Long silence

Been away from the blog scene for over a month now. It has been a month since I left Mumbai to be in Delhi. June 08 for me was a month of inconsequential meetings, discussions and ominous telephone calls but also of incidental discoveries about self and common sense. Since I had some time to myself I decided to reconnect with friends and acquaintances. I made certain professional decisions during those meetings and helped others make theirs. I also experienced an unwanted insomnia for three very long nights in June. During one of the three nights that I spent struggling with my mind, coaxing and coercing it to sleep, I listened to Pandit Jasraj. The tireless mind that I was anxious to sedate began imagining the beautiful and solacing Ragamala paintings that I had once researched. After a long hiatus from my art-history days, I began to think of the colour pallette, characters and props in the early Mewar and Chawand paintings that I have had an opportunity to study closely. The artists (who probably were rasiks themselves and knew music) used a unique colour scheme, props and themes to represent the musical notes. These combinations of colour, theme, and positioning of characters became established as an acceptable iconography of ragas and raginis. As a student of the history of art, you can easily identify these painted Ragas and Raginis on the basis of, well, a kind of list. Soliatary woman with a deer/buck; lady with snakes in seclusion; the hot sun and a man on an elephant. Most later artists followed an established set of icons. It was much later that expansion and addition in the repertoire was made. But what has always amazed me is the initial process of visualization that the early artists undertook and the challenge that they must have facedd in transforming sounds into pictures.

As I tried hard that night to concentrate on the color gradations in these images I could not think anymore; my heavy eyes were falling into an abyss of darkness and just before Morpheus could finally take over my phone rang. It was a lady's voice I recogonized and in her classy accent she asked me if I would be interested in looking at a set of Raagmala paintings that she was researching into. It was 5.30 a.m. and I could no longer pretend to sleep. I left for a nearby park to get some exercise. The birds sounded as restless as I was at that hour. I sat observing a tall jamun tree; its freshly bathed leaves hung from drooping branches and its squashed fruit carpeted the soil around it. As I looked closer I noticed a swing hanging from one of its knotted branches. Just then a melodious voice blew toward me from a nearby Gurudwara. My yellow night dress fluttered around me as I swung through the air to the music.

May the Best Team Win

I have just returned from a bar where I watched a nailbiting cricket performance. I am now sitting in my Mumbai apartment reflecting upon a moral that today's wonderful match has reminded me of. Much to my disappointment as a Punjab supporter, Chennai ended up in the final against the unbeatable Rajasthan Royals. Like most people who have been watching this crazy game of DLF IPL 20-20, I had imagined that it would be a flammable Royals against the Kings on June 1st. Yuvraj Singh, the Punjab Kings' captain, screwed up royally and his formidable team fell like a house of cards before the under-appreciated Chennai Super Kings. The Singh fell to the Super Kings--and why not? While the Super Singh from Jharkhand was doing his bit of 'chintan' before the big game, the Punjab King was caught leaping with the PYTs at a posh Bombay night club before his ruinal semi-final match. Yuvraj's fall was a testimony to the classic Panchatantra tale of the hare and tortoise. The men in yellow won the semis much to everyone's surprise--and disappointment for the bookies.

Today's match was hailed as the Royal's day out, but Chennai Super Kings put up a tough match. The team at one point held an unshakeable position. But as it happens in the game of cricket, Raina dropped a major catch that would have altered the course of the game. The most dangerous man in blue, Pathan, was dropped just when he was settling in. Pathan got luckier when another fumble led to a missed catch. The Super Kings in yellow clearly lost their logic when they misjudged two opportunities for 'run-outs' .

A team that screws up not once but so many times does not ultimately deserve to win, no matter how good the fight they put up. The Royals, on the other hand, played with the discpline to win. They were consistent and they followed their captian's game plan and strategy. During the last over, the batsman Tanvir did not get emotional to hit a big one. He followed a safe route to get the singles and doubles that would take the team to a tricky target. And then in the final over, Balaji gave away blunderous wide balls. The Royals could not have asked for more.

What really captured my heart was Dhoni's response. The captian was an image of equanimity. His smile at the loss of the tournament was incredibly beautiful. He had no malice. He played his best and then in an absolutely endearing act, he circled his men together and reconfirmed his faith in the lost team. Yes, the men in yellow made mistakes, but the leader is with them.

