness everywhere. Men are killing and dying. Some even kill themselves so others will die with them. They are creating diseases and then trying to find cures for them. They are ruining things that matter, and are making things that mean nothing. They are even building a road to the Mt. Everest because they want to run on it with a torch. But you really can’t say anything because all men think they are right.
But there are some others who know they are not right. They know what the matter is. They know that the mind of men will always find reasons to justify their plans and the resulting actions- in the name of modernisation or development, of discovery or knowledge, of war-for-peace or jihad, of religion or terrorism. The justifications are numerous. The summits and meetings will go on, the protests will go on, the wars and attacks will go on, injustice and inequality will continue to prevail- all because men refuse to see and accommodate the point of view of other men.
Simply put the few men who know what the matter is know that power is stupid. But since they don’t believe in power, they don’t say “I am right. Do as I say. Do not argue.” So nobody listens to them and nothing changes.
When men created their own rules, they thought they knew what they were doing. Pigs didn’t think that. Pigs don’t think. But now the men are as clueless as pigs are. And as dogs are. And cows too, for that matter.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Ode to the bygone, absolute and sweet nothings
The events and characters in this post have been modified. The writer has, at some places, used the names of the mothers of the real-life characters from whom this is inspired- both to avoid potential embarrassment to the characters, and potential physical harm to the author.
“It is time we get Sunita married”, Kamal said to the room at large. While all others present (comprising the proposed sacrifice’s aunts, cousin and mother) nodded their heads in assent, I demonstrated my shock by a rather weird-sounding WASSCHIZZZZZZ???!!!
The elders (pun intended) looked at me with the motherly concern, washed so clearly over their anxious faces, and which comes so naturally to them. “I am fine”, I hastily explained, and demanded they tell me what they were plotting. (At moments like these, I almost agree with my father when he says a conglomeration of two women or more should be deemed illegal) “Sunita is 23, has completed her engineering, is working in Chennai now, and obviously has nothing more to do, so we think it is about time she settles down.”
My repeated announcement over the years, of not understanding mothers found a new dimension that day. If Sunita is working, how can she have nothing more to do? The last time I heard work was still work. The Almighty’s angels on this Earth (who obviously take their job too seriously) explained that she could work after marriage if she so pleased but it was time a suitable boy was searched for “our beautiful and smart Sunita.” The Venus inhabitants settle on the appropriateness of this time on the basis of how much of it can they afford to spare for a cup of tea in the evening, over which event such life-changing decisions are usually decided. If time is short, they will settle for topics hovering around domestic helps, neighbours, in-laws, or other individuals comprising their sex.
I like to believe that I have a witty and complicated way of expressing the dullest of incidents. But my brooding over something is always written as: “I kept pondering over such and such incident the entire day/afternoon/evening/night.
I don’t know why but I find it impossible to rephrase this activity.
So I kept pondering over Sunita’s proposed wedding the entire evening. It was absurd, the whole idea. Who gets married at… 23?? Seriously? When did that happen? Grudgingly I realized for the women to start thinking about it is, after all, not as absurd as I initially felt. But I permitted ONLY thinking. In my 21 years of living, I have learnt through experience that you expect of others what you, yourself are prone to do at a given situation. Plainly speaking, I am a lazy bum, who can never stick to her plans.
The next day Sunita flew up to Doon from Chennai. In the evening, the six of us sat down together with stacks of photo albums strewn across the room. That is when the subtle clues of us having grown up became startlingly clear. The “Remember the time when” and the “Oh we were so silly then”, followed by a stray “I wish we could go back to that time again” brought this image in my head where I am sitting in a cosy bubble filled with our football, blackboard, ribbons, bicycles, water-bottles and lunch-boxes, and then I draw a needle from my pocket and burst my beautiful bubble, and am falling down… no idea where I will drop.
From the time when we would snigger to see our elder brothers speak with girls to sitting and talking about their girlfriends, from fighting over whose school is better to brooding over when we will meet next, and from fat little pieces of lards adorned with sweaters, gloves, caps, scarves, and boots, who would bunk school with their parents’ assistance to go to Mussoorie, to good looking (I know, I know- me excluded !@#$%^&), and educated young men and women, it has been a beautiful life.
We have grown up, we are all different, we have our own strengths, and our own weaknesses. We are all standing at the threshold of a new chapter, a new phase in our lives. We either are or are about to become full-time professionals and business owners, possessing for the first time, money that is NOT borrowed or stolen. And someday, not far from today, we shall all bear the responsibility of our respective partners and child(ren).
It has all changed, and I am amazed at how fast this transformation has taken place. What remain are the memories, the learning, and their offshoot- the strong bond we share, and the love we hold for one-another. It is what redeems us in our moments of weakness, what gives us the pride and the confidence we possess, and what makes us return to this beautiful, lazy town to indulge in long days of absolute and blissful nothings...
“It is time we get Sunita married”, Kamal said to the room at large. While all others present (comprising the proposed sacrifice’s aunts, cousin and mother) nodded their heads in assent, I demonstrated my shock by a rather weird-sounding WASSCHIZZZZZZ???!!!
The elders (pun intended) looked at me with the motherly concern, washed so clearly over their anxious faces, and which comes so naturally to them. “I am fine”, I hastily explained, and demanded they tell me what they were plotting. (At moments like these, I almost agree with my father when he says a conglomeration of two women or more should be deemed illegal) “Sunita is 23, has completed her engineering, is working in Chennai now, and obviously has nothing more to do, so we think it is about time she settles down.”
My repeated announcement over the years, of not understanding mothers found a new dimension that day. If Sunita is working, how can she have nothing more to do? The last time I heard work was still work. The Almighty’s angels on this Earth (who obviously take their job too seriously) explained that she could work after marriage if she so pleased but it was time a suitable boy was searched for “our beautiful and smart Sunita.” The Venus inhabitants settle on the appropriateness of this time on the basis of how much of it can they afford to spare for a cup of tea in the evening, over which event such life-changing decisions are usually decided. If time is short, they will settle for topics hovering around domestic helps, neighbours, in-laws, or other individuals comprising their sex.
