dodge
the dog shit
the human spit
the open gutter
the shoe eating pavement
dodge em cars
avoid
the 22 yr old on the cycle
the groper
the mobile snatcher
and the potential kidnapper
cross the road if you think u have company
don't look at
the mad man
the drug addict
the man pissing on the wall
don't look into cars with blackened windows
ignore
the begging children
the drunk man in the gutter
the dead man on the street
crude hindi songs
look over your shoulder, hold on to your bag
hold your breath when u pass
garbage
the sulabh sauchalaya
the man with the tb cough
mahim
and love-grove pumping station
i hate the days i don't have my car.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Sunday, December 25, 2005
ok. this blog is going to be an educative one.
for anyone who's interested in saving the world.
alright, maybe its not anything that dramatic, but i really do have to share this and hope some of you will do your bit.
take an empty coke bottle, or any 1 ltr plastic bottle. fill it up with water. put it in your empty flush tank. then let the tank fill. and eureka! you've saved and will continue to save a litre of water with every flush.
And the pot cleans just as nicely.
it may seem small, but you know what they say about every drop...
try it.
for anyone who's interested in saving the world.
alright, maybe its not anything that dramatic, but i really do have to share this and hope some of you will do your bit.
take an empty coke bottle, or any 1 ltr plastic bottle. fill it up with water. put it in your empty flush tank. then let the tank fill. and eureka! you've saved and will continue to save a litre of water with every flush.
And the pot cleans just as nicely.
it may seem small, but you know what they say about every drop...
try it.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
A relative I can’t remember meeting before, asks us out to dinner.
He’s suave, confident and slightly brash.
And very obviously from New York.
The guy has done it all. Made a big business out of nothing, married a princess, traveled the world, met heads of state, and made heaps of money. And therefore, with good reason, he believes he can do anything! And tonight he’s in Bombay. How hard can that be...
The guy is dying to eat good Indian seafood and after much debate, we decide on Trishna. This awesome no-frills-attached seafood joint is hidden in the filthiest by lanes of Bombay, near the only synagogue I’ve ever been to.
We squeeze our way through narrow gallis and past the remains of the day. Tired people, dogs, heroin addicts and rubbish fight for space with my battered little Santro. Most shops have their shutters down, yet the place is buzzing with life.
The corner paan shop is full of people. Picking up cigarettes, kalkkatta saada kimam and the latest gossip. Old dusty chandeliers throw their dim light on men downing hot mutton biryani in a faded green Irani restaurant we pass.
After a couple of wrong turns, and up the wrong way of a one-way street, there it is. In all its shady glory. If I didn’t know the place well, I’d think it was one of Bombay’s seedy dance bars. With no windows and gaudy neon signs seductively blinking – bar & restaurant, bar & restaurant.
We park, dodge a dead rat, and hurriedly enter the place. Instantly, the delicious smell of spices, garlic and crab hit us. Visions of prawn koliwada, butter pepper crab and hyderabadi fish tikka’s swim before my greedy eyes. Our mouths are watering. As are the mouths of 23 other people waiting ahead of us. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the water gushing, flooding up inside and being swallowed noisily.
Ooh I can’t wait to eat.
You’ll have to wait saar, just 30 minutes, informs the ‘man with the list’.
To call him maitre de would be too up-market for this place.
Don’t worry - says the confident relative - I’ll take care of this. There’s one trick that works around the world.
From the back of the crowd, he makes eye contact. In his hand, there is already a crisp hundred-rupee note folded and waiting. He gestures to the guy, I’ll take care of you my friend he says with his eyes, in his smooth New Yorker way.
The man frowns slightly and looks away. Our friend makes his way to the front. He glides through the people and sidles up to him. He mutters in his ear, and shakes his hand.
By now I’m pink and hot with embarrassment. It can’t be. I live here. I eat here often. These guys know me. He can’t bribe them. What’ll they think of me? It feels very dirty.