I would much rather place my country in the hands of a captain like Dhoni than the 'Singh is King'. Dhoni represents the values that we as a nation take pride in--tolerance and humility.

Fun things to do in Mumbai

Mumbai has everything for everyone-It has something for me too. Here's my list of fun things to do in Mumbai.
1. Walk around Dadar West Parsee Colony and the Hindu Colony to check-out some beautiful homes.
2. Visit the beautiful Babulnath Temple. Eat at Soam opposite Babul Nath temple.
3. Walk along the Queen's Necklace.
4. Walk around Mutton Street for incredible deals on antiques and art.
5. Shop for the best footwear in the country at Colaba Causeway. Start early afternoon for the best bargains.
6. Visit Chickoowadi, near Malwani Church, Malad
7. Walk from Altamount road to Carmichael road crossing the road under the Kemps Corner fly-over to Crosswords and have a smoothie at Moshe's.
8. Wander around Ballard Estate and look for your favourite lane that you want to return to. A cool thing to do on a Sunday morning would be to bring back a period costume and have yourself clicked on in a chic style.
10. Take a short walk in the Khotachi Wadi.
11. Go cycling in the Navy Nagar area and stop by the Afghan Church.

Finding a perfect spot called Home

Come May and I will be homeless, once again. After experiencing and failing to find effective ways to adjust to a life in provincial India with 12 hour power-cuts a day, I am heading to the big cities this summer. My May plans take me to Delhi and then Bombay.

Weeks of waiting to get a confirmed railway ticket kept me away from summer travel. Now that I have a ticket, a workable travel plan and a few scheduled meetings, I have cold feet. I am leaving the city I now call home. I am beginning to feel comfortable with it's people and landscape. And although, I am moving away from the sounds of screeching-honking bikes, urchins singing the latest 'Akshay Kumar' song, Mrs. Yadav's son playing loud music at 6 A.M, blasting generators and random visitors, I am also moving away from the world outside and inside of narrow lanes surrounding my haveli. My house named after a Banarasi poet is a known landmark of the city. Ratnakar Villa overlooks a lovely garden tended to lovingly by my landlady and her devoted maali who stays long after his working hours. The house is warm and naturally lit in the winters and airy in the summers. I worked hard to personalize the house by buying new furniture and upholstery. The long and mostly frustrating process of putting together the house piece-by-piece was an acid test. After the house came together in December, I felt confident that I could survive Uttar Pradesh.

I am again moving to an unknown space that needs to be home. After having converted and called 'University Guest Houses' in Gujarat, a 170 sq ft. space above a train track in Delhi, an archaic looking 'two-room set' in Nizamuddin West as home, I am now excited to find a new home. My sense of having a home is all about having a perfect spot where you get a good night's sleep and read a book before that good night's sleep.

Last week of April

Even though Banaras and it's erratic power supply becomes more intolerable this week, there was excitement that kept me going. One afternoon, Rakesh of Harmony Books called me and asked if I would be interested in working as a research assistant to a student from America. I was reluctant at first but I am glad I did not decline Leda's wonderful project on 'Maternity and Child care in Varanasi'. Leda and I went around town meeting with famous and in-famous O.B's, doctors, Axillary Nurse Midwives, trained dai's /nurses. During these meetings and interviews with Indian doctors, I found an appalling lack of passion. The doctors we met were uninspiring and lifeless souls who had little or no passion for life and the life-giving process. I am not complaining here about the urge to make money- but a much more malicious disease. Indian doctors never smile, they attend their patients by often not making an eye contact. While their hands are busy doing the business, their eyes are on the prescription. Before you have made yourself comfortable on the twirling patients stool, the assistant brings the next impatient patient.

I recently met a medical student who wishes to practice in America (It's her father's dream). After speaking with her for about half and hour on her professional and personal life, I did not have a heart to tell her that this was not her spot. I certainly could not tell her that by working harder than the other students in her medical exams (which she feels was a prestige issue) is a wasted effort, she is fulfilling only one person's dream.

Wish we had more doctors who looked into their patients eyes without feeling burdened by the look in them.

