One word of advice about Julie and Julia: don’t!
Meryl Streep of course is fantastic. Doesn’t she look much taller than she looked in Mamma Mia? How does she manage it? She is delightful to watch. But Amy Adams is disappointing as the single-minded young woman who cooks 524 recipes in 365 days. Roger Ebert wonders when the couple had time to eat. I wonder how come they did not die of atherosclerosis. My God, so much butter!
I also wonder why the movie got made. I mean, wow, Julie made all those dishes over a year and even wrote about it. But what was the compelling reason to make a movie, which might as well have been a documentary on Julia Child and her obsessive fan?
The movie left me cold. No, to be honest, it left me peck-ish. After seeing dish after dish, I most certainly wanted to eat something, although I had supped earlier in the evening.
We tried to assuage it in Costa at Juhu.
As coffee shops go, I like only two of them. There is this place in Hiranandani called Aromas. It is my kind of coffee shop – a very nice menu, lovely ambience, and what’s more, the place is open until 2:00 am! What more can you ask for?
I am making Costa at Juhu a very poor second, because the food there is middling corrupt. But great ambience, lot of beautiful people walking in, and has the universal brotherhood aura that distinguishes good coffee shops from bad. (For a bad coffee shop, I invite you to visit Mocha at Galleria, Hiranandani – it looks and feels like the parlor of Adams’ Family! Brr!)
So we hung out there, sipping iced tea, playing with a toddler from the next table, and desultorily discussing mankind’s puzzling penchant for hatred while love was an option; in other words, typical late night coffee shop conversation. By 12:00 a.m., the hunger pangs couldn’t be kept at bay anymore. It was more like a craving – for hot steaming noodles.
M assured that Tian next door is just the place. The restaurant was of course closed, so we went up to the pub. Have you ever walked into a pub which is desperately struggling to be cool and failing miserably? You can tell that by that depressing guy with a baseball cap on his head, dancing alone to the beats of some Hindi song remix, totally ignored by all of six other people huddled in various corners. And noodles? Hahahahahhah!
We did an about turn, walked out and came to the streets. I was damned if I was not going to eat something. I turned to M and put up this proposal: how about hopping in a taxi and swinging by to Taj Shamiana? That is a 24-hr coffee shop isn’t it?
As we sped along empty roads to the old land’s end (or the beginning, provided which side of the Gateway you stood at), I resolved that henceforth, I will try to fit all my road traveling in Mumbai between 12:00 midnight and 5:00 am. Do you realize how fantastic the express highway is really?
I have a theory that everybody has a Taj story of the happy variety. Mine involves my initiation into the ways of the city. As a naïve, fresh off the boat immigrant, it all looked terribly grand to me then. Meetings and midnight snacks and 4:00 am breakfasts… I remember my first visit to the Sea Lounge was so momentous that I called home.
I was happy to see that much of the lobby is unchanged. So is Shamiana. We had pasta and biriyani at 2:00 am in the morning. I decided that having come this far, we should look at the Gateway at the crack of dawn. So we hung back, drinking cups of tea and talking about—oh gosh, who remembers what we talked about? I’m sure vital secrets were exchanged.
Somebody must’ve told me about birds and bees and sunrise timings.
Dammit, we are averaging 6:38 a.m. these days! No wonder then, when we walked out at 5:15 a.m., it was dark outside--very. All-night revelers at the Taj were still leaving, with one very drunk guy stumbling from car to car trying to find his.
We walked to the Gateway, with me muttering, “Wasn’t there a garden here? I am positive there was a garden here!” over and over again. Was there or wasn’t there a garden where now there is only a vast expanse of cobbled stones? It was just us, myriad of lights, and garbage, garbage, garbage everywhere, left behind by the previous evening’s visitors. But despite that (call me clichéd) there is a special thrill standing at the Gateway, looking back at the Taj and wondering what King George saw when he landed on December 2nd, all those years ago.
Thanks to 26/11, the place is lit up like a Christmas tree, with a few searchlights trained into the waters for a good measure. We started walking down the promenade, encountering a hardy old couple out for their morning walk. Silent boats and barges were bobbing quietly in the water, a few strings of light strewn here and there in the horizon. It is true – the city does sleep sometimes!
We decided it was time to go home. Did I tell you that the city sleeps sometimes? Well, not in the burbs, where the real life of Mumbai is now. At the Khar subway, at 6:00 a.m. in the morning, a group of at least 30 women, dressed in their sparkling fineries, were walking by, singing some song. They didn’t seem they had slept through the night. Chhath puja apparently!
The bloody sun rose when I reached Powai lake. I bowed my head to its superior whimsicality, over the heads of at least 200 women still doing their pujas, and went home.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Aum Ranbirayah Namah!
Over the Gandhi Jayanti weekend, I visited my sister in Bangalore. My nephew, our baby, wanted to “hang out” with me and tell me everything that has been happening in his life.
As I listened to him talk about college, cinema, art, summer internship that he found for himself, screenplay workshop conducted by Kamal Hassan that he attended, and a certain sense of alienation that he felt among his peers, it hit me forcibly that he has grown up tremendously in just a year. From an indulged, cosseted boy, he has transformed into this enterprising young man capable of taking care of himself.
There was a minor celebration between my sister, my mother and I over the very creditable driving skills he demonstrated when he drove us to Nandi Hills and back. I was almost choked up when the boy sat through Naseer’s Ismat Aapa ke Naam patiently and without complaining, although he didn’t understand a word of it.
It is truly a privilege to witness the coming of age of someone near and dear to one.
Perhaps I saw my nephew in Ranbir’s Sid - maybe that is why I liked the movie so much.
”Wake Up Sid” is not a great movie. It is not nuanced, it is not profound, and it is not even particularly funny. There is no directorial brilliance on display. It is so slow paced that it might induce ennui in some. My friends were able to enumerate at least half a dozen movies it reminded them of.
On the other hand, it is enormously relatable. It has no designer clothes, foreign locations, stars who are more bothered about their hair than their roles, blaring music, firang dancers (a burgeoning trend I equate to the rise of Russian prostitutes in the Middle East and hence find equally disturbing - don’t you think so?), and long, unending mushy sequences that one has come to expect in today’s race for “blockbuster” movies. It is also a continuous, if not so elegant, ode to Mumbai.
Most of it happens in a poky little studio apartment in Bandra in a dingy building. I know that cheerless matchbox with minimal comfort but great neighbors that passes as a building - I have lived in similar apartments elsewhere. Watch the shots of Ranbir entering the building - his head almost touches the roof of the portico and not even the lights used in the shoot could illuminate that claustrophobic lobby!
And of course, the movie is of and by Ranbir.
The thing is I love the guy. I found him pretty darned compelling even in that horribly pretentious and plainly horrible Saawariya. I watched that monstrosity for almost an hour just for him. I agree with all industry pundits that he is the most promising face in Hindi filmdom.