Please don’t take it. Please don’t take it. Please don’t take it.
Our host turns to us with a smile on his face. Oh God no. Is nothing clean anymore? I’ve lost my appetite. I want to stand far away from this guy. I don’t want to eat with him. He can’t be related to us. We don’t do this kind of thing. And then I hear him say - I can’t believe it. It’s the first place it hasn’t worked. Now I’m really embarrassed I tried to bribe him!
I try to keep a straight face, try to stop the smirk. Inside I’m soaring. I want to hug the ‘man with the list’. I want to hug our host too. There’s hope. There are people who can’t be bought. This country may be poor and corrupt but as long as there are exceptions, there is HOPE.
Suddenly I’m ravenous again.
He’s suave, confident and slightly brash.
And very obviously from New York.
The guy has done it all. Made a big business out of nothing, married a princess, traveled the world, met heads of state, and made heaps of money. And therefore, with good reason, he believes he can do anything! And tonight he’s in Bombay. How hard can that be...
The guy is dying to eat good Indian seafood and after much debate, we decide on Trishna. This awesome no-frills-attached seafood joint is hidden in the filthiest by lanes of Bombay, near the only synagogue I’ve ever been to.
We squeeze our way through narrow gallis and past the remains of the day. Tired people, dogs, heroin addicts and rubbish fight for space with my battered little Santro. Most shops have their shutters down, yet the place is buzzing with life.
The corner paan shop is full of people. Picking up cigarettes, kalkkatta saada kimam and the latest gossip. Old dusty chandeliers throw their dim light on men downing hot mutton biryani in a faded green Irani restaurant we pass.
After a couple of wrong turns, and up the wrong way of a one-way street, there it is. In all its shady glory. If I didn’t know the place well, I’d think it was one of Bombay’s seedy dance bars. With no windows and gaudy neon signs seductively blinking – bar & restaurant, bar & restaurant.
We park, dodge a dead rat, and hurriedly enter the place. Instantly, the delicious smell of spices, garlic and crab hit us. Visions of prawn koliwada, butter pepper crab and hyderabadi fish tikka’s swim before my greedy eyes. Our mouths are watering. As are the mouths of 23 other people waiting ahead of us. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the water gushing, flooding up inside and being swallowed noisily.
Ooh I can’t wait to eat.
You’ll have to wait saar, just 30 minutes, informs the ‘man with the list’.
To call him maitre de would be too up-market for this place.
Don’t worry - says the confident relative - I’ll take care of this. There’s one trick that works around the world.
From the back of the crowd, he makes eye contact. In his hand, there is already a crisp hundred-rupee note folded and waiting. He gestures to the guy, I’ll take care of you my friend he says with his eyes, in his smooth New Yorker way.
The man frowns slightly and looks away. Our friend makes his way to the front. He glides through the people and sidles up to him. He mutters in his ear, and shakes his hand.
By now I’m pink and hot with embarrassment. It can’t be. I live here. I eat here often. These guys know me. He can’t bribe them. What’ll they think of me? It feels very dirty.
Please don’t take it. Please don’t take it. Please don’t take it.
Our host turns to us with a smile on his face. Oh God no. Is nothing clean anymore? I’ve lost my appetite. I want to stand far away from this guy. I don’t want to eat with him. He can’t be related to us. We don’t do this kind of thing. And then I hear him say - I can’t believe it. It’s the first place it hasn’t worked. Now I’m really embarrassed I tried to bribe him!
I try to keep a straight face, try to stop the smirk. Inside I’m soaring. I want to hug the ‘man with the list’. I want to hug our host too. There’s hope. There are people who can’t be bought. This country may be poor and corrupt but as long as there are exceptions, there is HOPE.
Suddenly I’m ravenous again.
Monday, December 05, 2005
Thursday, December 01, 2005
I recently attended a Chinese/Punjabi/English wedding.