I like to believe that I have a witty and complicated way of expressing the dullest of incidents. But my brooding over something is always written as: “I kept pondering over such and such incident the entire day/afternoon/evening/night.
I don’t know why but I find it impossible to rephrase this activity.
So I kept pondering over Sunita’s proposed wedding the entire evening. It was absurd, the whole idea. Who gets married at… 23?? Seriously? When did that happen? Grudgingly I realized for the women to start thinking about it is, after all, not as absurd as I initially felt. But I permitted ONLY thinking. In my 21 years of living, I have learnt through experience that you expect of others what you, yourself are prone to do at a given situation. Plainly speaking, I am a lazy bum, who can never stick to her plans.
The next day Sunita flew up to Doon from Chennai. In the evening, the six of us sat down together with stacks of photo albums strewn across the room. That is when the subtle clues of us having grown up became startlingly clear. The “Remember the time when” and the “Oh we were so silly then”, followed by a stray “I wish we could go back to that time again” brought this image in my head where I am sitting in a cosy bubble filled with our football, blackboard, ribbons, bicycles, water-bottles and lunch-boxes, and then I draw a needle from my pocket and burst my beautiful bubble, and am falling down… no idea where I will drop.
From the time when we would snigger to see our elder brothers speak with girls to sitting and talking about their girlfriends, from fighting over whose school is better to brooding over when we will meet next, and from fat little pieces of lards adorned with sweaters, gloves, caps, scarves, and boots, who would bunk school with their parents’ assistance to go to Mussoorie, to good looking (I know, I know- me excluded !@#$%^&), and educated young men and women, it has been a beautiful life.
We have grown up, we are all different, we have our own strengths, and our own weaknesses. We are all standing at the threshold of a new chapter, a new phase in our lives. We either are or are about to become full-time professionals and business owners, possessing for the first time, money that is NOT borrowed or stolen. And someday, not far from today, we shall all bear the responsibility of our respective partners and child(ren).
It has all changed, and I am amazed at how fast this transformation has taken place. What remain are the memories, the learning, and their offshoot- the strong bond we share, and the love we hold for one-another. It is what redeems us in our moments of weakness, what gives us the pride and the confidence we possess, and what makes us return to this beautiful, lazy town to indulge in long days of absolute and blissful nothings...
Sunday, July 22, 2007
More on Food- Al Bake Shawarma- part of the article written for The Students Inc.
...I went to Al-bake, popularly known as the “Shawarma point” after its star attraction. Located at New Friends Colony’s Community Centre, the place is swarmed with visitors, mostly students all through the day.
It is a small, crowded place that claims to serve “authentic Chinese, Lebanese and Tibetan” food. Not that we know what the difference between the three is. Anything with noodles in it, and anybody with slanting eyes is Chinese.
More about Al-bake’s claim to fame- Shawarmas. They are these incredible chicken rolls of sorts served with mayonnaise, writing about which is a Herculean task owing to the distraction in the very nature of the subject. Not that it is the only thing that is served here. The menu makes a very interesting read, with over a hundred items (written in appalling spelling, I may add). Now most of the people who go to Al-bake do not know a menu card exists. They come, they sit, they say “Shawrmas”, they eat, they eat some more, they leave. And it’s a good thing they don’t try other items on the menu.
The fried rice is bland. The tangri kebabs are over-cooked (I’m being demure here, I was screaming “this is burnt” when I was at Al-bake’s), the chutneys and even the onions served are mostly non-edible. The mutton momos are decent, but since I am not a very big fan of momos, I wouldn’t count on my judgement to decide how good they actually are are.
The major issue with Al-bake is hygiene. Rats are abundant. Occasionally, you shall experience your blissful moments with shawarmas, ruined by an un-godly shriek that can mostly be traced to a deceased insect in a plate of chilly potatoes or chicken momos.
Price wise shawarmas are not expensive at all. For Rs. 20 you get one plate. The “plate” is worn-out, orange porcelain with 2 shawarmas and some mayonnaise sauce. The problem is you don’t know where the shawarmas go. So you order another plate, and another and another. So managing a trip to Al-bake without spending a minimum of eighty or hundred bucks would be quite an achievement.
Happy indulging!
It is a small, crowded place that claims to serve “authentic Chinese, Lebanese and Tibetan” food. Not that we know what the difference between the three is. Anything with noodles in it, and anybody with slanting eyes is Chinese.
More about Al-bake’s claim to fame- Shawarmas. They are these incredible chicken rolls of sorts served with mayonnaise, writing about which is a Herculean task owing to the distraction in the very nature of the subject. Not that it is the only thing that is served here. The menu makes a very interesting read, with over a hundred items (written in appalling spelling, I may add). Now most of the people who go to Al-bake do not know a menu card exists. They come, they sit, they say “Shawrmas”, they eat, they eat some more, they leave. And it’s a good thing they don’t try other items on the menu.
The fried rice is bland. The tangri kebabs are over-cooked (I’m being demure here, I was screaming “this is burnt” when I was at Al-bake’s), the chutneys and even the onions served are mostly non-edible. The mutton momos are decent, but since I am not a very big fan of momos, I wouldn’t count on my judgement to decide how good they actually are are.
The major issue with Al-bake is hygiene. Rats are abundant. Occasionally, you shall experience your blissful moments with shawarmas, ruined by an un-godly shriek that can mostly be traced to a deceased insect in a plate of chilly potatoes or chicken momos.
Price wise shawarmas are not expensive at all. For Rs. 20 you get one plate. The “plate” is worn-out, orange porcelain with 2 shawarmas and some mayonnaise sauce. The problem is you don’t know where the shawarmas go. So you order another plate, and another and another. So managing a trip to Al-bake without spending a minimum of eighty or hundred bucks would be quite an achievement.
Happy indulging!
Friday, July 20, 2007
Khan Chacha. Written for "The Students' Inc", the fortnightly tabloid for DU students
Delhi is a crazy place. You can get lost here with its “gone-in-the-blink-of-an-eye” pace of life. But for a certified gourmet like me, who is almost always tight on money, Khan Chacha spells salvation.