Even without these rose tinted glasses, the charm of his performance in WUS in undeniable. He is totally convincing as the spoilt, clueless, lost Sid. Catch him crying on Konkona’s shoulder after storming out of his house – he does it in such a boyish way that inspired an involuntary “Aww!” from me. He looks delectable in the scene where he is sleeping hugging his shoe. And when he gets his omlette perfect after days of trying, you feel proud of him.
All in all, he plays his role with refreshing subtlety and quietness.
The movie is not about big dramatic moments or confrontations. It is about the small, everyday matters: you feel Aisha’s (played by Konkona) irritation as she keeps walking into the apartment that has been trashed by a Sid who had servants to do the cleaning up for him at home. You know that she is going to lose it sooner than later, because perhaps it has happened to you too.
You totally get the look which is a mixture of love, exasperation, and hurt that Supriya Pathak gives her son, because perhaps you have seen it in your mother’s eyes too. Your first paycheck was probably as exciting.
Konkona is great as usual. It is not a role that taxes her much, but boy, she is a study on nuances. That slight curving of the lips to indicate jealousy and displeasure, that subtle sigh to show boredom, that slight widening of the eyes to show happiness – she is a treat to watch. Even when she blurts out to Rahul Khanna that she didn’t expect him to be so handsome or when she is bounding with excitement on being asked out on a date by him, she does it in way what I can only term as minimalist.
Quietness being the theme of the movie, the music is quiet too. I liked the “Ektaara” song. But I loved the re-recording in many scenes including the one when Sid goes to meet his mother. Even club scenes are strangely devoid of din in the movie.
When everything else is quiet and underplayed, how could the sexual sub text be in your face? The scene where Sid discovers a tattoo that Aisha has on the nape of her neck is probably the most sensuous scene in the movie. Although I did feel that the two took too much time to confess their feelings to each other.
To sum up: do watch it for Ranbir. Don’t expect anything else, but really, Ranbir is enough.
As I listened to him talk about college, cinema, art, summer internship that he found for himself, screenplay workshop conducted by Kamal Hassan that he attended, and a certain sense of alienation that he felt among his peers, it hit me forcibly that he has grown up tremendously in just a year. From an indulged, cosseted boy, he has transformed into this enterprising young man capable of taking care of himself.
There was a minor celebration between my sister, my mother and I over the very creditable driving skills he demonstrated when he drove us to Nandi Hills and back. I was almost choked up when the boy sat through Naseer’s Ismat Aapa ke Naam patiently and without complaining, although he didn’t understand a word of it.
It is truly a privilege to witness the coming of age of someone near and dear to one.
Perhaps I saw my nephew in Ranbir’s Sid - maybe that is why I liked the movie so much.
”Wake Up Sid” is not a great movie. It is not nuanced, it is not profound, and it is not even particularly funny. There is no directorial brilliance on display. It is so slow paced that it might induce ennui in some. My friends were able to enumerate at least half a dozen movies it reminded them of.
On the other hand, it is enormously relatable. It has no designer clothes, foreign locations, stars who are more bothered about their hair than their roles, blaring music, firang dancers (a burgeoning trend I equate to the rise of Russian prostitutes in the Middle East and hence find equally disturbing - don’t you think so?), and long, unending mushy sequences that one has come to expect in today’s race for “blockbuster” movies. It is also a continuous, if not so elegant, ode to Mumbai.
Most of it happens in a poky little studio apartment in Bandra in a dingy building. I know that cheerless matchbox with minimal comfort but great neighbors that passes as a building - I have lived in similar apartments elsewhere. Watch the shots of Ranbir entering the building - his head almost touches the roof of the portico and not even the lights used in the shoot could illuminate that claustrophobic lobby!
And of course, the movie is of and by Ranbir.
The thing is I love the guy. I found him pretty darned compelling even in that horribly pretentious and plainly horrible Saawariya. I watched that monstrosity for almost an hour just for him. I agree with all industry pundits that he is the most promising face in Hindi filmdom.
Even without these rose tinted glasses, the charm of his performance in WUS in undeniable. He is totally convincing as the spoilt, clueless, lost Sid. Catch him crying on Konkona’s shoulder after storming out of his house – he does it in such a boyish way that inspired an involuntary “Aww!” from me. He looks delectable in the scene where he is sleeping hugging his shoe. And when he gets his omlette perfect after days of trying, you feel proud of him.
All in all, he plays his role with refreshing subtlety and quietness.
The movie is not about big dramatic moments or confrontations. It is about the small, everyday matters: you feel Aisha’s (played by Konkona) irritation as she keeps walking into the apartment that has been trashed by a Sid who had servants to do the cleaning up for him at home. You know that she is going to lose it sooner than later, because perhaps it has happened to you too.
You totally get the look which is a mixture of love, exasperation, and hurt that Supriya Pathak gives her son, because perhaps you have seen it in your mother’s eyes too. Your first paycheck was probably as exciting.
Konkona is great as usual. It is not a role that taxes her much, but boy, she is a study on nuances. That slight curving of the lips to indicate jealousy and displeasure, that subtle sigh to show boredom, that slight widening of the eyes to show happiness – she is a treat to watch. Even when she blurts out to Rahul Khanna that she didn’t expect him to be so handsome or when she is bounding with excitement on being asked out on a date by him, she does it in way what I can only term as minimalist.
Quietness being the theme of the movie, the music is quiet too. I liked the “Ektaara” song. But I loved the re-recording in many scenes including the one when Sid goes to meet his mother. Even club scenes are strangely devoid of din in the movie.
When everything else is quiet and underplayed, how could the sexual sub text be in your face? The scene where Sid discovers a tattoo that Aisha has on the nape of her neck is probably the most sensuous scene in the movie. Although I did feel that the two took too much time to confess their feelings to each other.
To sum up: do watch it for Ranbir. Don’t expect anything else, but really, Ranbir is enough.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
And this is how we make “wholesome entertainers”!
Have you watched a good Tamil “mass” movie in the last 15 years? If not, here’s your chance. Go and watch “Wanted”.
Directed by Prabhudeva, it has everything that we have come to expect as de rigueur in Tamil movies (and which hitherto hasn’t quite come together for Hindi movie makers): Slick direction, breathtaking cinematography, flawless editing, toe-tapping music, complex dance choreography, stunt choreography that looks almost like dance choreography in its detailing and nuances, and delightful performances all around -- in short, technical perfection.
Story? Oh well, it’s like the Mahabharatha - you know where it is going, you know whose side the hero is on, you know that the villains may pull the heroine’s vastra, but her savior will always arrive in the nick of time, sometimes running faster than a speeding train, and you know the bad men are going to die. This comfortable familiarity means that you don’t have any anxiety or fear while watching the movie. You need not deal with equivocal ethical dilemmas - you know, as the Navrathri festival shows us every year, that good will triumph over evil. Dharma will be established.
So you sit back, eat your popcorn, sip your soda, and get thoroughly entertained. And if you are the kind of movie goer who doesn’t want to grapple with “the greater creative question” and “artistic integrity beyond commercialization” and “Indian cinema - quo vadis?”, or doesn’t get queasy with a body count that exceeds Rambo and Terminator put together, here’s a full paisa vasool experience for you.