It was in the hills of Mahableshwar, and the weather was perfect. We stayed at the Mahabaleshwar club - an old Parsi 'asli' club with bearers and pudding and high ceilings. And strict notices 'No chappals or mobile phones allowed in the dining room.'
There was a sangeet, a Chinese tea ceremony and a Hindu ceremony at her house (a little way away from Mahableshwar proper).The fun part of the wedding was that there were sweet, polite Chinese relatives, raucous drunk Punjabi relatives and proper tea drinking and beer guzzling English ones in summery dresses.And while the Punju women drank and smoked and sang naughty songs in husky voices, the Chinese ones, sipped and bowed and shyly whispered into the mike.
The English ones of course, sang off key.
Tara, the Bollywood sister taught us all to dance...and by the end of it, everyone thought they were little Bollywood divas when actually we'd probably just about pass off as extras.
Her dad (the erstwhile playwright, Pratap Sharma) didn't lose a chance to make a speech. About how the marriage was making the world a smaller place…and how the tea in the Chinese tea ceremony had the fragrance of love or something like that and about the history of the music he played and on and on...but really sweet and touching.
On the wedding day, we had to climb into buses and head to the house, through narrow, curvy, hilly lanes. We reached a particularly narrow stretch and the bus driver refused to go any further!
He said his bus would get stuck and wouldn't be able to turn and navigate its way thru the narrow roads.
He did what all good Indian bus drivers do – he went on strike!
So what do we do? There’s a wedding to get to after all…so we get off and start walking...in our chiffon sarees and high heels and delicate brocade outfits. Carefully tip toeing our way down a kachcha rasta, slapping mosquitoes and ooohing at the stunning view.Anyway. We get there, and Pratap Uncle has invited the whole village to the wedding! So there they are, the Maharashtiran villagers in all their finery, with band and horse, attending a Chinese, Punjabi and English wedding! Along with a Bollywood star thrown in.
The villagers take over. The groom, does as is told and gets onto the horse. The drums start. The horse panics. It rears up on its hind legs and throws the groom off. And then loses its balance and falls on top of the groom, kicking and denting a friends car on the way down!So there was the groom, battered and bruised, there was the bride, worried about her husband, and there was my friend, wanting to sell her car then and there!
But I have to say it was one of the most relaxed, and entertaining weddings I've ever been to. Real good solid fun. Namu was so relaxed and carefree as was Andy, that no matter what happened, everyone had a really good time. That’s the way to get married! Or one of the ways I guess.
It was in the hills of Mahableshwar, and the weather was perfect. We stayed at the Mahabaleshwar club - an old Parsi 'asli' club with bearers and pudding and high ceilings. And strict notices 'No chappals or mobile phones allowed in the dining room.'
There was a sangeet, a Chinese tea ceremony and a Hindu ceremony at her house (a little way away from Mahableshwar proper).The fun part of the wedding was that there were sweet, polite Chinese relatives, raucous drunk Punjabi relatives and proper tea drinking and beer guzzling English ones in summery dresses.And while the Punju women drank and smoked and sang naughty songs in husky voices, the Chinese ones, sipped and bowed and shyly whispered into the mike.
The English ones of course, sang off key.
Tara, the Bollywood sister taught us all to dance...and by the end of it, everyone thought they were little Bollywood divas when actually we'd probably just about pass off as extras.
Her dad (the erstwhile playwright, Pratap Sharma) didn't lose a chance to make a speech. About how the marriage was making the world a smaller place…and how the tea in the Chinese tea ceremony had the fragrance of love or something like that and about the history of the music he played and on and on...but really sweet and touching.
On the wedding day, we had to climb into buses and head to the house, through narrow, curvy, hilly lanes. We reached a particularly narrow stretch and the bus driver refused to go any further!
He said his bus would get stuck and wouldn't be able to turn and navigate its way thru the narrow roads.
He did what all good Indian bus drivers do – he went on strike!