You may have read about the place in numerous eating-out guides, but here is a first-hand, student review of the place that sells the best kebabs there are, by someone for whom writing about food comes as naturally as eating it does.
Situated in the upscale and expensive Khan Market, it is the location and setting of Khan Chacha that makes it so popular among the student community. In a city marked by large malls and shopping centres, this tiny 8X6 shop in the back lanes of the bustling khan market, with its brick-paved lane give, in a strange way, a sense of belongingness to the loyal Khan Chacha fans.
And the food… oh, the food… tender, juicy kebabs wrapped in the soft rumali roti, with onions and chutney that innocently drips on your clothes while you are indulging in its sinful taste, and which, you only see when you get back in your car or home… The kebabs, my friend, are not food, they are poetry.
(My request for forgiveness for dramatic comparisons still holds.)
Many a food critics were entrusted with the task of describing and rating all the items on the menu for Khan Chacha. And till date, it is a task unaccomplished. For, once you order a mutton/chicken seekh (with or without the roomali rotis), you will never find the need to try anything else. I have heard that the mutton tikkas are brilliant too, but if I, with my gigantic body proportions, am unable to eat anything after a roll and beer, I am pretty much sure no one else can. Ah! The beer… the icing on the cake… of course, you will not get any at Khan Chacha’s but there is a theka nearby. Just make sure, you wrap the can with tissues to avoid unpleasant incidents with the thullas nearby!
After food, the best thing about Khan Chacha, which is also the reason for its almost fanatical fan following, is its prices. Now, Khan Market will present a number of options for foodies, from Big Chill to Barista, from Café Turtle to Fab Café. Yet Khan Chacha, with its modest settings has held its own, owing to its great prices. Assuming that you have an appetite that is worthy of being considered “competition” by me, a meal at Khan Chacha’s would cost you nothing more than a hundred bucks. A roomali seekh kebab roll is for 50 bucks. All other items on the menu are priced likewise. A beer-can will cost you another 40bucks. Do the math and you will realise that when the huge pockets of your baggy jeans are mostly empty, and you need to take a couple of people out for lunch, Khan Chacha is your saviour. Peerless food, peerless prices!
And all the vegetarians out there, who are missing out on the best things in life, are welcomed by Khan Chacha with his (so they say) sumptuous Paneer Tikka Rolls. Writing this meant making frantic calls to the precious few vegetarian friends I have and I lay down that I should not be held responsible for any bogus content. If you feel I am guilty of exaggerating just how good Khan Chacha’s chicken kebabs are, hang me till death, for I refuse to budge from my stand.
For me and a lot of college students, Khan Chacha is not just another eating joint. It’s a place that holds memories to the best times spent with friends- a reason to celebrate when there is no apparent reason, the distraction that has led to many a mass-bunking, the comfort zone when times are travelling downhill... this cosy back lane provides a combo that kicks the arse of all the fast-food joints’ combos- melt-in-your-mouth kebabs, beer, suttas, and friends.
Cheers to the Chacha and his kebabs!!
You may have read about the place in numerous eating-out guides, but here is a first-hand, student review of the place that sells the best kebabs there are, by someone for whom writing about food comes as naturally as eating it does.
Situated in the upscale and expensive Khan Market, it is the location and setting of Khan Chacha that makes it so popular among the student community. In a city marked by large malls and shopping centres, this tiny 8X6 shop in the back lanes of the bustling khan market, with its brick-paved lane give, in a strange way, a sense of belongingness to the loyal Khan Chacha fans.
And the food… oh, the food… tender, juicy kebabs wrapped in the soft rumali roti, with onions and chutney that innocently drips on your clothes while you are indulging in its sinful taste, and which, you only see when you get back in your car or home… The kebabs, my friend, are not food, they are poetry.
(My request for forgiveness for dramatic comparisons still holds.)
Many a food critics were entrusted with the task of describing and rating all the items on the menu for Khan Chacha. And till date, it is a task unaccomplished. For, once you order a mutton/chicken seekh (with or without the roomali rotis), you will never find the need to try anything else. I have heard that the mutton tikkas are brilliant too, but if I, with my gigantic body proportions, am unable to eat anything after a roll and beer, I am pretty much sure no one else can. Ah! The beer… the icing on the cake… of course, you will not get any at Khan Chacha’s but there is a theka nearby. Just make sure, you wrap the can with tissues to avoid unpleasant incidents with the thullas nearby!
After food, the best thing about Khan Chacha, which is also the reason for its almost fanatical fan following, is its prices. Now, Khan Market will present a number of options for foodies, from Big Chill to Barista, from Café Turtle to Fab Café. Yet Khan Chacha, with its modest settings has held its own, owing to its great prices. Assuming that you have an appetite that is worthy of being considered “competition” by me, a meal at Khan Chacha’s would cost you nothing more than a hundred bucks. A roomali seekh kebab roll is for 50 bucks. All other items on the menu are priced likewise. A beer-can will cost you another 40bucks. Do the math and you will realise that when the huge pockets of your baggy jeans are mostly empty, and you need to take a couple of people out for lunch, Khan Chacha is your saviour. Peerless food, peerless prices!
And all the vegetarians out there, who are missing out on the best things in life, are welcomed by Khan Chacha with his (so they say) sumptuous Paneer Tikka Rolls. Writing this meant making frantic calls to the precious few vegetarian friends I have and I lay down that I should not be held responsible for any bogus content. If you feel I am guilty of exaggerating just how good Khan Chacha’s chicken kebabs are, hang me till death, for I refuse to budge from my stand.
For me and a lot of college students, Khan Chacha is not just another eating joint. It’s a place that holds memories to the best times spent with friends- a reason to celebrate when there is no apparent reason, the distraction that has led to many a mass-bunking, the comfort zone when times are travelling downhill... this cosy back lane provides a combo that kicks the arse of all the fast-food joints’ combos- melt-in-your-mouth kebabs, beer, suttas, and friends.