Why am I being so effusive? Well, I’ve always considered Prabhudeva a dancing genius (you-tube “thirupathi ezhumalai venkatesa”, “kasimettula kathadikkuthu”, and “vennilave vennilave” to understand what I mean), but he was an eminently forgettable actor. And he has made some horrors in his time. So I really didn’t expect much from him as a director.
How wrong I was!
“Wanted” is nothing if not the director’s touches through out the movie. Sample this:
Salman and Ayesha are trapped in a stuck elevator. One thing leads to another, and the two come very close to each other.
She says, “Oh it is very hot in here!”
He gently blows on her face. She gets excited and her eyes widen.
“Vicco Vajradanti?” she asks. He nods.
“Me too!” she simpers.
“Show?” Salman invites. She grins and her teeth twinkle - just as it did in the ad.
Or that fight scene in the climax. The hero is fighting with the villain and his never-ending supply of henchmen (yeah, that old chestnut) and you almost doze off in ennui when suddenly the villain takes a big fall -- and goes deaf. For a full minute, all you hear is the strident, piercing ring of tinnitus while this very violent stunt is being played out. I don’t know about you, but I felt every bit of the disorientation the villain felt.
Wait for the moment when he takes another fall and his tinnitus clears and all the noise comes through, like an explosion. You’ve got to love the modern theater sound system for that kind of experience.
Or, oh, the Salman disrobing moment: You knew it was destiny. You had even apportioned 20% of the movie ticket value for that revelation.
But five songs and 90% of the almost three-hour movie later, it still hasn’t happened. What? Salman has turned over a new leaf? you wonder. And then in the very end, when you have given up all hope, he takes his shirt off. Why? Not because he is dancing or exercising or I don’t know, those million pointless reasons he takes it off for. He does it because the villain throws a burning bottle of chemical on him and his shirt catches fire.
Oh Lordy Lordy!
I am a true daughter of movie-mad, hot headed, reverential-to-movie-rituals Madurai -- I clapped vigorously. (The boys sitting next to me were shocked, but that is the subject of another post.)
As far as performances go, Prakashraj and Aayesha Takia compete for top honors.
Prakashraj as the villain just hits the ball out of the park every time he comes on screen - which he does quite late, in the second half. He plays the archetypal underworld don as a delightful mix of menace, charm, and comedy. His Ganni Bhai is essentially a spoilt brat - a fast-talking, cocaine-snorting, wheeling-dealing, joke-cracking, pouting spoilt brat. His incarceration by the police commissioner where he is kept on a sleepless vigil is a hoot. And you should listen to him reprimanding Salman for killing all his henchmen at the very end. “They were top quality criminals!” he bemoans. “I had hand picked them from the streets and trained them. Now where will I go for people like that?” Heh heh!
And I haven’t seen Aayesha’s Jhanvi in Hindi films in a long time. In the age of body-painted, designer-clothes clad, sassy, overtly sexual female leads, the clueless Jhanvi reminds one of simpler times.
She is a middle class girl whose world’s perimeter is defined by her small family, her job at the call center, and her aerobics class. She has no skills to deal with anything bigger or more dangerous than a missed train. She can’t even tell off her mildly obnoxious landlord who makes unsuccessful passes at her, leave alone the police officer who seriously harasses her. She is naive and gentle. She is tortured by her lover’s criminal activities. She loves him, she hates him. She harbors secret hopes of reforming him.
Aayesha builds all these layers into her character mostly with her large expressive eyes. And thank God for simple skirts and jeans and capris! She is adorable in the movie, although feminists might have an issue with a heroine who needs rescuing all the time.
And Salman. How much that man has worked in the movie! He dances (Raju Sundaram has made him do some very intricate steps), he fights (a lot), he romances, and emotes when asked upon. But I liked his Radhe most as the lover. In a radical departure from his suave, cute, mushy Aman and Prem, he plays this totally unemotional lover who is unswayed by his lady-love’s tears and uses petty bickering to woo her. The pasta gag that runs through the movie is refreshingly funny.
It was good to see Vinod Khanna after a long time, although he dies before he could do anything much. Mahesh Manjrekar does a bang up job too.
My only crib about the movie is that it could have very easily been two songs and 30 minutes shorter. And it had someone younger than Salman doing the lead role. And that Salman didn’t wear those jeans with them unfortunate patchwork in the crotch. But nobody’s perfect.
All in all, good show Prabhu!
Directed by Prabhudeva, it has everything that we have come to expect as de rigueur in Tamil movies (and which hitherto hasn’t quite come together for Hindi movie makers): Slick direction, breathtaking cinematography, flawless editing, toe-tapping music, complex dance choreography, stunt choreography that looks almost like dance choreography in its detailing and nuances, and delightful performances all around -- in short, technical perfection.
Story? Oh well, it’s like the Mahabharatha - you know where it is going, you know whose side the hero is on, you know that the villains may pull the heroine’s vastra, but her savior will always arrive in the nick of time, sometimes running faster than a speeding train, and you know the bad men are going to die. This comfortable familiarity means that you don’t have any anxiety or fear while watching the movie. You need not deal with equivocal ethical dilemmas - you know, as the Navrathri festival shows us every year, that good will triumph over evil. Dharma will be established.
So you sit back, eat your popcorn, sip your soda, and get thoroughly entertained. And if you are the kind of movie goer who doesn’t want to grapple with “the greater creative question” and “artistic integrity beyond commercialization” and “Indian cinema - quo vadis?”, or doesn’t get queasy with a body count that exceeds Rambo and Terminator put together, here’s a full paisa vasool experience for you.
Why am I being so effusive? Well, I’ve always considered Prabhudeva a dancing genius (you-tube “thirupathi ezhumalai venkatesa”, “kasimettula kathadikkuthu”, and “vennilave vennilave” to understand what I mean), but he was an eminently forgettable actor. And he has made some horrors in his time. So I really didn’t expect much from him as a director.
How wrong I was!
“Wanted” is nothing if not the director’s touches through out the movie. Sample this:
Salman and Ayesha are trapped in a stuck elevator. One thing leads to another, and the two come very close to each other.
She says, “Oh it is very hot in here!”
He gently blows on her face. She gets excited and her eyes widen.
“Vicco Vajradanti?” she asks. He nods.
“Me too!” she simpers.
“Show?” Salman invites. She grins and her teeth twinkle - just as it did in the ad.
Or that fight scene in the climax. The hero is fighting with the villain and his never-ending supply of henchmen (yeah, that old chestnut) and you almost doze off in ennui when suddenly the villain takes a big fall -- and goes deaf. For a full minute, all you hear is the strident, piercing ring of tinnitus while this very violent stunt is being played out. I don’t know about you, but I felt every bit of the disorientation the villain felt.