Delhi in April

On the 10th of April, the Shiv Ganga Express reached New Delhi railway station at 11.00 a.m, four hours after it's scheduled time of arrival. The delay added to my frustration and agony caused by overtly affectionate newly-wed co-passengers. To kill time, I was scribbling notes on my pad; they read something like: Flavours, Rajdhani, Subway, Momos , Dilli haat, Spirit, Veda (the culinary delights I'd been deprived of in Varanasi). My co-passengers took my seeming focus on the notepad as an opportunity to make more romantic sounds. Shiv Ganga's arrival finally ended my agony, after stopping at every possible small station en route to Delhi.

Once I'd battled with auto and taxi drivers, I reached a friend's apartment in the noisy part of Greater Kailash I. I was not particularly pleased with the architect after seeing the apartment's design. After spending a night at the apartment, I was completely convinced the architect had no sense at all. There was no ventilation, the apartment faced the noisiest side of the building, the kitchen was massive and yet didn't seem functional for your average Indian cook, and there was no light. Living in that flat I discovered one of my hidden desires- remodelling badly constructed houses.

Delhi was the stimulus I needed to turn my lethargic bones into motion. By 4:00 pm every day I experienced a cherished sense of achievement. In Banaras, I feel a sense of achievement in getting my staff at home to do any kind of work. In a span of four working days in Delhi, within the constraints of the ever-so-short government working hours, I went to banks in two different directions, a clinic, and the state electricity department. I also held meetings in my office and strategized for the coming days. Post office hours, I hogged on incredible food, met friends and watched films. My favourite of all was Juno. Delhi in April is not exactly fun but the air-conditioner that rarely goes out from a power cut makes up for it.

Hindu Disneyland

I recently learned of a phrase used in the intellectual circles of America- Hindu Disneyland . I found this term so fascinating that like every other 'smart Alec' Indian, I am renaming it (for a more localized effect) Appu-Ghar Hinduism. There are many physical and physiological similarities between the two cults. It is common to see a Hindu bringing his maha-family of mother, father, widowed mother-in-law, visiting married sister with the 'jijaji', the kids, bhaiya, bhabi and the wife to a sacred Hindu site. As soon as the over-speeding, dust-covered Qualises (often with a neighbouring state's number plate) halt screechingly outside the pilgrimage center, the kids jump out and the men start looking for holes. The women complain about the long journey and their crushed sarees and pick up the water bottles that they most likely bought during the last trip.

During my recent trip to the Hindu holy site of Gupt-Godavari (litt. secret Godavari river), I had an opportunity to observe 'Appu-Ghar Hinduism' in action. In the late 1980s, to visit Appu-Ghar was not really the coolest thing to do, but we, the kids of upper-middle class parents, loved it. I loved the rides, ice-cream stands, and the Maggie counter; I loved shopping for some random thing I convinced my parents, I desperately needed, the inaudible announcements and the process of sticking with your parents in the crowds. The trip was more fun in a bigger group, it would give the kids a rare opportunity to wander around while mummy and aunties would share stories of their cruel mother-in-laws. The other hot topic was 'my kids'. I thought this exercise was an unsaid competetion of 'I suffered more' or 'I am a better mummy'. Nevertheless I loved Appu-Ghar.

The younger ladies walk together gossiping, sharing their shopping stories or casual neighbourhood stories that the listeners comment about. A common element is that these women are all dressed in their best 'outside home' clothes. They wear matching bangles, lipstick, bindis and Tulsi-inspired mid-hair vermillion that often shoots out like an arrow on their foreheads. The men walk talking about cell-phone or car models--Indian men genuinely refrain from talking about other kinds of models during family 'holy-site outings'. The group walks into the cave or temple together laughing and talking, unobservant of anything that surrounds them. At Gupt-Godavari they all enter a gufa, a cave under a barren surface from where the Godavari waters emerge-cool and clean. The group decides to play black-out with the family by calling out their names aloud. The names echo-they love it. A few others follow the trick. They also make indefinably blank eye-contact with the passerbys who have had their darshan. Smiling at strangers is such an un-Indian act but what is surely Indian is joining the passerbys in their loud 'hail God' calls. The group returns outside after darshan and resumes chatting about new topics.