Cheers to the Chacha and his kebabs!!
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
How Rowling and God are similar...
I am thinking I pity J.K. Rowling. She may be so rich that blah blah and so popular that blah blah, yet as the creator of Harry Potter, one of the most popular fictional characters in recent times and blah blah, she has to be pitied.
There is no excitement for her. No suspense. No endless pondering over what will happen (probably just those long hours of pondering over what SHOULD happen). She is the wizard-God, the Almighty Creator of the magical world. They will probably have shrines with her edifices or pictures in their places of worship. But that is tragic, ain’t it?
And that got me thinking. What if our existence is a major, many-series’ fictional project? I am not sure if they have already thought over and written about this thought (or if it even worth thinking over and writing about). Except, of course Shakespeare, who I think wrote something similar in his signature “I-am-too-superior-to-use-correct-English” style. But it does seem like a possibility, eh?
If so, this writer has to be wildly creative. Think about it. This whole set-up, with the mountains, and trees, and rivers, and plants, and the different kinds of animals… I mean wow! The continents, and the countries and the ethnicities and the cultures… and to top it with all the jazz in the prologue- of existence and evolution… you are getting the idea, right? No wonder the story took millions of years to create.
It is a brilliant figment of imagination, really… I mean it must have won a couple of heavenly bookish prizes. But then again, we have this superiority complex, and even when we imagine we are puppets, we want to be the prettiest. Maybe there are better stories, more intelligent characters, with a not-so-lousy script out there somewhere. I mean Harry Potter and his friends would not be aware of Frodo and the Lord of the Rings. I wonder if they (HP and friends) think of such a possibility, the way we do for what we term “extra-terrestrial life.”
Anyways, if this God-is-a-writer theory were to be more than a hypothesis, and if that emotions-and state-of-mind-influence-one’s-work theory is any good, His has to be a tumulus life. Think about it. Maybe there is some problem with Him in personal of professional front. Maybe his wife left him, or is cheating on him. That would explain the sudden hatred creeping among men (You will know if you have read the bestseller volumes, which involve the conversion of Osama bin Laden from a minor character to a major villain). Or maybe he isn’t keeping to well… that would explain the rise in incidents of AIDS and diabetes and heart problems and all the other diseases. Or maybe He has a writers’ block, and has consequently developed a drinking problem- that would explain all the screw-ups and His lack of intervention to make things right.
Whatever the problem, looking at the turn our world has taken, it can’t be good.
So it can’t be much fun, can it- being the Creator, I mean? Must be boring to know what is going to happen- to be deprived of the element of surprise, while the rest of the world holds its breath in anticipation?
I pity J.K. Rowling. And now I pity God even more…
There is no excitement for her. No suspense. No endless pondering over what will happen (probably just those long hours of pondering over what SHOULD happen). She is the wizard-God, the Almighty Creator of the magical world. They will probably have shrines with her edifices or pictures in their places of worship. But that is tragic, ain’t it?
And that got me thinking. What if our existence is a major, many-series’ fictional project? I am not sure if they have already thought over and written about this thought (or if it even worth thinking over and writing about). Except, of course Shakespeare, who I think wrote something similar in his signature “I-am-too-superior-to-use-correct-English” style. But it does seem like a possibility, eh?
If so, this writer has to be wildly creative. Think about it. This whole set-up, with the mountains, and trees, and rivers, and plants, and the different kinds of animals… I mean wow! The continents, and the countries and the ethnicities and the cultures… and to top it with all the jazz in the prologue- of existence and evolution… you are getting the idea, right? No wonder the story took millions of years to create.
It is a brilliant figment of imagination, really… I mean it must have won a couple of heavenly bookish prizes. But then again, we have this superiority complex, and even when we imagine we are puppets, we want to be the prettiest. Maybe there are better stories, more intelligent characters, with a not-so-lousy script out there somewhere. I mean Harry Potter and his friends would not be aware of Frodo and the Lord of the Rings. I wonder if they (HP and friends) think of such a possibility, the way we do for what we term “extra-terrestrial life.”
Anyways, if this God-is-a-writer theory were to be more than a hypothesis, and if that emotions-and state-of-mind-influence-one’s-work theory is any good, His has to be a tumulus life. Think about it. Maybe there is some problem with Him in personal of professional front. Maybe his wife left him, or is cheating on him. That would explain the sudden hatred creeping among men (You will know if you have read the bestseller volumes, which involve the conversion of Osama bin Laden from a minor character to a major villain). Or maybe he isn’t keeping to well… that would explain the rise in incidents of AIDS and diabetes and heart problems and all the other diseases. Or maybe He has a writers’ block, and has consequently developed a drinking problem- that would explain all the screw-ups and His lack of intervention to make things right.
Whatever the problem, looking at the turn our world has taken, it can’t be good.
So it can’t be much fun, can it- being the Creator, I mean? Must be boring to know what is going to happen- to be deprived of the element of surprise, while the rest of the world holds its breath in anticipation?
I pity J.K. Rowling. And now I pity God even more…
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
LIFE OF A "SCANNER"
The problem with being a "more-than-a-sister" kind of friend to someone is that you cannot get mad at them. "That's not true", you will say. Yeah, I know. I happen to belong to a very rare species of angelic being, the last of which was created... lemme see now... 21years age, on the 16th of October, 1985, which incidentally also happens to be my birthday. So now you know.
So, anyways, getting back to the topic (which, you will realize later on is NOT the topic) there I was, in the M-Block market in GK 1, waiting for my friend and erasing the same text she had sent for the 10th time (which read "coming coming") from my inbox. Knowing better than to wait any longer, I went into Teksons (the book store- just in case) and started browsing through books.
Now I was carelessly reading through the book titles, not paying close attention. I had just had some lunch, and my eyes and mind were unanimous in their demand for a siesta. And I was ALSO rehersing a verbal-battle with my not-so-punctual friend. So there were muffled sounds buzzing in my head, like too many students talking softly while at a boring function in honor or Shaheed-somebody (no offence!)