Wait for the moment when he takes another fall and his tinnitus clears and all the noise comes through, like an explosion. You’ve got to love the modern theater sound system for that kind of experience.
Or, oh, the Salman disrobing moment: You knew it was destiny. You had even apportioned 20% of the movie ticket value for that revelation.
But five songs and 90% of the almost three-hour movie later, it still hasn’t happened. What? Salman has turned over a new leaf? you wonder. And then in the very end, when you have given up all hope, he takes his shirt off. Why? Not because he is dancing or exercising or I don’t know, those million pointless reasons he takes it off for. He does it because the villain throws a burning bottle of chemical on him and his shirt catches fire.
Oh Lordy Lordy!
I am a true daughter of movie-mad, hot headed, reverential-to-movie-rituals Madurai -- I clapped vigorously. (The boys sitting next to me were shocked, but that is the subject of another post.)
As far as performances go, Prakashraj and Aayesha Takia compete for top honors.
Prakashraj as the villain just hits the ball out of the park every time he comes on screen - which he does quite late, in the second half. He plays the archetypal underworld don as a delightful mix of menace, charm, and comedy. His Ganni Bhai is essentially a spoilt brat - a fast-talking, cocaine-snorting, wheeling-dealing, joke-cracking, pouting spoilt brat. His incarceration by the police commissioner where he is kept on a sleepless vigil is a hoot. And you should listen to him reprimanding Salman for killing all his henchmen at the very end. “They were top quality criminals!” he bemoans. “I had hand picked them from the streets and trained them. Now where will I go for people like that?” Heh heh!
And I haven’t seen Aayesha’s Jhanvi in Hindi films in a long time. In the age of body-painted, designer-clothes clad, sassy, overtly sexual female leads, the clueless Jhanvi reminds one of simpler times.
She is a middle class girl whose world’s perimeter is defined by her small family, her job at the call center, and her aerobics class. She has no skills to deal with anything bigger or more dangerous than a missed train. She can’t even tell off her mildly obnoxious landlord who makes unsuccessful passes at her, leave alone the police officer who seriously harasses her. She is naive and gentle. She is tortured by her lover’s criminal activities. She loves him, she hates him. She harbors secret hopes of reforming him.
Aayesha builds all these layers into her character mostly with her large expressive eyes. And thank God for simple skirts and jeans and capris! She is adorable in the movie, although feminists might have an issue with a heroine who needs rescuing all the time.
And Salman. How much that man has worked in the movie! He dances (Raju Sundaram has made him do some very intricate steps), he fights (a lot), he romances, and emotes when asked upon. But I liked his Radhe most as the lover. In a radical departure from his suave, cute, mushy Aman and Prem, he plays this totally unemotional lover who is unswayed by his lady-love’s tears and uses petty bickering to woo her. The pasta gag that runs through the movie is refreshingly funny.
It was good to see Vinod Khanna after a long time, although he dies before he could do anything much. Mahesh Manjrekar does a bang up job too.
My only crib about the movie is that it could have very easily been two songs and 30 minutes shorter. And it had someone younger than Salman doing the lead role. And that Salman didn’t wear those jeans with them unfortunate patchwork in the crotch. But nobody’s perfect.
All in all, good show Prabhu!
Sunday, September 20, 2009
World in a Grain of Sand
What is life? Is it a journey that goes from milestone to milestone, with work and toil and dreams in between those? Or is it a series of moments, unique, etched in time, disconnected, like little islands in an ocean? Is life about progress or is it about standing still in the moment? What is important – who you are with or what you are experiencing?
We were standing on the sticky sands temporarily abandoned by the low tide on Juhu beach. It was a pink twilight. The sea was a placid lake, lapping at the edges of our toes. The roar of the city was subdued, far behind us. We could see the graceful white lines of the Sea Link to our far left. And a building blazing like a torch at its top to our far right. Amidst these and before us, an eternal quietness – old, all-knowing, and all encompassing.
Life seemed suspended. Is this how holding “infinity in the palm of your hand” felt like? It seemed apposite to ask philosophical questions: about the meaning of life; about the grand design. It felt like the answers were just out there, tantalizingly close.
And suddenly, the pink twilight darkened into dusk. The water rose quietly, quickly, inexorably. We walked back to the beach, exchanging bemused glances. It was an unusually quiet evening at the beach with very few people around. The nairyal pani-wallah had a surreal patio arrangement of a few plastic chairs around his stall, facing the sea. We joined the rest of his clientele, talking quietly, lest we broke the magic.
How long did we sit there? An hour? Two? Who knows! Who’d have thought Juhu beach could offer one such an intensely spiritual experience?
As we walked back to Prithvi, the Dandiya night at Tulip Star grew louder and louder, delivering us back to the city we knew and were familiar with. At the right time too.
Me, Kash and Cruise is a play about the city, viewed through the lenses of the three lead characters, over 25 years. Directed by Rahul da Cunha, the play features firecracker performances from Amit Mistry and Rajit Kapoor. The latter completely steals the show with a series of cameo roles, nuanced and deeply studied. However, the play left me dissatisfied, as it fell in a murky in-between slot, way short of a pithy commentary or an emotional drama. Better review at http://verbalsot.blogspot.com/2009/06/just-watched-me-kash-and-cruise.html.
We walked out debating whether Mumbai is the city of the immigrants or of the born-and-brought-up-in people. Is the Xaviers’-studying, Mood-Indigo-attending, never-traveling-into-the-‘burbs-by-local train SOBO perspective relevant at all to the discussion? Or is it equally snobbish to disdain the elitist point of view? Has the city become more divisive, menacing, and non-cosmopolitan since the 92-93 riots? Or is it as embracing and forgiving and supportive of starting-afresh-many-times-over as it has always been?
It was indeed an evening of questions.
The Dandiya night at the Tulip Star was winding down as we walked past it, with people in exotic costumes spilling out like pieces escaping from a kaleidoscope, the mirrors on their persons twinkling like a million tiny stars. We vowed to attend one of these dos soon.
Mahesh Lunch Home was abuzz with activity and renovation. As we settled down for Surmai fry and Thai curry (puzzling variance of cuisine in a place so Konkan), Rajit Kapoor, Shehnaz Patel, and Rahul da Cunha came in and sat down at the next table. What is Mumbai if not our regular brush-ins with major and minor celebrities?
As we stepped out into the balmy midnight air, we paused, unwilling to end an evening so perfect, so rare.
“Why don’t you come home? I have a bottle of warm port wine!” M invited.
“You do realize I am coming only because I like your building,” I told M.
“I will try not to take that personally,” M grinned.
We got into an auto and rattled our way to Bandra, joining the sleepless masses rushing around on the streets. After all it is Mumbai, where one can extend a day long after it is officially over. Where else can one fly about intrepidly in autos all night, seeking entertainment or enlightenment?
To hell with civic apathy, terror at our doors, interminable traffic snarls, smog haze, crumbling infrastructure—it’s the only place to live in the world! I can wait until it becomes the next Shanghai or New York, and have the time of my life while doing so.