So what do we do? There’s a wedding to get to after all…so we get off and start walking...in our chiffon sarees and high heels and delicate brocade outfits. Carefully tip toeing our way down a kachcha rasta, slapping mosquitoes and ooohing at the stunning view.Anyway. We get there, and Pratap Uncle has invited the whole village to the wedding! So there they are, the Maharashtiran villagers in all their finery, with band and horse, attending a Chinese, Punjabi and English wedding! Along with a Bollywood star thrown in.
The villagers take over. The groom, does as is told and gets onto the horse. The drums start. The horse panics. It rears up on its hind legs and throws the groom off. And then loses its balance and falls on top of the groom, kicking and denting a friends car on the way down!So there was the groom, battered and bruised, there was the bride, worried about her husband, and there was my friend, wanting to sell her car then and there!
But I have to say it was one of the most relaxed, and entertaining weddings I've ever been to. Real good solid fun. Namu was so relaxed and carefree as was Andy, that no matter what happened, everyone had a really good time. That’s the way to get married! Or one of the ways I guess.
Some more co passenger woes...
On my way to Baroda, i got a window seat at the back of the plane. I smiled. I shall be alone and undisturbed. I shall be able to stretch across three seats and read my book. I shall be able to go to the loo without apologizing to people...
ha ha ha
An old lady in a wheelchair gets the aisle seat. She can't move by herself at all and has to be lifted into the seat. There go any bathroom visits i may have planned. Then comes her son with a million plastic bags. He climbs over her and settles down, carefully arranging his plastic bags around him. I lean away from him and hide in my book.
Before the plane takes off, he opens his tray table and pulls out a large purple thermos. I tell him, he can't have it open during take off. Luckily he listens, cause the thermos is full of steaming hot milky tea. He is very agitated and keeps checking his watch. He needs to drink tea from his thermos before sunset. He's taken a mannat. And the plane is late and the sun is dipping and he can't 'take' anything after it vanishes over the horizon, he explains.
i wonder what he'd do if we were flying westward, and it got light after it was dark!Anyway, so we take off, and within minutes, with the plane still banking sharply, the hot tea is poured into steel glasses and sipped noisily with the appropriate "aaahhh" to follow.
I think of what a friend said to me after my last travel experience "you must have strange co passenger karma" and i giggle into my book.
But that is just the beginning. out come paper plates. and a big steel box filled with soft white idlis. and smaller one with freshly grated coconut chatni. He serves his mother and encourages her to eat, ignoring the glances and smirks from the young airhostesses. He then makes her wash her hands in the glass and empties it into the paper plate. It slops all over his tray table and gets very messy. I squirm in my seat and look away embarrassed...
Bizarre and absurd as the situation seemed, i found myself thinking and hoping that i would be able to serve my parents, family or any loved ones with such care and complete abandon. there was no sense of apology, no embarrassment, no excuses as to why he needed to carry food and plates when the airline serves you anyway.
he knew he needed his mother to be comfortable and thats all that counted.and when i thought of that, it made me feel small that i had giggled.
and proud that i was sitting next to him.
And it made me think for the hundred millionth time, how we just can't and shouldn’t judge people.
On my way to Baroda, i got a window seat at the back of the plane. I smiled. I shall be alone and undisturbed. I shall be able to stretch across three seats and read my book. I shall be able to go to the loo without apologizing to people...
ha ha ha
An old lady in a wheelchair gets the aisle seat. She can't move by herself at all and has to be lifted into the seat. There go any bathroom visits i may have planned. Then comes her son with a million plastic bags. He climbs over her and settles down, carefully arranging his plastic bags around him. I lean away from him and hide in my book.
Before the plane takes off, he opens his tray table and pulls out a large purple thermos. I tell him, he can't have it open during take off. Luckily he listens, cause the thermos is full of steaming hot milky tea. He is very agitated and keeps checking his watch. He needs to drink tea from his thermos before sunset. He's taken a mannat. And the plane is late and the sun is dipping and he can't 'take' anything after it vanishes over the horizon, he explains.
i wonder what he'd do if we were flying westward, and it got light after it was dark!Anyway, so we take off, and within minutes, with the plane still banking sharply, the hot tea is poured into steel glasses and sipped noisily with the appropriate "aaahhh" to follow.