"The Inheritance of Loss... Kiran Desai... With One Lousy Packet of Seed- Lynne somebody... How long does it take for you to reach M-Block from LSR? The Sangh Parivar... The Witness and the Wife... I could go to LSR, meet her there, catch a 375 and be back home by 4... You Belong to Me... What Do I Do When I Want to do Everything... Nah the 375 is too...."
STOP!!! screamed that little guy in my brain who is the boss around here- Intelligence... WHAT DO I DO WHEN I WANT TO DO EVRYTHING... hey, that's me! I picked up the book and the cover has this directions' board that points in one direction and says "I want to start my own business", "I want to live overseas and experience new cultures" in another, "I want to travel and become a photographer" in another and so on. I could not believe it. These are all the things I had decided were my "true calling" at different, though not too distant points in time.
So I bought the book and began reading it.
I can see the writer, Barbara Sher, stand in front of me, and talk like those "divinely-enlightened" people do on the "God" channel- "Are you fascinated by something new every week? Do you feel you can't commit to something because you're afraid you will something better? Do you start many things but finish almost none?" YES! I scream, wondering how she knows so much...
"You are a Scanner", she says, and now I can feel myself shrink in size... "A what??"
"A scanner. unlike people who are satisfied with one area of interest, you are genetically wired to pursue many interests and goals. You are NOT a shallow dilettante, you are a wonderful person with multiple passions and abilities."
Suddenly, I could see this Barbara woman sprout wings and a halo... Here's this woman, who seems to think its OK for me to be so indecisive, and even has a psychological term for my complete lack of focus?? Brilliant! And as a true "scanner", I was immediatetly hooked on to the book- super excited, 100% ears (and eyes), eager to know more about this new "species" I realize I belong to!
Less than 24hours later, after I have talked about this new phenomenon with everybody I know and have managed to convince none but my parents that I am a genetically superior creature, who has been created to defy the "Jack of all trades, master of none" belief, I lose interest in the book. Just like that.. swoooosh! and its gone. The woman has written 268 pages that essentially say the same thing- "You can't stick to nothing" Period.
So may be it is true. May be I am a "scanner" who knows she should focus on one thing, but can't decide which. There's too many things happening, and I find myself unable to stick to one thing. So I put a bookmark at page number 132, shut the book and throw it in my cupboard, along with so many other "unfinished projects." Meanwhile, I am really excited about this new diary I want to make, like the one people in the Victorian times had- dark, leather bound, with thick, yellowish paper (like parchments), in which you write with quills...
Hey, don't judge me... I'm a scanner!!
So, anyways, getting back to the topic (which, you will realize later on is NOT the topic) there I was, in the M-Block market in GK 1, waiting for my friend and erasing the same text she had sent for the 10th time (which read "coming coming") from my inbox. Knowing better than to wait any longer, I went into Teksons (the book store- just in case) and started browsing through books.
Now I was carelessly reading through the book titles, not paying close attention. I had just had some lunch, and my eyes and mind were unanimous in their demand for a siesta. And I was ALSO rehersing a verbal-battle with my not-so-punctual friend. So there were muffled sounds buzzing in my head, like too many students talking softly while at a boring function in honor or Shaheed-somebody (no offence!)
"The Inheritance of Loss... Kiran Desai... With One Lousy Packet of Seed- Lynne somebody... How long does it take for you to reach M-Block from LSR? The Sangh Parivar... The Witness and the Wife... I could go to LSR, meet her there, catch a 375 and be back home by 4... You Belong to Me... What Do I Do When I Want to do Everything... Nah the 375 is too...."
STOP!!! screamed that little guy in my brain who is the boss around here- Intelligence... WHAT DO I DO WHEN I WANT TO DO EVRYTHING... hey, that's me! I picked up the book and the cover has this directions' board that points in one direction and says "I want to start my own business", "I want to live overseas and experience new cultures" in another, "I want to travel and become a photographer" in another and so on. I could not believe it. These are all the things I had decided were my "true calling" at different, though not too distant points in time.
So I bought the book and began reading it.
I can see the writer, Barbara Sher, stand in front of me, and talk like those "divinely-enlightened" people do on the "God" channel- "Are you fascinated by something new every week? Do you feel you can't commit to something because you're afraid you will something better? Do you start many things but finish almost none?" YES! I scream, wondering how she knows so much...
"You are a Scanner", she says, and now I can feel myself shrink in size... "A what??"
"A scanner. unlike people who are satisfied with one area of interest, you are genetically wired to pursue many interests and goals. You are NOT a shallow dilettante, you are a wonderful person with multiple passions and abilities."
Suddenly, I could see this Barbara woman sprout wings and a halo... Here's this woman, who seems to think its OK for me to be so indecisive, and even has a psychological term for my complete lack of focus?? Brilliant! And as a true "scanner", I was immediatetly hooked on to the book- super excited, 100% ears (and eyes), eager to know more about this new "species" I realize I belong to!
Less than 24hours later, after I have talked about this new phenomenon with everybody I know and have managed to convince none but my parents that I am a genetically superior creature, who has been created to defy the "Jack of all trades, master of none" belief, I lose interest in the book. Just like that.. swoooosh! and its gone. The woman has written 268 pages that essentially say the same thing- "You can't stick to nothing" Period.
So may be it is true. May be I am a "scanner" who knows she should focus on one thing, but can't decide which. There's too many things happening, and I find myself unable to stick to one thing. So I put a bookmark at page number 132, shut the book and throw it in my cupboard, along with so many other "unfinished projects." Meanwhile, I am really excited about this new diary I want to make, like the one people in the Victorian times had- dark, leather bound, with thick, yellowish paper (like parchments), in which you write with quills...
Hey, don't judge me... I'm a scanner!!
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
The Big-Screen: Big town vs Small town
A very clichéd beginning for an article on movies or cricket is an observation about how we, Indians are obsessed with both. Ok this is another way of putting in the same introduction, but you wouldn’t have noticed, had it not been for this line.