We were standing on the sticky sands temporarily abandoned by the low tide on Juhu beach. It was a pink twilight. The sea was a placid lake, lapping at the edges of our toes. The roar of the city was subdued, far behind us. We could see the graceful white lines of the Sea Link to our far left. And a building blazing like a torch at its top to our far right. Amidst these and before us, an eternal quietness – old, all-knowing, and all encompassing.
Life seemed suspended. Is this how holding “infinity in the palm of your hand” felt like? It seemed apposite to ask philosophical questions: about the meaning of life; about the grand design. It felt like the answers were just out there, tantalizingly close.
And suddenly, the pink twilight darkened into dusk. The water rose quietly, quickly, inexorably. We walked back to the beach, exchanging bemused glances. It was an unusually quiet evening at the beach with very few people around. The nairyal pani-wallah had a surreal patio arrangement of a few plastic chairs around his stall, facing the sea. We joined the rest of his clientele, talking quietly, lest we broke the magic.
How long did we sit there? An hour? Two? Who knows! Who’d have thought Juhu beach could offer one such an intensely spiritual experience?
As we walked back to Prithvi, the Dandiya night at Tulip Star grew louder and louder, delivering us back to the city we knew and were familiar with. At the right time too.
Me, Kash and Cruise is a play about the city, viewed through the lenses of the three lead characters, over 25 years. Directed by Rahul da Cunha, the play features firecracker performances from Amit Mistry and Rajit Kapoor. The latter completely steals the show with a series of cameo roles, nuanced and deeply studied. However, the play left me dissatisfied, as it fell in a murky in-between slot, way short of a pithy commentary or an emotional drama. Better review at http://verbalsot.blogspot.com/2009/06/just-watched-me-kash-and-cruise.html.
We walked out debating whether Mumbai is the city of the immigrants or of the born-and-brought-up-in people. Is the Xaviers’-studying, Mood-Indigo-attending, never-traveling-into-the-‘burbs-by-local train SOBO perspective relevant at all to the discussion? Or is it equally snobbish to disdain the elitist point of view? Has the city become more divisive, menacing, and non-cosmopolitan since the 92-93 riots? Or is it as embracing and forgiving and supportive of starting-afresh-many-times-over as it has always been?
It was indeed an evening of questions.
The Dandiya night at the Tulip Star was winding down as we walked past it, with people in exotic costumes spilling out like pieces escaping from a kaleidoscope, the mirrors on their persons twinkling like a million tiny stars. We vowed to attend one of these dos soon.
Mahesh Lunch Home was abuzz with activity and renovation. As we settled down for Surmai fry and Thai curry (puzzling variance of cuisine in a place so Konkan), Rajit Kapoor, Shehnaz Patel, and Rahul da Cunha came in and sat down at the next table. What is Mumbai if not our regular brush-ins with major and minor celebrities?
As we stepped out into the balmy midnight air, we paused, unwilling to end an evening so perfect, so rare.
“Why don’t you come home? I have a bottle of warm port wine!” M invited.
“You do realize I am coming only because I like your building,” I told M.
“I will try not to take that personally,” M grinned.
We got into an auto and rattled our way to Bandra, joining the sleepless masses rushing around on the streets. After all it is Mumbai, where one can extend a day long after it is officially over. Where else can one fly about intrepidly in autos all night, seeking entertainment or enlightenment?
To hell with civic apathy, terror at our doors, interminable traffic snarls, smog haze, crumbling infrastructure—it’s the only place to live in the world! I can wait until it becomes the next Shanghai or New York, and have the time of my life while doing so.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
An Inglorious Legacy
Suppuni thatha—
I heard that when you died of cancer in 1961, all you had in your possession was a small trunk containing a few clothes. What then of the 75 acres of land, houses in three towns, and three-lakh rupees in cash that you seem to have had inherited in your 16th year?
I know your dissipation has the romance of a Bimal Mitra-esque cliché. You were one among the rich landed gentry in the Tanjore district, loyal to the British Raj, who were caught unprepared in the maelstrom of a social revolution accompanying the nationalist movement.
But why did you abandon everybody in your life? Why did you live alone in Tanjore, while your widowed mother waited for you interminably at your ancestral village and your family at Pudukkottai?
What was that demonic hunger that made you whittle generations’ worth of wealth in 40 short years, leaving your children practically destitute and saddled with the loans you had taken? I hear that 10 generations ago, our ancestor Nana Iyer came riding through our village and was annoyed by a dog that led him to a treasure trove. Were you then some kind of divine reprisal visited upon our family to take away wealth that was not ours?
Who were you? What shaped you? Were you a good person or bad?
I heard your mother did many poojas including eating off the floor to have you. Why did you not take care of her? I heard she died waiting for you to visit her from Tanjore. Yet, you were the man who never ate sweets in memory of a kid sister who died in her childhood.
I heard you were quite a bookworm and used to take rides to nearby towns in trains, just to read books. I heard that your favourite authors were Wodehouse and Munshi Premchand. I’m told that you could play the veena excellently. There is a wall in a cousin’s house in Thiruvaiyaru, on which, behind many coats of white wash, there is a picture of Varalakshmi you drew for a pooja. They still talk about the beauty of it.
But your legacy to us seems to be only of pain and dysfunction.
Why didn’t you like my grandmother? Why were her aspirations, dreams, and despair so immaterial to you? If they were, then why did you advice my dad to be a good son to his mother, more than to you? Did you at least like the “other woman”? Were you nice to her?
Why did you let your family live with your brother-in-law as hangers-on and poor relations? Why was it so difficult to shoulder your own responsibilities?
How could you have been ok with the fact that my dad grew up feeling like an orphan? It breaks my heart now to seem him hang on to a few words of affection and endearment you chose to throw in his way occasionally. It enrages me to see him defend you, although I know that if he didn’t, he has nothing at all pleasant from his childhood to hang on to. Did you know that you have created such a big void in his psyche that even 45 years of happy married life and constant love has not been able to fill up?
Who were your friends? You seem to have been a connoisseur of art and patron of struggling artists. Would there be someone from the ranks of the people you hung out with or supported remember you with fondness and affection? Because I haven’t met anybody in the family who does.
My dad says I have inherited your traits—leaning towards art, spendthrift nature, and irresponsibility. He is worried sick that his grandsons have chosen art over engineering.
You seem to live on despite everybody’s best efforts. It does not bode well.
I heard that when you died of cancer in 1961, all you had in your possession was a small trunk containing a few clothes. What then of the 75 acres of land, houses in three towns, and three-lakh rupees in cash that you seem to have had inherited in your 16th year?
I know your dissipation has the romance of a Bimal Mitra-esque cliché. You were one among the rich landed gentry in the Tanjore district, loyal to the British Raj, who were caught unprepared in the maelstrom of a social revolution accompanying the nationalist movement.
But why did you abandon everybody in your life? Why did you live alone in Tanjore, while your widowed mother waited for you interminably at your ancestral village and your family at Pudukkottai?