I think of what a friend said to me after my last travel experience "you must have strange co passenger karma" and i giggle into my book.
But that is just the beginning. out come paper plates. and a big steel box filled with soft white idlis. and smaller one with freshly grated coconut chatni. He serves his mother and encourages her to eat, ignoring the glances and smirks from the young airhostesses. He then makes her wash her hands in the glass and empties it into the paper plate. It slops all over his tray table and gets very messy. I squirm in my seat and look away embarrassed...
Bizarre and absurd as the situation seemed, i found myself thinking and hoping that i would be able to serve my parents, family or any loved ones with such care and complete abandon. there was no sense of apology, no embarrassment, no excuses as to why he needed to carry food and plates when the airline serves you anyway.
he knew he needed his mother to be comfortable and thats all that counted.and when i thought of that, it made me feel small that i had giggled.
and proud that i was sitting next to him.
And it made me think for the hundred millionth time, how we just can't and shouldn’t judge people.
A man suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorders walks onto the plane and sits down beside me. A man suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorders walks onto the plane and sits down beside me J ok jokes apart; I think this guy has a serious problem.
Before the flight takes off, he asks for 2 bottles of water. And 2 pillows.
He quickly gets rid of the newspapers (there are far too many for his liking) in the seat pocket in front of him, drinks 2 glasses of nimbu pani, takes 2 imli sweets from the basket the airhostess brings around and closes his eyes the moment the plane takes off.
At breakfast, he asks for 2 packets of sauce, 2 packets of sugar and eats 2 pieces of sautéed potato. He puts aside the tomato cause its 1.
Poor tomato.
I almost offered to eat it.
He slices his bun neatly in two, smears pink strawberry jam on both halves. He cuts his omelette neatly down the centre into two equal pieces. So now he has two mini omelettes.
The moment he finishes eating, his eyes close again. Abruptly.
I wonder what would happen to him if one day he can’t get 2 pillows. Or two packets of sauce. Would he still sleep? Or be able to eat his omelettes?
Maybe he has two wives.
And two children.
Maybe he’s wearing two pairs of socks.
Two chaddis.
Maybe he’ll fill out the contest form in duplicate.
Or hey…maybe, he’s one of a pair of twins. And needs two of everything he does in his life. Maybe the twin died and he’s making up for it…
The plane lands and I’m glad to get away. So glad that I don’t wait to count how many bags he’s carrying.
Before the flight takes off, he asks for 2 bottles of water. And 2 pillows.
He quickly gets rid of the newspapers (there are far too many for his liking) in the seat pocket in front of him, drinks 2 glasses of nimbu pani, takes 2 imli sweets from the basket the airhostess brings around and closes his eyes the moment the plane takes off.
At breakfast, he asks for 2 packets of sauce, 2 packets of sugar and eats 2 pieces of sautéed potato. He puts aside the tomato cause its 1.
Poor tomato.
I almost offered to eat it.
He slices his bun neatly in two, smears pink strawberry jam on both halves. He cuts his omelette neatly down the centre into two equal pieces. So now he has two mini omelettes.
The moment he finishes eating, his eyes close again. Abruptly.
I wonder what would happen to him if one day he can’t get 2 pillows. Or two packets of sauce. Would he still sleep? Or be able to eat his omelettes?
Maybe he has two wives.
And two children.
Maybe he’s wearing two pairs of socks.
Two chaddis.
Maybe he’ll fill out the contest form in duplicate.
Or hey…maybe, he’s one of a pair of twins. And needs two of everything he does in his life. Maybe the twin died and he’s making up for it…
The plane lands and I’m glad to get away. So glad that I don’t wait to count how many bags he’s carrying.
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