The reason why movies are such a rage among the Indian junta is because of their depiction of tales of fantasy, tales that never seemed possible for the common herd, and this gives them hope that something better is in store for them. Of course, the real reason is that we love the jhatkas and matkas in our desi flicks, and the smooch in the firang flicks.
The big-screen experience in a big town is very different from that in a small town. A multiplex ticket will be on a glossy paper, with an obnoxiously sweet person at the counter, who will say things like “Enjoy your show” and “Have a nice time.” On the contrary, the small ‘t’ will have a miniscule window with bars on it for a ticket window, on the other side of which sits a grouchy, bald man. I’m telling you, ticket sellers in small town theatres are ALWAYS grouchy and bald, with an expression that suggests you wouldn’t wanna know if their bark his worse than their bite. The ticket is a greasy scrap of pink paper, with the rates mentioned for “Upper” seats and “Lower” seats. You couldn’t fit in anything else on it, even if you wanted to.
The big town’s big-screen spells luxury, with its plush interiors, brilliant audio and visual quality, the wide and comfortable reclining chairs, and the air-conditioning. In a small town, you find none of this. The theatre is a poorly ventilated shaft, with tattered chairs that are so narrow that my being able to fit my big bum in it is nothing short of a miracle. Of course, you MUST always remember to remove the litter on your seat by the damned person occupying your seat in the previous show.
The phoren concept of the multiplex implies that everybody, from the guy selling popcorns to the guy checking tickets to the security people feel duty-bound to converse in (often) tooti-phooti English. The junta will of course not be left behind. It is like an “English-only” domain, before stepping into which people will be talking loudly in Hindi, using profanity and then suddenly “I want the big one, how much cost?”, in reference to popcorns of course! Talking about which, the snacks available are brilliant, especially for a voracious eater like myself- hot dogs, burgers, nachos, and of course the integral part of every movie experience- popcorns. Our first visit to a multiplex made my Punjabi-speaking mother feel that she must play the “English only” part too, and I almost died of a heart attack when I heard her say “Big popcorn for me also, puttar.”
The poor little small-town cinema hall goers, yet unacquainted with the “modern” world, continue to speak in the same tone they would use with a rickshaw puller. The high school crowd get their kicks by making shadows on the screen by putting their hands (especially the middle finger) in front of the window through which the tape is played. And in the name of snacks, the hall continues to sell soggy popcorn crammed in plastic bags that threaten to burst any moment, cold drinks in glass bottles with rusted caps- testimony to their being almost antique, and cold, cold patty. It is a common practice to scurry to the confectioners at the end of the street, 5mins before the movie is to begin for sandwiches and spring-rolls. Oh, and you must NEVER place your food-packet on the ground, lest the rats get to them while you are engrossed in the movie.
The name’s change as you move from the small town to the big town…The “picture-hall” is the multiplex; the “popcorn-wala” is the “worker in the food-and-beverage section” or the steward. The sauce is the ketchup, and the coffee is the "cappuchino". The stinky toilets in the small town are transformed into “washrooms”; after all they are equipped with those automatic “sensor” taps.
So, all points in favour of the “big-screen-in-big-town” experience? Not necessarily. The small town movie-night is, oddly a warm experience. Sure, the place will be falling apart, the screen will be half hidden by silhouettes of people taller than you are, and with all the talking going on around you, not to mention the sudden interruptions when the movie roll entangles around something and stops playing, there is a good chance you will have to wait for the movie to be aired on television to catch all the dialogues you missed. Yet, it will bring a smile to your face. You get the feeling you know everyone, the comments and retorts being thrown around the entire hall, the cat-calls and whistles every time the hero and heroine get mushy, and the disappointed “aahs” every time they are interrupted, the squashed chairs with almost no space between rows (so if you are in the middle of the row you can’t go for a pee till the end of the movie) makes you feel a part of a huge family outing of sorts. It is a completely different kind of entertainment, something you won’t experience in a big-town multiplex. Of course, you MUST remember that the “entry” and “exit” door is one, and you will have to scuffle with the people hurrying in for the next show, trying to find their seats!
The reason why movies are such a rage among the Indian junta is because of their depiction of tales of fantasy, tales that never seemed possible for the common herd, and this gives them hope that something better is in store for them. Of course, the real reason is that we love the jhatkas and matkas in our desi flicks, and the smooch in the firang flicks.
The big-screen experience in a big town is very different from that in a small town. A multiplex ticket will be on a glossy paper, with an obnoxiously sweet person at the counter, who will say things like “Enjoy your show” and “Have a nice time.” On the contrary, the small ‘t’ will have a miniscule window with bars on it for a ticket window, on the other side of which sits a grouchy, bald man. I’m telling you, ticket sellers in small town theatres are ALWAYS grouchy and bald, with an expression that suggests you wouldn’t wanna know if their bark his worse than their bite. The ticket is a greasy scrap of pink paper, with the rates mentioned for “Upper” seats and “Lower” seats. You couldn’t fit in anything else on it, even if you wanted to.
The big town’s big-screen spells luxury, with its plush interiors, brilliant audio and visual quality, the wide and comfortable reclining chairs, and the air-conditioning. In a small town, you find none of this. The theatre is a poorly ventilated shaft, with tattered chairs that are so narrow that my being able to fit my big bum in it is nothing short of a miracle. Of course, you MUST always remember to remove the litter on your seat by the damned person occupying your seat in the previous show.
The phoren concept of the multiplex implies that everybody, from the guy selling popcorns to the guy checking tickets to the security people feel duty-bound to converse in (often) tooti-phooti English. The junta will of course not be left behind. It is like an “English-only” domain, before stepping into which people will be talking loudly in Hindi, using profanity and then suddenly “I want the big one, how much cost?”, in reference to popcorns of course! Talking about which, the snacks available are brilliant, especially for a voracious eater like myself- hot dogs, burgers, nachos, and of course the integral part of every movie experience- popcorns. Our first visit to a multiplex made my Punjabi-speaking mother feel that she must play the “English only” part too, and I almost died of a heart attack when I heard her say “Big popcorn for me also, puttar.”