What was that demonic hunger that made you whittle generations’ worth of wealth in 40 short years, leaving your children practically destitute and saddled with the loans you had taken? I hear that 10 generations ago, our ancestor Nana Iyer came riding through our village and was annoyed by a dog that led him to a treasure trove. Were you then some kind of divine reprisal visited upon our family to take away wealth that was not ours?
Who were you? What shaped you? Were you a good person or bad?
I heard your mother did many poojas including eating off the floor to have you. Why did you not take care of her? I heard she died waiting for you to visit her from Tanjore. Yet, you were the man who never ate sweets in memory of a kid sister who died in her childhood.
I heard you were quite a bookworm and used to take rides to nearby towns in trains, just to read books. I heard that your favourite authors were Wodehouse and Munshi Premchand. I’m told that you could play the veena excellently. There is a wall in a cousin’s house in Thiruvaiyaru, on which, behind many coats of white wash, there is a picture of Varalakshmi you drew for a pooja. They still talk about the beauty of it.
But your legacy to us seems to be only of pain and dysfunction.
Why didn’t you like my grandmother? Why were her aspirations, dreams, and despair so immaterial to you? If they were, then why did you advice my dad to be a good son to his mother, more than to you? Did you at least like the “other woman”? Were you nice to her?
Why did you let your family live with your brother-in-law as hangers-on and poor relations? Why was it so difficult to shoulder your own responsibilities?
How could you have been ok with the fact that my dad grew up feeling like an orphan? It breaks my heart now to seem him hang on to a few words of affection and endearment you chose to throw in his way occasionally. It enrages me to see him defend you, although I know that if he didn’t, he has nothing at all pleasant from his childhood to hang on to. Did you know that you have created such a big void in his psyche that even 45 years of happy married life and constant love has not been able to fill up?
Who were your friends? You seem to have been a connoisseur of art and patron of struggling artists. Would there be someone from the ranks of the people you hung out with or supported remember you with fondness and affection? Because I haven’t met anybody in the family who does.
My dad says I have inherited your traits—leaning towards art, spendthrift nature, and irresponsibility. He is worried sick that his grandsons have chosen art over engineering.
You seem to live on despite everybody’s best efforts. It does not bode well.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Homecoming Queen
I just started reading Maximum city by Suketu Mehta. I am sure the “brilliant”, “lyrical” and “the best bit of journalism to come out of the country” parts will reveal themselves to me eventually. At this point, I am mulling my way through his “Country of No” and “fucking city”.
It is not that I am bristling at these epithets. I am sure if a shit-laden diaper flew into my house, I would also be forced to find succor in the four-lettered word.
The thing is, Mr. Mehta’s Mumbai seems to extend only up to the Mahim creek. However, as an “aspirational middle-class immigrant” to the city, the area that the author defines as Mumbai is well nigh inaccessible to me. I am a child of the suburbs. Hell, when I came here first, I got down at the Kurla station—not even the famed Mumbai Central or VT.
I am proud to claim that I landed in Mumbai like the millions of immigrants do—with one suitcase full of personal belongings, 2000 rupees in hand, no job, and no prospect of one either. I am also proud to claim that I was one of those Mumbai decided to seduce. I was employed (albeit for peanuts) on the 15th day of my landing; had a completely new set of friends by month two; and by month six, had moved into a dusty 1 bhk apartment in a dusty alley in dusty Sher-e-Punajb.
However, my brave new beginning in Mumbai is not what I started out to write about.
I realized that my recent homecoming to Mumbai is vaguely similar to that of Mr. Mehta’s. Like him, despite all the places I’ve lived in, I always reach out to Mumbai for my identity. Like him, I came back on the wings of my nostalgia. And like he did, I find that Mumbai-scape has altered in undeniable ways, even within the short time-span of three years.
But our point of departure is that I came back to the suburbs. Here the demographics are far more mixed; everybody is as old or as new as you are in this city; and the limits of our Mumbai is the market on the west, workplace in the north, mall to our east, and temple/gym/park/tailor/station to the south. Love, lust, hate, games, catching-up-with-the-Joneses, family, identity, eating out, ill health, bad-roads-in-monsoons, suicide everything happens within this microcosm.
Unlike the author, my easing back into this city took no time at all. I walked into a fully furnished apartment, picked up where the previous inhabitants left, and was fully settled in two hours.
I had no angst or righteous indignation, nor a moment of shivery panic. Maybe it is because I still have my famed Mumbai middle class apathy intact.
Two weeks after coming back, I met up with a friend at Versova. We went to the beach, found a nice spot, and sat down on the sand to catch up with each other. At around 9 pm, I noticed that the inhabitants of the fishermen’s shanty were making trips to the water’s edge for—erm—their ablutions. I ignored it until one person got really close to where we were sitting.
The following is a true report of our conversation at that juncture—I kid you not.
Me: “I think we should leave—this guy is shitting too close for comfort.”
Friend: “Come, let’s go and have dinner.”
We did go and have a great big seafood dinner right after this.
Flying diapers? Pshaw!
Open sewers, cockroach menace, endless traffic jams, smog, bad roads, crowd-crowd-crowd, shirtless children begging at traffic signals, ridiculous anti-single people-policies of housing societies, farcically expensive restaurants, sweltering slums that abut every high-rise, window cleaners who hang outside your office window on a must-be-punished-with-death-sentence-for-negligence harness and nothing else—all this and much more fall into Douglas Adam’s Somebody Else’s Problem (SEP) field for me.
My last four months in the city, I am ashamed to say, have been exceedingly pleasant.
Everybody pretty much acted as if I had never been away for a longish period. My hot hair stylist remembered the cut she gave me in 2005 and wanted to know whether I wanted the same this time. At the Hiranandani hospital, they refused to give me a new file because they expected me to have the old file from four years ago. A bunch of people I met at a party told me “Ah, we don’t need introductions”, although I desperately did—I had no recollection of having met them before!
And perfect strangers have gone out of their way to be nice.
Like the couple we met at Forjett Hill, Tardeo. I had stopped them to ask for directions after being hopelessly lost. The building they showed us was at the top of the hill. As we stood there, overwhelmed at the steep climb, the couple came back and dropped my parents up the hill in their car.
Like the workers at the Sewri jetty: the crane operator who told us at what time the flamingoes arrive in the morning; the supervisor who told us that he would let us know when one of his cranes would stop working so that we can have a closer look at the birds; the man aboard one of the barges who gave us water to drink… Easy and warm hospitality where there isn’t even a signboard to help visitors.
Like the twenty people at Matunga who gathered around us to show us the way to a particular shop.
Like my neighbor who insists on paying my telephone bill.
Even my parents, freshly off the boat from Madurai and here for just a visit, have fitted right in to the scheme of things. My mom is feeding a bunch of sparrows because she read somewhere they are going extinct in Mumbai. My dad rooted for the Mumbai IPL team. Our Marathi cook has been taught to make sambhar. The paperwallah has been instructed to supply Tamil magazines. My dad wears new T-shirts from Cotton World and uses Axe aftershave because—well—this is fashionable Mumbai!