The poor little small-town cinema hall goers, yet unacquainted with the “modern” world, continue to speak in the same tone they would use with a rickshaw puller. The high school crowd get their kicks by making shadows on the screen by putting their hands (especially the middle finger) in front of the window through which the tape is played. And in the name of snacks, the hall continues to sell soggy popcorn crammed in plastic bags that threaten to burst any moment, cold drinks in glass bottles with rusted caps- testimony to their being almost antique, and cold, cold patty. It is a common practice to scurry to the confectioners at the end of the street, 5mins before the movie is to begin for sandwiches and spring-rolls. Oh, and you must NEVER place your food-packet on the ground, lest the rats get to them while you are engrossed in the movie.
The name’s change as you move from the small town to the big town…The “picture-hall” is the multiplex; the “popcorn-wala” is the “worker in the food-and-beverage section” or the steward. The sauce is the ketchup, and the coffee is the "cappuchino". The stinky toilets in the small town are transformed into “washrooms”; after all they are equipped with those automatic “sensor” taps.
So, all points in favour of the “big-screen-in-big-town” experience? Not necessarily. The small town movie-night is, oddly a warm experience. Sure, the place will be falling apart, the screen will be half hidden by silhouettes of people taller than you are, and with all the talking going on around you, not to mention the sudden interruptions when the movie roll entangles around something and stops playing, there is a good chance you will have to wait for the movie to be aired on television to catch all the dialogues you missed. Yet, it will bring a smile to your face. You get the feeling you know everyone, the comments and retorts being thrown around the entire hall, the cat-calls and whistles every time the hero and heroine get mushy, and the disappointed “aahs” every time they are interrupted, the squashed chairs with almost no space between rows (so if you are in the middle of the row you can’t go for a pee till the end of the movie) makes you feel a part of a huge family outing of sorts. It is a completely different kind of entertainment, something you won’t experience in a big-town multiplex. Of course, you MUST remember that the “entry” and “exit” door is one, and you will have to scuffle with the people hurrying in for the next show, trying to find their seats!
Friday, January 26, 2007
Vande Matram??
Post Republic Day, the patriotism might still be lingering in the air,
The swaying flags, the temporary bill-boards can be seen everywhere.
And I don't blame you, if you expect this to be a wax-lyrical, to read and feel good,
I am sorry to disappoint you, but I can't live in an imaginary world when reality pinches so bad.
On Republic Day, I got out on the streets to let some patriotism rub on me,
When I saw an urchin, trying to pull down the National Flag with nervousness and flurry.
I went upto him and questioned his motives sternly,
"It's made of cloth and my infant sister could do with some cover", he replied defiantly.
I moved on, my spirits slightly damp,
And I saw a bunch of boys, loitering around like tramps.
"Aren't you supposed to be at school attending the Republic Day function?" was my query,
They burst out laughing and looked at me with jeer and mockery.
"Pooh!" said one, "Who has the time to listen to boring speeches and watch the flag sway?"
"Yeah!" added another, "Its Republic Day miss, and we celebrate it our way."
And I walked on, feeling no better than before.
As I neared home, I spotted my neighbour, looking unusually sore.
Without my asking she blurted out angrily-
"Had to get up early again, though they call it a 'National Holiday',
Kids have to attend the function at school, for its Republic Day."
Her little girl was all excitement for the bid day,
But on observing her mother's indifference, her enthusiasm went away".
I could see her eagerness fade away,
I could feel the pride of Independence, in her innocent mind washing away.
Oh! How it wounded my heart to see the disappointment in her eyes,
And to see her ut away the National Flag she had been holding so high.
Unable to bear it anymore, i reached my house and locked myself in my room,
And decided to pen down my feelings of disappointment and gloom.
We have never really valued our freedom,
We have taken it for granted,
Never realising the true meaning behind the songs,
That on Independence Day we, as kids chanted.
We will happily make a duplicitous speech,
(It sounds so good, doesn't it?)
But what it really means, we fail to unleash.
We are ready to drop to the lowest low to reach the highest high,
We have given up our values, our conscience and our principles to ensure that we always fly.
We wait and wait for justice, but it never really comes our way,
To stay in power, our leaders will unflinchingly kill and sway.
We are all hypocrites, not knowing who we truly are,
We have sold our souls for the mad gleam of money and power.
This surely was not the vision that our forefathers had in mind,
When they toiled so hard and sacrificed it all,
So that under the bonds of slavery, their children would not grind.
I shall not try to make you pledge to change the country over-night,
I shall not say, "Come let's create a better country, a better life."
I don't expect you to start another freedom movement and terminate-
All corruption, all crime, all evil, all hate.
I know you don't have all that time,
(It's a miracle you could read these lines of mine).
But what I will say is-
India could be great but it is not,
And we are the only ones to blame for this.
The swaying flags, the temporary bill-boards can be seen everywhere.
And I don't blame you, if you expect this to be a wax-lyrical, to read and feel good,
I am sorry to disappoint you, but I can't live in an imaginary world when reality pinches so bad.
On Republic Day, I got out on the streets to let some patriotism rub on me,
When I saw an urchin, trying to pull down the National Flag with nervousness and flurry.
I went upto him and questioned his motives sternly,
"It's made of cloth and my infant sister could do with some cover", he replied defiantly.
I moved on, my spirits slightly damp,
And I saw a bunch of boys, loitering around like tramps.
"Aren't you supposed to be at school attending the Republic Day function?" was my query,
They burst out laughing and looked at me with jeer and mockery.
"Pooh!" said one, "Who has the time to listen to boring speeches and watch the flag sway?"
"Yeah!" added another, "Its Republic Day miss, and we celebrate it our way."
And I walked on, feeling no better than before.
As I neared home, I spotted my neighbour, looking unusually sore.
Without my asking she blurted out angrily-
"Had to get up early again, though they call it a 'National Holiday',
Kids have to attend the function at school, for its Republic Day."
Her little girl was all excitement for the bid day,
But on observing her mother's indifference, her enthusiasm went away".