Where I live was not technically Mumbai to start with—it was a village that was annexed to the urban sprawl sometime in the past 50 years. It doesn’t have the history, legacy, or architecture of Bombay.
But it carries the germ of the city. It seethes with possibilities. It integrates city’s triumph and despair, dreams and frustrations. It is functional. It doesn’t take me too seriously. It makes me feel safe. It is home.
Tedha hi, par mera hi.
It is not that I am bristling at these epithets. I am sure if a shit-laden diaper flew into my house, I would also be forced to find succor in the four-lettered word.
The thing is, Mr. Mehta’s Mumbai seems to extend only up to the Mahim creek. However, as an “aspirational middle-class immigrant” to the city, the area that the author defines as Mumbai is well nigh inaccessible to me. I am a child of the suburbs. Hell, when I came here first, I got down at the Kurla station—not even the famed Mumbai Central or VT.
I am proud to claim that I landed in Mumbai like the millions of immigrants do—with one suitcase full of personal belongings, 2000 rupees in hand, no job, and no prospect of one either. I am also proud to claim that I was one of those Mumbai decided to seduce. I was employed (albeit for peanuts) on the 15th day of my landing; had a completely new set of friends by month two; and by month six, had moved into a dusty 1 bhk apartment in a dusty alley in dusty Sher-e-Punajb.
However, my brave new beginning in Mumbai is not what I started out to write about.
I realized that my recent homecoming to Mumbai is vaguely similar to that of Mr. Mehta’s. Like him, despite all the places I’ve lived in, I always reach out to Mumbai for my identity. Like him, I came back on the wings of my nostalgia. And like he did, I find that Mumbai-scape has altered in undeniable ways, even within the short time-span of three years.
But our point of departure is that I came back to the suburbs. Here the demographics are far more mixed; everybody is as old or as new as you are in this city; and the limits of our Mumbai is the market on the west, workplace in the north, mall to our east, and temple/gym/park/tailor/station to the south. Love, lust, hate, games, catching-up-with-the-Joneses, family, identity, eating out, ill health, bad-roads-in-monsoons, suicide everything happens within this microcosm.
Unlike the author, my easing back into this city took no time at all. I walked into a fully furnished apartment, picked up where the previous inhabitants left, and was fully settled in two hours.
I had no angst or righteous indignation, nor a moment of shivery panic. Maybe it is because I still have my famed Mumbai middle class apathy intact.
Two weeks after coming back, I met up with a friend at Versova. We went to the beach, found a nice spot, and sat down on the sand to catch up with each other. At around 9 pm, I noticed that the inhabitants of the fishermen’s shanty were making trips to the water’s edge for—erm—their ablutions. I ignored it until one person got really close to where we were sitting.
The following is a true report of our conversation at that juncture—I kid you not.
Me: “I think we should leave—this guy is shitting too close for comfort.”
Friend: “Come, let’s go and have dinner.”
We did go and have a great big seafood dinner right after this.
Flying diapers? Pshaw!
Open sewers, cockroach menace, endless traffic jams, smog, bad roads, crowd-crowd-crowd, shirtless children begging at traffic signals, ridiculous anti-single people-policies of housing societies, farcically expensive restaurants, sweltering slums that abut every high-rise, window cleaners who hang outside your office window on a must-be-punished-with-death-sentence-for-negligence harness and nothing else—all this and much more fall into Douglas Adam’s Somebody Else’s Problem (SEP) field for me.
My last four months in the city, I am ashamed to say, have been exceedingly pleasant.
Everybody pretty much acted as if I had never been away for a longish period. My hot hair stylist remembered the cut she gave me in 2005 and wanted to know whether I wanted the same this time. At the Hiranandani hospital, they refused to give me a new file because they expected me to have the old file from four years ago. A bunch of people I met at a party told me “Ah, we don’t need introductions”, although I desperately did—I had no recollection of having met them before!
And perfect strangers have gone out of their way to be nice.
Like the couple we met at Forjett Hill, Tardeo. I had stopped them to ask for directions after being hopelessly lost. The building they showed us was at the top of the hill. As we stood there, overwhelmed at the steep climb, the couple came back and dropped my parents up the hill in their car.
Like the workers at the Sewri jetty: the crane operator who told us at what time the flamingoes arrive in the morning; the supervisor who told us that he would let us know when one of his cranes would stop working so that we can have a closer look at the birds; the man aboard one of the barges who gave us water to drink… Easy and warm hospitality where there isn’t even a signboard to help visitors.
Like the twenty people at Matunga who gathered around us to show us the way to a particular shop.
Like my neighbor who insists on paying my telephone bill.
Even my parents, freshly off the boat from Madurai and here for just a visit, have fitted right in to the scheme of things. My mom is feeding a bunch of sparrows because she read somewhere they are going extinct in Mumbai. My dad rooted for the Mumbai IPL team. Our Marathi cook has been taught to make sambhar. The paperwallah has been instructed to supply Tamil magazines. My dad wears new T-shirts from Cotton World and uses Axe aftershave because—well—this is fashionable Mumbai!
Where I live was not technically Mumbai to start with—it was a village that was annexed to the urban sprawl sometime in the past 50 years. It doesn’t have the history, legacy, or architecture of Bombay.
But it carries the germ of the city. It seethes with possibilities. It integrates city’s triumph and despair, dreams and frustrations. It is functional. It doesn’t take me too seriously. It makes me feel safe. It is home.
Tedha hi, par mera hi.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
How do thee love Mumbai?
“How do you love Mumbai?” I asked Vinay, native Mumbaikar and walk
ing-talking Encyclopaedia Mumbaia. He looked out of our car window, considering my question. Dadar East was bustling all around us.
Perhaps it was a tough question to ask anyone. How does one love this mad, madding metropolis? Sometimes it feels as though, like the concept of infinity, it is difficult to gather it in the words known to us.
Our car was moving inexorably into the mill country. Old apartments and tenements loomed on to us from both sides, remnants of the most significant era of Mumbai’s history, now struggling for survival.
“The Mumbai I knew is dying,” he said finally. “It’s become unlivable and ugly.”
We both silently looked at the crowded alleys, crumbling mills, and lines of clothes hanging from every conceivable dusty balcony and window. Grand Central Hotel did look a little incongruous in the midst of this all.
“Show me your Mumbai,” I said, feeling a crazy sense of urgency.
What could’ve been a more poignant starting point other than the dilapidated Veer Mata Jijabai Bhosale Udyan (erstwhile Byculla Zoo) which also houses the newly spruced up Bhau Daji Lad Museum (erstwhile Victoria and Albert Museum)? Maybe only in Mumbai can the contradiction of a painstakingly renovated heritage building can co-exist with a gone-to dust-heritage garden side by side.
Nothing had prepared me for the luxurious art-deco splendour of the Museum. I stood at the entrance, transfixed by the graceful gilt edged columns supporting the richly painted and detailed high ceiling, beautiful chandeliers, sweeping staircase, and lovely painted floor tiles. I was surprised to learn that it is the oldest museum in Mumbai.
The exhibits reeked of the Raj, of the pointless variety. Where else would on
e find exhibits such as “Lord Krishna’s Embassy to the Kaurava Court”, “A Weaver’s House”, and “Peoples of Mumbai”, and “Coffee Set Made of Coconut Shell from Ceylon”?
Vinay insisted on watching the video made on the renovation project. It’s a must see, with its regulation montage of Gandhi at the beginning, the sonorous voice over, and the stock music one has come to expect as de rigueur in Films Division documentaries .
I insisted on visiting the zoo. It’s clearly the stuff nightmares are made of. I don’t think any decent human being can sleep peacefully for nights after seeing the state of the enclosures and the hapless animals subjected to continuous teasing by onlookers. I’m sure the place is haunted by the troubled souls of the 11 antelopes which died of stress there.
We walked out, disturbed and enraged.
Our spirits were still low as we drove over the JJ Flyover, an engineering marvel. “The snake-like flyover twists and turns its way through a labyrinth of old buildings on either side. It traverses through 22 small and big junctions and six curves. What is amazing about the flyover, the longest in Mumbai so far, is not its unique design but that Gammon India managed to build it in a locality that never goes to sleep,” claims Project Monitor.
“Hey look, that building has Star of David all over it!” I exclaimed when I spied a lone building amidst many mosques that dotted the skyline.
Vinay looked at me nonplussed. “So?” he asked.
“Well, this seems to be a heavily Islamic area,” I replied.
His face broke into a grin. “Well, this is Mumbai,” he said.
We smiled at each other, revived and ready for town.
“A pointless visit to Rhythm House is a must,” Vinay said, after we walked out of Jehangir Art Gallery, too depressed at the sight of Samovar to look at the exhibits. I acquiesced, although I’ve always found it too claustrophobic for comfort.
From there, we sped to a nostalgic drive-through Navy Nagar replete with tales of youthful love,
make-out alleys, and golfing in the afternoons. Those definitely seemed to have been the days.
“So did you make out here?” I asked curiously, eyeing the shaded alleys – they did seem appropriate for the purpose.
“No, I was more interested in the booze,” he twinkled.
We ended up in a tiny park clinging to the land’s end at Cuff Parade, behind World Trade Centre. The sun was a big orange ball, dipping into the horizon over the bay. Mumbai skyline loomed on our right. A lone fishing boat was moored at a distance.
We followed what seemed to be the tradition of the place and sat on the par
apet, our legs dangling on the sea side, over the rocks that were shoring it up. We sat there in companionable silence, enjoying the breeze and the view. The seething city with its people, problems, and craziness was literally behind us.
It seemed pretty close to perfection.
ing-talking Encyclopaedia Mumbaia. He looked out of our car window, considering my question. Dadar East was bustling all around us.Perhaps it was a tough question to ask anyone. How does one love this mad, madding metropolis? Sometimes it feels as though, like the concept of infinity, it is difficult to gather it in the words known to us.
Our car was moving inexorably into the mill country. Old apartments and tenements loomed on to us from both sides, remnants of the most significant era of Mumbai’s history, now struggling for survival.
“The Mumbai I knew is dying,” he said finally. “It’s become unlivable and ugly.”
We both silently looked at the crowded alleys, crumbling mills, and lines of clothes hanging from every conceivable dusty balcony and window. Grand Central Hotel did look a little incongruous in the midst of this all.
“Show me your Mumbai,” I said, feeling a crazy sense of urgency.What could’ve been a more poignant starting point other than the dilapidated Veer Mata Jijabai Bhosale Udyan (erstwhile Byculla Zoo) which also houses the newly spruced up Bhau Daji Lad Museum (erstwhile Victoria and Albert Museum)? Maybe only in Mumbai can the contradiction of a painstakingly renovated heritage building can co-exist with a gone-to dust-heritage garden side by side.
Nothing had prepared me for the luxurious art-deco splendour of the Museum. I stood at the entrance, transfixed by the graceful gilt edged columns supporting the richly painted and detailed high ceiling, beautiful chandeliers, sweeping staircase, and lovely painted floor tiles. I was surprised to learn that it is the oldest museum in Mumbai.
The exhibits reeked of the Raj, of the pointless variety. Where else would on
e find exhibits such as “Lord Krishna’s Embassy to the Kaurava Court”, “A Weaver’s House”, and “Peoples of Mumbai”, and “Coffee Set Made of Coconut Shell from Ceylon”?Vinay insisted on watching the video made on the renovation project. It’s a must see, with its regulation montage of Gandhi at the beginning, the sonorous voice over, and the stock music one has come to expect as de rigueur in Films Division documentaries .
I insisted on visiting the zoo. It’s clearly the stuff nightmares are made of. I don’t think any decent human being can sleep peacefully for nights after seeing the state of the enclosures and the hapless animals subjected to continuous teasing by onlookers. I’m sure the place is haunted by the troubled souls of the 11 antelopes which died of stress there.
We walked out, disturbed and enraged.Our spirits were still low as we drove over the JJ Flyover, an engineering marvel. “The snake-like flyover twists and turns its way through a labyrinth of old buildings on either side. It traverses through 22 small and big junctions and six curves. What is amazing about the flyover, the longest in Mumbai so far, is not its unique design but that Gammon India managed to build it in a locality that never goes to sleep,” claims Project Monitor.
“Hey look, that building has Star of David all over it!” I exclaimed when I spied a lone building amidst many mosques that dotted the skyline.
Vinay looked at me nonplussed. “So?” he asked.
“Well, this seems to be a heavily Islamic area,” I replied.
His face broke into a grin. “Well, this is Mumbai,” he said.
We smiled at each other, revived and ready for town.
“A pointless visit to Rhythm House is a must,” Vinay said, after we walked out of Jehangir Art Gallery, too depressed at the sight of Samovar to look at the exhibits. I acquiesced, although I’ve always found it too claustrophobic for comfort.
From there, we sped to a nostalgic drive-through Navy Nagar replete with tales of youthful love,
make-out alleys, and golfing in the afternoons. Those definitely seemed to have been the days.“So did you make out here?” I asked curiously, eyeing the shaded alleys – they did seem appropriate for the purpose.
“No, I was more interested in the booze,” he twinkled.
We ended up in a tiny park clinging to the land’s end at Cuff Parade, behind World Trade Centre. The sun was a big orange ball, dipping into the horizon over the bay. Mumbai skyline loomed on our right. A lone fishing boat was moored at a distance.
We followed what seemed to be the tradition of the place and sat on the par
apet, our legs dangling on the sea side, over the rocks that were shoring it up. We sat there in companionable silence, enjoying the breeze and the view. The seething city with its people, problems, and craziness was literally behind us.It seemed pretty close to perfection.
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