I could see her eagerness fade away,
I could feel the pride of Independence, in her innocent mind washing away.
Oh! How it wounded my heart to see the disappointment in her eyes,
And to see her ut away the National Flag she had been holding so high.
Unable to bear it anymore, i reached my house and locked myself in my room,
And decided to pen down my feelings of disappointment and gloom.
We have never really valued our freedom,
We have taken it for granted,
Never realising the true meaning behind the songs,
That on Independence Day we, as kids chanted.
We will happily make a duplicitous speech,
(It sounds so good, doesn't it?)
But what it really means, we fail to unleash.
We are ready to drop to the lowest low to reach the highest high,
We have given up our values, our conscience and our principles to ensure that we always fly.
We wait and wait for justice, but it never really comes our way,
To stay in power, our leaders will unflinchingly kill and sway.
We are all hypocrites, not knowing who we truly are,
We have sold our souls for the mad gleam of money and power.
This surely was not the vision that our forefathers had in mind,
When they toiled so hard and sacrificed it all,
So that under the bonds of slavery, their children would not grind.
I shall not try to make you pledge to change the country over-night,
I shall not say, "Come let's create a better country, a better life."
I don't expect you to start another freedom movement and terminate-
All corruption, all crime, all evil, all hate.
I know you don't have all that time,
(It's a miracle you could read these lines of mine).
But what I will say is-
India could be great but it is not,
And we are the only ones to blame for this.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Us and Them... [Thoughts in the mind of a teenage " red-lights " beggar...]
"Its cold, God I can't stop shivering. What? Is it morning already? [Groans]
I don't see Amma-Babu... they must have left for work. Well, I might as well leave too.
[WALKS]
"Aah! Quite a lot of cars for this time of the day. "
[STARTS WIPING THE WINDOW OF ONE]
"Hmm.. nice looking kid, must be a little older than I am. His shirt looks good.
[NEXT CAR]
Nice car... i wonder how it must feel to sit inside and recline, with no worries about the freezing cold... about food... about Munni... Thank you lady, that makes it Rs. 5 since morning, not bad.
[GREEN LIGHT]
Oh! Here come the thullas (policemen)... I better run before they catch hold of me again...
[SCURRIES AWAY TO THE NEXT LIGHT]
Is that Hari? Man, I hope he doesn't pick a fight... It is his light after all... But I'll explain to him... Munni is down with fever again, we need to get her to a hospital. He'll understand.. hopefully...
[RED LIGHT, CLEANSA CAR'S WINDOW IN THE HOPE OF A COIN OR TWO]
Hey, what a nice looking baby... When I start to ACTUALLY earn, I'll buy Munni lots of dresses like these... She is a pretty kid... but why does she keep getting the damn fever every few days... Oh! that's a nice, big car... and dirty too... the fat lady will surely give me some money...
Hey, why are you shoving me man, I'm just cleaning your car... Damn drivers!
[NEXT CAR]
Mmmm... that ice-cream in the girl's hand sure looks tempting... At least I have tasted an ice-cream, but Raju is ten, and he has never had one.
[AND SO THE DAY PASSES... DUSK]
I think that's enough for today... I should get back home now...Rs. 15 today. It's not much, but Raju, Amma, and Baba would have also earned something... collectively it should be enough to take Munni to the hospital.
[CONTINUES WALKING TO THE HOUSE]
I just hope Munni gets well quickly. I want her to study... the NGO didi said Munni can go to school for free... I don't want her to be like Hari's sisters- wild, screaming at passers-by for money, pulling at their clothes... No, Munni won't beg... I want Munni to study, to become a teacher...
Hey, what is that crowd outside my house...
[BREAKS INTO A RUN]
What's with all the people... hey, let me go... make way...
What??
MUNNI... MUNNI... GET UP... PLEASE... MUNNI... NO...
I don't see Amma-Babu... they must have left for work. Well, I might as well leave too.
[WALKS]
"Aah! Quite a lot of cars for this time of the day. "
[STARTS WIPING THE WINDOW OF ONE]
"Hmm.. nice looking kid, must be a little older than I am. His shirt looks good.
[NEXT CAR]
Nice car... i wonder how it must feel to sit inside and recline, with no worries about the freezing cold... about food... about Munni... Thank you lady, that makes it Rs. 5 since morning, not bad.
[GREEN LIGHT]
Oh! Here come the thullas (policemen)... I better run before they catch hold of me again...
[SCURRIES AWAY TO THE NEXT LIGHT]
Is that Hari? Man, I hope he doesn't pick a fight... It is his light after all... But I'll explain to him... Munni is down with fever again, we need to get her to a hospital. He'll understand.. hopefully...
[RED LIGHT, CLEANSA CAR'S WINDOW IN THE HOPE OF A COIN OR TWO]
Hey, what a nice looking baby... When I start to ACTUALLY earn, I'll buy Munni lots of dresses like these... She is a pretty kid... but why does she keep getting the damn fever every few days... Oh! that's a nice, big car... and dirty too... the fat lady will surely give me some money...
Hey, why are you shoving me man, I'm just cleaning your car... Damn drivers!
[NEXT CAR]
Mmmm... that ice-cream in the girl's hand sure looks tempting... At least I have tasted an ice-cream, but Raju is ten, and he has never had one.
[AND SO THE DAY PASSES... DUSK]
I think that's enough for today... I should get back home now...Rs. 15 today. It's not much, but Raju, Amma, and Baba would have also earned something... collectively it should be enough to take Munni to the hospital.
[CONTINUES WALKING TO THE HOUSE]
I just hope Munni gets well quickly. I want her to study... the NGO didi said Munni can go to school for free... I don't want her to be like Hari's sisters- wild, screaming at passers-by for money, pulling at their clothes... No, Munni won't beg... I want Munni to study, to become a teacher...
Hey, what is that crowd outside my house...
[BREAKS INTO A RUN]
What's with all the people... hey, let me go... make way...
What??
MUNNI... MUNNI... GET UP... PLEASE... MUNNI... NO...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
